SCENE III.—ISABEL’S _Garret_. ISABEL _and_ INES.

_Isab._ What noise is that on the stairs?

_Enter_ REBOLLEDO.

_Reb._ Sanctuary! Sanctuary!

_Isab._ Who are you, sir?

_Enter_ CAPTAIN.

_Capt._ Where is the rascal?

_Isab._ A moment, sir! This poor man has flown to our feet for

protection; I appeal to you for it; and no man, and least of all an

officer, will refuse that to any woman.

_Capt._ I swear no other arm than that of beauty, and beauty such as

yours, could have withheld me. (_To_ REBOLLEDO.) You may thank the

deity that has saved you, rascal.

_Isab._ And I thank you, sir.

_Capt._ And yet ungratefully slay me with your eyes in return for

sparing him with my sword.

_Isab._ Oh, sir, do not mar the grace of a good deed by poor

compliment, and so make me less mindful of the real thanks I owe you.

_Capt._ Wit and modesty kiss each other, as well they may, in that

lovely face. (_Kneels._)

_Isab._ Heavens! my father!

_Enter_ CRESPO _and_ JUAN _with swords_.

_Cres._ How is this, sir? I am alarmed by cries of murder in my

house—am told you have pursued a poor man up to my daughte room;

and, when I get here expecting to find you killing a man, I find you

courting a woman.

_Capt._ We are all born subjects to some dominion—soldiers especially

to beauty. My sword, though justly raised against this man, as justly

fell at this lad bidding.

_Cres._ No lady, sir, if you please; but a plain peasant girl—my

daughter.

_Juan._ (_aside_). All a trick to get at her. My blood boils. (_Aloud

to Captain._) I think, sir, you might have seen enough of my father’s

desire to serve you to prevent your requiting him by such an affront as

this.

_Cres._ And, pray, who bid thee meddle, boy? Affront! what affront? The

soldier affronted his captain; and if the captain has spared him for

thy siste sake, pray what hast thou to say against it?

_Capt._ I think, young man, you had best consider before you impute ill

intention to an officer.

_Juan._ I know what I do know.

_Cres._ What! you will go on, will you?

_Capt._ It is out of regard for you I do not chastise him.

_Cres._ Wait a bit; if that were wanting, ’twould be from his father,

not from you.

_Juan._ And wha more, I would endure it from any one but my father.

_Capt._ You would not?

_Juan._ No! death rather than such dishonour!

_Capt._ What, pray, is a clodpol idea of honour.

_Juan._ The same as a captain’s—no clodpole no captain, I can tell you.

_Capt._ ‘Fore Heaven, I must punish this insolence.

(_About to strike him._)

_Cres._ You must do it through me, then.

_Reb._ Eyes right!—Don Lope!

_Capt._ Don Lope!

_Enter_ DON LOPE.

_Lope._ How now? A riot the very first thing I find on joining the

regiment? What is it all about?

_Capt._ (_aside_). Awkward enough!

_Cres._ (_aside_). By the lord, the boy would have held his own with

the best of ‘em.

_Lope._ Well! No one answer me? ‘Fore God, I’ll pitch the whole house,

men, women, and children, out of windows, if you do tell me at once.

Here have I had to trail up your accursed stairs, and then no one will

tell me what for.

_Cres._ Nothing, nothing at all, sir.

_Lope._ Nothing? that would be the worst excuse of all, but swords are

drawn for nothing; come, the truth?

_Capt._ Well, the simple fact is this, Don Lope; I am quartered upon

this house; and one of my soldiers——

_Lope._ Well, sir, go on.

_Capt._ Insulted me so grossly I was obliged to draw my sword on him.

He ran up here, where it seems these two girls live; and I, not knowing

there was any harm, after him; at which these men, their father or

brother, or some such thing, take affront. This is the whole business.

_Lope._ I am just come in time then to settle it. First, who is the

soldier that began it with an act of insubordination?

_Reb._ What, am I to pay the piper?

_Isab._ (_pointing to_ REBOLLEDO). This, sir, was the man who ran up

first.

_Lope._ This? handcuff him!

_Reb._ Me! my lord?

_Capt._ (_aside to_ REBOLLEDO). Do blab, I’ll bear you harmless.

_Reb._ Oh, I dare say, after being marched off with my hands behind me

like a coward. Noble commander, ’twas the captain’s own doing; he made me

pretend a quarrel, that he might get up here to see the women.

_Cres._ I _had_ some cause for quarrel, you see.

_Lope._ Not enough to peril the peace of the town for. Halloa there!

beat all to quarters on pain of death. And, to prevent further ill

blood here, do you (_to the_ CAPTAIN) quarter yourself elsewhere till

we march. I’ll stop here.

_Capt._ I shall of course obey you, sir.

_Cres._ (_to_ ISABEL). Get you in. (_Exeunt_ ISABEL _and_ INES.) I

really ought to thank you heartily for coming just as you did, sir;

else, have done for myself.

_Lope._ How so?

_Cres._ I should have killed this popinjay.

_Lope._ What, sir, a captain in his Majest service?

_Cres._ Aye, a general, if he insulted me.

_Lope._ I tell you, whoever lays his little finger on the humblest

private in the regiment, I’ll hang him.

_Cres._ And I tell you, whoever points his little finger at my honour,

I’ll cut him down before hanging.

_Lope._ Know you not, you are bound by your allegiance to submit.

_Cres._ To all cost of property, yes; but of honour, no, no, no! My

goods and chattels, aye, and my life—are the kin; but my honour is my

own sou, and that is—God Almight.

_Lope._ ‘Fore God, ther some truth in what you say.

_Cres._ ‘Fore God, there ought to be, for I’ve been some years saying it.

_Lope._ Well, well. I’ve come a long way, and this leg of mine, which I

wish the devil who gave it would carry [_sic_] away with him! cries for

rest.

_Cres._ And who prevents its taking some? the same devil I suppose who

gave you your leg, gave me a bed, which I do want him to take away

again, however, on which your leg may lie if it like.

_Lope._ But did the devil, when he was about it, make your bed as well

as give it?

_Cres._ To be sure he did.

_Lope._ Then I’ll unmake it—Heaven knows weary enough.

_Cres._ Heaven rest you then.

_Lope._ (_aside_). Devil or saint alike he echoes me!

_Calderon de la Barca_ (1600-1681).

_Trans. Edward Fitzgerald._

_THE SIMPLE GROOMS._

“Look,” said Juanillo, “we have now arrived at the Puerta del Sol, one

of the chief resorts in Madrid. This site of beautiful things, rightly

called the Sol or Sun, is renowned not only in Madrid, but throughout

the whole world.” Just then the cries and loud sobs of a lad made them

turn to inquire the cause, and Onofre, asking a boy close by, was told

it was a doctor’s groom who had gone out to sell a mule too slow for his

master, who, on account of his large practice, required one with more

go.

“Are there so many sick in Madrid?” asked Onofre; to which the boy

replied: “He lives in a suburb of delicate people, who dress richly,

lie a long time in bed, have all their windows shut to keep out the

air, and if their chocolate is too sweet or too highly spiced, say it

has done them harm, and then they send for the doctor, who, to feel the

pulses and purses of all, needs a lively mule, and so he wanted to sell

his slow one.”

The boy went on to relate how the groom soon found a buyer in the

servant of a country doctor, just arrived on horseback between the

panniers of bread, a trick worthy of the devil himself, since that

they might not suspect Death was entering the gates of Madrid, he came

cloaked with the chief support of life; for they say he was abandoning

his last residence, since it had lost half its population during the

one year of his stay, and was, therefore, coming to Madrid, where, on

account of its size, he hoped his work would not be so noticeable. With

this executione servant ... a bargain was struck, and the buyer allowed

to try the mule, after entertaining and bribing the groom; whereupon he

vanished down the street of Alcalá.

Onofre smiled at the youth’s humour, and approaching the blubbering

groom, heard the crowd trying to advise and console him in various

ways: to look in all the hostries, where the thief might have taken the

mule to give it a feed; that his master would easily earn his value in

four days; that it was no good crying over spilt milk, to all of which

the groom wept loudly, the big tears running down his cheeks, which,

as well as his nose, he wiped with his cape and shirt-sleeves. Onofre

felt sorry for the poor fellow, but Juanillo, calling him, told him

such things often happened market days, and he knew another case, which

showed the astuteness of some thieves.

A groom went, like this one, to sell a mule, which was, however, so

young and wild, his master could not ride it. He arrived at the market

and straightway found a buyer, for those simple fellows always come

across crafty rogues, up to all kinds of tricks. They quickly came to

terms, and the thief asked the lad to come for his money astride his

mule to a surgeon-barber, for whom it was purchased. He then lead him

to a shop where he had been shaved once or twice, and, leaving him

outside on the mule, inquired for the master, and after the customary

salutations, told him he had brought a sick groom whom he wished to

be examined, and cured if possible, but that, as he was very shy and

embarrassed, and had put off coming to a doctor for a long time, he

must try not to frighten him, and ask the lad to wait a while inside

till he could see him, lest he should run away. He then paid half the

fee and said he would pay the rest afterwards. The barber, highly

pleased, went out and asked the groom to come in and wait, and his

business would soon be despatched.

“You know my business?” said the lad.

“Certainly,” said the barber.

The cheat, telling the groom that the barber would give him a dozen

reals for himself beside the price for the mule, mounted, clapped spurs

to the mule, and made off.

The groom, after waiting some little time, found out the fraud as soon

as the barber began questioning him as to his health, and set up a

great hullabaloo, whereupon the police hastened by, but could only warn

him to be more prudent next time, with the hope that God would console

him meanwhile.

“_Day and Night in Madrid._” _Santos_ (_fl._ 1697).

_PORTUGUESE EPITAPHS AND SAYINGS._

A noble Portuguee lies here,

By name Don Vasco Cid Figuere,

Not in bloodshed

Died he, he fled

From wars and Moors, and did all he could

To die in bed as a gentleman should.

* * * * *

Here lies who once lived and is now dead, and although he died, he

lives, for the world trembles at the sound of his name.

* * * * *

Here lies the body of Senhor Vasco Barreto,

He died by God’s will and much against his own.

Breathe an _Ave Maria_ for the repose of his soul.

* * * * *

Here lies Alfonso Galego. He died for the glory of God in spite of the

Devil.

* * * * *

A Portuguese preacher once said: “The Moors are our neighbours, and

the Jews are our neighbours, and even the Castilians are also our

neighbours.”

Another time a Portuguese friar, preaching on the anniversary of a

great battle, said: “The Christians were on one side of the river, and

the Castilians on the other.”

(_Seventeenth Century_).

_LA TARASCA AND THE CARRIERS._

A town in Spain on the banks of the Tagus, just about to celebrate

Corpus Christi, sent to a neighbouring town for the giants and the huge

serpent, called La Tarasca. On the eve of the festival the bearers,

in order to arrive in good time to join the procession, set out at

dusk, with the intention of reaching their destination at break of

day. They were inside the huge effigies, which were borne on their

shoulders exactly as when they dance through the streets. The moon

rose during their journey and shone down on the strange figures, to

the great amazement and alarm of some carriers with loads of wine,

who, becoming aware of the serpent and the giants behind, only screwed

together enough courage to take to their heels as fast as they could.

The bearers cried after them to come back and look after their teams,

but in vain, the more they shouted, the faster they fled. Thereupon the

porters of La Tarasca set her down and repaired to the mules, and when

they perceived the sweet spoils they had won without any bloodshed,

called to the bearers of the giants, and they all drank to each other’s

health in such long draughts and hearty quaffs, that the liquor rose to

their heads and laid them full length on the road.

The carriers, who were great braggarts, returned home and told their

Alcalde how they had encountered such giant thieves; and the whole

township, armed with cross-bows, lances and cudgels, sallied out in

quest of these odd fish. They arrived at the spot, making so great a

din, they almost awakened their foes, whom they found stretched on the

ground.

