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by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
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Title: The Exemplary Novels of Cervantes
Author: Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
Release Date: December 22, 2004 [EBook #14420]
Language: English
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BOHN'S STANDARD LIBRARY.
THE EXEMPLARY NOVELS
OF
CERVANTES.
THE
EXEMPLARY NOVELS
OF
MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA.
TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH
BY
WALTER K. KELLY.
LONDON: GEORGE BELL AND SONS, YORK STREET,
COVENT GARDEN.
1881.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
PREFACE.
It seems to be generally admitted that in rendering the title of a book
from one language into another, the form of the original should be
retained, even at the cost of some deviation from ordinary usage.
Cicero's work _De Officiis_ is never spoken of as a treatise on Moral
Duties, but as Cicero's Offices. Upon the same principle we have not
entitled the following collection of tales, Instructive or Moral; though
it is in this sense that the author applied to them the epithet
_exemplares_, as he states distinctly in his preface. The Spanish word
_exemplo_, from the time of the archpriest of Hita and Don Juan Manuel,
has had the meaning of _instruction_, or _instructive story_.
The "Novelas Exemplares" were first published in 1613, three years
before the death of Cervantes. They are all original, and have the air
of being drawn from his personal experience and observation. Ticknor, in
his "History of Spanish Literature," says of them, and of the
"Impertinent Curiosity," inserted in the first part of Don Quixote:--
"Their value is different, for they are written with different views,
and in a variety of style greater than he has elsewhere shown; but most
of them contain touches of what is peculiar in his talent, and are full
of that rich eloquence and of those pleasing descriptions of natural
scenery which always flow so easily from his pen. They have little in
common with the graceful story-telling spirit of Boccaccio and his
followers, and still less with the strictly practical tone of Don Juan
Manuel's tales; nor, on the other hand, do they approach, except in the
case of the 'Impertinent Curiosity,' the class of short novels which
have been frequent in other countries within the last century. The more,
therefore, we examine them, the more we shall find that they are
original in their composition and general tone, and that they are
strongly marked with the original genius of their author, as well as
with the more peculiar traits of the national character,--the ground, no
doubt, on which they have always been favourites at home, and less
valued than they deserve to be abroad. As works of invention, they rank,
among their author's productions, next after Don Quixote; in correctness
and grace of style they stand before it.... They are all fresh from the
racy soil of the national character, as that character is found in
Andalusia, and are written with an idiomatic richness, a spirit, and a
grace, which, though they are the oldest tales of their class in Spain,
have left them ever since without successful rivals."
The first three tales in this volume have merely undergone the revision
of the editor, having been translated by another before he was engaged
on the work. For the rest he alone is responsible.
W.K.K.
DEDICATION
TO DON PEDRO FERNANDEZ DE CASTRO, COUNT OF LEMOS, ANDRADE, AND VILLALBA,
&c.
Those who dedicate their works to some prince commonly fall into two
errors. The first is, that in their dedicatory epistle, which ought to
be brief and succinct, they dilate very complacently, whether moved by
truth or flattery, on the deeds not only of their fathers and
forefathers, but also of all their relations, friends, and benefactors.
The second is, that they tell their patron they place their works under
his protection and safeguard, in order that malicious and captious
tongues may not presume to cavil and carp at them. For myself, shunning
these two faults, I here pass over in silence the grandeur and titles of
your excellency's ancient and royal house, and your infinite virtues
both natural and acquired, leaving it to some new Phidias and Lysippus
to engrave and sculpture them in marble and bronze, that they may rival
time in duration. Neither do I supplicate your Excellency to take this
book under your protection, for I know, that if it is not a good one,
though I should put it under the wings of Astolfo's hippogrif, or
beneath the club of Hercules, the Zoili, the cynics, the Aretinos, and
the bores, will not abstain from abusing it, out of respect for anyone.
I only beg your Excellency to observe that I present to you, without
more words, thirteen tales,[1] which, had they not been wrought in the
laboratory of my own brains, might presume to stand beside the best.
Such as they are, there they go, leaving me here rejoiced at the thought
of manifesting, in some degree, the desire I feel to serve your
Excellency as my true lord and benefactor. Our Lord preserve, &c.
Your Excellency's servant,
MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA.
MADRID, _13th of July, 1613_.
[1] There are but twelve of them. Possibly when Cervantes wrote this
dedication he intended to include "El Curioso Impertinente," which
occurs in chapters xxxiii.-xxxv. of the first part of "Don Quixote."
AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
I wish it were possible, dear reader, to dispense with writing this
preface; for that which I put at the beginning of my "Don Quixote" did
not turn out so well for me as to give me any inclination to write
another. The fault lies with a friend of mine--one of the many I have
made in the course of my life with my heart rather than my head. This
friend might well have caused my portrait, which the famous Don Juan de
Jauregui would have given him, to be engraved and put in the first page
of this book, according to custom. By that means he would have gratified
my ambition and the wishes of several persons, who would like to know
what sort of face and figure has he who makes bold to come before the
world with so many works of his own invention. My friend might have
written under the portrait--"This person whom you see here, with an oval
visage, chestnut hair, smooth open forehead, lively eyes, a hooked but
well-proportioned nose, & silvery beard that twenty years ago was
golden, large moustaches, a small mouth, teeth not much to speak of, for
he has but six, in bad condition and worse placed, no two of them
corresponding to each other, a figure midway between the two extremes,
neither tall nor short, a vivid complexion, rather fair than dark,
somewhat stooped in the shoulders, and not very lightfooted: this, I
say, is the author of 'Galatea,' 'Don Quixote de la Mancha,' 'The
Journey to Parnassus,' which he wrote in imitation of Cesare Caporali
Perusino, and other works which are current among the public, and
perhaps without the author's name. He is commonly called MIGUEL DE
CERVANTES SAAVEDRA. He was for many years a soldier, and for five years
and a half in captivity, where he learned to have patience in adversity.
He lost his left hand by a musket-shot in the battle of Lepanto: and
ugly as this wound may appear, he regards it as beautiful, having
received it on the most memorable and sublime occasion which past times
have over seen, or future times can hope to equal, fighting under the
victorious banners of the son of that thunderbolt of war, Charles V., of
blessed memory." Should the friend of whom I complain have had nothing
more to say of me than this, I would myself have composed a couple of
dozen of eulogiums, and communicated them to him in secret, thereby to
extend my fame and exalt the credit of my genius; for it would be absurd
to expect the exact truth in such matters. We know well that neither
praise nor abuse is meted out with strict accuracy.
However, since this opportunity is lost, and I am left in the lurch
without a portrait, I must have recourse to my own tongue, which, for
all its stammering, may do well enough to state some truths that are
tolerably self-evident. I assure you then, dear reader, that you can by
no means make a fricassee of these tales which I here present to you,
for they have neither legs, head, bowels, nor anything of the sort; I
mean that the amorous intrigues you will find in some of them, are so
decorous, so measured, and so conformable to reason and Christian
propriety, that they are incapable of exciting any impure thoughts in
him who reads them with or without caution.
I have called them _exemplary_, because if you rightly consider them,
there is not one of them from which you may not draw some useful
example; and were I not afraid of being too prolix, I might show you
what savoury and wholesome fruit might be extracted from them,
collectively and severally.
My intention has been to set up, in the midst of our community, a
billiard-table, at which every one may amuse himself without hurt to
body and soul; for innocent recreations do good rather than harm. One
cannot be always at church, or always saying one's prayers, or always
engaged in one's business, however important it may be; there are hours
for recreation when the wearied mind should take repose. It is to this
end that alleys of trees are planted to walk in, waters are conveyed
from remote fountains, hills are levelled, and gardens are cultivated
with such care. One thing I boldly declare: could I by any means
suppose that these novels could excite any bad thought or desire in
those who read them, I would rather cut off the hand with which I write
them, than give them to the public. I am at an age when it does not
become me to trifle with the life to come, for I am upwards of
sixty-four.
My genius and my inclination prompt me to this kind of writing; the more
so as I consider (and with truth) that I am the first who has written
novels in the Spanish language, though many have hitherto appeared among
us, all of them translated from foreign authors. But these are my own,
neither imitated nor stolen from anyone; my genius has engendered them,
my pen has brought them forth, and they are growing up in the arms of
the press. After them, should my life be spared, I will present to you
the Adventures of Persiles, a book which ventures to compete with
Heliodorus. But previously you shall see, and that before long, the
continuation of the exploits of Don Quixote and the humours of Sancho
Panza; and then the Weeks of the Garden. This is promising largely for
one of my feeble powers; but who can curb his desires? I only beg you to
remark that since I have had the boldness to address these novels to the
great Count of Lemos, they must contain some hidden mystery which exalts
their merit.
I have no more to say, so pray God to keep you, and give me patience to
bear all the ill that will be spoken of me by more than one subtle and
starched critic. _Vale_.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE LADY CORNELIA 1
RINCONETE AND CORTADILLO; OR, PETER OF THE CORNER AND
THE LITTLE CUTTER 42
THE LICENTIATE VIDRIERA; OR, DOCTOR GLASS-CASE 86
THE DECEITFUL MARRIAGE 112
DIALOGUE BETWEEN SCIPIO AND BERGANZA, DOGS OF THE
HOSPITAL OF THE RESURRECTION IN THE CITY OF VALLADOLID,
COMMONLY CALLED THE DOGS OF MAHUDES 124
THE LITTLE GIPSY GIRL 178
THE GENEROUS LOVER 236
THE SPANISH-ENGLISH LADY 278
THE FORCE OF BLOOD 314
THE JEALOUS ESTRAMADURAN 331
THE ILLUSTRIOUS SCULLERY-MAID 365
THE TWO DAMSELS 410
THE LADY CORNELIA.
Don Antonio de Isunza and Don Juan de Gamboa, gentlemen of high birth
and excellent sense, both of the same age, and very intimate friends,
being students together at Salamanca, determined to abandon their
studies and proceed to Flanders. To this resolution they were incited by
the fervour of youth, their desire to see the world, and their
conviction that the profession of arms, so becoming to all, is more
particularly suitable to men of illustrious race.
But they did not reach Flanders until peace was restored, or at least on
the point of being concluded; and at Antwerp they received letters from
their parents, wherein the latter expressed the great displeasure caused
them by their sons having left their studies without informing them of
their intention, which if they had done, the proper measures might have
been taken for their making the journey in a manner befitting their
birth and station.
Unwilling to give further dissatisfaction to their parents, the young
men resolved to return to Spain, the rather as there was now nothing to
be done in Flanders. But before doing so they determined to visit all
the most renowned cities of Italy; and having seen the greater part of
them, they were so much attracted by the noble university of Bologna,
that they resolved to remain there and complete the studies abandoned at
Salamanca.
They imparted their intentions to their parents, who testified their
entire approbation by the magnificence with which they provided their
sons with every thing proper to their rank, to the end that, in their
manner of living, they might show who they were, and of what house they
were born. From the first day, therefore, that the young men visited the
schools, all perceived them to be gallant, sensible, and well-bred
gentlemen.
Don Antonio was at this time in his twenty-fourth year, and Don Juan had
not passed his twenty-sixth. This fair period of life they adorned by
various good qualities; they were handsome, brave, of good address, and
well versed in music and poetry; in a word, they were endowed with such
advantages as caused them to be much sought and greatly beloved by all
who knew them. They soon had numerous friends, not only among the many
Spaniards belonging to the university,[2] but also among people of the
city, and of other nations, to all of whom they proved themselves
courteous, liberal, and wholly free from that arrogance which is said to
be too often exhibited by Spaniards.
[2] Cardinal Albornoz founded a college in the university of Bologna,
expressly for the Spaniards, his countrymen.
Being young, and of joyous temperament, Don Juan and Don Antonio did not
fail to give their attention to the beauties of the city. Many there
were indeed in Bologna, both married and unmarried, remarkable as well
for their virtues as their charms; but among them all there was none who
surpassed the Signora Cornelia Bentivoglia, of that old and illustrious
family of the Bentivogli, who were at one time lords of Bologna.
Cornelia was beautiful to a marvel; she had been left under the
guardianship of her brother Lorenzo Bentivoglio, a brave and honourable
gentleman. They were orphans, but inheritors of considerable wealth--and
wealth is a great alleviation of the evils of the orphan state. Cornelia
lived in complete seclusion, and her brother guarded her with unwearied
solicitude. The lady neither showed herself on any occasion, nor would
her brother consent that any one should see her; but this very fact
inspired Don Juan and Don Antonio with the most lively desire to behold
her face, were it only at church. Yet all the pains they took for that
purpose proved vain, and the wishes they had felt on the subject
gradually diminished, as the attempt appeared more and more hopeless.
Thus, devoted to their studies, and varying these with such amusements
as are permitted to their age, the young men passed a life as cheerful
as it was honourable, rarely going out at night, but when they did so,
it was always together and well armed.
One evening, however, when Don Juan was preparing to go out, Don
Antonio expressed his desire to remain at home for a short time, to
repeat certain orisons: but he requested Don Juan to go without him, and
promised to follow him.
"Why should I go out to wait for you?" said Don Juan. "I will stay; if
you do not go out at all to-night, it will be of very little
consequence." "By no means shall you stay," returned Don Antonio: "go
and take the air; I will be with you almost immediately, if you take the
usual way."
"Well, do as you please," said Don Juan: "if you come you will find me
on our usual beat." With these words Don Juan left the house.
The night was dark, and the hour about eleven. Don Juan passed through
two or three streets, but finding himself alone, and with no one to
speak to, he determined to return home. He began to retrace his steps
accordingly; and was passing through a street, the houses of which had
marble porticoes, when he heard some one call out, "Hist! hist!" from
one of the doors. The darkness of the night, and the shadow cast by the
colonnade, did not permit him to see the whisperer; but he stopped at
once, and listened attentively. He saw a door partially opened,
approached it, and heard these words uttered in a low voice, "Is it you,
Fabio?" Don Juan, on the spur of the moment, replied, "Yes!" "Take it,
then," returned the voice, "take it, and place it in security; but
return instantly, for the matter presses." Don Juan put out his hand in
the dark, and encountered a packet. Proceeding to take hold of it, he
found that it required both hands; instinctively he extended the second,
but had scarcely done so before the portal was closed, and he found
himself again alone in the street, loaded with, he knew not what.
Presently the cry of an infant, and, as it seemed, but newly born, smote
his ears, filling him with confusion and amazement, for he knew not what
next to do, or how to proceed in so strange a case. If he knocked at the
door he was almost certain to endanger the mother of the infant; and if
he left his burthen there, he must imperil the life of the babe itself.
But if he took it home he should as little know what to do with it, nor
was he acquainted with any one in the city to whom he could entrust the
care of the child; yet remembering that he had been required to come
back quickly, after placing his charge in safety, he determined to take
the infant home, leave it in the hands of his old housekeeper, and
return to see if his aid was needed in any way, since he perceived
clearly that the person who had been expected to come for the child had
not arrived, and the latter had been given to himself in mistake. With
this determination, Don Juan soon reached his home; but found that
Antonio had already left it. He then went to his chamber, and calling
the housekeeper, uncovered the infant, which was one of the most
beautiful ever seen; whilst, as the good woman remarked, the elegance of
the clothes in which the little creature was wrapped, proved him--for it
was a boy--to be the son of rich parents.
"You must, now," said Don Juan to his housekeeper, "find some one to
nurse this infant; but first of all take away these rich coverings, and
put on him others of the plainest kind. Having done that, you must carry
the babe, without a moment's delay, to the house of a midwife, for there
it is that you will be most likely to find all that is requisite in such
a case. Take money to pay what may be needful, and give the child such
parents as you please, for I desire to hide the truth, and not let the
manner in which I became possessed of it be known." The woman promised
that she would obey him in every point; and Don Juan returned in all
haste to the street, to see whether he should receive another mysterious
call. But just before he arrived at the house whence the infant had been
delivered to him, the clash of swords struck his ear, the sound being as
that of several persons engaged in strife. He listened carefully, but
could hear no word; the combat was carried on in total silence; but the
sparks cast up by the swords as they struck against the stones, enabled
him to perceive that one man was defending himself against several
assailants; and he was confirmed in this belief by an exclamation which
proceeded at length from the last person attacked. "Ah, traitors! you
are many and I am but one, yet your baseness shall not avail you."
Hearing and seeing this, Don Juan, listening only to the impulses of his
brave heart, sprang to the side of the person assailed, and opposing the
buckler he carried on his arm to the swords of the adversaries, drew his
own, and speaking in Italian that he might not be known as a Spaniard,
he said--"Fear not, Signor, help has arrived that will not fail you
while life holds; lay on well, for traitors are worth but little however
many there may be." To this, one of the assailants made answer--"You
lie; there are no traitors here. He who seeks to recover his lost honour
is no traitor, and is permitted to avail himself of every advantage."
No more was said on either side, for the impetuosity of the assailants,
who, as Don Juan thought, amounted to not less than six, left no
opportunity for further words. They pressed his companion, meanwhile,
very closely; and two of them giving him each a thrust at the same time
with the point of their swords, he fell to the earth. Don Juan believed
they had killed him; he threw himself upon the adversaries,
nevertheless, and with a shower of cuts and thrusts, dealt with
extraordinary rapidity, caused them to give way for several paces. But
all his efforts must needs have been vain for the defence of the fallen
man, had not Fortune aided him, by making the neighbours come with
lights to their windows and shout for the watch, whereupon the
assailants ran off and left the street clear.
The fallen man was meanwhile beginning to move; for the strokes he had
received, having encountered a breastplate as hard as adamant, had only
stunned, but not wounded him.
Now, Don Juan's hat had been knocked off in the fray, and thinking he
had picked it up, he had in fact put on that of another person, without
perceiving it to be other than his own. The gentleman whom he had
assisted now approached Don Juan, and accosted him as follows:--"Signor
Cavalier, whoever you may be, I confess that I owe you my life, and I am
bound to employ it, with all I have or can command, in your service: do
me the favour to tell me who you are, that I may know to whom my
gratitude is due."
"Signor," replied Don Juan, "that I may not seem discourteous, and in
compliance with your request, although I am wholly disinterested in what
I have done, you shall know that I am a Spanish gentleman, and a student
in this city; if you desire to hear my name I will tell you, rather lest
you should have some future occasion for my services than for any other
motive, that I am called Don Juan de Gamboa."
"You have done me a singular service, Signor Don Juan de Gamboa,"
replied the gentleman who had fallen, "but I will not tell you who I am,
nor my name, which I desire that you should learn from others rather
than from myself; yet I will take care that you be soon informed
respecting these things."
Don Juan then inquired of the stranger if he were wounded, observing,
that he had seen him receive two furious lunges in the breast; but the
other replied that he was unhurt; adding, that next to God, a famous
plastron that he wore had defended him against the blows he had
received, though his enemies would certainly have finished him had Don
Juan not come to his aid.
While thus discoursing, they beheld a body of men advancing towards
them; and Don Juan exclaimed--"If these are enemies, Signor, let us
hasten to put ourselves on our guard, and use our hands as men of our
condition should do."
"They are not enemies, so far as I can judge," replied the stranger.
"The men who are now coming towards us are friends."
And this was the truth; the persons approaching, of whom there were
eight, surrounded the unknown cavalier, with whom they exchanged a few
words, but in so low a tone that Don Juan could not hear the purport.
The gentleman then turned to Don Juan and said--"If these friends had
not arrived I should certainly not have left your company, Signor Don
Juan, until you had seen me in some place of safety; but as things are,
I beg you now, with all kindness, to retire and leave me in this place,
where it is of great importance that I should remain." Speaking thus,
the stranger carried his hand to his head, but finding that he was
without a hat, he turned towards the persons who had joined him,
desiring them to give him one, and saying that his own had fallen. He
had no sooner spoken than Don Juan presented him with that which he had
himself just picked up, and which he had discovered to be not his own.
The stranger having felt the hat, returned it to Don Juan, saying that
it was not his, and adding, "On your life, Signor Don Juan, keep this
hat as a trophy of this affray, for I believe it to be one that is not
unknown."
The persons around then gave the stranger another hat, and Don Juan,
after exchanging a few brief compliments with his companion, left him,
in compliance with his desire, without knowing who he was: he then
returned home, not daring at that moment to approach the door whence he
had received the newly-born infant, because the whole neighbourhood had
been aroused, and was in movement.
Now it chanced that as Don Juan was returning to his abode, he met his
comrade Don Antonio de Isunza; and the latter no sooner recognised him
in the darkness, than he exclaimed, "Turn about, Don Juan, and walk with
me to the end of the street; I have something to tell you, and as we go
along will relate a story such as you have never heard before in your
life."
"I also have one of the same kind to tell you," returned Don Juan, "but
let us go up the street as you say, and do you first relate your story."
Don Antonio thereupon walked forward, and began as follows:--"You must
know that in little less than an hour after you had left the house, I
left it also, to go in search of you, but I had not gone thirty paces
from this place when I saw before me a black mass, which I soon
perceived to be a person advancing in great haste. As the figure
approached nearer, I perceived it to be that of a woman, wrapped in a
very wide mantle, and who, in a voice interrupted by sobs and sighs,
addressed me thus, 'Are you, sir, a stranger, or one of the city?' 'I am
a stranger,' I replied, 'and a Spaniard.' 'Thanks be to God!' she
exclaimed, 'he will not have me die without the sacraments.' 'Are you
then wounded, madam?' continued I, 'or attacked by some mortal malady?'
'It may well happen that the malady from which I suffer may prove
mortal, if I do not soon receive aid,' returned the lady, 'wherefore, by
the courtesy which is ever found among those of your nation, I entreat
you, Signor Spaniard, take me from these streets, and lead me to your
dwelling with all the speed you may; there, if you wish it, you shall
know the cause of my sufferings, and who I am, even though it should
cost me my reputation to make myself known.'
"Hearing this," continued Don Antonio, "and seeing that the lady was in
a strait which permitted no delay, I said nothing more, but offering her
my hand, I conducted her by the by-streets to our house. Our page,
Santisteban, opened the door, but, commanding him to retire, I led the
lady in without permitting him to see her, and took her into my room,
where she had no sooner entered than she fell fainting on my bed.
Approaching to assist her, I removed the mantle which had hitherto
concealed her face, and discovered the most astonishing loveliness that
human eyes ever beheld. She may be about eighteen years old, as I should
suppose, but rather less than more. Bewildered for a moment at the sight
of so much beauty, I remained as one stupified, but recollecting myself,
I hastened to throw water on her face, and, with a pitiable sigh, she
recovered consciousness.
"The first word she uttered was the question, 'Do you know me, Signor?'
I replied, 'No, lady! I have not been so fortunate as ever before to
have seen so much beauty.' 'Unhappy is she,' returned the lady, 'to whom
heaven has given it for her misfortune. But, Signor, this is not the
time to praise my beauty, but to mourn my distress. By all that you most
revere, I entreat you to leave me shut up here, and let no one behold
me, while you return in all haste to the place where you found me, and
see if there be any persons fighting there. Yet do not take part either
with one side or the other. Only separate the combatants, for whatever
injury may happen to either, must needs be to the increase of my own
misfortunes.' I then left her as she desired," continued Don Antonio,
"and am now going to put an end to any quarrel which may arise, as the
lady has commanded me."
"Have you anything more to say?" inquired Don Juan.
"Do you think I have not said enough," answered Don Antonio, "since I
have told you that I have now in my chamber, and hold under my key, the
most wonderful beauty that human eyes have ever beheld."
"The adventure is a strange one, without doubt," replied Don Juan, "but
listen to mine;" and he instantly related to his friend all that had
happened to him. He told how the newly-born infant was then in their
house, and in the care of their housekeeper, with the orders he had
given as to changing its rich habits for others less remarkable, and for
procuring a nurse from the nearest midwife, to meet the present
necessity. "As to the combat you come in quest of," he added, "that is
already ended, and peace is made." Don Juan further related that he had
himself taken part in the strife; and concluded by remarking, that he
believed those whom he had found engaged were all persons of high
quality, as well as great courage.
Each of the Spaniards was much surprised at the adventure of the other,
and they instantly returned to the house to see what the lady shut up
there might require. On the way, Don Antonio told Don Juan that he had
promised the unknown not to suffer any one to see her; assuring her that
he only would enter the room, until she should herself permit the
approach of others.
"I shall nevertheless do my best to see her," replied Don Juan; "after
what you have said of her beauty, I cannot but desire to do so, and
shall contrive some means for effecting it."
Saying this they arrived at their house, when one of their three pages,
bringing lights, Don Antonio cast his eyes on the hat worn by Don Juan,
and perceived that it was glittering with diamonds. Don Juan took it
off, and then saw that the lustre of which his companion spoke,
proceeded from a very rich band formed of large brilliants. In great
surprise, the friends examined the ornament, and concluded that if all
the diamonds were as precious as they appeared to be, the hat must be
worth more than two thousand ducats. They thus became confirmed in the
conviction entertained by Don Juan, that the persons engaged in the
combat were of high quality, especially the gentleman whose part he had
taken, and who, as he now recollected, when bidding him take the hat,
and keep it, had remarked that it was not unknown.
The young men then commanded their pages to retire, and Don Antonio,
opening the door of his room, found the lady seated on his bed, leaning
her cheek on her hand, and weeping piteously. Don Juan also having
approached the door, the splendour of the diamonds caught the eye of the
weeping lady, and she exclaimed, "Enter, my lord duke, enter! Why afford
me in such scanty measure the happiness of seeing you; enter at once, I
beseech you."
"Signora," replied Don Antonio, "there is no duke here who is declining
to see you."
"How, no duke!" she exclaimed. "He whom I have just seen is the Duke of
Ferrara; the rich decoration of his hat does not permit him to conceal
himself."
"Of a truth, Signora, he who wears the hat you speak of is no duke; and
if you please to undeceive yourself by seeing that person, you have but
to give your permission, and he shall enter."
"Let him do so," said the lady; "although, if he be not the duke, my
misfortune will be all the greater."
Don Juan had heard all this, and now finding that he was invited to
enter, he walked into the apartment with his hat in his hand; but he had
no sooner placed himself before the lady than she, seeing he was not the
person she had supposed, began to exclaim, in a troubled voice and with
broken words, "Ah! miserable creature that I am, tell me, Signor--tell
me at once, without keeping me in suspense, what do you know of him who
owned that sombrero? How is it that he no longer has it, and how did it
come into your possession? Does he still live, or is this the token that
he sends me of his death? Oh! my beloved, what misery is this! I see the
jewels that were thine. I see myself shut up here without the light of
thy presence. I am in the power of strangers; and if I did not know that
they were Spaniards and gentlemen, the fear of that disgrace by which I
am threatened would already have finished my life."
"Calm yourself, madam," replied Don Juan, "for the master of this
sombrero is not dead, nor are you in a place where any increase to your
misfortunes is to be dreaded. We think only of serving you, so far as
our means will permit, even to the exposing our lives for your defence
and succour. It would ill become us to suffer that the trust you have in
the faith of Spaniards should be vain; and since we are Spaniards, and
of good quality--for here that assertion, which might otherwise appear
arrogant, becomes needful--be assured that you will receive all the
respect which is your due."
"I believe you," replied the lady; "but, nevertheless, tell me, I pray
you, how this rich sombrero came into your possession, and where is its
owner? who is no less a personage than Alfonso d'Este, Duke of Ferrara."
Then Don Juan, that he might not keep the lady longer in suspense,
related to her how he had found the hat in the midst of a combat, in
which he had taken the part of a gentleman, who, from what she had said,
he could not now doubt to be the Duke of Ferrara. He further told her
how, having lost his own hat in the strife, the gentleman had bidden
him keep the one he had picked up, and which belonged, as he said, to a
person not unknown; that neither the cavalier nor himself had received
any wound; and that, finally, certain friends or servants of the former
had arrived, when he who was now believed to be the duke had requested
Don Juan to leave him in that place, where he desired for certain
reasons to remain.
"This, madam," concluded Don Juan, "is the whole history of the manner
in which the hat came into my possession; and for its master, whom you
suppose to be the Duke of Ferrara, it is not an hour since I left him in
perfect safety. Let this true narration suffice to console you, since
you are anxious to be assured that the Duke is unhurt."
To this the lady made answer, "That you, gentlemen, may know how much
reason I have to inquire for the duke, and whether I need be anxious for
his safety, listen in your turn with attention, and I will relate what I
know not yet if I must call my unhappy history."
While these things were passing, the housekeeper of Don Antonio and Don
Juan was occupied with the infant, whose mouth she had moistened with
honey, and whose rich habits she was changing for clothes of a very
humble character. When that was done, she was about to carry the babe to
the house of the midwife, as Don Juan had recommended, but as she was
passing with it before the door of the room wherein the lady was about
to commence her history, the little creature began to cry aloud,
insomuch that the lady heard it. She instantly rose to her feet, and set
herself to listen, when the plaints of the infant arrived more
distinctly to her ear.
"What child is this, gentlemen?" said she, "for it appears to be but
just born."
Don Juan replied, "It is a little fellow who has been laid at the door
of our house to-night, and our servant is about to seek some one who
will nurse it."
"Let them bring it to me, for the love of God!" exclaimed the lady, "for
I will offer that charity to the child of others, since it has not
pleased Heaven that I should be permitted to nourish my own."
Don Juan then called the housekeeper, and taking the infant from her
arms he placed it in those of the lady, saying, "Behold, madam, this is
the present that has been made to us to-night, and it is not the first
of the kind that we have received, since but few months pass wherein we
do not find such God-sends hooked on to the hinges of our doors."
The lady had meanwhile taken the infant into her arms, and looked
attentively at its face, but remarking the poverty of its clothing,
which was, nevertheless, extremely clean, she could not restrain her
tears. She cast the kerchief which she had worn around her head over her
bosom, that she might succour the infant with decency, and bending her
face over that of the child, she remained long without raising her head,
while her eyes rained torrents of tears on the little creature she was
nursing.
The babe was eager to be fed, but finding that it could not obtain the
nourishment it sought, the lady returned the babe to Don Juan, saying,
"I have vainly desired to be charitable to this deserted infant, and
have but shown that I am new to such matters. Let your servants put a
little honey on the lips of the child, but do not suffer them to carry
it through the streets at such an hour; bid them wait until the day
breaks, and let the babe be once more brought to me before they take it
away, for I find a great consolation in the sight of it."
Don Juan then restored the infant to the housekeeper, bidding her take
the best care she could of it until daybreak, commanding that the rich
clothes it had first worn should be put on it again, and directing her
not to take it from the house until he had seen it once more. That done,
he returned to the room; and the two friends being again alone with the
beautiful lady, she said, "If you desire that I should relate my story,
you must first give me something that may restore my strength, for I
feel in much need of it." Don Antonio flew to the beaufet for some
conserves, of which the lady ate a little; and having drunk a glass of
water, and feeling somewhat refreshed, she said, "Sit down, Signors, and
listen to my story."
The gentlemen seated themselves accordingly, and she, arranging herself
on the bed, and covering her person with the folds of her mantle,
suffered the veil which she had kept about her head to fall on her
shoulders, thus giving her face to view, and exhibiting in it a lustre
equal to that of the moon, rather of the sun itself, when displayed in
all its splendour. Liquid pearls fell from her eyes, which she
endeavoured to dry with a kerchief of extraordinary delicacy, and with
hands so white that he must have had much judgment in colour who could
have found a difference between them and the cambric. Finally, after
many a sigh and many an effort to calm herself, with a feeble and
trembling voice, she said--
"I, Signors, am she of whom you have doubtless heard mention in this
city, since, such as it is, there are few tongues that do not publish
the fame of my beauty. I am Cornelia Bentivoglio, sister of Lorenzo
Bentivoglio; and, in saying this, I have perhaps affirmed two
acknowledged truths,--the one my nobility, and the other my beauty. At a
very early age I was left an orphan to the care of my brother, who was
most sedulous in watching over me, even from my childhood, although he
reposed more confidence in my sentiments of honour than in the guards he
had placed around me. In short, kept thus between walls and in perfect
solitude, having no other company than that of my attendants, I grew to
womanhood, and with me grew the reputation of my loveliness, bruited
abroad by the servants of my house, and by such as had been admitted to
my privacy, as also by a portrait which my brother had caused to be
taken by a famous painter, to the end, as he said, that the world might
not be wholly deprived of my features, in the event of my being early
summoned by Heaven to a better life.
"All this might have ended well, had it not chanced that the Duke of
Ferrara consented to act as sponsor at the nuptials of one of my
cousins; when my brother permitted me to be present at the ceremony,
that we might do the greater honour to our kinswoman. There I saw and
was seen; there, as I believe, hearts were subjugated, and the will of
the beholders rendered subservient; there I felt the pleasure received
from praise, even when bestowed by flattering tongues; and, finally, I
there beheld the duke, and was seen by him; in a word, it is in
consequence of this meeting that you see me here.
"I will not relate to you, Signors (for that would needlessly protract
my story), the various stratagems and contrivances by which the duke and
myself, at the end of two years, were at length enabled to bring about
that union, our desire for which had received birth at those nuptials.
Neither guards, nor seclusion, nor remonstrances, nor human diligence of
any kind, sufficed to prevent it, and we were finally made one; for
without the sanction due to my honour, Alfonso would certainly not have
prevailed. I would fain have had him publicly demand my hand from my
brother, who would not have refused it; nor would the duke have had to
excuse himself before the world as to any inequality in our marriage,
since the race of the Bentivogli is in no manner inferior to that of
Este; but the reasons which he gave for not doing as I wished appeared
to me sufficient, and I suffered them to prevail.
"The visits of the duke were made through the intervention of a servant,
over whom his gifts had more influence than was consistent with the
confidence reposed in her by my brother. After a time I perceived that I
was about to become a mother, and feigning illness and low spirits, I
prevailed on Lorenzo to permit me to visit the cousin at whose marriage
it was that I first saw the duke; I then apprised the latter of my
situation, letting him also know the danger in which my life was placed
from that suspicion of the truth which I could not but fear that Lorenzo
must eventually entertain.
"It was then agreed between us, that when the time for my travail drew
near, the duke should come, with certain of his friends, and take me to
Ferrara, where our marriage should be publicly celebrated. This was the
night on which I was to have departed, and I was waiting the arrival of
Alfonso, when I heard my brother pass the door with several other
persons, all armed, as I could hear, by the noise of their weapons. The
terror caused by this event was such as to occasion the premature birth
of my infant, a son, whom the waiting-woman, my confidant, who had made
all ready for his reception, wrapped at once in the clothes we had
provided, and gave at the street-door, as she told me, to a servant of
the duke. Soon afterwards, taking such measures as I could under
circumstances so pressing, and hastened by the fear of my brother, I
also left the house, hoping to find the duke awaiting me in the street.
I ought not to have gone forth until he had come to the door; but the
armed band of my brother, whose sword I felt at my throat, had caused
me such terror that I was not in a state to reflect. Almost out of my
senses I came forth, as you behold me; and what has since happened you
know. I am here, it is true, without my husband, and without my son; yet
I return thanks to Heaven which has led me into your hands--for from you
I promise myself all that may be expected from Spanish courtesy,
reinforced, as it cannot but be in your persons, by the nobility of your
race."
Having said this, the lady fell back on the bed, and the two friends
hastened to her assistance, fearing she had again fainted. But they
found this not to be the case; she was only weeping bitterly. Wherefore
Don Juan said to her, "If up to the present moment, beautiful lady, my
companion Don Antonio, and I, have felt pity and regret for you as being
a woman, still more shall we now do so, knowing your quality; since
compassion and grief are changed into the positive obligation and duty
of serving and aiding you. Take courage, and do not be dismayed; for
little as you are formed to endure such trials, so much the more will
you prove yourself to be the exalted person you are, as your patience
and fortitude enable you to rise above your sorrows. Believe me,
Signora, I am persuaded that these extraordinary events are about to
have a fortunate conclusion; for Heaven can never permit so much beauty
to endure permanent sorrow, nor suffer your chaste purposes to be
frustrated. Go now to bed, Signora, and take that care of your health of
which you have so much need; there shall presently come to wait on you a
servant of ours, in whom you may confide as in ourselves, for she will
maintain silence respecting your misfortunes with no less discretion
than she will attend to all your necessities."
"The condition in which I find myself," replied the lady, "might compel
me to the adoption of more difficult measures than those you advise. Let
this woman come, Signors; presented to me by you, she cannot fail to be
good and serviceable; but I beseech you let no other living being see
me."
"So shall it be," replied Don Antonio; and the two friends withdrew,
leaving Cornelia alone.
Don Juan then commanded the housekeeper to enter the room, taking with
her the infant, whose rich habits she had already replaced. The woman
did as she was ordered, having been previously told what she should
reply to the questions of the Signora respecting the infant she bore in
her arms Seeing her come in, Cornelia instantly said, "You come in good
time, my friend; give me that infant, and place the light near me."
The servant obeyed; and, taking the babe in her arms, Cornelia instantly
began to tremble, gazed at him intently, and cried out in haste, "Tell
me, good woman, is this child the same that you brought me a short time
since?" "It is the same, Signora," replied the woman. "How is it, then,
that his clothing is so different? Certainly, dame housekeeper, either
these are other wrappings, or the infant is not the same." "It may all
be as you say," began the old woman. "All as I say!" interrupted
Cornelia, "how and what is this? I conjure you, friend, by all you most
value, to tell me whence you received these rich clothes; for my heart
seems to be bursting in my bosom! Tell me the cause of this change; for
you must know that these things belong to me, if my sight do not deceive
me, and my memory have not failed. In these robes, or some like them, I
entrusted to a servant of mine the treasured jewel of my soul! Who has
taken them from him? Ah, miserable creature that I am! who has brought
these things here? Oh, unhappy and woeful day!"
Don Juan and Don Antonio, who were listening to all this, could not
suffer the matter to go further, nor would they permit the exchange of
the infant's dress to trouble the poor lady any longer. They therefore
entered the room, and Don Juan said, "This infant and its wrappings are
yours, Signora;" and immediately he related from point to point how the
matter had happened. He told Cornelia that he was himself the person to
whom the waiting woman had given the child, and how he had brought it
home, with the orders he had given to the housekeeper respecting its
change of clothes, and his motives for doing so. He added that, from the
moment when she had spoken of her own infant, he had felt certain that
this was no other than her son; and if he had not told her so at once,
that was because he feared the effects of too much gladness, coming
immediately after the heavy grief which her trials had caused her.
The tears of joy then shed by Cornelia were many and long-continued;
infinite were the acknowledgments she offered to Heaven, innumerable the
kisses she lavished on her son, and profuse the thanks which she
offered from her heart to the two friends, whom she called her guardian
angels on earth, with other names, which gave abundant proof of her
gratitude. They soon afterwards left the lady with their housekeeper,
whom they enjoined to attend her well, and do her all the service
possible--having made known to the woman the position in which Cornelia
found herself, to the end that she might take all necessary precautions,
the nature of which, she, being a woman, would know much better than
they could do. They then went to rest for the little that remained of
the night, intending to enter Cornelia's apartment no more, unless
summoned by herself, or called thither by some pressing need.
The day having dawned, the housekeeper went to fetch a woman, who agreed
to nurse the infant in silence and secrecy. Some hours later the friends
inquired for Cornelia, and their servant told them that she had rested a
little. Don Juan and Don Antonio then went to the Schools. As they
passed by the street where the combat had taken place, and near the
house whence Cornelia had fled, they took care to observe whether any
signs of disorder were apparent, and whether the matter seemed to be
talked of in the neighbourhood: but they could hear not a word
respecting the affray of the previous night, or the absence of Cornelia.
So, having duly attended the various lectures, they returned to their
dwelling.
The lady then caused them to be summoned to her chamber; but finding
that, from respect to her presence, they hesitated to appear, she
replied to the message they sent her, with tears in her eyes, begging
them to come and see her, which she declared to be now the best proof of
their respect as well as interest; since, if they could not remedy, they
might at least console her misfortunes.
Thus exhorted, the gentlemen obeyed, and Cornelia received them with a
smiling face and great cordiality. She then entreated that they would do
her the kindness to walk about the city, and ascertain if anything had
transpired concerning her affairs. They replied, that they had already
done so, with all possible care, but that not a word had been said
reacting the matter.
At this moment, one of the three pages who served the gentlemen
approached the door of the room telling his masters from without, that
there was then at the street door, attended by two servants, a
gentleman, who called himself Lorenzo Bentivoglio, and inquired for the
Signor Don Juan de Gamboa. Hearing this message, Cornelia clasped her
hands, and placing them on her mouth, she exclaimed, in a low and
trembling voice, while her words came with difficulty through those
clenched fingers, "It is my brother, Signors! it is my brother! Without
doubt he has learned that I am here, and has come to take my life. Help
and aid, Signors! help and aid!"
"Calm yourself, lady," replied Don Antonio; "you are in a place of
safety, and with people who will not suffer the smallest injury to be
offered you. The Signor Don Juan will go to inquire what this gentleman
demands, and I will remain to defend you, if need be, from all
disturbance."
Don Juan prepared to descend accordingly, and Don Antonio, taking his
loaded pistols, bade the pages belt on their swords, and hold themselves
in readiness for whatever might happen. The housekeeper, seeing these
preparations began to tremble,--Cornelia, dreading some fearful result
was in grievous terror,--Don Juan and Don Antonio alone preserved their
coolness.
Arrived at the door of the house, Don Juan found Don Lorenzo, who,
coming towards him, said, "I entreat your Lordship"--for such is the
form of address among Italians--"I entreat your Lordship to do me the
kindness to accompany me to the neighbouring church; I have to speak to
you respecting an affair which concerns my life and honour."
"Very willingly," replied Don Juan. "Let us go, Signor, wherever you
please."
They walked side by side to the church, where they seated themselves on
a retired bench, so as not to be overheard. Don Lorenzo was the first to
break silence.
"Signor Spaniard," he said, "I am Lorenzo Bentivoglio; if not of the
richest, yet of one of the most important families belonging to this
city; and if this seem like boasting of myself, the notoriety of the
fact may serve as my excuse for naming it. I was left an orphan many
years since, and to my guardianship was left a sister, so beautiful,
that if she were not nearly connected with me, I might perhaps describe
her in terms that, while they might seem exaggerated, would yet not by
any means do justice to her attractions. My honour being very dear to
me, and she being very young, as well as beautiful, I took all possible
care to guard her at all points; but my best precautions have proved
vain; the self-will of Cornelia, for that is her name, has rendered all
useless. In a word, and not to weary you--for this story might become a
long one,--I will but tell you, that the Duke of Ferrara, Alfonso
d'Este, vanquishing the eyes of Argus by those of a lynx, has rendered
all my cares vain, by carrying off my sister last night from the house
of one of our kindred; and it is even said that she has already become a
mother.
"The misfortune of our house was made known to me last night, and I
instantly placed myself on the watch; nay, I met and even attacked
Alfonso, sword in hand; but he was succoured in good time by some angel,
who would not permit me to efface in his blood the stain he has put upon
me. My relation has told me, (and it is from her I have heard all,) that
the duke deluded my sister, under a promise to make her his wife; but
this I do not believe, for, in respect to present station and wealth,
the marriage would not be equal, although, in point of blood, all the
world knows how noble are the Bentivogli of Bologna. What I fear is,
that the duke has done, what is but too easy when a great and powerful
Prince desires to win a timid and retiring girl: he has merely called
her by the tender name of wife, and made her believe that certain
considerations have prevented him from marrying her at once,--a
plausible pretence, but false and perfidious.
"Be that as it may, I see myself at once deprived of my sister and my
honour. Up to this moment I have kept the matter secret, purposing not
to make known the outrage to any one, until I see whether there may not
be some remedy, or means of satisfaction to be obtained. It is better
that a disgrace of this kind be supposed and suspected, than certainly
and distinctly known--seeing that between the yes and the no of a doubt,
each inclines to the opinion that most attracts him, and both sides of
the question find defenders. Considering all these things, I have
determined to repair to Ferrara, and there demand satisfaction from the
duke himself. If he refuse it, I will then offer him defiance. Yet my
defiance cannot be made with armed bands, for I could neither get them
together nor maintain them but as from man to man. For this it is,
then, that I desire your aid. I hope you will accompany me in the
journey; nay, I am confident that you will do so, being a Spaniard and a
gentleman, as I am told you are.
"I cannot entrust my purpose to any relation or friend of my family,
knowing well that from them I should have nothing more than objections
and remonstrances, while from you I may hope for sensible and honourable
counsels, even though there should be peril in pursuing them. You must
do me the favour to go with me, Signor. Having a Spaniard, and such as
you appear to be, at my side, I shall account myself to have the armies
of Xerxes. I am asking much at your hands; but the duty of answering
worthily to what fame publishes of your nation, would oblige you to do
still more than I ask."
"No more, Signor Lorenzo," exclaimed Don Juan, who had not before
interrupted the brother of Cornelia; "no more. From this moment I accept
the office you propose to me, and will be your defender and counsellor.
I take upon myself the satisfaction of your honour, or due vengeance for
the affront you have received, not only because I am a Spaniard, but
because I am a gentleman, and you another, so noble, as you have said,
as I know you to be, and as, indeed, all the world reputes you. When
shall we set out? It would be better that we did so immediately, for a
man does ever well to strike while the iron is hot. The warmth of anger
increases courage, and a recent affront more effectually awakens
vengeance."
Hearing this, Don Lorenzo rose and embraced Don Juan, saying to him, "A
person so generous as yourself, Signor Don Juan, needs no other
incentive than that of the honour to be gained in such a cause: this
honour you have assured to yourself to-day, if we come out happily from
our adventure; but I offer you in addition all I can do, or am worth.
Our departure I would have to be to-morrow, since I can provide all
things needful to-day."
"This appears to me well decided," replied Don Juan, "but I must beg
you, Signor Don Lorenzo, to permit me to make all known to a gentleman
who is my friend, and of whose honour and silence I can assure you even
more certainly than of my own, if that were possible."
"Since you, Signor Don Juan," replied Lorenzo, "have taken charge, as
you say, of my honour, dispose of this matter as you please; and make it
known to whom and in what manner it shall seem best to you; how much
more, then, to a companion of your own, for what can he be but
everything that is best."
This said, the gentlemen embraced each other and took leave, after
having agreed that on the following morning Lorenzo should send to
summon Don Juan at an hour fixed on when they should mount their horses
and pursue their journey in the disguise that Don Lorenzo had selected.
Don Juan then returned, and gave an account of all that had passed to
Don Antonio and Cornelia, not omitting the engagement into which he had
entered for the morrow.
"Good heavens, Signor!" exclaimed Cornelia; "what courtesy! what
confidence! to think of your committing yourself without hesitation to
an undertaking so replete with difficulties! How can you know whether
Lorenzo will take you to Ferrara, or to what place indeed he may conduct
you? But go with him whither you may, be certain that the very soul of
honour and good faith will stand beside you. For myself, unhappy
creature that I am, I shall be terrified at the very atoms that dance in
the sunbeams, and tremble at every shadow; but how can it be otherwise,
since on the answer of Duke Alfonso depends my life or death. How do I
know that he will reply with sufficient courtesy to prevent the anger of
my brother from passing the limits of discretion? and if Lorenzo should
draw the sword, think ye he will have a despicable enemy to encounter?
Must not I remain through all the days of your absence in a state of
mortal suspense and terror, awaiting the favourable or grievous
intelligence that you shall bring me! Do I love either my brother or the
duke so little as not to tremble for both, and not feel the injury of
either to my soul?"
"Your fears affect your judgment, Signora Cornelia," replied Don Juan;
"and they go too far. Amidst so many terrors, you should give some place
to hope, and trust in God. Put some faith also in my care, and in the
earnest desire I feel to see your affairs attain to a happy conclusion.
Your brother cannot avoid making this journey to Ferrara, nor can I
excuse myself from accompanying him thither. For the present we do not
know the intentions of the duke, nor even whether he be or be not
acquainted with your elopement. All this we must learn from his own
mouth; and there is no one who can better make the inquiry than myself.
Be certain, Signora, that the welfare and satisfaction of both your
brother and the Signor Duke are to me as the apples of my eyes, and that
I will care for the safety of the one as of the other."
"Ah Signor Don Juan," replied Cornelia, "if Heaven grant you as much
power to remedy, as grace to console misfortune, I must consider myself
exceedingly fortunate in the midst of my sorrows; and now would I fain
see you gone and returned; for the whole time of your absence I must
pass suspended between hope and fear."
The determination of Don Juan was approved by Don Antonio, who commended
him for the justification which he had thereby given to the confidence
of Lorenzo Bentivoglio. He furthermore told his friend that he would
gladly accompany him, to be ready for whatever might happen, but Don
Juan replied--"Not so; first, because you must remain for the better
security of the lady Cornelia, whom it will not be well to leave alone;
and secondly, because I would not have Signor Lorenzo suppose that I
desire to avail myself of the arm of another." "But my arm is your own,"
returned Don Antonio, "wherefore, if I must even disguise myself, and
can but follow you at a distance, I will go with you; and as to Signora
Cornelia, I know well that she will prefer to have me accompany you,
seeing that she will not here want people who can serve and guard her."
"Indeed," said Cornelia, "it will be a great consolation to me to know
that you are together, Signors, or at least so near as to be able to
assist each other in case of necessity; and since the undertaking you
are going on appears to be dangerous, do me the favour, gentlemen, to
take these Relics with you." Saying this, Cornelia drew from her bosom a
diamond cross, of great value, with an Agnus of gold equally rich and
costly. The two gentlemen looked at the magnificent jewels, which they
esteemed to be of still greater value than the decoration of the hat;
but they returned them to the lady, each saying that he carried Relics
of his own, which, though less richly decorated, were at least equally
efficacious. Cornelia regretted much that they would not accept those
she offered, but she was compelled to submit.
The housekeeper was now informed of the departure of her masters,
though not of their destination, or of the purpose for which they went.
She promised to take the utmost care of the lady, whose name she did not
know, and assured her masters that she would be so watchful as to
prevent her suffering in any manner from their absence.
Early the following morning Lorenzo was at the door, where he found Don
Juan ready. The latter had assumed a travelling dress, with the rich
sombrero presented by the duke, and which he had adorned with black and
yellow plumes, placing a black covering over the band of brilliants. He
went to take leave of Cornelia, who, knowing that her brother was near,
fell into an agony of terror, and could not say one word to the two
friends who were bidding her adieu. Don Juan went out the first, and
accompanied Lorenzo beyond the walls of the city, where they found their
servants waiting with the horses in a retired garden. They mounted, rode
on before, and the servants guided their masters in the direction of
Ferrara by ways but little known. Don Antonio followed on a low pony,
and with such a change of apparel as sufficed to disguise him; but
fancying that they regarded him with suspicion, especially Lorenzo, he
determined to pursue the highway, and rejoin his friend in Ferrara,
where he was certain to find him with but little difficulty.
The Spaniards had scarcely got clear of the city before Cornelia had
confided her whole history to the housekeeper, informing her that the
infant belonged to herself and to the Duke of Ferrara, and making her
acquainted with all that has been related, not concealing from her that
the journey made by her masters was to Ferrara, or that they went
accompanied by her brother, who was going to challenge the Duke Alfonso.
Hearing all this, the housekeeper, as though the devil had sent her to
complicate the difficulties and defer the restoration of Cornelia, began
to exclaim--"Alas! lady of my soul! all these things have happened to
you, and you remain carelessly there with your limbs stretched out, and
doing nothing! Either you have no soul at all, or you have one so poor
and weak that you do not feel it! And do you really suppose that your
brother has gone to Ferrara? Believe nothing of the kind, but rather be
sure that he has carried off my masters, and wiled them from the house,
that he may return and take your life, for he can now do it as one
would drink a cup of water. Consider only under what kind of guard and
protection we are left--that of three pages, who have enough to do with
their own pranks, and are little likely to put their hands to any thing
good. I, for my part, shall certainly not have courage to await what
must follow, and the destruction that cannot but come upon this house.
The Signor Lorenzo, an Italian, to put his trust in Spaniards, and ask
help and favour from them! By the light of my eyes. I will believe none
of that!" So saying, she made a fig[3] at herself. "But if you, my
daughter, will take good advice, I will give you such as shall truly
enlighten your way."
[3] A gesture of contempt or playfulness, as the case may be, and which
consists in a certain twist of the fingers and thumb.
Cornelia was thrown into a pitiable state of alarm and confusion by
these declarations of the housekeeper, who spoke with so much heat, and
gave so many evidences of terror, that all she said appeared to be the
very truth. The lady pictured to herself Don Antonio and Don Juan as
perhaps already dead; she fancied her brother even then coming in at the
door, and felt herself already pierced by the blows of his poniard. She
therefore replied, "What advice do you then give me, good friend, that
may prevent the catastrophe which threatens us?"
"I will give you counsel so good," rejoined the housekeeper, "that
better could not be. I, Signora, was formerly in the service of a
priest, who has his abode in a village not more than two miles from
Ferrara. He is a good and holy man, who will do whatever I require from
him, since he is under more obligations to me than merely those of a
master to a faithful servant. Let us go to him. I will seek some one who
shall conduct us thither instantly; and the woman who comes to nurse the
infant is a poor creature, who will go with us to the end of the world.
And, now make ready, Signora; for supposing you are to be discovered, it
would be much better that you should be found under the care of a good
priest, old and respected, than in the hands of two young students,
bachelors and Spaniards, who, as I can myself bear witness, are but
little disposed to lose occasions for amusing themselves. Now that you
are unwell, they treat you with respect; but if you get well and remain
in their clutches, Heaven alone will be able to help you; for truly, if
my cold disdain and repulses had not been my safeguard, they would long
since have torn my honour to rags. All is not gold that glitters. Men
say one thing, but think another: happily, it is with me that they have
to do; and I am not to be deceived, but know well when the shoe pinches
my foot. Above all, I am well born, for I belong to the Crivellis of
Milan, and I carry the point of honour ten thousand feet above the
clouds; by this you may judge, Signora, through what troubles I have had
to pass, since, being what I am, I have been brought to serve as the
housekeeper of Spaniards, or as, what they call, their _gouvernante_.
Not that I have, in truth, any complaint to make of my masters, who are
a couple of half-saints[4] when they are not put into a rage. And, in
this respect, they would seem to be Biscayans, as, indeed, they say they
are. But, after all, they may be Galicians, which is another nation, and
much less exact than the Biscayans; neither are they so much to be
depended on as the people of the Bay."
[4] The original is _benditos_, which sometimes means simpleton, but is
here equivalent to the Italian _beato_, and must be rendered as in the
text.
By all this verbiage, and more beside, the bewildered lady was induced
to follow the advice of the old woman, insomuch that, in less than four
hours after the departure of the friends, their housekeeper making all
arrangements, and Cornelia consenting, the latter was seated in a
carriage with the nurse of the babe, and without being heard by the
pages they set off on their way to the curate's village. All this was
done not only by the advice of the housekeeper, but also with her money;
for her masters had just before paid her a year's wages, and therefore
it was not needful that she should take a jewel which Cornelia had
offered her for the purposes of their journey.
Having heard Don Juan say that her brother and himself would not follow
the highway to Ferrara, but proceed thither by retired paths, Cornelia
thought it best to take the high road. She bade the driver, go slowly,
that they might not overtake the gentlemen in any case; and the master
of the carriage was well content to do as they liked, since they had
paid him as he liked.
We will leave them on their way, which they take with as much boldness
as good direction, and let us see what happened to Don Juan de Gamboa
and Signor Lorenzo Bentivoglio. On their way they heard that the duke
had not gone to Ferrara, but was still at Bologna, wherefore, abandoning
the round they were making, they regained the high road, considering
that it was by this the duke would travel on his return to Ferrara. Nor
had they long entered thereon before they perceived a troop of men on
horseback coming as it seemed from Bologna.
Don Juan then begged Lorenzo to withdraw to a little distance, since, if
the duke should chance to be of the company approaching, it would be
desirable that he should speak to him before he could enter Ferrara,
which was but a short distance from them. Lorenzo complied, and as soon
as he had withdrawn, Don Juan removed the covering by which he had
concealed the rich ornament of his hat; but this was not done without
some little indiscretion, as he was himself the first to admit some time
after.
Meanwhile the travellers approached; among them came a woman on a
pied-horse, dressed in a travelling habit, and her face covered with a
silk mask, either to conceal her features, or to shelter them from the
effects of the sun and air.
Don Juan pulled up his horse in the middle of the road, and remained
with his face uncovered, awaiting the arrival of the cavalcade. As they
approached him, the height, good looks, and spirited attitude of the
Spaniard, the beauty of his horse, his peculiar dress, and, above all,
the lustre of the diamonds on his hat, attracted the eyes of the whole
party but especially those of the Duke of Ferrara, the principal
personage of the group, who no sooner beheld the band of brilliants than
he understood the cavalier before him to be Don Juan de Gamboa, his
deliverer in the combat frequently alluded to. So well convinced did he
feel of this, that, without further question, he rode up to Don Juan,
saying, "I shall certainly not deceive myself, Signor Cavalier, if I
call you Don Juan de Gamboa, for your spirited looks, and the decoration
you wear on your hat, alike assure me of the fact."
"It is true that I am the person you say," replied Don Juan. "I have
never yet desired to conceal my name; but tell me, Signor, who you are
yourself, that I may not be surprised into any discourtesy."
"Discourtesy from you, Signor, would be impossible," rejoined the duke.
"I feel sure that you could not be discourteous in any case; but I
hasten to tell you, nevertheless, that I am the Duke of Ferrara, and a
man who will be bound to do you service all the days of his life, since
it is but a few nights since you gave him that life which must else have
been lost."
Alfonzo had not finished speaking, when Don Juan, springing lightly from
his horse, hastened to kiss the feet of the duke; but, with all his
agility, the latter was already out of the saddle, and alighted in the
arms of the Spaniard.
Seeing this, Signor Lorenzo, who could but observe these ceremonies from
a distance, believed that what he beheld was the effect of anger rather
than courtesy; he therefore put his horse to its speed, but pulled up
midway on perceiving that the duke and Don Juan were of a verity clasped
in each other's arms. It then chanced that Alfonso, looking over the
shoulders of Don Juan, perceived Lorenzo, whom he instantly recognised;
and somewhat disconcerted at his appearance, while still holding Don
Juan embraced, he inquired if Lorenzo Bentivoglio, whom he there beheld,
had come with him or not. Don Juan replied, "Let us move somewhat apart
from this place, and I will relate to your excellency some very singular
circumstances."
The duke having done as he was requested, Don Juan said to him, "My Lord
Duke, I must tell you that Lorenzo Bentivoglio, whom you there see, has
a cause of complaint against you, and not a light one; he avers that
some nights since you took his sister, the Lady Cornelia, from the house
of a lady, her cousin, and that you have deceived her, and dishonoured
his house; he desires therefore to know what satisfaction you propose to
make for this, that he may then see what it behoves him to do. He has
begged me to be his aid and mediator in the matter, and I have consented
with a good will, since, from certain indications which he gave me, I
perceived that the person of whom he complained, and yourself, to whose
liberal courtesy I owe this rich ornament, were one and the same. Thus,
seeing that none could more effectually mediate between you than myself,
I offered to undertake that office willingly, as I have said; and now I
would have you tell me, Signor, if you know aught of this matter, and
whether what Lorenzo has told me be true."
"Alas, my friend, it is so true," replied the duke, "that I durst not
deny it, even if I would. Yet I have not deceived or carried off
Cornelia, although I know that she has disappeared from the house of
which you speak. I have not deceived her, because I have taken her for
my wife; and I have not carried her off, since I do not know what has
become of her. If I have not publicly celebrated my nuptials with her,
it is because I waited until my mother, who is now at the last
extremity, should have passed to another life, she desiring greatly that
I should espouse the Signora Livia, daughter of the Duke of Mantua.
There are, besides, other reasons, even more important than this, but
which it is not convenient that I should now make known.
"What has in fact happened is this:--on the night when you came to my
assistance, I was to have taken Cornelia to Ferrara, she being then in
the last month of her pregnancy, and about to present me with that
pledge of our love with which it has pleased God to bless us; but
whether she was alarmed by our combat or by my delay, I know not; all I
can tell you is, that when I arrived at the house, I met the confidante
of our affection just coming out. From her I learned that her mistress
had that moment left the house, after having given birth to a son, the
most beautiful that ever had been seen, and whom she had given to one
Fabio, my servant. The woman is she whom you see here. Fabio is also in
this company; but of Cornelia and her child I can learn nothing. These
two days I have passed at Bologna, in ceaseless endeavours to discover
her, or to obtain some clue to her retreat, but I have not been able to
learn anything."
"In that case," interrupted Don Juan, "if Cornelia and her child were
now to appear, you would not refuse to admit that the first is your
wife, and the second your son?"
"Certainly not," replied the duke; "for if I value myself on being a
gentleman, still more highly do I prize the title of Christian.
Cornelia, besides, is one who well deserves to be mistress of a kingdom.
Let her but come, and whether my mother live or die, the world shall
know that I maintain my faith, and that my word, given in private, shall
be publicly redeemed."
"And what you have now said to me you are willing to repeat to your
brother, Signor Lorenzo?" inquired Don Juan.
"My only regret is," exclaimed the duke, "that he has not long before
been acquainted with the truth."
Hearing this, Don Juan made sign to Lorenzo that he should join them,
which he did, alighting from his horse and proceeding towards the place
where his friends stood, but far from hoping for the good news that
awaited him.
The duke advanced to receive him with open arms, and the first word he
uttered was to call him brother. Lorenzo scarcely knew how to reply to a
reception so courteous and a salutation so affectionate. He stood
amazed, and before he could utter a word, Don Juan said to him, "The
duke, Signor Lorenzo, is but too happy to admit his affection for your
sister, the Lady Cornelia; and, at the same time, he assures you, that
she is his legitimate consort. This, as he now says it to you, he will
affirm publicly before all the world, when the moment for doing so has
arrived. He confesses, moreover, that he did propose to remove her from
the house of her cousin some nights since, intending to take her to
Ferrara, there to await the proper time for their public espousals,
which he has only delayed for just causes, which he has declared to me.
He describes the conflict he had to maintain against yourself; and adds,
that when he went to seek Cornelia, he found only her waiting-woman,
Sulpicia, who is the woman you see yonder: from her he has learned that
her lady had just given birth to a son, whom she entrusted to a servant
of the duke, and then left the house in terror, because she feared that
you, Signor Lorenzo, had been made aware of her secret marriage: the
lady hoped, moreover, to find the duke awaiting her in the street. But
it seems that Sulpicia did not give the babe to Fabio, but to some other
person instead of him, and the child does not appear, neither is the
Lady Cornelia to be found, in spite of the duke's researches. He admits,
that all these things have happened by his fault; but declares, that
whenever your sister shall appear, he is ready to receive her as his
legitimate wife. Judge, then, Signor Lorenzo, if there be any more to
say or to desire beyond the discovery of those two dear but unfortunate
ones--the lady and her infant."
To this Lorenzo replied by throwing himself at the feet of the duke,
who raised him instantly. "From your greatness and Christian
uprightness, most noble lord and dear brother," said Lorenzo, "my sister
and I had certainly nothing less than this high honour to expect."
Saying this, tears came to his eyes, and the duke felt his own becoming
moist, for both were equally affected,--the one with the fear of having
lost his wife, the other by the generous candour of his brother-in-law;
but at once perceiving the weakness of thus displaying their feelings,
they both restrained themselves, and drove back those witnesses to their
source; while the eyes of Don Juan, shining with gladness, seemed almost
to demand from them the _albricias_[5] of good news, seeing that he
believed himself to have both Cornelia and her son in his own house.
[5] _Albricias_: "Largess!" "Give reward for good tidings."
Things were at this point when Don Antonio de Isunza, whom Don Juan
recognised at a considerable distance by his horse, was perceived
approaching. He also recognised Don Juan and Lorenzo, but not the duke,
and did not know what he was to do, or whether he ought to rejoin his
friend or not. He therefore inquired of the duke's servants who the
gentleman was, then standing with Lorenzo and Don Juan. They replied
that it was the Duke of Ferrara; and Don Antonio, knowing less than ever
what it was best for him to do, remained in some confusion, until he was
relieved from it by Don Juan, who called him by his name. Seeing that
all were on foot, Don Antonio also dismounted, and, approaching the
group, was received with infinite courtesy by the duke, to whom Don Juan
had already named him as his friend; finally, Don Antonio was made
acquainted with all that had taken place before his arrival.
Rejoicing greatly at what he heard, Don Antonio then said to his
comrade, "Why, Signor Don Juan, do you not finish your work, and raise
the joy of these Signors to its acmè, by requiring from them the
albricias for discovering the Lady Cornelia and her son?"
"Had you not arrived, I might have taken those albricias you speak of,"
replied Don Juan; "but now they are yours, Don Antonio, for I am certain
that the duke and Signor Lorenzo will give them to you most joyfully."
The duke and Lorenzo hearing of Cornelia being found, and of albricias,
inquired the meaning of those words.
"What can it be," replied Don Antonio, "if not that I also design to
become one of the personages in this happily terminating drama, being he
who is to demand the albricias for the discovery of the Lady Cornelia
and her son, who are both in my house." He then at once related to the
brothers, point by point, what has been already told, intelligence which
gave the duke and Lorenzo so much pleasure, that each embraced one of
the friends with all his heart, Lorenzo throwing himself into the arms
of Don Juan, and the duke into those of Don Antonio--the latter
promising his whole dukedom for albricias, and Lorenzo his life, soul,
and estates. They then called the woman who had given the child to Don
Juan, and she having perceived her master, Lorenzo Bentivoglio, came
forward, trembling. Being asked if she could recognise the man to whom
she had given the infant, she replied that she could not; but that when
she had asked if he were Fabio, he had answered "yes," and that she had
entrusted the babe to his care in the faith of that reply.
"All this is true," returned Don Juan; "and you furthermore bade me
deposit the child in a place of security, and instantly return."
"I did so," replied the waiting-woman, weeping. But the duke exclaimed,
"We will have no more tears; all is gladness and joy. I will not now
enter Ferrara, but return at once to Bologna; for this happiness is but
in shadow until made perfect by the sight of Cornelia herself." Then,
without more words, the whole company wheeled round, and took their way
to Bologna.
Don Antonio now rode forward to prepare the Lady Cornelia, lest the
sudden appearance of her brother and the duke might cause too violent a
revulsion; but not finding her as he expected, and the pages being
unable to give him any intelligence respecting her, he suddenly found
himself the saddest and most embarrassed man in the world. Learning that
the gouvernante had departed, he was not long in conjecturing that the
lady had disappeared by her means. The pages informed him that the
housekeeper had gone on the same day with himself and Don Juan, but as
to that Lady Cornelia, respecting whom he inquired, they had never seen
her. Don Antonio was almost out of his senses at this unexpected
occurrence, which, he feared, must make the duke consider himself and
Don Juan to be mere liars and boasters. He was plunged in these sad
thoughts when Alfonso entered with Lorenzo and Don Juan, who had spurred
on before the attendants by retired and unfrequented streets. They found
Don Antonio seated with his head on his hand, and as pale as a man who
has been long dead, and when Don Juan inquired what ailed him, and where
was the Lady Cornelia, he replied, "Rather ask me what do I not ail,
since the Lady Cornelia is not to be found. She quitted the house, on
the same day as ourselves, with the gouvernante we left to keep her
company."
This sad news seemed as though it would deprive the duke of life, and
Lorenzo of his senses. The whole party remained in the utmost
consternation and dismay; when one of the pages said to Don Antonio in a
whisper, "Signor, Santisteban, Signor Don Juan's page, has had locked up
in his chamber, from the day when your worships left, a very pretty
woman, whose name is certainly Cornelia, for I have heard him call her
so." Plunged into a new embarrassment, Don Antonio would rather not have
found the lady at all--for he could not but suppose it was she whom the
page had shut up in his room--than have discovered her in such a place.
Nevertheless, without saying a word, he ascended to the page's chamber,
but found the door fast, for the young man had gone out, and taken away
the key. Don Antonio therefore put his lips to the keyhole, and said in
a low voice, "Open the door, Signora Cornelia, and come down to receive
your brother, and the duke, your husband, who are waiting to take you
hence."
A voice from within replied, "Are you making fun of me? It is certain
that I am neither so ugly nor so old but that dukes and counts may very
well be looking for me: but this comes of condescending to visit pages."
These words quite satisfied Don Antonio that it was not the Lady
Cornelia who had replied.
At that moment Santisteban returned and went up to his chamber, where he
found Don Antonio, who had just commanded that all the keys of the
house should be brought, to see if any one of them would open the door.
The page fell on his knees, and held up the key, exclaiming, "Have mercy
on me, your worship: your absence, or rather my own villainy, made me
bring this woman to my room; but I entreat your grace, Don Antonio, as
you would have good news from Spain, that you suffer the fault I have
committed to remain unknown to my master, Don Juan, if he be not yet
informed of it; I will turn her out this instant."
"What is the name of this woman?" inquired Don Antonio. "Cornelia,"
replied Santisteban. Down stairs at once went the page who had
discovered the hidden woman, and who was not much of a friend to
Santisteban, and entered the room where sat the duke, Don Juan, and
Lorenzo, and, either from simplicity or malice, began to talk to
himself, saying, "Well caught, brother page! by Heaven they have made
you give up your Lady Cornelia! She was well hidden, to be sure; and no
doubt my gentleman would have liked to see the masters remain away that
he might enjoy himself some three or four days longer."
"What is that you are saying?" cried Lorenzo, who had caught a part of
these words. "Where is the Lady Cornelia?" "She is above," replied the
page; and the duke, who supposed that his consort had just made her
appearance, had scarcely heard the words before he rushed from the
apartment like a flash of lightning, and, ascending the staircase at a
bound, gained the chamber into which Don Antonio was entering.
"Where is Cornelia? where is the life of my life?" he exclaimed, as he
hurried into the room.
