There was a well-to-do vine-grower named Pedro Jimenez, who cultivated
a small tract of land on which his fathers had lived for many
generations before him, and had been known throughout the district
for men of undoubted pundonor, by which word Spaniards express the
most scrupulous nicety of honourable conduct. Blessed with all other
worldly advantages, Pedro Jimenez had one great trial--he had no child
to whom to transmit the name he had received from his predecessors,
and himself borne so creditably. When he reflected on this, there was
one thought in the background which used to distress him. There was
living at a sufficient distance to be quite unknown to his neighbours,
a poor relation of his wife, whom he assisted frequently in secret;
but he had never let the knowledge of the humiliating circumstance
transpire. Yet he knew that this poor hard-working man with difficulty
kept his family above want; that the greatest delicacy in which they
could ever indulge was the dish popularly called duelos y quebrantos
(sorrows and troubles), a stew made up of the poorest odds and ends and
leavings [72], in bitter mockery of the favourite Spanish olla podrida,
which is a compound of the most succulent meats and vegetables.
Conscience would whisper in Pedro Jimenez's ear, "Here, in this poor
fellow's son, is an heir whom you may adopt; take him from the present
temptations to discontent and dishonesty with which privations ply
him, and bring him up according to the traditional maxims of your
house." But when he thought of the details of bringing the ragged lad
to his respectable homestead, and the neighbours pointing to him as
the relation of the wealthy Pedro Jimenez, his courage failed him, and
he turned from the idea. So years passed by, and this thought remained
the weak point of Pedro Jimenez's otherwise irreproachable character.
One evening, as he was strolling through his vineyard, admiring the
beautiful clusters of grapes which were his riches for the coming
year, he was disturbed by the mournful howling of a dog, proceeding
from the road-side at no great distance. His kind heart prompted him
immediately to follow up the sound, and he was not long before he
came upon a saddening sight. On the ground lay the prostrate form of a
delicate youth, foot-sore and travel-worn, and now brought to a state
of unconsciousness through exhaustion; by his side there lay a large
shaggy dog of pitiable aspect; his bones almost protruded through his
skin, his eyes were glassy and wild, and he trembled in every limb. His
melancholy howling grew fainter and fainter, and by the time Pedro
Jimenez got up to the group, he saw he was past the reach of help;
with one more distressful howl, he rolled on his back and expired,
having spent his last breath in summoning aid to his young master!
Pedro Jimenez lost no time in raising the youth in his arms, and
bearing him to his own comfortable home, where his wife's kindly
care soon restored him to animation. Refreshed by her attentions,
he was soon able to tell his tale; and what was the surprise of
the good couple when they learnt that the poor child they had so
charitably entertained, was no other than the son of their poor
relation. Nevertheless his history was a sad one. His father and mother
had both fallen victims to an epidemic disorder in their village; kind
neighbours had taken in the younger children, a convent had provided
for two older girls; and the eldest boy, having been used to labour
all his life, had manfully resolved to be a charge to no stranger, but
had set out to seek the advice and direction of the only relation he
had to look up to, in finding work by which he could support himself,
and lay by enough to portion his younger sisters. As the weary boy
told his tale of domestic heroism, Pedro Jimenez's better nature
stirred within him. He no longer stifled the dictates of conscience,
no longer suffered himself to be governed by a false and foolish fear
of human respect, but took his young kinsman by the hand, told him
he was proud of his spirit, and that as Heaven had denied him direct
heirs, he would henceforth make it depend entirely on his own good
conduct to become the heir to his comfortable competence.
The orphan lad was overjoyed at the prospect. In his little world
the name of Pedro Jimenez had all his life stood as the embodiment of
all that was respectable, and desirable, and worthy of imitation. To
be suddenly elevated to the position of aspiring to one day himself
inheriting that honoured name, with all its contingent advantages,
was greater happiness than he had ever dared to entertain in his
wildest dreams.
