Produced by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer.
The Life of Lazarillo of Tormes, Parts One and Two
Translated by Robert Rudder (C)1992
Copyright 1973 by Frederick Ungar Publishing Co., Inc.
Copyright 1995 by Robert S. Rudder
THE LIFE OF LAZARILLO OF TORMES, HIS FORTUNES AND MISFORTUNES AS
TOLD BY HIMSELF
Edited and Translated by Robert S. Rudder
With a Sequel by Juan de Luna
Translated by Robert S. Rudder with Carmen Criado de Rodriguez
Puertolas
Copyright 1973 by Frederick Ungar Publishing Co., Inc.
Copyright 1995 by Robert S. Rudder
This translation is for
LISA, PAULA,
and
CHRISTOPHER MICHAEL,
three small picaros.
Contents
Introduction
THE LIFE OF LAZARILLO OF TORMES
Prologue
I Lazaro Tells about His Life and His Parents
II How Lazaro Took up with a Priest and the Things That Happened
to Him with That Man
III How Lazaro Took up with a Squire and What Happened to Him
Then
IV How Lazaro Went to Work for a Friar of the Order of Mercy and
What Happened to Him
V How Lazaro Went to Work for a Pardoner and the Things That
Happened to Him Then
VI How Lazaro Went to Work for a Chaplain and What Happened to
Him Then
VII How Lazaro Went to Work for a Constable and Then What
Happened to Him
VIII In Which Lazaro Tells of the Friendship He Struck up in
Toledo with Some Germans and What Happened to Them
THE SECOND PART OF THE LIFE OF LAZARILLO OF TORMES
Letter of Dedication
To The Reader
I Where Lazaro Tells about How He Left Toledo to Go to the War of
Algiers
II How Lazaro Embarked at Cartagena
III How Lazaro Escaped from the Sea
IV How They Took Lazaro through Spain
V How They Took Lazaro to the Capital
VI How They Took Lazaro to Toledo
VII What Happened to Lazaro on the Way to the Tagus River
VIII How Lazaro Brought a Lawsuit against His Wife
IX How Lazaro Became a Baggage Carrier
X What Happened to Lazaro with an Old Bawd
XI How Lazaro Left for His Homeland and What Happened to Him on
the Way
XII What Happened to Lazaro in an Inn Three Miles outside of
Valladolid
XIII How Lazaro Was a Squire for Seven Women at One Time
XIV Where Lazaro Tells What Happened to Him at a Dinner
XV How Lazaro Became a Hermit
XVI How Lazaro Decided to Marry Again
Bibliography
INTRODUCTION
_Lazarillo of Tormes_ appeared in sixteenth-century Spain like a
breath of fresh air among hundreds of insipidly sentimental
novels of chivalry. With so many works full of knights who were
manly and brave enough to fight any adversary, but prone to
become weak in the knees when they saw their fair lady nearby,
was it any wonder that Lazarillo, whose only goal was to fill a
realistically hungry stomach, should go straight to the hearts of
all Spain. The little novel sold enough copies for three
different editions to be issued in 1554, and then was quickly
translated into several languages. It initiated a new genre of
writing called the "picaresque."
It seems certain that other editions, or at least other
manuscripts, of _Lazarillo_ were circulating previously, but the
earliest we know of were the three published in 1554. One of
these was printed at Burgos, another at Antwerp, and the third at
Alcala de Henares. They all differ somewhat in language, but it
is the one from Alcala de Henares that departs most radically
from the other two. It adds some episodes, not in the other
editions, which were probably written by a second author.
Because _Lazarillo_ was so critical of the clergy, it was put on
the Index Purgatorius in 1559 and further editions were
prohibited inside Spain. Then, in 1573, an abridged version was
printed that omitted Chapters four and five, along with other
items displeasing to a watchful Inquisition; later additional
episodes were suppressed. This mutilated version was reprinted
until the nineteenth century, when Spain finally allowed its
people to read the complete work once again.
The identity of the author of this novel has always been a
mystery. A few names have been suggested over the years: Juan de
Ortega, a Jeronymite monk; Sebastian de Horozco, a dramatist and
collector of proverbs. But probably the most widely accepted
theory was the attribution to Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, a famous
humanist. Many early editions of _Lazarillo_ carried his name as
author, even though there has never been any real proof of his
authorship. Some critics, following Americo Castro's lead, think
the author was a Jewish convert to Christianity because of
certain phrases which point in that direction. And some think he
was a follower of Erasmus, despite the French critic Marcel
Bataillon's emphatic statements to the contrary.
One of the first relationships we become aware of as we read this
novel is the link of the name Lazaro (Lazarillo: little Lazaro)
with the biblical Lazarus: either the figure who died and was
brought back to life (John 16) or the beggar (Luke 16:20-31).
This "historical" relationship is further compounded by the fact
that many episodes of the novel are versions of material
traditional in European folklore. There is, for instance, a
thirteenth century French theatrical farce, _Le garcon et
l'aveugle_, in which a servant plays tricks on a blind man. And
the British Museum manuscript of the _Decretals_ of Gregory IX
contains an illustration of a boy drinking through a straw from a
blind man's bowl. The episode in which Lazarillo thinks a corpse
is being brought to his house appears in the _Liber facetiarum et
similitudinum Ludovici de Pinedo, et amicorum_ and may be a
folktale. And the story of the constable and the pardoner is to
be found in the fourth novel of _Il novellino_ by Masuccio
Salernitano, and may also be a folktale.