"Cornelia is here," replied a woman who was wrapped in a quilt taken
from the bed with which she had concealed her face. "Lord bless us!" she
continued, "one would think an ox had been stolen! Is it a new thing for
a woman to visit a page, that you make such a fuss about it?"
Lorenzo, who had now entered the room, angrily snatched off the sheet
and exposed to view a woman still young and not ill-looking, who hid her
face in her hands for shame, while her dress, which served her instead
of a pillow, sufficiently proved her to be some poor castaway.
The duke asked her, was it true her name was Cornelia? It was, she
replied--adding, that she had very decent parents in the city, but that
no one could venture to say, "Of this water I will never drink."
The duke was so confounded by all he beheld, that he was almost inclined
to think the Spaniards were making a fool of him; but, not to encourage
so grievous a suspicion, he turned away without saying a word. Lorenzo
followed him; they mounted their horses and rode off, leaving Don Juan
and Don Antonio even more astonished and dismayed than himself.
The two friends now determined to leave no means untried, possible or
impossible, to discover the retreat of the Lady Cornelia, and convince
the duke of their sincerity and uprightness. They dismissed Santisteban
for his misconduct, and turned the worthless Cornelia out of the house.
Don Juan then remembered that they had neglected to describe to the duke
those rich jewels wherein Cornelia carried her relics, with the agnus
she had offered to them; and they went out proposing to mention that
circumstance, so as to prove to Alfonso that the lady had, indeed, been
in their care, and that if she had now disappeared, it was not by any
fault of theirs.
They expected to find the duke in Lorenzo's house; but the latter
informed them that Alfonso had been compelled to leave Bologna, and had
returned to Ferrara, having committed the search for Cornelia to his
care. The friends having told him what had brought them, Lorenzo assured
them that the duke was perfectly convinced of their rectitude in the
matter, adding, that they both attributed the flight of Cornelia to her
great fear, but hoped, and did not doubt, that Heaven would permit her
re-appearance before long, since it was certain that the earth had not
swallowed the housekeeper, the child, and herself.
With these considerations they all consoled themselves, determining not
to make search by any public announcement, but secretly, since, with the
exception of her cousin, no person was yet acquainted with the
disappearance of Cornelia; and Lorenzo judged that a public search might
prove injurious to his sister's name among such as did not know the
whole circumstances of the case, since the labour of effacing such
suspicions as might arise would be infinite, and by no means certain of
success.
The duke meanwhile continued his journey to Ferrara, and favouring
Fortune, which was now preparing his happiness, led him to the village
where dwelt that priest in whose house Cornelia, her infant, and the
housekeeper, were concealed. The good Father was acquainted with the
whole history, and Cornelia had begged his advice as to what it would be
best for her to do. Now this priest had been the preceptor of the duke;
and to his dwelling, which was furnished in a manner befitting that of a
rich and learned clerk, the duke was in the habit of occasionally
repairing from Ferrara, and would thence go to the chase, or amuse
himself with the pleasant conversation of his host, and with the
knowledge and excellence of which the good priest gave evidence in all
he did or said.
The priest was not surprised to receive a visit from the duke, because,
as we have said, it was not the first by many; but he was grieved to see
him sad and dejected, and instantly perceived that his whole soul was
absorbed in some painful thought. As to Cornelia, having been told that
the duke was there, she was seized with renewed terror, not knowing how
her misfortunes were to terminate. She wrung her hands, and hurried from
one side of her apartment to the other, like a person who had lost her
senses. Fain would the troubled lady have spoken to the priest, but he
was in conversation with the Duke, and could not be approached. Alfonso
was meanwhile saying to him, "I come to you, my father, full of sadness,
and will not go to Ferrara to-day, but remain your guest; give orders
for all my attendants to proceed to the city, and let none remain with
me but Fabio."
The priest went to give directions accordingly, as also to see that his
own servants made due preparations; and Cornelia then found an
opportunity for speaking to him. She took his two hands and said, "Ah,
my father, and dear sir, what has the duke come for? for the love of God
see what can be done to save me! I pray you, seek to discover what he
proposes. As a friend, do for me whatever shall seem best to your
prudence and great wisdom."
The priest replied, "Duke Alfonso has come to me in deep sadness, but
up to this moment he has not told me the cause. What I would have you
now do is to dress this infant with great care, put on it all the jewels
you have with you, more especially such as you may have received from
the duke himself; leave the rest to me, and I have hope that Heaven is
about to grant us a happy day." Cornelia embraced the good man, and
kissed his hand, and then retired to dress and adorn the babe, as he had
desired.
The priest, meanwhile, returned to entertain the duke with conversation
while his people were preparing their meal; and in the course of their
colloquy he inquired if he might venture to ask him the cause of his
grief, since it was easy to see at the distance of a league that,
something gave him sorrow.
"Father," replied the duke, "it is true that the sadness of the heart
rises to the face, and in the eyes may be read the history of that which
passes in the soul; but for the present I cannot confide the cause of my
sorrow to any one."
"Then we will not speak of it further, my lord duke," replied the
priest; "but if you were in a condition permitting you to examine a
curious and beautiful thing, I have one to show you which I cannot but
think would afford you great pleasure."
"He would be very unwise," returned Alfonso, "who, when offered a solace
for his suffering, refuses to accept it. Wherefore show me what you
speak of, father; the object is doubtless an addition to one of your
curious collections, and they have all great interest in my eyes."
The priest then rose, and repaired to the apartment where Cornelia was
awaiting him with her son, whom she had adorned as he had suggested,
having placed on him the relics and agnus, with other rich jewels, all
gifts of the duke to the babe's mother. Taking the infant from her
hands, the good priest then went to the duke, and telling him that he
must rise and come to the light of the window, he transferred the babe
from his own arms into those of Alfonso, who could not but instantly
remark the jewels; and perceiving that they were those which he had
himself given to Cornelia, he remained in great surprise. Looking
earnestly at the infant, meanwhile, he fancied he beheld his own
portrait; and full of admiration, he asked the priest to whom the child
belonged, remarking, that from its decorations and appearance one might
take it to be the son of some princess.
"I do not know," replied the priest, "to whom it belongs; all I can tell
you is, that it was brought to me some nights since by a cavalier of
Bologna, who charged me to take good care of the babe and bring it up
heedfully, since it was the son of a noble and valiant father, and of a
mother highly born as well as beautiful. With the cavalier there came
also a woman to suckle the infant, and of her I have inquired if she
knew anything of the parents, but she tells me that she knows nothing
whatever; yet of a truth, if the mother possess but half the beauty of
the nurse, she must be the most lovely woman in Italy."
"Could I not see her?" asked the Duke. "Yes, certainly you may see her,"
returned the priest. "You have only to come with me; and if the beauty
and decorations of the child surprise you, I think the sight of the
nurse cannot fail to produce an equal effect."
The priest would then have taken the infant from the duke, but Alfonso
would not let it go; he pressed it in his arms, and gave it repeated
kisses; the good father, meanwhile, hastened forward, and bade Cornelia
approach to receive the duke. The lady obeyed; her emotion giving so
rich a colour to her face that the beauty she displayed seemed something
more than human. The duke, on seeing her, remained as if struck by a
thunderbolt, while she, throwing herself at his feet, sought to kiss
them. The duke said not a word, but gave the infant to the priest, and
hurried out of the apartment.
Shocked at this, Cornelia said to the priest, "Alas, dear father, have I
terrified the duke with the sight of my face? am I become hateful to
him? Has he forgot the ties by which he has bound himself to me? Will he
not speak one word to me? Was his child such a burden to him that he has
thus rejected him from his arm's?"
To all these questions the good priest could give no reply, for he too
was utterly confounded by the duke's hasty departure, which seemed more
like a flight than anything else.
Meanwhile Alfonso had but gone out to summon Fabio. "Ride Fabio, my
friend," he cried, "ride for your life to Bologna, and tell Lorenzo
Bentivoglio that he must come with all speed to this place; let him
make no excuse, and bid him bring with him the two Spanish gentlemen,
Don Juan de Gamboa and Don Antonio de Isunza. Return instantly, Fabio,
but not without them, for it concerns my life to see them here."
Fabio required no further pressing, but instantly carried his master's
commands into effect. The duke returned at once to Cornelia, caught her
in his arms, mingled his tears with hers, and kissed her a thousand
times; and long did the fond pair remain thus silently locked in each
other's embrace, both speechless from excess of joy. The nurse of the
infant and the dame, who proclaimed herself a Crivella, beheld all this
from the door of the adjoining apartment, and fell into such ecstasies
of delight that they knocked their heads against the wall, and seemed
all at once to have gone out of their wits. The priest bestowed a
thousand kisses on the infant, whom he held on one arm, while with his
right hand he showered no end of benedictions on the noble pair. At
length his reverence's housekeeper, who had been occupied with her
culinary preparations, and knew nothing of what had occurred, entered to
notify to her master that dinner was on the table, and so put an end to
this scene of rapture.
The duke then took his babe from the arms of the priest, and kept it in
his own during the repast, which was more remarkable for neatness and
good taste than for splendour. While they were at table, Cornelia
related to the duke all that had occurred until she had taken refuge
with the priest, by the advice of the housekeeper of those two Spanish
gentlemen, who had protected and guarded her with such assiduous and
respectful kindness. In return the duke related to her all that had
befallen himself during the same interval; and the two housekeepers, who
were present, received from him the most encouraging promises. All was
joy and satisfaction, and nothing more was required for the general
happiness, save the arrival of Lorenzo, Don Antonio, and Don Juan.
They came on the third day, all intensely anxious to know if the duke
had received intelligence of Cornelia, seeing that Fabio, who did not
know what had happened, could tell them nothing on that subject.
The duke received them alone in the antechamber, but gave no sign of
gladness in his face, to their great grief and disappointment. Bidding
them be seated, Alfonso himself sat down, and thus addressed Lorenzo:--
"You well know, Signor Lorenzo Bentivoglio, that I never deceived your
sister, as my conscience and Heaven itself can bear witness; you know
also the diligence with which I have sought her, and the wish I have
felt to have my marriage with her celebrated publicly. But she is not to
be found, and my word cannot be considered eternally engaged to a
shadow. I am a young man, and am not so _blasé_ as to leave ungathered
such pleasures as I find on my path. Before I had ever seen Cornelia I
had given my promise to a peasant girl of this village, but whom I was
tempted to abandon by the superior charms of Cornelia, giving therein a
great proof of my love for the latter, in defiance of the voice of my
conscience. Now, therefore, since no one can marry a woman who does not
appear, and it is not reasonable that a man should eternally run after a
wife who deserts him, lest he should take to his arms one who abhors
him, I would have you consider, Signor Lorenzo, whether I can give you
any further satisfaction for an affront which was never intended to be
one; and further, I would have you give me your permission to accomplish
my first promise, and solemnise my marriage with the peasant girl, who
is now in this house."
While the duke spoke this, Lorenzo's frequent change of colour, and the
difficulty with which he forced himself to retain his seat, gave
manifest proof that anger was taking possession of all his senses. The
same feelings agitated Don Antonio and Don Juan, who were resolved not
to permit the duke to fulfil his intention, even should they be
compelled to prevent it by depriving him of life. Alfonso, reading these
resolves in their faces, resumed: "Endeavour to calm yourself, Signor
Lorenzo; and before you answer me one word, I will have you see the
beauty of her whom I desire to take to wife, for it is such that you
cannot refuse your consent, and it might suffice, as you will
acknowledge, to excuse a graver error than mine."
So saying, the duke rose, and repaired to the apartment where Cornelia
was awaiting him in all the splendour of her beauty and rich
decorations. No sooner was he gone than Don Juan also rose, and laying
both hands on the arms of Lorenzo's chair, he said to him, "By St. James
of Galicia, by the true faith of a Christian, and by my honour as a
gentleman, Signor Lorenzo, I will as readily allow the duke to fulfil
his project as I will become a worshipper of Mahomed. Here, in this
spot, he shall yield up his life at my hands, or he shall redeem the
promise given to your sister, the lady Cornelia. At the least, he shall
give us time to seek her; and until we know to a certainty that she is
dead, he shall not marry."
"That is exactly my own view," replied Lorenzo. "And I am sure,"
rejoined Don Juan, "that it will be the determination of my comrade, Don
Antonio, likewise."
While they were thus speaking, Cornelia appeared at the door between the
duke and the priest, each of whom led her by one hand. Behind them came
Sulpicia, her waiting woman, whom the duke had summoned from Ferrara to
attend her lady, with the infant's nurse, and the Spaniards'
housekeeper. When Lorenzo saw his sister, and had assured himself it was
indeed Cornelia,--for at first the apparently impossible character of
the occurrence had forbidden his belief,--he staggered on his feet, and
cast himself at those of the duke, who, raising him, placed him in the
arms of his delighted sister, whilst Don Juan and Don Antonio hastily
applauded the duke for the clever trick he had played upon them all.
Alfonso then took the infant from Sulpicia, and, presenting it to
Lorenzo, he said, "Signor and brother, receive your nephew, my son, and
see whether it please you to give permission for the public
solemnisation of my marriage with this peasant girl--the only one to
whom I have ever been betrothed."
To repeat the replies of Lorenzo would be never to make an end, and the
rather if to these we added the questions of Don Juan, the remarks of
Don Antonio, the expressions of delight uttered by the priest, the
rejoicing of Sulpicia, the satisfaction of the housekeeper who had made
herself the counsellor of Cornelia, the exclamations of the nurse, and
the astonishment of Fabio, with the general happiness of all.
The marriage ceremony was performed by the good priest, and Don Juan de
Gamboa gave away the bride; but it was agreed among the parties that
this marriage also should be kept secret, until he knew the result of
the malady under which the duchess-dowager was labouring; for the
present, therefore, it was determined that Cornelia should return to
Bologna with her brother. All was done as thus agreed on; and when the
duchess-dowager died, Cornelia made her entrance into Ferrara, rejoicing
the eyes of all who beheld her: the mourning weeds were exchanged for
festive robes, the two housekeepers were enriched, and Sulpicia was
married to Fabio. For Don Antonio and Don Juan, they were sufficiently
rewarded by the services they had rendered to the duke, who offered them
two of his cousins in marriage, with rich dowries. But they replied,
that the gentlemen of the Biscayan nation married for the most part in
their own country; wherefore, not because they despised so honourable a
proffer, which was not possible, but that they might not depart from a
custom so laudable, they were compelled to decline that illustrious
alliance, and the rather as they were still subject to the will of their
parents, who had, most probably, already affianced them.
The duke admitted the validity of their excuses, but, availing himself
of occasions warranted by custom and courtesy, he found means to load
the two friends with rich gifts, which he sent from time to time to
their house in Bologna. Many of these were of such value, that although
they might have been refused for fear of seeming to receive a payment,
yet the appropriate manner in which they were presented, and the
particular periods at which Alfonso took care that they should arrive,
caused their acceptance to be easy, not to say inevitable; such, for
example, were those despatched by him at the moment of their departure
for their own country, and those which he gave them when they came to
Ferrara to take their leave of him.
At this period, the Spanish gentlemen found Cornelia the mother of two
little girls, and the duke more enamoured of his wife than ever. The
duchess gave the diamond cross to Don Juan, and the gold agnus to Don
Antonio, both of whom had now no choice but to accept them. They finally
arrived without accident in their native Spain, where they married rich,
noble, and beautiful ladies; and they never ceased to maintain a
friendly correspondence with the duke and duchess of Ferrara, and with
Lorenzo Bentivoglio, to the great satisfaction of all parties.
END OF THE LADY CORNELIA.
RINCONETE AND CORTADILLO:
_Or, Peter of the Corner and the Little Cutter._
At the Venta or hostelry of the Mulinillo, which is situate on the
confines of the renowned plain of Alcudia, and on the road from Castile
to Andalusia, two striplings met by chance on one of the hottest days of
summer. One of them was about fourteen or fifteen years of age; the
other could not have passed his seventeenth year. Both were well formed,
and of comely features, but in very ragged and tattered plight. Cloaks
they had none; their breeches were of linen, and their stockings were
merely those bestowed on them by Nature. It is true they boasted shoes;
one of them wore alpargates,[6] or rather dragged them along at his
heels; the other had what might as well have been shackles for all the
good they did the wearer, being rent in the uppers, and without soles.
Their respective head-dresses were a montera[7] and a miserable
sombrero, low in the crown and wide in the brim. On his shoulder, and
crossing his breast like a scarf, one of them carried a shirt, the
colour of chamois leather; the body of this garment was rolled up and
thrust into one of its sleeves: the other, though travelling without
incumbrance, bore on his chest what seemed a large pack, but which
proved, on closer inspection, to be the remains of a starched ruff, now
stiffened with grease instead of starch, and so worn and frayed that it
looked like a bundle of hemp.
[6] The _alpargates_ are a kind of sandal made of cord.
[7] _Montera_, a low cap, without visor or front to shade the eyes.
Within this collar, wrapped up and carefully treasured, was a pack of
cards, excessively dirty, and reduced to an oval form by repeated paring
of their dilapidated corners. The lads were both much burned by the sun,
their hands were anything but clean, and their long nails were edged
with black; one had a dudgeon-dagger by his side; the other a knife with
a yellow handle.
These gentlemen had selected for their siesta the porch or penthouse
commonly found before a Venta; and, finding themselves opposite each
other, he who appeared to be the elder said to the younger, "Of what
country is your worship, noble Sir, and by what road do you propose to
travel?" "What is my country, Señor Cavalier," returned the other, "I
know not; nor yet which way my road lies."
"Your worship, however, does not appear to have come from heaven,"
rejoined the elder, "and as this is not a place wherein a man can take
up his abode for good, you must, of necessity, be going further." "That
is true," replied the younger; "I have, nevertheless, told you only the
veritable fact; for as to my country, it is mine no more, since all that
belongs to me there is a father who does not consider me his child, and
a step-mother who treats me like a son-in-law. With regard to my road,
it is that which chance places before me, and it will end wherever I may
find some one who will give me the wherewithal to sustain this miserable
life of mine."
"Is your worship acquainted with any craft?" inquired the first speaker.
"With none," returned the other, "except that I can run like a hare,
leap like a goat, and handle a pair of scissors with great dexterity."
"These things are all very good, useful, and profitable," rejoined the
elder. "You will readily find the Sacristan of some church who will give
your worship the offering-bread of All Saints' Day, for cutting him his
paper flowers to decorate the Monument[8] on Holy Thursday."
[8] The Monument is a sort of temporary theatre, erected in the churches
during Passion Week, and on which the passion of the Saviour is
represented.
"But that is not my manner of cutting," replied the younger. "My father,
who, by God's mercy, is a tailor and hose maker, taught me to cut out
that kind of spatterdashes properly called Polainas, which, as your
worship knows, cover the fore part of the leg and come down over the
instep. These I can cut out in such style, that I could pass an
examination for the rank of master in the craft; but my ill luck keeps
my talents in obscurity."
"The common lot, Señor, of able men," replied the first speaker, "for I
have always heard that it is the way of the world to let the finest
talents go to waste; but your worship is still at an age when this evil
fortune may be remedied, and the rather since, if I mistake not, and my
eyes do not deceive me, you have other advantageous qualities which it
is your pleasure to keep secret." "It is true that I have such,"
returned the younger gentleman, "but they are not of a character to be
publicly proclaimed, as your worship has very judiciously observed."
"But I," rejoined the elder, "may with confidence assure you, that I am
one of the most discreet and prudent persons to be found within many a
league. In order to induce your worship to open your heart and repose
your faith on my honour, I will enlist your sympathies by first laying
bare my own bosom; for I imagine that fate has not brought us together
without some hidden purpose. Nay, I believe that we are to be true
friends from this day to the end of our lives.
"I, then, Señor Hidalgo, am a native of Fuenfrida, a place very well
known, indeed renowned for the illustrious travellers who are constantly
passing through it. My name is Pedro del Rincon,[9] my father is a
person of quality, and a Minister of the Holy Crusade, since he holds
the important charge of a Bulero or Buldero,[10] as the vulgar call it.
I was for some time his assistant in that office, and acquitted myself
so well, that in all things concerning the sale of bulls I could hold my
own with any man, though he had the right to consider himself the most
accomplished in the profession. But one day, having placed my affections
on the money produced by the bulls, rather than on the bulls themselves,
I took a bag of crowns to my arms, and we two departed together for
Madrid.
[9] Peter of the Corner; _rincon_ meaning a corner, or obscure nook.
[10] The Spanish authorities, under the pretext of being at perpetual
war with Infidels, still cause "Bulls of the Crusade," to the possession
of which certain indulgences are attached, to be publicly sold in
obscure villages. The product of these sales was originally expended on
the wars with the Moors, but from the time when Granada fell into the
hands of the Spaniards, it has been divided between the church and
state. The bulls are carried about by hawkers, who are called
"Buleros."--_Viardot_.
"In that city, such are the facilities that offer themselves, I soon
gutted my bag, and left it with as many wrinkles as a bridegroom's
pocket-handkerchief. The person who was charged with the collection of
the money, hastened to track my steps; I was taken, and met with but
scant indulgence; only, in consideration of my youth, their worships the
judges contented themselves with introducing me to the acquaintance of
the whipping-post, to have the flies whisked from my shoulders for a
certain time, and commanding me to abstain from revisiting the Court and
Capital during a period of four years. I took the matter coolly, bent my
shoulders to the operation performed at their command, and made so much
haste to begin my prescribed term of exile, that I had no time to
procure sumpter mules, but contented myself with selecting from my
valuables such as seemed most important and useful.
"I did not fail to include this pack of cards among them,"--here the
speaker exhibited that oviform specimen already mentioned--"and with
these I have gained my bread among the inns and taverns between Madrid
and this place, by playing at Vingt-et-un. It is true they are somewhat
soiled and worn, as your worship sees; but for him who knows how to
handle them, they possess a marvellous virtue, which is, that you never
cut them but you find an ace at the bottom; if your worship then is
acquainted with the game, you will see what an advantage it is to know
for certain that you have an ace to begin with, since you may count it
either for one or eleven; and so you may be pretty sure that when the
stakes are laid at twenty-one, your money will be much disposed to stay
at home.
"In addition to this, I have acquired the knowledge of certain mysteries
regarding Lansquenet and Reversis, from the cook of an ambassador who
shall be nameless,--insomuch that, even as your worship might pass as
master in the cutting of spatterdashes, so could I, too, take my degrees
in the art of flat-catching.
"With all these acquirements, I am tolerably sure of not dying from
hunger, since, even in the most retired farm-house I come to, there is
always some one to be found who will not refuse himself the recreation
of a few moments at cards. We have but to make a trial where we are; let
us spread the net, and it will go hard with us if some bird out of all
the Muleteers standing about do not fall into it. I mean to say, that if
we two begin now to play at Vingt-et-un as though we were in earnest,
some one will probably desire to make a third, and, in that case, he
shall be the man to leave his money behind him."
"With all my heart," replied the younger lad: "and I consider that your
excellency has done me a great favour by communicating to me the history
of your life. You have thereby made it impossible for me to conceal
mine, and I will hasten to relate it as briefly as possible. Here it is,
then:--
"I was born at Pedroso, a village situate between Salamanca and Medina
del Campo. My father is a tailor, as I have said, and taught me his
trade; but from cutting with the scissors I proceeded--my natural
abilities coming in aid--to the cutting of purses. The dull, mean life
of the village, and the unloving conduct of my mother-in-law, were
besides but little to my taste. I quitted my birthplace, therefore,
repaired to Toledo to exercise my art, and succeeded in it to
admiration; for there is not a reliquary suspended to the dress, not a
pocket, however carefully concealed, but my fingers shall probe its
contents, or my scissors snip it off, though the owner were guarded by
the eyes of Argus.
"During four months I spent in Toledo, I was never trapped between two
doors, nor caught in the fact, nor pursued by the runners of justice,
nor blown upon by an informer. It is true that, eight days ago, a double
spy[11] did set forth my distinguished abilities to the Corregidor, and
the latter, taking a fancy to me from his description, desired to make
my acquaintance; but I am a modest youth, and do not wish to frequent
the society of personages so important. Wherefore I took pains to excuse
myself from visiting him, and departed in so much haste, that I, like
yourself, had no time to procure sumpter-mules or small change,--nay, I
could not even find a return-chaise, nor so much as a cart."
[11] An _alguazil_, who, while in the service of justice, is also in
that of the thieves. He betrays them, nevertheless, whenever it suits
his purpose to do so:
"Console yourself for these omissions," replied Pedro del Rincon; "and
since we now know each other, let us drop these grand and stately airs,
and confess frankly that we have not a blessed farthing between us, nor
even shoes to our feet."
"Be it so," returned Diego Cortado, for so the younger boy called
himself. "Be it so; and since our friendship, as your worship Señor
Rincon is pleased to say, is to last our whole lives, let us begin it
with solemn and laudable ceremonies,"--saying which, Diego rose to his
feet, and embraced the Señor Rincon, who returned the compliment with
equal tenderness and emotion.
They then began to play at Vingt-et-un with the cards above described,
which were certainly "free from dust and straw,"[12] as we say, but by
no means free from grease and knavery; and after a few deals, Cortado
could turn up an ace as well as Rincon his master. When things had
attained this point, it chanced that a Muleteer came out at the porch,
and, as Rincon had anticipated, he soon proposed to make a third in
their game.
[12] "Clean from dust and straw"--_limpios de polvo y paja_--is a phrase
equivalent to "free of the king's dues."
To this they willingly agreed, and in less than half an hour they had
won from him twelve reals and twenty-two maravedis, which he felt as
sorely as twelve stabs with a dagger and twenty-two thousand sorrows.
Presuming that the young chaps would not venture to defend themselves,
he thought to get back his money by force; but the two friends laying
hands promptly, the one on his dudgeon dagger and the other on his
yellow handled knife, gave the Muleteer so much to do, that if his
companions had not hastened to assist him, he would have come badly out
of the quarrel.
At that moment there chanced to pass by a company of travellers on
horseback, who were going to make their siesta at the hostelry of the
Alcalde, about half a league farther on. Seeing the affray between the
Muleteer with two boys, they interposed, and offered to take the latter
in their company to Seville, if they were going to that city.
"That is exactly where we desire to go," exclaimed Rincon, "and we will
serve your worships in all that it shall please you to command."
Whereupon, without more ado, they sprang before the mules, and departed
with the travellers, leaving the Muleteer despoiled of his money and
furious with rage, while the hostess was in great admiration of the
finished education and accomplishments of the two rogues, whose dialogue
she had heard from beginning to end, while they were not aware of her
presence.
When the hostess told the Muleteer that she had heard the boys say the
cards they played with were false, the man tore his beard for rage, and
would have followed them to the other Venta, in the hope of recovering
his property; for he declared it to be a serious affront, and a matter
touching his honour, that two boys should have cheated a grown man like
him. But his companions dissuaded him from doing what they declared
would be nothing better than publishing his own folly and incapacity;
and their arguments, although they did not console the Muleteer, were
sufficient to make him remain where he was.
Meanwhile Cortado and Rincon displayed so much zeal and readiness in the
service of the travellers, that the latter gave them a lift behind them
for the greater part of the way. They might many a time have rifled the
portmanteaus of their temporary masters, but did not, lest they should
thereby lose the happy opportunity of seeing Seville, in which city they
greatly desired to exercise their talents. Nevertheless, as they entered
Seville--which they did at the hour of evening prayer, and by the gate
of the custom-house, on account of the dues to be paid, and the trunks
to be examined--Cortado could not refrain from making an examination, on
his own account, of the valise which a Frenchman of the company carried
with him on the croup of his mule. With his yellow-handled weapon,
therefore, he gave it so deep and broad a wound in the side that its
very entrails were exposed to view; and he dexterously drew forth two
good shirts, a sun-dial, and a memorandum book, things that did not
greatly please him when he had leisure to examine them. Thinking that
since the Frenchman carried that valise on his own mule, it must needs
contain matters of more importance than those he had captured, Cortado
would fain have looked further into it, but he abstained, as it was
probable that the deficiency had been already discovered, and the
remaining effects secured. Before performing this feat the friends had
taken leave of those who had fed them on their journey, and the
following day they sold the two shirts in the old clothes' market, which
is held at the gate of the Almacen or arsenal, obtaining twenty reals
for their booty.
Having despatched this business, they went to see the city, and admired
the great magnificence and vast size of its principal church, and the
vast concourse of people on the quays, for it happened to be the season
for loading the fleet. There were also six galleys on the water, at
sight of which the friends could not refrain from sighing, as they
thought the day might come when they should be clapped on board one of
those vessels for the remainder of their lives. They remarked the large
number of basket-boys, porters, &c., who went to and fro about the
ships, and inquired of one among them what sort of a trade it
was--whether it was very laborious--and what were the gains.
An Asturian, of whom they made the inquiry, gave answer to the effect
that the trade was a very pleasant one, since they had no harbour-dues
to pay, and often found themselves at the end of the day with six or
seven reals in their pocket, with which they might eat, drink, and enjoy
themselves like kings. Those of his calling, he said, had no need to
seek a master to whom security must be given, and you could dine when
and where you please, since, in the city of Seville, there is not an
eating-house, however humble, where you will not find all you want at
any hour of the day.
The account given by the Asturian was by no means discouraging to the
two friends, neither did his calling seem amiss to them; nay, rather, it
appeared to be invented for the very purpose of enabling them to
exercise their own profession in secresy and safety, on account of the
facilities it offered for entering houses. They consequently determined
to buy such things as were required for the instant adoption of the new
trade, especially as they could enter upon it without undergoing any
previous scrutiny.
In reply to their further inquiries, the Asturian told them that it
would be sufficient if each had a small porter's bag of linen, either
new or second-hand, so it was but clean, with three palm-baskets, two
large and one small, wherein to carry the meat, fish, and fruit
purchased by their employers, while the bag was to be used for carrying
the bread. He took them to where all these things were sold; they
supplied themselves out of the plunder of the Frenchman, and in less
than two hours they might have been taken for regular graduates in their
new profession, so deftly did they manage their baskets, and so jauntily
carry their bags. Their instructor furthermore informed them of the
different places at which they were to make their appearance daily: in
the morning at the shambles, and at the market of St. Salvador; on
fast-days at the fish-market; every afternoon on the quay, and on
Thursdays at the fair.
All these lessons the two friends carefully stored in their memory, and
the following morning both repaired in good time to the market of St.
Salvador. Scarcely had they arrived before they were remarked by numbers
of young fellows of the trade, who soon perceived, by the shining
brightness of their bags and baskets, that they were new beginners. They
were assailed with a thousand questions, to all which they replied with
great presence of mind and discretion. Presently up came two customers,
one of whom had the appearance of a Student, the other was a Soldier;
both were attracted by the clean and new appearance of their baskets;
and he who seemed to be a student beckoned Cortado, while the soldier
engaged Rincon. "In God's name be it!"[13] exclaimed both the novices in
a breath--Rincon adding, "It is a good beginning of the trade, master,
since it is your worship that is giving me my hansel." "The hansel shall
not be a bad one," replied the soldier, "seeing that I have been lucky
at cards of late, and am in love. I propose this day to regale the
friends of my lady with a feast, and am come to buy the materials."
"Load away, then, your worship," replied Rincon, "and lay on me as much
as you please, for I feel courage enough to carry off the whole market;
nay, if you should desire me to aid in cooking what I carry, it shall be
done with all my heart."
[13] This is a formula used in Spain by those who do a thing for the
first time.--_Viardot_.
The soldier was pleased with the boy's ready good-will, and told him
that if he felt disposed to enter his service he would relieve him from
the degrading office he then bore; but Rincon declared, that since this
was the first day on which he had tried it, he was not willing to
abandon the work so soon, or at least until he had seen what profit
there was to be made of it; but if it did not suit him, he gave the
gentleman his word that he would prefer the service offered him even to
that of a Canon.
The soldier laughed, loaded him well, and showed him the house of his
lady, bidding him observe it well that he might know it another time, so
that he might be able to send him there again without being obliged to
accompany him. Rincon promised fidelity and good conduct; the soldier
gave him three quartos,[14] and the lad returned like a shot to the
market, that he might lose no opportunity by delay. Besides, he had been
well advised in respect of diligence by the Asturian, who had likewise
told him that when he was employed to carry small fish, such as sprats,
sardines, or flounders, he might very well take a few for himself and
have the first taste of them, were it only to diminish his expenses of
the day, but that he must do this with infinite caution and prudence,
lest the confidence of the employers should be disturbed; for to
maintain confidence was above all things important in their trade.
[14] The Quarto contains four Maravedis.
But whatever haste Rincon had made to return, he found Cortado at his
post before him. The latter instantly inquired how he had got on. Rincon
opened his hand and showed the three quartos; when Cortado, thrusting
his arm into his bosom, drew forth a little purse which appeared to have
once been of amber-coloured silk, and was not badly filled. "It was with
this," said he, "that my service to his reverence the Student has been
rewarded--with this and two quartos besides. Do you take it, Rincon, for
fear of what may follow."
Cortado had scarcely given the purse in secret to his companion, before
the Student returned in a great heat, and looking in mortal alarm. He no
sooner set eyes on Cortado, than, hastening towards him, he inquired if
he had by chance seen a purse with such and such marks and tokens, and
which had disappeared, together with fifteen crowns in gold pieces,
three double reals, and a certain number of maravedis in quartos and
octavos. "Did you take it from me yourself," he added, "while I was
buying in the market, with you standing beside me?"
To this Cortado replied with perfect composure, "All I can tell you of
your purse is, that it cannot be lost, unless, indeed, your worship has
left it in bad hands."
"That is the very thing, sinner that I am," returned the Student. "To a
certainty I must have left it in bad hands, since it has been stolen
from me." "I say the same," rejoined Cortado, "but there is a remedy for
every misfortune excepting death. The best thing your worship can do
now is to have patience, for after all it is God who has made us, and
after one day there comes another. If one hour gives us wealth, another
takes it away; but it may happen that the man who has stolen your purse
may in time repent, and may return it to your worship, with all the
interest due on the loan."
"The interest I will forgive him," exclaimed the Student; and Cortado
resumed:--"There are, besides, those letters of excommunication, the
Paulinas;[15] and there is also good diligence in seeking for the thief,
which is the mother of success. Of a truth, Sir, I would not willingly
be in the place of him who has stolen your purse; for if your worship
have received any of the sacred orders, I should feel as if I had been
guilty of some great crime--nay of sacrilege--in stealing from your
person."
[15] _Paulinas_ are the letters of excommunication despatched by the
ecclesiastical courts for the discovery of such things as are supposed
to be stolen or maliciously concealed.
"Most certainly the thief has committed a sacrilege," replied the
Student, in pitiable tones; "for although I am not in orders, but am
only a Sacristan of certain nuns, yet the money in my purse was the
third of the income due from a chapelry, which I had been commissioned
to receive by a priest, who is one of my friends, so that the purse
does, in fact, contain blessed and sacred money."
"Let him eat his sin with his bread," exclaimed Rincon at that moment;
"I should be sorry to become bail for the profit he will obtain from it.
There will be a day of judgment at the last, when all things will have
to pass, as they say, through the holes of the colander, and it will
then be known who was the scoundrel that has had the audacity to plunder
and make off with the whole third of the revenue of a chapelry! But tell
me, Mr. Sacristan, on your life, what is the amount of the whole yearly
income?"
"Income to the devil, and you with it,[16]" replied the Sacristan, with
more rage than was becoming; "am I in a humour to talk to you about
income? Tell me, brother, if you know anything of the purse; if not, God
be with you--I must go and have it cried."
[16] (This footnote is missing from the printed edition.)
"That does not seem to me so bad a remedy," remarked Cortado; "but I
warn your worship not to forget the precise description of the purse,
nor the exact sum that it contains; for if you commit the error of a
single mite, the money will never be suffered to appear again while the
world is a world, and that you may take for a prophecy."
"I am not afraid of committing any mistake in describing the purse,"
returned the Sacristan, "for I remember it better than I do the ringing
of my bells, and I shall not commit the error of an atom." Saying this,
he drew a laced handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away the
perspiration which rained down his face as from an alembic; but no
sooner had Cortado set eyes on the handkerchief, than he marked it for
his own.
When the Sacristan had got to a certain distance, therefore, Cortado
followed, and having overtaken him as he was mounting the steps of a
church, he took him apart, and poured forth so interminable a string of
rigmarole, all about the theft of the purse, and the prospect of
recovering it, that the poor Sacristan could do nothing but listen with
open mouth, unable to make head or tail of what he said, although he
made him repeat it two or three times.
Cortado meanwhile continued to look fixedly into the eyes of the
Sacristan, whose own were rivetted on the face of the boy, and seemed to
hang, as it were, on his words. This gave Cortado an opportunity to
finish his job, and having cleverly whipped the handkerchief out of the
pocket, he took leave of the Sacristan, appointing to meet him in the
evening at the same place, for he suspected that a certain lad of his
own height and the same occupation, who was a bit of a thief, had stolen
the purse, and he should be able to ascertain the fact in a few days,
more or less.
Somewhat consoled by this promise, the Sacristan took his leave of
Cortado, who then returned to the place where Rincon had privily
witnessed all that had passed. But a little behind him stood another
basket-boy, who had also seen the whole transaction; and at the moment
when Cortado passed the handkerchief to Rincon, the stranger accosted
the pair.
"Tell me, gallant gentlemen," said he, "are you admitted to the Mala
Entrada,[17] or not?"
[17] _Mala Entrada_, the evil way.
"We do not understand your meaning, noble Sir," replied Rincon.
"How! not entered, brave Murcians?" replied the other.
"We are neither of Murcia[18] nor of Thebes," replied Cortado. "If you
have anything else to say to us, speak; if not, go your ways, and God be
with you."
[18] In the slang dialect of Spain, _Murcian_ and _Murcia_, mean thief,
and the land of thieves.
"Oh, your worships do not understand, don't you?" said the porter; "but
I will soon make you understand, and even sup up my meaning with a
silver spoon. I mean to ask you, gentlemen, are your worships thieves?
But why put the question, since I see well that you are thieves; and it
is rather for you to tell me how it is that you have not presented
yourselves at the custom-house of the Señor Monipodio."
"Do they then pay duty on the right of thieving in this country, gallant
Sir?" exclaimed Rincon.
"If they do not pay duty, at least they make them register themselves
with the Señor Monipodio, who is the father, master, and protector of
thieves; and I recommend you to come with me and pay your respects to
him forthwith, or, if you refuse to do that, make no attempt to exercise
your trade without his mark and pass-word, or it will cost you dearly."
"I thought, for my part," remarked Cortado, "that the profession of
thieving was a free one, exempt from all taxes and port dues; or, at
least, that if we must pay, it is something to be levied in the lump,
for which we give a mortgage upon our shoulders and our necks; but since
it is as you say, and every land has its customs, let us pay due respect
to this of yours; we are now in the first country of the world, and
without doubt the customs of the place must be in the highest degree
judicious. Wherefore your worship may be pleased to conduct us to the
place where this gentleman of whom you have spoken is to be found. I
cannot but suppose, from what you say, that he is much honoured, of
great power and influence, of very generous nature, and, above all,
highly accomplished in the profession."
"Honoured, generous, and accomplished! do you say?" replied the boy:
"aye, that he is; so much so, that during the four years that he has
held the seat of our chief and father, only four of us have suffered at
Finibusterry;[19] some thirty or so, and not more, have lost leather;
and but sixty-two have been lagged."
[19] _In finibus terræ_, that is to say, at the gallows, or garotte,
which to the thief is the end of the earth and all things.
"Truly, Sir," rejoined Rincon, "all this is Hebrew to us; we know no
more about it than we do of flying."
"Let us be jogging, then," replied the new-comer, "and on the way I will
explain to you these and other things, which it is requisite you should
know as pat as bread to mouth;" and, accordingly, he explained to them a
whole vocabulary of that thieves' Latin which they call Germanesco, or
Gerigonza, and which their guide used in the course of his lecture,--by
no means a short one, for the distance they had to traverse was of
considerable length.
On the road, Rincon said to his new acquaintance, "Does your worship
happen to be a Thief?"
"Yes," replied the lad, "I have that honour, for the service of God and
of all good people; but I cannot boast of being among the most
distinguished, since I am as yet but in the year of my novitiate."
"It is news to me," remarked Cortado, "that there are thieves for the
service of God and of good people."
"Señor," the other replied, "I don't meddle with theology; but this I
know, that every one may serve God in his vocation, the more so as daddy
Monipodio keeps such good order in that respect among all his children."
"His must needs be a holy and edifying command," rejoined Rincon, "since
it enjoins thieves to serve God."
"It is so holy and edifying," exclaimed the stranger, "that I don't
believe a better will ever be known in our trade. His orders are that we
give something by way of alms out of all we steal, to buy oil for the
lamp of a highly venerated image, well known in this city; and we have
really seen great things result from that good work. Not many days ago,
one of our _cuatreros_ had to take three _ansias_ for having come the
Murcian over a couple of _roznos_, and although he was but a poor weak
fellow, and ill of the fever to boot, he bore them all without singing
out, as though they had been mere trifles. This we of the profession
attribute to his particular devotion to the Virgin of the Lamp, for he
was so weak, that, of his own strength, he could not have endured the
first _desconcierto_ of the hangman's wrist. But now, as I guess, you
will want to know the meaning of certain words just used; I will take
physic before I am sick--that is to say, give you the explanation before
you ask for it.
"Be pleased to know then, gentlemen, that a _cuatrero_ is a stealer of
cattle, the _ansia_ is the question or torture. _Roznos_--saving your
presence--are asses, and the first _desconcierto_ is the first turn of
the cord which is given by the executioner when we are on the rack. But
we do more than burn oil to the Virgin. There is not one of us who does
not recite his rosary carefully, dividing it into portions for each day
of the week. Many will not steal at all on a Friday, and on Saturdays we
never speak to any woman who is called Mary."
"All these things fill me with admiration," replied Cortado; "but may I
trouble your worship to tell me, have you no other penance than this to
perform? Is there no restitution to make?"
"As to restitution," returned the other, "it is a thing not to be
mentioned; besides, it would be wholly impossible, on account of the
numerous portions into which things stolen have to be divided before
each one of the agents and contractors has received the part due to him.
When all these have had their share, the original thief would find it
difficult to make restitution. Moreover, there is no one to bid us do
anything of that kind, seeing that we do not go to confession. And if
letters of excommunication are out against us, they rarely come to our
knowledge, because we take care not to go into the churches while the
priests are reading them, unless, indeed, it be on the days of Jubilee,
for then we do go, on account of the vast profits we make from the
crowds of people assembled on that occasion."
"And proceeding in this manner," observed Cortado, "your worships think
that your lives are good and holy?"
"Certainly! for what is there bad in them?" replied the other lad! "Is
it not worse to be a heretic or a renegade? or to kill your father or
mother?"
"Without doubt," admitted Cortado; "but now, since our fate has decided
that we are to enter this brotherhood, will your worship be pleased to
step out a little, for I am dying to behold this Señor Monipodio, of
whose virtues you relate such fine things."
"That wish shall soon be gratified," replied the stranger, "nay even
from this place we can perceive his house: but your worships must remain
at the door until I have gone in to see if he be disengaged, since these
are the hours at which he gives audience."
"So be it," replied Rincon; and the thief preceding them for a short
distance, they saw him enter a house which, so far from being handsome,
had a very mean and wretched appearance. The two friends remained at the
door to await their guide, who soon reappeared, and called to them to
come in. He then bade them remain for the present in a little paved
court, or patio,[20] so clean and carefully rubbed that the red bricks
shone as if covered with the finest vermilion. On one side of the court
was a three-legged stool, before which stood a large pitcher with the
lip broken off, and on the top of the pitcher was placed a small jug
equally dilapidated. On the other side lay a rush mat, and in the middle
was a fragment of crockery which did service as the recipient of some
sweet basil.
[20] The _Patio_, familiar to all who have visited Seville, as forming
the centre of the houses, and which serves in summer as the general
sitting-room, so to speak, of the family.
The two boys examined these moveables attentively while awaiting the
descent of the Señor Monipodio, but finding that he delayed his
appearance, Rincon ventured to put his head into one of two small rooms
which opened on the court. There he saw two fencing foils, and two
bucklers of cork hung upon four nails; there was also a great chest, but
without a lid or anything to cover it, with three rush mats extended on
the floor. On the wall in face of him was pasted a figure of Our
Lady--one of the coarsest of prints--and beneath it was a small basket
of straw, with a little vessel of white earthenware sunk into the wall.
The basket Rincon took to be a poor box, for receiving alms, and the
little basin he supposed to be a receptacle for holy water, as in truth
they were.
While the friends thus waited, there came into the court two young men
of some twenty years each; they were clothed as students, and were
followed soon afterwards by two of the basket boys or porters, and a
blind man. Neither spoke a word to the other, but all began to walk up
and down in the court. No long time elapsed before there also came in
two old men clothed in black serge, and with spectacles on their noses,
which gave them an air of much gravity, and made them look highly
respectable: each held in his hand a rosary, the beads of which made a
ringing sound. Behind these men came an old woman wearing a long and
ample gown, who, without uttering a word, proceeded at once to the room
wherein was the figure of Our Lady. She then took holy water with the
greatest devotion, placed herself on her knees before the Virgin, and
after remaining there a considerable time, first kissed the soil thrice,
and then rising, lifted her arms and eyes towards heaven, in which
attitude she remained a certain time longer. She then dropped her alms
into the little wicker case--and that done, she issued forth among the
company in the patio.
Finally there were assembled in the court as many as fourteen persons of
various costumes and different professions. Among the latest arrivals
were two dashing and elegant youths with long moustachios, hats of
immense brims, broad collars, stiffly starched, coloured stockings,
garters with great bows and fringed ends, swords of a length beyond that
permitted by law, and each having a pistol in his belt, with a buckler
hanging on his arm. No sooner had these men entered, than they began to
look askance at Rincon and Cortado, whom they were evidently surprised
to see there, as persons unknown to themselves. At length the new-comers
accosted the two friends, asking if they were of the brotherhood. "We
are so," replied Rincon, "and the very humble servants of your worships
besides."
At this moment the Señor Monipodio honoured the respectable assembly
with his welcome presence. He appeared to be about five or six-and-forty
years old, tall, and of dark complexion; his eyebrows met on his
forehead, his black beard was very thick, and his eyes were deeply sunk
in his head. He had come down in his shirt, through the opening of which
was seen a hairy bosom, as rough and thick set as a forest of brushwood.
Over his shoulders was thrown a serge cloak, reaching nearly to his
feet, which were cased in old shoes, cut down to make slippers; his legs
were covered with a kind of linen gaiters, wide and ample, which fell
low upon his ankles. His hat was that worn by those of the Hampa,
bell-formed in the crown, and very wide in the brim.[21] Across his
breast was a leather baldric, supporting a broad, short sword of the
_perrillo_ fashion.[22] His hands were short and coarse, the fingers
thick, and the nails much flattened: his legs were concealed by the
gaiters, but his feet were of immoderate size, and the most clumsy form.
In short, he was the coarsest and most repulsive barbarian ever beheld.
With him came the conductor of the two friends; who, taking Rincon and
Cortado each by a hand, presented them to Monipodio, saying, "These are
the two good boys of whom I spoke to your worship, Señor Monipodio. May
it please your worship to examine them, and you will see how well they
are prepared to enter our brotherhood." "That I will do willingly,"
replied Monipodio.
[21] The Braves of the Hampa were a horde of ruffians principally
Andalusians; they formed a society ready to commit every species of
wrong and violence.
[22] The _perrillo_, or "little dog," was the mark of Julian del Rey, a
noted armourer of Toledo, by birth a Morisco.
But I had forgotten to say, that when Monipodio had first appeared, all
those who were waiting for him, made a deep and long reverence, the two
dashing cavaliers alone excepted, who did but just touch their hats, and
then continued their walk up and down the court.
Monipodio also began to pace up and down the patio, and, as he did so,
he questioned the new disciples as to their trade, their birthplace, and
their parents. To this Rincon replied, "Our trade is sufficiently
obvious, since we are here before your worship; as to our country, it
does not appear to me essential to the matter in hand that we should
declare it, any more than the names of our parents, since we are not now
stating our qualifications for admission into some noble order of
knighthood."
"What you say, my son, is true, as well as discreet," replied Monipodio;
"and it is, without doubt, highly prudent to conceal those
circumstances; for if things should turn out badly, there is no need to
have placed upon the books of register, and under the sign manual of the
justice-clerk, 'So and so, native of such a place, was hanged, or made
to dance at the whipping-post, on such a day,' with other announcements
of the like kind, which, to say the least of them, do not sound
agreeable in respectable ears. Thus, I repeat, that to conceal the name
and abode of your parents, and even to change your own proper
appellation, are prudent measures. Between ourselves there must,
nevertheless, be no concealment: for the present I will ask your names
only, but these you must give me."
Rincon then told his name, and so did Cortado: whereupon Monipodio said,
"Henceforward I request and desire that you, Rincon, call yourself
Rinconete, and you, Cortado, Cortadillo; these being names which accord,
as though made in a mould, with your age and circumstances, as well as
with our ordinances, which make it needful that we should also know the
names of the parents of our comrades, because it is our custom to have a
certain number of masses said every year for the souls of our dead, and
of the benefactors of our society; and we provide for the payment of the
priests who say them, by setting apart a share of our swag for that
purpose.
"These masses, thus said and paid for, are of great service to the souls
aforesaid. Among our benefactors we count the Alguazil, who gives us
warning; the Advocate, who defends us; the Executioner, who takes pity
upon us when we have to be whipped, and the man who, when we are running
along the street, and the people in full cry after us bawling 'Stop
thief,' throws himself between us and our pursuers, and checks the
torrent, saying, 'Let the poor wretch alone, his lot is hard enough; let
him go, and his crime will be his punishment.' We also count among our
benefactors the good wenches who aid us by their labours while we are in
prison, or at the galleys; our fathers, and the mothers who brought us
into the world; and, finally, we take care to include the Clerk of the
Court, for if he befriend us, there is no crime which he will not find
means to reduce to a slight fault, and no fault which he does not
prevent from being punished. For all these our brotherhood causes the
_sanctimonies_ (ceremonies) I have named to be _solecised_ (solemnised)
every year, with all possible _grandiloquence_.
"Certainly," replied Rinconete (now confirmed in that name), "certainly
that is a good work, and entirely worthy of the lofty and profound
genius with which we have heard that you, Señor Monipodio, are endowed.
Our parents still enjoy life; but should they precede us to the tomb,
we will instantly give notice of that circumstance to this happy and
highly esteemed fraternity, to the end that you may have 'sanctimonies
solecised' for their souls, as your worship is pleased to say, with the
customary 'grandiloquence.'"
"And so shall it be done," returned Monipodio, "if there be but a piece
of me left alive to look to it."
He then called their conductor, saying, "Hallo! there, Ganchuelo![23] Is
the watch set?" "Yes," replied the boy; "three sentinels are on guard,
and there is no fear of a surprise." "Let us return to business, then,"
said Monipodio. "I would fain know from you, my sons, what you are able
to do, that I may assign you an employment in conformity with your
inclinations and accomplishments."
[23] _Ganchuelo_ is the diminutive of _gancho_, a crimp.
"I," replied Rinconete, "know a trick or two to gammon a bumpkin; I am
not a bad hand at hiding what a pal has prigged; I have a good eye for a
gudgeon; I play well at most games of cards, and have all the best turns
of the pasteboard at my finger ends; I have cut my eye teeth, and am
about as easy to lay hold of as a hedgehog; I can creep through a
cat-hole or down a chimney, as I would enter the door of my father's
house; and will muster a million of tricks better than I could marshal a
regiment of soldiers; and flabbergast the knowingest cove a deal sooner
than pay back a loan of two reals."
"These are certainly the rudiments," admitted Monipodio, "but all such
things are no better than old lavender flowers, so completely worn out
of all savour that there is not a novice who may not boast of being a
master in them. They are good for nothing but to catch simpletons who
are stupid enough to run their heads against the church steeple; but
time will do much for you, and we must talk further together. On the
foundation already laid you shall have half a dozen lessons; and I then
trust in God that you will turn out a famous craftsman, and even,
mayhap, a master."
"My abilities shall always be at your service, and that of the gentlemen
who are our comrades," replied Rinconete; and Monipodio then turned
towards Cortadillo.
"And you, Cortadillo, what may you be good for?" he inquired; to which
Cortadillo replied, "For my part I know the trick called 'put in two,
and take out five,' and I can dive to the bottom of a pocket with great
precision and dexterity." "Do you know nothing more?" continued
Monipodio. "Alas, no, for my sins, that is all I can do," admitted
Cortadillo, "Do not afflict yourself, nevertheless," said the master;
"you are arrived at a good port, where you will not be drowned, and you
enter a school in which you can hardly fail to learn all that is
requisite for your future welfare. And now as to courage: how do you
feel yourselves provided in that respect, my children?" "How should we
be provided," returned Rinconete, "but well and amply? We have courage
enough to attempt whatever may be demanded in our art and profession."
"But I would have you to possess a share of that sort which would enable
you to suffer as well as to dare," replied Monipodio, "which would carry
you, if need were, through a good half dozen of _ansias_ without opening
your lips, and without once saying 'This mouth is mine.'" "We already
know what the _ansias_ are, Señor Monipodio," replied Cortadillo, "and
are prepared for all; since we are not so ignorant but that we know very
well, that what the tongue says, the throat must pay for; and great is
the grace heaven bestows on the bold man (not to give him a different
name), in making his life or death depend upon the discretion of his
tongue, as though there were more letters in a No than an Aye."
"Halt there, my son; you need say no more," exclaimed Monipodio at this
point of the discourse. "The words you have just uttered suffice to
convince, oblige, persuade, and constrain me at once to admit you both
to full brotherhood, and dispense with your passing through the year of
novitiate."
"I also am of that opinion," said one of the gaily-dressed Bravos; and
this was the unanimous feeling of the whole assembly. They therefore
requested that Monipodio would immediately grant the new brethren the
enjoyment of all the immunities of their confraternity, seeing that
their good mien and judicious discourse proved them to be entirely
deserving of that distinction.
Monipodio replied, that, to satisfy the wishes of all, he at once
conferred on those new-comers all the privileges desired, but he
exhorted the recipients to remember that they were to hold the favour in
high esteem, since it was a very great one: consisting in the exemption
from payment of the _media anata_, or tax levied on the first theft they
should commit, and rendering them free of all the inferior occupations
of their office for the entire year. They were not obliged, that is to
say, to bear messages to a brother of higher grade, whether in prison or
at his own residence. They were permitted to drink their wine without
water, and to make a feast when and where they pleased, without first
demanding permission of their principal. They were, furthermore, to
enter at once on a full share of whatever was brought in by the superior
brethren, as one of themselves--with many other privileges, which the
new comers accepted as most signal favours, and on the possession of
which they were felicitated by all present, in the most polite and
complimentary terms.
While these pleasing ceremonies were in course of being exchanged, a boy
ran in, panting for breath, and cried out, "The Alguazil of the
vagabonds is coming direct to the house, but he has none of the
Marshalsea men with him."
"Let no one disturb himself," said Monipodio. "This is a friend; never
does he come here for our injury. Calm your anxiety, and I will go out
to speak with him." At these words all resumed their self-possession,
for they had been considerably alarmed; and Monipodio went forth to the
door of his house, where he found the Alguazil, with whom he remained
some minutes in conversation, and then returned to the company. "Who was
on guard to-day," he asked, "in the market of San Salvador?" "I was,"
replied the conductor of our two friends, the estimable Ganchuelo.
"You!" replied Monipodio. "How then does it happen that you have not
given notice of an amber-coloured purse which has gone astray there this
morning, and has carried with it fifteen crowns in gold, two double
reals, and I know not how many quartos?"
"It is true," replied Ganchuelo, "that this purse has disappeared, but
it was not I took it, nor can I imagine who has done so." "Let there be
no tricks with me," exclaimed Monipodio; "the purse must be found, since
the Alguazil demands it, and he is a friend who finds means to do us a
thousand services in the course of the year." The youth again swore
that he knew nothing about it, while Monipodio's choler began to rise,
and in a moment flames seemed to dart from his eyes. "Let none of you
dare," he shouted, "to venture on infringing the most important rule of
our order, for he who does so shall pay for it with his life. Let the
purse be found, and if any one has been concealing it to avoid paying
the dues, let him now give it up. I will make good to him all that he
would have been entitled to, and out of my own pocket too; for, come
what may, the Alguazil must not be suffered to depart without
satisfaction." But Ganchuelo could do no more than repeat, with all
manner of oaths and imprecations, that he had neither taken the purse,
nor ever set eyes on it.
All this did but lay fuel on the flame of Monipodio's anger, and the
entire assembly partook of his emotions; the honourable members
perceiving that their statutes were violated, and their wise ordinances
infringed. Seeing, therefore, that the confusion and alarm had now got
to such a height, Rinconete began to think it time to allay it, and to
calm the anger of his superior, who was bursting with rage. He took
counsel for a moment with Cortadillo, and receiving his assent, drew
forth the purse of the Sacristan, saying:--
"Let all questions cease, gentlemen: here is the purse, from which
nothing is missing that the Alguazil has described, since my comrade
Cortadillo prigged it this very day, with a pocket-handkerchief into the
bargain, which he borrowed from the same owner." Thereupon Cortadillo
produced the handkerchief before the assembled company.
Seeing this, Monipodio exclaimed "Cortadillo the Good! for by that title
and surname shall you henceforward be distinguished. Keep the
handkerchief, and I take it upon myself to pay you duly for this
service; as to the purse, the Alguazil must carry it away just as it is,
for it belongs to a Sacristan who happens to be his relation, and we
must make good in his case the proverb, which says, 'To him who gives
thee the entire bird, thou canst well afford a drumstick of the same.'
This good Alguazil can save us from more mischief in one day than we can
do him good in a hundred."
All the brotherhood with one voice approved the spirit and gentlemanly
proceeding of the two new comers, as well as the judgment and decision
of their superior, who went out to restore the purse to the Alguazil.
As to Cortadillo, he was confirmed in his title of the _Good_, much as
if the matter had concerned a Don Alonzo Perez de Guzman, surnamed the
Good, who from the walls of Tarifa threw down to his enemy the dagger
that was to destroy the life of his only son.[24]
[24] Our readers will perceive that this relates to the atrocity
committed by the Infant Don Juan of Castille, who, while in revolt
against his brother, Sancho IV., appeared before the city of Tarifa with
an army, chiefly composed of Mahometans; finding the infant son of the
governor, Don Alonzo Perez de Guzman, at nurse in a neighbouring
village, he took the child, and bearing him to the foot of the walls,
called on Guzman to surrender the place on pain of seeing his infant
slaughtered before his eyes in case of refusal. The only reply
vouchsafed by Don Alonzo was the horrible one alluded to in the text. He
detached his own dagger from its belt, and threw it to Don Juan, when
the sanguinary monster, far from respecting the fidelity of his
opponent, seized the weapon, and pierced the babe to the heart as he had
threatened to do This anecdote is related, with certain variations, in
Conde, "La Dominacion de los Arabes en Espana."--See English
Translation, vol. iii.
When Monipodio returned to the assembly he was accompanied by two girls,
with rouged faces, lips reddened with carmine, and necks plastered with
white. They wore short camlet cloaks, and exhibited airs of the utmost
freedom and boldness. At the first glance Rinconete and Cortadillo could
see what was the profession of these women. They had no sooner entered,
than they hurried with open arms, the one to Chiquiznaque, the other to
Maniferro; these were the two bravos, one of whom bore the latter name
because he had an iron hand, in place of one of his own, which had been
cut off by the hand of justice. These two men embraced the girls with
great glee, and inquired if they had brought the wherewithal to moisten
their throats. "How could we think of neglecting that, old blade!"
replied one of the girls, who was called Gananciosa.[25] "Silvatillo,
your scout, will be here before long with the clothes-basket, crammed
with whatever good luck has sent us."
[25] The winner.
And true it was; for an instant afterwards, a boy entered with a
clothes-basket covered with a sheet.
The whole company renewed their rejoicings on the arrival of Silvatillo,
and Monipodio instantly ordered that one of the mats should be brought
from the neighbouring chamber, and laid out in the centre of the court.
Furthermore he commanded that all the brotherhood should take places
around it, in order that while they were taking the wrinkles out of
their stomachs, they might talk about business.
To this proposal the old woman, who had been kneeling before the image,
replied, "Monipodio, my son, I am not in the humour to keep festival
this morning, for during the last two days I have had a giddiness and
pain in my head, that go near to make me mad; I must, besides, be at our
Lady of the Waters before mid-day strikes, having to accomplish my
devotions and offer my candles there, as well as at the crucifix of St.
Augustin; for I would not fail to do either, even though it were to snow
all day and blow a hurricane. What I came here for is to tell you, that
last night the Renegade and Centipede brought to my house a basket
somewhat larger than that now before us; it was as full as it could hold
of fine linen, and, on my life and soul, it was still wet and covered
with soap, just as they had taken it from under the nose of the
washerwoman, so that the poor fellows were perspiring and breathless
beneath its weight. It would have melted your heart to see them as they
came in, with the water streaming from their faces, and they as red as a
couple of cherubs. They told me, besides, that they were in pursuit of a
cattle-dealer, who had just had some sheep weighed at the
slaughter-house, and they were then hastening off to see if they could
not contrive to grab a great cat[26] which the dealer carried with him.
They could not, therefore, spare time to count the linen, or take it out
of the basket but they relied on the rectitude of my conscience; and so
may God grant my honest desires, and preserve us all from the power of
justice, as these fingers have refrained from touching the basket, which
is as full as the day it was born."
[26] A large purse made of cat-skin.
"We cannot doubt it, good mother," replied Monipodio. "Let the basket
remain where it is; I will come at nightfall to fetch it away, and will
then ascertain the quantity and quality of its contents, giving to every
one the portion, due to him, faithfully and truly, as it is my habit to
do."
"Let it be as you shall command," rejoined the old woman; "and now, as
it is getting late, give me something to drink, if you have it
there--something that will comfort this miserable stomach, which is
almost famishing for want."
"That you shall have, and enough of it, mother," exclaimed Escalanta,
the companion of Gananciosa; and, uncovering the basket, she displayed a
great leather bottle, containing at least two arrobas[27] of wine, with
a cup made of cork, in which you might comfortably carry off an
azumbre,[28] or honest half-gallon of the same. This Escalanta now
filled, and placed it in the hands of the devout old woman, who took it
in both her own, and, having blown away a little froth from the surface,
she said,--
[27] The _arroba_ holds about thirty-two pints.
[28] The _azumbre_ is two quarts.
"You have poured out a large quantity, Escalanta, my daughter; but God
will give me strength." Whereupon, without once taking breath, and at
one draught, she poured the whole from the cup down her throat. "It is
real Guadalcanal,"[29] said the old woman, when she had taken breath;
"and yet it has just a tiny smack of the gypsum. God comfort you, my
daughter, as you have comforted me; I am only afraid that the wine may
do me some mischief, seeing that I have not yet broken my fast."
[29] A favourite wine, grown on the shore of the Manzanares.
"No, mother; it will do nothing of the kind," returned Monipodio, "for
it is three years old at the least."
"May the Virgin grant that I find it so," replied the old woman. Then
turning to the girls, "See, children," she said "whether you have not a
few maravedis to buy the candles for my offerings of devotion. I came
away in so much haste, to bring the news of the basket of linen, that I
forgot my purse, and left it at home."
"Yes, Dame Pipota,"--such was the name of the old woman,--"I have some,"
replied Gananciosa; "here are two cuartos for you, and with one of them
I beg you to buy a candle for me, which you will offer in my name to the
Señor St. Michael, or if you can get two with the money, you may place
the other at the altar of the Señor St. Blas, for those two are my
patron-saints. I also wish to give one to the Señora Santa Lucia, for
whom I have a great devotion, on account of the eyes;[30] but I have no
more change to-day, so it must be put off till another time, when I
will square accounts with all."
[30] The Virgin Martyr, Santa Lucia, had her eyes burnt out of her head,
and is regarded, in the Catholic Church, as particularly powerful in the
cure of all diseases of the eyes. She is usually represented as bearing
her eyes on a salver, which she holds in her hand.
"And you will do well, daughter," replied the old woman. "Don't be
niggard, mind. It is a good thing to carry one's own candles before one
dies, and not to wait until they are offered by the heirs and executors
of our testament."
"You speak excellently, Mother Pipota," said Escalanta; and, putting her
hand into her pocket, she drew forth a cuarto, which she gave the old
woman, requesting her to buy two candles for her likewise, and offer
them to such saints as she considered the most useful and the most
likely to be grateful. With this old Pipota departed, saying,
"Enjoy yourselves, my dears, now while you have time, for old age will
come and you will then weep for the moments you may have lost in your
youth, as I do now. Commend me to God in your prayers, and I will
remember you, as well as myself, in mine, that he may keep us all, and
preserve us in this dangerous trade of ours from all the terrors of
justice." These words concluded, the old woman went her way.
Dame Pipota having disappeared, all seated themselves round the mat,
which Gananciosa covered with the sheet in place of a table-cloth. The
first thing she drew from the basket was an immense bunch of radishes;
this was followed by a couple of dozens or more of oranges and lemons;
then came a great earthen pan filled with slices of fried ling, half a
Dutch cheese, a bottle of excellent olives, a plate of shrimps, and a
large dish of craw-fish, with their appropriate sauce of capers, drowned
in pepper-vinegar: three loaves of the whitest bread from Gandul
completed the collation. The number of guests at this breakfast was
fourteen, and not one of them failed to produce his yellow-handled
knife, Rinconete alone excepted, who drew his dudgeon dagger instead.
The two old men in serge gowns, and the lad who had been the guide of
the two friends, were charged with the office of cupbearers, pouring the
wine from the bottle into the cork cup.
But scarcely had the guests taken their places, before they were all
startled, and sprang up in haste at the, sound of repeated knocks at the
door. Bidding them remain quiet, Monipodio went into one of the lower
rooms, unhooked a buckler, took his sword in his hand, and, going to the
door, inquired, in a rough and threatening voice, "Who is there?"
"All right Señor! it is I, Tagarote,[31] on sentry this morning,"
replied a voice from without. "I come to tell you that Juliana de
Cariharta[32] is coming, with her hair all about her face, and crying
her eyes out, as though some great misfortune had happened to her."
[31] The quill-driver.
[32] Fat-face, puff-cheeks, or any other term describing fulness of
face, in the least complimentary manner.
He had scarcely spoken when the girl he had named came sobbing to the
door, which Monipodio opened for her, commanding Tagarote to return to
his post; and ordering him, moreover, to make less noise and uproar when
he should next bring notice of what was going forward,--a command to
which the boy promised attention.
Cariharta, a girl of the same class and profession with those already in
presence, had meanwhile entered the court, her hair streaming in the
wind, her eyes swollen with tears, and her face covered with contusions
and bruises. She had no sooner got into the Patio, than she fell to the
ground in a fainting fit. Gananciosa and Escalanta[33] sprang to her
assistance, unfastened her dress, and found her breast and shoulders
blackened and covered with marks of violence. After they had thrown
water on her face, she soon came to herself, crying out as she did so,
"The justice of God and the king on that shameless thief, that cowardly
cut-purse, and dirty scoundrel, whom I have saved from the gibbet more
times than he has hairs in his beard. Alas! unhappy creature that I am!
see for what I have squandered my youth, and spent the flower of my
days! For an unnatural, worthless, and incorrigible villain!"
[33] The clamberer.
"Recover yourself, and be calm, Cariharta," said Monipodio; "I am here
to render justice to you and to all. Tell me your cause of complaint,
and you shall be longer in relating the story than I will be in taking
vengeance. Let me know if anything has happened between you and your
_respeto_;[34] and if you desire to be well and duly avenged. You have
but to open your mouth."
[34] Protector, or more exactly "bully,"--to defend and uphold in acts
of fraud and violence.
"Protector!" exclaimed the girl. "What kind of a protector is he? It
were better for me to be protected in hell than to remain any longer
with that lion among sheep, and sheep among men! Will I ever eat again
with him at the same table, or live under the same roof? Rather would I
give this flesh of mine, which he has put into the state you shall see,
to be devoured alive by raging beasts." So saying, she pulled up her
petticoats to her knees, and even a little higher, and showed the wheals
with which she was covered. "That's the way," she cried, "that I have
been treated by that ungrateful Repolido,[35] who owes more to me than
to the mother that bore him.
[35] Dandy.
"And why do you suppose he has done this? Do you think I have given him
any cause?--no, truly. His only reason for serving me so was, that being
at play and losing his money, he sent Cabrillas, his scout, to me for
thirty reals, and I could only send him twenty-four. May the pains and
troubles with which I earned them be counted to me by heaven in
remission of my sins! But in return for this civility and kindness,
fancying that I had kept back part of what he chose to think I had got,
the blackguard lured me out to the fields this morning, beyond the
king's garden, and there, having stripped me among the olive trees, he
took off his belt, not even removing the iron buckle--oh that I may see
him clapped in irons and chains!--and with that he gave me such an
unmerciful flogging, that he left me for dead; and that's a true story,
as the marks you see bear witness."
Here Cariharta once more set up her pipes and craved for justice, which
was again promised to her by Monipodio and all the bravos present.
The Gananciosa then tried her hand at consoling the victim; saying to
her, among other things--"I would freely give my best gown that my fancy
man had done as much by me; for I would have you know, sister Cariharta,
if you don't know it yet, that he who loves best thrashes best; and when
these scoundrels whack us and kick us, it is then they most devoutly
adore us. Tell me now, on our life, after having beaten and abused you,
did not Repolido make much of you, and give you more than one caress?"
"More than one!" replied the weeping girl; "he gave me more than a
hundred thousand, and would have given a finger off his hand if I would
only have gone with him to his posada; nay, I even think that the tears
were almost starting from his eyes after he had leathered me."