[Illustration: “THE MORE THEY SHOUTED, THE FASTER THEY FLED.”]

The Alcalde, much amused at the jest, gave judgment that the carriers

were to pay with wine those who had come to their help; upon which all

drank to their hear content till the citizens and soldiers returned

homewards and the porters again shouldered their burdens.

“_Truth on the Rack._” _Santos_ (_fl._ 1697).

_PEDIGREE OF FOOLS._

They say Lost Time married Ignorance, and had a son called I Thought,

who married Youth, and had the following children: I Did Know, I Did

Think, Who Would Have Expected.

Who Would Have Expected married Heedlessness, and had for children I

All Right, To-morrow Will Do, Ther Plenty of Time, Next Opportunity.

Ther Plenty of Time married Doña I Did Think, and had for family I

Forgot, I Know All About It, Nobody Can Deceive Me.

I Know All About It espoused Vanity, and begat Pleasure, who, marrying

Tha Not Likely, became father to Let Us Enjoy Ourselves and Bad Luck.

Bad Luck took to wife Little Sense, and had a very large family, among

whom were This Will Do, What Business Is It Of Theirs, It Seems To Me,

I Not Possible.

Pleasure was widowed, and, marrying again, espoused Folly. Consuming

their inheritance, they said one to the other, “Have Patience, let us

spend our capital and enjoy ourselves this year, for God will provide

for the next.” But Deception took them to prison, and Poverty to the

workhouse, where they died.

Strange obsequies were performed at their funeral, at which were

present the five Senses, Intellect, Memory, and Will, although in a

pitiful condition. Repentance, who came somewhat late, found no seat,

and had to stand the whole time, while Consolation and Contentment

were represented by Desolation and Melancholy, daughters of Memory.

Despair, grandchild of the deceased, went about begging for several

days, in which he could only collect six maravedies, with which he

bought a rope and hanged himself from a turret, which is the end of the

family of Fools.

_Anon._ (_Seventeenth Century_).

_THE FAMOUS PREACHER, FRIAR BLAS._

He was in the full perfection of his strength, just about

three-and-thirty years old, tall, robust, and stout; his limbs well set

and well proportioned; manly in gait, inclining to corpulence, with an

erect carriage of his head, and the circle of hair round his tonsure

studiously and exactly combed and shaven. His clerical dress was always

neat, and fell round his person in ample and regular folds. His shoes

fitted him with the greatest nicety, and, above all, his silken cap

was adorned with much curious embroidery and a fanciful tassel—the

work of certain female devotees who were dying with admiration of

their favourite preacher. In short, he had a very youthful, gallant

look; and, adding to this a clear, rich voice, a slight fashionable

lisp, a peculiar grace in telling a story, a talent at mimicry, an

easy action, a taking manner, a high-sounding style, and not a little

effrontery—never forgetting to sprinkle jests, proverbs, and homely

phrases along his discourses with a most agreeable aptness—he won

golden opinions in his public discourses, and carried everything before

him in the drawing-rooms he frequented.

[Illustration: FRIAR BLAS.]

It was well known that he always began his sermons with some proverb,

some jest, some pothouse witticism, or some strange fragment, which,

taken from its proper connections and relations, would seem, at first

blush, to be an inconsequence, a blasphemy, or an impiety; until at

last, having kept his audience waiting a moment in wonder, he finished

the clause, or came out with an explanation which reduced the whole to

a sort of miserable trifling. Thus, preaching one day on the mystery

of the Trinity, he began his sermon by saying, “I deny that God exists

a Unity in essence and a Trinity in person,” and then stopped short

for an instant. The hearers, of course, looked round on one another

scandalised, or, at least, wondering what would be the end of this

heretical blasphemy. At length, when the preacher thought he had fairly

caught them, he went on, “Thus says the Ebionite, the Marcionite, the

Arian, the Manichean, the Socinian; but I prove it against them all

from the Scriptures, the Councils, and the Fathers.”

In another sermon, which was on the Incarnation, he began by crying

out, “Your health, cavaliers!” and, as the audience burst into a broad

laugh at the free manner in which he had said it, he went on, “This is

no joking matter, however; for it was for your health and for mine,

and for that of all men, that Christ descended from heaven and became

incarnate in the Virgin Mary. It is an article of faith, and I prove

it thus: ‘_Propter nos, homines et nostram salutem decendit de cœlo et

incarnatus est_,’”—whereat they all remained in delighted astonishment,

and such a murmur of applause ran round the church that it wanted

little of breaking out into open acclamation.

_Trans. Ticknor._

_THE MUSICAL ASS._

The fable which I now present

Occur to me by accident;

And whether bad or excellent,

Is merely so by accident.

A stupid Ass this morning went

Into a field by accident

And crop his food and was content,

Until he spied by accident

A flute, which some oblivious gent

Had left behind by accident;

When, sniffing it with eager scent,

He breathed on it by accident,

And made the hollow instrument

Emit a sound by accident.

“Hurrah, hurrah!” exclaimed the brute,

“How cleverly I play the flute!”

A fool, in spite of nature’s bent,

May shine for once—by accident.

_Yriarte_ (1750-1791). _Trans. R. Rockliff._

[Illustration: THE BASHFUL SHEPHERDESS.]

_THE BASHFUL SHEPHERDESS._

No shady fruit-tree

In the early year

Dec with blossoms sweet

In the day dawn clear

So gladdens my eyes,

And raises my heart,

As when I catch sight

Of my own sweetheart.

He says, if I like,

In the fair springtime

We will married be,

For his love I see.

But to tell him yes

I feel such shame,

And no to answer

Gives still more pain.

But a thousand times yes,

The very first time

That he asks again,

Is the answer mine.

_Iglesias_ (_d._ 1791).

_THE BEAR, THE APE, AND THE PIG._

A bear, whose dancing hel to gain

His own and owne livelihood,

And whose success had made him vain

As any petit-maitre, stood

Upon his hinder legs to try

The figure of a new quadrille,

When, seeing that an Ape was nigh,

He stump’d about with all his skill,

And, “Tell me how you like,” he cried,

“My dancing, for always glad

To hear the truth.” The Ape replied,

“I really think it very bad.”

“’Tis plain enough,” rejoin’d the Bear,

“That envy makes you censure so;

For have I not a graceful air,

A slender shape and limber toe?”

But here a tasteless Pig began

To grunt applause, and said, “I vow

I’ve never met, in brute or man,

With one who danced so well as thou.”

The bear, on hearing this, became

Sedate and pensive for awhile;

And then, as if abash’d with shame.

Replied, in a more humble style:

“The agile Ape’s rebuke might be

Inspired by jealousy or spleen;

But, since the Pig commends, I see

How bad my dancing must have been.”

Let every author think on this,

And hold the maxim for a rule—

The worst that can befall him is

The approbation of a fool.

_Yriarte_ (1750-1791). _Trans. R. Rockliff._

_THE FROG AND THE HEN._

As once a Frog,

Who all day long had chatte from his bog,

Began to close

His mouth and eyes, and drop into a dose,

He chanced just then

To hear the sudden cackle of a hen.

“What sound is this?”

He cried. “Dear madam, what can be amiss,

That thus you scream,

And keep a quiet neighbour from his dream?”

The Hen replied,

Her feathers fluttering with maternal pride,

“I humbly beg

Your pardon, sir; but, having laid an egg,

I could not chuse

To let you sleep in ignorance of the news.”

“What! all this clatter

About a single egg!—so small a matter!”

“True, neighbour, true;

’Tis but a single egg—a small one, too;

But if you blame

The rout that I have made about the same,

’Tis doubly wrong

In you to croak for nothing all day long.

The egg’s of use,

And therefore I may brag with some excuse;

But the dull brute

Tha unproductive should be also mute.”

_Yriarte._ _Trans. R. Rockliff._

_MARIQUITA THE BALD._

(A TALE AFTER THE STYLE OF AN OLD CHRONICLE.)

It is as sorry a matter to use the words of which one ignores the

meaning as it is a blemish for a man of sense to speak of what he knows

nothing about. I say this to those of you who may have the present

story in your hands, however often you may have happened to have heard

_Mariquita the Bald_ mentioned, and I swear by my doublet that you

shall soon know who Mariquita the Bald was, as well as I know who ate

the Christmas turkey, setting aside the surmise that it certainly must

have been a mouth.

I desire, therefore, to enlighten your ignorance of this subject, and

beg to inform you that the said noted Maria (Mariquita is a diminutive

of Maria) was born in the District of Segovia, and in the town of Sant

Garcia, the which town is famed for the beauty of the maidens reared

within its walls, who for the most part have such gentle and lovely

faces, that may I behold such around me at the hour of my death. Mari

father was an honest farmer, by name Juan Lanas, a Christian old

man, and much beloved, and who had inherited no mean estate from his

forefathers, though with but little wit in his crown, a lack which was

the cause of much calamity to both the father and the daughter, for

in the times to which we have attained, God forgive me if it is not

necessary to have more of the knave than of the fool in on composition.

Now it came to pass that Juan Lanas, for the castigation of his sins,

must needs commit himself to a lawsuit with one of his neighbours about

a vine stock which was worth about fifty maravedis; and Juan was in the

right, and the judges gave the verdict in his favour, so that he won

his case, excepting that the suit lasted no less than ten years and

the costs amounted to nothing less than fifty thousand maravedies, not

to speak of a disease of the eyes which after all was over left him

blind. When he found himself with diminished property and without his

eyesight, in sorrow and disgust he turned into money such part of his

patrimony as sufficed to rid him of the hungry herd of scribeners and

lawyers, and took his way to Toledo with his daughter, who was already

entering upon her sixteenth year, and had matured into one of the most

beautiful, graceful, and lovable damsels to be found throughout all

Castile and the kingdoms beyond. For she was white as the lily and red

like the rose, straight and tall of stature, and slender in the waist,

with fair, shapely hips; and again her foot and hand were plump and

small to a marvel, and she possessed a head of hair which reached to

her knees. For I knew the widow Sarmiento who was their housekeeper,

and she told me how she could scarcely clasp Mariquita’s hair with both

hands, and that she could not comb the hair unless Maria stood up and

the housekeeper mounted on a footstool, for if Maria sat down, the long

tresses swept the ground, and therefore became all entangled.

And do not imagine her beauty and grace being such that she sinned

greatly in pride and levity, as is the wont of girls in this age. She

was as humble as a cloistered lay-sister, and as silent as if she

were not a woman, and patient as the sucking lamb, and industrious as

the ant, clean as the ermine, and pure as a saint of those times in

which, by the grace of the Most High, saintly women were born into

the world. But I must confide to you in friendship that our Mariquita

was not a little vain about her hair, and loved to display it, and

for this reason, now in the streets, now when on a visit, now when at

mass, it is said she used to subtilely loosen her mantilla so that her

tresses streamed down her back, the while feigning forgetfulness and

carelessness. She never wore a hood, for she said it annoyed her and

choked her; and every time that her father reproached her for some deed

deserving of punishment and threatened to cut off her hair, I warrant

you she suffered three times more than after a lash from the whip, and

would then be good for three weeks successively; so much so that Juan

Lanas, perceiving her amendment, would laugh under his cloak, and when

saying his say to his gossips would tell them that his daughter, like

the other saint of Sicily, would reach heaven by her hair. Having read

so far, you must now know that Juan Lanas, the blind man, with the

change of district and dwelling did not change his judgment, and if he

was crack-brained at Sant Garcia, he remained crack-brained at Toledo,

consuming in this resort his monies upon worthless drugs and quacks

which did not cure his blindness and impoverished him more and more

every day, so that if his daughter had not been so dexterous with her

fingers in making and broidering garments of linen, wool, and silk, I

promise you that this miserable Juan would have to have gone for more

than four Sundays without a clean shirt to put on or a mouthful to

eat, unless he had begged for it from door to door. The years passed

by to find Maria every day more beautiful, and her father every day

more blind and more desirous to see, until his affliction and trouble

took such forcible possession of his breast and mind, that Maria saw

as clear as daylight that if her father did not recover his sight,

he would die of grief. Maria thereupon straightway took her father

and led him to the house of an Arabian physician of great learning

who dwelt at Toledo, and told the Moor to see if there were any cure

for the old ma sight. The Arabian examined and touched Juan, and made

this and that experiment with him, and everything was concerted in

that the physician swore great oaths by the heel-bone of Mohammed that

there was a complete certainty of curing Juan and making him to see

his daughter again, if only he, the physician, were paid for the cure

with five hundred maravedies all in gold. A sad termination for such a

welcome beginning, for the two unhappy creatures, Juan and Maria, had

neither maravedi nor cuarto in their money box! So they went thence all

downcast, and Maria never ceased praying to his Holiness Saint John and

his Holiness Saint James (the patron saint of Spain) to repair to their

assistance in this sad predicament.

