shouting at the street-door, "Tell Tomas Pedro, the hostler, that they
are taking his friend the Asturiano to prison." On hearing this the
corregidor immediately sent orders to the alguazil to bring in his
prisoner, which was forthwith done. In came the Asturian with his mouth
all bloody. He had evidently been very roughly handled, and was held
with no tender grasp by the alguazil. The moment he entered the room he
was thunderstruck at beholding his own father and Avendaño's, and to
escape recognition he covered his face with a handkerchief, under
pretence of wiping away the blood. The corregidor inquired what that
young man had done who appeared to have been so roughly handed. The
alguazil replied that he was a water-carrier, known by the name of the
Asturian, and the boys in the street used to shout after him, "Give up
the tail, Asturiano; give up the tail." The alguazil then related the
story out of which that cry had grown, whereat all present laughed not a
little. The alguazil further stated that as the Asturian was going out
at the Puerta de Alcantara, the boys who followed him having redoubled
their cries about the tail, he dismounted from his ass, laid about them
all, and left one of them half dead with the beating he had given him.
Thereupon the officer proceeded to arrest him; he resisted, and that was
how he came to be in the state in which he then appeared. The corregidor
ordered the prisoner to uncover his face, but as he delayed to do so the
alguazil snatched away the handkerchief. "My son, Don Diego!" cried the
astonished father. "What is the meaning of all this? How came you in
that dress? What, you have not yet left off your scampish tricks?"
Carriazo fell on his knees before his father, who, with tears in his
eyes, held him long in his embrace. Don Juan de Avendaño, knowing that
his son had accompanied Carriazo, asked the latter where he was, and
received for answer the news that Don Tomas de Avendaño was the person
who gave out the oats and straw in that inn.
This new revelation made by the Asturiano put the climax to the
surprises of the day. The corregidor desired the innkeeper to bring in
his hostler. "I believe he is not in the house, but I will go look for
him," said he, and he left the room for that purpose. Don Diego asked
Carriazo what was the meaning of these metamorphoses, and what had
induced him to turn water-carrier, and Don Tomas hostler? Carriazo
replied, that he could not answer these questions in public, but he
would do so in private. Meanwhile Tomas Pedro lay hid in his room, in
order to see thence, without being himself seen, what his father and
Carriazo's were doing; but he was in great perplexity about the arrival
of the corregidor, and the general commotion in the inn. At last some
one having told the landlord where he was hidden, he went and tried half
by fair means and half by force to bring him down; but he would not have
succeeded had not the corregidor himself gone out into the yard, and
called him by his own name, saying, "Come down, señor kinsman; you will
find neither bears nor lions in your way." Tomas then left his hiding
place, and went and knelt with downcast eyes and great submission at the
feet of his father, who embraced him with a joy surpassing that of the
Prodigal's father when the son who had been lost was found again.
The corregidor sent for Costanza, and taking her by the hand, presented
her to her father, saying, "Receive, Señor Don Diego, this treasure, and
esteem it the richest you could desire. And you, beautiful maiden, kiss
your father's hand, and give thanks to heaven which has so happily
exalted your low estate." Costanza, who till that moment had not even
guessed at what was occurring, could only fall at her father's feet, all
trembling with emotion, clasp his hands in hers, and cover them with
kisses and tears.
Meanwhile the corregidor had been urgent with his cousin Don Juan that
the whole party should come with him to his house; and though Don Juan
would have declined the invitation, the corregidor was so pressing that
he carried his point, and the whole party got into his coach, which he
had previously sent for. But when the corregidor bade Costanza take her
place in it, her heart sank within her; she threw herself into the
landlady's arms, and wept so piteously, that the hearts of all the
beholders were moved. "What is this, daughter of my soul?" said the
hostess; "Going to leave me? Can you part from her who has reared you
with the love of a mother?" Costanza was no less averse to the
separation; but the tenderhearted corregidor declared that the hostess
also should enter the coach, and that she should not be parted from her
whom she regarded as a daughter, as long as she remained in Toledo. So
the whole party, including the hostess, set out together for the
corregidor's house, where they were well received by his noble lady.