"Not a doubt of it," replied Gananciosa; "and he would weep now to see
the state he has put you into: for men like him have scarcely committed
the fault before repentance begins. You will see, sister, if he does not
come here to look for you before we leave the place; and see if he does
not beg you to forgive what has passed, and behave to you as meek and as
humble as a lamb."
"By my faith," observed Monipodio, "the cowardly ruffian shall not enter
these doors until he has made full reparation for the offence he has
committed. How dare he lay a hand on poor Cariharta, who for cleanliness
and industry is a match for Gananciosa herself, and that is saying
everything."
"Alas! Señor Monipodio," replied Juliana, "please do not speak too
severely of the miserable fellow; for, hard as he is, I cannot but love
him as I do the very folds of my heart; and the words spoken in his
behalf by my friend Gananciosa have restored the soul to my body. Of a
truth, if I consulted only my own wishes, I should go this moment and
look for him."
"No, no," replied Gananciosa, "you shall not do so by my counsel; for to
do that would make him proud; he would think too much of himself, and
would make experiments upon you as on a dead body. Keep quiet, sister,
and in a short time you will see him here repentant, as I have said; and
if not, we will write verses on him that shall make him roar with rage."
"Let us write by all means," returned Juliana, "for I have a thousand
things to say to him."
"And I will be your secretary, if need be," rejoined Monipodio, "for
although I am no poet, yet a man has but to tuck up the sleeves of his
shirt, set well to work, and he may turn off a couple of thousand verses
in the snapping of a pair of scissors. Besides, if the rhymes should not
come so readily as one might wish, I have a friend close by, a barber,
who is a great poet, and will trim up the ends of the verses at an
hour's notice. At present, however, let us go finish our repast; all the
rest can be done afterwards."
Juliana was not unwilling to obey her superior, so they all fell to
again at the O-be-joyful with so much goodwill that they soon saw the
bottom of the basket and the dregs of the great leather bottle. The old
ones drank _sine fine_, the younger men to their hearts' content, and
the ladies till they could drink no more. When all was consumed, the two
old men begged permission to take their leave, which Monipodio allowed
them to do, but charged them to return punctually, for the purpose of
reporting all they should see or hear that could be useful to the
brotherhood; they assured him they would by no means fail in their duty,
and then departed.
After these gentlemen had left the company, Rinconete, who was of a very
inquiring disposition, begged leave to ask Monipodio in what way two
persons so old, grave, and formal as those he had just seen, could be of
service to their community. Monipodio replied, that such were called
"Hornets" in their jargon, and that their office was to poke about all
parts of the city, spying out such places as might be eligible for
attempts to be afterwards made in the night-time. "They watch people who
receive money from the bank or treasury," said he, "observe where they
go with it, and, if possible, the very place in which it is deposited.
When this is done, they make themselves acquainted with the thickness of
the walls, marking out the spot where we may most conveniently make our
_guzpataros_, which are the holes whereby we contrive to force an
entrance. In a word, these persons are among the most useful of the
brotherhood: and they receive a fifth of all that the community obtains
by their intervention, as his majesty does, on treasure trove. They are,
moreover, men of singular integrity and rectitude. They lead a
respectable life, and enjoy a good reputation, fearing God and regarding
the voice of their consciences, insomuch that not a day passes over
their heads in which they have not heard mass with extraordinary
devotion. There are, indeed, some of them so conscientious, that they
content themselves with even less than by our rules would be their due.
Those just gone are of this number. We have two others, whose trade it
is to remove furniture; and as they are daily employed in the conveyance
of articles for persons who are changing their abode, they know all the
ins and outs of every house in the city, and can tell exactly where we
may hope for profit and where not."
"That is all admirable," replied Rinconete, "and greatly do I desire to
be of some use to so noble a confraternity."
"Heaven is always ready to favour commendable desires," replied
Monipodio.
While the two were thus discoursing, a knock was heard at the door, and
Monipodio went to see who might be there. "Open, Sor[36]
Monipodio--open," said a voice without; "it is I, Repolido."
[36] _Sor_ the contraction of Señor.
Cariharta hearing this voice, began to lift up her own to heaven, and
cried out, "Don't open the door, Señor Monipodio; don't let in that
Tarpeian mariner--that tiger of Ocaña."[37]
[37] "Ocaña" is a city at no great distance from Madrid; and if the lady
has placed her tiger there, instead of in Hyrcania, as she doubtless
intended, it is of course because her emotions had troubled her memory.
The "Tarpeian mariner" is a fine phrase surely, but its meaning is not
very clear.
Monipodio opened the door, nevertheless, in despite of her cries; when
Cariharta, starting to her feet, hurried away, and hid herself in the
room where the bucklers were hung up. There, bolting the door, she
bawled from her refuge, "Drive out that black-visaged coward, that
murderer of innocents, that white-livered terror of house-lambs, who
durst not look a man in the face."
Repolido was meanwhile kept back by Maniferro and Chiquiznaque, as he
struggled with all his might to get into the room where Cariharta was
hidden. But when he saw that to be impossible, he called to her from
without, "Come, come, let us have done with this, my little sulky; by
your life, let us have peace, as you would wish to be married."
"Married!" retorted the lady, "married to you too! Don't you wish you
may get it? See what kind of a string he's playing on now. I would
rather be married to a dead notomy." "Oh, bother!" exclaimed Repolido;
"let us have done with this, for it is getting late; take care of being
too much puffed up at hearing me speak so gently, and seeing me so meek;
for, by the light of heaven, if my rage should get steeple-high, the
relapse will be worse than the first fit. Come down from your stilts,
let us all have done with our _tantrums_, and not give the devil a
dinner."
"I will give him a supper to boot, if he will take you from my sight to
some place where I may never set eyes on you more," exclaimed the gentle
Juliana from within.
"Haven't I told you once to beware, Madame Hemp-sack? By the powers, I
suspect I must serve out something to you by the dozen, though I make no
charge for it."
Here Monipodio interposed: "In my presence," he said, "there shall be no
violence. Cariharta will come out, not for your threats, but for my
sake, and all will go well. Quarrels between people who love each other
are but the cause of greater joy and pleasure when peace is once made.
Listen to me, Juliana, my daughter; listen to me, my Cariharta. Come out
to us, for the love of your friend Monipodio, and I will make Repolido
beg your pardon on his knees."
"Ah! if he will do that," exclaimed Escalanta, "we shall then be all on
his side, and will entreat Juliana to come out."
"If I am asked to beg pardon in a sense of submission that would
dishonour my person," replied Repolido, "an army of lansquenets would
not make me consent; but if it be merely in the way of doing pleasure to
Cariharta, I do not say merely that I would go on my knees, but I would
drive a nail into my forehead to do her service."
At these words Chiquiznaque and Maniferro began to laugh, and Repolido,
who thought they were making game of him, cried out in a transport of
rage, "Whoever shall laugh or think of laughing at anything whatsoever
that may pass between Cariharta and myself, I say that he lies, and that
he will have lied every time he shall laugh or think of laughing."
Hearing this, Chiquiznaque and Maniferro looked at each other and
scowled so sternly, that Monipodio saw things were likely to come to a
crisis unless he prevented it. Throwing himself, therefore, into the
midst of the group, he cried out, "No more of this, gentlemen! have done
with all big words; grind them up between your teeth; and since those
that have been said do not reach to the belt, let no one here apply them
to himself."
"We are very sure," replied Chiquiznaque, "that such admonitions neither
have been nor will be uttered for our benefit; otherwise, or if it
should be imagined that they were addressed to us, the tambourine is in
hands that would well know how to beat it."
"We also, Sor Chiquiznaque, have our drum of Biscay," retorted
Repolido, "and, in case of need, can make the bells as well as another.
I have already said, that whoever jests in our matters is a liar: and
whoever thinks otherwise, let him follow me; with a palm's length of my
sword I will show him that what is said is said." Having uttered these
words, Repolido turned towards the outer door, and proceeded to leave
the place.
Cariharta had meanwhile been listening to all this, and when she found
that Repolido was departing in anger, she rushed out, screaming, "Hold
him, hold him,--don't let him go, or he will be showing us some more of
his handiwork; can't you see that he is angry? and he is a Judas
Macarelo in the matter of bravery. Come here, Hector of the world and of
my eyes!" With these words, Cariharta threw herself upon the retiring
bravo, and held him with all her force by his cloak. Monipodio lent her
his aid, and between them they contrived to detain him.
Chiquiznaque and Maniferro, undetermined whether to resume the dispute
or not, stood waiting apart to see what Repolido would do, and the
latter perceiving himself to be in the hands of Monipodio and Cariharta,
exclaimed, "Friends should never annoy friends, nor make game of
friends, more especially when they see that friends are vexed."
"There is not a friend here," replied Maniferro, "who has any desire to
vex a friend; and since we are all friends, let us give each other the
hand like friends." "Your worships have all spoken like good friends,"
added Monipodio, "and as such friends should do; now finish by giving
each other your hands like true friends."
All obeyed instantly, whereupon Escalanta, whipping off her cork-soled
clog, began to play upon it as if it had been a tambourine. Gananciosa,
in her turn, caught up a broom, and, scratching the rushes with her
fingers, drew forth a sound which, if not soft or sweet, yet agreed very
well with the beating of the slipper. Monipodio then broke a plate, the
two fragments of which he rattled together in such fashion as to make a
very praiseworthy accompaniment to the slipper and the broom.
Rinconete and Cortadillo stood in much admiration of that new invention
of the broom, for up to that time they had seen nothing like it.
Maniferro perceived their amazement, and said to them, "The broom
awakens your admiration,--and well it may, since a more convenient kind
of instrument was never invented in this world, nor one more readily
formed, or less costly. Upon my life, I heard a student the other day
affirm, that neither the man who fetched his wife out of hell--Negrofeo,
Ogrofeo, or what was he called--nor that Marion who got upon a dolphin,
and came out of the sea like a man riding on a hired mule--nor even that
other great musician who built a city with a hundred gates and as many
posterns--never a one of them invented an instrument half so easy of
acquirement, so ready to the touch, so pleasing and simple as to its
frets, keys, and chords, and so far from troublesome in the tuning and
keeping in accord; and by all the saints, they swear that it was
invented by a gallant of this very city, a perfect Hector in matters of
music."
"I fully believe all you say," replied Rinconete, "but let us listen,
for our musicians are about to sing. Gananciosa is blowing her nose,
which is a certain sign that she means to sing."
And she was, in fact, preparing to do so. Monipodio had requested her to
give the company some of the Seguidillas most in vogue at the moment.
But the first to begin was Escalanta, who sang as follows, in a thin
squeaking voice:--
"For a boy of Sevilla,
Red as a Dutchman,
All my heart's in flame."
To which Gananciosa replied, taking up the measure as she best might--
"For the little brown lad,
With a good bright eye,
Who would not lose her name?"
Then Monipodio, making great haste to perform a symphony with his pieces
of platter, struck in--
"Two lovers dear, fall out and fight,
But soon, to make their peace, take leisure;
And all the greater was the row,
So much the greater is the pleasure."
But Cariharta had no mind to enjoy her recovered happiness in silence
and fingering another clog, she also entered the dance, joining her
voice to those of her friends, in the following words--
"Pause, angry lad! and do not beat me more,
For 'tis thine own dear flesh that thou dost baste,
If thou but well consider, and--"
"Fair and soft," exclaimed Repolido, at that moment, "give us no old
stories, there's no good in that. Let bygones be bygones! Choose another
gait, girl; we've had enough of that one."
The canticle, for a moment interrupted by these words, was about to
recommence, and would not, apparently, have soon come to an end, had not
the performers been disturbed by violent knocks at the door. Monipodio
hastened to see who was there, and found one of his sentinels, who
informed him that at the end of the street was the alcalde of criminal
justice, with the little Piebald and the Kestrel (two catchpolls, who
were called neutral, since they did the community of robbers neither
good nor harm), marching before him.
The joyous company within heard the report of their scout, and were in a
terrible fright. Escalanta and Cariharta put on their clogs in great
haste, Gananciosa threw down her broom, and Monipodio his broken plate,
every instrument sinking at once into silence. Chiquiznaque lost his
joyous grin, and stood dumb as a fish; Repolido trembled with fear, and
Maniferro looked pale with anxiety. But these various demonstrations
were exhibited only for a moment,--in the next, all that goodly
brotherhood had disappeared. Some rushed across a kind of terrace, and
gained another court; others clambered over the roof, and so passed into
a neighbouring alley. Never did the sound of a fowling piece, or a
sudden peal of thunder, more effectually disperse a flock of careless
pigeons, than did the news of the alcalde's arrival that select company
assembled in the house of the Señor Monipodio. Rinconete and Cortadillo,
not knowing whither to flee, stood in their places waiting to see what
would be the end of that sudden storm, which finished simply enough by
the return of the sentinel, who came to say that the alcalde had passed
through the whole length of the street without seeming to have any
troublesome suspicions respecting them, or even appearing to think of
their house at all.
While Monipodio was in the act of receiving this last report, there
came to the door a gentleman in the prime of youth, and dressed in the
half-rustic manner suitable to the morning, or to one residing in the
country. Monipodio caused this person to enter the house with himself;
he then sent to look for Chiquiznaque, Repolido, and Maniferro, with
orders that they should come forth from their hiding places, but that
such others as might be with them should remain where they were.
Rinconete and Cortadillo having remained in the court, could hear all
the conversation which took place between Monipodio and the gentleman
who had just arrived, and who began by inquiring how it happened that
the job he had ordered had been so badly done. At this point of the
colloquy, Chiquiznaque appeared, and Monipodio asked him if he had
accomplished the work with which he had been entrusted--namely, the
knife-slash of fourteen stitches.[38]
[38] "At that time," remarks Viardot, "while wounds were still sewed up
by the surgeons, the importance or extent of the cut made was estimated
by the number of the stitches."
"Which of them was it," inquired Chiquiznaque, "that of the merchant at
the Cross-ways?" "Exactly," replied the gentleman. "Then I'll tell you
how the matter went," responded the bravo. "Last night, as I watched
before the very door of his house, and the man appeared just before to
the ringing of the _Ave Maria_, I got near him, and took the measure of
his face with my eyes; but I perceived it was so small that it was
impossible, totally impossible, to find room in it for a cut of fourteen
stitches. So that, perceiving myself unable to fulfil my
destructions"--"Instructions you mean," said the gentleman;--"Well,
well, instructions if you will," admitted Chiquiznaque,--"seeing that I
could not find room for the number of stitches I had to make, because of
the narrowness, I say, and want of space in the visage of the merchant,
I gave the cut to a lacquey he had with him, to the end that I might not
have my journey for nothing; and certainly his allowance may pass for
one of the best quality."
"I would rather you had given the master a cut of seven stitches than
the servant one of fourteen," remarked the gentleman. "You have not
fulfilled the promise made me, but the thirty ducats which I gave you as
earnest money, will be no great loss." This said, he saluted the two
ruffians and turned to depart, but Monipodio detained him by the cloak
of mixed cloth which he wore on his shoulders, saying: "Be pleased to
stop, Señor cavalier, and fulfil your promise, since we have kept our
word with strict honour and to great advantage. Twenty ducats are still
wanting to our bargain, and your worship shall not go from this place
until you have paid them, or left us something of equal value in
pledge."
"Do you call this keeping your word," said the gentleman, "making a cut
on the servant when you should have made it on the master?"
"How well his worship understands the business," remarked Chiquiznaque.
"One can easily see that he does not remember the proverb which says:
'He who loves Beltran, loves his dog likewise.'"
"But what has this proverb to do with the matter?" inquired the
gentleman.
"Why, is it not the same thing as to say, 'He who loves Beltran ill,
loves his dog ill too?' Now the master is Beltran, whom you love ill,
and the servant is his dog; thus in giving the cut to the dog I have
given it to Beltran, and our part of the agreement is fulfilled; the
work has been properly done, and nothing remains but to pay for it on
the spot and without further delay."
"That is just what I am ready to swear to," cried Monipodio; "and you,
friend Chiquiznaque, have taken all that you have said from my mouth;
wherefore let not your worship, Señor gallant, be making difficulties
out of trifles with your friends and servants. Take my advice and pay us
what is our due. After that, if your worship would like to have another
cut given to the master, of as many stitches as the space can contain,
consider that they are already sewing up the wound."
"If it be so," said the gentleman, "I will very willingly pay the whole
sum."
"Make no more doubt of it than of my being a good Christian, for
Chiquiznaque will set the mark on his face so neatly, that he shall seem
to have been born with it."
"On this promise, then, and with this assurance," replied the gentleman,
"receive this chain in pledge for the twenty ducats before agreed on,
and for forty other ducats which I will give you for the cut that is to
come. The chain weighs a thousand reals, and it may chance to remain
with you altogether, as I have an idea that I shall want fourteen
stitches more before long."
Saying this, he took a chain from his neck, and put it into the hands of
Monipodio, who found immediately by the weight and touch that it was not
gold made by the chemist, but the true metal. He received it accordingly
with great pleasure and much courtesy, for Monipodio was particularly
well-bred. The execution of the work to be done for it was committed to
Chiquiznaque, who declared that it should be delayed no longer than till
the arrival of night. The gentleman then departed, well satisfied with
his bargain.
Monipodio now summoned the confraternity from the hiding places into
which their terror had driven them. When all had entered, he placed
himself in the midst of them, drew forth a memorandum book from the hood
of his cloak, and as he himself could not read, he handed it to
Rinconete, who opened it, and read as follows:--
"Memoranda of the cuts to be given this week.
"The first is to the merchant at the Cross-ways, and is worth fifty
crowns, thirty of which have been received on account. _Secutor_,[39]
Chiquiznaque.
[39] _Secutor_ for executor.
"I believe there are no others, my son," said Monipodio; "go on and look
for the place where it is written, 'Memoranda of blows with a cudgel.'"
Rinconete turned to that heading, and found under it this entry:--"To
the keeper of the pot-house called the Trefoil, twelve blows, to be laid
on in the best style, at a crown a-piece, eight of which crowns have
been received; time of execution, within six days. _Secutor_,
Maniferro."
"That article may be scratched out of the account," remarked Maniferro,
"for to-night I shall give the gentleman his due."
"Is there not another, my son?" asked Monipodio.
"There is," replied Rinconete, and he read as follows:--
"To the hunch-backed Tailor, called by the nick-name Silguero,[40] six
blows of the best sort for the lady whom he compelled to leave her
necklace in pledge with him. _Secutor_, the Desmochado." [41]
[40] The goldfinch.
[41] The lop-eared, or mutilated; alluding, generally, to losses
suffered at the hands of justice.
"I am surprised to find this article still on the account," observed
Monipodio, "seeing that two days have elapsed since it ought to have
been taken off the book; and yet the secutor has not done his work.
Desmochado must be indisposed."
"I met him yesterday," said Maniferro. "He is not ill himself, but the
Hunchback has been so, and being confined to the house on that account,
the Desmochado has been unable to encounter him."
"I make no doubt of it," rejoined Monipodio, "for I consider the
Desmochado to be so good a workman, that but for some such reasonable
impediment he would certainly before this have finished a job of much
greater importance. Is there any more, my boy?" "No, Señor," replied
Rinconete. "Turn over, then, till you find the 'Memorandum of
miscellaneous damages.'"
Rinconete found the page inscribed "Memorandum of miscellaneous
damages," namely, Radomagos,[42] greasing with oil of juniper, clapping
on sanbenitos[43] and horns, false alarms, threatened stabbings,
befoolings, _calomels_,[44] &c. &c.
[42] _Radomagos_, phials or bottles of ink, vitriol, and other injurious
matters, cast on the face, person, or clothes.
[43] Most of our readers will remember that the "sanbenito" is the long
coat or robe, painted over with flames, which is worn by heretics whom
the Inquisition has condemned and given over to the civil power.
[44] _Calomels_, for calumnies
"What do you find lower down?" inquired Monipodio. "I find, 'Greasing
with oil of juniper at the house in--'" "Don't read the place or name
of the house," interrupted Monipodio, "for we know where it is, and I am
myself the _tuautem_ and _secutor_ of this trifling matter; four crowns
have already been given on account, and the total is eight." "That is
exactly what is here written," replied Rinconete. "A little lower down,"
continued the boy, "I find, 'Horns to be attached to the house--'" "Read
neither the name nor the place where," interrupted Monipodio. "It is
quite enough that we offer this outrage to the people in question; we
need not make it public in our community, for that would be an
unnecessary load on your consciences. I would rather nail a hundred
horns, and as many sanbenitos, on a man's door, provided I were paid for
my work, than once tell that I had done so, were it to the mother that
bore me." "The executor of this is Nariqueta,"[45] resumed Rinconete.
"It is already done and paid for," said Monipodio; "see if there be not
something else, for if my memory is not at fault, there ought to be a
fright of the value of twenty crowns. One half the money has already
been paid, and the work is to be done by the whole community, the time
within which it is to come off being all the current month. Nor will we
fail in our duty; the commission shall be fulfilled to the very letter
without missing a tilde,[46] and it will be one of the finest things
that has been executed in this city for many years. Give me the book,
boy, I know there is nothing more, and it is certain that business is
very slack with us just now; but times will mend, and we shall perhaps
have more to do than we want. There is not a leaf on the tree that moves
without the will of God, and we cannot force people to avenge
themselves, whether they will or not. Besides, many a man has the habit
of being brave in his own cause, and does not care to pay for the
execution of work which he can do as well with his own hands."
[45] The flat-nose.
[46] The _tilde_ is the mark placed over the Spanish letter n, as in
Señor.
"That is true," said Repolido; "but will your worship, Señor Monipodio,
see what you have for us to do, as it is getting late, and the heat is
coming on at more than a foot-pace."
"What you have now to do is this," rejoined Monipodio: "Every one is to
return to his post of the week, and is not to change it until Sunday. We
will then meet here again, and make the distribution of all that shall
have come in, without defrauding any one. To Rinconete and Cortadillo I
assign for their district, until Sunday, from the Tower of Gold, all
without the city, and to the postern of the Alcazar, where they can work
with their fine flowers.[47] I have known those who were much less
clever than they appear to be, come home daily with more than twenty
reals in small money, to say nothing of silver, all made with a single
pack, and that four cards short. Ganchuelo will show them the limits of
their district, and even though they should extend it as far as to San
Sebastian, or Santelmo, there will be no great harm done, although it is
perhaps of more equal justice that none should enter on the domain of
another."
[47] Tricks of cheatery at cards.
The two boys kissed his hand in acknowledgment of the favour he was
doing them; and promised to perform their parts zealously and
faithfully, and with all possible caution and prudence.
Monipodio then drew from the hood of his cloak a folded paper, on which
was the list of the brotherhood, desiring Rinconete to inscribe his name
thereon, with that of Cortadillo; but as there was no escritoire in the
place, he gave them the paper to take with them, bidding them enter the
first apothecary's shop they could find, and there write what was
needful: "Rinconete, and Cortadillo," namely, "comrades; novitiate,
none; Rinconete, a florist; Cortadillo, a bassoon-player."[48] To this
was to be added the year, month, and day, but not the parents or
birthplace.
[48] Cutpurse.
At this moment one of the old hornets came in and said, "I come to tell
your worships that I have just now met on the steps, Lobillo[49] of
Malaga, who tells me that he has made such progress in his art as to be
capable of cheating Satan himself out of his money, if he have but clean
cards. He is so ragged and out of condition at this moment, that he
dares not instantly make his appearance to register himself, and pay his
respects as usual, but will be here without fail on Sunday."
[49] The wolf-cub.
"I have always been convinced," said Monipodio, "that Lobillo would some
day become supereminent in his art, for he has the best hands for the
purpose that have ever been seen; and to be a good workman in his trade,
a man should be possessed of good tools, as well as capacity for
learning."
"I have also met the Jew," returned the hornet; "he wears the garb of a
priest, and is at a tavern in the Street of the Dyers, because he has
learned that two Peruleros[50] are now stopping there. He wishes to try
if he cannot do business with them, even though it should be but in a
trifling way to begin; for from small endeavours often come great
achievements. He, too, will be here on Sunday, and will then give an
account of himself."
[50] For Peruvians, which the American merchants were then called.
"The Jew is a keen hawk too," observed Monipodio, "but it is long since
I have set eyes on him, and he does not do well in staying away, for, by
my faith, if he do not mend, I will cut his crown for him. The scoundrel
has received orders as much as the Grand Turk, and knows no more Latin
than my grandmother. Have you anything further to report?"
The old man replied that he had not. "Very well," said Monipodio; "Take
this trifle among you," distributing at the same time some forty reals
among those assembled, "and do not fail to be here on Sunday, when there
shall be nothing wanting of the booty." All returned him thanks.
Repolido and Cariharta embraced each other; so did Maniferro and
Escalanta, and Chiquiznaque and Gananciosa; and all agreed that they
would meet that same evening, when they left off work at the house of
Dame Pipota, whither Monipodio likewise promised to repair, for the
examination of the linen announced in the morning, before he went to his
job with the juniper oil.
The master finally embraced Rinconete and Cortadillo, giving them his
benediction; he then dismissed them, exhorting them to have no fixed
dwelling or known habitation, since that was a precaution most important
to the safety of all. Ganchuelo accompanied the friends for the purpose
of guiding them to their districts, and pointing out the limits thereof.
He warned them on no account to miss the assembly on Sunday, when it
seemed that Monipodio intended to give them a lecture on matters
concerning their profession. That done, the lad went away, leaving the
two novices in great astonishment at all they had seen.
Now Rinconete, although very young, had a good understanding, and much
intelligence. Having often accompanied his father in the sale of his
bulls, he had acquired the knowledge of a more refined language than
that they had just been hearing, and laughed with all his heart as he
recalled the expressions used by Monipodio, and the other members of the
respectable community they had entered. He was especially entertained by
the solecising sanctimonies; and by Cariharta calling Repolido a
Tarpeian Mariner, and a Tiger of Ocaña. He was also mightily edified by
the expectation of Cariharta that the pains she had taken to earn the
twenty-four reals would be accepted in heaven as a set-off against her
sins, and was amazed to see with what security they all counted on
going to heaven by means of the devotions they performed,
notwithstanding the many thefts, homicides, and other offences against
God and their neighbour which they were daily committing. The boy
laughed too with all his heart, as he thought of the good old woman
Pipota, who suffered the basket of stolen linen to be concealed in her
house, and then went to place her little wax candles before the images
of the saints, expecting thereby to enter heaven full dressed in her
mantle and clogs.
But he was most surprised at the respect and deference which all these
people paid to Monipodio, whom he saw to be nothing better than a coarse
and brutal barbarian. He recalled the various entries which he had read
in the singular memorandum-book of the burly thief, and thought over all
the various occupations in which that goodly company was hourly engaged.
Pondering all these things, he could not but marvel at the carelessness
with which justice was administered in that renowned city of Seville,
since such pernicious hordes and inhuman ruffians were permitted to live
there almost openly.
He determined to dissuade his companion from continuing long in such a
reprobate course of life. Nevertheless, led away by his extreme youth,
and want of experience, he remained with these people for some months,
during which there happened to him adventures which would require much
writing to detail them; wherefore I propose to remit the description of
his life and adventures to some other occasion, when I will also relate
those of his master, Monipodio, with other circumstances connected with
the members of that infamous academy, which may serve as warnings to
those who read them.
END OF PETER OF THE CORNER AND THE LITTLE CUTTER.
THE LICENTIATE VIDRIERA; OR, DOCTOR GLASS-CASE.
Two students were one day passing along the banks of the Tormes, when
they found a boy, about eleven years old, dressed as a labourer, and
sleeping under a tree. They sent a servant to wake him, and when he had
well opened his eyes, they asked him whence he came, and what he was
doing, to be lying asleep and defenceless in that lonely place. The boy
replied, that he had forgotten the name of his birthplace, but was going
to Salamanca, there to seek a master whom he might serve, on condition
of being permitted and aided to pursue his studies.
The gentlemen then asked if he could read, and he replied that he could,
and write also.
"It is not from want of memory, then, that you have forgotten the name
of your country," remarked the students.
"Let the cause be what it may," replied the boy, "neither that nor the
name of my parents shall be known to any one until I can do honour to
them both."
"But in what manner do you propose to do them honour?" inquired the
gentlemen.
"By the results of my studies," said the boy, "and when I have rendered
myself famous by the learning I mean to acquire; for I have heard that
some men have made themselves bishops by their studies."
This reply moved the two gentlemen to receive the lad into their
service, and take him with them to Salamanca, giving him such facilities
for studying as it is not unusual for masters to afford in that
university to those who serve them.
The youth subsequently informed his masters, that they might call him
Thomas Rodaja; whence the students judged him to be the son of some poor
labourer. A day or two after their meeting, they caused him to be
clothed in a suit of black; and, in the course of a few weeks, he gave
proof of extraordinary talent. He was, besides, very grateful, and
laboured so earnestly in the service of his masters, that although in
fact exceedingly attentive to his studies, it might well have been
thought that he did nothing but wait upon those he served.
Now the good service of the valet led the masters to treat him well;
Thomas soon became their companion rather than servant, and, during
eight years, all of which he passed with them, he acquired for himself
so high a reputation in the university, by his great ability and
excellent conduct, that he was beloved and esteemed by those of every
rank.
The principal object of Rodaja's study was the law, but he was almost
equally distinguished in polite learning, and his memory was matter of
marvel to all; and the correctness of his views on all subjects was not
less remarkable.
The time had now arrived when the studies of his masters were completed,
and they returned to their birthplace, which was one of the most
important cities of Andalusia. They took Rodaja with them, and he
remained in their company for some time; but, assailed by a perpetual
longing to return to his studies at Salamanca,--a city that enchains the
will of all who have tasted the amenities of life in that fair seat of
learning--he entreated permission of his masters to depart for that
purpose. With their usual kindness, they accorded him the favour he
desired, and took such measures in his behalf that by their bounty he
was supplied with a sufficiency to support him in the university for
three years.
Rodaja took his leave with manifest proofs of gratitude, and departed
from Malaga, for that was the native city of his masters, without
further delay. Descending the declivity of the Zambra on the road to
Antequera, he chanced to encounter a gentleman on horseback, gaily
accoutred in a rich travelling dress, and attended by two servants, also
on horseback, whose company he joined; their journey thenceforward lay
in the same direction, and the gentleman accepted Thomas as his
comrade.[51] They discoursed of various matters, and, in a short time,
Rodaja gave such proof of his quality as much delighted his
fellow-traveller; while the latter, on his part, soon proved himself to
be a kind and courteous man. He told Rodaja that he was a captain of
infantry in the service of the king, and that his ensign was then
completing their company at Salamanca. He praised the life of a soldier
in the highest terms, describing, with much encomium, the many cities
and other places visited by those who lead that life. Among other themes
of which he spoke were the beauty of Naples, the feasting and pleasures
of Palermo, the rich abundance of Milan, and the frequent festivals held
in other parts of Lombardy--not omitting the good cheer of the numerous
hostelries--in the description of which he broke forth rapturously in
the Tuscan language, discoursing of _Macarela_, _Macarroni_, and
_Polastri_, with the most cordial goodwill. He expatiated largely on the
free enjoyment of life in Italy, and on the pleasures of the soldier's
life in general, which he exalted to the skies; but he did not say a
word of the chilling night-watch, the perils of the assault, the terrors
of battle, the hunger and privation endured in blockades and sieges, or
the ruin caused by mines, with other matters of similar kind whereof he
might have spoken, but which he passed over in silence--although there
are those who would consider such things as having something to do with
the life of the soldier, not to call them its principal features. In a
word, he said so much on the subject, that the resolution of our Thomas
Rodaja began to waver, and his inclination went near to fix itself on
that life, which is so near a neighbour to death.
[51] Don Augustin de Arrieta, a Spanish commentator of our author,
informs us that the _camarada_ not only journeyed and lived with his
companion of the way, but even slept in the same chamber, and not
unfrequently in the same bed.
The captain, whose name was Don Diego de Valdivia, charmed, on his part,
with the handsome looks, cheerful manners, and admirable abilities of
Rodaja, entreated him to accompany the march into Italy, were it only
for the purpose of seeing the country. He offered him his table, and
even, if he would adopt the military life, he proposed to procure him a
pair of colours; nay, he assured him that those of his own regiment
would soon be vacant, and should be at his service.
But little persuasion was required to induce Rodaja's acceptance of a
part of this offer. Weighing it in his mind, he considered that it would
be well to see Italy and Flanders, to say nothing of other countries,
since travel contributes to increase knowledge and discretion. He
thought, too, that although he should spend three, or even four years
in that occupation, yet these, added to the few he then counted, would
not make him so old but that he might afterwards return to his studies.
These and other considerations had their weight, and the opportunity
being so much to his taste, Rodaja finally told the captain that he
would go with him into Italy; but it must be on condition of being left
at perfect liberty. He would not consent to enlist under his banner, nor
to have his name enrolled in the books of the regiment, that he might
not be subjected to the restraints of service. The captain represented
that his being inscribed on the lists was a matter which involved no
duty, and that he would thereby obtain all the appointments, with the
regular pay accorded to his rank; while he, Don Diego, would take care
that he should have leave of absence whenever he might demand it. Yet
Rodaja was not to be moved from his determination. "For this," said he,
"would be to act against the dictates of my conscience and of yours,
señor captain; I would, besides, much rather go free than be attached to
military service in any manner."
"A conscience so scrupulous is more suitable to the cowl of a monk than
the helmet of a soldier," said Don Diego, laughing; "but let it be as
you will, so we but remain comrades."
The first night of their journey they had passed at Antequera, and
making long stages each day, they speedily arrived at the place where
the captain was to join his company. All arrangements being completed,
the company began its march with four others to Carthagena, quartering
at such places as fell in their way.
And now Rodaja could not fail to remark the authority assumed by the
commissaries; the intractable character of many among the captains; the
rapacity of the quartermasters, and the unreasonable nature of their
demands; the fashion in which the paymasters managed their accounts; the
complaints of the people; the traffic in and exchange of billets; the
insolence of the undisciplined troops; their quarrels with the other
guests at the inns; the requisition of more rations and other stores
than were rightful or necessary; and, finally, the almost inevitable
consequences of all this. Much besides came under his observation,
which he could not but see to be in every way wrong and injurious.
For Rodaja himself, he had now abandoned the garb of a student, and
dressed himself parrot-fashion (as we say), conforming to such things as
the life around him presented. The many books he had possessed were now
reduced to the "Orisons of Our Lady," and a "Garcilaso without
Comments," which he carried in two of his pockets.
The party with which he travelled arrived at Carthagena much earlier
than he desired, for the varied life he led was very pleasant, and each
day brought something new and agreeable. At Carthagena the troops
embarked in four galleys for Naples; and in his cabin, also, Kodaja made
many observations on the strange life passed in those maritime houses,
where, for the most part, a man is devoured by vermin and destroyed by
rats, vexed by the sailors, robbed by the galley-slaves, and tormented
by the swell of the waters. He endured terrible fear from violent storms
and tempests, more especially in the Gulf of Lyons, where they had two,
by one of which they were cast on the Island of Corsica, while the other
drove them back upon Toulon, in France. At last, weary and half-drowned,
they reached land in the darkness of the night, and with great
difficulty arrived at the most peaceful and beautiful city of Genoa.
Having disembarked, and hastily visited a church to return thanks for
their safety, the captain with all his comrades adjourned to a tavern,
where they quickly forgot past storms and tempests in present rejoicing
and feasting.
Here they learned to appreciate the respective merits of the different
wines presented to them by their active and voluble host; the delicacy
of Trebbiano, the fine body of Montefiascone, the purity of Asperino,
the generous spirit of the wines from Candia and Soma, and the strength
of those from the Cincovinas, or Five Vineyards. Neither did they
disregard the sweetness and amenity of the Señora Guarnacha, or the
rustic bloom of the Centola, not forgetting even in this bright array
the humble Romanesco, which likewise came in for its meed of praise.
The host having passed in review all these and other wines, of many
various qualities, offered besides to place before his guests, without
having any recourse to magic, and not as one marks down places on a
map, but in all their vivid reality, Madriga, Coca, Alacjos, and the
imperial, rather than royal city--that favourite abode of the god of
smiles--Ciudad Real. He furthermore offered Esquibias, Alanis, Cazalla,
Guadalcanal, and Membrilla, without forgetting the wines of Ribadavia or
of Descargamaria. At a word, the host offered and even gave them more
wines than Bacchus himself could have stored in all his cellars.
Nor was the good Thomas unmindful of the admiration due to the radiant
locks of the Genoese maidens, renowned for those fair tresses, while he
likewise appreciated the obliging and cheerful disposition of the male
inhabitants, and was never weary of expatiating on the beauty of the
city itself, which, as you look at it from the sea, appears to hold the
houses enchased amidst the rocks, as diamonds are set in gold.
The day after their arrival, such of the companies as were destined for
Piedmont were disembarked; Rodaja, however, had no wish to proceed
thither, but determined to go from Genoa by land to Rome and Naples, and
return by the way of Our Lady of Loretto to the great and magnificent
Venice, and thence to Milan and Piedmont, where it was agreed that he
should rejoin Don Diego, if the latter had not previously been compelled
to set off for Flanders, as was expected.
Two days after these arrangements were made, Rodaja took leave of the
captain, and in five days from that time he reached Florence, having
first seen Lucca, a city which is small but very well built, and one
where Spaniards are more kindly received and better treated than in any
other part of Italy.
With Florence Rodaja was infinitely delighted, as well for the
pleasantness of its position as for its sumptuous buildings, its fine
river, agreeable streets, and cleanliness of aspect. He remained there
but four days, and then departed for Rome, the queen of cities and
mistress of the world, whose temples he visited, whose relics he adored,
and whose grandeur he admired: and as from the claws of the lion you may
judge of its mass and force, so did Rodaja infer the greatness of Rome
from the fragments of her marbles--her statues, broken or entire--her
arches, fallen or fractured--her baths, crumbled to ruin--her
magnificent porticos and vast amphitheatres--her renowned and holy
river, which ever fills the banks with water to the brim, while it
blesses them with innumerable remains of the martyrs whose bodies have
found a burial beneath its waves. Nor did our traveller fail to estimate
the beauty of the bridges, which one might fancy to be admiring each
other, or the streets, which, by their very names alone, claim authority
and pre-eminence over those of all other cities in the world: the Via
Flaminia, for example, the Via Julia, the Appia, and others of the same
character.
No less was Rodaja satisfied with the division of those hills which
exist within the city itself, the Cælian, the Quirinal, the Vatican, and
the other four, whose very names bear evidence to the Roman greatness
and majesty. He took careful note, moreover, of that authority which
attaches to the College of Cardinals, and of the dignity represented in
the person of the Supreme Pontiff; nor did he suffer to pass unnoticed
that great concourse and variety of men from all nations ever
congregated within the walls of the city.
All these things Rodaja admired, reflected on, and arranged in the order
of their importance; and having made the station of the Seven Churches,
confessed to a Penitentiary, and kissed the feet of his Holiness, he
departed, well loaded with _Agnus Deis_ and legends, determining thence
to proceed to Naples.
But the time was one of important changes and much disorder; this
rendered the roads dangerous for all desiring to enter or travel out of
Rome; and as he had come to the city by land, so he now resolved to
depart by sea, wherefore, proceeding to the port of Ostia, he there
embarked, and having reached Naples, added to the satisfaction which he
had previously felt at seeing Rome, that of finding himself in a city,
in his estimation, and in the opinion of all who have seen it, the
finest in Europe, or even in the whole world.
From Naples, Rodaja proceeded to Sicily, where he visited Palermo and
Messina; the first of these cities he admired for the advantages of its
position and its beauty, and the second for the convenience of its port;
while to the whole island he could not but offer the tribute of his
praise for that abundance which causes it to be justly denominated the
granary of all Italy.
Returning from Sicily to Naples and Rome, Rodaja thence proceeded to Our
Lady of Loretto, in whose Holy Temple he could see neither walls nor
partitions, since every part was covered with crutches, biers, shrouds,
chains, padlocks, fetters, and locks of hair; with arms, hands, legs, or
busts in wax, to say nothing of pictures and prints, all giving manifest
indication of the mercies and favours innumerable which hundreds of men
have received in that place from the hand of God, by the intercession of
his Divine Mother, whose sacred Image (there preserved) He has been
pleased to exalt and sanction by a vast number of miracles, which have
been performed in recompense of the devotion of her votaries; for by
them it is that the walls of her house have been adorned in the manner
described.[52]
[52] The _ex-votos_, or pictures and figures here described, are too
familiar to the visitor of Catholic churches to need any explanation.
Here Rodaja beheld that very chamber of the Virgin, wherein was
delivered the most stupendous embassy ever heard or witnessed by all the
heavens, all the angels, and all the archangels, or other inhabitants of
the everlasting abodes.
From this place our traveller proceeded to Ancona, where he embarked and
repaired to Venice, a city which, had Columbus never appeared in the
world, would certainly be still supposed to have no equal; but, by the
favour of heaven, and thanks to the great Fernando Cortez who conquered
Mexico, the magnificent Venice has now found a city that may be compared
to herself. The streets of these two renowned capitals, which are almost
wholly of water, make them the admiration and terror of all
mankind--that of Europe dominating the old world, and that of America
the new. For of the former it would appear that her riches are infinite,
her position impregnable, her government most wise, the abundance of her
products inexhaustible; in a word, she is herself, as a whole, and in
all her parts, entirely worthy of that fame for greatness and majesty
which has penetrated to all the regions of the world: the justice of the
praise bestowed on Venice is, besides, accredited by her renowned
arsenal, wherein are constructed her potent galleys, with other vessels
of which the number is not to be told.
To our curious traveller the delights and pastimes found in Venice had
almost proved fatal as those of Calypso, since they had nearly caused
him to forget his first intentions. Yet when he had passed a month in
that enchanting place, he found resolution to continue his journey,
passing by Ferrara, Parma, and Placentia, to Milan, that workshop of
Vulcan--that grudge and despair of France--that superb city of which
more wonders are reported than words can tell, her own grandeur being
increased by that of her famous Temple, and by the marvellous abundance
of all things necessary to human life that are to be found therein.
From Milan, Rodaja journeyed to Asti, where he arrived in very good
time, since the regiment of Don Diego was to depart for Flanders on the
following day. He was received very kindly by his friend the captain,
with whom he passed into Flanders, and arrived at Antwerp, a city no
less worthy of admiration than those which he had seen in Italy. He
visited Ghent and Brussels likewise, finding the whole country preparing
to take arms, and well disposed to enter on the campaign of the
following year.
Rodaja having now seen all that he had desired to behold, resolved to
return to his native Spain, and to the city of Salamanca, there to
complete his studies. He had no sooner determined than he instantly put
his purpose into execution, to the great regret of his friend, who,
finding him resolved to depart, entreated him at least to write him word
of his safe arrival, and likewise of his future success. This Rodaja
promised to do, and then returned to Spain through France, but he did
not see Paris, which was at that time in arms. At length he arrived at
Salamanca, where he was well received by his friends, and with the
facilities which they procured him, he continued his studies until he
finally attained to the degree of doctor of laws.
Now it chanced that, about this time, there arrived in Salamanca one of
those ladies who belong to all the points of the compass; she was
besides well furnished with devices of every colour. To the whistle and
bird-call of this fowler there instantly came flocking all the birds of
the place; nor was there a _vade mecum_[53] who refrained from paying a
visit to that gay decoy. Among the rest our Thomas was informed that the
Señora said she had been in Italy and Flanders when he, to ascertain if
he were acquainted with the dame, likewise paid her a visit. She, on her
part, immediately fell in love with Rodaja, but he rejected her
advances, and never approached her house but when led thither by others,
and almost by force. Attending much more zealously to his studies than
his amusements, he did not in any manner return her affection, even when
she had made it known to him by the offer of her hand and all her
possessions.
[53] Student: they are so called from the name given to the portfolio in
which they carry their books and papers to the university, and which
they always have with them.
Seeing herself thus scorned, and perceiving that she could not bend the
will of Rodaja by ordinary means, the woman determined to seek others,
which in her opinion would be more efficacious, and must, as she
thought, ensure the desired effect. So, by the advice of a Morisca
woman, she took a Toledan quince, and in that fruit she gave him one of
those contrivances called charms, thinking that she was thereby forcing
him to love her; as if there were, in this world, herbs, enchantments,
or words of power, sufficient to enchain the free-will of any creature.
These things are called charms, but they are in fact poisons: and those
who administer them are actual poisoners, as has been proved by sundry
experiences.
In an unhappy moment Rodaja ate the quince, but had scarcely done so
when he began to tremble from head to foot as if struck by apoplexy,
remaining many hours before he could be brought to himself. At the end
of that time he partially recovered, but appeared to have become almost
an idiot. He complained, with a stammering tongue and feeble voice, that
a quince which he had eaten had poisoned him, and also found means to
intimate by whom it had been given, when justice at once began to move
in quest of the criminal; but she, perceiving the failure of her
attempt, took care to hide herself, and never appeared again.
Six months did Thomas remain confined to his bed; and during that time
he not only became reduced to a skeleton, but seemed also to have lost
the use of his faculties. Every remedy that could be thought of was
tried in his behalf; but although the physicians succeeded in curing the
physical malady, they could not remove that of the mind; so that when he
was at last pronounced cured, he was still afflicted with the strangest
madness that was ever heard of among the many kinds by which humanity
has been assailed. The unhappy man imagined that he was entirely made of
glass; and, possessed with this idea, when any one approached him he
would utter the most terrible outcries, begging and beseeching them not
to come near him, or they would assuredly break him to pieces, as he was
not like other men but entirely of glass from head to foot.
In the hope of rousing him from this strange hallucination, many
persons, without regard to his prayers and cries, threw themselves upon
him and embraced him, bidding him observe that he was not broken for all
that. But all they gained by this was to see the poor creature sink to
the earth, uttering lamentable moans, and instantly fall into a fainting
fit, from which he could not be recovered for several hours; nay, when
he did recover, it was but to renew his complaints, from which he never
desisted but to implore that such a misfortune might not be suffered to
happen again.
He exhorted every one to speak to him from a great distance; declaring
that on this condition they might ask him what they pleased, and that he
could reply with all the more effect, now he was a man of glass and not
of flesh and bones, since glass, being a substance of more delicate
subtlety, permits the soul to act with more promptitude and efficacy
than it can be expected to do in the heavier body formed of mere earth.
Certain persons then desiring to ascertain if what he had said were
true, asked him many questions of great difficulty respecting various
circumstances; to all these he replied with the utmost acuteness,
insomuch that his answers awakened astonishment in the most learned
professors of medicine and philosophy whom that university could boast.
And well they might be amazed at seeing a man who was subject to so
strange an hallucination as that of believing himself to be made of
glass, still retain such extraordinary judgment on other points as to be
capable of answering difficult questions with the marvellous propriety
and truth which distinguished the replies of Rodaja.
The poor man had often entreated that some case might be given to him
wherein he might enclose the brittle vase of his body, so that he might
not break it in putting on the ordinary clothing. He was consequently
furnished with a surplice of ample width, and a cloth wrapper, which he
folded around him with much care, confining it to his waist with a
girdle of soft cotton, but he would not wear any kind of shoes. The
method he adopted to prevent any one from approaching him when they
brought him food, was to fix an earthen pot into the cleft of a stick
prepared for that purpose, and in this vessel he would receive such
fruits as the season presented. He would not eat flesh or fish; nor
would he drink anything but the water of the river, which he lapped from
his hands.
In passing through the streets, Rodaja was in the habit of walking
carefully in the middle of them, lest a tile should fall from the houses
upon his head and break it. In the summer he slept in the open air, and
in the winter he lodged at one of the inns, where he buried himself in
straw to his throat, remarking that this was the most proper and secure
bed for men of glass. When it thundered, Rodaja trembled like an aspen
leaf, and would rush out into the fields, not returning to the city
until the storm had passed.
His friends kept him shut up for some time, but perceiving that his
malady increased, they at last complied with his earnest request that
they would let him go about freely; and he might be seen walking through
the streets of the city, dressed as we have described, to the
astonishment and regret of all who knew him.
The boys soon got about him, but he kept them off with his staff,
requesting them to speak to him from a distance, lest they should break
him, seeing that he, being a man of glass, was exceedingly tender and
brittle. But far from listening to his request, the boys, who are the
most perverse generation in the world, soon began to throw various
missiles and even stones at him, notwithstanding all his prayers and
exclamations. They declared that they wished to see if he were in truth
of glass, as he affirmed; but the lamentations and outcries of the poor
maniac induced the grown persons who were near to reprove and even beat
the boys, whom they drove away for the moment, but who did not fail to
return at the next opportunity.
One day, that a horde of these tormentors had pursued him with more than
their usual pertinacity, and had worn out his patience, he turned to
them, saying--"What do you want with me you varlets? more obstinate than
flies, more disgusting than _Chinches_,[54] and bolder than the boldest
fleas. Am I, perchance, the Monte Testacio[55] of Rome, that you cast
upon me so many potsherds and tiles?" But Rodaja was followed by many
who kept about him for the purpose of hearing him reply to the questions
asked, or reprove the questioner, as the case might be. And after a
time, even the boys found it more amusing to listen to his words than to
throw tiles at him; when they gave him, for the most part, somewhat less
annoyance.
[54] The reader will be pleased to guess the name of that insufferable
insect which the Spaniards denominate _Chinche_, and with the English
equivalent of which I am unwilling to offend his eyes. Happy, indeed, if
he cannot guess; but then he cannot have seen either Seville or Granada,
and one might almost encounter an acquaintance with the animal called
_Chinche_ rather than renounce _them_.
[55] Such of our readers as have visited Rome, will remember that
enormous mound which is seen rising on the right hand as you leave the
city, by the Porta Salaria, and is said to have been formed by the
numberless fragments of pottery cast on the spot from time immemorial.
The maniac Bodaja was one day passing through the Ropery at Salamanca,
when a woman who was working there accosted him, and said, "By my soul,
Señor Doctor, I am sorry for your misfortune, but what shall I do for
you, since, try as I may, I cannot weep?" To which Rodaja, fixedly
regarding her, gravely replied, "_Filiæ Jerusalem, plorate super vos et
super filios vestros_." The husband of the ropeworker was standing by,
and comprehending the reply, he said to Rodaja, "Brother Glasscase, for
so they tell me you are to be called, you have more of the rogue than
the fool in you!" "You are not called on to give me an obolus," rejoined
Rodaja, "for I have not a grain of the fool about me!" One day that he
was passing near a house well known as the resort of thieves and other
disorderly persons, he saw several of the inhabitants assembled round
the door, and called out, "See, here you have baggage belonging to the
army of Satan, and it is lodged in the house of hell accordingly."
A man once asked him what advice he should give to a friend whose wife
had left him for another, and who was in great sorrow for her loss. "You
shall bid him thank God," replied Rodaja, "for the favour he has
obtained, in that his enemy is removed from his house."
"Then you would not have him go seek her?" inquired the other.
"Let him not even think of doing so," returned Rodaja, "for if he find
her, what will he have gained but the perpetual evidence of his
dishonour?"
"And what shall I do to keep peace with my own wife?" inquired the same
person.
"Give her all that she can need or rightfully claim," said the maniac,
"and let her be mistress of every person and thing thy house contains,
but take care that she be not mistress of thyself."
A boy one day said to him, "Señor Glasscase, I have a mind to run away
from my father, and leave my home for ever, because he beats me." "I
would have thee beware, boy," replied Rodaja; "the stripes given by a
father are no dishonour to the son, and may save him from those of the
hangman, which are indeed a disgrace."
Intelligence of his peculiar state, with a description of the replies he
gave, and the remarks he uttered, was much spread abroad, more
especially among those who had known him in different parts, and great
sorrow was expressed for the loss of a man who had given so fair a
promise of distinction. A person of high rank then at Court wrote to a
friend of his at Salamanca, begging that Rodaja might be sent to him at
Valladolid, and charging his friend to make all needful arrangements for
that purpose. The gentleman consequently accosted Vidriera the next time
he met him, and said, "Señor Glasscase, you are to know that a great
noble of the Court is anxious to have you go to Valladolid;" whereupon
Rodaja replied, "Your worship will excuse me to that nobleman, and say
that I am not fit to dwell at Court, nor in the Palace, because I have
some sense of shame left, and do not know how to flatter." He was
nevertheless persuaded to go, and the mode in which he travelled was as
follows: a large pannier of that kind in which glass is transported was
prepared, and in this Rodaja was placed, well defended by straw, which
was brought up to his neck, the opposite pannier being carefully
balanced by means of stones, among which appeared the necks of bottles,
since Rodaja desired it to be understood that he was sent as a vessel of
glass. In this fashion he journeyed to Valladolid, which city he entered
by night, and was not unpacked until he had first been carefully
deposited in the house of the noble who had requested his presence.
By this gentleman he was received with much kindness, and the latter
said to him, "You are extremely welcome, Doctor Glasscase; I hope you
have had a pleasant journey." Rodaja replied, that no journey could be
called a bad one if it took you safe to your end, unless indeed it were
that which led to the gallows.
Being one day shown the Falconry, wherein were numerous falcons and
other birds of similar kind, he remarked that the sport pursued by means
of those birds was entirely suitable to great nobles, since the cost was
as two thousand to one of the profit.
When it pleased Rodaja to go forth into the city, the nobleman caused
him to be attended by a servant, whose office it was to protect him from
intrusion, and see that he was not molested by the boys of the place, by
whom he was at once remarked; indeed but few days had elapsed before he
became known to the whole city, since he never failed to find a reply
for all who questioned or consulted him.
Among those of the former class, there once came a student, who inquired
if he were a poet, to which Rodaja replied, that up to the moment they
had then arrived at, he had neither been so stupid nor so bold as to
become a poet. "I do not understand what you mean by so stupid or so
bold, Señor Glasscase," rejoined the student; to which Rodaja made
answer, "I am not so stupid as to be a bad poet, nor so bold as to think
myself capable of being a good one." The student then inquired in what
estimation he held poets, to which he answered that he held the poets
themselves in but little esteem; but as to their art, that he esteemed
greatly. His hearer inquiring further what he meant by that, Rodaja said
that among the innumerable poets, by courtesy so called, the number of
good ones was so small as scarcely to count at all, and that as the bad
were not true poets, he could not admire them: but that he admired and
even reverenced greatly the art of poetry, which does in fact comprise
every other in itself, since it avails itself of all things, and
purifies and beautifies all things, bringing its own marvellous
productions to light for the advantage, the delectation, and the wonder
of the world, which it fills with its benefits. He added further, "I
know thoroughly to what extent, and for what qualities, we ought to
estimate the good poet, since I perfectly well remember those verses of
Ovid, wherein he says:--
"'Cura ducum fuerunt olim regumque poetæ,
Præmiaque antiqui magna tulere chori.
Sanctaque majestas, et erat venerabile nomen
Vatibus; et largæ sæpe dabantur opes.'
And still less do I forget the high quality of the poets whom Plato
calls the interpreters of the Gods, while Ovid says of them--
"'Est deus in nobis; agitante calescimus illo.'
And again--
"'At sacri vates et divum cura vocamur.'
"These things are said of good poets; but, as respects the bad ones--the
gabbling pretenders--what can we say, save only that they are the idiocy
and the arrogance of the world.
"Who is there that has not seen one of this sort when he is longing to
bring forth some sonnet to the ears of his neighbours? How he goes round
and round them with--'Will your worships excuse me if I read you a
little sonnet, which I made one night on a certain occasion; for it
appears to me, although indeed it be worth nothing, to have yet a
certain something--a _je ne scai quoi_ of pretty, and pleasing.' Then
shall he twist his lips, and arch his eyebrows, and make a thousand
antics, diving into his pockets meanwhile and bringing out half a
hundred scraps of paper, greasy and torn, as if he had made a good
million of sonnets; he then recites that which he proffered to the
company, reading it in a chanting and affected voice.
"If, perchance, those who hear him, whether because of their knowledge
or their ignorance, should fail to commend him, he says, 'Either your
worships have not listened to the verses, or I have not been able to
read them properly, for indeed and in truth they deserve to be heard;'
and he begins, as before, to recite his poem, with new gestures and
varied pauses.
"Then to hear these poetasters censure and tear one another to pieces!
And what shall I say of the thefts committed by these cubs and whelps of
modern pretence on the grave and ancient masters of the art, or of their
malevolent carpings at those excellent persons of their own day in whom
shines the true light of poetry; who, making a solace and recreation of
their arduous labours, prove the divinity of their genius and the
elevation of their thoughts to the despite and vexation of these
ignorant pretenders, who presume to judge that of which they know
nothing, and abhor the beauties which they are not able to comprehend?
What will you have me esteem in the nullity which seeks to find place
for itself under the canopy spread for others--in the ignorance which is
ever leaning for support on another man's chair?"
Rodaja was once asked how it happened that poets are always poor; to
which he replied, "That if they were poor, it was because they chose to
be so, since it was always in their power to be rich if they would only
take advantage of the opportunities in their hands. For see how rich are
their ladies," he added; "have they not all a very profusion of wealth
in their possession? Is not their hair of gold, their brows of burnished
silver, their eyes of the most precious jewels, their lips of coral,
their throats of ivory and transparent crystal? Are not their tears
liquid pearls, and where they plant the soles of their feet do not
jasmine and roses spring up at the moment, however rebellious and
sterile the earth may previously have been? Then what is their breath
but pure amber, musk, and frankincense? Yet to whom do all these things
belong, if not to the poets? They are, therefore, manifest signs and
proofs of their great riches."
In this manner he always spoke of bad poets; as to the good ones, he was
loud in their praise, and exalted them above the horns of the moon.
Being at San Francisco, he one day saw some very indifferent pictures,
by an incapable hand; whereupon he remarked that the good painters
imitate nature, while the bad ones have the impertinence to daub her
face.
Having planted himself one day in front of a bookseller's shop with
great care, to avoid being broken, he began to talk to the owner, and
said, "This trade would please me greatly, were it not for one fault
that it has." The bookseller inquiring what that might be, Rodaja
replied, "It is the tricks you play on the writers when you purchase the
copyright of a book, and the sport you make of the author if, perchance,
he desire to print at his own cost. For what is your method of
proceeding? Instead of the one thousand five hundred copies which you
agree to print for him, you print three thousand; and when the author
supposes that you are selling his books, you are but disposing of your
own."
One of those men who carry sedan-chairs, once standing by while Rodaja
was enumerating the faults committed by various trades and occupations,
remarked to the latter, "Of us, Señor Doctor, you can find nothing amiss
to say." "Nothing," replied Rodaja, "except that you are made acquainted
with more sins than are known to the confessor; but with this
difference, that the confessor learns them to keep all secret, but you
to make them the public talk of the taverns."
A muleteer who heard this, for all kinds of people were continually
listening to him, said aloud, "There is little or nothing that you can
say of us, Señor Phial, for we are people of great worth, and very
useful servants to the commonwealth." To which the man of glass replied,
"The honour of the master exalts the honour of the servant. You,
therefore, who call those who hire your mules your masters, see whom you
serve, and what honour you may borrow from them; for your employers are
some of the dirtiest rubbish that this earth endures.
"Once, when I was not a man of glass, I was travelling on a mule which I
had hired, and I counted in her master one hundred and twenty-one
defects, all capital ones, and all enemies to the human kind. All
muleteers have a touch of the ruffian, a spice of the thief, and a dash
of the mountebank. If their masters, as they call those they take on
their mules, be of the butter-mouthed kind, they play more pranks with
them than all the rogues of this city could perform in a year. If they
be strangers, the muleteers rob them; if students, they malign them; if
monks, they blaspheme them; but if soldiers, they tremble before them.
These men, with the sailors, the carters, and the arrieros or pack
carriers, lead a sort of life which is truly singular, and belongs to
themselves alone.
"The carter passes the greater part of his days in a space not more than
a yard and a half long, for there cannot be much more between the yoke
of his mules and the mouth of his cart. He is singing for one half of
his time, and blaspheming the other; and if he have to drag one of his
wheels out of a hole in the mire, he is more aided, as it might seem,
by two great oaths than by three strong mules.
"The mariners are a pleasant people, but little like those of the towns,
and they can speak no other language than that used in ships. When the
weather is fine they are very diligent, but very idle, when it is
stormy. During the tempest they order much and obey little. Their ship,
which is their mess-room, is also their god, and their pastime is the
torment endured by sea-sick passengers.
"As to the mule-carriers, they are a race which has taken out a divorce
from all sheets, and has married the pack-saddle. So diligent and
careful are these excellent men, that to save themselves from losing a
day, they will lose their souls. Their music is the tramp of a hoof;
their sauce is hunger; their matins are an exchange of abuse and bad
words; their mass is--to hear none at all."
While speaking thus, Rodaja stood at an apothecary's door, and turning
to the master of the shop, he said, "Your worship's occupation would be
a most salutary one if it were not so great an enemy to your lamps."
"Wherein is my trade an enemy to my lamps?" asked the apothecary.
"In this way," replied Rodaja; "whenever other oils fail you,
immediately you take that of the lamp, as being the one which most
readily comes to hand. But there is, indeed, another fault in your
trade, and one that would suffice to ruin the most accredited physician
in the world." Being asked what that was, he replied that an apothecary
never ventured to confess, or would admit, that any drug was absent from
his stock; and so, if he have not the medicine prescribed, he makes use
of some other which, in his opinion, has the same virtues and qualities;
but as that is very seldom the case, the medicine, being badly
compounded, produces an effect contrary to that expected by the
physician.
Rodaja was then asked what he though, of the physicians themselves, and
he replied as follows: "_Honora medicum propter necessitatem, etenim
creavit cum altissimus: à Deo enim est omnis medela, et a rege accipiet
donationem: disciplina medici exaltavit caput illius, et in conspectu
magnatum collaudabitur. Altissimus de terra creavit medicinam, et vir
prudens non abhorrebit illam._ Thus," he added, "speaketh the Book of
Ecclesiasticus, of Medicine, and good Physicians; but of the bad ones we
may safely affirm the very contrary, since there are no people more
injurious to the commonwealth than they are. The judge may distort or
delay the justice which he should render us; the lawyer may support an
unjust demand; the merchant may help us to squander our estate, and, in
a word, all those with whom we have to deal in common life may do us
more or less injury; but to kill us without fear and standing quietly at
his ease; unsheathing no other sword than that wrapped in the folds of a
recipe, and without being subject to any danger of punishment, that can
be done only by the physician; he alone can escape all fear of the
discovery of his crimes, because at the moment of committing them he
puts them under the earth. When I was a man of flesh, and not of glass,
as I now am, I saw many things that might be adduced in support of what
I have now said, but the relation of these I refer to some other time."
A certain person asked him what he should do to avoid envying another,
and Rodaja bade him go to sleep, for, said he, "While you sleep you will
be the equal of him whom you envy."
It happened on a certain occasion that the Criminal Judge passed before
the place where Rodaja stood. There was a great crowd of people, and two
alguazils attended the magistrate, who was proceeding to his court, when
Rodaja inquired his name. Being told, he replied, "Now, I would lay a
wager that this judge has vipers in his bosom, pistols in his inkhorn,
and flashes of lightning in his hands, to destroy all that shall come
within his commission. I once had a friend who inflicted so exorbitant a
sentence in respect to a criminal commission which he held, that it
exceeded by many carats the amount of guilt incurred by the crime of the
delinquents. I inquired of him wherefore he had uttered so cruel a
sentence, and committed so manifest an injustice? To which he replied
that he intended to grant permission of appeal, and that in this way he
left the field open for the Lords of the Council to show their mercy by
moderating and reducing that too rigorous punishment to its due
proportions. But I told him it would have been still better for him to
have given such a sentence as would have rendered their labour
unnecessary, by which means he would also have merited and obtained the
reputation of being a wise and exact judge."
Among the number of those by whom Rodaja, as I have said, was constantly
surrounded, was an acquaintance of his own, who permitted himself to be
saluted as the Señor Doctor, although Thomas knew well that he had not
taken even the degree of bachelor. To him, therefore, he one day said,
"Take care, gossip mine, that you and your title do not meet with the
Fathers of the Redemption, for they will certainly take possession of
your doctorship as being a creature unrighteously detained captive."
"Let us behave well to each other, Señor Glasscase," said the other,
"since you know that I am a man of high and profound learning."
"I know you rather to be a Tantalus in the same," replied Rodaja; "for
if learning reach high to you, you are never able to plunge into its
depths."
He was one day leaning against the stall of a tailor, who was seated
with his hands before him, and to whom he said--
"Without doubt, Señor Maeso,[56] you are in the way to salvation."
[56] Master.
"From what symptom do you judge me to be so, Señor Doctor?" inquired the
tailor.
"From the fact that, as you have nothing to do, so you have nothing to
lie about, and may cease lying, which is a great step."
Of the shoemakers he said, that not one of that trade ever performed his
office badly; seeing that if the shoe be too narrow, and pinches the
foot, the shoemaker says, "In two hours it will be as wide as an
alpargate;" or he declares it right that it should be narrow, since the
shoe of a gentleman must needs fit closely; and if it be too wide, he
maintains that it still ought to be so, for the ease of the foot, and
lest a man should have the gout.
Seeing the waiting-maid of an actress attending her mistress, he said
she was much to be pitied who had to serve so many women, to say nothing
of the men whom she also had to wait on; and the bystanders requiring to
know how the damsel, who had but to serve one, could be said to wait on
so many, he replied, "Is she not the waiting-maid of a queen, a nymph,
a goddess, a scullery-maid, and a shepherdess? besides that she is also
the servant of a page and a lackey? for all these, and many more, are in
the person of an actress."
Some one asked Rodaja, who had been the happiest man in the world? To
which he answered--"_Nemo_, seeing that _Nemo novit patrem--Nemo sine
crimine vivit--Nemo sua sorte contentus--Nemo ascendit in coelum_," &c.
&c.
Of the fencing masters he said, that they were professors of an art
which was never to be known when it was most wanted, since they
pretended to reduce to mathematical demonstrations, which are
infallible, the angry thoughts and movements of a man's adversaries.
To such men as dyed their beards, Rodaja always exhibited a particular
enmity; and one day observing a Portuguese, whose beard he knew to be
dyed, in dispute with a Spaniard, to whom he said, "I swear by the beard
that I wear on my face," Rodaja called out to him, "Halt there, friend;
you should not say that you _wear_ on your face, but that you dye on
your face."[57] To another, whose beard had been streaked by an
imperfect dye, Doctor Glasscase said, "Your beard is of the true
dust-coloured pieball." He related, on another occasion, that a certain
damsel, discreetly conforming to the will of her parents, had agreed to
marry an old man with a white beard, who, on the evening before his
marriage was to take place, thought fit to have his beard dyed, and
whereas he had taken it from the sight of his betrothed as white as
snow, he presented it at the altar with a colour blacker than that of
pitch.
[57] Here Rodaja spoke mockingly, an impure Portuguese, and not Spanish
(_olhay_, _homen_, _naon_, _digais_, _teno_, _sino tino_). The spirit of
the remark (as in some other passages omitted for that reason) consists
in a play on words resembling each other in sound, though not in sense,
and is necessarily lost in translation.
Seeing this, the damsel turned to her parents and requested them to give
her the spouse they had promised, saying that she would have him, and no
other.
They assured her, that he whom she there saw was the person they had
before shewn her, and given her for her spouse: but she refused to
believe it, maintaining, that he whom her parents had given her was a
grave person, with a white beard: nor was she, by any means, to be
persuaded that the dyed man before her was her betrothed, and the
marriage was broken off.
Towards Duennas he entertained as great a dislike as towards those who
dyed their beards--uttering wonderful things respecting their falsehood
and affectation, their tricks and pretences, their simulated scruples
and their real wickedness,--reproaching them with their fancied maladies
of stomach, and the frequent giddiness with which they were afflicted in
the head; nay, even their mode of speaking, was made the subject of his
censure; and he declared that there were more turns in their speech than
folds in their great togas and wide gowns; finally, he declared them
altogether useless, if not much worse.
Being one day much tormented by a hornet which settled on his neck, he
nevertheless refused to take it off, lest in seeking to catch the insect
he should break himself; but he still complained woefully of the sting.
Some one then remarked to him, that it was scarcely to be supposed he
would feel it much, since his whole person was of glass. But Rodaja
replied, that the hornet in question must needs be a slanderer, seeing
that slanderers were of a race whose tongues were capable of penetrating
bodies of bronze, to say nothing of glass.
A monk, who was enormously fat, one day passed near where Rodaja was
sitting, when one who stood by ironically remarked, that the father was
so reduced and consumptive, as scarcely to be capable of walking.
Offended by this, Rodaja exclaimed, "Let none forget the words of Holy
Scripture, '_Nolite tangere Christos meos_;' and, becoming still more
heated, he bade those around him reflect a little, when they would see,
that of the many saints canonised, and placed among the number of the
blessed by the Church within a few years in those parts, none had been
called the Captain Don Such a one, or the Lawyer Don So and So, or the
Count Marquis, or Duke of Such a Place; but all were brother Diego,
brother Jacinto, or brother Raimundo: all monks and friars, proceeding,
that is to say, from the monastic orders." "These," he added, "are the
orange-trees of heaven, whose fruits are placed on the table of God." Of
evil-speakers Rodaja said, that they were like the feathers of the eagle
which gnaw, wear away, and reduce to nothing, whatever feathers of
other birds are mingled with them in beds or cushions, how good soever
those feathers may be.
Concerning the keepers of gaming-houses he uttered wonders, and many
more than can here be repeated--commending highly the patience of a
certain gamester, who would remain all night playing and losing; yea,
though of choleric disposition by nature, he would never open his mouth
to complain, although he was suffering the martyrdom of Barabbas,
provided only his adversary did not cut the cards. At a word, Rodaja
uttered so many sage remarks, that, had it not been for the cries he
sent forth when any one approached near enough to touch him, for his
peculiar dress, slight food, strange manner of eating, and sleeping in
the air, or buried in straw, as we have related, no one could have
supposed but that he was one of the most acute persons in the world.