“In what way,” conjectured she inwardly—“in what way can I raise

fifty maravedies to be quits with the worthy Moor who will give back

his sight to my poor old father? Ah! I have it. I am a pretty maid,

and suitors innumerable, commoners and nobles, pay their addresses

and compliments to me. But all are trifling youths who only care for

love-making and who seek light o’ loves rather than spouses according

to the law of the Lord Jesus Christ. I remember, notwithstanding,

that opposite our house lives the sword-cutler, Master Palomo, who is

always looking at me and never speaks to me, and the Virgin assist

me, he appears a man of very good condition for a husband; but what

maiden, unless she were cross-eyed or hunch-backed, could like a man

with such a flat nose, with that skin the colour of a ripe date, with

those eyes like a dead cal, and with those huge hands, which are more

like the paws of a wild beast than the belongings of a person who

with them should softly caress the woman whom Destiny bestows upon

him for a companion? ’Tis said that he is no drunkard, nor cudgeller,

nor dallier with woman, nor a liar, and that he is besides possessed

of much property and very rich. Pity ’tis that one who is so ugly and

stiff-necked should unite such parts.”

Thus turning the matter over and over in her mind, Maria together with

Juan reached their home, where was awaiting them an esquire in a long

mourning robe, who told Maria that the aunt of the Mayor of the city

had died in an honest estate and in the flower of her age, for she had

not yet completed her seventy years, and that the obsequies of this

sexagenarian damsel were to be performed the following day, on which

occasion her coffin would be carried to the church by maidens, and he

was come to ask Maria if she would please to be one of the bearers of

the dead woman, for which she would receive a white robe, and to eat,

and a ducat, and thanks into the bargain.

Maria, since she was a well brought up maid, replied that if it seemed

well to her father, it would also seem well to her.

Juan accepted, and Maria was rejoiced to be able to make a display

of her hair, for it is well known that the maidens who bear another

to the grave walk with dishevelled locks. And when on the morrow the

tiring-women of the Mayoress arrayed Maria in a robe white as the

driven snow and fine as the skin of an onion; and when they girt her

slender waist with a sash of crimson silk, the ends of which hung down

to the broad hem of the skirt; and when they crowned her smooth and

white forehead with a wreath of white flowers, I warrant you that,

what with the robe and the sash and the wreath, and the beautiful

streaming hair and her lovely countenance and gracious mien, she seemed

no female formed of flesh and blood, but a superhuman creature or

blessed resident of those shining circles in which dwell the celestial

hierarchies. The Mayor and the other mourners stepped forth to see

her, and all unceasingly praised God, who was pleased to perform such

miracles for the consolation and solace of those living in this world.

And there in a corner of the hall, motionless like a heap of broken

stones, stood one of the mutes with the hood of his long cloak covering

his head, so that nothing could be seen but his eyes, the which he kept

fixed on the fair damsel. The latter modestly lowered her eyes to the

ground with her head a little bent and her cheeks red for bashfulness,

although it pleased her no little to hear the praises of her beauty.

At this moment a screen was pushed aside, and there began to appear a

huge bulk of petticoats, which was nothing less than the person of the

Mayoress, for she was with child and drawing near to her time. And when

she saw Maria, she started, opened her eyes a hand’s-breadth wide, bit

her lips, and called hurriedly for her husband. They stepped aside for

a good while, and then hied them thence, and when they returned the

mutes and maidens had all gone.

While they are burying the defunct lady I must tell you, curious

readers, that the Mayor and Mayoress had been married for many years

without having any children, and they longed for them like the

countryman for rain in the month of May, and at last her hour of bliss

came to the Mayoress, to the great content of her husband. Now, it was

whispered that the said lady had always been somewhat capricious; judge

for yourselves what she would be now in the time of her pregnancy! And

as she was already on the way to fifty, she was more than mediocrely

bald and hairless, and on these very same days had commissioned a woman

barber, who lived in the odour of witchcraft, to prepare for her some

false hair, but it was not to be that of a dead woman, for the Mayoress

said very sensibly that if the hair belonged to a dead woman who

rejoiced in supreme glory, or was suffering for her sins in purgatory,

it would be profanation to wear any pledge of theirs, and if they were

in hell, it was a terrible thing to wear on person relics of one of

the damned. And when the Mayoress saw the abundant locks of Maria, she

coveted them for herself, and it was for this reason that she called

to the Mayor to speak to her in private and besought him eagerly to

persuade Maria to allow herself to be shorn upon the return from the

burial.

“I warn you,” said the Mayor, “that you are desirous of entering upon

a very knotty bargain, for the dishevelled girl idolises her hair in

such wise, that she would sooner lose a finger than suffer one of her

tresses to be cut off.”

“I warn you,” replied the Mayoress, “that if on this very day the head

of this young girl is not shorn smooth beneath my hand as a melon, the

child to which I am about to give birth will have a head of hair on its

face, and if it happens to be a female, look you, a pretty daughter is

in store for you!”

“But bethink yourself that Maria will ask, who knows, a good few crowns

for this shaving.”

“Bethink yourself, that if not, your heir or heiress, begotten after so

many years’ marriage, will come amiss; and bear in mind, by the way,

that we are not so young as to hope to replace this by another.”

Upon this she turned her back to the Mayor, and went to her apartment

crying out: “I want the hair, I must have the hair, and if I do not get

the hair, by my halidom I shall never become a mother.”

In the meantime the funeral had taken place without any novelty to

mention, excepting that if in the streets any loose fellow in the crowd

assayed to annoy the fair Maria, the hooded mute, of whom we made

mention before, quickly drew from beneath his cloak a strap, with which

he gave a lash to the insolent rogue without addressing one word to

him, and then walked straight on as if nothing had happened. When all

the mourners returned, the Mayor seized hold of Mari hand and said to

her—

“And now, fair maid, let us withdraw for a little while into this other

apartment,” and thus talking whilst in motion he brought her into his

wife’s private tiring-room, and sat himself down in a chair and bent his

head and stroked his beard with the mien of one who is studying what

beginning to give to his speech. Maria, a little foolish and confused,

remained standing in front of the Mayor, and she also humbly lowered

before him her eyes, black as the sloe; and to occupy herself with

something, gently fingered the ends of the sash which girded her waist

and hung down over her skirt, not knowing what to expect from the grave

mien and long silence of the Mayor, who, raising his eyes and looking

up at Maria, when he beheld her in so modest a posture, devised thence

a motive with which to begin, saying—

“Forsooth, Maria, so modest and sanctimonious is thy bearing, that it

is easy to see thou art preparing thyself to become a black wimpled

nun. And if it be so, as I presume it to be, I now offer of my own

accord to dispose of thy entry into the cloisters without any dowry, on

condition that thou dost give me something that thou hast on thy head,

and which then wilt not be necessary for thee.”

“Nay, beshrew me, Sir Mayor,” replied Maria, “for I durst not think

that the Lord calls upon me to take that step, for then my poor father

would remain in the world without the staff of his old age.”

“Then, now, I desire to give thee some wise counsel, maid Maria. Thou

dost gain thy bread with great fatigue, thou shouldst make use of thy

time as much as is possible. Now one of thy neighbours hath told me,

that in the dressing of thy hair, thou doth waste every day more than

an hour. It would be better far if thou didst spend this hour on thy

work rather than in the dressing and braiding which thou dost to thy

hair.”

“That is true, Sir Mayor,” replied Maria, turning as red as a

carnation, “but, look you, it is not my fault if I have a wealth of

tresses, the combing and plaiting of which necessitates so long a time

every morning.”

“I tell thee it is thy fault,” retorted the Mayor, “for if thou didst

cut off this mane, thou would save thyself all this combing and

plaiting, and thus would have more time for work, and so gain more

money, and would also give no occasion to people to call thee vain.

They even say that the Devil will some day carry thee off by thy hair.

Nay, do not be distressed, for I already perceive the tears gathering

in thy eyes, for thou hast them indeed very ready at hand; I admonish

thee for thine own good without any self-interest. Cut thy hair off,

shear thyself, shave thyself, good Maria, and to allay the bitterness

of the shearing, I will give fifty maravedies, always on condition that

thou dost hand me over the hair.”

When Maria at first heard this offer of so reasonable a sum for this

her hair, it seemed to her a jest of the Mayo, and she smiled right

sweetly while she dried her tears, repeating—

“You will give me fifty maravedies if I shave myself?”

Now it appeared to the Mayor (who, it is said, was not gifted with all

the prudence of Ulysses) that that smile signified that the maid was

not satisfied with so small a price, and he added—

“If thou wilt not be content with fifty maravedies, I will give thee a

hundred.”

Then Maria saw some hangings of the apartment moving in front of her,

and perceiving a bulky protuberance, she immediately divined that the

Mayoress was hiding behind there, and that the protuberance was caused

by her portly form. She now discovered the Mayo design, and that it

was probably a caprice of his spouse, and she made a vow not to suffer

herself to be shorn unless she acquired by these means the five hundred

maravedies needful to pay the Arabian physician who would give her

father back his eyesight.

Then the Mayor raised his price from a hundred maravedies to a hundred

and fifty, and afterwards to two hundred, and Maria continued her sweet

smiling, shaking of the head and gestures, and every time that the

Mayor bid higher and Maria feigned to be reluctant, she almost hoped

that the Mayor would withdraw from his proposition, for the great

grief it caused her to despoil herself of that precious ornament,

notwithstanding that by means of it she might gain her father’s health.

Finally the Mayor, anxious to conclude the treaty, for he saw the

stirring of the curtains, and knew by them the anxiety and state of

mind of the listener, closed by saying—

“Go to, hussy, I will give thee five hundred maravedies, see, once and

for all, if thou canst agree to these terms.”

“Be it so,” replied Maria, sighing as if her soul would flee from her

flesh with these words—“be it so, so long that nobody doth know that I

remain bald.”

“I will give my word for it,” said the Mayoress, stepping from behind

the curtains with a pair of sharp shears in her hands and a wrapper

over her arm.

When Maria saw the scissors she turned as yellow as wax, and when they

told her to sit down on the sacrificial chair, she felt herself grow

faint and had to ask for a drink of water; and when they tied the

wrapper round her throat it is related that she would have immediately

torn it asunder if her courage had not failed her. And when at the

first movement of the shears she felt the cold iron against her skull,

I tell you it seemed to her as if they were piercing her heart with

a bright dagger. It is possible that she did not keep her head still

for a moment while this tonsuring was taking place; she moved it in

spite of herself, now to one side, now to another, to flee from the

clipping scissors, of which the rude cuts and the creaking axis wounded

her ears. Her posture and movements, however, were of no avail to the

poor shorn maiden, and the pertinacious shearer, with the anxiety and

covetousness of a pregnant woman satisfying a caprice, seized the hair

well, or ill, by handfuls, and went on bravely clipping, and the locks

fell on to the white wrapper, slipping down thence till they reached

the ground.