It has long been said that this novel is an accurate reflection
of society in sixteenth-century Spain. And to some extent, this
does seem to be true. The king of Spain, Charles I, became
involved in several foreign wars, and had gone deeply into debt
to German and Italian bankers in order to finance those wars.
Soon the quantities of gold and silver coming from Spain's mines
in the New World were being sent directly to the foreign bankers.
The effects of inflation were to be seen everywhere, as were
other social ills. Beggars and beggars' guilds were numerous.
Men of all classes were affixing titles to their names, and
refusing any work--especially any sort of manual labor--unless it
suited their new "rank." The clergy was sadly in need of reform.
And pardoners were--often unscrupulously--selling indulgences
that granted the forgiveness of sins in return for money to fight
the infidel in North Africa and the Mediterranean. All these
things are to be found in _Lazarillo of Tormes_.
But is the book really an accurate reflection of all of Spanish
society? If there were avaricious priests, and priests who had
mistresses, were there none with strong moral principles? If
poverty was felt so keenly by Lazarillo and others, was there no
one who enjoyed a good meal? As another writer has suggested,
the Spanish conquerors did not come to the New World on empty
stomachs, nor was the Spanish Armada ill supplied. It is
obvious, then, that while _Lazarillo_ reflects Spanish society,
it mirrors only one segment of that society. Its writer ignored
uncorrupted men of generosity and high moral principles who surely
existed alongside the others. So just as the chivalresque novels
distorted reality upward, this novel distorts reality downward and
almost invariably gives us only the negative traits of society.
An important point is the unity, or nonunity, of the book.
Earliest critics of Lazarillo of Tormes saw it as a loosely
formed novel of unconnected episodes whose only point of unity
happened to be the little rogue who told his life story, in which
he is seen as serving one master after another. Later criticism
has changed that point of view, however, by pointing to such
unifying factors as wine, which is used as a recurring theme
throughout (Lazarillo steals it; it is used for washing his
wounds; he sells it). Then there is the "initiation" in which
Lazarillo's head is slammed against a stone statue of a bull.
Later the blind man smashes his own head against a stone post as
poetic justice is meted out. Finally, Lazarillo's mother will
"lie at the side--or stay on the side of good people," and as the
novel ends Lazaro decides to do the same.
Claudio Guillen, a modern critic, has noted that time is also a
unifying factor in this novel. Early incidents are told in
detail, and at moments of pain specific amounts of time are
measured ("I felt the pain from its horns for three days"). When
Lazarillo is taken in by the squire his hunger pangs become so
great that he begins to count the hours. But as conditions
improve for Lazarillo's stomach, he gradually forgets about the
slow passage of time. In fact, time now begins to race past:
four months with the pardoner, four years with the chaplain.
This slow, then swift, passage of time is used by Guillen to
explain the extreme brevity of some later chapters of the novel.
It is a mature Lazaro, he says, who is telling the story and
reflecting on his childhood. And we are really seeing the memory
process of this older Lazaro who glosses over less important
parts of his life and dwells on the moments that matter.
Other critics have responded to the question of "finality" in the
work; that is, is Lazarillo an incomplete novel or not?
Francisco Rico believes the novel is complete, and that there is
a "circular" structure to it all. He notes that the novel is
addressed to a certain fictional character ("You": Vuestra
merced), and that Lazarillo intends to tell this character "all
the details of the matter," the "matter" apparently being the
questionable relations between the archpriest and Lazarillo's
wife. So there is a continuity from the beginning of the work
through the details of Lazarillo's life, until the last chapter
("right up to now") where the "matter" itself, alluded to
previously in the Prologue, is finally given in some detail.
Another critic, Americo Castro, points out that _Lazarillo of
Tormes_ is different from other types of sixteenth century prose
fiction in at least one extremely important way that points
toward the modern novel. The knights of chivalresque novels and
the shepherds who sighed and lamented their way through pastoral
novels were flat characters with no room to grow. Not so
Lazarillo. Every action, every twist of fortune makes an
impression on him, forms his way of looking at the world and
shapes his nature. From an innocent little boy he becomes a
mischievous, then vengeful, blind man's boy. He observes the
hypocrisy, avarice, false pride, materialism of his masters, and
when he marries the archpriest's mistress for what he can gain,
he applies all the lessons he has learned on the ladder to success--
to the "height of all good fortune." Americo Castro also notes that
_Lazarillo of Tormes_ is a step toward the masterpiece of Cervantes,
_Don Quixote of La Mancha_. As this critic said: "In addition to its
intrinsic merits, the _Lazarillo de Tormes_ is supremely important
viewed in its historic perspective. In many ways it made possible
the _Quijote_. Among other things, it offered in the intimate
opposition of the squire and his servant the first outline of
the duality-unity of Don Quijote and Sancho."