After they had enjoyed a sumptuous repast, Carriazo related to his
father how, for love of Costanza, Don Tomas had taken service as hostler
in the inn, and how his devotion to her was such that, before he knew
her to be a lady, and the daughter of a man of such quality, he would
gladly have married her even as a scullery-maid. The wife of the
corregidor immediately made Costanza put on clothes belonging to a
daughter of hers of the same age and figure, and if she had been
beautiful in the dress of a working girl, she seemed heavenly in that of
a lady, and she wore it with such ease and grace that one would have
supposed she had never been used to any other kind of costume from her
birth. But among so many who rejoiced, there was one person who was full
of sadness, and that was Don Pedro, the corregidor's son, who at once
concluded that Costanza was not to be his; nor was he mistaken, for it
was arranged between the corregidor, Don Diego de Carriazo, and Don Juan
de Avendaño, that Don Tomas should marry Costanza, her father bestowing
upon her the thirty thousand crowns left by her mother; that the
water-carrier Don Diego de Carriazo should marry the daughter of the
corregidor, and that Don Pedro the corregidor's son, should receive the
hand of Don Juan de Avendaño's daughter, his father undertaking to
obtain a dispensation with regard to their relationship. In this manner
all were finally made happy. The news of the three marriages, and of the
singular fortune of the illustrious scullery-maid, spread through the
city, and multitudes flocked to see Costanza in her new garb as a lady,
which became her so well. These persons saw the hostler Tomas Pedro
changed into Don Tomas de Avendaño, and dressed as a man of quality.
They observed, too, that Lope Asturiano looked very much the gentleman
since he had changed his costume, and dismissed the ass and the
water-vessels; nevertheless, there were not wanting some who, as he
passed through the streets in all his pomp, still called out to him for
the tail.
After remaining a month in Toledo most of the party went to Burgos,
namely, Don Diego de Carriazo, his wife, and his father; Costanza, and
her husband, Don Tomas, and the corregidor's son, who desired to visit
his kinswoman and destined bride. The host was enriched by the present
of the thousand crowns, and by the many jewels which Costanza bestowed
upon her señora, as she persisted in calling her who had brought her up.
The story of the illustrious scullery-maid afforded the poets of the
golden Tagus a theme on which to exercise their pens in celebrating the
incomparable beauty of Costanza, who still lives happily with her
faithful hostler. Carriazo has three sons, who, without inheriting their
father's tastes, or caring to know whether or not there are any such
things as tunny fisheries in the world, are all pursuing their studies
at Salamanca; whilst their father never sees a water-carrier's ass but
he thinks of the one he drove in Toledo, and is not without apprehension
that, when he least expects it, his ears shall be saluted with some
squib having for its burden, "Give us the tail, Asturiano! Asturiano,
give us the tail!"
THE TWO DAMSELS.
Five leagues from the city of Seville there is a town called
Castelblanco. At one of the many inns belonging to that town there
arrived at nightfall a traveller, mounted on a handsome nag of foreign
breed. He had no servant with him, and, without waiting for any one to
hold his stirrup, he threw himself nimbly from the saddle. The host, who
was a thrifty, active man, quickly presented himself, but not until the
traveller had already seated himself on a bench under the gateway, where
the host found him hastily unbuttoning his breast, after which he let
his arms drop and fainted. The hostess, who was a good-natured soul,
made haste to sprinkle his face with cold water, and presently he
revived. Evidently ashamed of having been seen in such a state, he
buttoned himself up again, and asked for a room to which he might
retire, and, if possible, be alone. The hostess said they had only one
in the house and that had two beds, in one of which she must accommodate
any other guest that might arrive. The traveller replied that he would
pay for both beds, guest or no guest; and taking out a gold crown he
gave it to the hostess, on condition that no one should have the vacant
bed. The hostess, well satisfied with such good payment, promised that
she would do as he required, though the Dean of Seville himself should
arrive that night at her house. She then asked him if he would sup. He
declined, and only begged they would take great care of his nag. Then,
taking the key of the chamber, and carrying with him a large pair of
leathern saddle-bags, he went in, locked the door, and even, as it
afterwards appeared, barricaded it with two chairs.
The moment he was gone, the host, the hostess, the hostler, and two
neighbours who chanced to be there, held a council together, and all
extolled the great comeliness and graceful deportment of the stranger,
agreeing that they had never seen any one so handsome. They discussed
his age, and came to the conclusion that it was between sixteen and
seventeen. They speculated largely as to what might have been the cause
of his fainting, but could make no plausible guess at it. The neighbours
after a while went home, the host went to look after the nag, and the
hostess to prepare supper in case any other guest should arrive; nor was
it long before another entered, not much older than the first, and of no
less engaging mien, so that the hostess no sooner saw him than she
exclaimed, "God bless me! how is this? Are angels coming to stop here
to-night?"