At last the business came to an end, and the Mayoress, who was beside

herself with joy, caressingly passed the palm of her hand again and

again over the mai bald head from the front to the back, saying—

“By my mother’s soul, I have shorn you so regularly and close to root,

that the most skilful barber could not have shorn you better. Get up

and braid the hair while my husband goes to get the money and I your

clothes, so that you can leave the house without any one perceiving it.”

[Illustration: “AT THE FIRST MOVEMENT OF THE SHEARS ... IT SEEMED TO

HER AS IF THEY WERE PIERCING HER HEART WITH A BRIGHT DAGGER.”]

The Mayor and Mayoress went out of the room, and Maria, as soon as

she found herself alone, went to look at herself in a mirror that hung

there; and when she saw herself bald she lost the patience she had

had until then, and groaned with rage and struck herself, and even

tried to wrench off her ears, which appeared to her now outrageously

large, although they were not so in reality. She stamped upon her

hair and cursed herself for having ever consented to lose it, without

remembering her father, and just as if she had no father at all. But as

it is a quality of human nature to accept what cannot be altered, poor

angry Maria calmed down little by little, and she picked up the hair

from the ground and bound it together and braided it into great ropes,

not without kissing it and lamenting over it many times. The Mayor and

the Mayoress returned, he with the money and she with the every-day

clothes of Maria, who undressed and folded her white robe in a

kerchief, put on her old gown, hid herself with her shawl to the eyes,

and walked, moaning, to the house of the Moor, without noticing that

the man with the hood over his head was following behind her, and that

when she, in a moment of forgetfulness, lowered her shawl through the

habit she had of displaying her tresses, her bald head could be plainly

seen. The Moor received the five hundred maravedies with that good will

with which money is always received, and told Maria to bring Juan Lanas

to his house to stay there so long as there was any risk in the cure.

Maria went to fetch the old man, and kept silence as to her shorn head

so as not to grieve him, and whilst Juan remained the physicia guest,

Maria durst not leave her home except after nightfall and then well

enveloped; this, however, did not hinder her being followed by the

muffled-up man.

One evening the Moor told her in secret that the next morning he would

remove the bandages from Jua eyes. Maria went to bed that night with

great rejoicing, but thought to herself that when her father saw her

(which would be with no little pleasure) he would be pleased three or

four times more if he could see her with the pretty head-dress which

she used to wear in her native town. Amidst such cavillation she donned

the next day her best petticoat and ribands to hie to the Arabia house;

and while she was sitting down to shoe herself she of a sudden felt

something like a hood closing over her head, and, turning round, she

saw behind her the muffled-up man of before, who, throwing aside his

cloak, discovered himself to be the sword-cutler, Master Palomo, who,

without speaking, presented Maria with a little Venetian mirror, in

which she looked and saw herself with her own hair and garb in such

wise that she wondered for a good time if it were not a dream that the

Mayoress had shorn her. The fact was, that Master Palomo was a great

crony of the old woman barber, and had seen in her house Mari tresses

on the very same afternoon of the morning in which he saw Maria was

bald, and keeping silence upon the matter, had wheedled the old woman

into keeping Mari hair for him, and dressing for the Mayoress some

other hair of the same hue which the crone had from a dead woman—a

bargain by which the crafty old dame acquired many a bright crown. And

the story relates that as soon as Maria regained her much-lamented

and sighed-for hair by the hands of the gallant sword-cutler, the

Master appeared to her much less ugly than before, and I do not know

if it tells that from that moment she began to look on him with more

favourable eyes, but i’sooth it is a fact that upon his asking her to

accept his escort to the Moor’s house, she gave her assent, and the

two set out hand in hand, the maiden holding her head up free from

mufflers. As they both entered the physicia apartment her father threw

himself into Mari arms, crying—

“Glory to God, I see thee now, my beloved daughter. How tall and

beautiful thou art grown! Verily, it is worthwhile to become blind for

five years to see on daughter matured thus! Now that I see daylight

again, it is only right that I should no longer be a burden to thee. I

shall work for myself, for as for thee it is already time for thee to

marry.”

“For this very purpose am I come,” broke in at this opportune moment

the silent sword-cutler; “I, as you will have already recognised by my

voice, am your neighbour, Master Palomo. I love Maria, and ask you for

her hand.”

“Lack-a-day, Master, but your exterior is not very prepossessing.

Howbeit, if Maria doth accept you, I am content.”

“I,” replied Maria, wholly abashed, and smoothing the false hair (which

then weighed upon her head and heart like a burden of five hundred

weight)—“I, so may God enlighten me, for I durst not venture to reply.”

Palomo took her right hand without saying anything, and as he did so

Maria looked at the Master’s wrists, and observed the wristbands of his

shirt, neatly embroidered, and with some suspicion and beating of her

heart said to him—

“If you wish to please me, good neighbour, tell me by what sempstress

is this work?”

“It is the work,” replied the Master, jocularly—“the work of a pretty

maiden who for five years has toiled for my person, albeit she hath not

known it till now.”

“Now I perceive,” said Maria, “how that all the women who have come to

give me linen to sew and embroider were sent by you, and that is why

they paid me more than is customary.”

The Master did not reply, but he smiled and held out his arms to Maria.

Maria threw herself into them, embracing him very caressingly; and Juan

himself said to the two—

“In good sooth, you are made one for the other.”

“By my troth, my beloved one,” continued the sword-cutler after a

while, “if my countenance had only been more pleasing, I should not

have been silent towards you for so many long days, nor would I have

been content with gazing at you from afar. I should have spoken to you,

you would have made me the confidant of your troubles, and I would

have given you the five hundred maravedies for the cure of your good

father.” And whispering softly into her ear, he added, “And then you

would not have passed that evil moment under the hands of the Mayoress.

But if you fear that she may break the promise she made to you to keep

silence as to your cropped head, let us, if it please you, set out for

Seville, where nobody knows you, and thus——”

“No more,” exclaimed Maria, resolutely throwing on the ground the hair,

which Juan picked up all astonished; “Send this hair to the Mayoress,

since it was for this and not for that of the dead woman that she

paid so dearly. For I, to cure myself of my vanity, now make a vow,

with your good permission, to go shorn all my life; such artificial

adornments are little befitting to the wives of honest burghers.”

“But rely upon it,” replied the Master-cutler, “that as soon as it is

known that you have no hair, the girls of the city, envious of your

beauty, will give you the nickname of _Mariquita the Bald_!”

“They may do so,” replied Maria, “and that they may see that I do not

care a fig for this or any other nickname, I swear to you that from

this day forth I will not suffer anybody to call me by another name

than _Mariquita the Bald_.”

This was the event that rendered so famous throughout all Castille the

beautiful daughter of good Juan Lanas, who in effect married Master

Palomo, and became one of the most honourable and prolific women of the

most illustrious city of Toledo.

_Juan Eugenio Hartzenbusch_ (1806-1880).

_PULPETE AND BALBEJA; OR, AN ANDALUSIAN DUEL._

Through the little square of St. Anna, towards a certain tavern, where

the best wine is to be quaffed in Seville, there walked in measured

steps two men, whose demeanour clearly manifested the soil which gave

them birth. He who walked in the middle of the street, taller than

the other by about a finger’s length, sported with affected carelessness

the wide, slouched hat of Ecija, with tassels of glass beads and a

ribbon as black as his sins. He wore his cloak gathered under his left

arm; the right, emerging from a turquoise lining, exposed the merino

lambskin with silver clasps. The herdsman’s boots—white, with Turkish

buttons,—the breeches gleaming red from below the cloak and covering

the knee, and, above all, his strong and robust appearance, dark curly

hair, and eye like a red-hot coal, proclaimed at a distance that all

this combination belonged to one of those men who put an end to horses

between their knees and tire out the bull with their lance. He walked

on, arguing with his companion, who was rather spare than prodigal in

his person, but marvellously lithe and supple. The latter was shod with

low shoes, garters united the stockings to the light-blue breeches,

the waistcoat was cane-coloured, his sash light green, and jaunty

shoulder-knots, lappets, and rows of buttons ornamented the camelite

jacket. The open cloak, the hat drawn over his ear, his short, clean

steps, and the manifestations in all his limbs and movements of agility

and elasticity beyond trial plainly showed that in the arena, carmine

cloth in hand, he would mock at the most frenzied of Jarama bulls, or

the best horned beasts from Utrera.

I—who adore and die for such people, though the compliment be not

returned—went slowly in the wake of their worships, and, unable

to restrain myself, entered with them the same tavern, or rather

eating-house, since there they serve certain provocatives as well as

wine, and I, as my readers perceive, love to call things by their right

name. I entered and sat down at once, and in such a manner as not to

interrupt my Oliver and Roland, and that they might not notice me, when

I saw that, as if believing themselves alone, they threw their arms

with an amicable gesture round each other’s neck, and thus began their

discourse:—

“Pulpete,” said the taller, “now that we are going to meet each other,

knife in hand—you here, I there,... _one, two,... on your guard,...

triz, traz,... have that,... take this and call it what you like_

...—let us first drain a tankard to the music and measure of some

songs.”

“Señor Balbeja,” replied Pulpete, drawing his face aside and spitting

with the greatest neatness and pulchritude towards his shoe, “I am not

the kind of man either for la Gorja or other similar earthly matters,

or because a steel tongue is sheathed in my body, or my weasand slit,

or for any other such trifle, to be provoked or vexed with such a

friend as Balbeja. Let the wine be brought, and then we will sing; and

afterwards blood—blood to the hilt.”

The order was given, they clinked glasses, and, looking one at the

other, sang a Sevillian song.

This done, they threw off their cloaks with an easy grace, and

unsheathed their knives with which to prick one another, the one

Flemish with a white haft, the other from Guadix, with a guard to

the hilt, both blades dazzling in their brightness, and sharpened

and ground enough for operating upon cataracts, much less ripping up

bellies and bowels. The two had already cleft the air several times

with the said lancets, their cloak wound round their left arm—first

drawing closer, then back, now more boldly and in bounds—when Pulpete

hoisted the flag for parley, and said—

“Balbeja, my friend, I only beg you to do me the favour not to fan

my face _Juilon_ your knife, since a slash might use it so ill that

my mother who bore me would not know me, and I should not like to be

considered ugly; neither is it right to mar and destroy what God made

in His likeness.”

“Agreed,” replied Balbeja; “I will aim lower.”

“Except—except my stomach also, for I was ever a friend to cleanliness,

and I should not like to see myself fouled in a bad way, if your knife

and arm played havoc with my liver and intestines.”

“I will strike higher; but let us go on.”

“Take care of my chest, it was always weak.”

“Then just tell me, friend, _where_ am I to sound or tap you?”

“My dear Balbeja, ther always plenty of time and space to hack at a

man: I have here on my left arm a wen, of which you can make meat as

much as you like.”

“Here goes for it,” said Balbeja, and he hurled himself like an arrow;

the other warded off the thrust with his cloak, and both, like skilful

penmen, began again tracing and signatures in the air with dashes and

flourishes, without, however, raising a particle of skin.

I do not know what would have been the end of this onslaught, since

my venerable, dry, and shrivelled person was not suitable for forming

a point of exclamation between two combatants; and the tavern-keeper

troubled so little about what was happening that he drowned the

stamping of their feet and clatter of the tumbling stools and utensils

by scraping street music on a guitar as loud as he could. Otherwise he

was as calm as if he were entertaining two angels instead of two devils

incarnate.

[Illustration: “INCREASED THEIR FEINTS, FLOURISHES, CURVETS,

CROUCHINGS, AND BOUNDS.”]