Style is another point of great importance to this novel,
particularly in the use of conceits. Lazarillo's father, for
example, "suffered persecution for righteousness' sake," a clear
reference to the beatitudes. But in this case "righteousness" is
the law who is punishing him for being the thief that he is.
Throughout the novel we see similar plays on words: the master,
who "although he was _blind, enlightened_ me;" or the squire who
tried to coax certain young ladies one morning, and whose stomach
was _warm_, but when he discovered that his pocketbook was
_cold_, he suffered _hot-chills_.
It is not surprising that sequels promptly appeared, but the
writers of these unfortunately lacked the genius of the author of
the original _Lazarillo_. An anonymous sequel appeared in 1555
with the title, _The Second Part of Lazarillo of Tormes, His
Fortunes and Misfortunes_. Its beginning words are the same as
the final ones of the first _Lazarillo_, but there any similarity
ends. In this novel Lazaro makes friends with some Germans and
his wife gives birth to a daughter. Lazaro then enlists to go on
an expedition to fight the Turks, his ship sinks, and he is
miraculously changed into a fish. He has many adventures in the
sea, and is finally caught up in the nets of some fishermen and
changes back into a man. The novel is a fantasy, and may be
allegorical. The beginning is its most realistic point, and the
first chapter of this novel became tacked onto the end of the
first _Lazarillo_.
No further sequels were printed until 1620 when Juan Cortes de
Tolosa's book, _Lazarillo de Manzanares_, was published. This
novel imitates the first _Lazarillo_ in its initial episodes, but
is again far less successful than the original.
In the same year, 1620, Juan de Luna's _Second Part of the Life
of Lazarillo of Tormes_ was published in Paris. (Another edition
was published simultaneously in Paris, but was marked as though
printed in Zaragoza to facilitate the book's sale in Spain.)
Little is definitely known about Luna. We do know that he was
born in Spain--perhaps in Aragon. He apparently fled to France
in 1612 as a political and religious refugee: in one of his books
he refers to himself as "a foreigner who has left behind his
homeland, his relatives, and his estate for a just and legitimate
cause." It has been speculated that Luna may have been educated
for the priesthood but then grown dissatisfied and even
vehemently bitter toward the clergy. The reason for his flight
to France has been interpreted as a flight from the Spanish
Inquisition. In France, in Montauban, he began to study theology
to prepare himself for the Protestant ministry. But soon
afterward he became a Spanish teacher in Paris, and in 1619
published a book of proverbs and phrases for Spanish students.
The following year his continuation of Lazarillo was published,
along with a revised version of the original Lazarillo (revised
because its style did not suit his tastes). Next he appeared in
London, in 1622, attempting to have his sequel translated into
English. His Spanish grammar was published there the following
year. The last information we have of him is that he became a
Protestant minister in England, and for three years delivered
sermons to his fellow Spaniards each Sunday, in Mercer's Chapel,
Cheapside, London.
Although the details of Juan de Luna's life are rather sketchy, a
great deal more can be said about his novel. His continuation of
Lazarillo was the only sequel to meet with any success. The same
characters--Lazarillo, the archpriest, the squire, etc.--are
here, but their personalities are changed drastically. The
squire is the one who is most noticeably different. He is
no longer the sympathetic, poor, generous (when he has money)
figure of the first part. Now he is a thief, a cowardly braggart,
a dandy, and Lazaro has nothing but scorn for him. Lazaro himself
is now fully grown, and there is no room for his personality
to change as before. Perhaps the only character who is
still the same is Lazaro's wife.
Other differences between the two novels are also evident. In
the first _Lazarillo_ we see a central protagonist who serves a
different master or performs a different type of work in each
chapter. But in Luna's sequel we do not have this same
structure. In the first five chapters of Luna's book, for
example, Lazarillo's adventures flow as they do in traditional
novels: he goes to sea, the ship sinks, he is captured by
fishermen and put on exhibition as a fish, and finally he is
rescued. The following chapters, however, often divide his life
into segments as he goes from one position to another.
Another difference to be noted is that while the first Lazarillo
addresses a certain person ("You": Vuestra merced) who is not the
reader but an acquaintance of the archpriest, in the _Second
Part_ something quite different occurs. Luna's Lazaro addresses
the "dear reader" but hardly with flattering terms: he humorously
suggests that we may all be cuckolds. Then he ironically refuses
to tell us about--or even let us think about--certain promiscuous
details because they may offend our pure and pious ears. The
framework of the first novel is apparently a device whose
purpose, like the "Arabic historian" and the "translators" of
_Don Quixote_, is to create an atmosphere of realism, while
Luna's "dear reader" is simply a device for humor.
Another important distinction to be made between the two books is
the extent of word-play used. Almost one hundred years elapsed
between the times the two books were published, and literary
styles changed a great deal. While the first _Lazarillo_ used
some conceits, as we have previously noted, Luna's book abounds
with them to the point where it becomes baroque. About people
who are being flooded with water or are drowning, it is usually
said that they are overcome by trifling, but watery,
circumstances: "a drop in the ocean" (ahogar en tan poca agua).