"Why does the lady hostess say that?" said the cavalier.
"It is not for nothing I say it. Only I must beg your honour not to
dismount, for I have no bed to give you; for the two I had have been
taken by a cavalier who has paid for both, though he has no need of more
than one; but he does that because no one else may enter the room,
being, I suppose, fond of solitude; though upon my conscience I can't
tell why, for his face and appearance are not such that he need be
ashamed of them or want to hide them, but quite the contrary."
"Is he so good-looking, señora hostess?"
"Good-looking? Ay, the best of good-looking."
"Here, my man, hold my stirrup," said the cavalier to a muleteer who
accompanied him; "for though I have to sleep on the floor, I must see a
man of whom I hear such high encomiums;" and then dismounting he called
for supper, which was immediately placed before him. Presently an
alguazil dropped in--as they commonly do at the inns in small towns--and
taking a seat, entered into conversation with the cavalier while he
supped; not forgetting at intervals to swallow three large glasses of
wine, and the breast and leg of a partridge, which the cavalier gave
him. He paid his scot meanwhile by asking news of the capital, of the
wars in Flanders, and the decay of the Turk, not forgetting the exploits
of the Transylvanian, whom God preserve. The cavalier supped and said
nothing, not having come from a place which would have supplied him with
the means of satisfying these inquiries. By and by, the innkeeper,
having seen to the nag, came in and sat down to make a third in the
conversation, and to taste his own wine no less copiously than the
alguazil; and at every gulp he leaned his head back over his left
shoulder, and praised the wine, which he exalted to the clouds, though
he did not leave much of it there, for fear it should get watered.
From one subject to another, the host fell at last upon the praises of
the first comer; told how he had fainted, how he had gone to bed without
supper, and had locked himself in; and spoke of his well-filled
saddle-bags, the goodness of his nag, and the handsome travelling-dress
he wore, all which made it strange that he travelled without any
attendant. The cavalier felt his curiosity piqued anew, and asked the
landlord to contrive that he might sleep in the second bed, for which he
would give him a gold crown. The landlord's fingers itched to take the
money; but he said the thing was impossible, for the door was locked
inside, and he durst not wake the sleeper, who had paid so well for both
the beds. The alguazil, however, got over the difficulty. "I'll tell you
what is to be done," said he. "I will knock at the door, and say that I
am an officer of justice; that I have orders from the señor alcalde to
see this cavalier accommodated in this inn; and that as there is no
other bed, he must have one of those two. The landlord will cry out
against this, and say it is not fair, for the second bed is already
engaged and paid for; and so he will clear himself of all
responsibility, while your honour will attain your object." This scheme
of the alguazil's was unanimously approved, and the cavalier rewarded
him for it with four reals. It was carried into effect at once; the
first guest was compelled, with manifest reluctance, to open the door;
the second entered the room with many apologies for the intrusion, to
which the first made no reply, nor did he even show his face; for
instantly hastening back into bed, he turned to the wall, and pretended
to be asleep. The last comer also went to bed, hoping to have his
curiosity satisfied in the morning when they both got up.
The night was one of the long and weary ones of December, when the cold
and the fatigues of the day should naturally have disposed the two
travellers to sleep; but they had not that effect on the first of the
pair, who not long after midnight began to sigh and moan as if his heart
would break. His lamentations awoke the occupant of the other bed, who
distinctly overheard the following soliloquy, though uttered in a faint
and tremulous voice, broken by sighs and sobs.
"Wretch that I am! Whither is the irresistible force of my destiny
hurrying me? What a path is mine; and what issue can I hope for out of
the labyrinth in which I am entangled? O my youth and inexperience!
Honour disregarded! Love ungratefully repaid! Regard for honoured
parents and kindred trampled under foot! Woe is me a thousand times to
have thus given the reins to my inclinations! O false words which I have
too trustingly responded to by deeds! But of whom do I complain? Did I
not wilfully betray myself? Did not my own hands wield the knife that
cut down my reputation, and destroyed the trust which my parents reposed
in my rectitude? O perjured Marco Antonio! Is it possible that your
honeyed words concealed so much of the gall of unkindness and disdain?
Where art thou, ingrate? Whither hast thou fled, unthankful man? Answer
her who calls upon thee! Wait for her who pursues thee; sustain me, for
I droop; pay me what thou owest me; succour me since thou art in so many
ways bound to me!"