He remained more than two years in this condition; but, at the end of
that time, a monk of the order of St. Jerome, who had extraordinary
powers in the cure of lunacy, nay, who even made deaf and dumb people
hear and speak in a certain manner; this monk, I say, undertook the care
and cure of Rodaja, being moved thereto by the charity of his
disposition. Nor was it long before the lunatic was restored to his
original state of judgment and understanding. When the cure was
effected, the monk presented his patient with his previous dress of a
doctor of laws, exhorting him to return to his earlier mode of life, and
assuring him that he might now render himself as remarkable for the
force of his intellect, as he had before done for his singular folly.
Thomas returned accordingly to his past pursuits; but, instead of
calling himself Rodaja, as before, he assumed the name of Rueda. He had
scarcely appeared in the street, before he was recognised by the boys;
but seeing him in a dress so different from that he had before worn and
been known by, they dared not cry after him or ask him questions, but
contented themselves with saying, one to another, "Is not this the
madman, Doctor Glasscase? It is certainly he; and though he now looks so
discreet, he may be just as mad in this handsome dress as he was in that
other. Let us ask him some questions, and get rid of our doubts."
All this was heard by Thomas, who maintained silence, but felt much
confused, and hurried along more hastily than he had been wont to do
before he regained his senses. The men at length made the same remarks
as the boys and before he had arrived at the courts he had a train of
more than two hundred persons of all classes following him, being more
amply attended than the most popular professor of the university.
Having gained the first court, which is that of the entrance, these
people ended by surrounding him completely; when, perceiving that he was
so crowded on as no longer to have the power of proceeding, he finally
raised his voice, and said--
"Señores, it is true that I am Doctor Glass-case, but not he whom you
formerly knew. I am now Doctor Rueda. Misfortunes such as not
unfrequently happen in this world, by the permission of heaven, had
deprived me of my senses, but the mercy of God has restored them; and by
those things which you have heard me say when I was mad, you may judge
of what I shall say now that I am become sane. I am a doctor in laws of
the university of Salamanca, where I studied in much poverty, but raised
myself through all the degrees to that I now hold; but my poverty may
serve to assure you that I owe my rank to industry and not to favour. I
have come to this great sea of the Court, hoping to swim and get forward
and gain the bread of my life; but if you do not leave me I shall be
more likely to sink and find my death. For the love of God, I entreat
that you follow me no further, since, in doing so, you persecute and
injure me. What you formerly enquired of me in the streets, I beg you
now to come and ask me at my house, when you shall see that the
questions to which I before replied, impromptu, shall be more perfectly
answered now that I shall take time to consider."
All listened to him, many left him as he desired, and he returned to his
abode with a much smaller train. But it was every day the same: his
exhortations availed nothing; and Thomas finally resolved to repair to
Flanders, there to support himself by the strength of his arm, since he
could no longer profit by that of his intellect.
This resolution he executed accordingly, exclaiming as he departed--"Oh,
city and court! you by whom the expectations of the bold pretender are
fulfilled, while the hopes of the modest labourer are destroyed; you who
abundantly sustain the shameless Buffoon, while the worthy sage is left
to die of hunger; I bid you farewell." That said, he proceeded to
Flanders, where he finished in arms the life which he might have
rendered immortal by letters, and died in the company of his friend the
Captain Don Diego, leaving behind him the reputation of a most valiant
soldier and upright man.
THE DECEITFUL MARRIAGE
From the Hospital of the Resurrection, which stands just beyond the
Puerta del Campo, in Valladolid, there issued one day a soldier, who, by
the excessive paleness of his countenance, and the weakness of his
limbs, which obliged him to lean upon his sword, showed clearly to all
who set eyes on him that, though the weather was not very warm, he must
have sweated a good deal in the last few weeks. He had scarcely entered
the gate of the city, with tottering steps, when he was accosted by an
old friend who had not seen him for the last six months, and who
approached the invalid, making signs of the cross as if he had seen a
ghost. "What; is all this?" he cried; "do I, indeed, behold the Señor
Alferez[58] Campuzano? Is it possible that I really see you in this
country? Why, I thought you were in Flanders trailing a pike, instead of
hobbling along with your sword for a walking-stick. How pale--how
emaciated you look!"
[58] Alferez, Ensign.
"As to whether I am in this country or elsewhere, Sigñor Licentiate
Peralta, the fact that you now see me is a sufficient answer," replied
Campuzano; "as for your other questions, all I can tell you is, that I
have just come out of that hospital, where I have been confined for a
long time in a dreadful state of health, brought upon me by the conduct
of a woman I was indiscreet enough to make my wife."
"You have been married, then?" said Peralta.
"Yes, Señor."
"Married without benefit of clergy, I presume. Marriages of that sort
bring their own penance with them."
"Whether it was without benefit of clergy I cannot say," replied the
Alferez; "but I can safely aver that it was not without benefit of
physic. Such were the torments of body and soul which my marriage
brought upon me, that those of the body cost me forty sudations to cure
them, and, as for those of the soul, there is no remedy at all that can
relieve them. But excuse me, if I cannot hold a long conversation in the
street; another day I will, with more convenience, relate to you my
adventures, which are the strangest and most singular you ever heard in
all the days of your life."
"That will not do," said the licentiate; "I must have you come to my
lodgings, and there we will do penance together.[59] You will have an
olla, very fit for a sick man; and though it is scantly enough for two,
we will make up the deficiency with a pie and a few slices of Rute ham,
and, above all, with a hearty welcome, not only now, but whenever you
choose to claim it."
[59] A common form of invitation, meaning we will partake of a poor
repast.
Campuzano accepted the polite invitation. They turned into the church of
San Lorente and heard mass, and then Peralta took his friend home,
treated him as he had promised, repeated his courteous offers, and
requested him after dinner to relate his adventures. Campuzano, without
more ado, began as follows:--
You remember, Señor Licentiate Peralta, how intimate I was in this city
with Captain Pedro de Herrera, who is now in Flanders. "I remember it
very well," replied Peralta. Well, one day when we had done dinner in
the Posada della Solana, where we lived, there came in two ladies of
genteel appearance, with two waiting women: one of the ladies entered
into conversation with the Captain, both leaning against a window; the
other sat down in a chair beside me, with her veil low down, so that I
could not see her face, except so far as the thinness of the texture
allowed. I entreated her to do me the favour to unveil, but I could not
prevail, which the more inflamed my desire to have sight of her; but
what especially increased my curiosity was that, whether on purpose, or
by chance, the lady displayed a very white hand, with very handsome
rings.
At that time I made a very gallant appearance with that great chain you
have seen me wear, my hat with plumes and bands, my flame-coloured
military garments, and, in the eyes of my own folly, I seemed so
engaging that I imagined all the women must fall in love with me! Well,
I implored her to unveil. "Be not importunate," she replied; "I have a
house; let a servant follow me; for though I am of more honourable
condition than this reply of mine would indicate, yet for the sake of
seeing whether your discretion corresponds to your gallant appearance, I
will allow you to see me with less reserve." I kissed her hand for the
favour she granted me, in return for which I promised mountains of gold.
The captain ended his conversation, the ladies went away, and a servant
of mine followed them. The captain told me that what the lady had been
asking of him was to take some letters to Flanders to another captain,
who she said was her cousin, though he knew he was nothing but her
gallant.
For my part I was all on fire for the snow-white hands I had seen, and
dying for a peep at the face; so I presented myself next day at the door
which my servant pointed out to me, and was freely admitted. I found
myself in a house very handsomely decorated and furnished, in presence
of a lady about thirty years of age, whom I recognised by her hands. Her
beauty was not extraordinary, but of a nature well suited to fascinate
in conversation; for she talked with a sweetness of tone that won its
way through the ears to the soul. I had long _tête-à-têtes_ with her, in
which I made love with all my might: I bragged, bounced, swaggered,
offered, promised, and made all the demonstrations I thought necessary
to work myself into her good graces; but as she was accustomed to such
offers and protestations, she listened to them with an attentive, but
apparently far from credulous ear. In short, during the four days I
continued to visit her, our intercourse amounted only to talking soft
nonsense, without my being able to gather the tempting fruit.
In the course of my visits I always found the house free from intruders,
and without a vestige of pretended relations or real gallants. She was
waited on by a girl in whom there was more of the rogue than the
simpleton. At last resolving to push my suit in the style of a soldier,
who is about to shift his quarters, I came to the point with my fair
one, Doña Estefania de Caycedo (for that is the name of my charmer), and
this was the answer she gave me:--"Señor Alferez Campuzano, I should be
a simpleton if I sought to pass myself off on you for a saint; I have
been a sinner, ay, and am one still, but not in a manner to become a
subject of scandal in the neighbourhood or of notoriety in public. I
have inherited no fortune either from my parents or any other relation;
and yet the furniture of my house is worth a good two thousand five
hundred ducats, and would fetch that sum it put up to auction at any
moment. With this property I look for a husband to whom I may devote
myself in all obedience, and with whom I may lead a better life, whilst
I apply myself with incredible solicitude to the task of delighting and
serving him; for there is no master cook who can boast of a more refined
palate, or can turn out more exquisite ragouts and made-dishes than I
can, when I choose to display my housewifery in that way. I can be the
major domo in the house, the tidy wench in the kitchen, and the lady in
the drawing room: in fact, I know how to command and make myself obeyed.
I squander nothing and accumulate a great deal; my coin goes all the
further for being spent under my own directions. My household linen, of
which I have a large and excellent stock, did not come out of drapers'
shops or warehouses; these fingers and those of my maid servants
stitched it all, and it would have been woven at home had that been
possible. If I give myself these commendations, it is because I cannot
incur your censure by uttering what it is absolutely necessary that you
should know. In fine, I wish to say that I desire a husband to protect,
command, and honour me, and not a gallant to flatter and abuse me: if
you like to accept the gift that is offered you, here I am, ready and
willing to put myself wholly at your disposal, without going into the
public market with my hand, for it amounts to no less to place oneself
at the mercy of match-makers' tongues, and no one is so fit to arrange
the whole affair as the parties themselves."
My wits were not in my head at that moment, but in my heels. Delighted
beyond imagination, and seeing before me such a quantity of property,
which I already beheld by anticipation converted into ready money,
without making any other reflections than those suggested by the longing
that fettered my reason, I told her that I was fortunate and blest above
all men since heaven had given me by a sort of miracle such a companion,
that I might make her the lady of my affections and my fortune,--a
fortune which was not so small, but that with that chain which I wore
round my neck, and other jewels which I had at home, and by disposing
of some military finery, I could muster more than two thousand ducats,
which, with her two thousand five hundred, would be enough for us to
retire upon to a village of which I was a native, and where I had
relations and some patrimony. Its yearly increase, helped by our money,
would enable us to lead a cheerful and unembarrassed life. In fine, our
union was at once agreed on; the banns were published on three
successive holidays (which happened to fall together), and on the fourth
day, the marriage was celebrated in the presence of two friends of mine,
and a youth who she said was her cousin, and to whom I introduced myself
as a relation with words of great urbanity. Such, indeed, were all those
which hitherto I had bestowed on my bride--with how crooked and
treacherous an intention I would rather not say; for though I am telling
truths, they are not truths under confession which must not be kept
back.
My servant removed my trunk from my lodgings to my wife's house. I put
by my magnificent chain in my wife's presence; showed her three or four
others, not so large, but of better workmanship, with three or four
other trinkets of various kinds; laid before her my best dresses and my
plumes, and gave her about four hundred reals, which I had, to defray
the household expenses. For six days I tasted the bread of wedlock,
enjoying myself like a beggarly bridegroom in the house of a rich
father-in-law. I trod on rich carpets, lay in holland sheets, had silver
candlesticks to light me, breakfasted in bed, rose at eleven o'clock,
dined at twelve, and at two took my siesta in the drawing-room. Doña
Estefania and the servant girl danced attendance upon me; my servant,
whom I had always found lazy, was suddenly become nimble as a deer. If
ever Doña Estefania quitted my side, it was to go to the kitchen and
devote all her care to preparing fricassees to please my palate and
quicken my appetite. My shirts, collars, and handkerchiefs were a very
Aranjuez of flowers, so drenched they were with fragrant waters. Those
days flew fast, like the years which are under the jurisdiction of time;
and seeing myself so regaled and so well treated, I began to change for
the better the evil intention with which I had begun this affair.
At the end of them, one morning, whilst I was still in bed with Doña
Estefania, there was a loud knocking and calling at the street door. The
servant girl put her head out of the window, and immediately popped it
in again, saying,--"There she is, sure enough; she is come sooner than
she mentioned in her letter the other day, but she is welcome!"
"Who's come, girl?" said I.
"Who?" she replied; "why, my lady Doña Clementa Bueso, and with her
señor Don Lope Melendez de Almendarez, with two other servants, and
Hortigosa, the dueña she took with her."
"Bless me! Run, wench, and open the door for them," Doña Estefania now
exclaimed; "and you, señor, as you love me, don't put yourself out, or
reply for me to anything you may hear said against me."
"Why, who is to say anything to offend you, especially when I am by?
Tell me, who are these people, whose arrival appears to have upset you?"
"I have no time to answer," said Doña Estefania; "only be assured that
whatever takes place here will be all pretended, and bears upon a
certain design which you shall know by and by."
Before I could make any reply to this, in walked Doña Clementa Bueso,
dressed in lustrous green satin, richly laced with gold, a hat with
green, white, and pink feathers, a gold hat-band, and a fine veil
covering half her face. With her entered Don Lope Melendez de Almendarez
in a travelling suit, no less elegant than rich. The dueña Hortigosa was
the first who opened her lips, exclaiming, "Saints and angels, what is
this! My lady Doña Clementa's bed occupied, and by a man too! Upon my
faith, the señora Doña Estefania has availed herself of my lady's
friendliness to some purpose!"
"That she has, Hortigosa," replied Doña Clementa; "but I blame myself
for never being on my guard against friends who can only be such when it
is for their own advantage."
To all this Doña Estefania replied: "Pray do not be angry, my lady Doña
Clementa. I assure you there is a mystery in what you see; and when you
are made acquainted with it you will acquit me of all blame."
During this time I had put on my hose and doublet, and Doña Estefania,
taking me by the hand, led me into another room. There she told me that
this friend of hers wanted to play a trick on that Don Lope who was
come with her, and to whom she expected to be married. The trick was to
make him believe that the house and everything in it belonged to
herself. Once married, it would matter little that the truth was
discovered, so confident was the lady in the great love of Don Lope; the
property would then be returned; and who could blame her, or any woman,
for contriving to get an honourable husband, though it were by a little
artifice? I replied that it was a very great stretch of friendship she
thought of making, and that she ought to look well to it beforehand, for
very probably she might be constrained to have recourse to justice to
recover her effects. She gave me, however, so many reasons, and alleged
so many obligations by which she was bound to serve Doña Clementa even
in matters of more importance, that much against my will, and with sore
misgivings, I complied with Doña Estefania's wishes, on the assurance
that the affair would not last more than eight days, during which we
were to lodge with another friend of hers.
We finished dressing; she went to take her leave of the señora Doña
Clementa Bueso and the señor Lope Melendez Almendarez, ordered my
servant to follow her with my luggage, and I too followed without taking
leave of any one. Doña Estefania stopped at a friend's house, and stayed
talking with her a good while, leaving us in the street, till at last a
girl came out and told me and my servant to come in. We went up stairs
to a small room in which there were two beds so close together that they
seemed but one, for the bed-clothes actually touched each other. There
we remained six days, during which not an hour passed in which we did
not quarrel; for I was always telling her what a stupid thing she had
done in giving up her house and goods, though it were to her own mother.
One day, when Doña Estefania had gone out, as she said, to see how her
business was going on, the woman of the house asked me what was the
reason of my wrangling so much with my wife, and what had she done for
which I scolded her so much, saying it was an act of egregious folly
rather than of perfect friendship. I told her the whole story, how I had
married Doña Estefania, the dower she had brought me, and the folly she
had committed in leaving her house and goods to Doña Clementa, even
though it was for the good purpose of catching such a capital husband as
Don Lope. Thereupon the woman began to cross and bless herself at such
a rate, and to cry out, "O, Lord! O, the jade!" that she put me into a
great state of uneasiness. At last, "Señor Alferez," said she, "I don't
know but I am going against my conscience in making known to you what I
feel would lie heavy on it if I held my tongue. Here goes, however, in
the name of God,--happen what may, the truth for ever, and lies to the
devil! The truth is, that Doña Clementa Bueso is the real owner of the
house and property which you have had palmed upon you for a dower; the
lies are every word that Doña Estefania has told you, for she has
neither house nor goods, nor any clothes besides those on her back. What
gave her an opportunity for this trick was that Doña Clementa went to
visit one of her relations in the city of Plasencia, and there to
perform a novenary in the church of our Lady of Guadalupe, meanwhile
leaving Doña Estefania to look after her house, for in fact they are
great friends. And after all, rightly considered, the poor señora is not
to blame, since she has had the wit to get herself such a person as the
Señor Alferez for a husband."
Here she came to an end, leaving me almost desperate; and without doubt
I should have become wholly so, if my guardian angel had failed in the
least to support me, and whisper to my heart that I ought to consider I
was a Christian, and that the greatest sin men can be guilty of is
despair, since it is the sin of devils. This consideration, or good
inspiration, comforted me a little; not so much, however, but that I
took my cloak and sword, and went out in search of Doña Estefania,
resolved to inflict upon her an exemplary chastisement; but chance
ordained, whether for my good or not I cannot tell, that she was not to
be found in any of the places where I expected to fall in with her. I
went to the church of San Lorente, commended me to our Lady, sat down on
a bench, and in my affliction fell into so deep a sleep that I should
not have awoke for a long time if others had not roused me. I went with
a heavy heart to Doña Clementa's, and found her as much at ease as a
lady should be in her own house. Not daring to say a word to her,
because Señor Don Lope was present, I returned to my landlady, who told
me she had informed Doña Estefania that I was acquainted with her whole
roguery; that she had asked how I had seemed to take the news; that
she, the landlady, said I had taken it very badly, and had gone out to
look for her, apparently with the worst intentions; whereupon Doña
Estefania had gone away, taking with her all that was in my trunk, only
leaving me one travelling coat. I flew to my trunk, and found it open,
like a coffin waiting for a dead body; and well might it have been my
own, if sense enough had been left me to comprehend the magnitude of my
misfortune.
"Great it was, indeed," observed the licentiate Peralta; "only to think
that Doña Estefania carried off your fine chain and hat-band! Well, it
is a true saying, 'Misfortunes never come single.'"
I do not so much mind that loss, replied the Alferez, since I may apply
to myself the old saw, "My father-in-law thought to cheat me by putting
off his squinting daughter upon me; and I myself am blind of an eye."
"I don't know in what respect you can say that?" replied Peralta.
Why, in this respect, that all that lot of chains and gewgaws might be
worth some ten or twelve crowns.
"Impossible!" exclaimed the licentiate; "for that which the Señor
Alferez wore on his neck must have weighed more than two hundred
ducats."
So it would have done, replied the Alferez, if the reality had
corresponded with the appearance; but "All is not gold that glitters,"
and my fine things were only imitations, but so well made that nothing
but the touchstone or the fire could have detected that they were not
genuine.
"So, then, it seems to have been a drawn game between you and the Señora
Doña Estefania," said the licentiate.
So much so that we may shuffle the cards and make a fresh deal. Only the
mischief is, Señor Licentiate, that she may get rid of my mock chains,
but I cannot get rid of the cheat she put upon me; for, in spite of my
teeth, she remains my wife.
"You may thank God, Señor Campuzano," said Peralta, "that your wife has
taken to her heels, and that you are not obliged to go in search of
her."
Very true; but for all that, even without looking for her, I always find
her--in imagination; and wherever I am, my disgrace is always present
before me.
"I know not what answer to make you, except to remind you of these two
verses of Petrarch:--
"'Che qui prende diletto di far frode,
Non s'ha di lamentar s'altro l'inganna.'
That is to say, whoever makes it his practice and his pleasure to
deceive others, has no right to complain when he is himself deceived."
But I don't complain, replied the Alferez; only I pity myself--for the
culprit who knows his fault does not the less feel the pain of his
punishment. I am well aware that I sought to deceive and that I was
deceived, and caught in my own snare; but I cannot command my feelings
so much as not to lament over myself. To come, however, to what more
concerns my history (for I may give that name to the narrative of my
adventures), I learned that Doña Estefania had been taken away by that
cousin whom she brought to our wedding, who had been a lover of hers of
long standing. I had no mind to go after her and bring back upon myself
an evil I was rid of. I changed my lodgings and my skin too within a few
days. My eyebrows and eyelashes began to drop; my hair left me by
degrees; and I was bald before my time, and stripped of everything; for
I had neither a beard to comb nor money to spend. My illness kept pace
with my want; and as poverty bears down honour, drives some to the
gallows, some to the hospital, and makes others enter their enemies'
doors with cringing submissiveness, which is one of the greatest
miseries that can befall an unlucky man; that I might not expend upon my
cure the clothes that should cover me respectably in health, I entered
the Hospital of the Resurrection, where I took forty sudations. They say
that I shall get well if I take care of myself. I have my sword; for the
rest I trust in God.
The licentiate renewed his friendly offers, much wondering at the things
he had heard.
If you are surprised at the little I have told you, Señor Peralta, said
the Alferez, what will you say to the other things I have yet to relate,
which exceed all imagination, since they pass all natural bounds? I can
only tell you that they are such that I think it a full compensation for
all my disasters that they were the cause of my entering the hospital,
where I saw what I shall now relate to you; and what you can never
believe; no; nor anybody else in the world.
All these preambles of the Alferez so excited Peralta's curiosity, that
he earnestly desired to hear, in detail, all that remained to be told.
You have no doubt seen, said the Alferez, two dogs going about by night
with lanterns along with the Capuchin brethren, to give them light when
they are collecting alms.
"I have," replied Peralta.
You have also seen, or heard tell of them, that if alms are thrown from
the windows, and happen to fall on the ground, they immediately help
with the light and begin to look for what has fallen; that they stop of
their own accord before the windows from which they know they are used
to receive alms; and that with all their tameness on these occasions, so
that they are more like lambs than dogs, they are lions in the hospital,
keeping guard with great care and vigilance.
"I have heard that all this is as you say," said Peralta; "but there is
nothing in this to move my wonder."
But what I shall now tell you of them, returned the Alferez, is enough
to do so; yet, strange as it is, you must bring yourself to believe it.
One night, the last but one of my sudation, I heard, and all but saw
with my eyes those two dogs, one of which is called Scipio, the other
Berganza, stretched on an old mat outside my room. In the middle of the
night, lying awake in the dark, thinking of my past adventures and my
present sorrows, I heard talking, and set myself to listen attentively,
to see if I could make out who were the speakers and what they said. By
degrees I did both, and ascertained that the speakers were the dogs
Scipio and Berganza.
The words were hardly out of Campuzano's mouth, when the licentiate
jumped up and said: "Saving your favour, Señor Campuzano, till this
moment I was in much doubt whether or not to believe what you have told
me about your marriage; but what you now tell me of your having heard
dogs talk, makes me decide upon not believing you at all. For God's
sake, Señor Alferez, do not relate such nonsense to any body, unless it
be to one who is as much your friend as I am."
Do not suppose I am so ignorant, replied Campuzano, as not to know that
brutes cannot talk unless by a miracle. I well know that if starlings,
jays, and parrots talk, it is only such words as they have learned by
rote, and because they have tongues adapted to pronounce them; but they
cannot, for all that, speak and reply with deliberate discourse as those
dogs did. Many times, indeed, since I heard them I have been disposed
not to believe myself, but to regard as a dream that which, being really
awake, with all the five senses which our Lord was pleased to give me, I
heard, marked, and finally wrote down without missing a word; whence you
may derive proof enough to move and persuade you to believe this verity
which I relate. The matters they talked of were various and weighty,
such as might rather have been discussed by learned men than by the
mouths of dogs; so that, since I could not have invented them out of my
own head, I am come, in spite of myself, to believe that I did not
dream, and that the dogs did talk.
"Body of me!" exclaimed the licentiate, "are the times of Æsop come back
to us, when the cock conversed with the fox, and one beast with
another?"
I should be one of them, and the greatest, replied the Alferez, if I
believed that time had returned; and so I should be, too, if I did not
believe what I have heard and seen, and what I am ready to swear to by
any form of oath that can constrain incredulity itself to believe. But,
supposing that I have deceived myself, and that this reality was a
dream, and that to contend for it is an absurdity, will it not amuse
you, Señor Peralta, to see, written in the form of a dialogue, the
matters talked of by those dogs, or whoever the speakers may have been?
"Since you no longer insist on having me believe that you heard dogs
talk," replied Peralta, "with much pleasure I will hear this colloquy,
of which I augur well, since it is reported by a gentlemen of such
talents as the Señor Alferez."
Another thing I have to remark, said Campuzano, is, that, as I was very
attentive, my apprehension very sensitive, and my memory very retentive
(thanks to the many raisins and almonds I had swallowed), I got it all
by heart, and wrote it down, word for word, the next day, without
attempting to colour or adorn it, or adding or suppressing anything to
make it attractive. The conversation took place not on one night only,
but on two consecutive nights, though I have not written down more than
one dialogue, that which contains the life of Berganza. His comrade
Scipio's life, which was the subject of the second night's discourse, I
intend to write out, if I find that the first one is believed, or at
least not despised. I have thrown the matter into the form of a dialogue
to avoid the cumbrous repetition of such phrases as, _said Scipio_,
_replied Berganza_.
So saying, he took a roll of paper out of his breast pocket, and put it
in the hands of the licentiate, who received it with a smile, as if he
made very light of all he had heard, and was about to read.
I will recline on this sofa, said the Alferez, whilst you are reading
those dreams or ravings, if you will, which have only this to recommend
them, that you may lay them down when you grow tired of them.
"Make yourself comfortable," said Peralta; "and I will soon despatch my
reading."
The Alferez lay down; the licentiate opened the scroll, and found it
headed as follows:--
* * * * *
DIALOGUE BETWEEN SCIPIO AND BERGANZA,
DOGS OF THE HOSPITAL OF THE RESURRECTION IN THE CITY OF VALLADOLID,
COMMONLY CALLED THE DOGS OF MAHUDES.
_Scip._ Berganza, my friend, let us leave our watch over the hospital
to-night, and retire to this lonely place and these mats, where, without
being noticed, we may enjoy that unexampled favour which heaven has
bestowed on us both at the same moment.
_Berg._ Brother Scipio, I hear you speak, and know that I am speaking to
you; yet cannot I believe, so much does it seem to me to pass the bounds
of nature.
_Scip._ That is true, Berganza; and what makes the miracle greater is,
that we not only speak but hold intelligent discourse, as though we had
souls capable of reason; whereas we are so far from having it, that the
difference between brutes and man consists in this, that man is a
rational animal and the brute is irrational.
_Berg._ I hear all you say, Scipio; and that you say it, and that I
hear it, causes me fresh admiration and wonder. It is very true that in
the course of my life I have many a time heard tell of our great
endowments, insomuch that some, it appears, have been disposed to think
that we possess a natural instinct, so vivid and acute in many things
that it gives signs and tokens little short of demonstrating that we
have a certain sort of understanding capable of reason.
_Scip._ What I have heard highly extolled is our strong memory, our
gratitude, and great fidelity; so that it is usual to depict us as
symbols of friendship. Thus you will have seen (if it has ever come
under your notice) that, on the alabaster tombs, on which are
represented the figures of those interred in them, when they are husband
and wife, a figure of a dog is placed between the pair at their feet, in
token that in life their affection and fidelity to each other was
inviolable,
_Berg._ I know that there have been grateful dogs who have cast
themselves into the same grave with the bodies of their deceased
masters; others have stood over the graves in which their lords were
buried without quitting them or taking food till they died. I know,
likewise, that next to the elephant the dog holds the first place in the
way of appearing to possess understanding, then the horse, and last the
ape.
_Scip._ True; but you will surely confess that you never saw or heard
tell of any elephant, dog, horse, or monkey having talked: hence I
infer, that this fact of our coming by the gift of speech so
unexpectedly falls within the list of those things which are called
portents, the appearance of which indicates, as experience testifies,
that some great calamity threatens the nations.
_Berg._ That being so I can readily enough set down as a portentous
token what I heard a student say the other day as I passed through
Alcala de Henares.
_Scip._ What was that?
_Berg._ That of five thousand students this year attending the
university--two thousand are studying medicine.
_Scip._ And what do you infer from that?
_Berg._ I infer either that those two thousand doctors will have
patients to treat, and that would be a woful thing, or that they must
die of hunger.
_Scip._ Be that as it may, let us talk, portent or no portent; for what
heaven has ordained to happen, no human diligence or wit can prevent.
Nor is it needful that we should fall to disputing as to the how or the
why we talk. Better will it be to make the best of this good clay or
good night at home; and since we enjoy it so much on these mats, and
know not how long this good fortune of ours may last, let us take
advantage of it and talk all night, without suffering sleep to deprive
us of a pleasure which I, for my part, have so long desired.
_Berg._ And I, too; for ever since I had strength enough to gnaw a bone
I have longed for the power of speech, that I might utter a multitude of
things I had laid up in my memory, and which lay there so long that they
were growing musty or almost forgotten. Now, however, that I see myself
so unexpectedly enriched with this divine gift of speech, I intend to
enjoy it and avail myself of it as much as I can, taking pains to say
everything I can recollect, though it be confusedly and helter-skelter,
not knowing when this blessing, which I regard as a loan, shall be
reclaimed from me.
_Scip._ Let us proceed in this manner, friend Berganza: to-night you
shall relate the history of your life to me, and the perils through
which you have passed to the present hour; and to-morrow night, if we
still have speech, I will recount mine to you; for it will be better to
spend the time in narrating our own lives than in trying to know those
of others.
_Berg._ I have ever looked upon you, Scipio, as a discreet dog and a
friend, and now I do so more than ever, since, as a friend, you desire
to tell me your adventures and know mine; and, as a discreet dog, you
apportion the time in which we may narrate them. But first observe
whether any one overhears us.
_Scip._ No one, I believe; since hereabouts there is a soldier going
through a sweating-course; but at this time of night he will be more
disposed to sleep than to listen to anything.
_Berg._ Since then we can speak so securely, hearken; and if I tire you
with what I say, either check me or bid me hold my tongue.
_Scip._ Talk till dawn, or till we are heard, and I will listen to you
with very great pleasure, without interrupting you, unless I see it to
be necessary.
_Berg._ It appears to me that the first time I saw the sun was in
Seville, in its slaughter-houses, which were outside the Puerta do la
Carne; wence I should imagine (were it not for what I shall afterwards
tell you) that my progenitors were some of those mastiff's which are
bred by those ministers of confusion who are called butchers. The first
I knew for a master, was one Nicholas the Pugnosed, a stout, thick-set,
passionate fellow, as all butchers are. This Nicholas taught me and
other whelps to run at bulls in company with old dogs and catch them by
the ears. With great ease I became an eagle among my fellows in this
respect.
_Scip._ I do not wonder, Berganza, that ill-doing is so easily learned,
since it comes by a natural obliquity.
_Berg._ What can I say to you, brother Scipio, of what I saw in those
slaughter-houses, and the enormous things that were done in them? In the
first place, you must understand that all who work in them, from the
lowest to the highest, are people without conscience or humanity,
fearing neither the king nor his justice; most of them living in
concubinage; carrion birds of prey; maintaining themselves and their
doxies by what they steal. On all flesh days, a great number of wenches
and young chaps assemble in the slaughtering place before dawn, all of
them with bags which come empty and go away full of pieces of meat. Not
a beast is killed out of which these people do not take tithes, and that
of the choicest and most savoury pickings. The masters trust implicitly
in these honest folk, not with the hope that they will not rob them (for
that is impossible), but that they may use their knives with some
moderation. But what struck me as the worst thing of all, was that these
butchers make no more of killing a man than a cow. They will quarrel for
straws, and stick a knife into a person's body as readily as they would
fell an ox. It is a rare thing for a day to pass without brawls and
bloodshed, and even murder. They all pique themselves on being men of
mettle, and they observe, too, some punctilios of the bravo; there is
not one of them but has his guardian angel in the Plaza de San
Francesco, whom he propitiates with sirloins, and beef tongues.
_Scip._ If you mean to dwell at such length, friend Berganza, on the
characteristics and faults of all the masters you have had, we had
better pray to heaven to grant us the gift of speech for a year; and
even then I fear, at the rate you are going, you will not get through
half your story. One thing I beg to remark to you, of which you will see
proof when I relate my own adventures; and that is, that some stories
are pleasing in themselves, and others from the manner in which they are
told; I mean that there are some which give satisfaction, though they
are told without preambles and verbal adornments; while others require
to be decked in that way and set off by expressive play of features,
hands, and voice; whereby, instead of flat and insipid, they become
pointed and agreeable. Do not forget this hint, but profit by it in what
you are about to say.
_Berg._ I will do so, if I can, and if I am not hindered by the great
temptation I feel to speak; though, indeed, it appears to me that I
shall have the greatest difficulty in constraining myself to moderation.
_Scip._ Be wary with your tongue, for from that member flow the greatest
ills of human life.
_Berg._ Well, then, to go on with my story, my master taught me to carry
a basket in my mouth, and to defend it against any one who should
attempt to take it from me. He also made me acquainted with the house in
which his mistress lived, and thereby spared her servant the trouble of
coming to the slaughter-house, for I used to carry to her the pieces of
meat he had stolen over night. Once as I was going along on this errand
in the gray of the morning, I heard some one calling me by name from a
window. Looking up I saw an extremely pretty girl; she came down to the
street door, and began to call me again. I went up to her to see what
she wanted of me; and what was it but to take away the meat I was
carrying in the basket and put an old clog in its place? "Be off with
you," she said, when she had done so; "and tell Nicholas the Pugnosed,
your master, not to put trust in brutes." I might easily have made her
give up what she had taken from me; but I would not put a cruel tooth on
those delicate white hands.
_Scip._ You did quite right; for it is the prerogative of beauty always
to be held in respect.
_Berg._ Well, I went back to my master without the meat and with the old
clog. It struck him that I had come back very soon, and seeing the clog,
he guessed the trick, snatched up a knife, and flung it at me; and if I
had not leaped aside, you would not now be listening to my story. I
took to my heels, and was off like a shot behind St. Bernard's, away
over the fields, without stopping to think whither my luck would lead
me. That night I slept under the open sky, and the following day I
chanced to fall in with a flock of sheep. The moment I saw it, I felt
that I had found the very thing that suited me, since it appeared to me
to be the natural and proper duty of dogs to guard the fold, that being
an office which involves the great virtue of protecting and defending
the lowly and the weak against the proud and mighty. One of the three
shepherds who were with the flock immediately called me to him, and I,
who desired nothing better, went up at once to him, lowering my head and
wagging my tail. He passed his hand along my back, opened my mouth,
examined my fangs, ascertained my age, and told his master that I had
all the works and tokens of a dog of good breed. Just then up came the
owner of the flock on a gray mare with lance and surge, so that he
looked more a coast-guard than a sheep master.
"What dog is that!" said he to the shepherd; "he seems a good one." "You
may well say that," replied the man; "for I have examined him closely,
and there is not a mark about him but shows that he must be of the right
sort. He came here just now; I don't know whose he is, but I know that
he does not belong to any of the flocks hereabouts."
"If that be so," said the master, "put on him the collar that belonged
to the dog that is dead, and give him the same rations as the rest,
treat him kindly that he may take a liking to the fold, and remain with
it henceforth." So saying he went away, and the shepherd put on my neck
a collar set with steel points, after first giving me a great mess of
bread sopped in milk in a trough. At the same time I had a name bestowed
on me, which was Barcino. I liked my second master, and my new duty very
well; I was careful and diligent in watching the flock, and never
quitted it except in the afternoons, when I went to repose under the
shade of some tree, or rock, or bank, or by the margin of one of the
many streams that watered the country. Nor did I spend those leisure
hours idly, but employed them in calling many things to mind, especially
the life I had led in the slaughter-house, and also that of my master
and all his fellows, who were bound to satisfy the inordinate humours
of their mistresses. O how many things I could tell you of that I
learned in the school of that she-butcher, my master's lady; but I must
pass them over, lest you should think me tedious and censorious.
_Scip._ I have heard that it was a saying of a great poet among the
ancients, that it was a difficult thing to write satires. I consent that
you put some point into your remarks, but not to the drawing of blood.
You may hit lightly, but not wound or kill; for sarcasm, though it make
many laugh, is not good if it mortally wounds one; and if you can please
without it, I shall think you more discreet.
_Berg._ I will take your advice, and I earnestly long for the time when
you will relate your own adventures; for seeing how judiciously you
correct the faults into which I fall in my narrative, I may well expect
that your own will be delivered in a manner equally instructive and
delightful. But to take up the broken thread of my story, I say that in
those hours of silence and solitude, it occurred to me among other
things, that there could be no truth in what I had heard tell of the
life of shepherds--of those, at least, about whom my master's lady used
to read, when I went to her house, in certain books, all treating of
shepherds and shepherdesses; and telling how they passed their whole
life in singing and playing on pipes and rebecks, and other old
fashioned instruments. I remember her reading how the shepherd of
Anfriso sang the praises of the peerless Belisarda, and that there was
not a tree on all the mountains of Arcadia on whose trunk he had not sat
and sung from the moment Sol quitted the arms of Aurora, till he threw
himself into those of Thetis, and that even after black night had spread
its murky wings over the face of the earth, he did not cease his
melodious complaints. I did not forget the shepherd Elicio, more
enamoured than bold, of whom it was said, that without attending to his
own loves or his flock, he entered into others' griefs; nor the great
shepherd Filida, unique painter of a single portrait, who was more
faithful than happy; nor the anguish of Sireno and the remorse of Diana,
and how she thanked God and the sage Felicia, who, with her enchanted
water, undid that maze of entanglements and difficulties. I bethought me
of many other tales of the same sort, but they were not worthy of being
remembered.
The habits and occupations of my masters, and the rest of the shepherds
in that quarter, were very different from those of the shepherds in the
books. If mine sang, it was no tuneful and finely composed strains, but
very rude and vulgar songs, to the accompaniment not of pipes and
rebecks, but to that of one crook knocked against another, or of bits of
tile jingled between the fingers, and sung with voices not melodious and
tender, but so coarse and out of tune, that whether singly or in chorus,
they seemed to be howling or grunting. They passed the greater part of
the day in hunting up their fleas or mending their brogues; and none of
them were named Amarillis, Filida, Galatea, or Diana; nor were there any
Lisardos, Lausos, Jacintos, or Riselos; but all were Antones, Domingos,
Pablos, or Llorentes. This led me to conclude that all those books about
pastoral life are only fictions ingeniously written for the amusement of
the idle, and that there is not a word of truth in them; for, were it
otherwise, there would have remained among my shepherds some trace of
that happy life of yore, with its pleasant meads, spacious groves,
sacred mountains, handsome gardens, clear streams and crystal fountains,
its ardent but no less decorous love-descants, with here the shepherd,
there the shepherdess all woe-begone, and the air made vocal everywhere
with flutes and pipes and flageolets.
_Scip._ Enough, Berganza; get back into your road, and trot on.
_Berg._ I am much obliged to you, friend Scipio; for, but for your hint,
I was getting so warm upon the scent, that I should not have stopped
till I had given you one whole specimen of those books that had so
deceived me. But a time will come when I shall discuss the whole matter
more fully and more opportunely than now.
_Scip._ Look to your feet, and don't run after your tail, that is to
say, recollect that you are an animal devoid of reason; or if you seem
at present to have a little of it, we are already agreed that this is a
supernatural and altogether unparalleled circumstance.
_Berg._ That would be all very well if I were still in my pristine state
of ignorance; but now that I bethink me of what I should have mentioned
to you in the beginning of our conversation, I not only cease to wonder
that I speak, but I am terrified at the thought of leaving off.
_Scip._ Can you not tell me that something now that you recollect it?
_Berg._ It was a certain affair that occurred to me with a sorntess, a
disciple of la Camacha de Montilla.
_Scip._ Let me hear it now, before you proceed with the story of your
life.
_Berg._ No, not till the proper time. Have patience and listen to the
recital of my adventures in the order they occurred, for they will
afford you more pleasure in that way.
_Scip._ Very well; tell me what you will and how you will, but be brief.
_Berg._ I say, then, that I was pleased with my duty as a guardian of
the flock, for it seemed to me that in that way I ate the bread of
industry, and that sloth, the root and mother of all vices, came not
nigh me; for if I rested by day, I never slept at night, the wolves
continually assailing us and calling us to arms. The instant the
shepherds said to me, "The wolf! the wolf! at him, Barcino," I dashed
forward before all the other dogs, in the direction pointed out to me by
the shepherds. I scoured the valleys, searched the mountains, beat the
thickets, leaped the gullies, crossed the roads, and on the morning
returned to the fold without having caught the wolf or seen a glimpse of
him, panting, weary, all scratched and torn, and my feet cut with
splinters; and I found in the fold either a ewe or a wether slaughtered
and half eaten by the wolf. It vexed me desperately to see of what
little avail were all my care and diligence. Then the owner of the flock
would come; the shepherds would go out to meet him with the skin of the
slaughtered animal: the owner would scold the shepherds for their
negligence, and order the dogs to be punished for cowardice. Down would
come upon us a shower of sticks and revilings; and so, finding myself
punished without fault, and that my care, alertness, and courage were of
no avail to keep off the wolf, I resolved to change my manner of
proceeding, and not to go out to seek him, as I had been used to do, but
to remain close to the fold; for since the wolf came to it, that would
be the surest place to catch him. Every week we had an alarm; and one
dark night I contrived to get a sight of the wolves, from which it was
so impossible to guard the fold. I crouched behind a bank; the rest of
the dogs ran forward; and from my lurking-place I saw and heard how two
shepherds picked out one of the fattest wethers, and slaughtered it in
such a manner, that it really appeared next morning as if the
executioner had been a wolf. I was horror-struck, when I saw that the
shepherds themselves were the wolves, and that the flock was plundered
by the very men who had the keeping of it. As usual, they made known to
their master the mischief done by the wolf, gave him the skin and part
of the carcase, and ate the rest, and that the choicest part,
themselves. As usual, they had a scolding, and the dogs a beating. Thus
there were no wolves, yet the flock dwindled away, and I was dumb, all
which filled me with amazement and anguish. O Lord! said I to myself,
who can ever remedy this villany? Who will have the power to make known
that the defence is offensive, the sentinels sleep, the trustees rob,
and those who guard you kill you?
_Scip._ You say very true, Berganza; for there is no worse or more
subtle thief than the domestic thief; and accordingly there die many
more of those who are trustful than of those who are wary. But the
misfortune is, that it is impossible for people to get on in the world
in any tolerable way without mutual confidence. However, let us drop
this subject: there is no need that we should be evermore preaching. Go
on.
_Berg._ I determined then to quit that service, though it seemed so good
a one, and to choose another, in which well-doing, if not rewarded, was
at least not punished. I went back to Seville, and entered the service
of a very rich merchant.
_Scip._ How did you set about getting yourself a master? As things are
now-a-days, an honest man has great difficulty in finding an employer.
Very different are the lords of the earth from the Lord of Heaven; the
former, before they will accept a servant, first scrutinise his birth
and parentage, examine into his qualifications, and even require to know
what clothes he has got; but for entering the service of God, the
poorest is the richest, the humblest is the best born; and whoso is but
disposed to serve him in purity of heart is at once entered in his book
of wages, and has such assigned to him as his utmost desire can hardly
compass, so ample are they.
_Berg._ All this is preaching, Scipio.
_Scip._ Well, it strikes me that it is. So go on.
_Berg._ With respect to your question, how I set about getting a master:
you are aware that humility is the base and foundation of all virtues,
and that without it there are none. It smooths inconveniences, overcomes
difficulties, and is a means which always conducts us to glorious ends;
it makes friends of enemies, tempers the wrath of the choleric, and
abates the arrogance of the proud: it is the mother of modesty, and
sister of temperance. I availed myself of this virtue whenever I wanted
to get a place in any house, after having first considered and carefully
ascertained that it was one which could maintain a great dog. I then
placed myself near the door; and whenever any one entered whom I guessed
to be a stranger, I barked at him; and when the master entered, I went
up to him with my head down, my tail wagging, and licked his shoes. If
they drove me out with sticks, I took it patiently, and turned with the
same gentleness to fawn in the same way on the person who beat me. The
rest let me alone, seeing my perseverance and my generous behaviour; and
after one or two turns of this kind, I got a footing in the house. I was
a good servant: they took a liking to me immediately; and I was never
turned out, but dismissed myself, or, to speak more properly, I ran
away; and sometimes I met with such a master, that but for the
persecution of fortune I should have remained with him to this day.
_Scip._ It was just in the same way that I got into the houses of the
masters I served. It seems that we read men's thoughts.
_Berg._ I will tell you now what happened to me after I left the fold in
the power of those reprobates. I returned, as I have said, to Seville,
the asylum of the poor and refuge for the destitute, which embraces in
its greatness not only the rude but the mighty and nourishing. I planted
myself at the door of a large house belonging to a merchant, exerted
myself as usual, and after a few trials gained admission. They kept me
tied up behind the door by day, and let me loose at night. I did my duty
with great care and diligence, barked at strangers, and growled at
those who were not well known. I did not sleep at night, but visited the
yards, and walked about the terraces, acting as general guard over our
own house and those of the neighbours; and my master was so pleased with
my good service, that he gave orders I should be well treated, and have
a ration of bread, with the bones from his table, and the kitchen
scraps. For this I showed my gratitude by no end of leaps when I saw my
master, especially when he came home after being abroad; and such were
my demonstrations of joy that my master ordered me to be untied, and
left loose day and night. As soon as I was set free, I ran to him, and
gambolled all round him, without venturing to lay my paws on him; for I
bethought me of that ass in Æsop's Fables, who was ass enough to think
of fondling his master in the same manner as his favourite lap-dog, and
was well basted for his pains. I understood that fable to signify, that
what is graceful and comely in some is not so in others. Let the ribald
flout and jeer, the mountebank tumble,--let the common fellow, who has
made it his business, imitate the song of birds and the gestures of
animals, but not the man of quality, who can deserve no credit or renown
from any skill in these things.
_Scip._ Enough said, Berganza; I understand you; go on.
_Berg._ Would that others for whom I say this understood me as well! For
there is something or other in my nature which makes me feel greatly
shocked when I see a cavalier make a buffoon of himself, and taking
pride in being able to play at thimblerig, and in dancing the _chacona_
to perfection, I know a cavalier who boasted, that he had, at the
request of a sacristan, cut out thirty-two paper ornaments, to stick
upon the black cloth over a monument; and he was so proud of his
performance that he took his friends to see it, as though he were
showing them pennons and trophies taken from the enemy, and hung over
the tombs of his forefathers. Well, this merchant I have been telling
you of had two sons, one aged twelve, the other about fourteen, who were
studying the humanities in the classes of the Company of Jesus. They
went in pomp to the college, accompanied by their tutor, and by pages to
carry their books, and what they called their Vademecum. To see them go
with such parade, on horseback in fine weather, and in a carriage when
it rained, made me wonder at the plain manner in which their father
went abroad upon his business, attended by no other servant than a
negro, and sometimes mounted upon a sorry mule.
_Scip._ You must know, Berganza, that it is a customary thing with the
merchants of Seville, and of other cities also, to display their wealth
and importance, not in their own persons, but in those of their sons:
for merchants are greater in their shadows than in themselves; and as
they rarely attend to anything else than their bargains, they spend
little on themselves; but as ambition and wealth burn to display
themselves, they show their own in the persons of their sons,
maintaining them as sumptuously as if they were sons of princes.
Sometimes too they purchase titles for them, and set upon their breasts
the mark that so much distinguishes men of rank from the commonalty.
_Berg._ It is ambition, but a generous ambition that seeks to improve
one's condition without prejudice to others.
_Scip._ Seldom or never can ambition consist with abstinence from injury
to others.
_Berg._ Have we not said that we are not to speak evil of any one?
_Scip._ Ay, but I don't speak evil of any one.
_Berg._ You now convince me of the truth of what I have often heard say,
that a person of a malicious tongue will utter enough to blast ten
families, and calumniate twenty good men; and if he is taken to task for
it, he will reply that he said nothing; or, if he did, he meant nothing
by it, and would not have said it if he had thought any one would take
it amiss. In truth, Scipio, one had need of much wisdom and wariness to
be able to entertain a conversation for two hours, without approaching
the confines of evil speaking. In my own case, for instance, brute as I
am, I see that with every fourth phrase I utter, words full of malice
and detraction come to my tongue like flies to wine. I therefore say
again that doing and speaking evil are things we inherit from our first
parents, and suck in with our mother's milk. This is manifest in the
fact, that hardly is a boy out of swaddling clothes before he lifts his
hand to take vengeance upon those by whom he thinks himself offended;
and the first words he articulates are to call his nurse or his mother a
jade.
_Scip._ That is true. I confess my error, and beg you will forgive it,
as I have forgiven you so many. Let us pitch ill-nature into the sea--as
the boys say--and henceforth backbite no more. Go on with your story.
You were talking of the grand style in which the sons of your master the
merchant went to the college of the Company of Jesus.
_Berg._ I will go on then; and though I hold it a sufficient thing to
abstain from ill-natured remarks, yet I propose to use a remedy, which I
am told was employed by a great swearer, who repenting of his bad habit,
made it a practice to pinch his arm, or kiss the ground as penance,
whenever an oath escaped him; but he continued to swear for all that. In
like manner, whenever I act contrary to the precept you have given me
against evil speaking, and contrary to my own intention to abstain from
that practice, I will bite the tip of my tongue, so that the smart may
remind me of my fault, and hinder me from relapsing into it.
_Scip._ If that is the remedy you mean to use, I expect that you will
have to bite your tongue so often, that there will be none of it left,
and it will be put beyond the possibility of offending.
_Berg._ At least I will do my best; may heaven make up my deficiencies.
Well, to resume: one day my master's sons left a note-book in the
court-yard where I was; and as I had been taught to fetch and carry, I
took it up, and went after them, resolved to put it into their own
hands. It turned out exactly as I desired; for my masters seeing me
coming with the note-book in my mouth, which I held cleverly by its
string, sent a page to take it from me; but I would not let him, nor
quitted it till I entered the hall with it, at which all the students
fell a laughing. Going up to the elder of my masters, I put it into his
hands, with all the obsequiousness I could, and went and seated myself
on my haunches at the door of the hall, with my eyes fixed on the master
who was lecturing in the chair. There is some strange charm in virtue;
for though I know little or nothing about it, I at once took delight in
seeing the loving care and industry with which the reverend fathers
taught those youths, shaping their tender minds aright, and guiding them
in the path of virtue, which they demonstrated to them along with
letters. I observed how they reproved them with suavity, chastised them
with mercy, animated them with examples, incited them with rewards, and
indulged them with prudence; and how they set before them the
loathsomeness of vice and the beauty of virtue, so that abhorring the
one and loving the other, they might achieve the end for which they were
created.
_Scip._ You say very well, Berganza; for I have heard tell of this holy
fraternity, that for worldly wisdom there are none equal to them; and
that as guides and leaders on the road to heaven, few come up to them.
They are mirrors of integrity, catholic doctrine, rare wisdom, and
profound humility, the base on which is erected the whole edifice of
beatitude.
_Berg._ That is every word true. But to return to my story: my masters
were so pleased with my carrying them the note-book, that they would
have me do so every day; and thus I enjoyed the life of a king, or even
better, having nothing to do but to play with the students, with whom I
grew so tame, that they would put their hands in my mouth, and the
smallest of them would ride on my back. They would fling their hats or
caps for me to fetch, and I would put them into their hands with marks
of great delight. They used to give me as much to eat as they could; and
they were fond of seeing, when they gave me nuts or almonds, how I
cracked them like a monkey, let fall the shells, and ate the kernels.
One student, to make proof of my ability, brought me a great quantity of
salad in a basket, and I ate it like a human being. It was the winter
season, when manchets and mantequillas abound in Seville; and I was so
well supplied with them, that many an Antonio was pawned or sold that I
might breakfast. In short, I spent a student's life, without hunger or
itch, and that is saying everything for it; for if hunger and itch were
not identified with the student's life, there would be none more
agreeable in the world; since virtue and pleasure go hand in hand
through it, and it is passed in learning and taking diversion. This
happy life ended too soon for me. It appeared to the professors that the
students spent the half-hour between the classes not in studying their
lessons, but in playing with me; and therefore they ordered my masters
not to bring me any more to the college. I was left at home accordingly,
at my old post behind the door; and notwithstanding the order graciously
given by the head of the family, that I should be at liberty day and
night, I was again confined to a small mat, with a chain round my neck.
Ah, friend Scipio, did you but know how sore a thing it is to pass from
a state of happiness to one of wretchedness! When sorrows and distresses
flood the whole course of life, either they soon end in death, or their
continuance begets a habit of endurance, which generally alleviates
their greatest rigour; but when one passes suddenly and unexpectedly
from a miserable and calamitous lot to one of prosperity and enjoyment,
and soon after relapses into his former state of woe and suffering: this
is such a poignant affliction, that if it does not extinguish life, it
is only to make it a prolonged torment. Well, I returned to my ordinary
rations, and to the bones which were flung to me by a negress belonging
to the house; but even these were partly filched from me by two cats,
who very nimbly snapped up whatever fell beyond the range of my chain.
Brother Scipio, as you hope that heaven will prosper all your desires,
do suffer me to philosophise a little at present; for unless I utter the
reflections which have now occurred to my mind, I feel that my story
will not be complete or duly edifying.
_Scip._ Beware, Berganza, that this inclination to philosophise is not a
temptation of the fiend; for slander has no better cloak to conceal its
malice than the pretence that all it utters are maxims of philosophers,
that evil speaking is moral reproval, and the exposure of the faults of
others is nothing but honest zeal. There is no sarcastic person whose
life, if you scrutinise it closely, will not be found full of vices and
improprieties. And now, after this warning, philosophise as much as you
have a mind.
_Berg._ You may be quite at your ease on that score, Scipio. What I have
to remark is, that as I was the whole day at leisure--and leisure is the
mother of reflection--I conned over several of those Latin phrases I had
heard when I was with my masters at college, and wherewith it seemed to
me that I had somewhat improved my mind; and I determined to make use of
them as occasion should arise, as if I knew how to talk, but in a
different manner from that practised by some ignorant persons, who
interlard their conversation with Latin apophthegms, giving those who do
not understand them to believe that they are great Latinists, whereas
they can hardly decline a noun or conjugate a verb.
_Scip._ That is not so bad as what is done by some who really
understand Latin; some of whom are so absurd, that in talking with a
shoemaker or a tailor, they pour out Latin like water.
_Berg._ On the whole we may conclude, that he who talks Latin before
persons who do not understand it, and he who talks it, being himself
ignorant of it, are both equally to blame.
_Scip._ Another thing you may remark, which is that some persons who
know Latin are not the less asses for all that.
_Berg._ No doubt of it; and the reason is clear; for when in the time of
the Romans everybody spoke Latin as his mother tongue, that did not
hinder some among them from being boobies.
_Scip._ But to know when to keep silence in the mother tongue, and speak
in Latin, is a thing that needs discretion, brother Berganza.
_Berg._ True; for a foolish word may be spoken in Latin as well as in
the vulgar tongue; and I have seen silly literati, tedious pedants, and
babblers in the vernacular, who were enough to plague one to death with
their scraps of Latin.
_Scip._ No more of this: proceed to your philosophical remarks.
_Berg._ They are already delivered.
_Scip._ How so?
_Berg._ In those remarks on Latin and the vulgar tongue, which I began
and you finished.
_Scip._ Do you call railing philosophising? Sanctify the unhallowed
plague of evil speaking, Berganza, and give it any name you please, it
will, nevertheless entail upon us the name of cynics, which means dogs
of ill tongue. In God's name, hold your peace, and go on with your
story.
_Berg._ How can I go on with my story, if I hold my peace?
_Scip._ I mean go on with it in one piece, and don't hang on so many
tails to it as to make it look like a polypus.
_Berg._ Speak correctly, Scipio: one does not say the tails but the arms
of a polypus. But to my story: my evil fortune, not content with having
torn me from my studies, and from the calm and joyous life I led amid
them; not content with having fastened me up behind a door, and
transferred me from the liberality of the students to the stinginess of
the negress, resolved to rob me of the little ease and comfort I still
enjoyed. Look ye, Scipio, you may set it down with me for a certain
fact, that ill luck will hunt out and find the unlucky one, though he
hides in the uttermost parts of the earth. I have reason to say this;
for the negress was in love with a negro, also belonging to the house,
who slept in the porch between the street-door and the inner one behind
which I was fastened, and they could only meet at night, to which end
they had stolen the keys or got false ones. Every night the negress came
down stairs, and stopping my mouth with a piece of meat or cheese,
opened the door for the negro. For some days, the woman's bribes kept my
conscience asleep; for but for them, I began to fear that my ribs would
come together, and that I should be changed from a mastiff to a
greyhound. But my better nature coming at last to my aid, I bethought me
of what was due to my master, whose bread I ate; and that I ought to act
as becomes not only honest dogs, but all who have masters to serve.
_Scip._ There now, Berganza, you have spoken what I call true
philosophy; but go on. Do not make too long a yarn--not to say tail of
your history.
_Berg._ But, first of all, pray tell me if you know what is the meaning
of the word philosophy? For though I use it, I do not know what the
thing really is, only I guess that it is something good.
_Scip._ I will tell you briefly. The word is compounded of two Greek
words, _philo_, love, and _sophia_, wisdom; so that it means love of
wisdom, and philosopher a lover of wisdom.
_Berg._ What a deal you know, Scipio. Who the deuce taught you Greek
words?
_Scip._ Truly you are a simpleton, Berganza, to make so much of a matter
that is known to every schoolboy; indeed, there are many persons who
pretend to know Greek, though they are ignorant of it, just as is the
case with Latin.
_Berg._ I believe it, Scipio; and I would have such persons put under a
press, as the Portuguese do with the negroes of Guinea, and have all the
juice of their knowledge well squeezed out of them, so that they might
no more cheat the world with their scraps of broken Greek and Latin.
_Scip._ Now indeed, Berganza, you may bite your tongue, and I may do
the same; for we do nothing but rail in every word.
_Berg._ Ay, but I am not bound to do as I have heard that one Charondas,
a Tyrian, did, who published a law that no one should enter the national
assembly in arms, on pain of death. Forgetting this, he one day entered
the assembly girt with a sword; the fact was pointed out to him, and, on
the instant, he drew his sword, plunged it into his body, and thus he
was the first who made the law, broke it, and suffered its penalty. But
I made no law; all I did was to promise that I would bite my tongue, if
I chanced to utter an acrimonious word; but things are not so strictly
managed in these times as in those of the ancients. To-day a law is
made, and to-morrow it is broken, and perhaps it is fit it should be so.
To-day a man promises to abandon his fault, and to-morrow he falls into
a greater. It is one thing to extol discipline, and another to inflict
it on one's self; and indeed there is a wide difference between saying
and doing. The devil may bite himself, not I; nor have I a mind to
perform heroic acts of self-denial here on this mat, where there are no
witnesses to commend my honourable determination.
_Scip._ In that case, Berganza, were you a man you would be a hypocrite,
and all your acts would be fictitious and false, though covered with the
cloak of virtue, and done only that men might praise you, like the acts
of all hypocrites.
_Berg._ I don't know what I should do if I were a man; but what I do
know is that at present I shall not bite my tongue, having so many
things yet to tell, and not knowing how or when I shall be able to
finish them; but rather fearing that when the sun rises we shall be left
groping without the power of speech.
_Scip._ Heaven forbid it! Go on with your story, and do not run off the
road into needless digressions; in that way only you will come soon to
the end of it, however long it may be.
_Berg._ I say, then, that having seen the thievery, impudence, and
shameful conduct of the negroes, I determined, like a good servant, to
put an end to their doings, if possible, and I succeeded completely in
my purpose. The negress, as I have told you, used to come to amuse
herself with the negro, making sure of my silence on account of the
pieces of meat, bread, or cheese she threw me. Gifts have much power,
Scipio.
_Scip._ Much. Don't digress: go on.
_Berg._ I remember, when I was a student, to have heard from the master
a Latin phrase or adage, as they call it, which ran thus: _habet bovem
in lingua_.
_Scip._ O confound your Latin! Have you so soon forgotten what we have
said of those who mix up that language with ordinary conversation?
_Berg._ But this bit of Latin comes in here quite pat; for you must know
that the Athenians had among their coin one which was stamped with the
figure of an ox; and whenever a judge failed to do justice in
consequence of having been corrupted, they used to say, "He has the ox
on his tongue."
_Scip._ I do not see the application.
_Berg._ Is it not very manifest, since I was rendered mute many times by
the negress's gifts, and was careful not to bark when she came down to
meet her amorous negro? Wherefore I repeat, that great is the power of
gifts.
_Scip._ I have already admitted it; and were it not to avoid too long a
digression, I could adduce many instances in point; but I will speak of
these another time, if heaven grants me an opportunity of narrating my
life to you.
_Berg._ God grant it! meanwhile I continue. At last my natural integrity
prevailed over the negress's bribes; and one very dark night, when she
came down as usual, I seized her without barking, in order not to alarm
the household; and in a trice I tore her shift all to pieces, and bit a
piece out of her thigh. This little joke confined her for eight days to
her bed, for which she accounted to her masters by some pretended
illness or other. When she was recovered, she came down another night: I
attacked her again; and without biting, scratched her all over as if I
had been carding wool. Our battles were always noiseless, and the
negress always had the worst of them; but she had her revenge. She
stinted my rations and my bones, and those of my own body began to show
themselves through my skin. But though she cut short my victuals, that
did not hinder me from barking; so to make an end of me altogether, she
threw me a sponge fried in grease. I perceived the snare, and knew that
what she offered me was worse than poison, for it would swell up in the
stomach, and never leave it with life. Judging then that it was
impossible for me to guard against the insidious attacks of such a base
enemy, I resolved to get out of her sight, and put some space between
her and me. One day, I found myself at liberty, and without bidding
adieu to any of the family, I went into the street; and before I had
gone a hundred paces, I fell in with the alguazil I mentioned in the
beginning of my story, as being a great friend of my first master
Nicholas the butcher. He instantly knew me, and called me by my name. I
knew him too, and went up to him with my usual ceremonies and caresses.
He took hold of me by the neck, and said to his men, "This is a famous
watch-dog, formerly belonging to a friend of mine: let us bring him
home." The men said, if I was a watch-dog, I should be of great use to
them all, and they wanted to lay hold on me to lead me along; but the
alguazil said, it was not necessary, for I knew him, and would follow
him. I forgot to tell you, that the spiked collar I wore when I ran away
from the flock was stolen from me at an inn by a gipsy, and I went
without one in Seville; but my new master put on me a collar all studded
with brass. Only consider, Scipio, this change in my fortunes, Yesterday
I was a student, and to-day I found myself a bailiff.
_Scip._ So wags the world, and you need not exaggerate the vicissitudes
of fortune, as if there were any difference between the service of a
butcher and that of a bailiff. I have no patience when I hear some
persons rail at fortune, whose highest hopes never aspired beyond the
life of a stable-boy. How they curse their ill-luck, and all to make the
hearers believe that they have known better days, and have fallen from
some high estate.
_Berg._ Just so. Now you must know that this alguazil was on intimate
terms with an attorney; and the two were connected with a pair of
wenches not a bit better than they ought to be, but quite the reverse.
They were rather good looking, but full of meretricious arts and
impudence. These two served their male associates as baits to fish with.
Their dress and deportment was such that you might recognise them for
what they were at the distance of a musket shot; they frequented the
houses of entertainment for strangers, and the period of the fairs in
Cadiz and Seville was their harvest time, for there was not a Breton
with whom they did not grapple. Whenever a bumpkin fell into their
snares they apprised the alguazil and the attorney to what inn they were
going, and the latter then seized the party as lewd persons, but never
took them to prison, for the strangers always paid money to get out of
the scrape.
One day it happened that Colendres--this was the name of the alguazil's
mistress--picked up a Breton, and made an appointment with him for the
night, whereof she informed her friend; and they were hardly undressed
before the alguazil, the attorney, two bailiffs, and myself entered the
room. The amorous pair were sorely disconcerted, and the alguazil,
inveighing against the enormity of their conduct, ordered them to dress
with all speed, and go with him to prison. The Breton was dismayed, the
attorney interceded from motives of compassion, and prevailed on the
alguazil to commute the penalty for only a hundred reals. The Breton
called for a pair of leather breeches he had laid on a chair at the end
of the room, and in which there was money to pay his ransom, but the
breeches were not to be seen. The fact was, that when I entered the
room, my nostrils were saluted by a delightful odour of ham. I followed
the scent, and found a great piece of ham in one of the pockets of the
breeches, which I carried off into the street, in order to enjoy the
contents without molestation. Having done so, I returned to the house,
where I found the Breton vociferating in his barbarous jargon, and
calling for his breeches, in one of the pockets of which he said he had
fifty gold crowns. The attorney suspected that either Colendres or the
bailiffs had stolen the money; the alguazil was of the same opinion,
took them aside, and questioned them. None of them knew anything, and
they all swore at each other like troopers. Seeing the hubbub, I went
back to the street where I had left the breeches, having no use for the
money in them; but I could not find them, for some one passing by had no
doubt picked them up.
The alguazil, in despair at finding that the Breton had no money to
bribe with, thought to indemnify himself by extorting something from the
mistress of the house. He called for her, and in she came half dressed,
and when she saw and heard the Breton bawling for his money, Colindres
crying in her shift, the alguazil storming, the attorney in a passion,
and the bailiffs ransacking the room, she was in no very good humour.
The alguazil ordered her to put on her clothes and be off with him to
prison, for allowing men and women to meet for bad purposes in her
house. Then indeed the row grew more furious than ever. "Señor Alguazil
and Señor Attorney," said the hostess, "none of your tricks upon me, for
I know a thing or two, I tell you. Give me none of your blustering, but
shut your mouth, and go your ways in God's name, otherwise by my faith
I'll pitch the house out of the windows, and blow upon you all; for I am
well acquainted with the Señora Colendres, and I know moreover that for
many months past she has been kept by the Señor Alguazil; so don't
provoke me to let out any more, but give this gentleman back his money,
and let us all part good friends, for I am a respectable woman, and I
have a husband with his patent of nobility with its leaden seals all
hanging to it, God be thanked! and I carry on this business with the
greatest propriety. I have the table of charges hung up where everybody
may see it, so don't meddle with me, or by the Lord I'll soon settle
your business. It is no affair of mine if women come in with my lodgers;
they have the keys of their rooms, and I am not a lynx to see through
seven walls."
My masters were astounded at the harangue of the landlady, and at
finding how well acquainted she was with the story of their lives; but
seeing there was nobody else from whom they could squeeze money, they
still pretended that they meant to drag her to prison. She appealed to
heaven against the unreasonableness and injustice of their behaving in
that manner when her husband was absent, and he too a man of such
quality. The Breton bellowed for his fifty crowns; the bailiffs
persisted in declaring that they had never set eyes on the breeches, God
forbid! The attorney privately urged the alguazil to search Colindres'
clothes, for he suspected she must have possessed herself of the fifty
crowns, since it was her custom to grope in the pockets of those who
took up with her company. Colindres declared that the Breton was drunk,
and that it was all a lie about his money. All in short was confusion,
oaths, and bawling, and there would have been no end to the uproar if
the lieutenant corregidor had not just then entered the room, having
heard the noise as he was going his rounds. He asked what it was all
about, and the landlady replied with great copiousness of detail. She
told him who was the damsel Colindres (who by this time had got her
clothes on), made known the connection between her and the alguazil, and
exposed her plundering tricks; protested her own innocence, and that it
was never with her consent that a woman of bad repute had entered her
house; cried herself up for a saint, and her husband for a pattern of
excellence; and called out to a servant wench to run and fetch her
husband's patent of nobility out of the chest, that she might show it to
the Señor Lieutenant. He would then be able to judge whether the wife of
so respectable a man was capable of anything but what was quite correct.
If she did keep a lodging-house, it was because she could not help it.
God knows if she would not rather have some comfortable independence to
live upon at her ease. The lieutenant, tired of her volubility and her
bouncing about the patent of gentility, said to her, "Sister hostess, I
am willing to believe that your husband is a gentleman, but then you
must allow he is only a gentleman innkeeper." The landlady replied with
great dignity, "And where is the family in the world, however good its
blood may be, but you may pick some holes in its coat?" "Well, all I
have to say, sister, is, that you must put on your clothes, and come
away to prison." This brought her down from her high flights at once;
she tore her hair, cried, screamed, and prayed, but all in vain; the
inexorable lieutenant carried the whole party off to prison, that is to
say, the Breton, Colindres, and the landlady. I learned afterwards that
the Breton lost his fifty crowns, and was condemned besides to pay
costs; the landlady had to pay as much more. Colindres was let off scot
free, and the very day she was liberated she picked up a sailor, out of
whom she made good her disappointment in the affair of the Breton. Thus
you see, Scipio, what serious troubles arose from my gluttony.
_Scip._ Say rather from the rascality of your master.
_Berg._ Nay but listen, for worse remains to be told, since I am loth to
speak ill of alguazil and attorneys.
_Scip._ Ay, but speaking ill of one is not speaking ill of all. There is
many and many an attorney who is honest and upright. They do not all
take fees from both parties in a suit; nor extort more than their right;
nor go prying about into other people's business in order to entangle
them in the webs of the law; nor league with the justice to fleece one
side and skin the other. It is not every alguazil that is in collusion
with thieves and vagabonds, or keeps a decoy-duck in the shape of a
mistress, as your master did. Very many of them are gentlemen in feeling
and conduct; neither arrogant nor insolent, nor rogues and knaves, like
those who go about inns, measuring the length of strangers' swords, and
ruining their owners if they find them a hair's breadth longer than the
law allows.[60]
[60] When Cervantes wrote this, a decree had recently been issued
limiting the length of the sword.