Lazarillo's child is "born with the odor of saintliness about
her" (una hija ingerta a canutillo); unfortunately this refers
less to her as holy than it does to the fact that her father is
really the archpriest. The use of antithesis is also evident
throughout Luna's novel. From the beginning in which he
dedicated his small work to a great princess, throughout the
length of the book, we find Lazaro esteemed by his friends and
feared by his enemies, begging from people who give money with
open hands while he does not take it with closed ones, and so on.
Another trick in language is Luna's plays on sounds: such
combinations as sali--salte (left--leaped), comedia--comida
(rituals--victuals) are abundant. Luna also uses obscene
conceits for a humorous purpose, mixing them with religious
allusions both for humor and to vent his own feelings of
hostility against the church.
Yet another important difference between the two novels lies in
Luna's emphasis on tying up loose ends. We know that in the
first _Lazarillo_ the protagonist leaves the blind man for dead,
not knowing what happened to him, and we never do find out
whether he survived the blow or not. Later the squire runs away
from Lazaro, and we never see him again either. The author of
the first _Lazarillo_ gives us a series of vignettes in which the
psychological interplay of the characters is stressed. The
characters fade out of Lazaro's life just as people fade in and
out of our own lives. Luna, however, was much more interested in
telling a good story--and one that has an ending. So the squire
appears, and tells what happened to him after leaving Lazaro: a
complete story in itself. He steals Lazaro's clothes and runs
off, and later we see him again--having got his just retribution
almost by pure chance. The innkeeper's daughter runs off with
her priest, and both turn up several chapters later; their
account amounts to another short story. The "innocent" girl and
the bawd disappear, then return to play a scene with Lazaro once
more, and finally they fade out, presumably to live by their wits
ever after. Related to this stress on external action is the
importance Luna gives to descriptive rather than psychological
detail. His minutely detailed descriptions of clothing are
especially noteworthy: the squire's "suit"; the gallant's
clothing as he emerges from the trunk; the costume worn by the
girl who became a gypsy. These are descriptions we do not find
in the original _Lazarillo_ because the author of that work is
much more interested in internal motivations than external
description and action.
Let us move on to another point: the social satire in the two
novels. We have seen the satire against the various classes, and
particularly against the church, in the first _Lazarillo_. And
Luna's satire has the same targets. The essential difference is
in the way the two authors handle their darts. The first
_Lazarillo_ is fairly subtle in its attacks: men are avaricious,
materialistic unscrupulous infamous--and these vices are
sometimes only very loosely connected with the church. But Luna
wants us to know definitely that the church is like this, so his
satire of the church is blunt and devastating. The Inquisition,
he tells us plainly, is corrupt, brutal, and feared throughout
all of Spain. Priests and friars are always anxious to accept a
free meal, they have mistresses, and they are less principled
than thieves. Lawyers and the entire judicial system are
corrupt. The Spaniards, Luna tells us from his position of exile
in Paris, are too proud to work, and they will become beggars
rather than perform any sort of-manual labor. Lazaro himself is
held up to us as a "mirror of Spanish sobriety." Apparently
Luna's anger about having to leave Spain had no opportunity to
mellow before he finished his novel.
Luna's _Second Part of Lazarillo of Tormes_ is not the "First
Part." But even so, it has its merit. Luna liked to tell
stories, and he was good at it. Some scenes are witty and highly
entertaining. When Lazaro meets his old friends, the bawd and
the "maiden," at an inn, the action is hardly dull. The "quarter
of kid" becomes the center of attraction from the time it appears
on Lazaro's plate until he falls and ejects it from his throat,
and it is used skillfully and humorously to tell us a great deal
about each of the characters present.
Another scene worth calling to the reader's special attention is
the chapter in which a feast is held that erupts into a brawl,
after which the local constabulary arrives. Luna's account is a
very close predecessor of the modern farce. Many of the
elements seem to be present: a lack of reverence, a situation
used for comic effects, the chase through many rooms to find the
guests, the beatings that the constable's men are given by the
pursued, being "breaded" in flour, "fried" in oil, and left out
on the street where they run away, ashamed to be seen. It is as
though we are catching a glimpse of the Keystone Cops,
seventeenth-century style. And the variations from seventeenth
to twentieth century do not appear to amount to a great deal.
University of California at Los Angeles December 1972
ROBERT S. RUDDER
Translator's Note
My translation of the first Lazarillo follows Foulche Delbosc's
edition, which attempts to restore the editio princeps but does
not include the interpolations of the Alcala de Henares edition.
The translation of the first chapter of the anonymous sequel of
1555 follows at the end of the first part because it serves as a
bridge between the first novel and Luna's sequel. For Juan de
Luna's sequel, the modern edition by Elmer Richard Sims, more
faithful to the manuscript than any other edition, has been
utilized.
A word of thanks is due to Professor Julio Rodriguez Puertolas,
whose own work was so often interrupted by questions from the
outer sanctum, and who nevertheless bore through it all with good
humor, and was very helpful in clearing up certain mysteries in
the text.