Pedro Jimenez had every reason to be satisfied with the decision he
had come to. All the neighbours who were sufficiently men of worth
to make their opinion a matter of consequence, far from looking down
on him for the disclosure, warmly applauded his generosity; and in
return for the few worthless ones whose acquaintance he lost by it,
he won for himself the affection of a devoted son. The old man had
never known a greater pleasure than that he now found in taking his
adopted child out with him day by day, and instructing him in all the
various arts of treating the vine--the mode of planting and culture,
the vintage, the pressing of the grape, and the disposal of the wine;
and to all this, his young charge listened with an earnestness and
intelligence that repaid all his care. His frugality, and industry,
and straightforward manly conduct on all occasions--his almost feminine
kindliness of manner in supplying to the best of his power the offices
of the old wife, when God took her home, all rendered the old man
quite easy as to the future successor to his name.
At last the time came when Pedro Jimenez the elder, full of years and
honour, was called to his account; and as his adopted son turned to
meet the desolation of the lonely house, there was one thought of
consolation to gild his bereavement, the sense that he could make
his whole after-life a token of obedience to the upright maxims of
his benefactor, in whose stead he now stood.
While our hero had been living in rustic tranquillity in the
remotest part of the south of Spain, great events had been stirring
Europe. The tumultuous tide of the French Revolution had overflowed
the Peninsula. I will not detain you with any thing you can consider
a dry epitome of history. Suffice it to say, that in consequence of
the troubles in which his country was involved, young Pedro Jimenez
was called to join the army.
Having felt, as I hope you have, some interest in the honest pride
with which he was on the point of entering on his inheritance,
I am sure you will sympathize with the sadness of heart which now
overshadowed him as he was obliged to abandon his fair homestead just
as it had become his own. "It is well the old man never suspected
it would come to this! ... and then peace must come and restore me
to my home some time or other," he used to say to comfort himself
during the weary march or tedious drill. There was, however, yet a
heavier trial in store. It was the policy of the intruded French ruler
to send away the native troops out of their country, and replace
them with French troops. Now it happened that Pedro Jimenez was
attached to the regiment of General Romano, which was one of those
selected for foreign service. Ordered to the banks of the Rhine,
poor Pedro Jimenez seemed farther than ever from the fulfilment of
his darling hopes. He had perhaps felt the defence of his country
some compensation for the separation from home; but to fight for the
unjust aggressions of one who was the usurper of the throne of his
native land was surpassingly hard. When not joining his comrades in
lamenting their hard fate, he would wander over the country, trying to
find any incident which might remind him of his beloved Andalusia. His
attention was thus arrested by the vines which he found growing on the
heights around. The knowledge of the subject he had acquired during
so many years' apprenticeship, and under so experienced a master,
now proved invaluable. His practised eye readily distinguished among
the varieties presented to it a superior variety adapted to the soil
and climate of Andalusia, and he determined, whenever Providence was
pleased to give him an opportunity of returning, that he would provide
himself with the means of propagating this stock in his own plantation.
Nor was this opportunity very long withheld. General Romano, though
scarcely taller than the length of an ordinary man's arm [73] bore
in his little body a large and loyal heart: by dint of persevering
efforts, he succeeded in making a way of escape for his whole regiment,
shipped them, and carried them safely round to a friendly port of
Portugal, and thence draughted them all back into Spain, where they
did good service under Wellington.
Pedro could hardly believe his ears for joy, when the mysterious
order was transmitted to him, to prepare for the secret return: yet
he did not in his transports forget the coveted vine. The plant thus
obtained, tended and preserved with much care and anxiety through
the voyage, might still have been condemned to perish, had he been
called to active service; but the rough life and the long voyage
had impaired his health. After several months in hospital, during
which time, you may be sure, he did not neglect his precious plant,
he was sent home invalided.
He found his own viña in a sad state of neglect; but his native air
having soon restored his strength, he was able within a few years more,
not only to bring it round again, but also to produce a goodly show
from his newly imported vine-stock. And from this vintage it is--the
Rhenish stock planted in Andalusian soil, and cultivated with tender
care and intelligence--that we get the choice variety of sherry wine
(you can ask Papa to let you taste it some day at dessert) called
"Pedro Jimenez."