Here the sorrowing stranger relapsed into silence, broken only by sobs.
The other, who had been listening attentively, inferred from what he had
heard that the speaker was a woman. The curiosity he had before felt was
now excited to the highest degree: he was several times on the point of
approaching the lady's bed; and he would have done so at last, but just
then he heard her open the door, call to the landlord, and bid him
saddle the nag, for she wanted to go. It was a pretty long time before
she could make the landlord hear her; and finally, all the answer she
could obtain was a recommendation to go to sleep again, for there was
more than half the night yet to come, and it was so dark that it would
be a very rash thing to venture upon the road. Upon this she said no
more, but shut the door, and went back to bed, sighing dismally.
The other stranger now thought it would be well to address her, and
offer her his aid in any way that might be serviceable, as a means of
inducing her to say who she was, and relate her piteous story.
"Assuredly, señor gentleman," said he, "I should think myself destitute
of natural feeling--nay, that I had a heart of stone and a bosom of
brass--if your sighs and the words you have uttered did not move me to
sympathy. If the compassion I feel for you, and the earnest desire I
have conceived to risk my life for your relief--if your misfortunes
admit of any--may give me some claim upon your courtesy, I entreat you
to manifest it in declaring to me the cause of your grief without
reserve."
"If that grief had not deprived me of understanding," said the person
addressed, "I ought to have remembered that I was not alone in this
room, and have bridled my tongue and suppressed my sighs; but to punish
myself for my imprudent forgetfulness, I will do what you ask; for it
may be that the pangs it will cost me to relate the bitter story of my
misfortunes will end at once my life and my woes. But first you must
promise me solemnly, that whatever I may reveal, you will not quit your
bed nor come to mine, nor ask more of me than I choose to disclose; for
if you do, the very moment I hear you move I will run myself through
with my sword, which lies ready to my hand."
The cavalier, who would have promised anything to obtain the information
he so much desired, vowed that he would not depart a jot from the
conditions so courteously imposed. "On that assurance, then," said the
lady, "I will do what I have never done before, and relate to you the
history of my life. Hearken then.
"You must know, señor, that although I entered this inn, as they have
doubtless told you, in the dress of a man, I am an unhappy maiden, or at
least I was one not eight days ago, and ceased to be so, because I had
the folly to believe the delusive words of a perjured man. My name is
Teodosia; my birth-place is one of the chief towns of the province of
Andalusia, the name of which I suppress, because it does not import you
so much to know it as me to conceal it. My parents, who are noble and
wealthy, had a son and a daughter; the one for their joy and honour, the
other for the reverse. They sent my brother to study at Salamanca, and
me they kept at home, where they brought me up with all the scrupulous
care becoming their own virtue and nobility; whilst on my part I always
rendered them the most cheerful obedience, and punctually conformed to
all their wishes, until my unhappy fate set before my eyes the son of a
neighbour of ours, wealthier than my parents, and no less noble than
they. The first time I saw him, I felt nothing more than the pleasure
one feels at making an agreeable acquaintance; and this I might well
feel, for his person, air, manners, disposition, and understanding were
the admiration of all who knew him. But why dwell on the praises of my
enemy, or make so long a preface to the confession of my infatuation and
my ruin? Let me say at once that he saw me repeatedly from a window
opposite to mine; whence, as it seemed to me, he shot forth his soul
towards me from his eyes, whilst mine beheld him with a pleasure very
different from that which I had experienced at our first interview, and
one which constrained me to believe that everything I read in his face
was the pure truth.
"Seeing each other in this way led to conversation; he declared his
passion, and mine responded to it, with no misgiving of his sincerity,
for his suit was urged with promises, oaths, tears, sighs, and every
accompaniment that could make me believe in the reality of his devoted
attachment. Utterly inexperienced as I was, every word of his was a
cannon shot that breached the fortress of my honour; every tear was a
fire in which my virtue was consumed; every sigh was a rushing wind that
fanned the destructive flame. In fine, upon his promise to marry me in
spite of his parents, who had another wife in view for him, I forgot all
my maidenly reserve, and without knowing how, put myself into his power,
having no other witness of my folly than a page belonging to Marco
Antonio--for that is the name of the destroyer of my peace--who two days
afterwards disappeared from the neighbourhood, without any person, not
even his parents, having the least idea whither he was gone. In what
condition I was left, imagine if you can; it is beyond my power to
describe it.
