PLAYS—GIL VICENTE
[Sidenote: Portuguese Drama.]
Portuguese writers have never shown a marked genius for dramatic action
in their works, and although several hundreds of _autos_ were written
in the sixteenth century, and Antonio Ferreira (1528-69) introduced the
classical drama into Portugal, yet drama might almost be said not to
exist in Portugal were it not for two great writers: Gil Vicente, of
the sixteenth century, and Almeida Garrett, of the nineteenth. Living
Portuguese writers include some dramatic authors of remarkable merit, and
the theatre has its devoted followers in Lisbon. But the opera and the
cinematograph are the great favourites, and plays often owe their success
to the scenic effects rather than to the drama in itself. Gil Vicente’s
plays in the sixteenth century were, we know, accompanied by lavish
scenic display, but their dialogue is so spirited, life-like and natural
that they scarcely require alien adornments. Several of these plays have
been recently revived, adapted or translated (from Spanish to Portuguese)
by the poet Snr. Affonso Lopes Vieira, and favourably received at Lisbon.
[Sidenote: Frei Luiz de Sousa.]
As, together with the totally different plays of Garrett, with the
principal of which, _Frei Luiz de Sousa_, English readers are familiar
in the translation by Mr. Edgar Prestage (Elkin Mathews, 1909), these
plays of Gil Vicente, lyric poet, satirist, goldsmith, playwright and
actor, form the chief dramatic baggage of the Portuguese, it will not
be amiss to give a few extracts from them. But, of course, to be fully
appreciated, they must be read whole, and a forthcoming critical edition
will make this less difficult for the ordinary reader than it has
hitherto been.
_THE BITER BIT_
_Servant Girl._ Sir, an honest lady is here and would speak with you.
_Merchant._ Let her come in, if she will, for I am free at present.
_Widow._ Look here, my young gossip, do not you betray me.
_S.G._ Not I, by my life.
_W._ For you are the greatest chatterer I saw in all my life.
_S.G._ Oh, what fun! And should I tell that you are a poor gentleman
without a horse and without a shilling, dressed up as a woman to deceive
a thief!...
_W._ Good-day, Sir.
_M._ Good-day, _senhora_. What is it you would have?
_W._ I will tell you anon. Ah me, how tired I am, how tired and worried.
_M._ Take one of these chairs.
_W._ Oh, that is nothing: believe me, distress knows little rest.
_M._ By my life you say true, and I agree with you entirely.
_W._ I say, sir, that the Lord Treasurer of the noble King Telebano owes
me last year’s pension won in the sweat of my brow.
_S.G._ (aside): Yes, a fine pension of your imagination.
_M._ How much is it?
_W._ This note will tell you.
_M._ Let me have a look at it. I congratulate you: it is 40,000 _réis_.
_W._ Sir, I am in despair, and unless you buy it of me, they will
distrain upon my goods to-morrow.
_M._ No more of that; I shall certainly do nothing of the kind.
_W._ That is not a good answer.
_M._ And what of the penalty imposed by law?
_W._ Our agreement will be secret.
_M._ Impossible.
_W._ Who is to know of it?
_M._ When I go to change this note.
_W._ Do not reduce me to despair. You will know how to manage it.
_M._ Well, well, I will be an arrant fool, simply in order to help you.
What will you sell for?
_W._ I leave that to your conscience.
_M._ I will tell you: 10,000 _réis_ will I give you, cash down.
_W._ _Ai Jesu!_ Ho, there! help!
_M._ I will not give more, there’s no use in further discussion.
_W._ Would you be so cruel to a poor widow woman? O, what a sad thing is
poverty, abandoned by all!
_M._ No more, _senhora_.
_W._ Will you not be content now with 20,000, one half?
_M._ No, nor 25,000, I may tell you.
_W._ Well, let me have them, plague upon it.
_Moça_
Senhor, uma dona honrada
’Stá aqui pera vos fallar.
_Mercador_
Entre ca, s’ella mandar,
Que eu não faço agora nada.
_Viuva_
Olha ca, mexeriqueirinha,
Não me descubras tu a mi.
_Moça_
Não farei por vida minha.
_Viuva_
Porque es a môr palreirinha
Que eu em minha vida vi.
_Moça_
Que prazer!