The seventy-three drawings [not included in this electronic text]
were prepared by Leonard Bramer, a Dutch painter who was born in
1596 and died in 1674. Living most of his life in Delft, he is
best known for his drawings and for his illustrations of Ovid's
writings and of other works of literature. The original drawings
are in the keeping of the Graphische Sammlung in Munich.
R.S.R.
THE LIFE OF LAZARILLO OF TORMES, HIS FORTUNES AND MISFORTUNES AS
TOLD BY HIMSELF
Prologue
I think it is good that such remarkable things as these, which
may never have been heard of or seen before, should come to the
attention of many people instead of being buried away in the tomb
of oblivion. Because it might turn out that someone who reads
about them will like what he reads, and even people who only
glance lightly through this book may be entertained.
Pliny says along these lines that there is no book--no matter how
bad it is--that doesn't have something good in it. And this is
all the more true since all tastes are not the same: what one man
won't even touch, another will be dying to get. And so there are
things that some people don't care for, while others do. The
point is that nothing should be destroyed or thrown away unless
it is really detestable; instead, it should be shown to
everybody, especially if it won't do any harm and they might get
some good out of it.
If this weren't so, there would be very few people who would
write for only one reader, because writing is hardly a simple
thing to do. But since writers go ahead with it, they want to be
rewarded, not with money but with people seeing and reading their
works, and if there is something worthwhile in them, they would
like some praise. Along these lines too, Cicero says: "Honor
promotes the arts."
Does anyone think that the first soldier to stand up and charge
the enemy hates life? Of course not; a craving for glory is what
makes him expose himself to danger. And the same is true in arts
and letters. The young preacher gives a very good sermon and is
really interested in the improvement of people's souls, but ask
his grace if he minds when they tell him, "Oh, what an excellent
sermon you gave today, Reverend!" And So-and-so was terrible in
jousting today, but when some rascal praised him for the way he
had handled his weapons, he gave him his armor. What would he
have done if it had really been true?
And so everything goes: I confess that I'm no more saintly than
my neighbors, but I would not mind it at all if those people who
find some pleasure in this little trifle of mine (written in my
crude style) would get wrapped up in it and be entertained by
it, and if they could see that a man who has had so much bad luck
and so many misfortunes and troubles does exist.
Please take this poor effort from a person who would have liked
to make it richer if only his ability had been as great as his
desire. And since you told me that you wanted me to write down
all the details of the matter, I have decided not to start out
in the middle but at the beginning. That way you will have a
complete picture of me, and at the same time those people who
received a large inheritance will see how little they had to do
with it, since fortune favored them, and they will also see how
much more those people accomplished whose luck was going against
them, since they rowed hard and well and brought their ship
safely into port.
I. Lazaro Tells about His Life and His Parents
You should know first of all that I'm called Lazaro of Tormes,
and that I'm the son of Tome Gonzales and Antona Perez, who were
born in Tejares, a village near Salamanca. I was actually born
in the Tormes River, and that's how I got my name. It happened
this way: My father (God rest his soul) was in charge of a mill
on the bank of that river, and he was the miller there for more
than fifteen years. Well, one night while my mother was in the
mill, carrying me around in her belly, she went into labor and
gave birth to me right there. So I can really say I was born in
the river.
Then when I was eight years old, they accused my father of
gutting the sacks that people were bringing to the mill. They
took him to jail, and without a word of protest he went ahead and
confessed everything, and he suffered persecution for
righteousness' sake. But I trust God that he's in heaven because
the Bible calls that kind of man blessed. At that time they were
getting together an expedition to go fight the Moors, and my
father went with them. They had exiled him because of the bad
luck that I've already told about, so he went along as a muleteer
for one of the men, and like a loyal servant, he ended his life
with his master.
My widowed mother, finding herself without a husband or anyone to
take care of her, decided to lie at the side--I mean, stay on the
side--of good men and be like them. So she came to the city to live.
She rented a little house and began to cook for some students.
She washed clothes for some stableboys who served the Commander
of La Magdalena, too, so a lot of the time she was around the stables.
She and a dark man--one of those men who took care of the animals--
got to know each other. Sometimes he would come to our house and
wouldn't leave till the next morning; and other times he would come
to our door in the daytime pretending that he wanted to buy eggs,
and then he would come inside.
When he first began to come I didn't like him, he scared me
because of the color of his skin and the way he looked. But when
I saw that with him around there the food got better, I began to
like him quite a lot. He always brought bread and pieces of meat,
and in the winter he brought in firewood so we could keep warm.
So with his visits and the relationship going right along, it
happened that my mother gave me a pretty little black baby, and I
used to bounce it on my knee and help keep it warm.
I remember one time when my black stepfather was playing with the
little fellow, the child noticed that my mother and I were white
but that my stepfather wasn't and he got scared. He ran to my
mother and pointed his finger at him and said, "Mama, it's the
bogeyman!" And my stepfather laughed: "You little son-of-a-bitch!"
Even though I was still a young boy, I thought about the word my
little brother had used, and I said to myself: How many people
there must be in the world who run away from others when they
don't see themselves.