I do not know, I repeat, how this scene would have ended, when there

crossed the threshold a personage who came to take a part in the

development of the drama. There entered, I say, a woman of twenty to

twenty-two years of age, diminutive in body, superlative in audacity

and grace. Neat and clean hose and shoes, short, black flounced

petticoat, a linked girdle, head-dress or mantilla of fringed taffeta

caught together at the nape of her neck, and a corner of it over her

shoulder, she passed before my eyes with swaying hips, arms akimbo, and

moving her head to and fro as she looked about her on all sides.

Upon seeing her the tavern-keeper dropped his instrument, and I was

overtaken by perturbation such as I had not experienced for thirty

years (I am, after all, only flesh and blood); but, without halting for

such lay-figures, she advanced to the field of battle.

There was a lively to-do here: Don Pulpete and Don Balbeja when they

saw Doña Gorja appear, first cause of the disturbance and future

prize for the victor, increased their feints, flourishes, curvets,

onsets, crouching, and bounds—all, however, without touching a hair.

Our Helen witnessed in silence for a long time this scene in history

with that feminine pleasure which the daughters of Eve enjoy at such

critical moments. But gradually her pretty brow clouded over, until,

drawing from her delicate ear, not a flower or earring, but the stump

of a cigar, she hurled it amidst the jousters. Not even Charles V.’s

cane in the last duel in Spain produced such favourable effects. Both

came forward immediately with formal respect, and each, by reason of

the discomposure of his person and clothes, presumed to urge a title

by which to recommend himself to the fair with the flounces. She, as

though pensive, was going over the passage of arms in her mind, and

then, with firm and confident resolution, spoke thus—

“And is this affair for me?”

“Who else should it be for? since I ... since nobody——” they replied in

the same breath.

“Listen, gentlemen,” said she. “For females such as I and my parts,

of my charms and descent—daughter of la Gatusa, niece of la Méndez,

and granddaughter of la Astrosa—know that there are neither pacts

nor compacts, nor any such futile things, nor are any of them worth a

farthing. And when men challenge each other, let the knife do its work

and the red blood flow, so as not to have my mother’s daughter present

without giving her the pleasure of snapping her fingers in the face

of the other. If you pretend you are fighting for me, it’s a lie; you

are wholly mistaken, and that not by halves. I love neither of you.

Mingalarios of Zafra is to my taste, and he and I look upon you with

scorn and contempt. Good-bye, my braves; and, if you like, call my man

to account.”

She spoke, spat, smoothed the saliva with the point of her shoe,

looking Pulpete and Balbeja full in the face, and went out with the

same expressive movements with which she entered.

The two unvarnished braggarts followed the valorous Doña Gorja with

their eyes; and then with a despicable gesture drew their knives across

their sleeve as though wiping off the blood there might have been,

sheathed them at one and the same time, and said together—

“Through woman the world was lost, through a woman Spain was lost;[9]

but it has never been known, nor do ballads relate, nor the blind

beggars sing,[10] nor is it heard in the square or markets, that two

valiant men killed each other for another lover.”

“Give me that fist, Don Pulpete.”

“Your hand, Don Balbeja.”

They spoke and strode out into the street, the best friends in the

world, leaving me all amazed at such whimsicality.

_Estébanez Calderón_ (_El Solitario_) (1799-1867).

_SEVILLE._

Who Naples fair has never seen

never a marvel, sure, has seen;

Nor who to Sevill ever been

will ever wish to leave, I ween,

“See bella Napoli and die!”

is the Neapolitan’s cry.

The counsel the Sevillians give

is “Seville see and learn to live!”

_José Zorrilla_ (1817-1893).

_AFTER THE BULL-FIGHT._

Beg pardon, Mr. Magistrate, but it was as my husband tells it, for he

stayed at home with Alfonsa and the baby, who was asleep, and he knew

nothing about what happened.”

“Then, do you tell me how it happened.”

“I, sir? Well, you see, your Worship, an honest woman and do know how

to explain myself well; but that gentleman there is my husband, and his

conduct is such as your Honour sees, always drunk and out of work.”

“Come to the point.”

“Well, I’m coming; the cause of it all is a friend of the family and very

intimate, as every one knows, and they call him Malgesto, and he can

thrust a banderilla[11] into the morning star, much less into a bull;

well, as I was saying, the same had told me: ‘Paca, I won’t have my lady

friends look at el Chato, and if I see them do it, I’ll cut off the

little nose he has left.’“All right!” said I, “but as you see, your

Lordship or your Worship, taste is taste, and in no catechism have I

seen it called a sin to look at somebody; so la Curra, who evil tongues

say is Malgesto’s wife, and I paid no attention, you see, and....”

“Go on, you went to the bull-fight with the other man.”

“Tha just it, since he hired a fly and took me and la Curra, so that we

might not go alone, and everybody would have done the same, and I....”

“To the point, to the point.”

“The point is a needle’s point, as one says, for take my word for it, the

other from the arena never takes his eyes off us the whole time, and he

placed the darts in a cross, and cursed them with gestures towards us,

from which Heaven deliver us.”

“But at last....”

“At last the last bull was despatched as usual, and we all went away

in peace and the grace of God, when as we were going out el Chato

disappeared somehow, and I who expected to meet him at the door

of the fly, who do you think I met? nobody more nor less than the

banderillero, who said, ‘Ungrateful woman, is this how you obey my

orders?’I said to him ... but no, I said nothing to him then, as if I

were afraid, but I just shrugged my shoulders, and I do know if I did

anything else. He answered nothing, except two or three oaths and a

little blasphemy, and then seizing la Curra, he lifted her violently

into the cab, and then he pushed me in, saying: ‘If you do go in I’ll

kill el Chato’ and I, you see, your Honour, a decent woman, and do want

anybody’s death.”

“And so what did you do?”

“What could I do? I got in.”

“And afterwards?”

“Afterwards came the row, for la Curra began to grumble, and so did I,

he to keep us quiet gave us each two or three cuffs; and then we began

to call him names and call each other names, for your Honour knows

defence is only natural; to finish up, the horse took fright and nearly

upset us; but at last we got out in the Calle del Barquillo; he set off

running, la Curra after him, and tha the last I’ve seen of them.”

“So that you have nothing more to allege?”

“Nothing more.”

“And you swear to this?”

“I swear that I am a respectable woman, incapable of scandalous

behaviour, though at times a poor female ca help ... but now I want to

complain to your Worship, for I too have my wrongs.”

“Let us hear them.”

“In the first place I complain of all my neighbours, for they have

stolen all I had in the house, inside and outside.”

“And how can you prove?”

“I can prove the things are gone, which is the principal thing;

secondly, I complain of my husband, who does protect me in my danger;

thirdly, I complain of la Curra for fourteen scratches and ten pinches,

not to mention some kicks; besides this I complain of the policeman,

who took me to prison only because I pulled a face at him on St. Anthony’s

day,[12] when he tried to make love to me; lastly, I complain of your

Worship, who are Justice of the Peace for this ward, and——”

“Silence, you baggage, or by Heavens I’ll put a gag in your mouth which

it won’t be so easy to shake off.”

* * * * *

“What is it, constable?”

“Notice has just been brought, sir, that two men have been fighting

with knives in front of Mother Alfons tavern, and are both badly

wounded.”

“Who are they?”

“El Chato and Malgesto.”

“_Scenes in Madrid._” _Mesonero Romanos_ (_El Curioso Parlante_)

(1803-1882).

_DELIGHTS OF A MADRID WINTER._

No, sir, you cannot deny that the best season of the year is winter.

The theatres fill up. Gastronomists return to the juicy oyster; and

as soon as it begins to freeze still their appetites with the tasty

sea-bream. The crown ministers can infringe the laws with impunity,

fearless of tumults and insurrections, for the people’s blood does not

boil as in the month of July, and patriots prefer roasting chestnuts

and toasting themselves over the brazier to haranguing in rain and

snow. The shoeblacks dance with joy, for the mud is all in their

favour. The doctors make their fortunes with colds and lung diseases.

The apothecaries sell cough lozenges to their hearts’ content. The

maid-servants make a new conquest every day of the Savoyards who cross

the Pyrenees to clean out our chimneys and purses with their monkeys

and hurdy-gurdies. But besides these and other votaries, who have

powerful reasons for liking winter, there are other admirers of this

season dubbed _rigorous_ by the ignorant vulgar. These devotees are the

only really intelligent beings, and nobody will be able to deny they

are right, when they patent the advantages of the months of November,

December, and January over those of May, June, and July.

The monotony of summer is insipid. The sun shines upon everything with

the very same rays. The flowers unceasingly diffuse the identical

scent. The country is always green.... It is unsupportable, horrible!

The votaries of summer say that all this makes the little birds charm

with their trills and warbles every heart sensible to the delights of

harmony. And we defenders of winter reply, who can compare the feeble

song of the timid nightingale to the animated and piercing duets

intoned by enamoured cats on our roofs in January? And the rain? Can

anything be more delicious than rain? Oh, how I rave for the rain! Let

us talk about the rain!

Some people say the rain is monotonous. Ignorant idiots! Let them apply

that epithet to the sun, but the rain—monotonous? Bah! Could anybody

adduce anything more varied and agreeable than rain? Clouds, mists,

dew, hail, drizzle, showers, snow-storms ... what a charming mosaic of

precious things!

Is there a more sublime spectacle than a shower? ... especially when

contemplated from behind a well-glazed window? When the cataracts

of heaven are opened on Sundays, it is worth while hiring a balcony

in the Puerta del Sol. Those who have been so imprudent as to sally

out without their wife and umbrella, recognise the advantage of the

latter article over the former. But what a pleasing sight is the

picturesque group of a married pair and their little children under

the protection of one umbrella! And when the crystalline rain is

accompanied by a strong soester, which the most impermeable of taffety

cannot resist—that boisterous blast which removes hats and wigs ...

oh, then the respectable couple who have issued forth to air their

Sunday-best present a marvellous and really romantic spectacle. The

husband, fearful for his precious umbrella abandons the arm of his

better-half, and presses his feet firmly to the ground to save the

article in question, for the wind has turned it inside out like a

stocking, and seems desirous of snatching it from his hands, in the

same way that it has whirled off his hat just as a flower-pot falls

from one of the houses and smashes his skull. The modest spouse pays

no attention either to her husband’s catastrophe, or to the gusts or

downpour, but thinks only of her angelical prudicity, and how she may

best avoid making a display of her person, for the wind against which

she is struggling marks out all her contour, seeming to take a pleasure

in exposing to the spectators the most hidden curves of his victim.

But I should never end if I gave a minute description of all the

fascinations of my favourite season. I have said enough about the

beauties of rain. In another article I hope to illustrate the pleasures

of the cold, the charm of chilblains, and particularly all tha heroic

in cerebral rheums, fully persuaded that once the reasons upon which I

base my opinions are read, all my readers will agree with me that there

is nothing to be compared with the delights of winter.

_Wenceslao Ayguals de Izco._

_IN THE EARLIER DAYS OF PHOTOGRAPHY._

“I tell you it’s not good at all,” vociferated a newly-elected

parliamentary representative of some rural locality. “Why my

constituency would recognise me in that portrait. It’s detestable!”

“It’s excellent!” replied the exasperated photographer. “There’s not a

better photographer than myself in Madrid.”

“I do doubt it; but it’s clear you have not been successful with me.”

“But what’s the matter with it?”

“The matter?... Look at me!... Have I two eyes?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, in the photograph there’s only one.”

“But....”

“Have I two ears?”

“Of course, but....”

“Well, you’ve only given me one too.”

“But you are taken in profile....”

“Tut, tut, tut.... Do you take me for a simple rustic? However much I

placed myself in profile, does that prevent my having two eyes and two

ears?”

(_Aside_) “And very long ones....” (_Aloud_) “But....”