_Berg._ My master hawked at higher game. He set himself up for a man of
valour, piqued himself on making famous captures, and sustained his
reputation for courage without risk to his person, but at the cost of
his purse. One day at the Puerta de Xeres he fell in, single-handed,
with six famous bravoes, whilst I could not render him any assistance,
having a muzzle on my mouth, which he made me wear by day and took off
at night. I was amazed at his intrepidity and headlong valour. He dashed
in and out between the six swords of the ruffians, and made as light of
them as if they were so many osier wands. It was wonderful to behold the
agility with which he assaulted, his thrusts and parries, and with what
judgment and quickness of eye he prevented his enemies from attacking
him from behind. In short, in my opinion and that of all the spectators
of the fight, he was a very Rhodomont, having fought his men all the way
from the Puerta de Xeres to the statues of the college of Maese Rodrigo,
a good hundred paces and more. Having put them to flight, he returned to
collect the trophies of the battle, consisting of three sheaths, and
these he carried to the corregidor, who was then, if I mistake not, the
licentiate Sarmiento de Valladares, renowned for the destruction of the
Sauceda.[61] As my master walked through the streets, people pointed to
him and said, "There goes the valiant man who ventured, singly, to
encounter the flower of the bravoes of Andalusia."
[61] An old promenade of the city.
He spent the remainder of the day in walking about the city, to let
himself be seen, and at night we went to the suburb of Triana, to a
street near the powder-mill, where my master, looking about to see if
any one observed him, entered a house, myself following him, and in the
court-yard we found the six rogues he had fought with, all untrussed,
and without cloaks or swords. One fellow, who appeared to be the
landlord, had a big jar of wine in one hand and a great tavern goblet in
the other, and, filling a sparkling bumper, he drank to all the company.
No sooner had they set eyes on my master than they all ran to him with
open arms. They all drank his health, and he returned the compliment in
every instance, and would have done it in as many more had there been
occasion--so affable he was and so averse to disoblige any one for
trifles. Were I to recount all that took place there--the supper that
was served up, the fights and the robberies they related, the ladies of
their acquaintance whom they praised or disparaged, the encomiums they
bestowed on each other, the absent bravoes whom they named, the clever
tricks they played, jumping up from supper to exhibit their sleight of
hand, the picked words they used, and, finally, the figure of the host,
whom all respected as their lord and father,--were I to attempt this, I
should entangle myself in a maze, from which I could never extricate
myself. I ascertained that the master of the house, whose name was
Monipodio, was a regular fence, and that my master's battle of the
morning had been preconcerted between him and his opponents, with all
its circumstances, including the dropping of the sword-sheaths, which my
master now delivered, in lieu of his share of the reckoning. The
entertainment was continued almost till breakfast time; and, by way of a
final treat, they gave my master information of a foreign bravo, an
out-and-outer, just arrived in the city. In all probability he was an
abler blade than themselves, and they denounced him from envy. My master
captured him the next night as he lay in bed; but had he been up and
armed, there was that in his face and figure which told me that he would
not have allowed himself to be taken so quietly. This capture, coming
close upon the heels of the pretended fight, enhanced the fame of my
poltroon of a master, who had no more courage than a hare, but sustained
his valorous reputation by treating and feasting; so that all the gains
of his office, both fair and foul, were frittered away upon his false
renown.
I am afraid I weary you, Scipio, but have patience and listen to another
affair that befel him, which I will tell you without a tittle more or
less than the truth. Two thieves stole a fine horse in Antequera,
brought him to Seville, and in order to sell him without risk, adopted
what struck me as being a very ingenious stratagem. They put up at two
different inns, and one of them entered a plaint in the courts of law,
to the effect that Pedro de Losada owed him four hundred reals, money
lent, as appeared by a note of hand, signed by the said Pedro, which he
produced in evidence. The lieutenant corregidor directed that Losada
should be called upon to state whether or not he acknowledged the note
as his own, and if he did, that he should be compelled to pay the amount
by seizure of his goods, or go to prison. My master and his friend the
attorney were employed in this business. One of the thieves took them to
the lodgings of the other, who at once acknowledged his note of hand,
admitted the debt, and offered his horse in satisfaction of the amount.
My master was greatly taken with the animal, and resolved to have it if
it should be sold. The time prescribed by the law being expired, the
horse was put up for sale; my master employed a friend to bid for it,
and it was knocked down to him for five hundred reals, though well worth
twelve or thirteen hundred. Thus one thief obtained payment of the debt
which was not due to him, the other a quittance of which he had no need,
and my master became possessed of the horse, which was as fatal to him
as the famous Sejanus[62] was to his owners.
[62] The successive owners of this animal were Seius, Dollabella,
Cassius, and Anthony. The first of them was executed, the rest committed
suicide.
The thieves decamped at once; and two days afterwards my master, after
having repaired the horse's trappings, appeared on his back in the Plaza
de San Francisco, as proud and conceited as a bumpkin in his holiday
clothes. Everybody complimented him on his bargain, declaring the horse
was worth a hundred and fifty ducats as surely as an egg was worth a
maravedi. But whilst he was caracolling and curvetting, and showing off
his own person and his horse's paces, two men of good figure and very
well dressed entered the square, one of whom cried out, "Why, bless my
soul! that is my horse Ironfoot, that was stolen from me a few days ago
in Antequera." Four servants, who accompanied him, said the same thing.
My master was greatly chopfallen; the gentleman appealed to justice,
produced his proofs, and they were so satisfactory that sentence was
given in his favour, and my master was dispossessed of the horse. The
imposture was exposed; and it came out how, through the hands of justice
itself, the thieves had sold what they had stolen; and almost everybody
rejoiced that my master's covetousness had made him burn his fingers.
His disasters did not end there. That night the lieutenant going his
rounds, was informed that there were robbers abroad as far as San
Julian's wards. Passing a cross-road he saw a man running away, and
taking me by the collar, "At him, good dog!" he said, "At him, boy!"
Disgusted as I was with my master's villanies, and eager to obey the
lieutenant's orders, I made no hesitation to seize my own master and
pull him down to the ground, where I would have torn him to pieces if
the thief-takers had not with great difficulty separated us. They wanted
to punish me, and even to beat me to death with sticks; and they would
have done so if the lieutenant had not bade them let me alone, for I had
only done what he ordered me. The warning was not lost upon me, so
without taking my leave of anybody, I leaped through an opening in the
wall, and before daybreak I was in Mayrena, a place about four leagues
from Seville.
There by good luck I fell in with a party of soldiers, who, as I heard,
were going to embark at Cartagena. Among them were four of my late
master's ruffian friends; one of them was the drummer, who had been a
catchpole and a great buffoon, as drummers frequently are. They all knew
me and spoke to me, asking after my master as if I could reply; but the
one who showed the greatest liking for me was the drummer, and so I
determined to attach myself to him, if he would let me, and to accompany
the expedition whether they were bound for Italy or Flanders. For in
spite of the proverb, a blockhead at home is a blockhead all the world
over, you must agree with me that travelling and sojourning among
various people makes men wise.
_Scip._ That is so true that I remember to have heard from a master of
mine, a very clever man, that the famous Greek, Ulysses, was renowned as
wise solely because he had travelled and seen many men and nations. I
therefore applaud your determination to go with the soldiers, wherever
they might take you.
_Berg._ To help him in the display of his jugglery, the drummer began to
teach me to dance to the sound of the drum, and to play other monkey
tricks such as no other dog than myself could ever have acquired. The
detachment marched by very short stages; we had no commissary to control
us; the captain was a mere lad, but a perfect gentleman, and a great
christian; the ensign had but just left the page's hall at the court;
the serjeant was a knowing blade, and a great conductor of companies
from the place where they were raised to the port of embarkation. The
detachment was full of ruffians whose insolent behaviour, in the places
through which we passed, redounded in curses directed to a quarter where
they were not deserved. It is the misfortune of the good prince to be
blamed by some of his subjects, for faults committed by others of them,
which he could not remedy if he would, for the circumstances attendant
on war are for the most part inevitably harsh, oppressive, and untoward.
In the course of a fortnight, what with my own cleverness, and the
diligence of him I had chosen for my patron, I learned to jump for the
king of France, and not to jump for the good-for-nothing landlady; he
taught me to curvet like a Neapolitan courser, to move in a ring like a
mill horse, and other things which might have made one suspect that they
were performed by a demon in the shape of a dog. The drummer gave me the
name of the wise dog, and no sooner were we arrived at a halting place,
than he went about, beating his drum, and giving notice to all who
desired to behold the marvellous graces and performances of the wise
dog, that they were to be seen at such a house, for four or eight
maravedis a head, according to the greater or less wealth of the place.
After these encomiums everybody ran to see me, and no one went away
without wonder and delight. My master exulted in the gains I brought
him, which enabled him to maintain six of his comrades like princes. The
envy and covetousness of the rogues was excited, and they were always
watching for an opportunity to steal me, for any way of making money by
sport has great charms for many. This is why there are so many puppet
showmen in Spain, so many who go about with peep shows, so many others
who hawk pens and ballads, though their stock, if they sold it all,
would not be enough to keep them for a day; and yet they are to be found
in taverns and drinking-shops all the year round, whence I infer that
the cost of their guzzling is defrayed by other means than the profits
of their business. They are all good-for-nothing vagabonds, bread
weevils and winesponges.
_Scip._ No more of that, Berganza; let us not go over the same ground
again. Continue your story, for the night is waning, and I should not
like, when the sun rises, that we should be left in the shades of
silence.
_Berg._ Keep it and listen. As it is an easy thing to extend and improve
our inventions, my master, seeing how well I imitated a Neapolitan
courser, made me housings of gilt leather, and a little saddle, which he
fitted on my back; he put on it a little figure of a man, with lance in
hand, and taught me to run straight at a ring fixed between two stakes.
As soon as I was perfect in that performance, my master announced that
on that day the wise dog would run at the ring, and exhibit other new
and incomparable feats, which, indeed, I drew from my own invention, not
to give my master the lie. We next marched to Montilla, a town belonging
to the famous and great christian, Marquis of Priego, head of the house
of Aguilar and Montilla. My master was quartered, at his own request, in
a hospital; he made his usual proclamation, and as my great fame had
already reached the town, the court-yard was filled with spectators in
less than an hour. My master rejoiced to see such a plenteous harvest,
and resolved to show himself that day a first-rate conjuror. The
entertainment began with my leaping through a hoop. He had a willow
switch in his hand, and when he lowered it, that was a signal for me to
leap; and when he kept it raised, I was not to budge.
On that day (for ever memorable in my life) he began by saying, "Come,
my friend, jump for that juvenile old gentleman, you know, who blacks
his beard; or, if you won't, jump for the pomp and grandeur of Donna
Pimpinela de Plafagonia, who was the fellow servant of the Galician
kitchen wench at Valdeastillas. Don't you like that, my boy? Then jump
for the bachelor Pasillas, who signs himself licentiate without having
any degree. How lazy you are! Why don't you jump? Oh! I understand! I
am up to your roguery! Jump, then, for the wine of Esquivias, a match
for that of Ciudad Real, St. Martin, and Rivadavia." He lowered the
switch, and I jumped in accordance with the signal. Then, addressing the
audience, "Do not imagine, worshipful senate," he said, "that it is any
laughing matter what this dog knows. I have taught him four-and-twenty
performances, the least of which is worth going thirty leagues to see.
He can dance the zaraband and the chacona better than their inventor; he
tosses off a pint of wine without spilling a drop; he intones a sol, fa,
mi, re, as well as any sacristan. All these things, and many others
which remain to be told, your worships shall witness during the time the
company remains here. At present, our wise one will give another jump,
and then we will enter upon the main business."
Having inflamed the curiosity of the audience, or senate, as he called
them, with this harangue, he turned to me and said, "Come now, my lad,
and go through all your jumps with your usual grace and agility; but
this time it shall be for the sake of the famous witch who is said to
belong to this place." The words were hardly out of his mouth, when the
matron of the hospital, an old woman, who seemed upwards of seventy,
screamed out, "Rogue, charlatan, swindler, there is no witch here. If
you mean Camacha, she has paid the penalty of her sin, and is where God
only knows; if you mean me, you juggling cheat, I am no witch, and never
was one in my life; and if I ever was reputed to be a witch, I may thank
false witnesses, and the injustice of the law, and a presumptuous and
ignorant judge. All the world knows the life of penance I lead, not for
any acts of witchcraft, which I have never done, but for other great
sins which I have committed as a poor sinner. So get out of the
hospital, you rascally sheep-skin thumper, or by all the saints I'll
make you glad to quit it at a run." And with that she began to screech
at such a rate, and pour such a furious torrent of abuse upon my master,
that he was utterly confounded. In fine, she would not allow the
entertainment to proceed on any account. My master did not care much
about the row, as he had his money in his pocket, and he announced that
he would give the performance next day in another hospital. The people
went away cursing the old woman, and calling her a witch, and a bearded
hag into the bargain. We remained for all that in the hospital that
night, and the old woman meeting me alone in the yard, said, "Is that
you, Montiel, my son? Is that you?" I looked up as she spoke, and gazed
steadily at her, seeing which, she came to me with tears in her eyes,
threw her arms round my neck, and would have kissed my mouth if I had
allowed her; but I was disgusted, and would not endure it.
_Scip._ You were quite right, for it is no treat, but quite the reverse,
to kiss or be kissed by an old woman.
_Berg._ What I am now going to relate I should have told you at the
beginning of my story, as it would have served to diminish the surprise
we felt at finding ourselves endowed with speech. Said the old woman to
me, "Follow me, Montiel, my son, that you may know my room; and be sure
you come to me to-night, that we may be alone together, for I have many
things to tell you of great importance for you to know." I drooped my
head in token of obedience, which confirmed her in her belief that I was
the dog Montiel whom she had been long looking for, as she afterwards
told me. I remained bewildered with surprise, longing for the night to
see what might be the meaning of this mystery or prodigy, and as I had
heard her called a witch, I expected wonderful things from the
interview. At last the time came, and I entered the room, which was
small, and low, and dimly lighted by an earthenware lamp. The old woman
trimmed it, sat down on a chest, drew me to her, and without speaking a
word, fell to embracing me, and I to taking care that she did not kiss
me.
"I did always hope in heaven," the old woman began, "that I should see
my son before my eyes were closed in the last sleep; and now that I have
seen you, let death come when it will, and release me from this life of
sorrow. You must know, my son, that there lived in this city the most
famous witch in the world, called Camacha de Montilla. She was so
perfect in her art, that the Erichtheas, Circes, and Medeas, of whom old
histories, I am told, are full, were not to be compared to her. She
congealed the clouds when she pleased, and covered the face of the sun
with them; and when the whim seized her, she made the murkiest sky clear
up at once. She fetched men in an instant from remote lands; admirably
relieved the distresses of damsels who had forgot themselves for a
moment; enabled widows to console themselves without loss of reputation;
unmarried wives, and married those she pleased. She had roses in her
garden in December, and gathered wheat in January. To make watercresses
grow in a handbasin was a trifle to her, or to show any persons whom you
wanted to see, either dead or alive, in a looking-glass, or on the nail
of a newborn infant. It was reported that she turned men into brutes,
and that she made an ass of a sacristan, and used him really and truly
in that form for six years. I never could make out how this was done;
for as for what is related of those ancient sorceresses, that they
turned men into beasts, the learned are of opinion that this means only
that by their great beauty and their fascinations, they so captivated
men and subjected them to their humours, as to make them seem
unreasoning animals. But in you, my son, I have a living instance to the
contrary, for I know that you are a rational being, and I see you in the
form of a dog; unless indeed this is done through that art which they
call Tropelia, which makes people mistake appearances and take one thing
for another.
"Be this as it may, what mortifies me is that neither your mother nor
myself, who were disciples of the great Camacha, ever came to know as
much as she did, and that not for want of capacity, but through her
inordinate selfishness, which could never endure that we should learn
the higher mysteries of her art, and be as wise as herself. Your mother,
my son, was called Montiela, and next to Camacha, she was the most
famous of witches. My name is Cañizares; and, if not equal in
proficiency to either of these two, at least I do not yield to them in
good will to the art. It is true that in boldness of spirit, in the
intrepidity with which she entered a circle, and remained enclosed in it
with a legion of fiends, your mother was in no wise inferior to Camacha
herself; while, for my part, I was always somewhat timid, and contented
myself with conjuring half a legion; but though I say it that should
not, in the matter of compounding witches' ointment, I would not turn my
back upon either of them, no, nor upon any living who follow our rules.
But you must know, my son, ever since I have felt how fast my life is
hastening away upon the light wings of time, I have sought to withdraw
from all the wickedness of witchcraft in which I was plunged for many
years, and I have only amused myself with white magic, a practice so
engaging that it is most difficult to forego it. Your mother acted in
the same manner; she abandoned many evil practices, and performed many
righteous works; but she would not relinquish white magic to the hour of
her death. She had no malady, but died by the sorrow brought upon her by
her mistress, Camacha, who hated her because she saw that in a short
time Montiela would know as much as herself, unless indeed she had some
other cause of jealousy not known to me.
"Your mother was pregnant, and her time being come, Camacha was her
midwife. She received in her hands what your mother brought forth, and
showed her that she had borne two puppy dogs. 'This is a bad business,'
said Camacha; 'there is some knavery here. But, sister Montiela, I am
your friend, and I will conceal this unfortunate birth; so have patience
and get well, and be assured that your misfortune shall remain an
inviolable secret.' I was present at this extraordinary occurrence, and
was not less astounded than your mother. Camacha went away taking the
whelps with her, and I remained to comfort the lying-in woman, who could
not bring herself to believe what had happened. At last Camacha's end
drew near, and when she felt herself at the point of death, she sent for
her and told her how she had turned her sons into dogs on account of a
certain grudge she bore her, but that she need not distress herself, for
they would return to their natural forms when it was least expected; but
this would not happen 'until they shall see the exalted quickly brought
low, and the lowly exalted by an arm that is mighty to do it.'
"Your mother wrote down this prophecy, and deeply engraved it in her
memory, and so did I, that I might impart it to one of you if ever the
opportunity should present itself. And in hopes to recognise you, I have
made it a practice to call every dog of your colour by your mother's
name, to see if any of them would answer to one so unlike those usually
given to dogs; and, this evening, when I saw you do so many things, and
they called you the wise dog, and also when you looked up at me upon my
calling to you in the yard, I believed that you were really the son of
Montiela. It is with extreme pleasure I acquaint you with the history
of your birth, and the manner in which you are to recover your original
form. I wish it was as easy as it was for the golden ass of Apuleius,
who had only to eat a rose for his restoration; but yours depends upon
the actions of others, and not upon your own efforts. What you have to
do meanwhile, my son, is to commend yourself heartily to God, and hope
for the speedy and prosperous fulfilment of the prophecy; for since it
was pronounced by Camacha it will be accomplished without any doubt, and
you and your brother, if he is alive, will see yourselves as you would
wish to be. All that grieves me is that I am so near my end, that I can
have no hope of witnessing the joyful event.
"I have often longed to ask my goat how matters would turn out with you
at last; but I had not the courage to do so, for he never gives a
straightforward answer, but as crooked and perplexing as possible. That
is always the way with our lord and master; there is no use in asking
him anything, for with one truth he mingles a thousand lies, and from
what I have noted of his replies it appears that he knows nothing for
certain of the future, but only by way of conjecture. At the same time
he so be-fools us that, in spite of a thousand treacherous tricks he
plays us, we cannot shake off his influence. We go to see him a long way
from here in a great field, where we meet a multitude of warlocks and
witches, and are feasted without measure, and other things take place
which, indeed and in truth, I cannot bring myself to mention, nor will I
offend your chaste ears by repeating things so filthy and abominable.
Many are of opinion that we frequent these assemblies only in
imagination, wherein the demon presents to us the images of all those
things which we afterwards relate as having occurred to us in reality;
others, on the contrary, believe that we actually go to them in body and
soul; and for my part I believe that both opinions are true, since we
know not when we go in the one manner or in the other; for all that
happens to us in imagination does so with such intensity, that it is
impossible to distinguish between it and reality. Their worships the
inquisitors have had sundry opportunities of investigating this matter,
in the cases of some of us whom they have had under their hands, and I
believe that they have ascertained the truth of what I state.
"I should like, my son, to shake off this sin, and I have exerted
myself to that end. I have got myself appointed matron to this hospital;
I tend the poor, and some die who afford me a livelihood either by what
they leave me, or by what I find among their rags, through the great
care I always take to examine them well. I say but few prayers, and only
in public, but grumble a good deal in secret. It is better for me to be
a hypocrite than an open sinner; for my present good works efface from
the memory of those who know me the bad ones of my past life. After all,
pretended sanctity injures no one but the person who practises it. Look
you, Montiel, my son, my advice to you is this: be good all you can; but
if you must be wicked, contrive all you can not to appear so. I am a
witch, I do not deny it, and your mother was one likewise; but the
appearances we put on were always enough to maintain our credit in the
eyes of the whole world. Three days before she died, we were both
present at a grand sabbath of witches in a valley of the Pyrenees; and
yet when she died it was with such calmness and serenity, that were it
not for some grimaces she made a quarter of an hour before she gave up
the ghost, you would have thought she lay upon a bed of flowers. But her
two children lay heavy at her heart, and even to her last gasp she never
would forgive Camacha, such a resolute spirit she had. I closed her eyes
and followed her to the grave, and there took my last look at her;
though, indeed, I have not lost the hope of seeing her again before I
die, for they say that several persons have met her going about the
churchyards and the cross-roads in various forms, and who knows but I
may fall in with her some time or other, and be able to ask her whether
I can do anything for the relief of her conscience?"
Every word that the old hag uttered in praise of her she called my
mother went like a knife to my heart; I longed to fall upon her and tear
her to pieces, and only refrained from unwillingness that death should
find her in such a wicked state. Finally she told me that she intended
to anoint herself that night and go to one of their customary
assemblies, and inquire of her master as to what was yet to befal me. I
should have liked to ask her what were the ointments she made use of;
and it seemed as though she read my thoughts, for she replied to my
question as though it had been uttered.
"This ointment," she said, "is composed of the juices of exceedingly
cold herbs, and not, as the vulgar assert, of the blood of children whom
we strangle. And here you may be inclined to ask what pleasure or profit
can it be to the devil to make us murder little innocents, since he
knows that being baptised they go as sinless creatures to heaven, and
every Christian soul that escapes him is to him a source of poignant
anguish. I know not what answer to give to this except by quoting the
old saying, that some people would give both their eyes to make their
enemy lose one. He may do it for sake of the grief beyond imagination
which the parents suffer from the murder of their children; but what is
still more important to him is to accustom us to the repeated commission
of such a cruel and perverse sin. And all this God allows by reason of
our sinfulness; for without his permission, as I know by experience, the
devil has not the power to hurt a pismire; and so true is this, that one
day when I requested him to destroy a vineyard belonging to an enemy of
mine, he told me that he could not hurt a leaf of it, for God would not
allow him. Hence you may understand when you come to be a man, that all
the casual evils that befal men, kingdoms, and cities, and peoples,
sudden deaths, shipwrecks, devastations, and all sorts of losses and
disasters, come from the hand of the Almighty, and by his sovereign
permission; and the evils which fall under the denomination of crime,
are caused by ourselves. God is without sin, whence it follows that we
ourselves are the authors of sin, forming it in thought, word, and deed;
God permitting all this by reason of our sinfulness, as I have already
said.
"Possibly you will ask, my son, if so be you understand me, who made me
a theologian? And mayhap you will say to yourself, Confound the old hag!
why does not she leave off being a witch since she knows so much? Why
does not she turn to God, since she knows that he is readier to forgive
sin than to permit it? To this I reply, as though you had put the
question to me, that the habit of sinning becomes a second nature, and
that of being a witch transforms itself into flesh and blood; and amidst
all its ardour, which is great, it brings with it a chilling influence
which so overcomes the soul as to freeze and benumb its faith, whence
follows a forgetfulness of itself, and it remembers neither the terrors
with which God threatens it, nor the glories with which he allures it.
In fact, as sin is fleshly and sensual, it must exhaust and stupefy all
the feelings, and render the soul incapable of rising to embrace any
good thought, or to clasp the hand which God in his mercy continually
holds out to it. I have one of those souls I have described; I see it
clearly; but the empire of the senses enchains my will, and I have ever
been and ever shall be bad.
"But let us quit this subject, and go back to that of our unguents. They
are of so cold a nature that they take away all our senses when we
anoint ourselves with them; we remain stretched on the ground, and then
they say we experience all those things in imagination which we suppose
to occur to us in reality. Sometimes after we have anointed and changed
ourselves into fowls, foals, or deer, we go to the place where our
master awaits us. There we recover our own forms and enjoy pleasures
which I will not describe, for they are such as the memory is ashamed to
recal, and the tongue refuses to relate. The short and the long of it
is, I am a witch, and cover my many delinquencies with the cloak of
hypocrisy. It is true that if some esteem and honour me as a good woman,
there are many who bawl in my ear the name imprinted upon your mother
and me by order of an ill-tempered judge, who committed his wrath to the
hands of the hangman; and the latter, not being bribed, used his plenary
power upon our shoulders. But that is past and gone; and all things
pass, memories wear out, lives do not renew themselves, tongues grow
tired, and new events make their predecessors forgotten. I am matron of
a hospital; my behaviour is plausible in appearance; my unguents procure
me some pleasant moments, and I am not so old but that I may live
another year, my age being seventy-five. I cannot fast on account of my
years, nor pray on account of the swimming in my head, nor go on
pilgrimages for the weakness of my legs, nor give alms because I am
poor, nor think rightly because I am given to back-biting, and to be
able to backbite one must first think evil. I know for all that that God
is good and merciful, and that he knows what is in store for me, and
that is enough; so let us drop this conversation which really makes me
melancholy. Come, my son, and see me anoint myself; for there is a cure
for every sorrow; and though the pleasures which the devil affords us
are illusive and fictitious, yet they appear to us to be pleasures; and
sensual delight is much greater in imagination than in actual fruition,
though it is otherwise with true joys."
After this long harangue she got up, and taking the lamp went into
another and smaller room. I followed her, filled with a thousand
conflicting thoughts, and amazed at what I had heard and what I expected
to see. Cañizares hung the lamp against the wall, hastily stripped
herself to her shift, took a jug from a corner, put her hand into it,
and, muttering between her teeth, anointed herself from her feet to the
crown of her head. Before she had finished she said to me, that whether
her body remained senseless in that room, or whether it quitted it, I
was not to be frightened, nor fail to wait there till morning, when she
would bring me word of what was to befal me until I should be a man. I
signified my assent by drooping my head; and she finished her unction,
and stretched herself on the floor like a corpse. I put my mouth to
hers, and perceived that she did not breathe at all. One thing I must
own to you, friend Scipio, that I was terribly frightened at seeing
myself shut up in that narrow room with that figure before me, which I
will describe to you as well as I can.
She was more than six feet high, a mere skeleton covered with a black
wrinkled skin. Her dugs were like two dried and puckered ox-bladders;
her lips were blackened; her long teeth locked together; her nose was
hooked; her eyes starting from her head; her hair hung in elf-locks on
her hollow wrinkled cheeks;--in short, she was all over diabolically
hideous. I remained gazing on her for a while, and felt myself overcome
with horror as I contemplated the hideous spectacle of her body, and the
worse occupation of her soul. I wanted to bite her to see if she would
come to herself, but I could not find a spot on her whole body that did
not fill me with disgust. Nevertheless, I seized her by one heel, and
dragged her to the yard, without her ever giving any sign of feeling.
There seeing myself at large with the sky above me, my fear left me, or
at least abated, so much as to give me courage to await the result of
that wicked woman's expedition, and the news she was to bring me.
Meanwhile, I asked myself, how comes this old woman to be at once so
knowing and so wicked? How is it that she can so well distinguish
between casual and culpable evils? How is it that she understands and
speaks so much about God, and acts so much from the prompting of the
devil? How is it that she sins so much from choice, not having the
excuse of ignorance?
In these reflections I passed the night. The day dawned and found us
both in the court, she lying still insensible, and I on my haunches
beside her, attentively watching her hideous countenance. The people of
the hospital came out, and seeing this spectacle, some of them
exclaimed, "The pious Cañizares is dead! See how emaciated she is with
fasting and penance." Others felt her pulse, and finding that she was
not dead, concluded that she was in a trance of holy ecstacy; whilst
others said, "This old hag is unquestionably a witch, and is no doubt
anointed, for saints are never seen in such an indecent condition when
they are lost in religious ecstacy; and among us who know her, she has
hitherto had the reputation of a witch rather than a saint." Some
curious inquirers went so far as to stick pins in her flesh up to the
head, yet without ever awaking her. It was not till seven o'clock that
she came to herself; and then finding how she was stuck over with pins,
bitten in the heels, and her back flayed by being dragged from her room,
and seeing so many eyes intently fixed upon her, she rightly concluded
that I had been the cause of her exposure. "What, you thankless,
ignorant, malicious villain," she cried, "is this my reward for the acts
I did for your mother and those I intended to do for you?" Finding
myself in peril of my life under the talons of that ferocious harpy, I
shook her off, and seizing her by her wrinkled flank, I worried and
dragged her all about the yard, whilst she shrieked for help from the
fangs of that evil spirit. At these words, most present believed that I
must be one of those fiends who are continually at enmity with good
Christians. Some were for sprinkling me with holy water, some were for
pulling me off the old woman, but durst not; others bawled out words to
exorcise me. The witch howled, I tightened my grip with my teeth, the
confusion increased, and my master was in despair, hearing it said that
I was a fiend. A few who knew nothing of exorcisms caught up three or
four sticks and began to baste me. Not liking the joke, I let go the old
woman; in three bounds I was in the street, and in a few more I was
outside the town, pursued by a host of boys, shouting, "Out of the way!
the wise dog is gone mad." Others said "he is not mad, but he is the
devil in the form of a dog." The people of the place were confirmed in
their belief that I was a devil by the tricks they had seen me perform,
by the words spoken by the old woman when she woke out of her infernal
trance, and by the extraordinary speed with which I shot away from them,
so that I seemed to vanish from before them like a being of the other
world. In six hours I cleared twelve leagues; and arrived at a camp of
gipsies in a field near Granada. There I rested awhile, for some of the
gipsies who recognised me as the wise dog, received me with great
delight, and hid me in a cave, that I might not be found if any one came
in search of me; their intention being, as I afterwards learned, to make
money by me as my master the drummer had done. I remained twenty days
among them, during which I observed their habits and ways of life; and
these are so remarkable that I must give you an account of them.
_Scip._ Before you go any further, Berganza, we had better consider what
the witch said to you, and see if there can possibly be a grain of truth
in the great lie to which you give credit. Now, what an enormous
absurdity it would be to believe that Camacha could change human beings
into brutes, or that the sacristan served her for years under the form
of an ass. All these things, and the like, are cheats, lies, or
illusions of the devil; and if it now seems to ourselves that we have
some understanding and reason--since we speak, though we are really dogs
or bear that form--we have already said that this is a portentous and
unparalleled case; and though it is palpably before us, yet we must
suspend our belief until the event determines what it should be. Shall I
make this more plain to you? Consider upon what frivolous things Camacha
declared our restoration to depend, and that what seems a prophecy to
you is nothing but a fable, or one of those old woman's tales, such as
the headless horse, and the wand of virtues, which are told by the
fireside in the long winter nights; for were it anything else it would
already have been accomplished, unless, indeed, it is to be taken in
what I have heard called an allegorical sense: that is to say, a sense
which is not the same as that which the letter imports, but which,
though differing from it, yet resembles it. Now for your
prophecy:--"They are to recover their true forms when they shall see the
exalted quickly brought low, and the lowly exalted by a hand that is
mighty to do it." If we take this in the sense I have mentioned, it
seems to me to mean that we shall recover our forms when we shall see
those who yesterday were at the top of fortune's wheel, to-day cast down
in the mire, and held of little account by those who most esteemed them;
so, likewise, when we shall see others who, but two hours ago, seemed
sent into the world only to figure as units in the sum of its
population, and now are lifted up to the very summit of prosperity. Now,
if our return, as you say, to human form, were to depend on this, why we
have already seen it, and we see it every hour. I infer, then, that
Camacha's words are to be taken, not in an allegorical, but in a
literal, sense; but this will help us out no better, since we have many
times seen what they say, and we are still dogs, as you see. And so
Carnacha was a cheat, Cañizares an artful hag, and Montiela a fool and a
rogue--be it said without offence, if by chance she was the mother of us
both, or yours, for I won't have her for mine. Furthermore, I say that
the true meaning is a game of nine-pins, in which those that stand up
are quickly knocked down, and the fallen are set up again, and that by a
hand that is able to do it. Now think whether or not in the course of
our lives we have ever seen a game of nine-pins, or having seen it, have
therefore been changed into men.
_Berg._ I quite agree with you Scipio, and have a higher opinion of your
judgment than ever. From all you have said, I am come to think and
believe that all that has happened to us hitherto, and that is now
happening, is a dream; but let us not therefore fail to enjoy this
blessing of speech, and the great excellence of holding human discourse
all the time we may; and so let it not weary you to hear me relate what
befel me with the gipsies who hid me in the cave.
_Scip._ With great pleasure. I will listen to you, that you in your turn
may listen to me, when I relate, if heaven pleases, the events of my
life.
_Berg._ My occupation among the gipsies was to contemplate their
numberless tricks and frauds, and the thefts they all commit from the
time they are out of leading-strings and can walk alone. You know what a
multitude there is of them dispersed all over Spain. They all know each
other, keep up a constant intelligence among themselves, and
reciprocally pass off and carry away the articles they have purloined.
They render less obedience to their king than to one of their own people
whom they style count, and who bears the surname of Maldonado, as do all
his descendants. This is not because they come of that noble line, but
because a page belonging to a cavalier of that name fell in love with a
beautiful gipsy, who would not yield to his wishes unless he became a
gipsy and made her his wife. The page did so, and was so much liked by
the other gipsies, that they chose him for their lord, yielded him
obedience, and in token of vassalage rendered to him a portion of
everything they stole, whatever it might be.
To give a colour to their idleness the gipsies employ themselves in
working in iron, and you may always see them hawking pincers, tongs,
hammers, fire-shovels, and so forth, the sale of which facilitates their
thefts. The women are all midwives, and in this they have the advantage
over others, for they bring forth without cost or attendants. They wash
their new-born infants in cold water, and accustom them from birth to
death to endure every inclemency of weather. Hence they are all strong,
robust, nimble leapers, runners, and dancers. They always marry among
themselves, in order that their bad practices may not come to be known,
except by their own people. The women are well behaved to their
husbands, and few of them intrigue except with persons of their own
race. When they seek for alms, it is rather by tricks and juggling than
by appeals to charity; and as no one puts faith in them, they keep none,
but own themselves downright vagabonds; nor do I remember to have ever
seen a gipsy-woman taking the sacrament, though I have often been in the
churches. The only thoughts of their minds are how to cheat and steal.
They are fond of talking about their thefts and how they effected them.
A gipsy, for instance, related one day in my presence how he had
swindled a countryman as you shall hear:
The gipsy had an ass with a docked tail, and he fitted a false tail to
the stump so well that it seemed quite natural. Then he took the ass to
market and sold it to a countryman for ten ducats. Having pocketed the
money, he told the countryman that if he wanted another ass, own brother
to the one he had bought, and every bit as good, he might have it a
bargain. The countryman told him to go and fetch it, and meanwhile he
would drive that one home. Away went the purchaser; the gipsy followed
him, and some how or other, it was not long before he had stolen the
ass, from which he immediately whipped off the false tail, leaving only
a bare stump. He then changed the halter and saddle, and had the
audacity to go and offer the animal for sale to the countryman, before
the latter had discovered his loss. The bargain was soon made; the
purchaser went into his house to fetch the money to pay for the second
ass, and there he discovered the loss of the first. Stupid as he was, he
suspected that the gipsy had stolen the animal, and he refused to pay
him. The gipsy brought forward as witness the man who had received the
alcabala[63] on the first transaction, and who swore that he had sold
the countryman an ass with a very bushy tail, quite different from the
second one; and an alguazil, who was present, took the gipsy's part so
strongly that the countryman was forced to pay for the ass twice over.
Many other stories they told, all about stealing beasts of burden, in
which art they are consummate masters. In short, they are a thoroughly
bad race, and though many able magistrates have taken them in hand, they
have always remained incorrigible.
[63] A tax on sales and transfers.
After I had remained with them twenty days, they set out for Murcia,
taking me with them. We passed through Granada, where the company was
quartered to which my master the drummer belonged. As the gipsies were
aware of this, they shut me up in the place where they were lodged. I
overheard them talking about their journey, and thinking that no good
would come of it, I contrived to give them the slip, quitted Granada,
and entered the garden of a Morisco,[64] who gladly received me. I was
quite willing to remain with him and watch his garden,--a much less
fatiguing business in my opinion than guarding a flock of sheep; and as
there was no need to discuss the question of wages, the Morisco soon had
a servant and I a master. I remained with him more than a month, not
that the life I led with him was much to my liking, but because it gave
me opportunities of observing that of my master, which was like that of
all the other Moriscoes in Spain. O what curious things I could tell
you, friend Scipio, about that half Paynim rabble, if I were not afraid
that I should not get to the end of my story in a fortnight! Nay, if I
were to go into particulars, two months would not be enough. Some few
specimens, however, you shall hear.
[64] A Christian of Moorish descent.
Hardly will you find among the whole race one man who is a sincere
believer in the holy law of Christianity. Their only thought is how to
scrape up money and keep it; and to this end they toil incessantly and
spend nothing. The moment a real falls into their clutches, they condemn
it to perpetual imprisonment; so that by dint of perpetually
accumulating and never spending, they have got the greater part of the
money of Spain into their hands. They are the grubs, the magpies, the
weasels of the nation. Consider how numerous they are, and that every
day they add much or little to their hoards, and that as they increase
in number so the amount of their hoarded wealth must increase without
end. None of them of either sex make monastic vows, but all marry and
multiply, for thrifty living is a great promoter of fecundity. They are
not wasted by war or excessive toil; they plunder us in a quiet way, and
enrich themselves with the fruits of our patrimonies which they sell
back to us. They have no servants, for they all wait upon themselves.
They are at no expense for the education of their sons, for all their
lore is but how to rob us. From the twelve sons of Jacob, who entered
Egypt, as I have heard, there had sprung, when Moses freed them from
captivity, six hundred thousand fighting men, besides women and
children. From this we may infer how much the Moriscoes have multiplied,
and how incomparably greater must be their numbers.
_Scip._ Means have been sought for remedying the mischiefs you have
mentioned and hinted at; and, indeed, I am sure that those which you
have passed over in silence, are even more serious than those which you
have touched upon. But our commonwealth has most wise and zealous
champions, who, considering that Spain produces and retains in her bosom
such vipers as the Moriscoes, will, with God's help, provide a sure and
prompt remedy for so great an evil. Go on.
_Berg._ My master being a stingy hunks, like all his caste, I lived
like himself chiefly on maize bread and buckwheat porridge; but this
penury helped me to gain paradise, in the strange manner you shall hear.
Every morning, by daybreak, a young man used to seat himself at the foot
of one of the many pomegranate trees. He had the look of a student,
being dressed in a rusty suit of threadbare baize, and was occupied in
writing in a note book, slapping his forehead from time to time, biting
his nails, and gazing up at the sky. Sometimes he was so immersed in
reverie, that he neither moved hand nor foot, nor even winked his eyes.
One day I drew near him unperceived, and heard him muttering between
his teeth. At last, after a long silence, he cried out aloud, "Glorious!
The very best verse I ever composed in my life!" and down went something
in his note book. From all this, it was plain that the luckless wight
was a poet. I approached him with my ordinary courtesies, and when I had
convinced him of my gentleness, he let me lie down at his feet, and
resumed the course of his thoughts, scratching his head, falling into
ecstacies, and then writing as before.
Meanwhile there came into the garden another young man, handsome and
well dressed, with papers in his hand, at which he glanced from time to
time. The new comer walked up to the pomegranate tree, and said to the
poet, "Have you finished the first act?"
"I have just this moment finished it in the happiest manner possible,"
was the reply.
"How is that?"
"I will tell you! His Holiness the Pope comes forth in his pontificals,
with twelve cardinals in purple canonicals--for the action of my comedy
is supposed to take place at the season of _mutatio caparum_, when their
eminences are not dressed in scarlet but in purple--therefore propriety
absolutely requires that my cardinals should wear purple. This is a
capital point, and one on which your common run of writers would be sure
to blunder; but as for me I could not go wrong, for I have read the
whole Roman ceremonial through, merely that I might be exact as to these
dresses."
"But where do you suppose," said the other, "that our manager is to find
purple robes for twelve cardinals?"
"If a single one is wanting," cried the poet, "I would as soon think of
flying, as of letting my comedy be represented without it. Zounds! is
the public to lose that magnificent spectacle! Just imagine the splendid
effect on the stage of a supreme Pontiff and twelve grave cardinals,
with all the other dignitaries, who will of course accompany them! By
heavens, it will be one of the grandest things ever seen on the stage,
not excepting even the nosegay of Duraja!"
I now perceived that one of these young men was a poet, and the other a
comedian. The latter advised the former that he should cut out a few of
his cardinals, if he did not want to make it impossible for the manager
to produce the piece. The poet would not listen to this, but said they
might be thankful that he had not brought in the whole conclave, to be
present at the memorable event which he proposed to immortalise in his
brilliant comedy. The player laughed, left him to his occupation, and
returned to his own, which was studying a part in a new play. The poet,
after having committed to writing some verses of his magnificent comedy,
slowly and gravely drew from his pocket some morsels of bread, and about
twenty raisins, or perhaps not so many, for there were some crumbs of
bread among them, which increased their apparent number. He blew the
crumbs from the raisins, and ate them one by one, stalks and all, for I
did not see him throw anything away, adding to them the pieces of bread,
which had got such a colour from the lining of his pocket, that they
looked mouldy, and were so hard that he could not get them down, though
he chewed them over and over again. This was lucky for me, for he threw
them to me, saying, "Catch, dog, and much good may it do you." Look,
said I to myself, what nectar and ambrosia this poet gives me; for that
is the food on which they say these sons of Apollo are nourished. In
short, great for the most part is the penury of poets; but greater was
my need, since it obliged me to eat what he left.
As long as he was busy with the composition of his comedy he did not
fail to visit the garden, nor did I want crusts, for he shared them with
me very liberally; and then we went to the well, where we satisfied our
thirst like monarchs, I lapping, and he drinking out of a pitcher. But
at last the poet came no more, and my hunger became so intolerable, that
I resolved to quit the Morisco and seek my fortune in the city. As I
entered it, I saw my poet coming out of the famous monastery of San
Geronimo. He came to me with open arms, and I was no less delighted to
see him. He immediately began to empty his pockets of pieces of bread,
softer than those he used to, carry to the garden, and to put them
between my teeth without passing them through his own. From the softness
of the bits of bread, and my having seen my poet come out of the
monastery, I surmised that his muse, like that of many of his brethren,
was a bashful beggar. He walked into the city, and I followed him,
intending to take him for my master if he would let me, thinking that
the crumbs from his table might serve to support me, since there is no
better or ampler purse than charity, whose liberal hands are never poor.
After some time, we arrived at the house of a theatrical manager, called
Angulo the Bad, to distinguish him from another Angulo, not a manager
but a player, one of the best ever seen. The whole company was assembled
to hear my master's comedy read; but before the first act was half
finished, all had vanished, one by one, except the manager and myself,
who formed the whole audience. The comedy was such that to me, who am
but an ass in such matters, it seemed as though Satan himself had
composed it for the utter ruin and perdition of the poet; and I actually
shivered with vexation to see the solitude in which his audience had
left him. I wonder did his prophetic soul presage to him the disgrace
impending over him; for all the players--and there were more than twelve
of them--came back, laid hold on the poet, without saying a word, and,
had it not been for the authoritative interference of the manager, they
would have tossed him in a blanket. I was confounded by this sad turn of
affairs, the manager was incensed, the players very merry; and the poor
forlorn poet, with great patience, but a somewhat wry face, took the
comedy, thrust it into his bosom, muttering, "It is not right to cast
pearls before swine," and sadly quitted the place without another word.
I was so mortified and ashamed that I could not follow him, and the
manager caressed me so much that I was obliged to remain; and within a
month I became an excellent performer in interludes and pantomimes.
Interludes, you know, usually end with a cudgelling bout, but in my
master's theatre they ended with setting me at the characters of the
piece, whom I worried and tumbled one over the other, to the huge
delight of the ignorant spectators, and my master's great gain.
Oh, Scipio! what things I could tell you that I saw among these
players, and two other companies to which I belonged; but I must leave
them for another day, for it would be impossible to compress them within
moderate limits. All you have heard is nothing to what I could relate to
you about these people and their ways, their work and their idleness,
their ignorance and their cleverness, and other matters without end,
which might serve to disenchant many who idolise these fictitious
divinities.
_Scip._ I see clearly, Berganza, that the field is large; but leave it
now, and go on.
_Berg._ I arrived with a company of players in this city of Valladolid,
where they gave me a wound in an interlude that was near being the death
of me. I could not revenge myself then, because I was muzzled, and I had
no mind to do so afterwards in cold blood; for deliberate vengeance
argues a cruel and malicious disposition. I grew weary of this
employment, not because it was laborious, but because I saw in it many
things which called for amendment and castigation; and, as it was not in
my power to remedy them, I resolved to see them no more, but to take
refuge in an abode of holiness, as those do who forsake their vices when
they can no longer practise them; but better late than never. Well,
then, seeing you one night carrying the lantern with that good Christian
Mahudes, I noticed how contented you were, how righteous and holy was
your occupation. Filled with honest emulation, I longed to follow your
steps; and, with that laudable intention, I placed myself before
Mahudes, who immediately elected me your companion, and brought me to
this hospital. What has occurred to me since I have been here would take
some time to relate. I will just mention a conversation I heard between
four invalids, who lay in four beds next each other. It will not take
long to tell, and it fits in here quite pat.
_Scip._ Very well; but be quick, for, to the best of my belief, it
cannot be far from daylight.
_Berg._ The four beds were at the end of the infirmary, and in them lay
an alchemist, a poet, a mathematician, and one of those persons who are
called projectors.
_Scip._ I recollect these good people well.
_Berg._ One afternoon, last summer, the windows being closed, I lay
panting under one of their beds, when the poet began piteously to
bewail his ill fortune. The mathematician asked him what he complained
of.
"Have I not good cause for complaint?" he replied. "I have strictly
observed the rule laid down by Horace in his Art of Poetry, not to bring
to light any work until ten years after it has been composed. Now, I
have a work on which I was engaged for twenty years, and which has lain
by me for twelve. The subject is sublime, the invention perfectly novel,
the episodes singularly happy, the versification noble, and the
arrangement admirable, for the beginning is in perfect correspondence
with the middle and the end. Altogether it is a lofty, sonorous, heroic
poem, delectable and full of matter; and yet I cannot find a prince to
whom I may dedicate it--a prince, I say, who is intelligent, liberal,
and magnanimous. Wretched and depraved age this of ours!"
"What is the subject of the work?" inquired the alchemist.
"It treats," said the poet, "of that part of the history of king Arthur
of England which archbishop Turpin left unwritten, together with the
history of the quest of the Sangreal, the whole in heroic measure,--part
rhymes, part blank-verse; and in dactyles moreover, that is to say, in
dactylic noun substantives, without any admission of verbs."
"For my part, I am not much of a judge in matters of poetry," returned
the alchemist, "and therefore I cannot precisely estimate the misfortune
you complain of; but in any case it cannot equal my own in wanting
means, or a prince to back me and supply me with the requisites, for
prosecuting the science of alchemy; but for which want alone I should
now be rolling in gold, and richer than ever was Midas, Crassus, or
Croesus."
"Have you ever succeeded, Señor Alchemist," said the mathematician, "in
extracting gold from the other metals?"
"I have not yet extracted it," the alchemist replied, "but I know for
certain that the thing is to be done, and that in less than two months
more I could complete the discovery of the philosopher's stone, by means
of which gold can be made even out of pebbles."
"Your worships," rejoined the mathematician, "have both of you made a
great deal of your misfortunes; but after all, one of you has a book to
dedicate, and the other is on the point of discovering the
philosopher's stone, by means of which he will be as rich as all those
who have followed that course. But what will you say of my misfortune,
which is great beyond compare? For two and twenty years I have been in
pursuit of the fixed point; here I miss it, there I get sight of it
again, and just when it seems that I am down upon it so that it can by
no means escape me, I find myself on a sudden so far away from it that I
am utterly amazed. It is just the same with the quadrature of the
circle. I have been within such a hair's breadth of it, that I cannot
conceive how it is that I have not got it in my pocket. Thus I suffer a
torment like that of Tantalus, who starves with fruits all round him,
and burns with thirst with water at his lip. At one moment I seem to
grasp the truth, at another it is far away from me; and, like another
Sisyphus, I begin again to climb the hill which I have just rolled down,
along with all the mass of my labours."
The projector, who had hitherto kept silence, now struck in. "Here we
are," he said, "four complainants, brought together by poverty under the
roof of this hospital. To the devil with such callings and employments,
as give neither pleasure nor bread to those who exercise them! I,
gentlemen, am a projector, and have at various times offered sundry
valuable projects to his majesty, all to his advantage, and without
prejudice to the realm; and I have now a memorial in which I supplicate
his majesty to appoint a person to whom I may communicate a new project
of mine, which will be the means of entirely liquidating all his debts.
But from the fate which all my other memorials have had, I foresee that
this one also will be thrown into the dust-hole. Lest, however, your
worships should think me crack-brained, I will explain my project to
you, though this be in some degree a publication of my secret.
"I propose that all his majesty's vassals, from the age of fourteen to
sixty, be bound once a month, on a certain appointed day, to fast on
bread and water; and that the whole expenditure, which would otherwise
be made on that day for food, including fruit, meat, fish, wine, eggs,
and vegetables, be turned into money, and the amount paid to his
majesty, without defrauding him of a doit, as each shall declare on
oath. By this means, in the course of twenty years the king will be
freed from all debts and incumbrances. The calculation is easily made.
There are in Spain more than three millions of persons of the specified
age, exclusive of invalids, old, and young, and there is not one of
these but spends at least a real and a half daily; however, I am willing
to put it at a real only, and less it cannot be, even were they to eat
nothing but leeks. Now does it not strike your worships that it would be
no bad thing to realise every month three millions of reals, all net and
clear as if they were winnowed and sifted? The plan, moreover, instead
of a loss to his majesty's subjects, would be a real advantage to them;
for by means of their fasts they would make themselves acceptable to God
and would serve their king, and some of them even might find it
beneficial to their health. The project is in every way admirable, as
you must confess; the money too might be collected by parishes, without
the cost of tax gatherers and receivers, those plagues and bloodsuckers
of the realm."
The others all laughed at the projector's scheme, and even he himself
joined in the laugh at last. For my part I found much matter for
reflection in the strange conversation I had heard, and in the fact that
people such as these usually end their days in a hospital.
_Scip._ That is true, Berganza. Have you anything more to say?
_Berg._ Two things more and then I shall have done, for I think day is
beginning to dawn. One day I accompanied Mahudes to ask for alms in the
house of the corregidor of this city, who is a great cavalier and a very
great Christian. We found him alone, and I thought fit to take advantage
of that opportunity to give him certain counsels which I had gathered
from the lips of an old invalid in this hospital, who was discussing the
means of saving from perdition those vagabond girls who take to a life
of vice to avoid labour,--an intolerable evil demanding an immediate and
effectual remedy. Wishing to impart what I had heard to the corregidor,
I lifted up my voice, thinking to speak; but instead of articulate
speech I barked so loudly that the corregidor called out in a passion to
his servants to drive me out of the room with sticks; whereupon one of
them caught up a copper syphon, which Was the nearest thing at hand, and
thrashed me with it so, that I feel it in my ribs to this hour.
_Scip._ And do you complain of that, Berganza?
_Berg._ Nay; have I not reason to complain, since I feel the pain even
now; and since it appears to me that my good intentions merited no such
chastisement?
_Scip._ Look you, Berganza, no one should interfere where he is not
wanted, nor take upon himself a business that in no wise is his concern.
Besides, you ought to know, that the advice of the poor, however good it
may be, is never taken; nor should the lowly presume to offer advice to
the great, who fancy they know everything. Wisdom in a poor man lies
under a cloud, and cannot be seen; or if by chance it shines through it,
people mistake it for folly, and treat it with contempt.
_Berg._ You are right, Scipio; and having had the lesson well beaten
into me, I will henceforth act accordingly. That same night I entered
the house of a lady of quality, who had in her arms a little lap-dog, so
very diminutive that she could have hid it in her bosom. The instant it
saw me, it flew at me out of its mistress's arms, barking with all its
might, and even went so far as to bite my leg. I looked at it with
disgust, and said to myself, "If I met you in the street, paltry little
animal, either I would take no notice of you at all, or I would make
mince meat of you." The little wretch was an example of the common
rule--that mean-souled persons when they are in favour are always
insolent, and ready to offend those who are much better than themselves,
though inferior to them in fortune.
_Scip._ We have many instances of this in worthless fellows, who are
insolent enough under cover of their masters' protection; but if death
or any other chance brings down the tree against which they leaned,
their true value becomes apparent, since they have no other merit than
that borrowed from their patrons; whilst virtue and good sense are
always the same, whether clothed or naked, alone or accompanied. But let
us break off now; for the light beaming in through those chinks shows
that the dawn is far advanced.
_Berg._ Be it so; and I trust in heaven that to-night we shall find
ourselves in a condition to renew our conversation.
The licentiate finished the reading of this dialogue, and the Alferez
his nap, both at the same time. "Although this colloquy is manifestly
fictitious," said the licentiate, "it is, in my opinion, so well
composed, that the Señor Alferez may well proceed with the second part."
"Since you give me such encouragement, I will do so," replied the
alferez, "without further discussing the question with you, whether the
dogs spoke or not."
"There is no need that we should go over that ground again," said the
licentiate. "I admire the art and the invention you have displayed in
the dialogue, and that is enough. Let us go to the Espolon,[65] and
recreate our bodily eyes, as we have gratified those of our minds."
[65] A promenade on the banks of the Arlozoro at Valladolid.
"With all my heart," said the alferez, and away they went.
THE LITTLE GIPSY GIRL.
It would almost seem that the Gitanos and Gitanas, or male and female
gipsies, had been sent into the world for the sole purpose of thieving.
Born of parents who are thieves, reared among thieves, and educated as
thieves, they finally go forth perfected in their vocation, accomplished
at all points, and ready for every species of roguery. In them the love
of thieving, and the ability to exercise it, are qualities inseparable
from their existence, and never lost until the hour of their death.
Now it chanced that an old woman of this race, one who had merited
retirement on full pay as a veteran in the ranks of Cacus, brought up a
girl whom she called Preciosa, and declared to be her granddaughter. To
this child she imparted all her own acquirements, all the various tricks
of her art. Little Preciosa became the most admired dancer in all the
tribes of Gipsydom; she was the most beautiful and discreet of all their
maidens; nay she shone conspicuous not only among the gipsies, but even
as compared with the most lovely and accomplished damsels whose praises
were at that time sounded forth by the voice of fame. Neither sun, nor
wind, nor all those vicissitudes of weather, to which the gipsies are
more constantly exposed than any other people, could impair the bloom of
her complexion or embrown her hands; and what is more remarkable, the
rude manner in which she was reared only served to reveal that she must
have sprung from something better than the Gitano stock; for she was
extremely pleasing and courteous in conversation, and lively though she
was, yet in no wise did she display the least unseemly levity; on the
contrary, amidst all her sprightliness, there was at the same time so
much genuine decorum in her manner, that in the presence of Preciosa no
gitana, old or young, ever dared to sing lascivious songs, or utter
unbecoming words.
The grandmother fully perceived what a treasure she had in her
grandchild; and the old eagle determined to set her young eaglet flying,
having been careful to teach her how to live by her talons. Preciosa was
rich in hymns, ballads, seguidillas, sarabands, and other ditties,
especially romances, which she sang with peculiar grace; for the cunning
grandmother knew by experience that such accomplishments, added to the
youth and beauty of her granddaughter, were the best means of increasing
her capital, and therefore she failed not to promote their cultivation
in every way she could. Nor was the aid of poets wanting; for some there
are who do not disdain to write for the gipsies, as there are those who
invent miracles for the pretended blind, and go snacks with them in what
they gain from charitable believers.
During her childhood, Preciosa lived in different parts of Castile; but
in her sixteenth year her grandmother brought her to Madrid, to the
usual camping-ground of the gipsies, in the fields of Santa Barbara.
Madrid seemed to her the most likely place to find customers; for there
everything is bought and sold. Preciosa made her first appearance in the
capital on the festival of Santa Anna, the patroness of the city, when
she took part in a dance performed by eight gitanas, with one gitano, an
excellent dancer, to lead them. The others were all very well, but such
was the elegance of Preciosa, that she fascinated the eyes of all the
spectators. Amidst the sound of the tambourine and castanets, in the
heat of the dance, a murmur of admiration arose for the beauty and grace
of Preciosa; but when they heard her sing--for the dance was accompanied
with song--the fame of the gitana reached its highest point; and by
common consent the jewel offered as the prize of the best dancer in that
festival was adjudged to her. After the usual dance in the church of
Santa Maria, before the image of the glorious Santa Anna, Preciosa
caught up a tambourine, well furnished with bells, and having cleared a
wide circle around her with pirouettes of exceeding lightness, she sang
a hymn to the patroness of the day. It was the admiration of all who
heard her. Some said, "God bless the girl!" Others, "'Tis a pity that
this maiden is a gitana: truly she deserves to be the daughter of some
great lord!" Others more coarsely observed, "Let the wench grow up, and
she will show you pretty tricks; she is closing the meshes of a very
nice net to fish for hearts." Another more good-natured but ill-bred
and stupid, seeing her foot it so lightly, "Keep it up! keep it up!
Courage, darling! Grind the dust to atoms!" "Never fear," she answered,
without losing a step; "I'll grind it to atoms."
At the vespers and feast of Santa Anna Preciosa was somewhat fatigued;
but so celebrated had she become for beauty, wit, and discretion, as
well as for her dancing, that nothing else was talked of throughout the
capital. A fortnight afterwards, she returned to Madrid, with three
other girls, provided with their tambourines and a new dance, besides a
new stock of romances and songs, but all of a moral character; for
Preciosa would never permit those in her company to sing immodest songs,
nor would she ever sing them herself. The old gitana came with her, for
she now watched her as closely as Argus, and never left her side, lest
some one should carry her off. She called her granddaughter, and the
girl believed herself to be her grandchild.
The young gitanas began their dance in the shade, in the Calle de
Toledo, and were soon encircled by a crowd of spectators. Whilst they
danced, the old woman gathered money among the bystanders, and they
showered it down like stones on the highway; for beauty has such power
that it can awaken slumbering charity. The dance over, Preciosa said,
"If you will give me four quartos, I will sing by myself a beautiful
romance about the churching of our lady the Queen Doña Margarita. It is
a famous composition, by a poet of renown, one who may be called a
captain in the battalion of poets." No sooner had she said this, than
almost every one in the ring cried out, "Sing it, Preciosa; here are my
four quartos;" and so many quartos were thrown down for her, that the
old gitana had not hands enough to pick them up. When the gathering was
ended, Preciosa resumed her tambourine, and sang the promised romance,
which was loudly encored, the whole audience crying out with one voice,
"Sing again, Preciosa, sing again, and dance for us, girl: thou shalt
not want quartos, whilst thou hast the ground beneath thy feet."
Whilst more than two hundred persons were thus looking on at the dance,
and listening to the singing of the gitana, one of the lieutenants of
the city passed by; and seeing so many people together, he asked what
was the occasion of the crowd. Being told that the handsome gitana was
singing there, the lieutenant, who was not without curiosity, drew near
also to listen, but in consideration of his dignity, he did not wait for
the end of the romance. The gitanilla, however, pleased him so much,
that he sent his page to tell the old crone to come to his house that
evening with her troop, as he wished his wife Doña Clara to hear them.
The page delivered the message, and the old gitana promised to attend.
After the performance was ended, and the performers were going
elsewhere, a very well-dressed page came up to Preciosa, and giving her
a folded paper, said, "Pretty Preciosa, will you sing this romance? It
is a very good one, and I will give you others from time to time, by
which you will acquire the fame of having the best romances in the
world."
"I will learn this one with much willingness," replied Preciosa; "and be
sure, señor, you bring me the others you speak of, but on condition that
there is nothing improper in them. If you wish to be paid for them, we
will agree for them by the dozen; but do not expect to be paid in
advance; that will be impossible. When a dozen have been sung, the money
for a dozen shall be forthcoming."
"If the Señora Preciosa only pays me for the paper," said the page, "I
shall be content. Moreover, any romance which does not turn out so well
shall not be counted."
"I will retain the right of choice," said Preciosa; and then she
continued her way with her companions up the street, when some gentlemen
called and beckoned to them from a latticed window. Preciosa went up and
looked through the window, which was near the ground, into a cheerful,
well-furnished apartment, in which several cavaliers were walking about,
and others playing at various games. "Will you give me a share of your
winnings, señors?" said Preciosa, in the lisping accent of the gipsies,
which she spoke not by nature but from choice. At the sight of Preciosa,
and at the sound of her voice, the players quitted the tables, the rest
left off lounging, and all thronged to the window, for her fame had
already reached them. "Come in! Let the little gipsies come in," said
the cavaliers, gaily; "we will certainly give them a share of our
winnings."
"But you might make it cost us dear, señors," said Preciosa.
"No, on the honour of gentlemen," said one, "you may come in, niña, in
full security that no one will touch the sole of your shoe. I swear this
to you by the order I wear on my breast;" and as he spoke he laid his
hand on the cross of the order of Calatrava which he wore.
"If you like to go in, Preciosa," said one of the gitanillas who were
with her, "do so by all means; but I do not choose to go where there are
so many men."
"Look you, Christina," answered Preciosa, "what you have to beware of is
one man alone; where there are so many there is nothing to fear. Of one
thing you may be sure, Christina; the woman who is resolved to be
upright may be so amongst an army of soldiers. It is well, indeed, to
avoid occasions of temptation, but it is not in crowded rooms like this
that danger lurks."
"Well then, let us go in, Preciosa," said her companion, "you know more
than a witch."
The old gipsy also encouraged them to go in, and that decided the
question. As soon as they had entered the room, the cavalier of the
order, seeing the paper which Preciosa carried, stretched out his hand
to take it. "Do not take it from me," she said: "It is a romance but
just given to me, and which I have not yet had time to read."
"And do you know how to read, my girl?" said one of the cavaliers.
"Ay, and to write too," said the old woman. "I have brought up my
grandchild as if she was a lawyer's daughter."
The cavalier opened the paper, and finding a gold crown inclosed in it,
said, "Truly, Preciosa, the contents of this letter are worth the
postage. Here is a crown inclosed in the romance."
"The poet has treated me like a beggar," said Preciosa; "but it is
certainly a greater marvel for one of his trade to give a crown than for
one of mine to receive it. If his romances come to me with this
addition, he may transscribe the whole _Romancero General_ and send me
every piece in it one by one. I will weigh their merit; and if I find
there is good matter in them, I will not reject them. Read the paper
aloud, señor, that we may see if the poet is as wise as he is liberal."
The cavalier accordingly read as follows:--
Sweet gipsy girl, whom envy's self
Must own of all fair maids the fairest,
Ah! well befits thy stony heart
The name thou, Preciosa,[66] bearest.
If as in beauty, so in pride
And cruelty thou grow to sight,
Woe worth the land, woe worth the age
Which brought thy fatal charms to light.
A basilisk in thee we see,
Which fascinates our gaze and kills.
No empire mild is thine, but one
That tyrannises o'er our wills.
How grew such charms 'mid gipsy tribes,
From roughest blasts without a shield?
How such a perfect chrysolite
Could humble Manzanares yield?
River, for this thou shalt be famed,
Like Tagus with its golden show,
And more for Preciosa prized
Than Ganges with its lavish flow.
In telling fortunes who can say
What dupes to ruin thou beguilest?
Good luck thou speak'st with smiling lips.
But luckless they on whom thou smilest!
Tis said they're witches every one,
The women of the gipsy race;
And all men may too plainly see
That thou hast witchcraft in thy face.
A thousand different modes are thine
To turn the brain; for rest or move,
Speak, sing, be mute, approach, retire,
Thou kindlest still the fire of love.
The freest hearts bend to thy sway,
And lose the pride of liberty;
Bear witness mine, thy captive thrall,
Which would not, if it could, be free.
These lines, thou precious gem of love,
Whose praise all power of verse transcend,
He who for thee will live or die,
Thy poor and humble lover sends.
[66] Piedra preciosa, precious stone.
"The poem ends with 'poor' in the last line," said Preciosa; "and that
is a bad sign. Lovers should never begin by saying that they are poor,
for poverty, it strikes me, is a great enemy to love."
"Who teaches you these things, girl?" said one of the cavaliers.
"Who should teach me?" she replied. "Have I not a soul in my body? Am I
not fifteen years of age? I am neither lame, nor halt, nor maimed in my
understanding. The wit of a gipsy girl steers by a different compass
from that which guides other people. They are always forward for their
years. There is no such thing as a stupid gitano, or a silly gitana.
Since it is only by being sharp and ready that they can earn a
livelihood, they polish their wits at every step, and by no means let
the moss grow under their feet. You see these girls, my companions, who
are so silent. You may think they are simpletons, but put your fingers
in their mouths to see if they have cut their wise teeth; and then you
shall see what you shall see. There is not a gipsy girl of twelve who
does not know as much as one of another race at five-and-twenty, for
they have the devil and much practice for instructors, so that they
learn in one hour what would otherwise take them a year."
The company were much amused by the gitana's chat, and all gave her
money. The old woman sacked thirty reals, and went off with her flock as
merry as a cricket to the house of the señor lieutenant, after promising
that she would return with them another day to please such liberal
gentlemen. Doña Clara, the lieutenant's lady, had been apprised of the
intended visit of the gipsies, and she and her doncellas and dueñas, as
well as those of another señora, her neighbour, were expecting them as
eagerly as one looks for a shower in May. They had come to see Preciosa.
She entered with her companions, shining among them like a torch among
lesser lights, and all the ladies pressed towards her. Some kissed her,
some gazed at her; others blessed her sweet face, others her graceful
carriage. "This, indeed, is what you may call golden hair," cried Doña
Clara; "these are truly emerald eyes."[67] The señora, her neighbour,
examined the gitanilla piecemeal. She made a _pepetoria_[68] of all her
joints and members, and coming at last to a dimple in her chin, she
said, "Oh, what a dimple! it is a pit into which all eyes that behold it
must fall." Thereupon an esquire in attendance on Doña Clara, an elderly
gentleman with a long beard, exclaimed, "Call you this a dimple, señora?
I know little of dimples then if this be one. It is no dimple, but a
grave of living desires. I vow to God the gitanilla is such a dainty
creature, she could not be better if she was made of silver or sugar
paste. Do you know how to tell fortunes, niña?"
[67] It is hard to say what "exquisite reason" Cervantes can have had
for likening a girl's eyes to emeralds above all other gems. He uses the
phrase elsewhere, apparently without any ironical meaning.
[68] A dish, in which a fowl is served up disjointed.
"That I do, and in three or four different manners," replied Preciosa.
"You can do that too?" exclaimed Doña Clara. "By the life of my lord the
lieutenant, you must tell me mine, niña of gold, niña of silver, niña of
pearls, niña of carbuncles, niña of heaven, and more than that cannot be
said."
"Give the niña the palm of your hand, señora, and something to cross it
with," said the old gipsy; "and you will see what things she will tell
you, for she knows more than a doctor of medicine."
The señora Tenienta[69] put her hand in her pocket, but found it empty;
she asked for the loan of a quarto from her maids, but none of them had
one, neither had the señora her neighbour. Preciosa seeing this, said,
"For the matter of crosses all are good, but those made with silver or
gold are best. As for making the sign of the cross with copper money,
that, ladies, you must know lessens the luck, at least it does mine. I
always like to begin by crossing the palm with a good gold crown, or a
piece of eight, or at least a quarto, for, I am like the sacristans who
rejoice when there is a good collection."
[69] The wife of the _teniente_, or lieutenant. "
and you ask
for two-and-twenty maravedis? Go your ways, Contreras, for a tiresome
blockhead, as you always were."
"How witty you are," said the lady visitor; then turning to the squire,
"Do you happen to have a quarto about you, Señor Contreras? if you have,
give it me, and when my husband the doctor comes you shall have it
again."
"I have one," replied Contreras, "but it is pledged for two-and-twenty
maravedis for my supper; give me so much and I will fly to fetch it."
"We have not a quarto amongst us all," said Doña Clara, "and you ask
for two-and-twenty maravedis? Go your ways, Contreras, for a tiresome
blockhead, as you always were."
One of the damsels present, seeing the penury of the house, said to
Preciosa, "Niña, will it be of any use to make the cross with a silver
thimble?"
"Certainly," said Preciosa; "the best crosses in the world are made with
silver thimbles, provided there are plenty of them."
"I have one," said the doncella; "if that is enough, here it is, on
condition that my fortune be told too."
"So many fortunes to be told for a thimble!" exclaimed the old gipsy.
"Make haste, granddaughter, for it will soon be night." Preciosa took
the thimble, and began her sooth saying.
Pretty lady, pretty lady,
With a hand as silver fair,
How thy husband dearly loves thee
'Tis superfluous to declare.