E eu havia de dizer
Que ereis pobre escudeirão
Sem cavallo e sem tostão
E em trajos de molher
Que is enganar um ladrão!...
_Viuva_
Senhor, embora estejais.
_Mercador_
Embora estejais, senhora.
Que é o que demandais?
_V._
Eu o direi ora.
Ai coitada
Que venho ora tão cansada
Do corpo e d’outras canseiras.
_M._
Sentae-vos nessas cadeiras.
_V._
Esse descanso não é nada:
Crede que a necessidade
Mui pouco descanso tem.
_M._
Assi viva eu que é verdade
E fallastes muito bem,
Muito á minha vontade.
_V._
Digo, senhor,
Que o thesoureiro môr
Do nobre Rei Dom Telebano
Me deve já do outro anno
As tenças do meu suor.
_Moça_ (_áparte_)
Tens tu lá tenças de vento!
_M._
O dinheiro quanto é?
_V._
Este papel dará fé
Que é o seu conhecimento.
_M._
Mostrae ca, verei que é.
Bem estais:
São quarenta mil reaes.[41]
_V._
Senhor eu ’stou enforcada
E se vos não m’os comprais
Amanhã sou penhorada.
_M._
Não me falleis nisso mais;
Não farei eutal por certo.
_V._
Não é essa boa resposta.
_M._
E a pena que está posta?
_V._
Será secreto o concerto.
_M._
Não pode ser.
_V._
Quem ha isso de saber?
_M._
Quando os for arrecadar.
_N._
Não me queirais desconsolar;
Vos o sabereis fazer.
_M._
Ora emfim, quero ser tolo sandeu
E só por vos soccorrer.
Quanto m’os quereis vender?
_V._
Em vossa alma o deixo eu.
_M._
Eu vos direi:
Dez mil reaes vos darei,
Estes logo em bons tostões.
_V._
Ai Jesu! aquidelrei!
_M._
Eu d’aqui não passarei,
Nem passemos mais rezões.
_V._
A uma viuva amara
Fazeis tamanha crueza?
Oh coitada da pobreza
Que tudo o desempara!
_M._
No mais, senhora.
_V._
Não vos contentareis ora
Com vinte mil, que é metade?
_M._
Nem com mais cinco, em verdade.
Dae-m’os já com a ma ora.[42]
Of the scenes which follow only the English version is here given—
_PEASANTS GOING TO THE FAIR_
_Amancio Vaz._ Are you going to the fair, _compadre_?
_Deniz Lourenço._ To the fair, _compadre_.
_A._ So. Let us go together, you and me, along this stream.
_D._ Let us go, in sooth.
_A._ I am very glad to find you here.
_D._ Are you going to see some one or do you mean to buy?
_A._ I will tell you, and we will talk as we go, and have a look at the
village girls. _Compadre_, my wife has a very difficult temper, and now,
God willing, I am thinking of selling her, and will give her for next to
nothing.
_D._ Your wife is good enough, I don’t know what is the matter with, you,
my friend.
_A._ If she had married you, you would complain just as I do now.
_D._ Well, as to mine, _compadre_, she is so slack and clumsy that she
can never knead bread without knocking over the flour....
(_Later enter Branca Annes, wife of A., and Marta Dias, wife of D._)
_B.A._ Since in so ill an hour I married, cousin, and such a husband,
I will buy a tub here and keep him under it, and a great stone on top.
For he goes to the fig-trees and eats ripe and unripe, and all my hung
grapes he devours till he seems a very rubbish heap. He goes for the
plums before they are ripe, he breaks down the cherry trees, and as to
the grapes of the vines I don’t know what he does with them. He eats all
day, sleeps all night, never does anything, and is always telling me that
he is hungry.
_M._ To me he seems a good husband.[43]
_THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE_
_Joanne._ Have you seen my brown smock? When you do you will lose your
wits, it looks so well, so well. What in the world is this, you will say.
_Catalina._ O, what a simpleton! Do not open your mouth if anyone is at
hand.
_J._ O, to the devil with such a life as mine! Catalina, if I take it
into my head, I will go as soon as anything. Is not there India? What
good am I doing here? Better to go.
_C._ And what is that to me? There comes Fernando. Good-day, Fernando. I
waited for you at the pass.