As luck would have it, talk about Zaide (that was my stepfather's
name) reached the ears of the foreman, and when a search was made
they found out that he'd been stealing about half of the barley
that was supposed to be given to the animals. He'd pretended
that the bran, wool, currycombs, aprons, and the horse covers and
blankets had been lost; and when there was nothing else left to
steal, he took the shoes right off the horses' hooves. And he
was using all this to buy things for my mother so that she could
bring up my little brother.
Why should we be surprised at priests when they steal from the
poor or at friars when they take things from their monasteries to
give to their lady followers, or for other things, when we see
how love can make a poor slave do what he did?
And they found him guilty of everything I've said and more
because they asked me questions and threatened me too, and I
answered them like a child. I was so frightened that I told them
everything I knew--even about some horseshoes my mother
had made me sell to a blacksmith.
They beat and tarred my poor stepfather, and they gave my mother
a stiff sentence besides the usual hundred lashes: they said that
she couldn't go into the house of the Commander (the one I mentioned)
and that she couldn't take poor Zaide into her own house.
So that matters wouldn't get any worse, the poor woman went ahead
and carried out the sentence. And to avoid any danger and get
away from wagging tongues, she went to work as a servant for the
people who were living at the Solano Inn then. And there, while
putting up with all kinds of indignities, she managed to raise my
little brother until he knew how to walk. And she even raised me
to be a good little boy who would take wine and candles to the
guests and do whatever else they told me.
About this time a blind man came by and stayed at the inn. He
thought I would be a good guide for him, so he asked my mother if
I could serve him, and she said I could. She told him what a
good man my father had been and how he'd died in the battle of
Gelves for the holy faith. She said she trusted God that I
wouldn't turn out any worse a man than my father, and she begged
him to be good to me and look after me, since I would be an
orphan now. He told her he would and said that I wouldn't be a
servant to him, but a son. And so I began to serve and guide my
new old master.
After he had been in Salamanca a few days, my master wasn't happy
with the amount of money he was taking in, and he decided to go
somewhere else. So when we were ready to leave, I went to see my
mother. And with both of us crying she gave me her blessing and
said, "Son, I know that I'll never see you again. Try to be
good, and may God be your guide. I've raised you and given you
to a good master; take good care of yourself."
And then I went back out to my master who was waiting for me.
We left Salamanca and we came to a bridge; and at the edge of
this bridge there's a stone statue of an animal that looks
something like a bull. The blind man told me to go up next to
the animal, and when I was there he said, "Lazaro, put your ear
up next to this bull and you'll hear a great sound inside of it."
I put my ear next to it very simply, thinking he was telling the
truth. And when he felt my head near the statue, he doubled up
his fist and knocked my head into that devil of a bull so hard
that I felt the pain from its horns for three days. And he said
to me, "You fool, now learn that a blind man's servant has to be
one step ahead of the devil." And he laughed out loud at his joke.
It seemed to me that at that very instant I woke up from my
childlike simplicity and I said to myself, "He's right. I've got
to open my eyes and be on my guard. I'm alone now, and I've got
to think about taking care of myself."
We started on our way again, and in just a few days he taught me
the slang thieves use. When he saw what a quick mind I had he
was really happy, and he said, "I can't give you any gold or
silver, but I can give you plenty of hints on how to stay
alive." And that's exactly what he did; after God, it was this
fellow who gave me life and who, although he was blind,
enlightened me and showed me how to live.
I like to tell you these silly things to show what virtue there
is in men being able to raise themselves up from the depths, and
what a vice it is for them to let themselves slip down from
high stations.
Well, getting back to my dear blind man and telling about his
ways, you should know that from the time God created the world
there's no one He made smarter or sharper than that man. At his
job he was sly as a fox. He knew over a hundred prayers by
heart. He would use a low tone, calm and very sonorous, that
would make the church where he was praying echo. And whenever he
prayed, he would put on a humble and pious expression--something
he did very well. And he wouldn't make faces or grimaces with
his mouth or eyes the way others do.
Besides this he had thousands of other ways of getting money. He
told everyone that he knew prayers for lots of different things:
for women who couldn't have children or who were in labor; for
those women who weren't happy in their marriage--so that their
husbands would love them more. He would give predictions to
expectant mothers about whether they would have a boy or a girl.
And as far as medicine was concerned, he said that Galen never
knew the half of what he did about toothaches, fainting spells,
and female illnesses. In fact, there was no one who would tell
him they were sick that he couldn't immediately say to them: "Do
this, and then is; take this herb, or take that root."
And so everyone came to him--especially women--and they believed
everything he told them. He got a lot out of them with these ways
I've been telling about; in fact, he earned more in a month than
a hundred ordinary blind men earn in a year.
But I want you to know, too, that even with all he got and all
that he had, I've never seen a more greedy, miserly man. He was
starving me to death. He didn't even give me enough to keep me
alive! I'm telling the truth: If I hadn't known how to help
myself with my wily ways and some pretty clever tricks, I would
have died of hunger lots of times. But with all his know-how and
carefulness I outwitted him, so that I always--or usually--really
got the better of him. The way I did this was I played some
devilish tricks on him, and I'll tell about some of them, even
though I didn't come out on top every time.