Thou'rt a dove, all milk of kindness;
Yet at times too thou canst be
Wrathful as a tiger, or a
Lioness of Barbary.
Thou canst show thy teeth when jealous;
Truly the lieutenant's sly;
Loves with furtive sports to vary
Magisterial gravity.
What a pity! One worth having
Woo'd thee when a maiden fair.
Plague upon all interlopers!
You'd have made a charming pair.
Sooth, I do not like to say it,
Yet it may as well be said;
Thou wilt be a buxom widow;
Twice again shalt thou be wed.
Do not weep, my sweet senora;
We gitanas, you must know,
Speak not always true as gospel
Weep not then sweet lady so.
If the thought is too distressing,
Losing such a tender mate,
Thou hast but to die before him,
To escape a widow's fate.
Wealth abundant thou'lt inherit,
And that quickly, never fear:
Thou shalt have a son, a canon,
--Of what church does not appear;
Not Toledo; no, that can't be;
And a daughter--let me see--
Ay, she'll rise to be an abbess;
--That is, if a nun she be.
If thy husband do not drop off
From this moment in weeks four,
Burgos him, or Salamanca,
Shall behold corregidor.
Meanwhile keep thyself from tripping:
Where thou walkest, many a snare
For the feet of pretty ladies
Naughty gallants lay: beware!
Other things still more surprising
Shall on Friday next be told,
Things to startle and delight thee,
When I've crossed thy palm with gold.
Preciosa having finished this oracular descant for the lady of the
house, the rest of the company were all eager to have their fortunes
told likewise, but she put them off till the next Friday, when they
promised to have silver coin ready for crossing their palms. The señor
lieutenant now came in, and heard a glowing account of the charms and
accomplishments of the leading gitana. Having made her and her
companions dance a little, he emphatically confirmed the encomiums
bestowed on Preciosa; and putting his hand in his pocket he groped and
rummaged about in it for a while, but at last drew his hand out empty,
saying, "Upon my life I have not a doit. Give Preciosa a real, Doña
Clara; I will give it you by and by."
"That is all very well, señor," the lady replied; "but where is the real
to come from? Amongst us all we could not find a quarto to cross our
hands with."
"Well, give her some trinket or another, that Preciosa may come another
day to see us, when we will treat her better."
"No," said Doña Clara, "I will give her nothing to-day, and I shall be
sure she will come again."
"On the contrary," said Preciosa, "if you give me nothing. I will never
come here any more. Sell justice, señor lieutenant, sell justice, and
then you will have money. Do not introduce new customs, but do as other
magistrates do, or you will die of hunger. Look you, señor, I have heard
say that money enough may be made of one's office to pay any mulets that
may be incurred,[70] and to help one to other appointments."
[70] It was formerly the custom in Spain that a civil officer on giving
up his post, should remain for a certain time in the place where he had
served, to answer any charges of maladministration that might be brought
against him.
"So say and do those who have no conscience," said the lieutenant; "but
the judge who does his duty will have no mulet to pay; and to have well
discharged his office, will be his best help to obtain another."
"Your worship speaks like a very saint," replied Preciosa; "proceed
thus, and we shall snip pieces off your old coats for relics."
"You know a great deal, Preciosa," said the lieutenant; "say no more,
and I will contrive that their majesties shall see you, for you are fit
to be shown to a king."
"They will want me for a court fool," said the gitanilla, "and as I
never shall learn the trade, your pains will be all for nothing. If they
wanted me for my cleverness, they might have me; but in some palaces
fools thrive better than the wise. I am content to be a gitana, and
poor, and let Heaven dispose of me as it pleases."
"Come along, niña," said the old gipsy; "say no more, you have said a
great deal already, and know more than I ever taught you. Don't put too
fine a point to your wit for fear it should get blunted; speak of things
suitable to your years; and don't set yourself on the high ropes, lest
you should chance to have a fall."
"The deuce is in these gitanas," said the delighted lieutenant, as they
were taking their leave. The doncella of the thimble stopped them for a
moment, saying to Preciosa, "Tell me my fortune, or give me back my
thimble, for I have not another to work with."
"Señora doncella," replied Preciosa, "count upon your fortune as if it
were already told, and provide yourself with another; or else sew no
more gussets until I come again on Friday, when I will tell you more
fortunes and adventures than you could read in any book of knight
errantry."
The gipsies went away, and falling in with numerous workwomen returning
from Madrid to their villages as usual at the Ave Maria, they joined
company with them, as they always did for the greater security; for the
old gipsy lived in perpetual terror lest some one should run away with
her granddaughter.
One morning after this as they were returning to Madrid to levy black
mail along with other gitanas, in a little valley about five hundred
yards from the city, they met a handsome young gentleman richly dressed;
his sword and dagger were a blazo of gold; his hat was looped with a
jewelled band, and was adorned with plumes of various colours. The
gitanas stopped on seeing him, and set themselves to observe his
movements at their leisure, wondering much that so fine a cavalier
should be alone and on foot in such a place at that early hour. He came
up to them, and addressing the eldest gitana, said, "On your life,
friend, I entreat you do me the favour to let me say two words in
private to you and Preciosa. It shall be for your good."
"With all my heart," said the old woman, "so you do not take us much out
of our way, or delay us long;" and calling Preciosa, they withdrew to
some twenty paces distance, where they stopped, and the young gentleman
thus addressed them: "I am so subdued by the wit and beauty of Preciosa,
that after having in vain endeavoured to overcome my admiration, I have
at last found the effort impossible. I, señoras (for I shall always give
you that title if heaven favours my pretensions), am a knight, as this
dress may show you;" and opening his cloak he displayed the insignia of
one of the highest orders in Spain; "I am the son of----" (here he
mentioned a personage whose name we suppress for obvious reasons), "and
am still under tutelage and command. I am an only son, and expect to
inherit a considerable estate. My father is here in the capital, looking
for a certain post which by all accounts he is on the point of
obtaining. Being then of the rank and condition which I have declared to
you, I should yet wish to be a great lord for the sake of Preciosa, that
I might raise her up to my own level, and make her my equal and my lady.
I do not seek to deceive; the love I bear her is too deep for any kind
of deception; I only desire to serve her in whatever way shall be most
agreeable to her; her will is mine; for her my heart is wax to be
moulded as she pleases but enduring as marble to retain whatever
impression she shall make upon it. If you believe me I shall fear no
discouragement from any other quarter, but if you doubt me, I shall
despond. My name is----; my father's I have already given you; he lives
in such a house in such a street and you may inquire about him and me of
the neighbours, and of others also; for our name and quality are not so
obscure but that you may hear of us about the court, and every, where in
the capital. I have here a hundred crowns in gold to present to you, as
earnest of what I mean to give you hereafter; for a man will be no
niggard of his wealth who has given away his very soul."
Whilst the cavalier was speaking, Preciosa watched him attentively, and
doubtless she saw nothing to dislike either in his language or his
person. Turning to the old woman, she said, "Pardon me, grandmother, if
I take the liberty of answering this enamoured señor myself."
"Make whatever answer you please, granddaughter," said the old woman,
"for I know you have sense enough for anything." So Preciosa began.
"Señor cavalier," she said, "though I am but a poor gitana and humbly
born, yet I have a certain fantastic little spirit within me, which
moves me to great things. Promises do not tempt me, nor presents sap my
resolution, nor obsequiousness allure, nor amorous wiles ensnare me; and
although by my grandmother's reckoning I shall be but fifteen next
Michaelmas, I am already old in thought, and have more understanding
than my years would seem to promise. This may, perhaps, be more from
nature than from experience; but be that as it may, I know that the
passion of love is an impetuous impulse, which violently distorts the
current of the will, makes it dash furiously against all impediments,
and recklessly pursue the desired object. But not unfrequently when the
lover believes himself on the point of gaining the heaven of his wishes,
he falls into the hell of disappointment. Or say that the object is
obtained, the lover soon becomes wearied of his so much desired
treasure, and opening the eyes of his understanding he finds that what
before was so devoutly adored is now become abhorrent to him. The fear
of such a result inspires me with so great a distrust, that I put no
faith in words, and doubt many deeds. One sole jewel I have, which I
prize more than life, and that is my virgin purity, which I will not
sell for promises or gifts, for sold it would be in that case, and if it
could be bought, small indeed would be its value. Nor is it to be
filched from me by wiles or artifices; rather will I carry it with me to
my grave, and perhaps to heaven, than expose it to danger by listening
to specious tales and chimeras. It is a flower which nothing should be
allowed to sully, even in imagination if it be possible. Nip the rose
from the spray, and how soon it fades! One touches it, another smells
it, a third plucks its leaves, and at last the flower perishes in vulgar
hands. If you are come then, señor, for this booty, you shall never bear
it away except bound in the ties of wedlock. If you desire to be my
spouse, I will be yours; but first there are many conditions to be
fulfilled, and many points to be ascertained.
"In the first place I must know if you are the person you declare
yourself to be. Next, should I find this to be true, you must
straightway quit your father's mansion, and exchange it for our tents,
where, assuming the garb of a gipsy, you must pass two years in our
schools, during which I shall be able to satisfy myself as to your
disposition, and you will become acquainted with mine. At the end of
that period, if you are pleased with me and I with you, I will give
myself up to you as your wife; but till then I will be your sister and
your humble servant, and nothing more. Consider, señor, that during the
time of this novitiate you may recover your sight, which now seems lost,
or at least disordered, and that you may then see fit to shun what now
you pursue with so much ardour. You will then be glad to regain your
lost liberty, and having done so, you may by sincere repentance obtain
pardon of your family for your faults. If on these conditions you are
willing to enlist in our ranks, the matter rests in your own hands; but
if you fail in any one of them, you shall not touch a finger of mine."
The youth was astounded at Preciosa's decision, and remained as if
spell-bound, with his eyes bent on the ground, apparently considering
what answer he should return. Seeing this, Preciosa said to him, "This
is not a matter of such light moment that it can or ought to be
resolved on the spot. Return, señor, to the city, consider maturely what
is best for you to do; and you may speak with me in this same place any
week-day you please, as we are on our way to or from Madrid."
"When Heaven disposed me to love you, Preciosa," replied the cavalier,
"I determined to do for you whatever it might be your will to require of
me, though it never entered my thoughts that you would make such a
demand as you have now done; but since it is your pleasure that I should
comply with it, count me henceforth as a gipsy, and put me to all the
trials you desire, you will always find me the same towards you as I now
profess myself. Fix the time when you will have me change my garb. I
will leave my family under pretext of going to Flanders, and will bring
with me money for my support for some time. In about eight days I shall
be able to arrange for my departure, and I will contrive some means to
get rid of my attendants, so as to be free to accomplish my purpose.
What I would beg of you (if I might make bold to ask any favour) is
that, except to-day for the purpose of inquiring about me and my family,
you go no more to Madrid, for I would not that any of the numerous
occasions that present themselves there, should deprive me of the good
fortune I prize so dearly."
"Not so, señor gallant," said Preciosa: "wherever I go I must be free
and unfettered; my liberty must not be restrained or encumbered by
jealousy. Be assured, however, that I will not use it to such excess,
but that any one may see from a mile off that my honesty is equal to my
freedom. The first charge, therefore, I have to impose upon you is, that
you put implicit confidence in me; for lovers who begin by being
jealous, are either silly or deficient in confidence."
"You must have Satan himself within you, little one," said the old
gipsy; "why you talk like a bachelor of Salamanca. You know all about
love and jealousy and confidence. How is this? You make me look like a
fool, and I stand listening to you as to a person possessed, who talks
Latin without knowing it."
"Hold your peace, grandmother," replied Preciosa; "and know that all the
things you have heard me say are mere trifles to the many greater truths
that remain in my breast."
All that Preciosa said, and the sound sense she displayed, added fuel
to the flame that burned in the breast of the enamoured cavalier.
Finally, it was arranged that they should meet in the same place on that
day sennight, when he would report how matters stood with him, and they
would have had time to inquire into the truth of what he had told them.
The young gentleman then took out a brocaded purse in which he said
there were a hundred gold crowns, and gave it to the old woman; but
Preciosa would by no means consent that she should take them.
"Hold your tongue, niña," said her grandmother; "the best proof this
señor has given of his submission, is in thus having yielded up his arms
to us in token of surrender. To give, upon whatever occasion it may be,
is always the sign of a generous heart. Moreover, I do not choose that
the gitanas should lose, through my fault, the reputation they have had
for long ages of being greedy of lucre. Would you have me lose a hundred
crowns, Preciosa? A hundred crowns in gold that one may stitch up in the
hem of a petticoat not worth two reals, and keep them there as one holds
a rent-charge on the pastures of Estramadura! Suppose that any of our
children, grandchildren, or relations should fall by any mischance into
the hands of justice, is there any eloquence so sure to touch the ears
of the judge as the music of these crowns when they fall into his purse?
Three times, for three different offences, I have seen myself all but
mounted on the ass to be whipped; but once I got myself off by means of
a silver mug, another time by a pearl necklace, and the third time with
the help of forty pieces of eight, which I exchanged for quartos,
throwing twenty reals into the bargain. Look you, niña, ours is a very
perilous occupation, full of risks and accidents; and there is no
defence that affords us more ready shelter and succour than the
invincible arms of the great Philip: nothing beats the _plus ultra_.[71]
For the two faces of a doubloon, a smile comes over the grim visage of
the procurator and of all the other ministers of mischief, who are
downright harpies to us poor gitanas, and have more mercy for highway
robbers than for our poor hides. Let us be ever so ragged and wretched
in appearance, they will not believe that we are poor, but say that we
are like the doublets of the gavachos of Belmont, ragged and greasy and
full of doubloons."
[71] After the discovery of America the Spanish dollar was marked with
the pillars of Hercules and the legend "PLUS ULTRA."
"Say no more, for heaven's sake, grandmother," said Preciosa; "do not
string together so many arguments for keeping the money, but keep it,
and much good may it do you. I wish to God you would bury it in a grave
out of which it may never return to the light, and that there may never
be any need of it. We must, however, give some of it to these companions
of ours, who must be tired of waiting so long for us."
"They shall see one coin out of this purse as soon as they will see the
Grand Turk," the old woman replied. "The good señor will try if he has
any silver coin or a few coppers remaining, to divide amongst them, for
they will be content with a little."
"Yes, I have," he said, and he took from his pocket three pieces of
eight which he divided among the gitanas, with which they were more
delighted than the manager of a theatre when he is placarded as victor
in a contest with a rival. Finally it was settled that the party should
meet there again in a week, as before mentioned, and that the young
man's gipsy name should be Andrew Caballero, for that was a surname not
unknown among the gipsies. Andrew (as we shall henceforth call him)
could not find courage to embrace Preciosa, but darting his very soul
into her with a glance, he went away without it, so to speak, and
returned to Madrid. The gipsies followed soon after; and Preciosa, who
already felt a certain interest in the handsome and amiable Andrew, was
anxious to learn if he was really what he said.
They had not gone far before they met the page of the verses and the
gold crown. "Welcome, Preciosa," he said, coming up to her. "Have you
read the lines I gave you the other day?"
"Before I answer you a word," said she, "you must, by all you love best,
tell me one thing truly."
"Upon that adjuration," he replied, "I could not refuse an answer to any
question, though it should cost me my head."
"Well, then, what I want to know is this: are you, perchance, a poet?"
"If I were one, it would certainly be perchance," said the page; "but
you must know, Preciosa, that the name of poet is one which very few
deserve. Thus I am not a poet, but only a lover of poetry; yet for my
own use I do not borrow of others. The verses I gave you were mine, as
are these also which I give you now; but I am not a poet for all
that--God forbid."
"Is it such a bad thing to be a poet?" Preciosa asked.
"It is not a bad thing," he answered; "but to be a poet and nothing else
I do not hold to be very good. We should use poetry like a rich jewel,
the owner of which does not wear it every day, or show it to all people,
but displays it only at suitable times. Poetry is a beautiful maiden,
chaste, honest, discreet, reserved, and never overstepping the limits of
perfect refinement. She is fond of solitude; she finds pleasure and
recreation among fountains, meadows, trees, and flowers; and she
delights and instructs all who are conversant with her."
"I have heard for all that," said Preciosa, "that she is exceedingly
poor; something of a beggar in short."
"It is rather the reverse," said the page, "for there is no poet who is
not rich, since they all live content with their condition; and that is
a piece of philosophy which few understand. But what has moved you,
Preciosa, to make this inquiry?"
"I was moved to it, because, as I believe all poets, or most of them, to
be poor, that crown which you gave me wrapped up with the verses caused
me some surprise; but now that I know that you are not a poet, but only
a lover of poetry, it may be that you are rich, though I doubt it, for
your propensity is likely to make you run through all you have got. It
is a well-known saying, that no poet can either keep or make a fortune."
"But the saying is not applicable to me," said the page. "I make verses,
and I am neither rich nor poor; and without feeling it or making a talk
about it, as the Genoese do of their invitations, I can afford to give a
crown, or even two, to whom I like. Take then, precious pearl, this
second paper, and this second crown enclosed in it, without troubling
yourself with the question whether I am a poet or not. I only beg you to
think and believe that he who gives you this would fain have the wealth
of Midas to bestow upon you."
Preciosa took the paper, and feeling a crown within it, she said, "This
paper bids fair to live long, for it has two souls within it, that of
the crown and that of the verses, which, of course, are full of souls
and hearts as usual. But please to understand, Señor Page, that I do not
want so many souls; and that unless you take back one of them, I will
not receive the other on any account. I like you as a poet and not as a
giver of gifts; and thus we may be the longer friends, for your stock of
crowns may run out sooner than your verses."
"Well," said the page, "since you will have it that I am poor, do not
reject the soul I present to you in this paper, and give me back the
crown, which, since it has been touched by your hand, shall remain with
me as a hallowed relic as long as I live."
Preciosa gave him the crown, and kept the paper, but would not read it
in the street. The page went away exulting in the belief that Preciosa's
heart was touched, since she had treated him with such affability.
It being now her object to find the house of Andrew's father, she went
straight to the street, which she well knew, without stopping anywhere
to dance. About half way down it, she saw the gilded iron balcony which
Andrew had mentioned to her, and in it a gentleman of about fifty years
of age, of noble presence, with a red cross on his breast. This
gentleman seeing the gitanilla, called out, "Come up here, niñas, and we
will give you something." These words brought three other gentlemen to
the balcony, among whom was the enamoured Andrew. The instant he cast
his eyes on Preciosa he changed colour, and well nigh swooned, such was
the effect her sudden appearance had upon him. The girls went up stairs,
whilst the old woman remained below to pump the servants with respect to
Andrew. As they entered the room, the elder gentleman was saying to the
others, "This is no doubt the handsome gitanilla who is so much talked
of in Madrid."
"It is," said Andrew; "and she is unquestionably the most beautiful
creature that ever was seen."
"So they say," said Preciosa, who had overheard these remarks as she
came in; "but indeed they must be half out in the reckoning. I believe I
am pretty well, but as handsome as they say--not a bit of it!"
"By the life of Don Juanico, my son," said the elder gentleman, "you are
far more so, fair gitana."
"And who is Don Juanico, your son?" said Preciosa.
"That gallant by your side," said the cavalier.
"Truly, I thought your worship had sworn by some bantling of two years
old," said Preciosa. "What a pretty little pet of a Don Juanico![72] Why
he is old enough to be married; and by certain lines on his forehead, I
foresee that married he will be before three years are out, and much to
his liking too, if in the meantime he be neither lost nor changed."
[72] Juanico, diminutive of Juan; Johnny.
"Ay, ay," said one of the company; "the gitanilla can tell the meaning
of a wrinkle."
During this time, the three gipsy girls, who accompanied Preciosa, had
got their heads together and were whispering each other. "Girls," said
Christina, "that is the gentleman that gave us the three pieces of eight
this morning."
"Sure enough," said they; "but don't let us say a word about it unless
he mentions it. How do we know but he may wish to keep it secret?"
Whilst the three were thus conferring together, Preciosa replied to the
last remark about wrinkles. "What I see with my eyes, I divine with my
fingers. Of the Señor Don Juanico, I know without lines that he is
somewhat amorous, impetuous, and hasty; and a great promiser of things
that seem impossible. God grant he be not a deceiver, which would be
worse than all. He is now about to make a long journey; but the bay
horse thinks one thing, and the man that saddles him thinks another
thing. Man proposes and God disposes. Perhaps he may think he is bound
for Oñez, and will find himself on the way to Gaviboa."
"In truth, gitana," said Don Juan, "you have guessed right respecting me
in several points. I certainly intend, with God's will, to set out for
Flanders in four or five days, though you forebode that I shall have to
turn out of my road; yet I hope no obstacle will occur to frustrate my
purpose."
"Say no more, señorito," the gipsy replied; "but commend yourself to
God, and all will be well. Be assured I know nothing at all of what I
have been saying. It is no wonder if I sometimes hit the mark, since I
talk so much and always at random. I wish I could speak to such good
purpose as to persuade you not to leave home, but remain quietly with
your parents to comfort their old age; for I am no friend to these
Flanders expeditions, especially for a youth of your tender years. Wait
till you are grown a little more and better able to bear the toils of
war; and the rather as you have war enough at home, considering all the
amorous conflicts that are raging in your bosom. Gently, gently with
you, madcap! Look what you are doing before you marry; and now give us a
little dole for God's sake and for the name you bear; for truly I
believe you are well born, and if along with this you are loyal and
true, then I will sing jubilee for having hit the mark in all I have
said to you."
"I told you before, niña," said Don Juan, otherwise Andrew Caballero,
"that you were right on every point except as to the fear you entertain
that I am not quite a man of my word. In that respect you are certainly
mistaken. The word that I pledge in the field I fulfil in the town, or
wherever I may be, without waiting to be asked; for no man can esteem
himself a gentleman, who yields in the least to the vice of falsehood.
My father will give you alms for God's sake and for mine; for in truth I
gave all I had this morning to some ladies, of whom I would not venture
to assert that they are as obliging as they are beautiful, one of them
especially."
Hearing this, Christina said to her companions, "May I be hanged, girls,
if he is not talking of the three pieces of eight he gave us this
morning."
"No, that can't be," one of them observed; "for he said they were
ladies, and we are none; and being so true-spoken as he says he is, he
would not lie in this matter."
"Oh, but," said Christina, "that is not a lie of any moment that is told
without injury to anybody, but for the advantage and credit of him who
tells it. Be that as it may, I see he neither gives us anything, nor
asks us to dance."
The old gipsy now came into the room and said, "Make haste,
granddaughter; for it is late, and there is much to be done, and more to
be said."
"What is it, grandmother?" said Preciosa, "A boy or a girl?"
"A boy, and a very fine one. Come along, Preciosa, and you shall hear
marvels."
"God grant the mother does not die of her after pains," said the
granddaughter.
"We will take all possible care of her. She has had a very good time,
and the child is a perfect beauty."
"Has any lady been confined?" said Andrew's father.
"Yes, señor," replied the old Gitana: "but it is such a secret, that no
one knows of it except Preciosa, myself, and one other person. So we
cannot mention the lady's name."
"Well, we don't want to know it," said one of the gentlemen present;
"but God help the lady who trusts her secret to your tongues, and her
honour to your aid."
"We are not all bad," replied Preciosa; "perhaps there may be one among
us who piques herself on being as trusty and as true as the noblest man
in this room. Let us begone, grandmother; for here we are held in little
esteem, though in truth we are neither thieves nor beggars."
"Do not be angry, Preciosa," said Andrew's father. "Of you at least I
imagine no one can presume anything ill, for your good looks are warrant
for your good conduct. Do me the favour to dance a little with your
companions. I have here a doubloon for you with two faces, and neither
of them as good as your own, though they are the faces of two kings."
The moment the old woman heard this she cried, "Come along, girls: tuck
up your skirts, and oblige these gentlemen." Preciosa took the
tambourine, and they all danced with so much grace and freedom, that the
eyes of all the spectators were riveted upon their steps, especially
those of Andrew, who gazed upon Preciosa as if his whole soul was
centred in her; but an untoward accident turned his delight into
anguish. In the exertion of the dance, Preciosa let fall the paper given
her by the page. It was immediately picked up by the gentleman who had
no good opinion of the gipsies. He opened it, and said, "What have we
here? A madrigal? Good! Break off the dance, and listen to it; for, as
far as I can judge from the beginning, it is really not bad." Preciosa
was annoyed at this, as she did not know the contents of the paper; and
she begged the gentleman not to read it, but give it back to her. All
her entreaties, however, only made Andrew more eager to hear the lines,
and his friend read them out as follows:--
Who hath Preciosa seen
Dancing like the Fairy Queen?
Ripplets on a sunlit river
Like her small feet glance and quiver.
When she strikes the timbrel featly,
When she warbles, oh how sweetly!
Pearls from her white hands she showers,
From her rosy lips drop flowers.
Not a ringlet of her hair
But doth thousand souls ensnare.
Not a glance of her bright eyes
But seems shot from Love's own skies.
He in obeisance to this sovereign maid,
His bow and quiver at her feet hath laid.
"Por dios!" exclaimed the reader, "he is a dainty poet who wrote this."
"He is not a poet, señor," said Preciosa, "but a page, and a very
gallant and worthy man."
"Mind what you say, Preciosa," returned the other; "for the praises you
bestow on the page are so many lance-thrusts through Andrew's heart.
Look at him as he sits aghast, thrown back on his chair, with a cold
perspiration breaking through all his pores. Do not imagine, maiden,
that he loves you so lightly but that the least slight from you
distracts him. Go to him, for God's sake, and whisper a few words in his
ear, that may go straight to his heart, and recall him to himself. Go on
receiving such madrigals as this every day, and just see what will come
of it."
It was just as he had said. Andrew had been racked by a thousand
jealousies on hearing the verses; and was so overcome that his father
observed it, and cried out, "What ails you, Don Juan? You are turned
quite pale, and look as if you were going to faint."
"Wait a moment," said Preciosa, "let me whisper certain words in his
ear, and you will see that he will not faint." Then bending over him she
said, almost without moving her lips, "A pretty sort of gitano you will
make! Why, Andrew, how will you be able to bear the torture with
gauze,[73] when you are overcome by a bit of paper?" Then making
half-a-dozen signs of the cross over his heart, she left him, after
which Andrew breathed a little, and told his friends that Preciosa's
words had done him good.
[73] One of the ways in which the torture was formerly administered in
Spain, was by making the patient swallow pieces of gauze in water.
Finally, the two-faced doubloon was given to Preciosa, who told her
companions that she would change it, and share the amount honourably
with them. Andrew's father intreated her to leave him in writing the
words she had spoken to his son, as he wished by all means to know them.
She said she would repeat them with great pleasure; and that though they
might appear to be mere child's play, they were of sovereign virtue to
preserve from the heartache and dizziness of the head. The words were
these:--
Silly pate, silly pate,
Why run on at this rate?
No tripping, or slipping, or sliding!
Have trusty assurance,
And patient endurance
And ever be frank and confiding.
To ugly suspicion
Refuse all admission,
Nor let it your better sense twist over.
All this if you do
You'll not rue,
For excellent things will ensue,
With the good help of God and St. Christopher.
"Only say these words," she continued, "over any person who has a
swimming in the head, making at the same time six signs of the cross
over his heart, and he will soon be as sound as an apple."
When the old woman heard the charm, she was amazed at the clever trick
played by her granddaughter; and Andrew was still more so when he found
that the whole was an invention of her quick wit. Preciosa left the
madrigal in the hands of the gentleman, not liking to ask for it, lest
she should again distress Andrew; for she knew, without any one teaching
her, what it was to make a lover feel the pangs of jealousy. Before she
took her leave, she said to Don Juan, "Every day of the week, señor, is
lucky for beginning a journey: not one of them is black. Hasten your
departure, therefore, as much as you can; for there lies before you a
free life of ample range and great enjoyment, if you choose to
accommodate yourself to it."
"It strikes me that a soldier's life is not so free as you say,"
replied Andrew, "but one of submission rather than liberty. However, I
will see what I can do."
"You will see more than you think for," said Preciosa; "and may God have
you in his keeping, and lead you to happiness, as your goodly presence
deserves."
These farewell words filled Andrew with delight; the gitanas went away
no less gratified, and shared the doubloon between them, the old woman
as usual taking a part and a half, both by reason of her seniority, as
because she was the compass by which they steered their course on the
wide sea of their dances, pleasantry, and tricks.
At last the appointed day of meeting came, and Andrew arrived in the
morning at the old trysting place, mounted on a hired mule, and without
any attendant. He found Preciosa and her grandmother waiting for him,
and was cordially welcomed by them. He begged they would take him at
once to the rancho,[74] before it was broad day, that he might not be
recognised should he be sought for. The two gitanas, who had taken the
precaution to come alone, immediately wheeled round, and soon arrived
with him at their huts. Andrew entered one of them, which was the
largest in the rancho, where he was forthwith assisted by ten or twelve
gitanos, all handsome strapping young fellows, whom the old woman had
previously informed respecting the new comrade who was about to join
them. She had not thought it necessary, to enjoin them to secrecy; for,
as we have already said, they habitually observed it with unexampled
sagacity and strictness. Their eyes were at once on the mule, and said
one of them, "We can sell this on Thursday in Toledo."
[74] Gipsy encampment.
"By no means," said Andrew; "for there is not a hired mule in Madrid, or
any other town, but is known to all the muleteers that tramp the roads
of Spain."
"Por dios, Señor Andrew," said one of the gang, "if there were more
signs and tokens upon the mule than are to precede the day of judgment,
we will transform it in such a manner that it could not be known by the
mother that bore it, or the master that owned it."
"That maybe," said Andrew; "but for this time you must do as I
recommend. This mule must be killed, and buried where its bones shall
never be seen."
"Put the innocent creature to death!" cried another gipsy. "What a sin!
Don't say the word, good Andrew; only do one thing. Examine the beast
well, till you have got all its marks well by heart; then let me take it
away, and if in two hours from this time you are able to know, it again,
let me be basted like a runaway negro."
"I must insist upon the mule's being put to death," said Andrew, "though
I were ever so sure of its transformation. I am in fear of being
discovered unless it is put under ground. If you object for sake of the
profit to be made by selling it, I am not come so destitute to this
fraternity but that I can pay my footing with more than the price of
four mules."
"Well, since the Señor Andrew Caballero will have it so," said the other
gitano, "let the sinless creature die, though God knows how much it goes
against me, both because of its youth, for it has not yet lost mark of
mouth, a rare thing among hired mules, and because it must be a good
goer, for it has neither scars on its flank nor marks of the spur."
The slaughter of the mule was postponed till night, and the rest of the
day was spent in the ceremonies of Andrew's initiation. They cleared out
one of the best huts in the encampment, dressed it with boughs and
rushes, and seating Andrew in it on the stump of a cork tree, they put a
hammer and tongs in his hands, and made him cut two capers to the sound
of two guitars. They then bared one of his arms, tied round it a new
silk ribbon through which they passed a short stick, and gave it two
turns gently, after the manner of the garotte with which criminals are
strangled. Preciosa was present at all this, as were many other gitanas,
old and young, some of whom gazed at Andrew with admiration, others with
love, and such was his good humour, that even the gitanos took most
kindly to him.
These ceremonies being ended, an old gipsy took Preciosa by the hand,
and setting her opposite Andrew, spoke thus: "This girl, who is the
flower and cream of all beauty among the gitanas of Spain, we give to
you either for your wife or your mistress, for in that respect you may
do whatever shall be most to your liking, since our free and easy life
is not subject to squeamish scruples or to much ceremony. Look at her
well, and see if she suits you, or if there is anything in her you
dislike; if there is, choose from among the maidens here present the one
you like best, and we will give her to you. But bear in mind that once
your choice is made, you must not quit it for another, nor make or
meddle either with the married women or the maids. We are strict
observers of the law of good fellowship; none among us covets the good
that belongs to another. We live free and secure from the bitter plague
of jealousy; and though incest is frequent amongst us there is no
adultery. If a wife or a mistress is unfaithful, we do not go ask the
courts of justice to punish; but we ourselves are the judges and
executioners of our wives and mistresses, and make no more ado about
killing and burying them in the mountains and desert places than if they
were vermin. There are no relations to avenge them, no parents to call
us to account for their deaths. By reason of this fear and dread, our
women learn to live chaste; and we, as I have said, feel no uneasiness
about their virtue.
"We have few things which are not common to us all, except wives and
mistresses, each of whom we require to be his alone to whom fortune has
allotted her. Among us divorce takes place, because of old age as well
as by death. Any man may if he likes leave a woman who is too old for
him, and choose one more suitable to his years. By means of these and
other laws and statutes we contrive to lead a merry life. We are lords
of the plains, the corn fields, the woods, mountains, springs, and
rivers. The mountains yield us wood for nothing, the orchards fruit, the
vineyards grapes, the gardens vegetables, the fountains water, the
rivers fish, the parks feathered game; the rocks yield us shade, the
glades and valleys fresh air, and the caves shelter. For us the
inclemencies of the weather are zephyrs, the snow refreshment, the rain
baths, the thunder music, and the lightning torches. For us the hard
ground is a bed of down; the tanned skin of our bodies is an
impenetrable harness to defend us; our nimble limbs submit to no
obstacle from iron bars, or trenches, or walls; our courage is not to be
twisted out of us by cords, or choked by gauze,[75] or quelled by the
rack.
[75] See note [73], p. 200.
"Between yes and no we make no difference when it suits our convenience
to confound them; we always pride ourselves more on being martyrs than
confessors. For us the beasts of burden are reared in the fields, and
pockets are filled in the cities. No eagle or other bird of prey pounces
more swiftly on its quarry than we upon opportunities that offer us
booty. And finally, we possess many qualities which promise us a happy
end; for we sing in prison, are silent on the rack, work by day, and by
night we thieve, or rather we take means to teach all men that they
should exempt themselves from the trouble of seeing where they put their
property. We are not distressed by the fear of losing our honour, or
kept awake by ambition to increase it. We attach ourselves to no
parties; we do not rise by day-light to attend levees and present
memorials, or to swell the trains of magnates, or to solicit favours.
Our gilded roofs and sumptuous palaces are these portable huts; our
Flemish pictures and landscapes are those which nature presents to our
eyes at every step in the rugged cliffs and snowy peaks, the spreading
meads and leafy groves. We are rustic astronomers, for as we sleep
almost always under the open sky, we can tell every hour by day or
night. We see how Aurora extinguishes and sweeps away the stars from
heaven, and how she comes forth with her companion the dawn, enlivening
the air, refreshing the water, and moistening the earth; and after her
appears the sun gilding the heights, as the poet sings, and making the
mountains smile. We are not afraid of being left chilly by his absence,
when his rays fall aslant upon us, or of being roasted when they blaze
down upon us perpendicularly. We turn the same countenance to sun and
frost, to dearth and plenty. In conclusion, we are people who live by
our industry and our wits, without troubling ourselves with the old
adage, 'The church, the sea, or the king's household.' We have all we
want, for we are content with what we have.
"All these things have I told you, generous youth, that you may not be
ignorant of the life to which you are come, and the manners and customs
you will have to profess, which I have here sketched for you in the
rough. Many other particulars, no less worthy of consideration, you will
discover for yourself in process of time."
Here the eloquent old gitano closed his discourse, and the novice
replied, that he congratulated himself much on having been made
acquainted with such laudable statutes; that he desired to make
profession of an order so based on reason and politic principles; that
his only regret was that he had not sooner come to the knowledge of so
pleasant a life; and that from that moment he renounced his knighthood,
and the vain glory of his illustrious lineage, and placed them beneath
the yoke, or beneath the laws under which they lived, forasmuch as they
so magnificently recompensed the desire he had to serve them, in
bestowing upon him the divine Preciosa, for whom he would surrender many
crowns and wide empires, or desire them only for her sake.
Preciosa spoke next: "Whereas these señores, our lawgivers," she said,
"have determined, according to their laws that I should be yours, and as
such have given me up to you, I have decreed, in accordance with the law
of my own will, which is the strongest of all, that I will not be so
except upon the conditions heretofore concerted between us two. You must
live two years in our company before you enjoy mine, so that you may
neither repent through fickleness, nor I be deceived through
precipitation. Conditions supersede laws; those which I have prescribed
you know; if you choose to keep them, I may be yours, and you mine; if
not, the mule is not dead, your clothes are whole, and not a doit of
your money is spent. Your absence from home has not yet extended to the
length of a day; what remains you may employ in considering what best
suits you. These señores may give up my body to you, but not my soul,
which is free, was born free, and shall remain free. If you remain, I
shall esteem you much; if you depart, I shall do so no less; for I hold
that amorous impulses run with a loose rein, until they are brought to a
halt by reason or disenchantment. I would not have you be towards me
like the sportsman, who when he has bagged a hare thinks no more of it,
but runs after another. The eyes are sometimes deceived; at first sight
tinsel looks like gold; but they soon recognise the difference between
the genuine and the false metal. This beauty of mine, which you say I
possess, and which you exalt above the sun, and declare more precious
than gold, how do I know but that at a nearer view it will appear to you
a shadow, and when tested will seem but base metal? I give you two years
to weigh and ponder well what will be right to choose or reject. Before
you buy a jewel, which you can only get rid of by death, you ought to
take much time to examine it, and ascertain its faults or its merits. I
do not assent to the barbarous licence which these kinsmen of mine have
assumed, to forsake their wives or chastise them when the humour takes
them; and as I do not intend to do anything which calls for punishment,
I will not take for my mate one who will abandon me at his own caprice."
"You are right, Preciosa," said Andrew; "and so if you would have me
quiet your fears and abate your doubts, by swearing not to depart a jot
from the conditions you prescribe, choose what form of oath I shall
take, or what other assurance I shall give you, and I will do exactly as
you desire."
"The oaths and promises which the captive makes to obtain his liberty
are seldom fulfilled when he is free," returned Preciosa; "and it is
just the same, I fancy, with the lover, who to obtain his desire will
promise the wings of Mercury, and the thunderbolts of Jove; and indeed a
certain poet promised myself no less, and swore it by the Stygian lake.
I want no oaths or promises, Señor Andrew, but to leave everything to
the result of this novitiate. It will be my business to take care of
myself, if at any time you should think of offending me."
"Be it so," said Andrew. "One request I have to make of these señores
and comrades mine, and that is that they will not force me to steal
anything for a month or so; for it strikes me that it will take a great
many lessons to make me a thief."
"Never fear, my son," said the old gipsy; "for we will instruct you in
such a manner that you will turn out an eagle in our craft; and when you
have learned it, you will like it so much, that you will be ready to eat
your hand, it will so itch after it. Yes, it is fine fun to go out
empty-handed in the morning, and to return loaded at night to the
rancho."
"I have seen some return with a whipping," said Andrew.
"One cannot catch trouts dry shod," the old man replied: "all things in
this life have their perils: the acts of the thief are liable to the
galleys, whipping, and the scragging-post; but it is not because one
ship encounters a storm, or springs a leak, that others should cease to
sail the seas. It would be a fine thing if there were to be no soldiers,
because war consumes men and horses. Besides, a whipping by the hand of
justice is for us a badge of honour, which becomes us better worn on the
shoulders than on the breast. The main point is to avoid having to dance
upon nothing in our young days and for our first offences; but as for
having our shoulders dusted, or thrashing the water in a galley, we
don't mind that a nutshell. For the present, Andrew, my son, keep snug
in the nest under the shelter of our wings; in due time, we will take
you out to fly, and that where you will not return without a prey; and
the short and the long of it is, that by and by you will lick your
fingers after every theft."
"Meanwhile," said Andrew, "as a compensation for what I might bring in
by thieving during the vacation allowed me, I will divide two hundred
gold crowns among all the members of the rancho."
The words were no sooner out of his mouth, than several gitanos caught
him up in their arms, hoisted him upon their shoulders, and bore him
along, shouting, "Long life to the great Andrew, and long life to
Preciosa his beloved!" The gitanas did the same with Preciosa, not
without exciting the envy of Christina, and the other gitanillas
present; for envy dwells alike in the tents of barbarians, the huts of
shepherds, and the palaces of princes; and to see another thrive who
seems no better than oneself is a great weariness to the spirit.
This done, they ate a hearty dinner, made an equitable division of the
gift money, repeated their praises of Andrew, and exalted Preciosa's
beauty to the skies. When night fell, they broke the mule's neck, and
buried it, so as to relieve Andrew of all fear of its leading to his
discovery; they likewise buried with it the trappings, saddle, bridle,
girths and all, after the manner of the Indians, whose chief ornaments
are laid in the grave with them.
Andrew was in no small astonishment at all he had seen and heard, and
resolved to pursue his enterprise without meddling at all with the
customs of his new companions, so far as that might be possible.
Especially he hoped to exempt himself, at the cost of his purse, from
participating with them in any acts of injustice. On the following day,
Andrew requested the gipsies to break up the camp, and remove to a
distance from Madrid; for he feared that he should be recognised if he
remained there. They told him they had already made up their minds to go
to the mountains of Toledo, and thence to scour all the surrounding
country, and lay it under contribution. Accordingly they struck their
tents, and departed, offering Andrew an ass to ride; but he chose rather
to travel on foot, and serve as attendant to Preciosa, who rode
triumphantly another ass, rejoicing in her gallant esquire; whilst he
was equally delighted at finding himself close to her whom he had made
the mistress of his freedom.
O potent force of him who is called the sweet god of bitterness--a title
given him by our idleness and weakness--how effectually dost thou
enslave us! Here was Andrew, a knight, a youth of excellent parts,
brought up at court, and maintained in affluence by his noble parents;
and yet since yesterday such a change has been wrought in him that he
has deceived his servants and friends; disappointed the hopes of his
parents; abandoned the road to Flanders, where he was to have exercised
his valour and increased the honours of his line; and he has prostrated
himself at the feet of a girl, made himself the lackey of one who,
though exquisitely beautiful, is after all a gitana! Wondrous
prerogative of beauty, which brings down the strongest will to its feet,
in spite of all its resistance!
In four days' march, the gipsies arrived at a pleasant village, within
two leagues of the great Toledo, where they pitched their camp, having
first given some articles of silver to the alcalde of the district, as a
pledge that they would steal nothing within all his bounds, nor do any
other damage that might give cause of complaint against them. This done,
all the old gitanas, some young ones, and the men, spread themselves all
over the country, to the distance of four or five leagues from the
encampment. Andrew went with them to take his first lesson in thievery;
but though they gave him many in that expedition, he did not profit by
any of them. On the contrary, as was natural in a man of gentle blood,
every theft committed by his masters wrung his very soul, and sometimes
he paid for them out of his own pocket, being moved by the tears of the
poor people who had been despoiled. The gipsies were in despair at this
behavior: it was in contravention, they said, of their statutes and
ordinances, which prohibited the admission of compassion into their
hearts; because if they had any they must cease to be thieves,--a thing
which was not to be thought of on any account. Seeing this, Andrew said
he would go thieving by himself; for he was nimble enough to run from
danger, and did not lack courage to encounter it; so that the prize or
the penalty of his thieving would be exclusively his own.
The gipsies tried to dissuade him from this good purpose, telling him
that occasions might occur in which he would have need of companions, as
well to attack as to defend; and that one person alone could not make
any great booty. But in spite of all they could say, Andrew was
determined to be a solitary robber; intending to separate from the gang,
and purchase for money something which he might say he had stolen, and
thus burden his conscience as little as possible. Proceeding in this
way, in less than a month, he brought more gain to the gang than four of
the most accomplished thieves in it. Preciosa rejoiced not a little to
see her tender lover become such a smart and handy thief; but for all
that she was sorely afraid of some mischance, and would not have seen
him in the hands of justice for all the treasures of Venice; such was
the good feeling towards him which she could not help entertaining, in
return for his many good offices and presents. After remaining about a
month in the Toledan district, where they reaped a good harvest, the
gipsies entered the wealthy region of Estramadura.
Meanwhile Andrew frequently held honourable and loving converse with
Preciosa, who was gradually becoming enamoured of his good qualities;
while, in like manner, his love for her went on increasing, if that were
possible: such were the virtues, the good sense and beauty of his
Preciosa. Whenever the gipsies engaged in athletic games, he carried off
the prize for running and leaping: he played admirably at skittles and
at ball, and pitched the bar with singular strength and dexterity. In a
short while, his fame spread through all Estramadura, and there was no
part of it where they did not speak of the smart young gitano Andrew,
and his graces and accomplishments. As his fame extended, so did that of
Preciosa's beauty; and there was no town, village, or hamlet, to which
they were not invited, to enliven their patron saints' days, or other
festivities. The tribe consequently became rich, prosperous, and
contented, and the lovers were happy in the mere sight of each other.
It happened one night, when the camp was pitched among some evergreen
oaks, a little off the highway, they heard their dogs barking about the
middle watch, with unusual vehemence. Andrew and some others got up to
see what was the matter, and found a man dressed in white battling with
them, whilst one of them held him by the leg. "What the devil brought
you here, man," said one of the gipsies, after they had released him,
"at such an hour, away from the high road? Did you come to thieve? If
so, you have come to the right door?"
"I do not come to thieve; and I don't know whether or not I am off the
road, though I see well enough that I am gone astray," said the wounded
man. "But tell me, señores, is there any venta or place of entertainment
where I can get a night's lodging, and dress the wounds which these dogs
have given me?"
"There is no venta or public place to which we can take you," replied
Andrew; "but as for a night's lodging, and dressing your wounds, that
you can have at our ranchos. Come along with us; for though we are
gipsies, we are not devoid of humanity."
"God reward you!" said the man: "take me whither you please, for my leg
pains me greatly." Andrew lifted him up, and carried him along with the
help of some of the other compassionate gipsies; for even among the
fiends there are some worse than others, and among many bad men you may
find one good.
It was a clear moonlight night, so that they could see that the person
they carried was a youth of handsome face and figure. He was dressed all
in white linen, with a sort of frock of the same material belted round
his waist. They arrived at Andrew's hut or shed, quickly kindled a fire,
and fetched Preciosa's grandmother to attend to the young man's hurts.
She took some of the dogs' hairs, fried them in oil, and after washing
with wine the two bites she found on the patient's left leg, she put the
hairs and the oil upon them, and over this dressing a little chewed
green rosemary. She then bound the leg up carefully with clean bandages,
made the sign of the cross over it, and said, "Now go to sleep, friend
and with the help of God your hurts will not signify."
Whilst they were attending to the wounded man, Preciosa stood by, eyeing
him with great curiosity, whilst he did the same by her, insomuch that
Andrew took notice of the eagerness with which he gazed; but he
attributed this to the extraordinary beauty of Preciosa, which naturally
attracted all eyes. Finally, having done all that was needful for the
youth, they left him alone on a bed of dry hay, not caring to question
him then as to his road, or any other matter.
As soon as all the others were gone, Preciosa called Andrew aside, and
said to him, "Do you remember, Andrew, a paper I let fall in your house,
when I was dancing with my companions, and which caused you, I think,
some uneasiness?"
"I remember it well," said Andrew; "it was a madrigal in your praise,
and no bad one either."
"Well, you must know, Andrew, that the person who wrote those verses is
no other than the wounded youth we have left in the hut. I cannot be
mistaken, for he spoke to me two or three times in Madrid, and gave me
too a very good romance. He was then dressed, I think, as a page,--not
an ordinary one, but like a favourite of some prince. I assure you,
Andrew, he is a youth of excellent understanding, and remarkably well
behaved; and I cannot imagine what can have brought him hither, and in
such a garb."
"What should you imagine, Preciosa, but that the same power which has
made me a gitano, has made him put on the dress of a miller, and come in
search of you? Ah, Preciosa! Preciosa! how plain it begins to be that
you pride yourself on having more than one adorer. If this be so, finish
me first, and then kill off this other, but do not sacrifice both at the
same time to your perfidy."
"God's mercy, Andrew, how thin-skinned you are! On how fine a thread you
make your hopes and my reputation hang, since you let the cruel sword of
jealousy so easily pierce your soul. Tell me, Andrew, if there were any
artifice or deceit in this case, could I not have held my tongue about
this youth, and concealed all knowledge of him? Am I such a fool that I
cannot help telling you what should make you doubt my integrity and good
behaviour? Hold your tongue, Andrew, in God's name, and try to-morrow to
extract from this cause of your alarm whither he is bound, and why he
is come hither. It may be that you are mistaken in your suspicion,
though I am not mistaken in what I told you of the stranger. And now for
your greater satisfaction--since it is come to that pass with me that I
seek to satisfy you--whatever be the reason of this youth's coming, send
him away at once. All our people obey you, and none of them will care to
receive him into their huts against your wish. But if this fails, I give
you my word not to quit mine, or let myself be seen by him, or by
anybody else from whom you would have me concealed. Look you, Andrew, I
am not vexed at seeing you jealous, but it would vex me much to see you
indiscreet."
"Unless you see me mad, Preciosa," said Andrew, "any other demonstration
would be far short of showing you what desperate havoc jealousy can make
of a man's feelings. However, I will do as you bid me, and find out what
this señor page-poet wants, whither he is going, and whom he is in
search of. It may be, that unawares he may let me get hold of some end
of thread which shall lead to the discovery of the whole snare which I
fear he is come to set for me."
"Jealousy, I imagine," said Preciosa, "never leaves the understanding
clear to apprehend things as they really are. Jealousy always looks
through magnifying glasses, which make mountains of molehills, and
realities of mere suspicions. On your life, Andrew, and on mine, I
charge you to proceed in this matter, and all that touches our concerns,
with prudence and discretion; and if you do, I know that you will have
to concede the palm to me, as honest, upright, and true to the very
utmost."
With these words she quitted Andrew, leaving him impatient for daylight,
that he might receive the confession of the wounded man, and distracted
in mind by a thousand various surmises. He could not believe but that
this page had come thither attracted by Preciosa's beauty; for the thief
believes that all men are such as himself. On the other hand, the pledge
voluntarily made to him by Preciosa appeared so highly satisfactory,
that he ought to set his mind quite at ease, and commit all his
happiness implicitly to the keeping of her good faith. At last day
appeared: he visited the wounded man; and after inquiring how he was,
and did his bites pain him, he asked what was his name, whither he was
going, and how it was he travelled so late and so far off the road. The
youth replied that he was better, and felt no pain so that he was able
to resume his journey. His name was Alonzo Hurtado; he was going to our
Lady of the Peña de Francia, on a certain business; he travelled by
night for the greater speed; and having missed his way, he had come upon
the encampment, and been worried by the dogs that guarded it. Andrew did
not by any means consider this a straightforward statement: his
suspicions returned to plague him; and, said he, "Brother, if I were a
judge, and you had been brought before me upon any charge which would
render necessary such questions as those I have put to you, the reply
you have given would oblige me to apply the thumb-screw. It is nothing
to me who you are, what is your name, or whither you are going: I only
warn you, that if it suits your convenience to lie on this journey, you
should lie with more appearance of truth. You say you are going to La
Peña de Francia, and you leave it on the right hand more than thirty
leagues behind this place. You travel by night for sake of speed, and
you quit the high road, and strike into thickets and woods where there
is scarcely a footpath. Get up, friend, learn to lie better, and go your
ways, in God's name. But in return for this good advice I give you, will
you not tell me one truth? I know you will, you are such a bad hand at
lying. Tell me, are you not one I have often seen in the capital,
something between a page and a gentleman? One who has the reputation of
being a great poet, and who wrote a romance and a sonnet upon a
gitanilla who some time ago went about Madrid, and was celebrated for
her surpassing beauty? Tell me, and I promise you, on the honour of a
gentleman gipsy, to keep secret whatever you may wish to be so kept.
Mind you, no denial that you are the person I say will go down with me;
for the face I see before me is unquestionably the same I saw in Madrid.
The fame of your talents made me often stop to gaze at you as a
distinguished man, and therefore your features are so strongly impressed
on my memory, though your dress is very different from that in which I
formerly saw you. Don't be alarmed, cheer up, and don't suppose you have
fallen in with a tribe of robbers, but with an asylum, where you may be
guarded and defended from all the world. A thought strikes me; and if
it be as I conjecture, you have been lucky in meeting me above all men.
What I conjecture is, that being in love with Preciosa--that beautiful
young gipsy, to whom you addressed the verses--you have come in search
of her; for which I don't think a bit the worse of you, but quite the
reverse: for gipsy though I am, experience has shown me how far the
potent force of love reaches, and the transformations it makes those
undergo whom it brings beneath its sway and jurisdiction. If this be so,
as I verily believe it is, the fair gitanilla is here."
"Yes, she is here; I saw her last night," said the stranger. This was
like a death-blow to Andrew; for it seemed at once to confirm all his
suspicions.
"I saw her last night," the young man repeated; "but I did not venture
to tell her who I was, for it did not suit my purpose."
"So, then," said Andrew, "you are indeed the poet of whom I spoke."
"I am: I neither can nor will deny it. Possibly it may be that where I
thought myself lost I have come right to port, if, as you say, there is
fidelity in the forests, and hospitality in the mountains."
"That there is, beyond doubt," said Andrew; "and among us gipsies the
strictest secrecy in the world. On that assurance, señor, you may
unburden your breast to me: you will find in mine no duplicity whatever.
The gitanilla is my relation, and entirely under my control. If you
desire her for a wife, myself and all other relations will be quite
willing; and if for a mistress, we will not make any squeamish
objections, provided you have money, for covetousness never departs from
our ranchos."
"I have money," the youth replied; "in the bands of this frock, which I
wear girt round my body, there are four hundred gold crowns."
This was another mortal blow for Andrew, who assumed that the stranger
could carry so large a sum about him for no other purpose than to
purchase possession of the beloved object. With a faltering tongue he
replied, "That is a good lump of money; you have only to discover
yourself, and go to work: the girl is no fool, and will see what a good
thing it will be for her to be yours."
"O friend," exclaimed the youth, "I would have you know that the power
which has made me change my garb is not that of love, as you say, nor
any longing for Preciosa; for Madrid has beauties who know how to steal
hearts and subdue souls as well as the handsomest gitanas, and better;
though I confess that the beauty of your kinswoman surpasses any I have
ever seen. The cause of my being in this dress, on foot, and bitten by
dogs, is not love but my ill luck."
Upon this explanation, Andrew's downcast spirit began to rise again; for
it was plain that the wind was in quite a different quarter from what he
had supposed. Eager to escape from this confusion, he renewed his
assurances of secrecy, and the stranger proceeded thus:--
"I was in Madrid, in the house of a nobleman, whom I served not as a
master but as a relation. He had an only son and heir, who treated me
with great familiarity and friendship, both on account of our
relationship, and because we were both of the same age and disposition.
This young gentleman fell in love with a young lady of rank, whom he
would most gladly have made his wife, had it not been for his dutiful
submission to the will of his parents, who desired him to marry into a
higher family. Nevertheless, he continued furtively to pay court to the
lady of his choice, carefully concealing his proceedings from all eyes
but mine. One night, which ill luck must have especially selected for
the adventure I am about to relate to you, as we were passing by the
lady's house, we saw ranged against it two men of good figure
apparently. My kinsman wished to reconnoitre them, but no sooner had he
made a step towards them than their swords were out, their bucklers
ready, and they made at us, whilst we did the same on our side, and
engaged them with equal arms. The fight did not last long, neither did
the lives of our two opponents; for two thrusts, urged home by my
kinsman's jealousy and my zeal in his defence, laid them both low--an
extraordinary occurrence, and such as is rarely witnessed. Thus
involuntarily victorious, we returned home, and taking all the money we
could, set off secretly to the church of San Geronimo, waiting to see
what would happen when the event was discovered next day, and what might
be the conjectures as to the persons of the homicides.
"We learned that no trace of our presence on the scene had been
discovered, and the prudent monks advised us to return home, so as not
by our absence to arouse any suspicion against us. We had already
resolved to follow their advice, when we were informed that the alcaldes
of the court had arrested the young lady and her parents; and that among
their domestics, whom they examined, one person, the young lady's
attendant, had stated that my kinsman visited her mistress by night and
by day. Upon this evidence they had sent in search of us; and the
officers not finding us, but many indications of our flight, it became a
confirmed opinion throughout the whole city, that we were the very men
who had slain the two cavaliers, for such they were, and of very good
quality. Finally, by the advice of the count, my relation, and of the
monks, after remaining hid a fortnight in the monastery, my comrade
departed in company with a monk, himself disguised as one, and took the
road to Aragon, intending to pass over to Italy, and thence to Flanders,
until he should see what might be the upshot of the matter. For my part,
thinking it well to divide our fortunes, I set out on foot, in a
different direction, and in the habit of a lay brother, along with a
monk, who quitted me at Talavera. From that city I travelled alone, and
missed my way, till last night I reached this wood, when I met with the
mishap you know. If I asked for La Peña de Francia, it was only by way
of making some answer to the questions put to me; for I know that it
lies beyond Salamanca."
"True," observed Andrew, "you left it on your right, about twenty
leagues from this. So you see what a straight road you were taking, if
you were going thither."
"The road I did intend to take was that to Seville; for there I should
find a Genoese gentleman, a great friend of the count my relation, who
is in the habit of exporting large quantities of silver ingots to Genoa;
and my design is, that he should send me with his carriers, as one of
themselves, by which means I may safely reach Carthagena, and thence
pass over to Italy; for two galleys are expected shortly to ship some
silver. This is my story, good friend: was I not right in saying it is
the result of pure ill luck, rather than disappointed love? Now if these
señores gitanos will take me in their company to Seville, supposing they
are bound thither, I will pay them handsomely; for I believe that I
should travel more safely with them, and have some respite from the
fear that haunts me."
"Yes, they will take you," said Andrew; "or if you cannot go with our
band--for as yet I know not that we are for Andalusia--you can go with
another which we shall fall in with in a couple of days; and if you give
them some of the money you have about you, they will be able and willing
to help you out of still worse difficulties." He then left the young
man, and reported to the other gipsies what the stranger desired, and
the offer he had made of good payment for their services.
They were all for having their guest remain in the camp; but Preciosa
was against it; and her grandmother said, that she could not go to
Seville or its neighbourhood, on account of a hoax she had once played
off upon a capmaker named Truxillo, well known in Seville. She had
persuaded him to put himself up to his neck in a butt of water, stark
naked, with a crown of cypress on his head, there to remain till
midnight, when he was to step out, and look for a great treasure, which
she had made him believe was concealed in a certain part of his house.
When the good cap-maker heard matins ring, he made such haste to get out
of the butt, lest he should lose his chance, that it fell with him,
bruising his flesh, and deluging the floor with water, in which he fell
to swimming with might and main, roaring out that he was drowning. His
wife and his neighbours ran to him with lights, and found him striking
out lustily with his legs and arms. "Help! help!" he cried; "I am
suffocating;" and he really was not far from it, such was the effect of
his excessive fright. They seized and rescued him from his deadly peril.
When he had recovered a little, he told them the trick the gipsy woman
had played him; and yet for all that, he dug a hole, more than a fathom
deep, in the place pointed out to him, in spite of all his neighbours
could say; and had he not been forcibly prevented by one of them, when
he was beginning to undermine the foundations of the house, he would
have brought the whole of it down about his ears. The story spread all
over the city; so that the little boys in the streets used to point
their fingers at him, and shout in his ears the story of the gipsy's
trick, and his own credulity. Such was the tale told by the old gitana,
in explanation of her unwillingness to go to Seville.
The gipsies, knowing from Andrew that the youth had a sum of money
about him, readily assented to his accompanying them, and promised to
guard and conceal him as long as he pleased. They determined to make a
bend to the left, and enter La Mancha and the kingdom of Murcia. The
youth thanked them cordially, and gave them on the spot a hundred gold
crowns to divide amongst them, whereupon they became as pliant as washed
leather. Preciosa, however, was not pleased with the continuance among
them of Don Sancho, for that was the youth's name, but the gipsies
changed it to Clement. Andrew too was rather annoyed at this
arrangement; for it seemed to him that Clement had given up his original
intention upon very slight grounds; but the latter, as if he read his
thoughts, told him that he was glad to go to Murcia, because it was near
Carthagena, whence, if galleys arrived there, as he expected, he could
easily pass over to Italy. Finally, in order to have him more under his
own eye, to watch his acts, and scrutinise his thoughts, Andrew desired
to have Clement for his own comrade, and the latter accepted this
friendly offer as a signal favour. They were always together, both spent
largely, their crowns came down like rain; they ran, leaped, danced, and
pitched the bar better than any of their companions, and were more than
commonly liked by the women of the tribe, and held in the highest
respect by the men.
Leaving Estramadura they entered La Mancha, and gradually traversed the
kingdom of Murcia. In all the villages and towns they passed through,
they had matches at ball-playing, fencing, running, leaping, and
pitching the bar; and in all these trials of strength, skill, and
agility Andrew and Clement were victorious, as Andrew alone had been
before. During the whole journey, which occupied six weeks, Clement
neither found nor sought an opportunity to speak alone with Preciosa,
until one day when she and Andrew were conversing together, they called
him to them, and Preciosa said, "The first time you came to our camp I
recognised you, Clement, and remembered the verses you gave me in
Madrid; but I would not say a word, not knowing with what intention you
had come among us. When I became acquainted with your misfortune, it
grieved me to the soul, though at the same time it was a relief to me;
for I had been much disturbed, thinking that as there was a Don Juan in
the world who had become a gipsy, a Don Sancho might undergo
transformation in like manner. I speak this to you, because Andrew tells
me he has made known to you who he is, and with what intention he turned
gipsy." (And so it was, for Andrew had acquainted Clement with his whole
story, that he might be able to converse with him on the subject nearest
to his thoughts.) "Do not think that my knowing you was of little
advantage to you, since for my sake, and in consequence of what I said
of you, our people the more readily admitted you amongst them, where I
trust in God you may find things turn out according to your best wishes.
You will repay me, I hope, for this good will on my part, by not making
Andrew ashamed of having set his mind so low, or representing to him how
ill he does in persevering in his present way of life; for though I
imagine that his will is enthralled to mine, still it would grieve me to
see him show signs, however slight, of repenting what he has done."
"Do not suppose, peerless Preciosa," replied Clement, "that Don Juan
acted lightly in revealing himself to me. I found him out beforehand:
his eyes first disclosed to me the nature of his feelings; I first told
him who I was, and detected that enthralment of his will which you speak
of; and he, reposing a just confidence in me, made his secret mine. He
can witness whether I applauded his determination and his choice; for I
am not so dull of understanding, Preciosa, as not to know how omnipotent
is beauty; and yours, which surpasses all bounds of loveliness, is a
sufficient excuse for all errors, if error that can be called for which
there is so irresistible a cause. I am grateful to you, señora, for what
you have said in my favour; and I hope to repay you by hearty good
wishes that you may find a happy issue out of your perplexities, and
that you may enjoy the love of your Andrew, and Andrew that of his
Preciosa, with the consent of his parents; so that from so beautiful a
couple there may come into the world the finest progeny which nature can
form in her happiest mood. This is what I shall always desire, Preciosa;
and this is what I shall always say to your Andrew, and not anything
which could tend to turn him from his well-placed affections."
With such emotion did Clement utter these words, that Andrew was in
doubt whether they were spoken in courtesy only, or from love; for the
infernal plague of jealousy is so susceptible that it will take offence
at the motes in the sunbeams; and the lover finds matter for
self-torment in everything that concerns the beloved object.
Nevertheless, he did not give way to confirmed jealousy; for he relied
more on the good faith of his Preciosa than on his own fortune, which,
in common with all lovers, he regarded as luckless, so long as he had
not obtained the object of his desires. In fine, Andrew and Clement
continued to be comrades and friends, their mutual good understanding
being secured by Clement's upright intentions, and by the modesty and
prudence of Preciosa, who never gave Andrew an excuse for jealousy.
Clement was somewhat of a poet, Andrew played the guitar a little, and
both were fond of music. One night, when the camp was pitched in a
valley four leagues from Murcia, Andrew seated himself at the foot of a
cork-tree, and Clement near him under an evergreen oak. Each of them had
a guitar; and invited by the stillness of the night, they sang
alternately, Andrew beginning the descant, and Clement responding.
ANDREW.
Ten thousand golden lamps are lit on high,
Making this chilly night
Rival the noon-day's light;
Look, Clement, on yon star-bespangled sky,
And in that image see,
If so divine thy fancy be,
That lovely radiant face,
Where centres all of beauty and of grace.
CLEMENT
Where centres all of beauty and of grace,
And where in concord sweet
Goodness and beauty meet,
And purity hath fixed its dwelling-place.
Creature so heavenly fair,
May any mortal genius dare,
Or less than tongue divine,
To praise in lofty, rare, and sounding line?
ANDREW
To praise in lofty, rare, and sounding line
Thy name, gitana bright!
Earth's wonder and delight,
Worthy above the empyrean vault to shine;
Fain would I snatch from Fame
The trump and voice, whose loud acclaim
Should startle every ear,
And lift Preciosa's name to the eighth sphere.
CLEMENT
To lift Preciosa's fame to the eighth sphere
Were meet and fit, that so
The heavens new joy might know
Through all their shining courts that name to hear,
Which on this earth doth sound
Like music spreading gladness round,
Breathing with charm intense
Peace to the soul and rapture to the sense.
It seemed as though the freeman and the captive were in no haste to
bring their tuneful contest to conclusion, had not the voice of
Preciosa, who had overheard them, sounded from behind in response to
theirs. They stopped instantly, and remained listening to her in
breathless attention. Whether her words were delivered impromptu, or had
been composed some time before, I know not; however that may be, she
sang the following lines with infinite grace, as though they were made
for the occasion.
While in this amorous emprise
An equal conflict I maintain,
'Tis higher glory to remain
Pure maid, than boast the brightest eyes.
The humblest plant on which we tread,
If sound and straight it grows apace,
By aid of nature or of grace
May rear aloft towards heaven its head.
In this my lowly poor estate,
By maiden honour dignified,
No good wish rests unsatisfied;
Their wealth I envy not the great.
I find not any grief or pain
In lack of love or of esteem;
For I myself can shape, I deem,
My fortunes happy in the main.
Let me but do what in me lies
The path of rectitude to tread;
And then be welcomed on this head
Whatever fate may please the skies.
I fain would know if beauty hath
Such high prerogative, to raise
My mind above the common ways,
And set me on a loftier path.
If equal in their souls they be,
The humblest hind on earth may vie
In honest worth and virtue high
With one of loftiest degree.
What inwardly I feel of mine
Doth raise me all that's base above;
For majesty, be sure, and love
Do not on common soil recline.
Preciosa having ended her song, Andrew and Clement rose to meet her. An
animated conversation ensued between the three; and Preciosa displayed
so much intelligence, modesty, and acuteness, as fully excused, in
Clement's opinion, the extraordinary determination of Andrew, which he
had before attributed more to his youth than his judgment. The next
morning the camp was broken up, and they proceeded to a place in the
jurisdiction of Murcia, three leagues from the city, where a mischance
befel Andrew, which went near to cost him his life.
After they had given security in that place, according to custom, by
the deposit of some silver vessels and ornaments, Preciosa and her
grandmother, Christina and two other gitanillas, Clement, and Andrew,
took up their quarters in an inn, kept by a rich widow, who had a
daughter aged about seventeen or eighteen, rather more forward than
handsome. Her name was Juana Carducha. This girl having seen the gipsies
dance, the devil possessed her to fall in love with Andrew to that
degree that she proposed to tell him of it, and take him for a husband,
if he would have her, in spite of all her relations. Watching for an
opportunity to speak to him, she found it in a cattle-yard, which Andrew
had entered in search of two young asses, when she said to him,
hurriedly, "Andrew" (she already knew his name), "I am single and
wealthy. My mother has no other child: this inn is her own; and besides
it she has large vineyards, and several other houses. You have taken my
fancy; and if you will have me for a wife, only say the word. Answer me
quickly, and if you are a man of sense, only wait, and you shall see
what a life we shall lead."
Astonished as he was at Carducha's boldness, Andrew nevertheless
answered her with the promptitude she desired, "Señora doncella, I am
under promise to marry, and we gitanos intermarry only with gitanas.
Many thanks for the favour you would confer on me, of which I am not
worthy."
Carducha was within two inches of dropping dead at this unwelcome reply,
to which she would have rejoined, but that she saw some of the gitanos
come into the yard. She rushed from the spot, athirst for vengeance.
Andrew, like a wise man, determined to get out of her way, for he read
in her eyes that she would willingly give herself to him with
matrimonial bonds, and he had no wish to find himself engaged foot to
foot and alone in such an encounter; accordingly, he requested his
comrades to quit the place that night. Complying with his wishes as they
always did, they set to work at once, took up their securities again
that evening, and decamped. Carducha, seeing that Andrew was going away
and half her soul with him, and that she should not have time to obtain
the fulfilment of her desires, resolved to make him stop by force, since
he would not do so of good will. With all the cunning and secrecy
suggested to her by her wicked intentions, she put among Andrew's
baggage, which she knew to be his, a valuable coral necklace, two silver
medals, and other trinkets belonging to her family. No sooner had the
gipsies left the inn than she made a great outcry, declaring that the
gipsies had robbed her, till she brought about her the officers of
justice and all the people of the place. The gipsies halted, and all
swore that they had no stolen property with them, offering at the same
time to let all their baggage be searched. This made the old gipsy woman
very uneasy, lest the proposed scrutiny should lead to the discovery of
Preciosa's trinkets and Andrew's clothes, which she preserved with great
care. But the good wench Carducha quickly put an end to her fears on
that head, for before they had turned over two packages, she said to the
men, "Ask which of these bundles belongs to that gipsy who is such a
great dancer. I saw him enter my room twice, and probably he is the
thief."
Andrew knew it was himself she meant, and answered with a laugh, "Señora
doncella, this is my bundle, and that is my ass. If you find in or upon
either of them what you miss, I will pay you the value sevenfold, beside
submitting to the punishment which the law awards for theft."