_Fernando._ Is Madanella here?
_C._ And why are you looking for her? Have you taken a dislike to me?
_J._ Really, Catalina?
_C._ No more, consider that you have left me.
_J._ Really, Catalina?
_F._ You don’t say where Madanella is gone.
_C._ Why do you ask for her?
_F._ Because so fortune wills.
_C._ A plague upon you.
_J._ Really, Catalina? Well, if I had known this, I wouldn’t have given
you the distaff that I brought from Santarem.[43]
_THE DISCONTENTED PEASANT_
_Frei Paço._ What are you grumbling at, peasant?
_Peasant._ At God, who clearly has a great spite against me.
_F.P._ But what do you complain of?
_P._ He drives me to despair.
_F.P._ But how?
_P._ He sends rain when I don’t want it, and when I would have some rain
the very stars glow like the sun. Now He swamps the newly sown fields or
parches everything, or sends a cruel wind or snow to kill the flocks, and
little He cares. And if I would sue Him for damage done by lightning and
thunder, hail and frost, who is to find out His dwelling and summon Him!
He cares for no one, and will do as He likes. He might do me good and no
one a penny the worse, but not a bit of it. And so I say He has a grudge
against me, and if you doubt it you have but to look at my year’s harvest.
_F.P._ Do you think, then, God lives with you?
_P._ Look you, _padre_, what I say is, let Him temper the winter’s rages,
and let the corn ripen, but He in his spite without gaining a farthing
by it, sends rain in January and frost in April, and summer heat in
February, mists in the month of May, and hail in mid-July. I toil till I
drop, and He in whose care I am makes it ever worse for me.
_F.P._ Consider if you duly pay Him what is His.
_P._ I would pay my tithes willingly enough if He in sheer malice did not
damage what is His and mine.
_F.P._ And do you ever pray to Him to free you from these troubles?
_P._ Much store He sets on my prayers. I pray quite enough. I don’t know
how it is, but everything is done at His good pleasure. He killed my
father and my master, and then my wife. Ask yourself why He should kill
my aunt with all her charities, and leave the tax-gatherers, who plague
me daily.
_F.P._ They say there is no better gift than good advice. Do then as I
bid you: conform yourself with the will of God, and make good sense your
mirror.
_P._ Let Him conform Himself with me. I am poor as a dog, and tell Him
so daily, and He, it may be, rejoices. Offering and prayer avail me not
a whit: now He gives but straw without grain, and now neither grain nor
straw, but only infinite oppression. Therefore, I would have this boy of
mine enter the Church, not that he is especially inclined that way, but
that he may live a life of greater ease. If you, _padre_, will teach him,
all I have will be yours.
_F.P._ Yes, if he is so minded.
_P._ He has intelligence for anything, and a good singing voice.
_F.P._ Here, take this paper, and read those verses.
_Sebastian._ Is this for cummin or must I go for saffron?
_F.P._ You know nothing at all.
_S._ I know where the village shop is.
_P._ He is as sharp as a sword, there isn’t a goat in the herd that he
doesn’t know.
_F.P._ Come now, without more ado, say the A B C D E.
_S._ ’A be seedy.
_F.P._ Say A X.
_S._ Aex was a tailor who lived by the Cathedral.
_P._ If your life is spared, Sebastian, you will make a fine scholar.
_S._ It looks as if the plough had been at work among these letters.
_F.P._ You need much examining. And now, as to Latin: say _Beatus vir_.
_S._ O, that is easy enough: _Bi ora tres ratos vir_ (I saw three mice).
_P._ See what learning![44]
_THE COURTIER PRIEST_
_Frey Paço enters in cassock and cape, with velvet cap and gloves and
gilt sword, mincing like a very sweet courtier, and says_:
He who sees me enter with such antics will think I am gone mad till he
knows that I am Frey Paço. _Glory be to God_ and _For ever and ever_ are
not for me, but a gilt sword, since it looks well to wear a sword at
court. So refined am I; and that there should be no doubt of it, I had
an excellent idea: I never let them shave my tonsure. So do not expect
me to address you with _Glory to God_ or _Praised be Jesus Christ_, for
all my priest’s frock. And I am so finished a courtier that I may well
say that the psalms I recite are—envy and gossip. My speech is gentle and
courteous with great store of compliments. Expect no deeds from me but
be content with words borne away by the wind. Favour and disaffection am
I, the protector of lovers; I disillusion those who trust me and am the
very temple of the god of love and the hell of the love-lorn. But since
the law of love is changed, and everything grows cold, I love now by
agreement and sigh to order.[45]
_FREI PAÇO GIVES A LESSON IN COURT MANNERS_
_Frei Paço._ My friend, a noble lady must be rich and fair, sensitive,
serene, courteous, gentle, charming.