He carried the bread and all the other things in a cloth bag, and
he kept the neck of it closed with an iron ring that had a
padlock and key. And when he put things in or took them out, he
did it so carefully and counted everything so well that no one
in the world could have gotten a crumb from him. So I'd take
what little he gave me, and in less than two mouthfuls it would
be gone.
After he had closed the lock and forgotten about it, thinking
that I was busy with other things, I would begin to bleed the
miserly bag dry. There was a little seam on the side of the bag
that I'd rip open and sew up again. And I would take out bread--
not little crumbs, either, but big hunks--and I'd get bacon and
sausage too. And so I was always looking for the right time to
score, not on a ball field, but on the food in that blasted bag
that the tyrant of a blind man kept away from me.
And then, every time I had a chance I'd steal half copper coins.
And when someone gave him a copper to say a prayer for them--and
since he couldn't see--they'd no sooner have offered it than I
would pop it into my mouth and have a half-copper ready. And as
soon as he stuck out his hand, there was my coin reduced to half
price. Then the old blind man would start growling at me. As
soon as he felt it and realized that it wasn't a whole copper
he'd say, "How the devil is it that now that you're with me they
never give me anything but half coppers, when they almost always
used to give me a copper or a two-copper piece? I'd swear that
this is all your fault."
He used to cut his prayers short, too; he wouldn't even get
halfway through them. He told me to pull on the end of his cloak
whenever the person who asked for the prayer had gone. So that's
what I did. Then he'd begin to call out again with his cry, "Who
would like to have me say a prayer for him?" in his usual way.
And he always put a little jug of wine next to him when we ate.
I would grab it quickly and give it a couple of quiet kisses
before I put it back in its place. But that didn't go on for
very long: he could tell by the number of nips he took that some
was missing. So to keep his wine safe he never let the jug out
of reach; he'd always hold on to the handle. But not even a
magnet could attract the way I could with a long rye straw that I
had made for that very purpose. And I'd stick it in the mouth of
the jug and suck until--good-bye, wine! But the old traitor was
so wary that I think he must have sensed me, because from then on
he stopped that and put the jug between his legs. And even then
he kept his hand over the top to make sure.
But I got so used to drinking wine that I was dying for it. And
when I saw that my straw trick wouldn't work, I decided to make a
spout by carving a little hole in the bottom of the jug and then
sealing it off neatly with a little thin strip of wax. When it
was mealtime, I'd pretend I was cold and get in between the legs
of the miserable blind man to warm up by the little fire we had.
And the heat of it would melt the wax, since it was such a tiny
piece. Then the wine would begin to trickle from the spout into
my mouth, and I got into a position so that I wouldn't miss a
blasted drop. When the poor fellow went to drink he wouldn't
find a thing. He'd draw back, astonished, then he'd curse and
damn the jar and the wine, not knowing what could have happened.
"You can't say that I drank it, Sir," I said, "since you never
let it out of your hand."
But he kept turning the jug around and feeling it, until he
finally discovered the hole and saw through my trick. But he
pretended that he hadn't found out.
Then one day I was tippling on my jug as usual, without realizing
what was in store for me or even that the blind man had found me
out. I was sitting the same as always, taking in those sweet
sips, my face turned toward the sky and my eyes slightly closed
so I could really savor the delicious liquor. The dirty blind
man saw that now was the time to take out his revenge on me, and
he raised that sweet and bitter jug with both his hands and
smashed it down on my mouth with all his might. As I say, he
used all his strength, and poor Lazaro hadn't been expecting
anything like this; in fact, I was drowsy and happy as always.
So it seemed like the sky and everything in it had really fallen
down on top of me. The little tap sent me reeling and knocked me
unconscious, and that enormous jug was so huge that pieces of it
stuck in my face, cutting me in several places and knocking out
my teeth, so that I don't have them to this very day.
From that minute I began to hate that old blind man.
Because, even though he took care of me and treated me all right
and fixed me up, I saw that he had really enjoyed his dirty
trick. He used wine to wash the places where the pieces of the
jug had cut me, and he smiled and said, "How about that, Lazaro?
The very thing that hurt you is helping to cure you." And he
made other witty remarks that I didn't particularly care for.
When I had about recovered from the beating and the black and
blue marks were nearly gone, I realized that with a few more
blows like that the blind man would have gotten rid of me. So I
decided to be rid of him. But I didn't run away right then; I
waited until I could do it in a safer and better way. And
although I wanted to be kind and forgive the blind man for
hitting me with the jug, I couldn't because of the harsh
treatment he gave me from then on. Without any reason he would
hit me on the head and yank on my hair. And if anyone asked him
why he beat me so much, he would tell them about the incident
with the jug: "Do you think this boy of mine is just some
innocent little fellow? Well, listen and see if you think the
devil himself would try anything like this."
After they'd heard about it, they would cross themselves and say,
"Well--who would ever think that such a little boy would do
anything like that!"
Then they'd laugh at the prank and tell him, "Go on, beat him.
God will give you your reward."
And this advice he followed to the letter.