"I tore my hair as if it was to blame for my fault, and punished my face
as thinking it the primary occasion of my ruin; I cursed my fate, and my
own precipitation; I shed an infinity of tears, and was almost choked by
them and by my sighs; I complained mutely to heaven, and pondered a
thousand expedients to see if there was any which might afford me help
or remedy, and that which I finally resolved on was to dress myself in
male apparel, and go in quest of this perfidious Æneas, this cruel and
perjured Bireno, this defrauder of my honest affections and my
legitimate and well-founded hopes. Having once formed this resolution, I
lost no time in putting it in execution. I put on a travelling suit
belonging to my brother, saddled one of my father's horses with my own
hand, and left home one very dark night, intending to go to Salamanca,
whither it was conjectured that Marco Antonio might have gone; for he
too is a student, and an intimate friend of my brother's. I did not omit
to take at the same time a quantity of gold sufficient for all
contingencies upon my journey. What most distresses me is the thought
that my parents will send in pursuit of me, and that I shall be
discovered by means of my dress and the horse; and even had I not this
to fear, I must dread my brother's resentment; for he is in Salamanca,
and should he discover me, I need not say how much my life would be in
peril. Even should he listen to my excuses, the least scruple of his
honour would outweigh them all.
"Happen what may, my fixed resolve is to seek out my heartless husband,
who cannot deny that he is my husband without belying the pledge which
he left in my possession--a diamond ring, with this legend: 'Marco
Antonio is the husband of Teodosia.' If I find him, I will know from him
what he discovered in me that prompted him so soon to leave me; and I
will make him fulfil his plighted troth, or I will prove as prompt to
vengeance as I was easy in suffering myself to be aggrieved, and will
take his life; for the noble blood that runs in my veins is not to be
insulted with impunity. This, señor cavalier, is the true and sad
history you desired to hear, and which you will accept as a sufficient
apology for the words and sighs that awoke you. What I would beseech of
you is, that though you may not be able to remedy my misfortune, at
least you may advise me how to escape the dangers that beset me, evade
being caught, and accomplish what I so much desire and need."
The cavalier said not a syllable in reply, and remained so long silent
that Teodosia supposed he was asleep and had not heard a word she had
been saying. To satisfy herself of this, she said, "Are you asleep,
señor? No wonder if you are; for a mournful tale poured into an
unimpassioned ear is more likely to induce drowsiness than pity."
"I am not asleep," replied the cavalier; "on the contrary, I am so
thoroughly awake, and feel so much for your calamity, that I know not if
your own anguish exceeds mine. For this reason I will not only give you
the advice you ask, but my personal aid to the utmost of my powers; for
though the manner in which you have told your tale proves that you are
gifted with no ordinary intelligence, and therefore that you have been
your own betrayer, and owe your sorrow to a perverted will rather than
to the seductions of Marco Antonio, nevertheless I would fain see your
excuse in your youth and your inexperience of the wily arts of men.
Compose yourself, señora, and sleep if you can during the short
remainder of the night. When daylight comes we will consult together,
and see what means may be devised for helping you out of your
affliction."
Teodosia thanked him warmly, and tried to keep still for a while in
order that the cavalier might sleep; but he could not close an eye; on
the contrary he began to toss himself about in the bed, and to heave
such deep sighs that Teodosia was constrained to ask him what was the
matter? was he suffering in any way, and could she do anything for his
relief?
"Though you are yourself the cause of my distress, señora," he replied,
"you are not the person who can relieve it, for if you were I should not
feel it."
Teodosia could not understand the drift of this perplexed reply; she
suspected, however, that he was under the influence of some amorous
passion, and even that she herself might be the object of it; for it
might well be that the fact of his being alone with one he knew to be a
woman, at that dead hour of the night, and in the same bed-room, should
have awakened in him some bad thoughts. Alarmed at the idea, she hastily
put on her clothes without noise, buckled on her sword and dagger, and
sat down on the bed to wait for daylight, which did not long delay to
appear through the many openings there were in the sides of the room, as
usual in inn-chambers. The cavalier on his part, had made ready exactly
as Teodosia had done; and he no sooner perceived the first rays of
light, than he started up from his bed, saying, "Get up, señora
Teodosia, and let us be gone; for I will accompany you on your journey,
and never quit your side until I see Marco Antonio become your lawful
husband, or until he or I shall be a dead man;" and so saying, he opened
the windows and the doors of the room.