_Apariço._ Giralda is all that.
_F.P._ Let us see how this head-dress suits her.
_A._ Away, away with it, it is not fit for anyone to wear.
_F.P._ You mean, peasant, that it is not for harvesters but for the Court.
_A._ It is a magpie’s tail, and not for a woman to wear; so thinks
Apariço.
_F.P._ Yet it didn’t suit her ill.
_A._ Who ever saw a sparrow with its tail at the back of its head!
_F.P._ I’m afraid she will not suit.
_A._ Why?
_F.P._ Well, she has not the air.
_A._ She has been treading grapes in the wine-press and is all stained,
but she will go and have a wash....
_F.P._ Drop me a curtsey now. Let us see how she does it.
_G._ This side or that?
_F.P._ See what a manner for the Court! My fine lady keeper of goats, you
must do thus. Did you mark me? And make the steps so. Do you understand?
And you will look thus, with lofty mien, your body very straight,
laughing little and subtly, with a spice of honest deceit. To speak only
occasionally is excellent. You must not be in love nor give love over,
and to show that you are fancy-free be careful not to sigh.[46]
_MOFINA MENDES_
_Payo._ Since it is the will of God that I should pay so harmful a
shepherdess, in reward for your trouble, take this pot of oil and go and
sell it at the fair, and perhaps you will prosper, since I cannot with
you in my service.
_Mofina._ Straightway in God’s name to the fair of Trancoso will I go,
and will make much money. With the money of the oil I will buy ducks’
eggs, which is the cheapest thing I can get there, and each egg hatched
will give me a duck and every duck a shilling. At a low price they will
yield over a million and a half (_réis?_). These ducks’ eggs will bring
me a rich and honourable marriage, and on the day of my wedding I will
go dressed in a robe of scarlet, and before me the bridegroom will go
courting me. I will come from within dancing a dance like this and
singing this song.
(_So speaks Mofina Mendes with the pot of oil on her head, and as she
gives her mind ever more to the dancing, it falls off._)[47]
_VANITY OF VANITIES_
_Nigger._ All the world is weariness,
To be a great lord, weariness;
Or a poor man, weariness;
A lovely woman, weariness;
An ugly woman, weariness;
A negro slave, weariness;
Or the slave’s master, weariness;
To go to Mass, weariness;
And a long sermon, weariness;
A priest without a wife, weariness;
A priest with a wife, weariness,
Great weariness;
An unmarried nobleman, weariness;
Much rain, weariness;
Or no rain, weariness;
To have many children, weariness;
Or to have none at all, weariness;
To be the Pope in Rome, weariness;
Or that peasant there, weariness;
Not to go to Paradise, great weariness;
All, all the world is but weariness.[48]
_THE POOR GENTLEMAN_
_Ordonho._ Who is your master, brother, say?
_Apariço._ O, it is the devil himself. Year in, year out, we are both
dead of hunger and misery.
_O._ Who does he pass the time with?
_A._ What do I know! He goes about like a scalded dog.
_O._ And what is his occupation?
_A._ That of a fool. Combing his hair and fasting, all day without food,
singing and playing on the guitar, sighing and yawning. He is ever
talking to himself, and the verses he makes are so cold and insipid and
senseless that they make one pity him. And the airs he gives himself!
That is what enrages me. I have been in his service three years and have
never seen him with half a crown, but in our expenditure a shilling lasts
a month.
_O._ Mercy on us, what do you eat?
_A._ Not even of bread do we eat our fill.
_O._ And his horse?
_A._ Skin and bones, the bones piercing the skin. I and the horse and he
eat scarcely anything. Yet you should see him boasting and pretending to
be a valiant knight, and singing his own praises the whole live-long day.