So, for revenge, I'd lead him down all the worst roads on purpose
to see if he wouldn't get hurt somehow. If there were rocks, I'd
take him right over them; if there was mud, I'd lead him through
the deepest part. Because even though I didn't keep dry myself,
I would have given an eye if I could have hurt two eyes of that
man who didn't even have one. Because of this, he was always
beating me with the end of his cane so that my head was full of
bumps, and with him always pulling on my hair a lot of it was
gone. I told him I wasn't doing it on purpose and that I just
couldn't find any better roads, but that didn't do any good. The
old traitor saw through everything and was so wary that he
wouldn't believe me any more.
So that you can see how smart this shrewd blind man was, I'll
tell you about one of the many times when I was with him that he
really seemed to show a lot of perception. When we left Salamanca,
his plan was to go to Toledo because the people were supposed to be
richer there, although not very free with their money. But he pinned
his hopes on this saying: "You'll get more water from a narrow
flowing stream than you will from a deep dry well." And we'd pass
through the best places as we went along. Where we were welcomed
and were able to get something, we stayed; where this didn't happen,
we'd move on after a few days.
And it happened that as we were coming to a place called Almorox
when they were gathering the grapes, a grape picker gave him a
bunch as alms. And since the baskets are usually handled pretty
roughly and the grapes were very ripe at the time, the bunch
started to fall apart in his hand. If we had thrown it in the
sack, it and everything it touched would have spoiled. He
decided that we'd have a picnic so that it wouldn't go to waste--
and he did it to please me, too, since he'd kicked and beat me
quite a bit that day. So we sat down on a low wall, and he said:
"Now I want to be generous with you: we'll share this bunch of
grapes, and you can eat as many as I do. We'll divide it like
this: you take one, then I'll take one. But you have to promise
me that you won't take more than one at a time. I'll do the same
until we finish, and that way there won't be any cheating."
The agreement was made, and we began. But on his second turn,
the traitor changed his mind and began to take two at a time,
evidently thinking that I was doing the same. But when I saw
that he had broken our agreement, I wasn't satisfied with going
at his rate of speed. Instead, I went even further: I took two
at a time, or three at a time--in fact, I ate them as fast as I
could. And when there weren't any grapes left, he just sat there
for a while with the stem in his hand, and then he shook his head
and said, "Lazaro, you tricked me. I'll swear to God that you
ate these grapes three at a time."
"No, I didn't," I said. "But why do you think so?"
That wise old blind man answered, "Do you know how I see that you
ate them three at a time? Because I was eating them two at a
time, and you didn't say a word."
I laughed to myself, and even though I was only a boy, I was very
much aware of the sharpness of that blind man.
But, so that I won't talk too much, I won't tell about a lot of
humorous and interesting things that happened to me with my first
master. I just want to tell about how we separated, and be done
with him.
We were in Escalona, a town owned by the duke of that name, at an
inn, and the blind man gave me a piece of sausage to roast for
him. When the sausage had been basted and he had sopped up and
eaten the drippings with a piece of bread, he took a coin out of
his purse and told me to go get him some wine from the tavern.
Then the devil put an idea in my head, just like they say he does
to thieves. It so happened that near the fire there was a little
turnip, kind of long and beat up; it had probably been thrown
there because it wasn't good enough for stew.
At that moment he and I were there all alone, and when I whiffed
the delicious odor of the sausage, I suddenly got a huge appetite--
and I knew that all I would get of it would be the smell. But the
thought of eating that sausage made me lose all my fear: I didn't
think for a minute what would happen to me. So while the blind man
was getting the money out of his purse, I took the sausage off the
spit and quickly put the turnip on. Then the blind man gave me the
money for the wine and took hold of the spit, turning it over the fire,
trying to cook the very thing that hadn't been cooked before because
it was so bad.
I went for the wine, and on the way I downed the sausage. When I
came back I found that sinner of a blind man holding the turnip
between two slices of bread. He didn't know what it was yet,
because he hadn't felt of it. But when he took the bread and
bit into it, thinking he would get part of the sausage too, he
was suddenly stopped cold by the taste of the cold turnip. He
got mad then, and said, "What is this, Lazarillo?"
"You mean, 'Lacerated,'" I said. "Are you trying to pin
something on me? Didn't I just come back from getting the wine?
Someone must have been here and played a joke on you."
"Oh, no," he said. "I haven't let the spit out of my hand. No
one could have done that."
I kept swearing that I hadn't done any switching around. But it
didn't do me any good--I couldn't hide anything from the
sharpness of that miserable blind man. He got up and grabbed me
by the head and got close so he could smell me. And he must
have smelled my breath like a good hound. Really being anxious
to find out if he was right, he held on tight and opened my mouth
wider than he should have. Then, not very wisely, he stuck in
his nose. And it was long and sharp. And his anger had made it
swell a bit, so that the point of it hit me in the throat. So
with all this and my being really frightened, along with the fact
that the black sausage hadn't had time to settle in my stomach,
and especially with the sudden poking in of his very large nose,
half choking me--all these things went together and made the
crime and the snack show themselves, and the owner got back what
belonged to him. What happened was that before the blind man
could take his beak out of my mouth, my stomach got so upset that
it hit his nose with what I had stolen. So his nose and the
black, half-chewed sausage both left my mouth at the same time.