The officers of justice immediately unloaded the ass, and in the turn of
a hand discovered the stolen property, whereat Andrew was so shocked and
confounded that he stood like a stone statue. "I was not out in my
suspicions," said Carducha; "see with what a good looking face the rogue
covers his villany." The alcalde, who was present, began to abuse Andrew
and the rest of the gipsies, calling them common thieves and highwaymen.
Andrew said not a word, but stood pondering in the utmost perplexity,
for he had no surmise of Carducha's treachery. At last, an insolent
soldier, nephew to the alcalde, stepped up to him, saying "Look at the
dirty gipsy thief! I will lay a wager he will give himself airs as if he
were an honest man, and deny the robbery, though the goods have been
found in his hands. Good luck to whoever sends the whole pack of you to
the galleys. A fitter place it will be for this scoundrel, where he may
serve his Majesty, instead of going about dancing from place to place,
and thieving from venta to mountain. On the faith of a soldier, I have a
mind to lay him at my feet with a blow."
So saying, without more ado he raised his hand, and gave Andrew such a
buffet as roused him from his stupor, and made him recollect that he was
not Andrew Caballero but Don Juan and a gentleman; therefore, flinging
himself upon the soldier with sudden fury, he snatched his sword from
its sheath, buried it in his body, and laid him dead at his feet. The
people shouted and yelled; the dead man's uncle, the alcalde, was
frantic with rage; Preciosa fainted, and Andrew, regardless of his own
defence, thought only of succouring her. As ill luck would have it,
Clement was not on the spot, having gone forward with some baggage, and
Andrew was set upon, by so many, that they overpowered him, and loaded
him with heavy chains. The alcalde would gladly have hanged him on the
spot, but was obliged to send him to Murcia, as he belonged to the
jurisdiction of that city. It was not, however, till the next day that
he was removed thither, and meanwhile he was loaded with abuse and
maltreatment by the alcalde and all the people of the place. The
alcalde, moreover, arrested all the rest of the gipsies he could lay
hands on, but most of them had made their escape, among others Clement,
who was afraid of being seized and discovered. On the following morning
the alcalde, with his officers and a great many other armed men, entered
Murcia with a caravan of gipsy captives, among whom were Preciosa and
poor Andrew, who was chained on the back of a mule, and was handcuffed
and had a fork fixed under his chin. All Murcia flocked to see the
prisoners, for the news of the soldier's death had been received there;
but so great was Preciosa's beauty that no one looked upon her that day
without blessing her. The news of her loveliness reached the
corregidor's lady, who being curious to see her, prevailed on her
husband to give orders that she should not enter the prison to which all
the rest of the gipsies were committed. Andrew was thrust into a dark
narrow dungeon, where, deprived of the light of the sun and of that
which Preciosa's presence diffused, he felt as though he should leave it
only for his grave. Preciosa and her grand-mother were taken to the
corregidor's lady, who at once exclaiming, "Well might they praise her
beauty," embraced her tenderly, and never was tired of looking at her.
She asked the old woman what was the girl's age. "Fifteen, within a
month or two, more or less," was the reply. "That would be the age of my
poor Constantia," observed the lady. "Ah, amigas! how the sight of this
young girl has brought my bereavement back afresh to my mind."
Upon this, Preciosa took hold of the corregidora's bands, kissed them
repeatedly, bathed them with tears, and said, "Señora mia, the gitano
who is in custody is not in fault, for he had provocation. They called
him a thief, and he is none; they gave him a blow on the face, though
his is such a face that you can read in it the goodness of his soul. I
entreat you, señora, to see that justice is done him, and that the señor
corregidor is not too hasty in executing upon him the penalty of the
law. If my beauty has given you any pleasure, preserve it for me by
preserving the life of the prisoner, for with it mine ends too. He is to
be my husband, but just and proper impediments have hitherto prevented
our union. If money would avail to obtain his pardon, all the goods of
our tribe should be sold by auction, and we would give even more than
was asked of us. My lady, if you know what love is, and have felt and
still feel it for your dear husband, have pity on me who love mine
tenderly and honestly."
All the while Preciosa was thus speaking she kept fast hold of the
corregidora's hands, and kept her tearful eyes fixed on her face, whilst
the lady gazed on her with no less wistfulness, and wept as she did.
Just then the corregidor entered, and seeing his wife and Preciosa thus
mingling their tears, he was surprised as much by the scene as by the
gitanilla's beauty. On his asking the cause of her affliction, Preciosa
let go the lady's hands, and threw herself at the corregidor's feet,
crying, "Mercy, mercy, señor! If my husband dies, I die too. He is not
guilty; if he is, let me bear the punishment; or if that cannot be, at
least let the trial be delayed until means be sought which may save him;
for as he did not sin through malice, it may be that heaven in its grace
will send him safety." The corregidor was still more surprised to hear
such language from the gitanilla's lips, and but that he would not
betray signs of weakness, he could have wept with her.
While all this was passing, the old gitana was busily turning over a
great many things in her mind, and after all this cogitation, she said,
"Wait a little, your honour, and I will turn these lamentations into
joy, though it should cost me my life;" and she stepped briskly out of
the room. Until she returned, Preciosa never desisted from her tears and
entreaties that they would entertain the cause of her betrothed, being
inwardly resolved that she would send to his father that he might come
and interfere in his behalf.
The old gipsy woman returned with a little box under her arm, and
requested that the corregidor and his lady would retire with her into
another room, for she had important things to communicate to them in
secret. The corregidor imagined she meant to give him information
respecting some thefts committed by the gipsies, in order to bespeak his
favour for the prisoner, and he instantly withdrew with her and his lady
to his closet, where the gipsy, throwing herself on her knees before
them both, began thus:
"If the good news I have to give to your honours be not worth
forgiveness for a great crime I have committed, I am here to receive the
punishment I deserve. But before I make my confession, I beg your
honours will tell me if you know these trinkets;" and she put the box
which contained those belonging to Preciosa into the corregidor's hands.
He opened it, and saw those childish gewgaws, but had no idea what they
could mean. The corregidora looked at them, too, with as little
consciousness as her husband, and merely observed that they were the
ornaments of some little child. "That is true," replied the gipsy, "and
to what child they belonged is written in this folded paper." The
corregidor hastily opened the paper, and read as follows:--
"_The child's name was Doña Constanza de Acevedo y de Menesis; her
mother's, Doña Guiomar de Menesis; and her father's, D. Fernando de
Acevedo, knight of the order of Calatrava. She disappeared on the day of
the Lord's Ascension, at eight in the morning, in the year one thousand
five hundred and ninety-five. The child had upon her the trinkets which
are contained in this box._"
Instantly, on hearing the contents of the paper, the corregidora
recognised the trinkets, put them to her lips, kissed them again and
again, and swooned away; and the corregidor was too much occupied in
assisting her to ask the gitana for his daughter. "Good woman, angel
rather than gitana," cried the lady when she came to herself, "where is
the owner of these baubles?"
"Where, señora?" was the reply. "She is in your own house. That young
gipsy who drew tears from your eyes is their owner, and is indubitably
your own daughter, whom I stole from your house in Madrid on the day and
hour named in this paper."
On hearing this, the agitated lady threw off her clogs, and rushed with
open arms into the sala, where she found Preciosa surrounded by her
doncellas and servants, and still weeping and wailing. Without a word
she caught her hurriedly in her arms, and examined if she had under her
left breast a mark in the shape of a little white mole with which she
was born, and she found it there enlarged by time. Then, with the same
haste, she took off the girl's shoe, uncovered a snowy foot, smooth as
polished marble, and found what she sought; for the two smaller toes of
the right foot were joined together by a thin membrane, which the tender
parents could not bring themselves to let the surgeon cut when she was
an infant. The mole on the bosom, the foot, the trinkets, the day
assigned for the kidnapping, the confession of the gitana, and the joy
and emotion which her parents felt when they first beheld her, confirmed
with the voice of truth in the corregidora's soul that Preciosa was her
own daughter: clasping her therefore in her arms, she returned with her
to the room where she had left the corregidor and the old gipsy.
Preciosa was bewildered, not knowing why she had made all those
investigations, and was still more surprised when the lady raised her in
her arms, and gave her not one kiss, but a hundred.
Doña Guiomar at last appeared with her precious burthen in her husband's
presence, and transferring the maiden from her own arms to his,
"Receive, Señor, your daughter Constanza," she said; "for your daughter
she is without any doubt, since I have seen the marks on the foot and
the bosom; and stronger even than these proofs is the voice of my own
heart ever since I set eyes on her."
"I doubt it not," replied the corregidor, folding Preciosa in his arms,
"for the same sensations have passed through my heart as through yours;
and how could so many strange particulars combine together unless it
were by a miracle?"
The people of the house were now lost in wonder, going about and asking
each other, "What is all this?" but erring widely in their conjectures;
for who would have imagined that the gitanilla was the daughter of
their lord? The corregidor told his wife and daughter and the old gipsy
that he desired the matter should be kept secret until he should himself
think fit to divulge it. As for the old gipsy, he assured her that he
forgave the injury she had done him in stealing his treasure, since she
had more than made atonement by restoring it. The only thing that
grieved him was that, knowing Preciosa's quality, she should have
betrothed her to a gipsy, and worse than that, to a thief and murderer.
"Alas, señor mio," said Preciosa, "he is neither a gipsy nor a thief,
although he has killed a man, but then it was one who had wounded his
honour, and he could not do less than show who he was, and kill him."
"What! he is not a gipsy, my child?" said Doña Guiomar.
"Certainly not," said the old gitana; and she related the story of
Andrew Caballero, that he was the son of Don Francisco de Cárcamo,
knight of Santiago; that his name was Don Juan de Cárcamo, of the same
order; and that she had kept his clothes after he had changed them for
those of a gipsy. She likewise stated the agreement which Preciosa and
Don Juan had made not to marry until after two years of mutual trial;
and she put in their true light the honourable conduct of both, and the
suitable condition of Don Juan.
The parents were as much surprised at this as at the recovery of their
daughter. The corregidor sent the gitana for Don Juan's clothes, and she
came back with them accompanied by a gipsy who carried them. Previously
to her return, Preciosa's parents put a thousand questions to her, and
she replied with so much discretion and grace, that even though they had
not recognised her for their child, they must have loved her. To their
inquiry whether she had any affection for Don Juan, she replied, not
more than that to which she was bound in gratitude towards one who had
humbled himself to become a gipsy for her sake; but even this should not
extend farther than her parents desired. "Say no more, daughter
Preciosa," said her father; "(for I wish you to retain this name of
Preciosa in memory of your loss and your recovery); as your father, I
take it upon myself to establish you in a position not derogatory to
your birth."
Preciosa sighed, and her mother shrewdly suspecting that the sigh was
prompted by love for Don Juan, said to the corregidor, "Since Don Juan
is a person of such rank, and is so much attached to our daughter, I
think, señor, it would not be amiss to bestow her upon him."
"Hardly have we found her to-day," he replied, "and already would you
have us lose her? Let us enjoy her company for a while at least, for
when she marries she will be ours no longer but her husband's."
"You are right, señor," said the lady, "but give orders to bring out Don
Juan, for he is probably lying in some filthy dungeon."
"No doubt he is," said Preciosa, "for as a thief and homicide, and above
all as a gipsy, they will have given him no better lodging."
"I will go see him," said the corregidor, "as if for the purpose of
taking his confession. Meanwhile, señora, I again charge you not to let
any one know this history until I choose to divulge it, for so it
behoves my office." Then embracing Preciosa he went to the prison where
Don Juan was confined, and entered his cell, not allowing any one to
accompany him.
He found the prisoner with both legs in fetters, handcuffed, and with
the iron fork not yet removed from beneath his chin. The cell was dark,
only a scanty gleam of light passing into it from a loop-hole near the
top of the wall. "How goes it, sorry knave?" said the corregidor, as he
entered. "I would I had all the gipsies in Spain leashed here together
to finish them all at once, as Nero would have beheaded all Rome at a
single blow. Know, thou thief, who art so sensitive on the point of
honour, that I am the corregidor of this city, and come to know from
thee if thy betrothed is a gitanilla who is here with the rest of you?"
Hearing this Andrew imagined that the corregidor had surely fallen in
love with Preciosa; for jealousy is a subtle thing, and enters other
bodies without breaking or dividing them. He replied, however, "If she
has said that I am her betrothed, it is very true; and, if she has said
I am not her betrothed, she has also spoken the truth; for it is not
possible that Preciosa should utter a falsehood."
"Is she so truthful then?" said the corregidor. "It is no slight thing
to be so and be a gitana. Well, my lad, she has said that she is your
betrothed, but that she has not yet given you her hand; she knows that
you must die for your crime, and she has entreated me to marry her to
you before you die, that she may have the honour of being the widow of
so great a thief as yourself."
"Then, let your worship do as she has requested," said Andrew; "for so I
be married to her, I will go content to the other world, leaving this
one with the name of being hers."
"You must love her very much?"
"So much," replied the prisoner, "that whatever I could say of it would
be nothing to the truth. In a word, señor corregidor, let my business be
despatched. I killed the man who insulted me; I adore this young gitana;
I shall die content if I die in her grace, and God's I know will not be
wanting to us, for we have both observed honourably and strictly the
promise we made each other."
"This night then I will send for you," said the corregidor, "and you
shall marry Preciosa in my house, and to-morrow morning you shall be on
the gallows. In this way I shall have complied with the demands of
justice and with the desire of you both." Andrew thanked him; the
corregidor returned home, and told his wife what had passed between
them.
During his absence Preciosa had related to her mother the whole course
of her life; and how she had always believed she was a gipsy and the old
woman's grand-daughter; but that at the same time she had always
esteemed herself much more than might have been expected of a gitana.
Her mother bade her say truly, was she very fond of Don Juan? With great
bashfulness and with downcast eyes she replied that, having considered
herself a gipsy, and that she should better her condition by marrying a
knight of Santiago, and one of such station as Don Juan de Cárcamo, and
having, moreover, learned by experience his good disposition and
honourable conduct, she had sometimes looked upon him with the eyes of
affection; but that as she had said once for all, she had no other will
than that which her parents might approve.
Night arrived; and about ten they took Andrew out of prison without
handcuffs and fetters, but not without a great chain with which his body
was bound from head to foot. In this way he arrived, unseen by any but
those who had charge of him, in the corregidor's house, was silently
and cautiously admitted into a room, and there left alone. A confessor
presently entered and bade him confess, as he was to die next day. "With
great pleasure I will confess," replied Andrew; "but why do they not
marry me first? And if I am to be married, truly it is a sad bridal
chamber that awaits me."
Doña Guiomar, who heard all this, told her husband that the terrors he
was inflicting on Don Juan were excessive, and begged he would moderate
them, lest they should cost him his life. The corregidor assented, and
called out to the confessor that he should first marry the gipsy to
Preciosa, after which the prisoner would confess, and commend himself
with all his heart to God, who often rains down his mercies at the
moment when hope is most parched and withering. Andrew was then removed
to a room where there was no one but Doña Guiomar, the corregidor,
Preciosa, and two servants of the family. But when Preciosa saw Don Juan
in chains, his face all bloodless, and his eyes dimmed with recent
weeping, her heart sank within her, and she clutched her mother's arm
for support. "Cheer up, my child," said the corregidora, kissing her,
"for all you now see will turn to your pleasure and advantage." Knowing
nothing of what was intended, Preciosa could not console herself; the
old gipsy was sorely disturbed, and the bystanders awaited the issue in
anxious suspense.
"Señor Vicar," said the corregidor, "this gitano and gitana are the
persons whom your reverence is to marry."
"That I cannot do," replied the priest, "unless the ceremony be preceded
by the formalities required in such cases. Where have the banns been
published? Where is the license of my superior, authorising the
espousals?"
"The inadvertance has been mine," said the corregidor; "but I will
undertake to get the license from the bishop's deputy."
"Until it comes then, your worships will excuse me," said the priest,
and without another word, to avoid scandal, he quitted the house,
leaving them all in confusion.
"The padre has done quite right," said the corregidor, "and it may be
that it was by heaven's providence, to the end that Andrew's execution
might be postponed; for married to Preciosa he shall assuredly be, but
first the banns must be published, and thus time will be gained, and
time often works a happy issue out of the worst difficulties. Now I want
to know from Andrew, should matters take such a turn, that without any
more of those shocks and perturbations, he should become the husband of
Preciosa, would he consider himself a happy man, whether as Andrew
Caballero, or as Don Juan de Cárcamo?"
As soon as Don Juan heard himself called by his true name, he said,
"Since Preciosa has not chosen to confine herself to silence, and has
discovered to you who I am, I say to you, that though my good fortune
should make me monarch of the world, she would still be the sole object
of my desires; nor would I aspire to have any blessing besides, save
that of heaven."
"Now for this good spirit you have shown, Señor Don Juan de Cárcamo, I
will in fitting time make Preciosa your lawful wife, and at present I
bestow her upon you in that expectation, as the richest jewel of my
house, my life, and my soul; for in her I bestow upon you Doña Constanza
de Acevedo Menesis, my only daughter, who, if she equals you in love, is
nowise inferior to you in birth."
Andrew was speechless with astonishment, while in a few words Doña
Guiomar related the loss of her daughter, her recovery, and the
indisputable proofs which the old gipsy woman had given of the
kidnapping. More amazed than ever, but filled with immeasurable joy, Don
Juan embraced his father and mother-in-law, called them his parents and
señores, and kissed Preciosa's hands, whose tears called forth his own.
The secret was no longer kept; the news was spread abroad by the
servants who had been present, and reached the ears of the alcalde, the
dead man's uncle, who saw himself debarred of all hope of vengeance,
since the rigour of justice could not be inflicted on the corregidor's
son-in-law. Don Juan put on the travelling dress which the old woman had
preserved; his prison and his iron chain were exchanged for liberty and
chains of gold; and the sadness of the incarcerated gipsies was turned
into joy, for they were all bailed out on the following day. The uncle
of the dead man received a promise of two thousand ducats on condition
of his abandoning the suit and forgiving Don Juan. The latter, not
forgetting his comrade Clement, sent at once in quest of him, but he
was not to be found, nor could anything be learned of him until four
days after, when authentic intelligence was obtained that he had
embarked in one of two Genoese galleys that lay in the port of
Cartagena, and had already sailed. The corregidor informed Don Juan,
that he had ascertained that his father, Don Francisco de Cárcanio, had
been appointed corregidor of that city, and that it would be well to
wait until the nuptials could be celebrated with his consent and
approbation. Don Juan was desirous to conform to the corregidor's
wishes, but said that before all things he must be made one with
Preciosa. The archbishop granted his license, requiring that the banns
should be published only once.
The city made a festival on the wedding-day, the corregidor being much
liked, and there were illuminations, bullfights, and tournaments. The
old woman remained in the house of her pretended grandchild, not
choosing to part from Preciosa. The news reached Madrid, and Don
Francisco de Cárcamo learned that the gipsy bridegroom was his son, and
that Preciosa was the gitanilla he had seen in his house. Her beauty was
an excuse in his eyes for the levity of his son, whom he had supposed to
be lost, having ascertained that he had not gone to Flanders. Besides,
he was the more reconciled when he found what a good match Don Juan had
made with the daughter of so great and wealthy a cavalier as was Don
Fernando de Acevedo. He hastened his departure in order to see his
children, and within twenty days he was in Murcia. His arrival renewed
the general joy; the lives of the pair were related, and the poets of
that city, which numbers some very good ones, took it upon them to
celebrate the extraordinary event along with the incomparable beauty of
the gitanilla; and the licentiate Pozo wrote in such wise, that
Preciosa's fame will endure in his verses whilst the world lasts. I
forgot to mention that the enamoured damsel of the inn owned that the
charge of theft she had preferred against Andrew was not true, and
confessed her love and her crime, for which she was not visited with any
punishment, because the joyous occasion extinguished revenge and
resuscitated clemency.
THE GENEROUS LOVER.
"O lamentable ruins of the ill-fated Nicosia,[76] still moist with the
blood of your valorous and unfortunate defenders! Were you capable of
feeling, we might jointly bewail our disasters in this solitude, and
perhaps find some relief for our sorrows in mutually declaring them. A
hope may remain that your dismantled towers may rise again, though not
for so just a defence as that in which they fell; but I, unfortunate!
what good can I hope for in my wretched distress, even should I return
to my former state? Such is my hard fate, that in freedom I was without
happiness, and in captivity I have no hope of it."
[76] A city of Cyprus, taken from the Venetians by the Turks in 1570.
These words were uttered by a captive Christian as he gazed from an
eminence on the ruined walls of Nicosia; and thus he talked with them,
comparing his miseries with theirs, as if they could understand him,--a
common habit with the afflicted, who, carried away by their
imaginations, say and do things inconsistent with all sense and reason.
Meanwhile there issued from a pavilion or tent, of which there were four
pitched in the plain, a young Turk, of good-humoured and graceful
appearance, who approached the Christian, saying, "I will lay a wager,
friend Ricardo, that the gloomy thoughts you are continually ruminating
have led you to this place."
"It is true," replied Ricardo, for that was the captive's name; "but
what avails it, since, go where I will, I find no relief from them; on
the contrary, the sight of yonder ruins have given them increased
force."
"You mean the ruins of Nicosia?"
"Of course I do, since there are no others visible here."
"Such a sight as that might well move you to tears," said the Turk;
"for any one who saw this famous and plenteous isle of Cyprus about two
years ago, when its inhabitants enjoyed all the felicity that is granted
to mortals, and who now sees them exiled from it, or captive and
wretched, how would it be possible not to mourn over its calamity? But
let us talk no more of these thing's, for which there is no remedy, and
speak of your own, for which I would fain find one. Now I entreat you,
by what you owe me for the good-will I have shown you, and for the fact
that we are of the same country, and were brought up together in
boyhood, that you tell me what is the cause of your inordinate sadness.
For even, admitting that captivity alone is enough to sadden the most
cheerful heart in the world, yet I imagine that your sorrows have a
deeper source; for generous spirits like yours do not yield to ordinary
misfortunes so much as to betray extraordinary grief on account of them.
Besides, I know that you are not so poor as to be unable to pay the sum
demanded for your ransom; nor are you shut up in the castles of the
Black Sea as a captive of consideration, who late or never obtains the
liberty he sighs for. Since, then, you are not deprived of the hope of
freedom, and yet manifest such deep despondency, I cannot help thinking
that it proceeds from some other cause than the loss of your liberty. I
entreat you to tell me what is that cause, and I offer you my help to
the utmost of my means and power. Who knows but that it was in order
that I might serve you that fortune induced me to wear this dress which
I abhor.
"You know, Ricardo, that my master is the cadi (which is the same thing
as the bishop) of this city. You know, too, how great is his power, and
my influence with him. Moreover, you are not ignorant of the ardent
desire I feel not to die in this creed, which I nominally profess; but
if it can be done in no other way, I propose to confess and publicly cry
aloud my faith in Jesus Christ, from which I lapsed by reason of my
youth and want of understanding. Such a confession I know will cost me
my life, which I will give freely, that I may not lose my soul. From all
this I would have you infer, and be assured, that my friendship may be
of some use to you. But that I may know what remedies or palliations
your case may admit of, it is necessary that you explain it to me, as
the sick man does to the doctor, taking my word for it, that I will
maintain the strictest secrecy concerning it."
Ricardo, who had listened in silence all this while, finding himself at
last obliged to reply, did so as follows: "If, as you have guessed
rightly, respecting my misfortune, friend Mahmoud," (that was the Turk's
name,) "so also you could hit upon the remedy for it, I should think my
liberty well lost, and would not exchange my mischance for the greatest
imaginable good fortune. But I know that it is such, that though all the
world should know the cause whence it proceeds, no one ever would make
bold to find for it a remedy, or even an alleviation. That you may be
satisfied of this truth, I will relate my story to you, as briefly as I
can; but before I enter upon the confused labyrinth of my woes, tell me
what is the reason why my master, Hassan Pasha, has caused these
pavilions to be pitched here in the plain, before he enters Nicosia, to
which he has been appointed pasha, as the Turks call their viceroys."
"I will satisfy you briefly," replied Mahmoud. "You must know, then,
that it is the custom among the Turks, for those who are sent as
viceroys of any province, not to enter the city in which their
predecessor dwells until he quits it, and leaves the new comer to take
up his residence freely; and when the new pasha has done so, the old one
remains encamped beyond the walls, waiting the result of the inquiry
into his administration, which is made without his being able to
interfere, and avail himself of bribery or affection, unless he has done
so beforehand. The result of the inquiry, enrolled on a sealed
parchment, is then given to the departing pasha, and this he must
present to the Sublime Porte, that is to say, the court in front of the
grand council of the Turk. It is then read by the vizier pasha and the
four lesser pashas, (or, as we should say, by the president and members
of the royal council,) who punish or reward the bearer according to its
contents; though, if these are not favourable, he buys off his
punishment with money. If there is no accusation against him, and he is
not rewarded, as commonly happens, he obtains by means of presents the
post he most desires; for, at that court, offices are not bestowed by
merit, but for money; everything is bought and sold. The bestowers of
office fleece the receivers; but he who purchases a post, makes enough
by it to purchase another which promises more profit.
"Everything proceeds as I tell you; in this empire all is violence: a
fact which betokens that it will not be durable; but, as I full surely
believe, it is our sins that uphold it, the sins, I mean, of those who
imprudently and forwardly offend God, as I am doing: may he forgive me
in his mercy!
"It is, then, for the reason I have stated that your master, Hassan
Pasha, has been encamped here four days, and if the Pasha of Nicosia has
not come out as he should have done, it is because he has been very ill.
But he is now better, and he will come out to-day or to-morrow without
fail, and lodge in some tents behind this hill, which you have not seen,
after which your master will immediately enter the city. And now I have
replied to the question you put to me."
"Listen, then, to my story," said Ricardo, "but I know not if I shall be
able to fulfil my promise to be brief, since my misfortune is so vast
that it cannot be comprised within any reasonable compass of words.
However, I will do what I may and as time allows. Let me ask you, in the
first place, if you knew in our town of Trapani, a young lady whom fame
pronounced to be the most beautiful woman in Sicily? A young lady, I
say, of whom the most ingenious tongues, and the choicest wits declared
that her beauty was the most perfect ever known in past ages or the
present, or that may be looked for in the future. One, of whom the poets
sang that she had hair of gold, that her eyes were two shining suns, her
cheeks roses, her teeth pearls, her lips rubies, her neck alabaster; and
that every part of her made with the whole, and the whole with every
part, a marvellous harmony and consonance, nature diffusing all over her
such an exquisite sweetness of tone and colour, that envy itself could
not find a fault in her. How is it possible, Mahmoud, that you have not
already named her? Surely you have either not listened to me, or when
you were in Trapani you wanted common sensibility."
"In truth, Ricardo," replied Mahmoud, "if she whom you have depicted in
such glowing colours is not Leonisa, the daughter of Rodolfo Florencio,
I know not who she is, for that lady alone was famed as you have
described."
"Leonisa it is, Mahmoud," exclaimed Ricardo; "Leonisa is the sole cause
of all my bliss and all my sorrow; it is for her, and not for the loss
of liberty, that my eyes pour forth incessant tears, my sighs kindle the
air, and my wailings weary heaven and the ears of men. It is she who
makes me appear in your eyes a madman, or at least a being devoid of
energy and spirit. This Leonisa, so cruel to me, was not so to another,
and this is the cause of my present miserable plight. For you must know
that, from my childhood, or at least from the time I was capable of
understanding, I not only loved, but adored and worshipped her, as
though I knew no other deity on earth. Her parents and relations were
aware of my affection for her, and never showed signs of disapproving
it, for they knew that my designs were honourable and virtuous; and I
know that they often said as much to Leonisa, in order to dispose her to
receive me as her betrothed; but she had set her heart on Cornelio, the
son of Ascanio Rotulo, whom you well know--a spruce young gallant,
_point-de-vice_ in his attire, with white hands, curly locks,
mellifluous voice, amorous discourse--made up, in short, of amber and
sugar-paste, garnished with plumes and brocade. She never cared to
bestow a look on my less dainty face, nor to be touched in the least by
my assiduous courtship; but repaid all my affection with disdain and
abhorrence; whilst my love for her grew to such an extreme, that I
should have deemed my fate most blest if she had killed me by her scorn,
provided she did not bestow open, though maidenly, favours on Cornelio.
Imagine the anguish of my soul, thus lacerated by her disdain, and
tortured by the most cruel jealousy. Leonisa's father and mother winked
at her preference for Cornelio, believing, as they well might, that the
youth, fascinated by her incomparable beauty, would chose her for his
wife, and thus they should have a wealthier son-in-law than myself. That
he might have been; but they would not have had one (without arrogance,
be it said) of better birth than myself, or of nobler sentiments or more
approved worth.
"Well, in the course of my wooing, I learned one day last May, that is
to say, about a year ago, that Leonisa and her parents, Cornelio and
his, accompanied by all their relations and servants had gone to enjoy
themselves in Ascanio's garden, close to the sea shore on the road to
the Saltpits.
"I know the place well," interrupted Mahmoud, "and passed many a merry
day there in better times. Go on, Ricardo."
"The moment I received information of this party, such an infernal fury
of jealousy possessed my soul that I was utterly distraught, as you will
see, by what I straightway did; and that was to go to the garden, where
I found the whole party taking their pleasure, and Cornelio and Leonisa
seated together under a nopal-tree, a little apart from the rest.
"What were their sensations on seeing me I know not, all I know is that
my own were such that a cloud came over my sight, and I was like a
statue without power of speech or motion. But this torpor soon gave way
to choler, which roused my heart's blood, and unlocked my hands and my
tongue. My hands indeed were for a while restrained by respect for that
divine face before me; but my tongue at least broke silence.
"'Now hast thou thy heart's content,' I cried, 'O mortal enemy of my
repose, thine eyes resting with so much composure on the object that
makes mine a perpetual fountain of tears! Closer to him! Closer to him,
cruel girl! Cling like ivy round that worthless trunk. Comb and part the
locks of that new Ganymede, thy lukewarm admirer. Give thyself up wholly
to the capricious boy on whom thy gaze is fixed, so that losing all hope
of winning thee I may lose too the life I abhor. Dost thou imagine,
proud, thoughtless girl, that the laws and usages which are acknowledged
in such cases by all mankind, are to give way for thee alone? Dost thou
imagine that this boy, puffed up with his wealth, vain of his looks,
presuming upon his birth, inexperienced from his youth, can preserve
constancy in love, or be capable of estimating the inestimable, or know
what riper years and experience know? Do not think it. One thing alone
is good in this world, to act always consistently, so that no one be
deceived unless it be by his own ignorance. In extreme youth there is
much inconstancy; in the rich there is pride; in the arrogant, vanity;
in men who value themselves on their beauty, there is disdain; and in
one who unites all these in himself, there is a fatuity which is the
mother of all mischief.
"'As for thee, boy, who thinkest to carry off so safely a prize more
due to my earnest love than to thy idle philandering, why dost thou not
rise from that flowery bank, and tear from my bosom the life which so
abhors thine? And that not for the insult thou puttest upon myself, but
because thou knowest not how to prize the blessing which fortune bestows
upon thee. 'Tis plain, indeed, how little thou esteemest it, since thou
wilt not budge to defend it for fear of ruffling the finical arrangement
of thy pretty attire. Had Achilles been of as placid temper as thou art,
Ulysses would certainly have failed in his attempt, for all his show of
glittering arms and burnished helmets. Go, play among thy mother's
maids; they will help thee to dress thy locks and take care of those
dainty hands that are fitter to wind silk than to handle a sword.'
"In spite of all these taunts Cornelio never stirred from his seat, but
remained perfectly still, staring at me as if he was bewitched. The loud
tones in which I spoke had brought round us all the people who were
walking in the garden, and they arrived in time to hear me assail
Cornelio with many other opprobrious terms. Plucking up heart, at last,
from the presence of numbers, most of whom were his relations, servants,
or friends, he made a show as if he would rise; but before he was on his
feet my sword was out, and I attacked not him only but all who were
before me. The moment Leonisa saw the gleam of my sword she swooned
away, which only exasperated my frantic rage. I know not whether it was
that those whom I assailed contented themselves with acting on the
defensive as against a raving madman, or that it was my own good luck
and adroitness, or Heaven's design to reserve me for greater ills, but
the fact was that I wounded seven or eight of those who came under my
hand. As for Cornelio, he made such good use of his heels that he
escaped me.
"In this imminent danger, surrounded by enemies who were now incensed to
vengeance, I was saved by an extraordinary chance; but better would it
have been to have lost my life on the spot than to be saved in order to
suffer hourly death. On a sudden the garden was invaded by a great
number of Turkish corsairs, who had landed in the neighbourhood without
being perceived by the sentinels in the castles on the coast, or by our
cruisers. As soon as my antagonists descried them they left me, and
escaped with all speed. Of all the persons in the garden the Turks
captured only three, besides Leonisa, who was still in her swoon. As for
me, I fell into their hands after receiving four ugly wounds, which,
however, I had revenged by laying four Turks dead upon the ground.
"The Turks having effected this onslaught with their usual expedition,
returned to their galleys, ill-satisfied with a success which had cost
them so dear. Having set sail they quickly arrived at Fabiana, where
mustering their hands to see who was missing, they found that they had
lost four Levantine soldiers whom they esteemed their best men. They
resolved to revenge the loss on me, and the commander of the galley
immediately ordered the yard-arm to be lowered in order to hang me.
Leonisa was present at all this. She had come to her senses, and seeing
herself in the power of the corsairs, she stood weeping and wringing her
delicate hands, without saying a word, but listening if she could
understand what was said by the Turks. One of the Christian slaves at
the oar told her in Italian that the captain had ordered that Christian
to be hanged, pointing to me, because he had killed in his own defence
four of the best soldiers belonging to the galley. On hearing this,
Leonisa (it was the first time she showed any pity for me) bade the
captive tell the Turks not to hang me, for they would lose a large
ransom, but return at once, to Trapani, where it would be paid them.
This, I say, was the first, as it will also be the last mark of
compassion bestowed on me by Leonisa, and all for my greater woe.
"The Turks believed what the captive told them: interest got the better
of their resentment, and they returned next morning with a flag of
peace. I passed a night of the greatest anguish, not so much from the
pain of my wounds, as from thinking of the danger in which my fair and
cruel enemy was placed among those barbarians. When we arrived at the
town one galley entered the port, the other remained in the offing. The
Christian inhabitants lined the whole shore, and the effeminate Cornelio
stood watching from a distance what was going on in the galley. My
steward immediately came to treat for my ransom, and I told him on no
account to bargain for it but for that of Leonisa, for which he should
offer all I was worth. I furthermore ordered him to return to shore, and
toll Leonisa's parents that they might leave it to him to treat for
their daughter's liberation, and give themselves no trouble about the
matter.
"The chief captain, who was a Greek renegade named Yusuf, demanded six
thousand crowns for Leonisa and four thousand for me, adding that he
would not give up the one without the other. He asked this large sum, as
I afterwards ascertained, because he was in love with Leonisa, and did
not wish to ransom her, but to give me and a thousand crowns to boot to
the other captain, with whom he was bound to share equally whatever
prizes they made, and to keep Leonisa for himself as valued at five
thousand crowns. It was for this reason that he appraised us both at ten
thousand.
"Leonisa's parents made no offer at all, relying on my promise, nor did
Cornelio so much as open his lips on the matter. After much bargaining
my steward agreed to pay five thousand crowns for Leonisa and three for
me, and Yusuf accepted this offer at the persuasion of the other captain
and of all his men. But as my agent had not so large an amount in ready
money, he asked for three days to get it in, being resolved to expend
all I possessed rather than fail to rescue us. Yusuf was glad of this,
thinking that something might possibly occur in the interval to prevent
the completion of the bargain, and he departed for the isle of Fabiana,
saying that in three days he would return for the money. But fortune,
never weary of persecuting me, ordained that a Turkish sentinel descried
from the highest point of the island, far out at sea, six vessels which
appeared to be either the Maltese squadron or one belonging to Sicily.
He ran down to give warning, and as quick as thought the Turks who were
on shore, some cooking their dinners, some washing their linen, embarked
again, heaved anchor, got out their oars, hoisted sail, and heading in
the direction of Barbary, in less than two hours lost sight of the
galleys. I leave you to conjecture, friend Mahmoud, what I suffered in
that voyage, so contrary to my expectation, and more when we arrived the
following day at the south-west of the isle of Pantanalea. There the
Turks landed, and the two captains began to divide all the prizes they
had made. All this was for me a lingering death.
"When Leonisa's turn and mine came, Yusuf gave Fatallah (the other
captain) myself and six other Christians, four of them fit for the oar,
and two very handsome Corsican boys, as an equivalent for Leonisa, whom
he himself retained; Fatallah being content with that arrangement. I was
present at all this, but knew not what they said, though I saw what they
did, nor should I have then understood the nature of the partition, had
not Fatallah come up to me and said in Italian, 'Christian, you now
belong to me; you have cost me two thousand crowns; if you desire your
liberty you must pay me four thousand, or else die here.' I asked him if
the Christian maiden was his also. He said she was not, but that Yusuf
had kept her with the intention to make her a Moor and marry her; and
this was true, for I was told the same thing by one of the Christian
rowers, who understood Turkish very well, and had overheard the
conversation that had passed between Yusuf and Fatallah. I told my
master to take measures for possessing himself of the maiden, and that I
would give him for her ransom alone ten thousand gold crowns. He replied
that it was impossible, but he would let Yusuf know the large sum I had
offered for the Christian girl, and perhaps he would be tempted to
change his intention and ransom her. He did so, and ordered all his crew
to go on board again immediately, for he intended to sail to Tripoli, to
which city he belonged. Yusuf also determined to make for Biserta, and
they all embarked with as much speed as they use when they discover
galleys to give them chase or merchant craft to plunder. They had reason
for this haste, for the weather seemed to be changing, and to threaten a
storm.
"Leonisa was ashore, but not where I could see her, until just as we
were embarking we met at the water side. Her new master and newer lover
led her by the hand, and as she set foot on the ladder that reached from
the shore to the galley, she turned her eyes upon me. Mine were fixed on
her, and such a pang of mingled tenderness and grief came over me that a
mist overspread my eyes, and I fell senseless on the ground. I was told
afterwards that Leonisa was affected in the same way, for she fell off
the ladder into the sea, into which Yusuf plunged after her and brought
her out in his arms. This was told me in my master's galley into which I
had been carried insensible. When I came to my senses, and found myself
there, and saw the other galley steering a different course and carrying
off the half of my soul or rather the whole of it, my heart sank within
me again; again I cursed my unhappy fate, and clamorously invoked!
death, till my master, annoyed by my loud lamentations, threatened me
with a great stick if I did not hold my tongue. I restrained my tears
and groans, believing that the force with which I compressed them would
make them burst a passage for my soul, which so longed to quit this
miserable body. But my misfortune did not end here. The storm which had
been foreseen suddenly burst upon us. The wind veered round to the south
and blew in our teeth with such violence that we were forced to quit our
course and run before it.
"It was the captain's intention to make for the island and take shelter
under its northern shore, but in this he was disappointed; for such was
the fury of the storm that although before it we had been making way
continually for two days and nights, yet in little more than fourteen
hours we saw ourselves again within six or seven miles of the island,
and driving helplessly against it, not where the shore was low, but just
where the rocks were highest and threatened us with inevitable death. We
saw near us the other galley, on board of which was Leonisa, and all its
Turk and captive rowers straining every nerve to keep themselves off the
rocks. Ours did the same, but with more success than the crew of our
consort, who, spent with toil, and vanquished in the desperate struggle
with the elements, let fall their oars, and suffered themselves to drift
ashore, where the galley struck with such violence that it was dashed to
pieces before our eyes.
"Night began to close in, and such were the shrieks of those who were
drowning, and the alarm of those on board our galley, that none of our
captain's orders were heard or executed. All the crew did, was to keep
fast hold of their oars, turn the vessel's head to the wind, and let go
two anchors, in hopes to delay for a little while the death that seemed
certain. Whilst all were in dread of dying, with me it was quite the
reverse; for in the fallacious hope of seeing in the other world her who
had so lately departed from this, every instant the galley delayed to
founder or drive ashore was to me an age of agony. I watched every
billow that dashed by us and over us, to see if they bore the body of
the unfortunate Leonisa. I will not detain you, Mahmoud, with a recital
of the tortures that distracted my soul in that long and bitter night;
it is enough to say that they were such that had death come, it would
have had little to do in bereaving me of life.
"Day broke with every appearance of worse weather than ever, and we
found that our vessel had shifted its course considerably, having
drifted away from the rocks and approached a point of the island.
Setting all of us to work, both Turks and Christians, with renewed hope
and strength, in six hours we doubled the point, and found ourselves in
calmer water, so that we could better use our oars; and the Turks saw a
prospect of going on shore to see if there were any remains of the
galley that had been wrecked the night before. But Heaven denied me the
consolation I hoped for in seeing in my arms the body of Leonisa. I
asked a renegade, who was about to land, to look for it and see if it
had been cast on the strand. But, as I have said, Heaven denied me this
consolation, for at that moment the wind rose with such fresh fury that
the shelter of the island was no longer of any avail to us.
"Seeing this, Fatallah would no longer strive against the fortune that
so persecuted him. He ordered some sail to be spread, turned the prow to
the sea and the poop to the wind, and himself taking the helm, let the
vessel run over the wide sea, secure of not being crossed in his way by
any impediment. The oars were all placed in their regular positions, the
whole crew was seated on the benches, and no one else was seen on foot
in the whole galley but the boatswain, who had lashed himself strongly
amidship for his greater security. The vessel flew so swiftly that in
three days and nights, passing in sight of Trapani, Melazo, and Palermo,
she entered the straits of Messina, to the dismay of all on board, and
of the spectators on shore. Not to be as long-winded as the storm that
buffeted us, I will only say that wearied, famishing, and exhausted by
such a long run, almost all round the island of Sicily, we arrived at
Tripoli, where my master, before he had divided the booty with his
partners, and accounted to the king for one-fifth part, according to
custom, was seized with such a pleurisy that in three days it carried
him off to hell.
"The king of Tripoli, and the alcayde of the Grand Turk, who, as you
know, is heir to all those who die without natural heirs, immediately
took possession of all Fatallah's effects. I became the property of the
then viceroy of Tripoli, who a fortnight afterwards received the patent
appointing him viceroy of Cyprus, and hither I am come with him without
any intention of redeeming myself. He has often told me to do so, since
I am a man of station, as Fatallah's soldiers informed him; I have never
complied, but have declared that he was deceived by those who had
exaggerated my means. If you would have me tell you my whole purpose,
Mahmoud, you must know that I desire not to turn in any direction in
which I may find any sort of consolation, but that the sad thoughts and
memories which have never left me since the death of Leonisa may become
so identified with my captive life that it may never afford me the least
pleasure. And if it is true that continual sorrow must at last wear out
itself, or him who suffers it, mine cannot fail to wear me out, for I am
resolved to give it such free scope that in a few days it shall put an
end to the wretched life I endure so unwillingly.
"This is, brother Mahmoud, my sad story; this is the cause of my sighs
and tears; judge now if it is enough to draw them forth from my inmost
vitals, and to engender them in the desolation of my afflicted heart,
Leonisa is dead, and with her all my hope; and though whilst she lived
it hung by the merest thread, yet, yet--"
Here the speaker's voice faltered, so that he could not utter another
word, or restrain the tears which coursed each other down his cheeks so
fast that they bedewed the ground. Mahmoud mingled his own with them;
and when the paroxysm had somewhat abated, he tried to console Ricardo
with the best suggestions he could offer; but the mourner cut them
short, saying, "What you have to do, friend, is to advise me how I shall
contrive to fall into disgrace with my master, and with all those I have
to do with, so that, being abhorred by him and by them, I may be so
maltreated and persecuted that I may find the death I so much long for."
"I have now," said Mahmoud, "experienced the truth of the common
saying, that what is deeply felt is well expressed, though it is true
that sometimes excess of feeling paralyses the tongue. Be that as it
may, friend Ricardo,--whether your woes inspire your language, or your
language exalts your woes,--you shall always find in me a true friend,
to aid or to counsel, though my youth, and the folly I committed in
assuming this garb, cry aloud that I am little to be relied on in this
capacity. I will try, however, to prove that such a conclusion is
unfounded; and though you do not desire either counsel or help, I will
not the more desist from doing what your case requires, just as people
give a sick man not what he asks for, but what is good for him. There is
no one who has more power and influence in this city than my master, the
Cadi; not even your own master, who comes to it as viceroy, will have so
much. This being the case, I may say that I am the most powerful person
here, since I can do what I please with my master. I mention this
because it may be that I shall so contrive with him that you shall
become his property, and being constantly with me, time will tell us
what we had best do, both for your consolation, if you will or can be
consoled, and to enable me to exchange the life I lead here for a better
one."
"I thank you, Mahmoud, for the friendship you offer me," replied
Ricardo, "though I well know that, do what you may, it will avail
nothing. But let us quit this subject, and go to the tents, for, as I
perceive, great numbers of people are coming forth from the city; no
doubt it is the old viceroy who is quitting it to give place to my
master."
"It is so," said Mahmoud. "Come then, Ricardo, and you will see the
ceremony of the reception."
"Come on," said Ricardo; "perhaps I shall have need of you, if the
superintendent of my master's slaves have missed me, for he is a
Corsican renegade of no very tender heart."
Here the conversation ended, and the two friends reached the tents, just
as the new pasha was coming out to receive his predecessor, Ali Pasha.
The latter came attended by all the janissaries who have formed the
garrison of Nicosia ever since the Turks have had possession of it, in
number about five hundred. They marched in two divisions, the one armed
with guns, the other with drawn scimetars. Arrived at the tent of
Hassan, the new Pasha, they all surrounded it. Ali made a low obeisance
to Hassan, who returned the salutation, but did not bow so low. Ali then
entered Hassan's tent, and the Turks placed the new Pasha on a powerful
steed, richly caparisoned, and led him round the tents, and up and down
the plain; vociferating in their own language, "Long live Sultan
Soliman, and Hassan Pasha, his representative!" which cry they
frequently repeated, and each time louder and louder. This part of the
ceremony being ended, they brought Hassan back to Ali's tent, where the
two pashas and the cadi remained alone together for an hour to consult,
as Mahmoud informed Ricardo, as to what was to be done upon some works
which Ali had begun. Afterwards the cadi appeared at the door of the
tent, and proclaimed in Turkish, Arabic, and Greek, that all who desired
to crave justice or make any other appeal against Ali Pasha, might now
enter freely, for there was Hassan Pasha, sent by the Grand Signor to be
viceroy of Cyprus, who would accord them all reason and justice.
In conformity with this permission the janissaries opened a passage to
the door of the tent, and every one entered who pleased. Mahmoud made
Ricardo go in along with him, for being Hassan's slave his entrance was
not opposed. Several Greek Christians and some Turks appeared as
appellants, but all upon such trifling matters, that the cadi despatched
most of them without the formality of written declarations, rejoinders,
and replications. It is, in fact, the custom of the Turks that all
causes, except those which relate to marriage, shall be immediately and
summarily decided, rather by the rules of common sense than of legal
precedent; and among these barbarians (if such they are in this respect)
the cadi is the sole judge in all cases, cuts short the pleadings, gives
sentence in a breath, and there is no appeal from his decision.
Presently a khawass (that is to say, a Turkish alguazil) entered and
said that a Jew stood without, at the door of the tent, with a most
beautiful Christian maiden for sale. The cadi gave orders to admit him.
The khawass withdrew and immediately returned, accompanied by a Jew of
venerable appearance, who led by the hand a young woman clothed in the
Moorish dress, which became her so well that the most richly arrayed
women of Fez or Morocco could not be compared with her, though in the
art of adorning themselves they surpass all the other women of Africa,
not excepting even those of Algiers, with all their profusion of pearls.
The face of the female slave was covered with a mask of crimson taffety.
On her naked ankles she wore two rings, apparently of pure gold; and two
others, set with large pearls, on her arms, which shone through the
sleeves of a transparent camisole. Her whole dress was rich, gay, and
graceful. Struck by her appearance, the first thing the cadi and the
pashas did, was to bid the Jew make the Christian uncover her face. She
did so, and disclosed a countenance which, like the sun bursting through
thick clouds which have long obscured it, dazzled the eyes and gladdened
the hearts of the beholders. But on none did that marvellous light
produce such an effect as on the woe-worn Ricardo, for he saw before him
no other than his cruel and beloved Leonisa, whom he had so often and
with such bitter tears bewailed as dead.
At the unexpected sight of such unparalleled loveliness, Ali felt his
heart transfixed; Hassan's was pierced with as deep a wound; nor did the
cadi's escape scatheless, but, even more deeply smitten than the two
pashas, he could not take his eyes off the Christian's face. All three
were seized at the same moment with an absolute determination to possess
her; and without stopping to inquire how, or where, or when, she had
come into the hands of the Jew, they bade him name her price. Four
thousand doblas, he replied. The words were no sooner out of the Jew's
mouth than Ali Pasha said he would give the price, and that the Jew had
only to go to his tent to fetch the money. Hassan Pasha, however, who
looked as if he had no mind to lose her, though she were to cost him his
life, interposed and said, "I myself will give the four thousand doblas
demanded by the Jew, though I would not interfere with Ali's bargain or
oppose his wishes, were I not compelled by motives the imperious force
and obligation of which he will himself acknowledge. This exquisitely
beautiful slave is not for us, but for the Grand Signor alone, and
therefore I say that I purchase her in his name. Let us see now who will
be so bold as to dispute the purchase with me."
"That will I," replied Ali, "for it is for that very purpose I buy her
of the Jew; and it suits me the better to make the present to his
Highness, as I have the opportunity of taking her to Constantinople in a
few days, and thus winning the favour of the Sultan; for being, as you
see, Hassan, a man without employment, I must seek means for obtaining
one; whereas, you are secure in that respect for three years, since
to-day you enter upon the government of this rich realm of Cyprus. On
these grounds, and as I was the first to offer the price demanded for
the slave, it stands to reason, Hassan, that you should yield her to
me."
"The satisfaction I shall feel in purchasing and sending her to the
Sultan," said Hassan, "is so much the greater, as I shall do it without
being prompted by any motives of interest whatever. And as for a
convenient means of sending her to Constantinople, she shall go thither
in a galley manned only by my own slaves."
Ali now started up in wrath, and, clutching his scimetar, cried out,
"Since we both intend the same thing, Hassan, namely, to present this
Christian to the Grand Signor, and since I was the first purchaser,
reason and justice require that you should leave her to me; if you will
not, this blade in my hand shall defend my right, and punish your
audacity."
The cadi, who had been closely watching this contest, and who was
himself no less inflamed with desire than either of the pashas,
bethought him how he might remain possessor of the prize, without giving
any cause to suspect his insidious designs. Rising therefore to his
feet, he stepped between the two angry pashas. "Be quiet, Hassan," he
said; "calm yourself, Ali; here am I who can and will arrange your
differences in such wise that you shall both have your intentions
fulfilled, the Sultan shall be gratified as you desire, and shall be
under obligations to you both alike for your loyal and acceptable
homage."
The two pashas submitted at once to the cadi, as they would have done
even had the terms he imposed appeared harder to them, such is the
respect which is paid to their elders by those of that accursed sect.
The cadi then continued his address to them. "Ali," said he, "you say
that you want this Christian to present her to the Grand Signor; and
Hassan says the same. You allege that, having been the first to offer
the price required, she ought to be yours; but Hassan denies this; and
though he does not know how to assign valid grounds for his claim, yet I
find that he has the same as yourself, namely, the intention, which
doubtless must have arisen within him at the same time as within
yourself, to purchase the slave for the self-same purpose; only you had
the advantage of him in being the first to declare yourself. This,
however, is no reason why he should be out and out defrauded of the
benefit of his good-will, and therefore I am of opinion that it will be
well to arrange matters between you in this wise: let the slave be
bought by you both; and since she is to belong to the Grand Signor, for
whom you buy her, it will be for him to dispose of her. Meanwhile, you
Hassan shall pay two thousand doblas, and you Ali another two thousand,
and the slave shall remain in my custody, so that I may send her in the
name of you both to Constantinople, and thus I too shall not be without
some reward for my presence and aid on this occasion. Accordingly, I
undertake to send her at my own cost in a style worthy of the great
sovereign to whom she is to be presented; and I will write to the Grand
Signor a true account of all that has occurred here, and of the
good-will you have shown in his service."
The two enamoured pashas could find no pretext for gainsaying this
decision; and though it thwarted their desires, they were constrained to
submit, each of them comforting himself with the hope, however doubtful,
that he would succeed at last. Hassan, who was to remain viceroy of
Cyprus, resolved to make such presents to the cadi as would induce him
to give up the slave. Ali formed other plans, and as he flattered
himself that he should carry them into successful operation, they both
professed themselves satisfied, and paid the Jew two thousand doblas
each on the spot. The Jew then said that he had sold the slave, but not
the clothes she wore, which were worth another two thousand doblas; and
this indeed was true, for her hair which she wore partly loose on her
shoulders, and partly braided on her forehead, was most gracefully
interwoven with strings of pearls; her bracelets and anklets too were
set with very large pearls, and her green satin robe was heavily
flounced and embroidered with gold. In short, all agreed that the Jew
had set a low price on the dress, and the cadi, to show himself no less
liberal than the two pashas, said that he would pay for it, that the
slave might appear before the Grand Signor as she then stood. The two
competitors agreed in approving of this, each of them believing that
slave, dress, and all would soon be his own.
It is impossible to describe Ricardo's feelings, when he saw the
treasure of his soul thus put up for sale, and found that he had
regained it only to lose it more cruelly. He knew not whether he was
asleep or awake, and could not believe his own eyes; for it seemed
incredible that they should have so unexpectedly before them her whom he
had supposed to have disappeared for ever. "Do you know her?" he
whispered in Mahmoud's ear.
"No! I do not," was the reply.
"Then I must tell you that it is Leonisa."
"What do you say, Ricardo?" exclaimed Mahmoud.
"I say it is Leonisa."
"Say no more; fortune is proving your friend, and all is turning out for
the best, for she is to remain in my master's custody."
"What think you? Shall I place myself where I may be seen by her?"
"By no means, lest you give her a sudden shock; nor must you let it be
known that you have seen her, for that might disconcert the plan I have
in view."
"I will do as you advise," said Ricardo, turning away his eyes, and
carefully avoiding those of Leonisa, which were meanwhile bent upon the
ground. Presently the cadi went up to her, and taking her by the hand,
delivered her to Mahmoud, ordering him to take her into the city and
give her up to his lady, Halema, with directions to keep her as a slave
of the Grand Signor. Mahmoud obeyed and left Ricardo alone, following
with his eyes the star of his soul, until it disappeared behind the
walls of Nicosia. He then went up to the Jew, and asked him where he had
bought that Christian slave, or how he had become possessed of her. The
Jew replied that he had bought her in the island of Pantanalea, of some
Turks who had been shipwrecked there. Ricardo would have pursued his
inquiries, but the Jew was called away to give the pashas the very same
information which Ricardo so much longed to obtain.
During the long walk from the tents to the city Mahmoud conversed with
Leonisa in Italian, and asked her whence she came. She replied that she
belonged to the illustrious city of Trapani, and that her parents were
noble and wealthy, though as for herself she was utterly unfortunate.
Mahmoud then asked her if she knew a gentleman of birth and fortune in
that city, named Ricardo. On hearing that name a sigh escaped her that
seemed to come from the bottom of her heart. "I know him," she replied,
"to my sorrow."
"Why to your sorrow?"
"Because it was to his sorrow that he knew me, and for my misfortune."
"Perhaps," said Mahmoud, "you may also know in the same city another
gentleman of very amiable disposition, the son of very wealthy parents,
and himself a person of great spirit, liberality, and discretion. His
name is Cornelio."
"Him too I know, and of him still more than Ricardo I may say that I
know him to my sorrow. But who are you, sir, who know these gentlemen
and inquire of me respecting them? Doubtless, Heaven, in compassion for
the trouble and mischances I have undergone, has sent me to a place
where, if they do not cease, at least I may find a person to console me
for them."
"I am a native of Palermo," said Mahmoud, "brought by various chances to
wear this garb, and to be in appearance so different from what I am in
my secret soul. I know the gentlemen in question, because not many days
ago they were with me. Cornelio was captured by some Moors of Tripoli,
and sold by them to a Turk who brought him to this island, whither he
came to trade, for he is a merchant of Rhodes, and so highly satisfied
was he with Cornelio, and such was the confidence he reposed in his
truth and integrity, that he entrusted him with his whole property."
"He will be sure to take care of it," said Leonisa, "for he takes very
good care of his own. But tell me, señor, how or with whom did Ricardo
come to this island?"
"He came," said Mahmoud, "with a corsair who had captured him in a
garden on the coast near Trapani, and along with him a damsel, whose
name I never thought of asking, though the corsair often spoke to me in
praise of her beauty. Ricardo remained hero some days with his master
until the latter went to visit the tomb of Mahomet, which is in the city
of Almedina,[77] and then Ricardo fell into such a sickness that his
master left him with me, as being my countryman, that I might take care
of him until the return of the pilgrim to Cyprus, should that happen; or
else I was to send Ricardo to Constantinople, when his master should
advise me of his arrival there. But heaven ordered it otherwise; for the
unfortunate Ricardo died in a few days, always invoking to the last the
name of one Leonisa, whom he had told me he loved more than his life and
soul. She had been drowned, he said, in the wreck of a galley on the
coast of the island of Pantanalea; and he never ceased to deplore her
death till his grief destroyed him, for that in fact was the only malady
I discovered in him."
[77] A mistake. The prophet's tomb is in Mecca. Medina was his
birthplace.
"Tell me, señor," said Leonisa, "in the conversations you had with the
other young man, did he sometimes name this Leonisa? Did he relate the
manner in which he and she and Ricardo were captured?"
"He did name her," replied Mahmoud, "and asked me if there had been
brought to this island a Christian of that name, of such and such
appearance; for if so he should like to ransom her, provided her owner
had been undeceived as to his notion that she was richer than she really
was, or should it chance that having enjoyed her, he held her in less
esteem. If her price did not exceed three or four hundred crowns, he
would pay it gladly, because he had once had some regard for her."
"It must have been very little," said Leonisa, "since it was worth no
more than four hundred crowns. Ricardo was more generous. Heaven forgive
her who was the cause of his death, and that was myself; for I am the
unhappy maiden whom he wept as dead, and God knows how I should rejoice
were he alive, that I might repay him by letting him see how I felt for
his misfortunes. Yes, señor, I am the little loved of Cornello, the
truly wept of Ricardo, whom various chances have brought to the
miserable state in which I now am; but through all my perils, by the
favour of Heaven, I have preserved my honour unsullied, and that
consoles me in my misery. I know not at this moment where I am, nor who
is my master, nor what my adverse fates have determined is to become of
me. I entreat you, therefore, señor, by the Christian blood that flows
in your veins, that you will advise me in my difficulties; for though
they have already taught me something by experience, yet they are so
great and never-ending, that I know not what to do."
Mahmoud assured her he would do what he could to help her to the best of
his understanding and his power. He acquainted her with the nature of
the dispute there had been between the pashas concerning her, and how
she was now in the keeping of his master the cadi, who was to send her
to Constantinople to the Grand Turk Selim; but that he trusted that the
true God, in whom he, though a bad Christian, believed, would dispose of
her otherwise. He advised her to conciliate Halima, the wife of his
master the cadi, with whom she was to remain until she was sent to
Constantinople, and of whose character he gave her some details. Having
given her this and other useful counsel, he arrived at the cadi's house,
and delivered her over to Halima along with his master's message.
The Moorish woman received her well, seeing her so beautiful and so
handsomely dressed, and Mahmoud returned to the tents, where he
recounted to Ricardo, point by point, all that had passed between
himself and Leonisa; and the tears came into his eyes when he spoke of
the feeling displayed by Leonisa, when he told her that Ricardo was
dead. He stated how he had invented the story of Cornelio's captivity,
in order to see what impression it made on her; and in what disparaging
terms he had spoken of him. All this was balm to Ricardo's afflicted
heart.
"I remember, friend Mahmoud," he said, "an anecdote related to me by my
father; you know how ingenious he was, and you have heard how highly he
was honoured by the emperor, Charles V., whom he always served in
honourable posts in peace and war. He told me that when the emperor was
besieging Tunis, a Moorish woman was brought to him one day in his tent,
as a marvel of beauty, and that some rays of the sun, entering the tent,
fell upon her hair, which vied with them in its golden lustre; a rare
thing among the Moorish women, whoso hair is almost universally black.
Among many other Spanish gentlemen present on that occasion, there were
two of distinguished talent as poets, the one an Andalusian, the other a
Catalan. Struck with admiration at the sight before him, the Andalusian
began to extemporise some verses, but stopped short in the middle of the
last line, unable to finish them for want of a rhyme; whereupon the
Catalan, who saw his embarrassment, caught the line as it were out of
his mouth, finished it, continued the thought, and completed the poem.
This incident came into my mind when I saw the exquisitely beautiful
Leonisa enter the pasha's tent obscuring not only the rays of the sun,
but the whole firmament with all its stars."
"Gently, gently, friend Ricardo," said Mahmoud; "I am afraid if you
praise your mistress at that rate you will seem to be a heathen rather
than a Christian."
"Well, tell me then," said Ricardo, "what you think of doing in our
business. Whilst you were conducting Leonisa to Halima, a Venetian
renegade who was in the pasha's tent, and who understands Turkish very
well, explained to me all that had passed between them. Above all
things, then, we must try to find some means of preventing Leonisa's
being sent to the Grand Signor."
"The first thing to be done is to have you transferred to my master,"
said Mahmoud, "and then we will consider what next."
The keeper of Hassan's Christian slaves now came up and took Ricardo
away with him. The cadi returned to the city with Hassan, who in a few
days made out the report on Ali's administration, and gave it to him
under seal that he might depart to Constantinople. Ali went away at
once, laying strict injunctions on the cadi to send the captive without
delay to the sultan, along with such a letter as would be serviceable to
himself. The cadi promised all this with a treacherous heart, for it was
inflamed for the fair Christian. Ali went away full of false hopes,
leaving Hassan equally deluded by them. Mahmoud contrived that Ricardo
should pass into the possession of his master; but day after day stole
on, and Ricardo was so racked with longing to see Leonisa, that he could
have no rest. He changed his name to Mario, that his own might not reach
her ears before he saw her, which, indeed, was a very difficult thing,
because the Moors are exceedingly jealous, and conceal the faces of
their women from the eyes of all men; it is true they are not so
scrupulous with regard to Christian slaves, perhaps, because being
slaves they do not regard them as men.
Now it chanced that one day the lady Halima saw her slave Mario, and
gazed so much upon him that his image regained printed on her heart. Not
very well satisfied with the languid embraces of her old husband, she
readily gave admission to a reprehensible desire, and as readily
communicated it to Leonisa, whom she liked much for her agreeable
temper, and treated with great respect as a slave of the Grand Signor.
She told her how the cadi had brought home a Christian captive of such
graceful manners and appearance, that she had never set eyes on a more
engaging man in all her life; she understood that he was a chilidi (that
is, a gentleman) of the same country as her renegade Mahmoud, and she
knew not how to make known to him her inclination, so that the Christian
might not despise her for her voluntary declaration. Leonisa asked what
was the captive's name, and being told that it was Mario, she replied,
"If he was a gentleman, and of the place they say, I should know him;
but there is no one of that name in Trapani. But let me see him, and
speak with him, lady, and I will tell you who he is, and what may be
expected of him."
"It shall be so," said Halima. "On Friday, when the cadi is at prayers
in the mosque, I will make Mario come in here where you may speak to him
alone, and if you can give him a hint of my desires you will do so in
the best way you can."
Not two hours after this conversation the cadi sent for Mahmoud and
Mario, and with no less earnestness than Halima had unbosomed herself to
Leonisa, the amorous graybeard opened his own to his two slaves, asking
their advice as to what he should do to enjoy the Christian and cheat
the Grand Signor, to whom she belonged, for he would sooner die a
thousand deaths, than give her up to him. So earnestly did the reverend
Turk declare his passion that he inspired his two slaves with no less
earnestness, though their purposes were quite the reverse of his. It was
settled between them that Mario, as a countryman of the fair
Christian's, should take it in hand to solicit her on the cadi's part;
and that if that failed, the latter should use force, since she was in
his power, and afterwards account for not sending her to Constantinople
by pretending that she was dead. The cadi was highly delighted with the
advice of his two slaves, and with all imaginable alacrity he gave
Mahmoud his freedom on the spot, and promised to bequeath him half his
property when he died. To Mario likewise he promised, in case of success
his liberty and money enough to enable him to return home a wealthy man.
If he was liberal in promises, his slaves were prodigal; they would
bring down the moon to him from Heaven, much more Leonisa, if only he
gave them an opportunity of speaking with her. "Mario shall have one
whenever he pleases," said the cadi, "for I will make Halima go for some
days to the house of her parents, who are Greek Christians, and when she
is away I will order the porter to admit Mario into the house as often
as he pleases, and I will tell Leonisa that she may converse with her
countryman whenever she has a mind." Thus did the wind begin to shift in
Ricardo's favour, his master and mistress working for him without
knowing it; and the first who began was Halima, as was to be expected of
her, for it is the nature of women ever to be prompt and bold where
their pleasures are concerned.
That same day the cadi told Halima that she might pay a visit to her
parents, and stay with them some time if she liked; but elated as she
was with the false hopes given her by Leonisa, she was so far from
wishing to visit her parents, that she would not have cared to go to the
imaginary paradise of Mahomet. She replied then that she had no such
wish at that moment; when she had she would mention it, and then she
would take the Christian maiden with her. "That you must not," replied
the cadi, "for it is not right that the Grand Signor's slave should be
seen by any one, much less should she converse with Christians; for you
know that when she comes into the Sultan's possession she will be shut
up in the seraglio, and must become a Turk whether she will or not."
"As she will be in my company," said Halima, "there will be no harm in
her being in the house of my parents, or conversing with them. I do so
myself, and I am not less a good Turk for all that. Besides, I do not
intend to remain with them more than four or five days at most, for my
love for you will not allow me to be so long without seeing you." Here
the conversation dropped, the cadi not venturing to make any further
objection, for fear of rousing her suspicions.
Friday being come, he went to the mosque, from which he was sure not to
return for about four hours. He was no sooner gone than Halima sent for
Mario; but a Corsican slave who acted as porter, would not have admitted
him into the court-yard if Halima had not called out to let him pass,
whereupon he came in confused and trembling as if he were going to
encounter a host of enemies. Leonisa was seated at the foot of a great
marble staircase, in the dress in which she had appeared before the
pashas. Her right arm resting on her knee supported her head, and her
back was towards the door by which Mario entered, so that though he
advanced to where she sat, she did not see him.
Ricardo cast his eyes all round the place when he entered; all was
silence and solitude till he turned his gaze to where Leonisa sat.
Instantly he was seized with a thousand conflicting emotions. He was
within twenty paces of the object of his soul's desire; but he was a
captive, and the glory of his life was in the power of another. Thus
agitated with fear and exultation, joy and sadness, he advanced towards
her slowly, until Leonisa suddenly turned round and her eyes met his
earnest gaze. He stopped, unable to move another step. Leonisa, who
believed him to be dead, was struck with awe and consternation at seeing
him so unexpectedly before her. With her eyes still fixed upon him and
without turning her back, she retreated up four or five stairs, took a
little cross from her breast, kissed it again and again, and crossed
herself repeatedly, as though a being from the other world stood before
her. Ricardo presently recovered himself, and perceiving from Leonisa's
gestures what was the cause of her terror, he said, "It grieves me,
beautiful Leonisa, that the news which Mahmoud gave you of my death was
not true, so that I might be free from the fear I now feel lest the
rigour you have also shown towards me still subsists entire. Set your
mind at ease, lady, and come down; and if you will do what you have
never yet done--approach me--you will see that I am not a phantom. I am
Ricardo, Leonisa,--Ricardo the happy, if you will bid him be so."
Here Leonisa put her finger to her lips, giving Ricardo to understand
that he should be silent or speak more low. Gathering a little courage,
he drew near enough to hear her whisper thus: "Speak softly, Mario (for
so I hear you are now called): talk of nothing but what I talk of, and
bear in mind that if we are overheard it will be the cause of our never
meeting again. I believe that Halima, our mistress, is listening to us:
she has told me that she adores you, and has sent me here as her
intercessor. If you will respond to her desires, you will consult the
interest of your body more than of your soul; and if you will not, you
must feign to do so, were it only because I request it, and for sake of
what is due to the declared desires of a woman."
"Never did I think, never could I imagine, beauteous Leonisa," replied
Ricardo, "that you could ever ask anything of me with which I should
find it impossible to comply; but this present request of yours has
undeceived me. Is the inclination so slight a thing that it can be moved
this way or that at pleasure? Or would it become a man of truth and
honour to feign in matters of such weight? If you think that such things
can or ought to be done, be it as you will, since it is for you to
command and for me to obey; and that it may not be said I failed to do
so with regard to the first order you laid upon me, I will impose
silence on the voice of my honour, and will pretend to return Halima's
passion, as you desire, if I may thereby secure the blessing of seeing
you; and you have only to signify as much to her in such terms as you
shall think proper. In return for this sacrifice, to me the greatest
possible, I entreat you to tell me briefly how you escaped from the
hands of the corsairs, and fell into those of the Jew who sold you."
"The recital of my misfortunes," Leonisa answered, "demands more time
than we have now at our disposal; nevertheless, I will tell you some
particulars. The day after we parted company, Yusuf's galley was driven
back by a contrary wind to the island of Pantanalea, where we also saw
your galley, but ours, in spite of all efforts, was driven upon the
rocks. My master, seeing death so near, quickly emptied two water-casks,
closed them tightly, lashed them together with ropes, and placed me
between them. Then stripping off his clothes he took another cask in his
arms, and passing round his body a rope attached to the casks on which I
was placed, he boldly plunged into the sea. I had not the courage to
follow his example, but another Turk pushed me in. I fell senseless into
the water, and did not recover until I found myself on land, in the arms
of two Turks, who held me with my mouth downwards, discharging a great
quantity of water which I had swallowed. I opened my eyes, and looking
wildly round me, the first thing I saw was Yusuf lying beside me with
his skull shattered, having, as I afterwards learned, been dashed head
foremost against the rocks.