“Again, is my neck black?”

“That is the shade....”

“No imputations, sir! ther nothing shady in me or my political life,

and in my district they will tell you who I am; and if, though I am

mayor, I never served my two years in the militia, why....”

“But the photograph, the photograph!”

“The photograph is not like me.”

“Then you wo take it?”

“No, sir.”

“Good; then I shall put it in the window, with the inscription, ‘The

original of this is a cheat.’”

“You can do it....”

“Everybody who knows you....”

“Who would recognise me?... My electors know perfectly well that I have

two eyes and two ears.”

“Then go, sir, in Heave name.”

“And to think that people say photography is so true to life!” growled,

as he departed, this father of his country.

“Number 25,” cried the manservant, putting his head in at the door of

the waiting-room.

And Number 25, who is not a bad-looking lady, passes through the

corridor and enters the studio.

The photographer bows, and the following conversation begins:—

“Sir,” said the lady, “my happiness lies in your hands.”

“I am very pleased, sure; but I do quite understand....”

“I am a single lady, sir, as yet single....”

“Been so long?”

“What?”

“I beg your pardon, I mean ... at your service.”

“I must tell you that a gentleman I do not love wants to marry me

perforce.... He resides at Havana, and I do not wish to have my husband

so far away.”

“I understand.”

“Now, tell me, if a man persisted in marrying you from Havana....”

“The hypothesis is not admissible, mm.”

“Ah, true! well, if a woman....”

“There are matters, madam, in which the person interested can alone....”

“It is true; for this reason, wishing at all costs to break off the

projected marriage, I have determined to send my likeness to my suitor.”

“Your looks, mm, will captivate him more than ever.”

“That’s why; ... I wish my likeness not to be my likeness: I want to come

out ugly, very ugly.”

“That’s impossible, madam; photography always tells the truth.”

“Do you refuse?”

“Decidedly. Even if I tried you would not come out ugly.”

“That’s what my cousin the lieutenant says.”

“And he’s right.”

“But I must carry out my plan, and if you will not do it I shall go to

a photographer I saw in the Calle de Francia, where some hideous women

are exhibited.”

“As you like, madam.”

The lady withdraws, and the manservant calls out, “Number 26.”

Number 26 is a stalwart country bumpkin in a russet suit, who, after

entering the studio, is asked if he desires his photograph on a card or

on glass.

“I want those that cost twelve reals by the notice,” says he.

“Good. Sit down in that chair.”

“But it must be exactly like me; I give you warning.”

“You will see, sir.”

“And I must appear in the fancy dress I wear at home in our village for

the Carnival.”

“Have you brought it with you?”

“No; ought I to have?”

“Most certainly.”

“Take me now, and the first time I come to Madrid again I’ll bring the

dress.”

“Impossible!”

“Well, I am surprised; to think that....”

“Come, come, it’s getting late, and other people are waiting for me.”

[_Exit bumpkin._

“Number 27.”

“_Viaje crítico alrededor de la Puerta del Sol._”

_M. Ossorio y Bernard._

_THE OLD CASTILIAN._

Since I have grown older I very seldom care to change the order of my

way of living, which has now been settled a long time, and I base this

repugnance upon the fact that I have never for a single day abandoned

my Lares to break my system without being overtaken by a most sincere

repentance as the presumption of my deluded hopes. Nevertheless a

remnant of the old-fashioned courtesy adopted by our forefathers in

their intercourse obliges me at times to accept certain invitations,

which to refuse would be rudeness, or at least a ridiculous affectation

of delicacy.

Some days ago I was walking through the streets in search of material

for my articles. Buried in my thoughts, I surprised myself several

times, laughing like a poor wretch at my own fancies, and mechanically

moving my lips. A stumble or so reminded me now and again that to

walk on the pavements of Madrid it is not the best of circumstances

to be either poet or philosopher; more than one malicious smile, more

than one look of wonder from the passers-by, made me reflect that

soliloquies should not be made in public; and when turning corners

not a few collisions with those who turned them as heedlessly as I

made me recognise that the absent-minded are not among the number of

elastic bodies, much less among glorious and impassable beings. Such

being my frame of mind, imagine my sensations upon receiving a horrible

smack which a huge hand attached (it seemed to me) to a brawny arm

administered to one of my shoulders, which unfortunately bear not the

slightest resemblance to those of Atlas!

Not wishing to make it understood that I would not recognise this

energetic way of announcing on self, nor to rebuff the goodwill, which

doubtless wished to show itself to be more than mediocre by leaving

me crooked for the rest of the day, I was merely about to turn round

to see who was so much my friend as to treat me so badly. But my Old

Castilian is a man who, when he is joking, does not stop half-way.

What? my reader will ask. He gave further proofs of his intimacy and

affection? He clasped his hands tightly over my eyes from behind,

crying out, “Who am I?” bubbling over with delight at the success of

his pretty trick. “Who you are? A brute,” I was about to reply; but

I suddenly remembered who it might be, and substituted the words,

“I Braulio.” Upon hearing me he loosened his hands, held his sides

for laughter, disturbing the whole street, and making us both very

conspicuous.

“Good, good! How did you recognise me?”

“Who could it be but you?...”

“Well, so you’ve come from your dear Biscay?”

“No, Braulio, I have not come?”

“Always the same merry humour. What does it matter? I a way we have of

talking in Spain.... Do you know it’s my birthday to-morrow?”

“I wish you many happy returns of the day.”

“Oh, no formalities between us; you know a plain fellow and an Old

Castilian, and call a spade a spade; consequently I require no

compliments from you, but consider yourself invited——”

“To what?”

“To dine with me.”

“Impossible.”

“You must.”

“I cannot,” I insist, trembling.

“You ca?”

“Very many thanks——”

“Thanks? Very well, my dear friend; as not the Duke of F., or Count P.,

of course——”

Who can resist an attack of this kind? Who cares to appear proud? “It

is not that, but——”

“Well, if it’s not that,” he breaks in, “I shall expect you at two. We

dine early at my house—Spanish style. I expect a lot of people; there

will be the famous improvisor X.; T. will sing after dinner in his

usual first-rate style; and in the evening J. will play and sing some

trifles.”

This consoled me somewhat, and I had to give way. “Everybody,” said I

to myself, “has an evil day sometimes. In this world, if one wishes to

preserve friends, one must endure their civilities.”

“You wo fail, unless you want to quarrel with me?”

“I shall not fail,” I said in a lifeless voice and low spirits, like a

fox vainly revolving in the trap in which it has allowed itself to be

caught.

“Then good-bye till to-morrow,” and he gave me a parting slap.

I watched him go as the sower watches the decreasing cloud of his seed,

and remained wondering how one should take such adverse and fatal

friendships.

* * * * *

Two lock arrived. As I knew my friend Braulio, I did not think it

advisable to make myself too fine for his party; that, I am sure,

would have annoyed him; nevertheless I could not dispense with a

light frock-coat and a white pocket-handkerchief as essential for

such birthday festivities. Above all, I dressed myself as slowly as

possible, like the wretched criminal confessing at the foot of the

gallows, who would like to have committed a hundred more sins the which

to confess in order to gain more time. I was invited at two, and I

entered the state-parlour at half-past two.

I will not dwell on the ceremonious calls made before dinner-time by

an infinite number of visitors, among which were not least all the

officials of his department with their spouses and children, their

cloaks, umbrellas, galoshes, and house-dogs; I will be silent as to the

foolish compliments paid to the head of the family on his birthday,

nor describe the monstrous circle which was formed in the parlour

by the assembly of so many heterogeneous people, discoursing upon

how the weather was about to change, and how the winter is generally

colder than the summer. Let us come to the point: four lock struck,

and we, the invited guests, found ourselves alone. Unluckily for me,

Señor X., who was to have entertained us, being a connoisseur of this

class of invitation, had had the good idea to fall sick that morning;

the celebrated T. found himself opportunely compromised by another

invitation, and the young lady who was to sing and play so well was

hoarse to such a degree that she was appalled lest a single word should

drop from her lips, while she had a rag round one of her fingers. Alas,

for my beguiled expectations!

“I suppose all who are to dine are here,” exclaimed Don Braulio. “Let

us go to table, my dear.”

“Wait a bit,” replied his wife in a loud whisper. “Such a lot of

callers prevented my being in the kitchen, and....”

“But, look, it’s five lock....”

“Dinner will be ready in a moment....”

It was five lock when we sat down.

“Ladies and gentleman,” said our amphitryon, as we staggered into our

respective chairs, “I insist upon your making yourselves quite at home;

we do stand upon ceremony in my house. Oh, Figaro! I want _you_ to be

quite comfortable; you are a poet, and besides, these gentlemen who

know how intimate we are will not be offended if I make an exception of

you; take off your coat; it wo do to stain it.”

“Why should I stain it?” I replied, biting my lips.

“Oh, tha all right; I’ll lend you a loose jacket; sorry I have one for

everybody.”

“I’d sooner not, thank you.”

“Nonsense! My jacket! Here it is; it will be a little large for you!”

“But, Braulio....”

“You must have it—bother etiquette!” and he thereupon pulled off my

coat himself, _velis nolis_, and buried me in a great striped jacket,

through which only my feet and head protruded, and the sleeves of which

would probably not permit me to eat. I thanked him; he thought he was

doing me a favour.

The days upon which my friend has no visitors he contents himself

with a low table, little more than a cobble bench, because he and his

wife, as he says, what should they want more? From this little table

he carries his food, like water drawn up a well, to his mouth, where

it arrives dripping after its long journey; for to imagine that these

people keep a proper table and eat comfortably every day in the year

is to expect too much. It is easy, therefore, to conceive that the

installations of a large table for a dinner-party was an event in

that house, so much so that a table at which scarcely eight people

could have eaten comfortably had been considered capable of sitting

the whole fourteen of us. We had to sit sideways with one shoulder

towards the dinner, and the elbows of the guests entered on intimate

relationship with each other in the most confiding fashion possible.

They put me as in a place of honour between a child five years old,

raised on some cushions, which I had to arrange every minute, as the

natural restlessness of my youthful neighbour caused them to slip, and

one of those men that occupy in this world the room of three, whose

corpulency rose from the basis of the armchair (the only one) in which

he was sitting as from the point of a needle. The table-napkins which

we silently unfolded were new, for they were just as little commodities

of daily use, and were pulled by these good gentlemen through a

button-hole of their frock-coats to serve as intermediary bodies

between the sauces and their broadcloth.

“You will have to do penance, gentlemen,” exclaimed our amphitryon as

soon as he had sat down.

“What ridiculous affectation if untrue,” said I to myself; “and if it

is true, what folly to invite on friends to do penance.” Unfortunately

it was not long before I knew that there was in that expression more

truth than my good Braulio imagined. Interminable and of poor taste

were the compliments with which, upon passing and receiving each dish,

we wearied one another. “Pray help yourself.” “Do me the favour.” “I

could think of it.” “Pass it on to the lady.” “Ah, tha right.” “Pardon

me.” “Thank you.”

“No ceremony, gentlemen,” exclaimed Braulio, and was the first to dip

his spoon into his plate.

The soup was followed by an olla, an assortment of the most savoury

impertinences of that most annoying but excellent dish; here was some

meat, there some green stuff; here the dried beans,[13] there the ham;

the chicken to the right, the bacon in the middle, and the Estremaduran

sausage to the left. Then came some larded veal, upon which may the

curse of Heaven alight, and after this another dish, and another and

another and another, half of which were brought over from an hotel,

which will suffice to excuse our praising them, the other half made

at home by their own maid and a Biscayan wench, a help hired for this

festivity, and the mistress of the house, who on such occasions is

supposed to have a hand in everything, and can consequently superintend

nothing properly.

“You must be indulgent with this dish,” said the latter of some

pigeons, “they are a little burnt.”