But the other day, in an alley there, they gave him a fine thrashing. O,
such a thrashing!
_O._ What with?
_A._ With an old stick.
_O._ Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
_A._ It gave me such pleasure.
_O._ And he said nothing?
_A._ Took it without a word, blow on blow. He comes home late at night,
being shut in the house all day since he dare not show himself on account
of his clothes. And he calls out gaily, “To supper,” as if he had supper
ready. And I have nothing for him, and he has nothing for me to give him.
And he takes a crust of bread and a shrivelled turnip and fastens his
teeth in it like a dog. I don’t know how he keeps up his strength.[49]
_THE MOÇO’S COMPLAINT_
Do they call a chest a bed here or is there no meaning in words! All
my nights in his house were nights spent in an open boat at sea, not
to speak of other evils. Senhor Judge, I have been six years in this
gentleman’s service, and might have been a barber by now but for his
false promises. When I entered his service he was in better plight, but
now, good lack, it is all up with him, and his guitar, and his horse, and
his bed, and his clothes, and my service, and all the rest. This last
night, as I lay ill at ease on a chest with my feet hanging over, he woke
me up at one o’clock, and: “O, if you knew, Fernando, what verses I have
just made.” He bids me light the lamp and hold the inkstand for him, and
there was his dog howling and I standing there cursing because in my
first sleep my master must needs make verses.[50]
_THE NOBLEMAN’S CHAPLAIN_
_Chaplain._ _Senhor_, it seems time....
_Nobleman._ Say on, _padre_, say on.
_C._ I say that it is close on three years that I have been your chaplain.
_N._ Most true. Say on.
_C._ And I might have been the Prince’s or even the King’s.
_N._ In good sooth, I don’t know about that, _padre_.
_C._ Yes, indeed, I might, though I am in your service. Consider then,
sir, what you will give me, for, besides serving at the altar, I was
employed to buy provisions.
_N._ I won’t deny it. Draw me up a petition of all your claims.
_C._ _Senhor_, do not put me off, for the matter has no ending, as
perhaps you wish, for indeed I am become for you both clergyman and man
of business.
_N._ And I have given you favours, yes, so far as my poor means allowed,
have done more for you than others do. For what more does a clergyman
want in wages or income than that he should be given his food—a good
penny a day—and allowed to live as he wills. And think of the honour! “He
is chaplain of So-and-So.”
_C._ Yes, and what about clothes, and meals snatched anyhow, and sleeping
so ill at ease that my head lies on the floor without a pillow, and
always at one o’clock in the morning Mass before the chase? And to
please you, moreover, I served you out of doors, even buying fish in the
market-place. And other errands too, ill befitting my dignity. Indeed,
indeed, sir, I was your carrier on the high road, driven this way and
that; and I had charge of the cats and of the negroes in the kitchen, and
I used to clean your boots for you, and do many another thing besides.
_N._ Yes, I trusted you with all my alms-giving, and you gave for the
love of God, and I never asked you for accounts.
_C._ For the three years to which I’m referring I can give them now
without more ado. You once bade me give twopence to a blind man in
charity.
_N._ I’m not denying it.[51]
_THE POOR NOBLEMAN_
_Page._ Sir, the goldsmith is here.
_Nobleman._ Show him in. He will be wanting money. Good-day to you, sir.
Put your hat on, please. You have a great friend in me, and one who
sings your merits. I was praising you only yesterday to the King with all
my might, and I know he will employ you, and I will help you in this as
often as I can. For sometimes such help is better than a pension, and you
know well the value of your reputation and other such things.
_Goldsmith._ Sir, I will serve him with all my heart.
_N._ Do you know what I like about you—I said so to the King, and it is
greatly to your credit: you do not mind if you are paid or left unpaid. I
never saw such patience, such superiority, such a will to please.
_G._ Our account is so small and so long overdue that it is dying of hope
deferred, and to present it fills me with presentiment.
_N._ O, how skilfully you limn your speech. Glad indeed am I not to have
paid you so as to hear you hammer out your words so well.
_G._ Sir, I kiss your hands, but would gladly see what is mine in mine.
_N._ Another courtier’s phrase! “Sir, I kiss your hands, but would gladly
see what is mine in mine!” O, what fine flowers of speech![52]