“But, my dear....”

“I only left them for a moment, and you know what servants are.”

“What a pity this turkey was not half an hour longer before the fire!

It was put down too late. And do you think that stew is a little

smoked?”

“What can you expect? A woman ca be everywhere at once.”

“Oh, thee excellent!” we all exclaimed, leaving the pieces on our

plates—“delicious!”

“This fish is bad.”

“Well, they said in the office of the fresh fish delivery that it had

only just arrived; the man there is so stupid!”

“Where does this wine come from?”

“Now there yoe wrong, for it’s....”

“Detestable.”

These short dialogues were accompanied by a number of furtive glances

from the husband to acquaint his wife of some negligence, and both

tried to give us to understand that they were quite at home in all

those formulæ which in similar cases are reputed correct, and that

all the blunders were the fault of the servants, who can never learn

to wait. But these omissions were so numerous, and looks were of such

little avail, that the husband had recourse to pinches and kicks,

and his wife, who, until the present, had barely succeeded in rising

superior to her spouse’s persecution, now became inflamed in the face, and

had tears in her eyes.

“Dear madam, do not distress yourself about such trifles,” said her

neighbour.

“Ah! I assure you I shall not do this kind of thing in the house again;

you do know what it means; another time, Braulio, we’ll dine at the

hotel, and then you’ll not have ...”

“You, madam, shall do what I ...”

“Braulio! Braulio!”

A terrible storm was about to burst; however, all the guests vied with

each other in settling these disputes born of the desire to demonstrate

the greatest refinement, and of which not the smallest components

were Braulio’s mania, and the concluding remark which he again directed

to the assembly with regard to the inutility of ceremony, by which

he understood being properly served and knowing how to eat. Is there

anything more ridiculous than those people who wish to pass for refined

in the depths of the crassest ignorance of social usage, and who, to

favour you, forcibly oblige you to eat and drink, and will not allow

you to do what you like? And why are there people who only care to eat

with a little more comfort on birthdays?

To add to all this, the child to my left violently knocked against a

dish of ham and tomatoes a saucer of olives, of which one hit one of

my eyes, and prevented me seeing clearly for the rest of the day; the

stout gentleman to my right had taken the precaution to heap up on the

cloth by the side of my bread the crumbs of his own and the bones of

the birds which he had picked; and the guest opposite me, who piqued

himself on his carving, had taken upon himself to make the autopsy of

a capon, or cock, for nobody knew which, and whether by reason of the

advanced age of the victim, or the lack of anatomical science of the

executioner, the joints would not sever.

“This bird has no joints!” exclaimed the poor wretch, the drops of

perspiration running down his face from his struggles, “for the

carver is the labourer who digs that I may eat,” and then a wonderful

occurrence took place. Upon one of the attacks the fork, as if in

resentment, slipped on the animal, which, thus violently despatched,

took a flight as in its happier days, and then quietly alighted on the

tablecloth, as on a roost in the poultry yard.

The fright was general, and the alarm reached its climax when a

sauce-boat, impelled by the bird’s wild career, upset, splashing my

snow-white shirt. At this point the carver rose hastily, with a mind

to chase the fugitive fowl, and as he precipitated himself upon it,

a bottle to the right, which he knocked with his arm, abandoning its

perpendicular position, poured out an abundant stream of Valdepeñas[14]

over the capon and the cloth. The wine ran; the uproar increased; salt

was abundantly sprinkled on the top of the wine to save the cloth; to

save the table a napkin was inserted below the cloth, and an eminence

arose on the site of so many ruins. A terrified maid-servant, who was

bidden bear away the capon, now reposing in its own gravy, tilted the

dish as she lifted it over me, and an accursed shower of grease

descended like the dew upon the meadows to leave lasting traces on my

pearl-grey pantaloons. The anguish and confusion of the girl are beyond

bounds; she withdraws, unsuccessful in her excuses, and, turning round,

collides with the waiter, who is carrying a dozen clean plates and a

salver for the dessert wines, and the whole machine comes to the ground

with the most horrible clatter and commotion.

[Illustration: “TOOK A FLIGHT AS IN ITS HAPPIER DAYS.”]

“By St. Peter!” roars our host, and a mortal pallor diffused itself

over his features, while a fire broke out on his wif face. “But no

matter; let us continue, friends,” said he, calming down.

Oh, honest homes where a modest olla and a single dish constitute

the daily happiness of a family, shun the perturbation of a birthday

dinner-party! The custom of eating well and being well served every day

can alone avert similar discomfiture.

Are there any more disasters? Alas, there are for my miserable self!

Doña Juana, the lady with the black and yellow teeth, holds out to me

from her plate and with her own fork a dainty bit, which I am bound to

accept and swallow; the child diverts himself by shooting cherry-stones

at the eyes of the assembly; Don Leandro makes me taste the delicious

orange, which I had refused, squeezed into his glass, which preserves

the indelible traces of his greasy lips; my fat friend is smoking, and

makes me the flue of his chimney; finally, oh last of miseries! the

clamour and uproar increase, voices already hoarse demand couplets and

stanzas, and Figaro is the only poet present.

“You must.” “I for you to say something,” they all shout. “Start him

with the first line; let him compose a couplet for each of us.” “I’ll

start him:

‘To Don Braulio on this day.’”

“Gentlemen, for Heave sake!”

“Ther no getting out of it.”

“I’ve never improvised in my life.”

“Do play the bashful.”

“I shall go.”

“Lock the door. He sha’n’t leave the room till he recites something.”

And so I repeat some verses at last, and vomit absurdities, which they

praise, and the smoke, the hubbub, and the purgatory increases.

Thank Heavens, I succeed in escaping from this new pandemonium. At

last I again breathe the pure air of the street; there are now no more

lunatics, no more Old Castilians around me.

“Ye gods, I thank you!” I exclaimed, breathing freely like a stag who

has just escaped a dozen dogs and can barely hear their distant barks.

“Henceforward I do not pray for riches, office, or honours. But deliver

me from those houses in which a dinner-party is an event, in which a

decent table is only laid for visitors, in which they think they are

doing you a good turn while they are doing you a bad one, in which

they are over-polite, in which they recite verses, in which there are

children, in which there are fat men, in which, finally, there reigns

the brutal frankness of the Old Castilians! If I fall again by similar

temptations, may I ever lack roast beef, may beefsteaks vanish from

this world, may timbales of macaroni be annihilated, may there be no

turkeys in Perigueux, nor pies in Perigord, may the wines of Bordeaux

dry up, and everybody but myself drink the delicious foam of champagne!”

_Mariano José de Larra_ (_Figaro_) (1809-1837).

_A DEMAGOGIC JOURNALIST._

Eleven was striking by the nearest clock; and as the last stroke

vibrated upon Don Liberato Plebist tympanum an instantaneous electric

commotion was transmitted from it to his brain, which made him hastily

sit up in bed and begin to dress. He violently rubbed his eyes with his

knuckles, which, together with the use of his pocket-handkerchief and

four or five loud hollow coughs, sufficed to cause him to regain entire

possession of his senses and natural powers, and shook him out of that

kind of lethargy, or state of doze, which between a deep sleep and

being wide awake occupies the function of a scruple.

He had fallen asleep with a fixed idea that he must rise early to write

a long, forcible, and brilliant article, and seeing the sun already

so advanced on its course, he jumped out of bed, and made towards

his study in a rich dressing-gown and canvas slippers delicately

embroidered by some feminine hand. He leaned back in an armchair before

a solid mahogany writing-table, pulled the bell loudly three times

by a silken rope; a footman appeared, who placed upon the table the

silver brazier with some large red-hot pieces of charcoal; and then,

when he had demanded breakfast with an imperative manner, and the man

had withdrawn, Don Liberato lit a fragrant Havana, seized it between

his teeth, grasped the pen with his right hand, rested his brow on

his left, and leaning his elbow on the desk and gently tapping his

right foot on the carpet, as if to excite ideas by this slight motion,

remained in this attitude for five minutes, at the end of which he put

his pen to paper and began to write to the following effect:—

“The incarnate enemies of the unhappy people—those wicked and egoistic

men, who live under the shadow of privileges (_Don Liberato smiled

to himself_) and grow fat with the substance of the poor—take very

good care in all their writings and perorations to speak of nothing

but principles and political questions, more or less metaphysical and

vague, astutely keeping silence when there is any reference to social

questions, upon which is actually based the revolution, which in this

our age agitates Spain, disturbs Europe, and threatens the world.”

(_Liberato, savouring the sonority of this rounded period, expelled

from his cigar a dense cloud of azure and aromatic smoke ... and

continued writing._)

“The priority of certain castes, the inequality with which property is

distributed, the malign influence of priesthood, the tyranny of the

rich and potential over the masses, and other thousand obstacles which

oppose the felicity of the people, are those which must be destroyed,

but with regard to which the partisans of abuses ever succeed in

embroiling a discussion. You, unhappy day-labourers, unfortunate

artisans, fathers of a numerous family, who to gain bread for your

unfortunate offspring must abandon your narrow bed at break of day....”

(_At this moment Don Liberato’s clock struck a quarter to twelve, and the

rays of the noonday sun, penetrating the green curtains, succeeded in

bathing with light the richly furnished room of the journalist, who

went on writing thus_):—

“You will tell me if what interests you most is to discuss the

preference for this or that method of electing representatives, or,

on the contrary, the monstrous superiority of the potentate swimming

in pleasures, of the sensual sybarite passing the night amidst the

delicacies of the table, while you earn with the sweat of your brow the

bread you must eat soaked in your tears.”

(_The room door is opened, and Don Liberato’s footman enters carrying

an exquisite china tea-service, with a savoury dish, tea, milk, and

buttered toast. Placing his burden on a small table, covered with a

fine white embroidered cloth, he draws it in the greatest silence

within reach of his master to the right of the desk, and retires

stealthily, so as not to interrupt the sublime composition which

continues multiplying sheets of paper thus wise_):—

“Ye hungry and naked sons of the unfortunate Spanish people (_The

writer throws away the stump of the Havana, and crams his mouth full

with sweet-bread_) rear your naked and hungry children with anxiety and

fatigue, and rear them to be the slaves of a rich, powerful, and proud

aristocracy....”

(_Don Liberato again smiles to himself, and devours the rest of the

sweet-bread._)

“Rear them to till _their_ land, to build _their_ palaces, to weave

_their_ rich clothes, to wrench from the bowels of the earth the

precious metals with which _their_ ostentatious apparel is embroidered,

and _their_ ornaments and furniture covered in scandalous profusion.”

(_The writer imbibes about a quart of tea, and attacks the buttered

toast._)

“Rear them that they may be dragged into misery with you, while the

gilded chariots of the great, bearing their mistresses to shows and

pageants, roll by, threatening to run over them, and bespattering them

with mud....”

“Sir,” said the Gallegan servant, entering timidly.

“Wha the matter?” replied Don Liberato.

“They have brought this letter from the lady. It is urgent.”

Having read the note, he replied thus—

“Say, ‘very well’ and Domingo, remember to hire a carriage for this

evening at five sharp: and I ca see anybody now, I must get on with my

writing.”

“This, this is the real evil of society, the pitiful state of which the

present generation aspires to vary by a revolution as glorious as just.

Let those monstrous fortunes be divided and subdivided, let them return

in small capitals to the hands of the poor people who made them. Thus

these terrible scenes of misery will not be seen which are augmented by

the scandalous neglect of the Government for the widows and orphans of

the best servants of the State.”

“Sir!”

“What is it now?”

“The widow of that captain, who comes to see if you....”

“D—— you and the widow; throw her downstairs, and do open the door to

every beggar.”

“But there also came....”

“Who came?—quickly.”

“A man with cigars, the one who brought that other box.”

“Here, take these twenty-five dollars, and go to the devil! Let us see

if I can finish my article.”

“Meanwhile the vile aristocrats keep the people in the most humiliating

servitude, and their condition and treatment is worse than that of

cattle.”

“Sir.”

“If you do shut that door, you brute, I’ll throw the ink-bottle at your

head.”

“The habits of despotism which they have acquired through the course of

centuries....”

“But, sir, only one word....”

(_Don Liberato hurls the salver at the poor Gallegan, and then

continues scribbling with the greatest amenity until he comes to the

following words_):—

“And these errors, upheld by venal journalists....”

(_Domingo returns to the charge, preceded this time by a man of ugly

appearance, who pays Don Liberato a large sum for a compilation. Having

taken the money, and returned the receipt, he continues_):—

“And who tells these calumniators that the defence of the people is a

propensity to anarchy; that the severe censure of deeds of despotism

is an act of rebellion; and that the struggle against fanaticism is

unbelief, impiety, and hatred of the sacred religion which we venerate

more than they?”

“May I go out, sir?”

“No, no, hang you, and by heavens if you interrupt me again....”

“It is Sunday, sir, if you remember, and there is only late mass now.”

“You must do without mass, I require you here.”

“You must take it on your conscience, sir.”

“And so I will, you rascal; and I may take a stick too, and send you

to hear mass in the infernal regions, that will stop your being such a

confounded hypocrite.”

* * * * *

With this last invective the scene ended between master and man, and

with a few more lines the article of our journalist. The latter, after

having dined sumptuously, passed the evening driving with his mistress,

entered a café, where he spent a dollar or two, calling the waiter a

scoundrel and stupid idiot; went in the night to a gambling-house,

where he parted with ten gold pieces, and returned to bed with the

dawn, forming plans for heartrending articles on the lot of the poor,

and furious declamations against the aristocracy, the rich, and the

Government.

“_El Estudiante._” _Antonio Maria Segovia._

_A CAT CHASE DURING THE SIEGE OF GERONA._

“Siseta,” I said suddenly, “it is a long time since I have seen Pussy,

but I suppose she is wandering about somewhere with her three kittens.”

“Oh!” she replied sorrowfully, “do you know that Dr. Pablo has done for

the whole family? Poor Pussy! He says the flesh is excellent; but I

think I would rather die of hunger than eat her.”

“What? he killed Pussy? I never heard about it; and the little kittens

too?”

“I didn’t like to tell you. The last few days that we have not been at

home, the doctor often came in. One day he knelt down and implored me

to give him something for his sick daughter, for he had no provisions

left or money to buy them. While he was talking one of the kittens

sprang on to my shoulder, and Don Pablo seized it quickly and put

it into his pocket. The next day he came again and offered me his

drawing-room furniture for another kitten, and without awaiting my

answer went into the kitchen, then into the dark lobby, lay in wait and

chased the kitten like a cat after a rat. I had to bathe the scratches

on his face. The third perished in the same way, and then Pussy

disappeared from the house, probably thinking she was not safe.”

I was meditating upon the desertion of the poor animal, when Don Pablo

suddenly presented himself. He was lean and cadaverous-looking, and had

lost by physical and moral sufferings the kindly expression and gentle

accent which distinguished him. His clothes were disorderly and torn,

and he was carrying a large gun and a hunting-knife.

“Siseta,” he said abruptly, and forgetting to greet me, although

we had not seen each other for several days. “I know now where that

cunning cat is.”

“Where is she, Don Pablo?”

“In the loft the other side of the yard where my corn and straw was

stored when I kept a horse.”

“Perhaps it is not our Pussy,” said Siseta, in her generous desire to

save the poor animal.

“Yes, it is, I tell you. She can’t deceive me. The sly thing jumped in

this morning through the pantry window and stole a kitte leg hanging

there. The audacity! and to eat her own children’s flesh too. I must put

an end to her, Siseta. I have already given you a good part of my

furniture for the kittens. I have nothing valuable left except my books

of medicine. Will you have them in exchange for the cat?”

“Don Pablo, I will take neither furniture nor books, catch Pussy, and,

as we are reduced to such extremities, give part of her to my brothers.”

“Good. Andres, do you dare chase the animal?”

“I do think we want such a lot of arms,” I replied.

“But I do. Let us go.”

* * * * *

The doctor and I climbed to the loft, which we entered slowly and

warily, for fear we might be attacked by the ravenous beast, probably

maddened by hunger and the instinct of preservation. Don Pablo, lest

our prey should escape us, closed the door from within and we remained

in almost total darkness, since the feeble light which entered by a

narrow slit of a window merely illumined the immediate obscurity.

Gradually, however, our eyes got accustomed to the murkiness, and we

saw that the room was lumbered with a lot of old and broken furniture;

above our heads floated dense curtains of spider webs covered with

the dust of a century. Then we began to look for the truant; but saw

nothing nor in fact any indication of her presence. I expressed my

doubt to Don Pablo; but he replied—

“Oh, she’s here. I saw her enter a moment ago.”

We moved some empty cases, threw on one side some bits of a broken

armchair and a little barrel, and then saw a small body glide away and

leap over the piled-up objects. It was Pussy. We could see in the dark

background her two golden-green eyes, watching the movements of her

persecutors with a fierce inquietude.

“Do you see her?” said the doctor. “Take my gun and shoot at her.”

“No,” I replied laughing. “It is not very easy to aim in the dark. The

gun is of no good. Keep on one side and give me your hunting-knife.”

The two eyes remained motionless in their first position, and that

green and golden light, unlike the irradiation of any other gaze, or

any gem, produced in me a strong impression of terror. I gradually

distinguished the outline of the animal, and the grey and black stripes

on her tawny coat multiplied in my eyes, increasing the size of her

body till she had the proportions of a tiger. I was afraid, why deny

it? and for a moment repented having undertaken such a difficult task.

Don Pablo was more frightened than I, his teeth were chattering.

We held a council of war, the result of which was that we were to take

the offensive; but when we had recovered a little valour, we heard

a low rumbling, a noise between a dove’s coo and a death-rattle, which

announced Puss hostile disposition. The cat was saying to us in her

language, “Come on, murderers of my children, I am ready for you!”

She had first adopted a sphinx-like posture, but now cowered together,

her angular head resting on her fore paws, and her eyes changed,

projecting a blue light in vertical rays. Her grim aspect seemed to

glower at us. Then she raised her head, rubbed her paws over her face,

cleaning her long whiskers, and took a few somersaults to descend to a

nearer site, where she crouched in readiness to spring. The muscular

force possessed by these animals in the articulation of their hind paws

is immense, and she could have sprung upon us in one bound. I saw her

looks were directed more especially towards Don Pablo than myself.

“Andres,” he said, “if you are afraid, I shall attack her. I

disgraceful that such a little animal should make cowards like this of

two men. Yes, Señora Pussy, we shall eat you.”

It seemed as if the animal heard and understood the threatening words,

for my friend had scarcely pronounced them when she precipitated

herself with lightning speed upon him, alighting on his neck and

shoulders. The struggle was short, and the cat had put into execution

the whole of her offensive power, so that the rest of the combat could

not be otherwise than favourable to us. I hastened to my all defence,

and the animal fell to the ground, carrying away with her claws some

particles of the good doctor’s person and tattooing my right hand. She

then doubled in different directions, but once as she sprang at me, I

had the good luck to receive her on the point of the hunting-knife,

which put an end to the unequal combat.

“The animal was more formidable than I thought,” said Don Pablo,

putting his hand to his beating heart.

“Well, doctor,” said I, after a pause, “let us now divide the prey.”

The doctor pulled a face of profound disgust, and, wiping the blood

from his neck, said in the most aggressive tone I had heard from his

lips—

“Wha that about dividing? Siseta gave me the cat in exchange for my

books. Do you know my daughter ate nothing yesterday?”

“Siseta and the children have also eaten nothing,” I replied.

Don Pablo scratched his head, making ugly contractions with his mouth

and nostrils—and taking the dead animal by the neck, said—

“Do bother me, Andres. The children can live on any rubbish they pick

up in the street; but my invalid needs better food; do me the favour

not to touch the cat.”

“Do you mean to say you wo divide the cat? Good, good,” I said, and

advanced towards him. Our hands met; we struggled for a short time and

then the doctor fell and rolled along the floor, leaving me in full

possession of our prey.

“Thief! thief!” he exclaimed. “Is this the way you rob me? Just wait a

moment!”

I was picking up our victim to leave the loft. But the doctor ran, or

rather leapt like a cat, to the gun, and aimed it full at me, crying

with a hoarse and tremulous voice—

“Drop the cat, or I’ll kill you.”

* * * * *

“Don Pablo,” said I, “take the cat. You have become a wild beast.”

Without reply, but showing the horrible agitation of his mind by a

smothered groan, he seized the animal which I had hurled from me, and

opening the door, disappeared.

_Perez Galdos._

_A WELL-WON DISH OF CHERRIES._

Manalet ran away, but he soon came back with a lot of other little

boys, all barefoot, dirty, unkempt, and ragged, and amongst them his

brother Badoret, with Gasparo pickapack, clinging tightly with arms and

legs to his shoulders and waist. All seemed very pleased, especially

Badoret, who was distributing cherries to his companions.

“Take one, Andres,” said the boy, giving me a cherry. “How did you

think I got them? Well, I’ll tell you. I was going with Gasparo on my

back down the calle del Lobo, when I saw open the gate of the Convent

of the Capuchin Nuns, which is always shut. Gasparo would keep on

asking me for bread and crying, and I gave him little slaps to make

him keep quiet, telling him that if he wouldn’t leave off I would tell

his Excellency the Governor. But when I saw the convent gate open, I

said to myself, ‘there will be something to find here,’and I slipped

in. I crossed the courtyard, and then entered the church and passed

through the choir till I reached a long corridor with a lot of little

rooms, and I didn’t meet a soul. I looked carefully everywhere to see if

I could get anything, but I only came across some candle-ends and two

or three skeins of silk, which I began to chew to see if they gave

any juice. I was thinking of returning to the street, when I heard

behind me, ‘_Ss—t, Ss—t_,’ as if somebody was calling me. I looked,

but I saw nobody. Oh, how afraid I was, Andres! Down at the bottom of

the corridor there was a huge print, in which was a devil with a long

green tail. I thought it was the devil calling me, and began to run.

But, oh dear! I could not find a door, and I went round and round that

horrid corridor, and all the time, ‘_Ss—t_!’ And then I heard some

one say, ‘Little boy, come here,’and I looked at the ceiling and the

walls, until I at last saw behind some bars a white hand and a worn and

wrinkled face. I was not afraid then, and went to it. The nun said to

me, ‘Come, don’t be afraid, I have something to say to you.’I went close

to the grating, and said to her, ‘Pardon me, Señora, I thought you were

the devil.’”

“Why, it must have been some poor sick nun who could not escape with

the others.”

“That’s it. The lady said to me, ‘Little boy, how did you come in here?

God has sent you to do me a great service. All the sisters have gone

away. I am ill and a cripple. They wanted to take me, but it grew

late, and so they left me behind. I am very afraid. Is all the town

burnt? Have the French entered? Just now, when I was half asleep, I

dreamt that all the sisters had been beheaded in the slaughter-house,

and that the French were eating them. Boy, would you venture to go,

now at once, to the fort, and give this note to my nephew, Don Alonso

Carrillo, captain of the regiment of Ultonia? If you do so, I will give

you the dish of cherries you see here, and this half loaf.’“Even if

she hadn’t offered them me I would have gone, you know. I seized the note,

she told me where I could get out, and I ran towards the fort. Gasparo

cried more than before, but I said to him, ‘If you don't keep quiet, I’ll

put you in a cannon as if you were a ball, and shoot you away, and you’ll

go rolling amongst the French, who will cook you in a saucepan and eat

you.’