"The Turks told me that they had hawled me ashore by the rope, more dead
than alive. Only eight persons escaped out of the unfortunate galley. We
remained eight days on the island, during which the Turks treated me
with as much respect as if I were their sister. We lay hid in a cave,
the Turks being afraid of being captured by some of the Christian
garrison of a fort in the island, and we supported ourselves with
biscuits from the foundered galley which the waves cast ashore, and
which the men collected by night. It happened for my misfortune that the
commandant of the fort had died a few days before, and that there were
in it only twenty soldiers; this fact we learned from a boy whom the
Turks captured as he was amusing himself gathering shells on the shore.
At the end of eight days a Moorish vessel, of the kind which the Turks
call _caramuzal_, hove in sight; the Turks quitted their hiding-place,
and made signals which were recognised by the crew of the caramuzal.
They landed, and hearing from their countrymen an account of their
disasters, they took us all on board, where there was a very rich Jew,
to whom the whole cargo, or the greater part of it, belonged, consisting
of carpets, stuffs, and other wares, which are commonly exported by the
Jews from Barbary to the Levant. The vessel carried us to Tripoli, and
during the voyage I was sold to the Jew, who gave two thousand
doubloons, an excessive price; but the Jew was made liberal by the love
he conceived for me.
"After leaving the Turks in Tripoli, the vessel continued its voyage,
and the Jew began to importune me with his solicitations, which I
treated with the scorn they deserved. Despairing, therefore, of success,
he resolved to get rid of me upon the first opportunity; and knowing
that the two pashas, Ali and Hassan, were in this island, where he could
sell his goods as well as in Scio, whither he had been bound, he landed
here in hopes of disposing of me to one of the two pashas, with which
view he had me dressed as you now see me. I find that I have been
purchased by the cadi, for the purpose of being presented to the Grand
Turk, which causes me no little dread. Here I heard of your pretended
death, which, if you will believe me, grieved me to the soul; yet I
envied rather than pitied you, not from ill will towards you, for, if
insensible to love, I am yet neither unfeeling nor ungrateful, but
because I believed that your sorrows were all at an end."
"You would be right, lady," said Ricardo, "were it not that death would
have robbed me of the bliss of seeing you again. The felicity of this
moment is more to me than any blessing that life or death could bring
me, that of eternity alone excepted. My master, the cadi, into whose
hands I have fallen by as strange a series of adventures as your own, is
just in the same disposition towards you as Halima is towards me, and
has deputed me to be the interpreter of his feelings. I accepted the
office, not with the intention of serving his wishes, but my own in
obtaining opportunities to speak with you. Only see, Leonisa, to what a
pass our misfortunes have brought us; you to ask from me what you know
to be impossible; and me to propose to you what I would give my life not
to obtain, dear as that life is to me now, since I have the happiness to
behold you."
"I know not what to say to you, Ricardo," replied Leonisa, "nor what
issue we can find from the labyrinth in which we are involved. I can
only say that we must practise, what would not be expected from us,
dissimulation and deceit. I will repeat to Halima some phrases on your
part which will rather encourage than make her despair; and you may tell
the cadi whatever you think may serve, with safety to my honour, to keep
him in his delusion. And since I place my honour in your hands, you may
be assured that I have preserved it intact, in spite of all the perils
and trials I have undergone. Opportunity to converse together will be
easily afforded us, and to me this will be most pleasing, provided you
never address me on the subject of your suit; from the moment you do so,
I shall cease to see you; for I would not have you suppose that my
spirit is so weak as to be swayed by captivity. With the favour of
heaven, I hope to prove like gold which becomes the purer the more it is
passed through the furnace. Be content with the assurance I have given
you, that I shall no longer look upon you with repugnance, as I used to
do; for I must tell you, Ricardo, that I always found you somewhat more
arrogant and presumptuous than became you. I confess, also, that I was
deceived, and that my eyes being now opened, if the experiment were to
be made over again, perhaps I should be more humane to you, within the
bounds of honour. Go now, and God be with you; for I am afraid lest
Halima may have been listening to us, and she understands something of
our language."
"I fully acknowledge the propriety of all you have said, lady," replied
Ricardo. "I am infinitely obliged for the explanation you have given me,
and perhaps time will show you how profoundly respectful is the
adoration I profess for you. Rely upon me that I will deal in the best
manner with the cadi, and do you do the same with Halima. Believe me,
lady, since I have seen you, there has sprung up in my heart an assured
hope that we shall soon achieve our freedom; and so I commend you to
God's keeping, deferring to another time to tell you the events by which
fortune brought me to this place, after we were parted."
They now separated, Leonisa well pleased with Ricardo's modest
behaviour, and he overjoyed at having heard from her lips words unmixed
with harshness. Halima, meanwhile, had shut herself up in her room, and
was praying to Mahomet for Leonisa's success in the commission she had
given her. The cadi was in the mosque, burning, like his wife, with
desire, and anxiously awaiting the answer to be brought him by the slave
he had sent to speak to Leonisa, and whom Mahmoud was to admit to her
presence for that purpose, even though Halima was at home. Leonisa
inflamed Halima's impure desires, giving her very good hopes that Mario
would do all she wished, but telling her that two months must elapse
before he could consent to what he longed for even more than herself;
and that he asked that delay that he might complete a course of devotion
for the recovery of his freedom. Halima was satisfied with this excuse,
but begged Leonisa to tell her dear Mario to spare himself the trouble
and her the delay he proposed, for she would give him, at once, whatever
the cadi required for his ransom.
Before Ricardo went with his answer to his master, he consulted Mahmoud
as to what it should be. They agreed between them that it should be as
discouraging as possible, and that he should advise the cadi to take
the girl as soon as possible to Constantinople, and accomplish his
wishes on the way by fair means or by force. Moreover, that in order to
prevent the unpleasant consequences that might ensue from supplanting
the sultan, it would be well to purchase another slave, then pretend, or
contrive on the voyage, that Leonisa should fall sick, and throw the
newly-purchased Christian woman into the sea by night, with all possible
secrecy, giving out that the person who had died was Leonisa, the
sultan's slave. All this might be done in such a manner that the truth
should never be known, and the cadi would remain blameless in the
sultan's eyes, and have the full enjoyment of his desires. The wretched
old cadi, who was so blinded by his passion that he would have listened
to any absurdity they proposed, eagerly fell in with this scheme as one
full of promise; and so indeed it was, but not as he imagined; for the
intention of his two advisers was to make off with the boat, and pitch
the old fool into the sea.
But a difficulty occurred to the cadi, one of the greatest in his eyes
that could possibly be. It occurred to him that his wife would not let
him go to Constantinople without her; but presently he got over this
obstacle by saying, that instead of buying a Christian woman to put to
death in Leonisa's name, he would make Halima serve his turn, for he
longed with all his heart to be rid of her. Mahmoud and Ricardo agreed
to this expedient as readily as he proposed it, and this being finally
settled, the cadi that same day imparted to his wife his design of
setting out at once for Constantinople, to present the Christian captive
to the Sultan, who, he expected would, in his munificence, make him
grand cadi of Cairo or Constantinople. Halima, with great alacrity,
expressed her approval of his intention, believing that Mario would be
left at home; but when the cadi told her that he would take both him and
Mahmoud along with him, she changed her mind, and began to dissuade him
from what she had before advised; and finally, she told him that unless
she went with him she would not allow him to go at all. The cadi had
great satisfaction in complying with her desire, for he thought he would
soon get rid of a burden that hung like a millstone round his neck.
All this while Hassan Pasha was indefatigable in pressing the cadi to
give up the slave girl to him, in return for which he offered him
mountains of gold, and had already made him a present of Ricardo, whose
ransom he valued at two thousand crowns. Moreover, to facilitate the
transfer, he suggested to the cadi the same expedient which the latter
had himself devised, namely, that when the Grand Turk sent for Leonisa
he should pretend she was dead. But all the pasha's gifts, promises, and
entreaties, had no other effect on the cadi than to increase his
eagerness to hasten his departure. Tormented therefore by his own
desires, by Hassan's importunities, and by those of Halima (for she,
too, was amusing herself with vain hopes) he made such despatch that in
twenty days he had equipped a brigantine of fifteen benches, which he
manned with able Turkish mariners and some Greek Christians. He put all
his wealth on board it; Halima, too, left nothing of value behind her,
and asked her husband to let her take her parents with her that they
might see Constantinople. Halima entertained the same designs as Mahmoud
and Ricardo; she intended, with their help, to seize the brigantine, but
would not make this known to them until she found herself actually
embarked. Afterwards she proposed to land among Christians, return to
her old creed, and marry Ricardo; for she had reason to suppose that
bringing so much wealth with her, he would not fail to take her to wife
on her again becoming a Christian.
Ricardo had another interview with Leonisa, and made known to her the
whole scheme they had projected; and she in return apprised him of the
designs of Halima, who kept no secret from Leonisa. After mutual
injunctions of secrecy, they bade each other adieu until the day of
embarkation. When it arrived, Hassan escorted the party to the shore
with all his soldiers, and did not leave them until they had set sail.
Even then he never took his eyes off the brigantine until it was out of
sight. It almost seemed as if the sighs heaved by the enamoured
mussulman swelled the gale, and impelled with more force the sails that
were wafting away his soul. But as love had allowed him no rest, but
plenty of time to consider what he should do to escape being killed by
the vehemence of his unsatisfied desire, he immediately put in operation
a plan he had long matured. He put fifty soldiers, all trusty men, bound
to him by many favours received and expected, on board a vessel of
seventeen benches, which he had secretly fitted out in another port;
and he ordered them to pursue and capture the brigantine with all its
wealth, and put every soul on board to the sword, with the exception of
Leonisa, whom he desired to have as his own sole share of the immense
booty. He also ordered them to sink the brigantine, so that no trace of
her fate might remain.
Animated with the hope of plunder the soldiers proceeded with the utmost
alacrity to execute the pasha's orders, which seemed the more easy as
the crew of the brigantine were unarmed, not anticipating any such
encounter. It had been now two days under sail, which seemed two
centuries to the cadi, who would fain, on the very first of them, have
carried his design into effect. But his two slaves represented to him
the absolute necessity that Leonisa should first fall sick in order to
give colour to the report of her death, and that the feigned malady
ought to last some days. The cadi was much more disposed to say that she
died suddenly, finish the whole job at once, despatch his wife, and
allay the raging fire that was consuming his vitals; but he was obliged
to submit to the advice of his two counsellors.
Meanwhile, Halima had declared her design to Mahmoud and Ricardo, who
had signified their readiness to accomplish it when passing the Crosses
of Alexandria, or entering the castles of Anatolia; but so intolerably
did the cadi importune them, that they made up their minds to do so upon
the first opportunity that offered. After they had been six days at sea
the cadi thought that Leonisa's feigned malady had lasted quite long
enough, and was very urgent with them that they should finish with
Halima on the following day, and to quiet him they promised that they
would do so. But when that day came, which, as they expected, was to
witness the accomplishment of their own secret plans, or to be the last
of their lives, they suddenly discovered a vessel giving chase to them,
with all speed of sails and oars. They were afraid it was a Christian
corsair, from which neither party had any good to expect; for if it were
one, the mussulmans would be made captive, and the Christians, though
left at liberty, would be plundered of everything. Mahmoud and Ricardo,
however, took comfort in the prospect of freedom for Leonisa and
themselves; nevertheless, they were not without fear of the insolence of
the corsairs, for people who abandon themselves to such practices,
whatever be their religion or law, are invariably cruel and brutal. The
cadi's crew made preparation to defend themselves; but without quitting
their oars, and still doing all in their power to escape; but the vessel
in chase gained upon them so fast that in less than two hours it was
within cannon-shot. Seeing her so close, they lowered their sails, stood
to their arms, and awaited the assault, though the cadi told them they
had nothing to fear, for the stranger was under Turkish colours and
would do them no harm. He then gave orders to hoist the white flag of
peace.
Just then Mahmoud chanced to turn his head, and espied another galley of
some twenty benches apparently, bearing down upon them from the west. He
told the cadi, and some Christians at the oar said that this was a
vessel of their own people. The confusion and alarm was now doubled, and
all awaited the issue in anxious suspense, not knowing whether to hope
or fear it. I fancy the cadi, just then, would have gladly foregone all
his amorous hopes to be safe again in Nicosia, so great was his
perplexity. It did not last long however; for the first galley, without
paying the least regard to the flag of peace, or to what was due to a
community in religion, bore down upon his brigantine with such fury as
nearly to send it to the bottom. The cadi then perceived that the
assailants were soldiers of Nicosia, and guessing what was the real
state of the case, he gave himself up for lost; and had it not been for
the greed of the soldiers, who fell to plundering in the first instance,
not a soul would have been left alive. Suddenly, however, while they
were busy with all their might in pillaging, a voice cried out in
Turkish, "To arms! to arms! Here's a Christian galley bearing down upon
us!" And this indeed was true, for the galley which Mahmoud had descried
to the westward was bearing furiously down upon Hassan's under Christian
colours; but before it came to close quarters it hailed the latter.
"What galley is that?"
"Hassan Pasha's, viceroy of Cyprus."
"How comes it, then, that you, being mussulmans are plundering this
brigantine, on board of which, as we know, is the cadi of Nicosia?"
The reply to this was that they only knew that the pasha had ordered
them to take it, and that they, as his soldiers, had done his bidding.
The commander of the galley under Christian colours having now
ascertained what he wanted to know, desisted from attacking Hassan's and
fell upon the cadi's brigantine, killed ten of its Turkish crew at the
first volley, and immediately boarded it with great impetuosity. Then
the cadi discovered that his assailant was no Christian, but Ali Pasha,
Leonisa's lover, who had been laying wait to carry her off, and had
disguised himself and his soldiers as Christians, the better to conceal
his purpose.
The cadi, finding himself thus assailed on all sides, began loudly to
exert his lungs. "What means this, Ali Pasha, thou traitor?" he cried.
"How comes it that, being a mussulman, thou attackest me in the garb of
a Christian? And you, perfidious soldiers of Hassan, what demon has
moved you to commit so great an outrage? How dare you, to please the
lascivious appetite of him who sent you, set yourselves against your
sovereign?" At these words, the soldiers on both sides lowered their
arms, looked upon and recognised each other, for they had all served
under one captain and one flag. Confounded by the cadi's words, and by
their conscious criminality, they sheathed their blades, and seemed
quite discomfited. Ali alone shut his eyes and his ears to everything,
and rushing upon the cadi, dealt him such a stroke on the head with his
scimetar, that, but for the hundred ells of stuff that formed his
turban, he would certainly have cleft it in two. As it was, he knocked
the cadi down among the rower's benches, where he lay, exclaiming amid
his groans, "O cruel renegade! Enemy of the Prophet! Can it be that
there is no true mussulman left to avenge me? Accursed one! to lay
violent hands on thy cadi, on a minister of Mahomet!"
The cadi's denunciations made a strong impression on the minds of
Hassan's soldiers, who, fearing besides that Ali's men would despoil
them of the booty they already looked upon as their own, determined to
put all to the hazard of battle. Suddenly they fell upon Ali's men with
such vehemence that, although the latter were the stronger party, they
soon thinned their numbers considerably; the survivors, however, quickly
rallied, and so well avenged their slaughtered comrades, that barely
four of Hassan's men remained alive, and those too badly wounded.
Ricardo and Mahmoud, who had been watching the fight, putting their
heads out every now and then at the cabin hatchway, seeing now that most
of the Turks were dead, and the survivors all wounded, and that they
might very easily be mastered, called upon Halima's father and two of
his nephews to aid them in seizing the vessel. Then arming themselves
with the dead men's scimetars, they rushed amidships, shouting "Liberty!
Liberty!" and with the help of the stout Christian rowers, they soon
despatched all the Turks. Then they boarded Ali Pasha's galley. He had
been one of the first slain in the last conflict, a Turk having cut him
down in revenge for the cadi, and the galley being defenceless, they
took possession of it with all its stores.
By Ricardo's advice, all the valuables on board the brigantine and
Hassan's galley were transhipped to Ali's, that being the largest of the
three vessels, with plenty of stowage room, and a good sailer. The
rowers, too, were Christians, and being highly delighted with the
acquisition of their freedom, and with the gifts which Ricardo liberally
divided amongst them, they offered to carry him to Trapani, or to the
end of the world, if he desired it. After this, Mahmoud and Ricardo,
exulting in their success, went to Halima, and told her that if she
desired to return to Cyprus they would give her her own brigantine, with
its full complement of men, and half the wealth she had put on board it;
but as her affection for Ricardo was unabated, she replied that she
would rather go with them to Christian lands, whereat her parents were
exceedingly rejoiced.
The cadi having by this time got upon his legs again, he, too, had his
choice given him either to go into Christendom or return to Nicosia in
his own vessel. He replied that, "as fortune had reduced him to his
present situation, he thanked them for the boon of his liberty; and that
he desired to go to Constantinople to complain to the Grand Signor of
the outrage he had received at the hands of Ali and Hassan." But when he
heard that Halima was leaving him, and intended to go back to
Christianity, he was almost beside himself. Finally, they put him on
board his own vessel, supplying him abundantly with all accessories for
his voyage, and even giving him back some of his own sequins; and he
took leave of them all with the intention of returning to Nicosia; but
first he entreated that Leonisa would embrace him, declaring that if
she would graciously grant him that favour, it would wipe out the
recollection of all his misfortunes. All joined in entreating Leonisa to
grant him what he so earnestly desired, since she might do so without
prejudice to her honour. She complied, and the cadi besought her to lay
her hands on his head, that he might have hopes of his wound being
healed.
These adieux concluded, and having scuttled Hassan's galley, they sailed
away with a favouring breeze and soon lost sight of the brigantine, on
the deck of which stood the unlucky cadi, watching with swimming eyes
how the wind was wafting away his property, his delight, his wife, and
his whole soul. With very different feelings did Ricardo and Mahmoud
pursue their way. They passed in sight of Alexandria, and without
shortening sail, or needing to have recourse to their oars, they touched
at Corfu, where they took in water; and then without more delay they
left behind them the ill-famed Acroceraunian rocks, and descried afar
off Paquino, a promontory of the most fertile Trinacria, at sight of
which, and of the illustrious island of Malta, their prosperous barque
seemed to fly across the waters. In fine, fetching a compass round the
island, in four days afterwards they made Lampadosa, and then the island
where Leonisa had been shipwrecked, at sight of which she almost
swooned.
On the following day the beloved native land they so longed for
gladdened their eyes and their hearts. Their spirits rose tumultuously
with this new joy, one of the greatest that can be known in this life,
to return safe and sound to one's country after long captivity; and one
which may compare with it is that of victory achieved over its enemies.
There was in the galley a chest full of flags and streamers of various
colours, with which Ricardo had the rigging adorned. Soon after daybreak
they were within less than a league of the city, when taking to their
oars, and uttering every now and then joyous cries, they advanced to the
harbour, the shore of which was immediately lined by a great concourse
of people; for the gaily adorned galley had been so long in sight, that
the whole town had come down to observe it more closely.
Meanwhile, Ricardo had entreated Leonisa to dress herself just as she
had appeared in the tent before the two pashas, for he wished to play
off a pleasant trick upon his relations. She did so, adding jewels to
jewels, pearls to pearls, and beauty to beauty (for it increases with
the satisfaction of the heart), to the renewed admiration and
astonishment of all. Ricardo and Mahmoud also dressed themselves in the
Turkish costume, and made the crew put on the garments of the dead
Turks. It was about eight o'clock when they entered the harbour, and the
morning was so calm and clear that it seemed as though it were intent on
beholding this joyful arrival.
Before coming into port, Ricardo fired a salute with the three pieces
belonging to the galley, which were one gun amidships, and two
falconets; the town returned the salute with an equal number. The whole
shore was in lively commotion, watching the approach of the gaily decked
galley; but when they had a nearer view of it, and saw by the white
turbans of the pretended mussulmans that it was a Turkish craft, there
was a general alarm. Suspecting some stratagem, the people flew to arms,
all the soldiers in the town were marched down to the port, and the
cavalry scoured the coast. Highly amused at all this, the navigators
held on their course, entered the port, and anchored close to the shore.
Then running out a plank they all stepped ashore one after the other as
if in procession, and falling on their knees kissed the ground with
tears of joy--a clear proof to all who witnessed their proceedings that
they were no Turks. When all the crew were out of the vessel, Halima
with her father and mother, and her two nephews, followed next, all
dressed as Turks; and the beautiful Leonisa, her face covered with a
crimson veil, and escorted on either side by Mahmoud and Ricardo, closed
the procession, while the eyes of the whole multitude were fixed upon
her. They too did as the others had done, and knelt and kissed the
ground.
Presently the captain and governor of the city advanced towards them,
perceiving that they were the principal persons belonging to the vessel.
The moment he set eyes on Ricardo he recognised him, ran to him with
open arms, and embraced him with the liveliest demonstrations of joy.
With the governor came Cornelio and his father, Leonisa's parents and
relations, and those of Ricardo, all of whom were among the principal
persons in the city. Ricardo returned the governor's embrace and his
cordial greeting; held out his hand to Cornelio (who had changed colour
at sight of him, and almost quaked for fear), and, holding Leonisa also
by the hand, thus addressed the bystanders: "Under your favour,
gentlemen, I beg that, before we enter the city and the temple to return
the thanks so justly due to our Lord for the great mercies vouchsafed to
us in our distresses, that you will listen to a few words I have to say
to you." The governor bade him say on, for all present would listen to
him with pleasure and in silence. All the principal people then formed a
circle round him, and he addressed them as follows:--
"You must well remember, gentlemen, the misfortune which befel me some
mouths ago in the garden of the Salt Pits, and the loss of Leonisa: nor
can you have forgotten the exertions I made to procure her liberation,
since, regardless of my own, I offered all I was worth for her ransom.
But this seeming generosity is not to be imputed to me as a merit, since
I did but offer my fortune for the ransom of my soul. What has since
happened to us both requires more time to relate, a more convenient
season, and a speaker less agitated than myself. For the present, let it
suffice to tell you that after various extraordinary adventures, and
after a thousand disappointments of our hopes of relief, merciful Heaven
has, without any merit of ours, restored us to our beloved country, with
hearts full of joy and with abundance of wealth. It is not from this,
nor from the recovery of my freedom, that springs the incomparable
pleasure I now experience, but from that which I imagine this sweet
enemy of mine in peace and in war enjoys on seeing herself restored to
freedom and to her birth-place. Yet, I rejoice in the general joy of
those who have been my companions in misery; and though grievous
disasters are apt to alter the disposition and debase worthy minds, it
has not been so with the fair destroyer of my hopes, for with more
fortitude and invincibility than can well be told, she has passed
through the wrecking sea of her disasters and the encounters of my
ardent though honourable importunities.
"But to return to the point from which I set out: I offered my fortune
for her ransom, and with it the surrender of my soul's desires; I strove
for her liberation, and ventured more for her than for my own life. All
these things might seem to be obligations of some moment, but I will
not have them regarded in that light; what I would have so considered,
is that which I now do;" and so saying, he raised his hand and
respectfully withdrew the veil from Leonisa's face--it was like removing
a cloud from before the sun--and then he continued: "See, Cornelio; here
I present to you the prize which you should value above all precious
things on earth; and here, beauteous Leonisa, I present to you him whom
you have always borne in memory. This is what I would have you all
esteem as generosity, in comparison with which to give fortune, life,
and honour, is nothing.
"Take her, O fortunate youth, take her; and if your understanding can
reach the height of comprehending the greatness of her worth, esteem
yourself the most fortunate of mankind. With her I will also give you my
whole share of what Heaven has bestowed on us all; it will exceed, as I
fully believe, thirty thousand crowns. You may enjoy it all freely and
at your ease, and Heaven grant you to do so for many happy years. For my
hapless self, since I am left without Leonisa, it is my pleasure to be
poor. To want Leonisa, is to find life superfluous."
Here he ceased speaking, as if his tongue clove to the roof of his
mouth, but soon afterwards, before any one else had spoken, he
exclaimed, "Good heavens! how toil and trouble confuse the
understanding! In the eagerness of my desire to do right, I have spoken
inconsiderately, for no one can be generous in disposing of what is not
his own. What authority have I over Leonisa to give her to another? Or
how can I bestow what is so far from being mine? Leonisa is her own
mistress, and so much so, that failing her parents (long and happily may
they live), her wishes could have no opposition to encounter. Should
they meet an imaginary obstacle in the obligations which she, in her
good feeling, may think she is under to me, from this moment I cancel
them, and declare them null and void. I unsay, then, what I have said,
and I give Cornelio nothing, for I cannot; only I confirm the transfer
of my property made to Leonisa, without desiring any other recompense
than that she will believe in the sincerity of my honourable sentiments
towards her, and be assured that they never had an aim unbecoming her
incomparable virtue, her worth, and her infinite beauty."
Ricardo closed his speech with these words, and Leonisa thus replied,
"If you imagine, Ricardo, that I bestowed any favour on Cornelio during
the time when you were enamoured of me and jealous, think that it was in
all honour, as being done by the express desire of my parents, who
wished to have him for their son-in-law. If you are satisfied with this
explanation, I am sure you are no less so with what you have yourself
experienced as to my virtue and modesty. I say this, Ricardo, that you
may know that I have always been mistress of myself, and subject to no
one else except my parents, whom I now entreat humbly, as is meet, to
grant me leave and license to dispose of what your magnanimous
generosity has given me."
Her parents said she might do so, for they relied on her great
discretion that she would make such use of it as would always redound to
her honour and advantage. "With that permission, then," said Leonisa, "I
beg it may not be taken amiss if I choose rather to seem overbold than
ungrateful; and so, worthy Ricardo, my inclination, hitherto coy,
perplexed, and dubious, declares in your favour, that the world may know
that women are not all ungrateful. I am yours, Ricardo, and yours I will
be till death, unless better knowledge move you to refuse me your hand."
Ricardo was almost beside himself to hear her speak thus, and could make
no other reply than by falling on his knees before her, grasping her
hands, and kissing them a thousand times, with delicious tears. Cornelio
wept with vexation, Leonisa's parents for joy, and all the bystanders
for admiration and sympathy.
The bishop, who was present, led them with his blessing to the church,
and dispensing with the usual forms, married them at once. The whole
city overflowed with gladness, which it testified that night by a
splendid illumination, and for many days following in jousts and
rejoicings given by the relations of Ricardo and Leonisa. Halima, who
had lost all hope of having Ricardo for her husband, was content to
become the wife of Mahmoud, having returned with him to the bosom of the
church. Her parents and her two nephews were, by Ricardo's bounty,
presented with so much out of his share of the spoil as sufficed to
maintain them for the rest of their lives. In a word, all were happy to
their heart's content; and the fame of Ricardo, spreading beyond the
limits of Sicily, extended throughout all Italy and beyond it. He was
universally known as the Generous Lover, and his renown is still
prolonged in the persons of the many sons borne to him by Leonisa, who
was a rare example of discretion, virtue, modesty, and beauty.
THE SPANISH-ENGLISH LADY.
Among the spoils which the English carried off from the city of
Cadiz,[78] was a little girl of about seven years old. An English
gentleman, named Clotald, commander of a squadron of vessels, took her
to London without the knowledge of the Earl of Essex, and in defiance of
his general orders. The parents complained to the earl of the loss of
their child, and implored him, since he had declared that property alone
should be seized, and the persons of the inhabitants should be left
free, they should not, besides being reduced to poverty, suffer the
additional misery of being deprived of their daughter, who was the very
light of their eyes. The earl caused it to be proclaimed throughout his
whole army, that whoever had possession of the child, should restore her
on pain of death; but no threatened penalties could constrain Clotald to
obey; in spite of them, he kept the child concealed in his ship, being
fascinated, though in a Christian manner, with the incomparable beauty
of Isabella, as she was called. In fine, her inconsolable parents were
left to mourn her loss, and Clotald, rejoicing beyond measure, returned
to London, and presented the pretty child to his wife, as the richest
prize he had brought home from the war.
[78] In the year 1596, when the city was taken by Elizabeth's
commanders, Admiral Howard and the Earl of Essex.
It happened fortunately that all the members of Clotald's household were
catholics in secret, though in public they affected to follow the
religion of the state. Clotald had a son about twelve years old, named
Richard, who was brought up by his parents to love and fear God, and to
be very stedfast in the truths of the catholic faith. Catherine, the
wife of Clotald, a noble, Christian, and prudent lady, conceived such an
affection for Isabella, that she reared her as if she was her own
daughter; and the child was so well endowed by nature, that she readily
learned all they taught her. Time and the kind treatment she received,
gradually wore out from her recollection that which her parents had
bestowed upon her; not so much so, however, but that she often thought
of them with a sigh. Though she learned English, she did not forget her
native tongue, for Clotald took care to bring Spaniards secretly to his
house to converse with her, and thus it was, that without ceasing to
speak Spanish, she became as proficient in English as if she had been
born in London.
After having learned all kinds of work becoming a young lady of good
birth, she was taught to read and write more than passably well; but
what she excelled in above all, was in playing all sorts of instruments
suitable to her sex, with extraordinary perfection of musical taste and
skill, and with the accompaniment of a voice which Heaven had endowed
with such melody that when she chanted she enchanted. All these graces,
natural and acquired, gradually inflamed the heart of Richard, whom she
loved and respected as the son of her lord. At first his affection for
her was like that of a brother for a sister, but when she reached her
twelfth year, this feeling had changed into a most ardent desire to
possess her, but only in the honourable way of becoming her lawful
spouse; for Isabella's incomparable virtue made it hopeless to obtain
her in any other way, nor would he have done so even, if he could, for
his own noble disposition, and the high estimation in which he held her,
forbade any bad thought to take root in his soul.
A thousand times he determined to make known his passion to his father
and mother, and as often broke his resolution, knowing that they had
destined him to be the husband of a young Scotch lady of great wealth
and good family, who, like themselves, secretly professed the catholic
faith; and it seemed clear to him, that after having betrothed him to a
lady of rank, they would not think of bestowing him on a slave, if that
name could be applied to Isabella. Agitated by these distressing
reflections, not knowing what course to pursue or whom to consult, he
fell into a melancholy that nearly cost him his life. But thinking it
was a very cowardly thing to let himself die without making any kind of
effort for his own relief, he strove to gather up courage enough to
declare his feelings to Isabella.
Everybody in the house was grieved for Richard's illness for he was
beloved by them all, and by his parents to the utmost degree, both
because he was their only child, and because his virtues, his worth, and
good sense deserved all their affection. The physicians could not make
out the nature of his complaint, nor could he himself venture to declare
it. At last, one day when Isabella entered his room alone, to attend
upon him, he said to her, with a faltering voice and stammering tongue,
"Lovely Isabella, your worth, your great virtue, and exceeding beauty,
have brought me to the state you see; if you would not have me perish in
the worst agonies that can be imagined, say that you return the love I
feel for you, and consent to my fondest desire, which is to make you
secretly my wife; for I fear that my parents, not knowing your merits as
I do, would refuse me a blessing to me so indispensable. If you will
give me your word to be mine, I here pledge you my own, as a true
catholic Christian, to be yours; and though our union be deferred, as
deferred it shall be until it can take place with the church's sanction
and that of my parents, yet the thought that you will surely be mine,
will be enough to restore me to health, and to keep my spirits buoyant
until the happy day arrives."
Whilst Richard was speaking, Isabella stood with downcast eyes, and when
he had ceased, she replied with equal modesty and good sense, "Ever
since Heaven, in its anger or its mercy (I know not which), withdrew me
from my parents, Señor Richard, and gave me to yours, I have resolved,
in gratitude for the infinite kindness they have bestowed upon me, never
to act in opposition to their wishes; and without their consent, I
should regard the inestimable boon you desire to confer upon me, not as
a good but as an evil fortune. Should it ever be my happy destiny to be
acknowledged by them as worthy of you, be assured that my heart shall be
yours; but till that time comes, or should it never come, let it console
you to know that the dearest wish of my soul will ever be that you may
know every blessing which Heaven can bestow upon you." She said no more,
but from that moment began the convalescence of Richard, and the revival
of his parents' drooping hopes.
The youthful pair took courteous leave of each other, he with tears in
his eyes, and she wondering in her soul to see that of Richard captive
to her love. As for him, having been raised from his sick bed by a
miracle, as it seemed to his parents, he would no longer conceal from
them the state of his feelings, but disclosed it one day to his mother,
and ended a long conversation by declaring that they might as well put
him to death as refuse him Isabella, for it amounted to the same thing.
He extolled the virtues of Isabella in such terms, that he almost
brought his mother to think that in becoming her son's wife she would
have the worst of the bargain. Accordingly she gave Richard good hopes
that she would prevail on his father to assent to his wishes, as she
herself did; in this she succeeded, for by repeating to her husband all
Richard's arguments, she easily induced him to approve of the young
man's design, and to find excuses for breaking off the match with the
Scotch lady.
At this time Isabella was fourteen and Richard twenty; but even in that
early spring time of their youth, they were old in sense and judgment.
It wanted but four days of the time appointed by Richard's parents when
he should bend his neck to the holy yoke of matrimony; and wise and
fortunate did they deem themselves in choosing their prisoner to be
their daughter, esteeming her virtues to be a better dower than the
great wealth of the Scotch lady. The preparations for the wedding were
all made, the relations and friends of the family were invited, and
nothing remained but to make known the intended match to the Queen, no
marriage between persons of noble blood being lawful without her
knowledge and consent; but making no doubt of obtaining the royal
licence, they put off applying for it to the last. Things being in this
state, their joy was disturbed one evening by the appearance of one of
the Queen's servants with an order to Clotald from her Majesty,
requiring his appearance before her next morning with his Spanish
prisoner. He replied that he would cheerfully obey her Majesty's
command. The messenger retired, and left the family in great
perturbation; "Alas," said dame Catherine, "what if the Queen knows that
I have brought up this girl as a Catholic, and thence infers that we are
all of us Christians in this house! For, if her Majesty asks her what
she has learned during the eight years she has been with us, what
answer can she give with all her discretion, poor timid girl, that will
not condemn us?"
"Be under no fear on that account, dear lady," said Isabella; "for I
trust in the divine goodness and mercy of Heaven, that it will put such
words into my mouth as will not only not condemn you, but redound to
your advantage."
Richard trembled as if he foreboded some calamity. Clotald cast about
for some encouragement to allay his grievous fears, and found none but
in his great trust in God and in the prudence of Isabella, whom he
earnestly entreated to try in every possible way to avoid convicting
them of being Catholics; for, though their spirits were willing to
encounter martyrdom, yet their flesh was weak and recoiled from the
bitter trial. Isabella assured them over and over again that they might
set their minds at rest; what they apprehended should not befal them
through her instrumentality; for though she knew not then what answer
she should make to the questions that should be put to her on the
morrow, she had a lively and confident hope that she would reply in such
a manner as would be for their good.
Many were the comments and surmises they made that night on this
unwelcome incident, and especially it occurred to them that, if the
Queen knew they were Catholics, she would not have sent them so mild a
message; it seemed reasonable to infer from it, that she only desired to
see Isabella, the fame of whose incomparable beauty and accomplishments,
known to every one in the capital, must have reached her Majesty's ears.
Clotald and his wife confessed to themselves, however, that they had
done wrong in not presenting her at court, and they thought the best
excuse they could make for this, was to say that ever since she had come
into their hands, they had destined her to be the wife of their son. But
even this would be acknowledging themselves culpable, since it would
appear that they arranged the marriage without the Queen's leave; but
such an offence would probably not incur any severe punishment. In this
way, they comforted themselves, and they resolved that Isabella should
not be dressed humbly like a prisoner, but in rich bridal attire, such
as became the betrothed of a gentleman of importance Ike their son.
Next day accordingly they dressed Isabella in the Spanish style, in a
robe of green satin with a long train, and slashes lined with cloth of
gold and looped with the pearls, the whole being adorned with precious
stones; a diamond necklace and girdle, with a fan such as is carried by
Spanish ladies; and for head dress her own luxuriant golden hair
entwined with diamonds and pearls.
In that sumptuous attire, with her sprightly air and marvellous beauty,
she made her appearance in London in a handsome coach, fascinating the
eyes and souls of all who beheld her. Clotald, his wife, and Richard
rode with her in the coach, and many noble relations of the family
escorted her on horseback, Clotald desiring that all these honours
should be paid to his prisoner, in order that the queen might treat her
as his son's betrothed. When they arrived at the palace, and entered the
vast hall in which her majesty was seated, Isabella's escort halted at
the lower end, and she herself advanced alone in all her inconceivable
beauty, producing an effect like that of a brilliant meteor shooting
through the sky on a calm clear night, or of a sunbeam darting at the
first dawn of day through a mountain gorge. A comet she seemed,
portending a fiery doom to the hearts of many in that presence hall.
Full of meekness and courtesy, she advanced to the foot of the throne,
knelt before the queen, and said to her in English, "May it please your
Majesty to extend your royal hands to your servant's lips, who will
henceforth esteem herself exalted, since she has been so fortunate as to
behold your grandeur."
The queen remained a good while gazing on her without saying a word,
figuring to herself, as she afterwards told her lady of the bed-chamber,
that she had before her a starry heaven, the stars of which were the
many pearls and diamonds worn by Isabella; her fair face and her eyes
its sun and moon, and her whole person a new marvel of beauty. The
queen's ladies would fain have been all eyes, that they might do nothing
but gaze on Isabella; one praised her brilliant eyes, one her
complexion, another her fine figure, another her sweet voice; and one
there was who said in pure envy, "The Spaniard is good looking, but I do
not like her dress."
At last the queen motioned to Isabella to rise, and said to her, "Speak
to me in Spanish, maiden, for I understand it well, and shall like to
hear it." Then turning to Clotald, "You have done me wrong, Clotald,"
she said, "in keeping this treasure so many years concealed from me; but
it is such a one as may well have excited you to avarice. You are bound
however to restore it to me, for by right it is mine."
"My liege," replied Clotald, "what your majesty says is quite true; I
confess my fault, if it is one, to have kept this treasure until it
arrived at the perfection suitable for appearing before your majesty's
eyes. Now that it has done so, I had it in mind to enhance it still
more, by asking your majesty's leave for Isabella to become the wife of
my son Richard."
"I like her name, too," returned the queen. "Nothing was wanting to the
fulness of her perfection but that she should be called Isabella the
Spaniard. But, mark you, Clotald, I know that, without my leave, you
have promised her to your son."
"That is true, my liege, but it was in the confident hope that the many
eminent services which my ancestors and I have rendered to the crown,
would obtain from your majesty favours still more difficult to grant
than the leave in question, the more so as my son is not yet wedded."
"Nor shall he be wedded to Isabella," said the queen, "until he has
merited it in his own person. I mean that I will not have him avail
himself to that end of your services or those of his forefathers. He
must himself prepare to serve me, and win by his own deserts this prize
which I esteem as if she were my daughter."
The queen had no sooner uttered these last words than Isabella again
fell on her knees before her, saying in Spanish, "Such thwartings as
these, most gracious sovereign, are rather to be esteemed auspicious
boons than misfortunes. Your majesty has given me the name of daughter;
after that what can I have to fear, or what may I not hope?"
Isabella uttered this with so winning a grace, that the queen conceived
an extreme affection for her, desired that she should remain in her
service, and committed her to the care of a great lady, her keeper of
the robes, who was to instruct her in the duties of her new position.
Richard, who saw himself thus, as it were, deprived of his life in
losing Isabella, was almost at his wits' end. Agitated and discomfited,
he knelt before the queen, and said, "I need no other rewards to induce
me to serve your majesty than such as my ancestors have obtained in the
service of your royal predecessors; but since it is your majesty's
pleasure that I should have new motives and incentives for my zeal, I
would crave to know in what way I may fulfil your majesty's behest?"
"There are two ships ready to set out on a cruise," said the queen, "of
which I have made the Baron de Lansac general. I appoint you captain of
one of them, being assured that the qualities you derive from those
whose blood is in your veins will supply the defect of your years. Mark
what a favour I confer upon you, since I give you an opportunity to
signalise yourself in the service of your queen, to display your
capacity and your valour, and to win the highest reward, methinks, which
you yourself could desire. I myself will be Isabella's guardian, though
she manifests that her own virtue will be her truest guardian. Go in
God's name; for since you are in love, as I imagine, I expect great
things from your prowess. Fortunate were the king who in time of war had
in his army ten thousand soldiers in love, expecting to obtain their
mistresses as the reward of their victories. Rise, Richard, and if you
have anything to say to Isabella, say it now, for to-morrow you must
sail."
Richard kissed the queen's hands, highly prizing the favour she had
conferred upon him, and went and knelt before Isabella. He tried to
speak to her, but could not, for he felt as if there was a knot in his
throat that paralysed his tongue. He strove with all his might to keep
down the tears that started into his eyes, but he could not conceal them
from the queen. "Shame not to weep, Richard," said her majesty, "nor
think less of yourself for allowing such evidence of a tender heart to
escape you, for it is one thing to fight the enemy, and another to take
leave of one who is dearly loved. Isabella, embrace Richard, and give
him your blessing: his affection well deserves it."
Isabella's heart ached to see Richard so cast down. She could not
understand what her majesty said. Conscious of nothing but her grief,
motionless, and blinded by her tears, she looked like a weeping statue
of alabaster. The anguish of the two lovers drew tears from most of the
beholders. In fine, Richard and Isabella separated without exchanging a
word; and Clotald and his friends, after saluting the queen, left the
hall full of grief and pity. Isabella felt like an orphan whose parents
have just been buried, and dreaded lest her new mistress should make her
abandon the rule of life in which she had been brought up.
Two days afterwards, Richard put to sea, distracted among many other
sources of incertitude by two reflections--one was that he had to
perform exploits by which he might merit Isabella's hand; and the other,
that he could perform none without violating his conscience as a
catholic, which forbade him to draw his sword against those of his own
faith, but unless he did so, he should be denounced as a catholic or as
a coward, to the peril of his life and his hopes. But, in fine, he
determined to postpone his inclinations as a lover to his duty as a
catholic, and in his heart he prayed heaven to send him occasions in
which he might show himself at once valiant and a true Christian,--might
satisfy his queen and merit Isabella.
For six days the two vessels sailed with a prosperous wind, shaping
their course for the Western Islands, for, in that direction they could
not fail to fall in with Portuguese East India men, or vessels returning
from the West Indies; but on the seventh day the wind became contrary
and continued that way so long that they could not make the islands, but
were forced to run for the coast of Spain. On nearing it at the entrance
of the straits of Gibraltar, they discovered three vessels, one very
large and two small. Richard steered towards his commander's ship to
know if it was his intention they should attack the three vessels just
discovered; but on nearing it, he saw them hoist a black flag, and
presently he heard a mournful sound of trumpets, indicating that either
the general or one of his chief officers was dead. When he came within
hail, which had not before been the case since they put to sea, there
was a call from the leading ship for Captain Richard to come on board,
as their general had died of apoplexy the preceding night. Sad as this
news was, Richard could not help being glad, not of his admiral's death,
but at finding himself in command of both ships, according to the
Queen's orders for the contingency which had occurred. He went on board
the flag-ship where he found some lamenting the old commander, and some
rejoicing over the new one; but all promised him obedience, yet
proclaimed him general with short ceremony, not having time for longer,
for two out of the three vessels they had discovered had quitted the
third and were bearing down upon them.
They at once made them out by the crescents on their flags to be Turkish
galleys, to the great delight of Richard, who believed that with the
help of Heaven he should make an important capture without prejudice to
his religion. The two galleys came up to reconnoitre the English ships,
which had not shown their national colours but those of Spain, in order
to baffle those who might overhaul them, and prevent their recognising
them as war cruisers. The Turks mistook them for trading vessels from
India, and made sure of capturing them with ease. Richard took care to
let them approach till they were well within range of his guns, which he
let fly at them so opportunely, that with a single broadside he disabled
one of the galleys, sending five balls through her middle and nearly
cutting her in two. She immediately heeled over and began to founder;
the other galley made haste to take her in tow, in order to get her
under the lee of the large ship; but Richard, whose ships manoeuvred as
rapidly as if they were impelled by oars, having reloaded his guns,
pursued the retreating galleys, pouring upon them an incessant shower of
balls. The crew of the crippled galley having clambered on board the
large ship, Richard poured such a cross fire from his two ships on her
consort, that she could neither use sails nor oars, and the Turks on
board her, following the example of their comrades, took refuge in the
large ship, not with the intention of defending her, but for the
momentary safety of their lives. The Christian galley-slaves broke their
chains, and mingling with the Turks also boarded the large ship, but as
they were in danger from the musquetry of Richard's two ships as they
were swarming up the side, he gave orders to cease firing on Turks and
Christians alike. The former, however, had already lost the great part
of their numbers, and the rest were cut to pieces with their own weapons
by the revolted slaves, who, thinking the two English ships were
Spanish, did marvels for the recovery of their freedom.
At last, when nearly all the Turks were killed, some Spaniards shouted
from the deck to their supposed countrymen to come on board and enjoy
the fruits of their victory. Richard asked them in Spanish what ship was
that? They replied that she was a Portuguese ship from the West Indies,
freighted with spices, and with such a quantity of diamonds and pearls
that she was worth a million. She had been driven into those latitudes
by a storm, much damaged, with all her guns thrown overboard, and her
crew almost perishing of hunger and thirst. In that condition, being
unable to make any resistance, she had been captured the day before by
these two galleys, which belonged to the corsair Arnaut Mami,[79] and
which not having stowage room for her great cargo, had taken her in tow
to convey her to the river Larache. Richard apprised them, in return,
that if they supposed his two vessels were Spanish, they were greatly
mistaken, for they belonged to the Queen of England. This information
astonished and alarmed them, making them fear that they had escaped from
one rock to founder on another; but Richard told them they had nothing
to fear, and that they might rely on obtaining their liberty, provided
they did not make any defence. "It would be impossible for us to do so,"
they said, "for as we have told you, we have neither cannon nor other
arms, and have no choice but to throw ourselves upon the generosity of
your general. Since he has freed us from the intolerable yoke of the
Turks, let him enhance his good work by an act which will exalt his fame
all over the world wherever the news reaches of this memorable victory
and his magnanimity."
[79] Under whom Cervantes himself was for four years in slavery at
Algiers.
Richard lent a favourable ear to this request, and immediately called a
council of his officers to consider what might be the best means of
sending all the Christians to Spain, without incurring any risk from
them, should their numbers encourage them to rise and attempt to
overpower his crews. There were some who suggested that they should be
brought on board one by one, and put to death as they entered. "No,"
said Richard; "since by God's grace we have obtained so rich a prize, I
will not betray my ingratitude by such an act of cruelty. It is never
well to have recourse to the sword, when, with a little forethought, the
end may be secured by other means. I will, therefore, not have any
Catholic Christian put to death, not that I care so much for them, but
for my own sake and for yours, for I would not have the honour of our
victory tarnished by cruelty. My orders are, then, that the crew of one
of our ships, with all her guns and arms and the greater part of her
stores, be put on board the large Portuguese vessel, which we will then
take to England, and leave the Spaniards to return home on ours."
No one ventured to contravene this proposal, which to some appeared
equally magnanimous and judicious, while others in their hearts
condemned it as showing an undue leaning towards the Catholics.
Taking with him fifty arquebusiers Richard went on hoard the Portuguese
ship, in which he found about three hundred persons, who had escaped out
of the galleys. He immediately had the vessel he intended to discharge
brought alongside, and had its guns brought on board. Then making a
short speech to the Christians, he ordered them to pass into the
discharged vessel, where they found stores enough for more than a month
and for a greater number of people; and as they embarked he gave each of
them four Spanish crowns, which he sent for to his own ship, in order
partly to relieve their wants when they reached land, which was not far
off; for the lofty mountains of Abyla and Calpe were in sight. They all
thanked him heartily for his generous behaviour, and when they were
nearly all embarked, the same person who had first spoken to him from
the deck of the ship, addressed him, "You would do me a greater service,
valorous sir, in taking me with you to England than in sending me to
Spain; for, though it is my country, and it is but six days since I left
it, I have nothing to look for there but grief and desolation.
"You must know, señor, that at the sack of Cadiz which happened about
fifteen years ago, I lost a daughter, whom the English carried away with
them to England, and with her I lost the comfort of my age and the light
of my eyes, which since she passed from their sight, have never seen
anything to gladden them. Grief for this calamity and for the loss of
my property, of which I was also despoiled, so overcame me that I was no
longer able or willing to apply myself to commerce, in which I had been
so successful that I was commonly reputed to be the richest merchant in
our whole city; and so indeed I was, for, besides my credit, which was
good for many hundred thousand dollars, my estate was worth more than
fifty thousand ducats. I lost all; yet all my losses would have been
nothing had I not lost my daughter. After the general calamity and my
own, want pressed me so hard, that not being able to bear up against it,
myself and my wife--that woe-begone creature sitting yonder--determined
to emigrate to the Indies, the common refuge of the well-born poor. We
embarked six days ago in a packet-ship, but just outside the harbour of
Cadiz we were captured by those two corsairs. This was a new addition to
our affliction; but it would have been greater had not the corsair taken
this Portuguese ship, which fortunately detained them until you came to
our rescue."
In reply to Richard's question what was his daughter's name, the
Spaniard said it was Isabella. This confirmed the suspicion which
Richard had all along entertained, that the person before him was the
father of his beloved mistress. Keeping this fact to himself, he told
the Spaniard that he would willingly take him and his wife to London,
where possibly they might obtain some intelligence about their child.
Taking them both on board his flag-ship, and having sufficiently armed
and manned the Portuguese galleon, he set sail that night, avoiding the
coast of Spain as much as possible, lest he should be intercepted in
consequence of! information given by the liberated captives. Among the
latter there were some twenty Turks, to whom also Richard granted
freedom, to show that his conduct had been the result simply of his
generous disposition, and not of any secret leaning to the Catholics:
and he asked the Spaniards to set the Turks at liberty upon the first
opportunity. The wind, which had blown fresh and fair at first, died
away into a calm, to the dismay of the English, who murmured against
Richard's unseasonable generosity, saying, that the liberated captives
might give information of what had happened, and that if there chanced
to be armed galleons in port, they might sally out and intercept them.
Richard knew that this was quite true, but strove to allay their fears
in the best way he could. But what availed with them more than all his
arguments, was that the wind sprang up again, so that they crowded all
sail, and in nine days reached London, from which they had been only a
month absent on their cruise. Richard would not enter the port with only
joyous demonstrations, on account of the death of his late commander,
but mingled signs of grief with them. At one moment bugles rang out
cheerily, at the next they were answered by melancholy trumpet notes,
and the wailing fife was heard at intervals between the lively rattle of
the drum and the clash of arms. From one mast-head hung a Turkish banner
reversed, and from another a long black streamer, the ends of which
dipped in the water. In this manner he entered the river of London in
his English ship, leaving the Portuguese ship at sea, for want of depth
of water in the river to float it.
These conflicting demonstrations puzzled the vast multitudes, who
observed them from the shore. They easily recognised the smaller vessel
as the flag-ship of Baron Lansac; but they could not make out how it was
that his second vessel had been exchanged for the large and powerful
ship which lay out at sea. But the problem was solved when they saw the
valorous Richard jump into his boat, fully equipped in rich and splendid
armour. Without waiting for any other escort than that of a vast
multitude of the people who followed him, he proceeded on foot to the
palace, where the queen was standing in a balcony, waiting for news of
the ships, and surrounded by her ladies, among whom was Isabella,
dressed in the English style, which became her as well as the Castilian.
A messenger, who had anticipated Richard's arrival, had startled her by
the announcement of his coming, and she stood watching for him with
feelings that fluttered between hope and fear, not knowing whether he
had sped well or ill upon his expedition.
Richard was a young man of noble presence, tall and finely proportioned,
and he looked to great advantage in a complete suit of Milanese armour
all graven and gilded, and instead of a helmet, a wide-leafed fawn
coloured hat with Walloon plumes. Thus equipped, and with his spirited
bearing, to some he seemed like Mars the god of battles; others, struck
by the beauty of his face, compared him to Venus sportively disguised in
the armour of that god. When he came before the Queen he knelt, and gave
a brief account of his expedition.
"After the sudden death of general de Lansac," he said, "I took his
place in pursuance of your Majesty's gracious orders. Shortly afterwards
we discovered two Turkish galleys towing a large ship, which we have
brought home with us. We attacked them; your Majesty's soldiers fought
with great spirit, as they always do, and the corsair galleys went to
the bottom. I liberated in your Majesty's royal name the Christians who
had escaped out of the hands of the Turks, and sent them away in one of
our vessels; and have only brought with me one Spaniard and his wife,
who desired of their own accord to come and behold your Majesty's
greatness. The great ship we took, is one of those which come from the
Portuguese possessions in India; being damaged by a storm, it fell into
the power of the Turks, who took it without any difficulty. According to
the account given by some of the Portuguese on board the ship, her cargo
of spices, and the pearls and diamonds she carries, are worth more than
a million. All is untouched, the Turks not having had time to lay hands
on anything, and I have given orders that the whole should be presented
to your Majesty. There is one jewel alone which, if your Majesty will
bestow it upon me, will leave me your debtor for ten other ships. That
jewel your Majesty has promised me: it is my Isabella, in obtaining whom
I shall be richly rewarded, not only for this service, such as it is,
which I have rendered your Majesty, but for many others which I intend
to perform in order to repay some part of the incalculable amount which
your Majesty will bestow upon me in that jewel."
"Rise, Richard," replied the queen, "and believe me that were I to
deliver Isabella to you in the way of bargain at the price at which I
value her, you could not pay for her with all the wealth of your
prize-ship, nor with what remains in the Indies. I give her to you
because I promised to do so, and because she is worthy of you, and you
of her; your valour alone entitles you to have her. If you have kept the
jewels in the ship for me, I have kept your jewel for you; and though
it may seem to you that I do not do much for you in returning to you
what is your own, I know that I confer upon you a boon the worth of
which is beyond all human computation. Isabella is yours; there she
stands; you may claim her when you will, and I believe that it will be
with her own consent, for she has the good sense to prize your affection
as it deserves. I shall expect you again to-morrow to give me a more
detailed account of your exploits, and bring me those two Spaniards who
wish to see me, that I may gratify their desire." Richard kissed the
queen's hand, and her majesty retired.
The ladies now gathered round Richard, and one of them, the lady Tansi,
who had taken a great liking to Isabella, and who was the liveliest and
most facetious lady of the court, said to him, "What is all this, sir?
Why these arms? Did you, perchance, imagine that you were coming here to
fight your enemies? Believe me, you have none but friends here, unless
it be the lady Isabella, who, as a Spaniard, is bound to bear you no
good will."
"Let her only vouchsafe, Lady Tansi, to have me a little in her
thoughts, and I am sure she will not think of me with ill will; for
ingratitude can have no place in the heart of one so good, so wise, and
so exquisitely fair."
"Since I am to be yours, señor Richard," said Isabella, "claim from me
what you will in recompense for the praises you bestow upon me."
Whilst Isabella and the other ladies were thus conversing with Richard,
there was a little girl present who did nothing but gaze at him, lift up
his cuishes to see what was beneath them, touch his sword, and, with
childlike simplicity, peep at her own image reflected in his bright
armour. When Richard was gone away, she said, turning to the ladies,
"Now I see what a fine thing war must be, since armed men look to such
advantage even among ladies." "Look to advantage!" exclaimed Lady Tansi;
"one might take Richard for the sun, come down from Heaven, to walk the
streets in that garb." Every one laughed at the little girl's remark,
and at Lady Tansi's hyperbole; and there lacked not back-biters, who
thought his appearing in arms at the palace was an act of great
impropriety; but others excused him, saying that it was a very natural
and pardonable act of vanity on the part of a gallant young soldier.
Richard was most cordially welcomed by his parents, relations, and
friends, and that night there were general rejoicings in London. On his
return home, he found Isabella's parents already there, and told his
father and mother who they were, but begged they would give no hint of
the matter to Isabella till he should make it known to her himself. His
desire was punctually observed. That night they began with a great
number of boats and barges, and in presence of a multitude of admiring
spectators, to unload the great galleon, but eight days were consumed in
the work before they had disembowelled it of its aromatic and precious
freight. On the following day, Richard went again to the palace, taking
with him Isabella's father and mother, dressed in the English style,
telling them that the queen wished to see them. They found the queen
surrounded by her ladies, with Isabella by her side, wearing, by the
queen's desire, for Richard's special gratification, the same dress in
which she had made her first appearance at court. Isabella's parents
were filled with admiration and astonishment at such a display of
grandeur and gaiety combined. They looked at Isabella, but did not
recognise her, though their hearts, prophetic of the happiness so near
at hand, began to throb, not anxiously, but with an emotion of joy for
which they could not account.
The queen would not allow Richard to kneel before her, but made him rise
and be seated on a chair which was placed for him alone, an unusual
favour, which provoked many envious comments. "It is not on a chair he
sits," said one, "but on the pepper he has brought." "It is a true
saying," remarked another, "that gifts can soften rocks, since they have
mollified the hard heart of our queen." "He sits at his ease," said a
third, "but there are those who will make bold to push him from his
seat." In fact, that new mark of honour which the queen bestowed on
Richard gave occasion to many to regard him with envy and malice; for
there is no favour which the sovereign bestows on a subject but pierces
the heart of the envious like a lance. In obedience to the queen's
command, Richard narrated more minutely the details of his conflict with
the corsairs, attributing the victory to God, and to the arms of her
valiant soldiers. He extolled them all collectively, and made special
mention of some who had particularly distinguished themselves, in order
that the queen might reward them all and singly. When he came to speak
of his having, in her majesty's name, set the Turks and Christians at
liberty, he said, pointing to Isabella's parents, "These are the persons
of whom I spoke yesterday to your majesty, who, desiring to behold your
greatness, earnestly besought me to bring them away with me. They are
from Cadiz, and from what they have told me, and from what I have myself
observed, I am assured that they are persons of worth and quality."
The queen commanded them to approach her. Isabella raised her eyes to
look at persons who she heard were Spaniards, and, above all, from
Cadiz, longing to know if perchance they were acquainted with her
parents. Her mother first encountered her gaze, and as she looked
attentively at her, there rose on her mind some shadowy confused
reminiscences that seemed to intimate she had seen that face before. Her
father was in the same wavering state of mind, not daring to believe the
evidence of his eyes, whilst Richard watched intently the workings of
their perplexed and dubious souls. The queen too noticed the emotion of
the two strangers, and also Isabella's uneasiness, for she saw her often
raise her hand to her forehead, which was bedewed with perspiration.
Whilst Isabella was longing that the person she imagined to be her
mother would speak, thinking that the sound of her voice would resolve
her doubts, the queen commanded her to ask the strangers in Spanish what
had induced them voluntarily to forego the freedom which Richard had
offered them, since freedom was the thing most prized, not only by
reasonable creatures, but even by irrational animals. Isabella put this
question to her mother, who, without answering a word, rushed abruptly
and almost totteringly to Isabella, and forgetting all respect of place
or circumstances, put her hand to her daughter's right ear, and
discovered a dark mole behind it. Assured now beyond all doubt that
Isabella was her daughter, she cried out, "Child of my heart! treasure
of my soul!" and swooned in her arms. The father, no less tender hearted
but with more self-command, gave no other token of his feelings than the
tears that streamed down his venerable face and beard. With her lips
pressed upon her mother's, Isabella bent her eyes upon her father, with
looks that spoke the gladness of her soul.
The queen was greatly affected by this touching scene, and said to
Richard, "I know not whether you have done wisely in contriving this
meeting, for sudden joy, it is known, can kill as well as grief." Then,
turning to Isabella, she withdrew her from her mother, who, after her
face had been sprinkled with water, came to her senses, and recollecting
herself a little better, fell on her knees before the queen, entreating
her majesty's pardon. Elizabeth graciously replied, and commanded that
the two strangers should take up their abode in the palace, that they
might have the more opportunity of rejoicing in their daughter's
society. Richard then renewed his request that the queen would fulfil
her promise, and bestow Isabella upon him, if so it were that he had
deserved her, but if not, he begged to be sent where he might find
opportunities of doing so.
The queen was well aware that Richard was well satisfied with himself,
and that there was no need of putting him to further proof; she told
him, therefore, that in four days he should obtain the object of his
desires, and that she would honour their union with her royal
countenance. Richard then took his leave of her majesty, his heart
swelling with joy at the near prospect of Isabella becoming his own for
ever. Time sped, but not with the nimbleness he desired; for those who
live on the hopes of pleasure to come, always imagine that time does not
fly, but hobbles on the feet of sloth itself. At last the day came on
which Richard expected, not to end his desires, but to find in Isabella
new graces which should make him love her more, if more was possible.
But in that brief space of time, in which he thought the bark of his
fortunes was running with a prosperous gale towards the desired haven,
it encountered such a fearful tempest, as a thousand times threatened it
with wreck.
The queen's keeper of the robes, who had charge of Isabella, had a son
aged two-and-twenty, named Count Ernest, whom his great wealth, his high
blood, and his mother's great favour with the queen, made too arrogant
and overbearing. He fell most violently in love with Isabella, and,
during Richard's absence, he had made some overtures to her which she
had coldly disregarded. Although repugnance and disdain manifested at
the outset usually make the enamoured desist from their suit, yet
Isabella's notorious disdain had the contrary effect on Ernest, for it
fired his passion, and consumed his sense of honour. He was almost
distracted when he found that the queen had adjudged Isabella to
Richard, and that she was so soon to become his; but before he committed
himself to the infamous and dastardly course which he ultimately
adopted, he first besought his mother to use her influence with the
queen on his behalf, declaring that his death was at hand unless he
obtained Isabella for his wife.
The countess, well knowing her son's violent and arrogant disposition,
and the obstinacy with which he pursued his desires, had reason to fear
that his passion would lead to some unhappy result. With a mother's
natural anxiety to gratify her son's wishes, she promised to speak to
the queen, not with the hope of succeeding in the impossible attempt to
make her majesty break her word, but in order not to sit down in
despair, while any remedy remained to be tried. That morning Isabella
was dressed by the queen's orders with a magnificence which defies
description. With her own hands her majesty put on her neck a string of
the largest pearls found in the galleon, valued at twenty thousand
ducats, and a diamond ring on her finger worth six thousand crowns. But
whilst the ladies were in great glee anticipating the glad time so near
at hand, the keeper of the robes presented herself before the queen, and
implored her on her knees to postpone Isabella's wedding for two days
longer, declaring that if her majesty would only do so, it would more
than reward her for all her past services. The queen desired to know, in
the first instance, why she made that request, so directly at variance
with the royal promise given to Richard; but the countess would not
explain until the queen, urged by curiosity to discover the cause of
this strange request, promised that she would grant it. Having thus
succeeded in her immediate object, the lady keeper made the queen
acquainted with her son's passion, and how, fearing that unless he
obtained Isabella he would commit some desperate deed against himself or
others, she had asked for that delay of two days in order that her
majesty might devise the best means of saving the life of her son. The
queen replied that had she not pledged her royal word, she would have
found a way to smooth over that difficulty, but that, for no
consideration, could she retract her promise or defraud Richard of the
hope she had given him.
The lady keeper reported the queen's answer to her son, but nothing
could overcome his headstrong presumption. Arming himself at all points
he mounted a powerful charger, and presented himself before Clotald's
house, and shouted for Richard to come to the window. Richard was
dressed as a bridegroom, and was on the point of setting out for the
palace with his friends, but hearing himself thus summoned, he went with
some surprise and showed himself at an open window. "Hark you, Richard;
I have something to say to you," said Count Ernest. "Our lady the queen
ordered you to go forth on her service and perform exploits that should
render you worthy of the peerless Isabella. You set out, and returned
with ships laden with wealth, with which you think you have bought your
title to Isabella. But though our lady the queen promised her to you, it
was under the belief that there was no one at her court who could serve
her better than you, or more justly aspire to the fair Spaniard's hand;
but in this it may be that her majesty was mistaken. Being of that
opinion, and holding it for very truth, I say that you have done no such
deeds as can make you worthy of Isabella, nor can you ever perform any
to raise you to that honour; and if you dare to maintain the contrary, I
defy you to the death."
"I am in no wise called upon to take up your defial," replied Richard;
"because I confess not only that I do not merit Isabella, but that no
man living does so. Confessing, therefore, the truth of what you allege,
I say again, that your defial touches not me; nevertheless, I accept it
in order to chastise your insolence." So saying, he left the window and
called for his arms.
Richard's family and the friends who had assembled to escort him to the
palace were thrown into confusion by this untoward incident. The
challenge having been so publicly given, it could not be but that some
one should report it to the queen. This was done accordingly, and her
majesty ordered the captain of her guard to arrest Count Ernest. The
captain made such good speed that he arrived just as Richard was riding
out from his father's house, mounted on a handsome steed, and equipped
with the magnificent arms in which he had gone to pay his respects to
the queen on his return from his expedition. The moment the count saw
the captain of the queen's guard, he guessed his purpose, and resolving
not to let himself be caught, he shouted out, "You see, Richard, how we
are interrupted. If you are bent upon chastising me, you will look for
me as I will look for you. Two people surely meet when they have a
mind." "The sooner the better," said Richard. Meanwhile, the captain of
the guards came up and, in the queen's name, arrested the count, who
surrendered, requesting to be taken into the queen's presence. The
captain complied, and carried Ernest before the queen, who, without
entering into any discourse with him, ordered that he should surrender
his sword and be committed to the Tower.
All these things were torture to the heart of Isabella and to her
parents, who saw their new-found happiness so soon disturbed. The lady
keeper advised the queen that to prevent the mischief which might break
out between her own family and Richard's, the possible cause of it
should be withdrawn, by sending Isabella to Spain. In support of this
suggestion she added that Isabella was a Catholic, and so rooted in that
faith, that all the arguments and persuasions she had used to withdraw
her from it, and they were many, were of no avail. The queen replied
that she esteemed her the more, since she was steadfast to the law
taught her by her parents; and that as for sending her to Spain, it was
not to be thought of, for she was charmed with her lovely presence and
her many graces and virtues. In fine, the queen was resolved that
Isabella should become Richard's wife, if not that day, on another,
without fail. The lady keeper was so mortified by this reply that she
withdrew without saying a word; and having already made up her mind that
unless Isabella was removed there could be no hope of relief for her son
or of peace between him and Richard, she determined to commit one of the
most atrocious acts that could enter the mind of a lady of her exalted
station.
Women being, for the most part, rash and sudden in the execution of
their resolves, the lady keeper that evening gave Isabella poison in a
conserve which she pressed her to take, under the pretence that it was
good for the sinking and oppression of the heart which she complained
of. A short while after Isabella had swallowed it her throat and tongue
began to swell, her lips turned black, her voice became hoarse, her eyes
fixed and glassy, and her breathing laboured and stertorous: in short,
she exhibited all the symptoms of having been poisoned. The queen's
ladies hastened to inform her majesty, assuring her that the lady keeper
had been the author of the nefarious deed.
The queen had no great difficulty in coming to the same conclusion, and
went at once to see Isabella, who seemed to be almost at the last gasp.
Sending with all speed for her physicians, she, meanwhile, ordered that
the sufferer should be given a quantity of powdered unicorn's horn and
several other antidotes, with which great princes are usually provided
against such casualties. The physicians arrived and begged the queen to
make the lady keeper declare what kind of poison she had used (for no
one doubted that she was the poisoner). This information having been
obtained from the criminal, the physician applied the proper remedies
with such good effect that, with God's help, Isabella's life was saved,
or at least there was a hope that it would be so.
The queen ordered that the lady keeper should be arrested and confined
in a chamber of the palace, intending to punish her as her crime
deserved; whilst the guilty woman thought to excuse herself by saying
that in killing Isabella she offered an acceptable sacrifice to heaven
by ridding the world of a Catholic, and removing with her the cause of
affliction to her son. Finally, Isabella did not die; but she escaped
only with the loss of her hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes, her face
swollen, her bloom gone, her skin blotched and blistered, and her eyes
red and humid. In a word, she was now become an object as loathsome to
look at as she had before been surpassingly beautiful. The change was so
frightful that those who knew her thought it would have been better had
the poison killed her. But notwithstanding all this, Richard supplicated
the queen to let him take her home with him, for the great love he bore
her comprehended not only her body but her soul, and if Isabella had
lost her beauty, she could not have lost her infinite virtues. "Be it
so," said the queen. "Take her, Richard, and reckon that you take in her
a most precious jewel, in a rough wooden casket. God knows how gladly I
would give her to you as I received her; but since that is impossible,
perhaps the punishment I will inflict on the perpetrator of the crime
will be some satisfaction to your feelings."
Richard spoke earnestly in the culprit's behalf, and besought her
majesty to pardon her. Finally, Isabella and her parents were consigned
to his care, and he took them home to his father's house, the queen
having added to the fine pearls and the diamonds she had bestowed on
Isabella other jewels and rich dresses, such as manifested the great
affection she felt for her. Isabella remained for two months in the same
state, without the least sign appearing that her beauty would ever
return; but at the end of that time her skin began to peel off, and she
gradually recovered the natural bloom of her lovely complexion.
Meanwhile, Richard's parents, thinking it impossible that Isabella
should ever again be what she had been, determined to send for the
Scotch lady, to whom they had at first intended to unite him. They did
not doubt that the actual beauty of the new bride would make their son
forget the lost beauty of her rival, whom they intended to send to Spain
with her parents, giving them so much wealth as would compensate them
for their past losses. All this was settled between them without
Richard's knowledge, and soon after the new bride entered their doors,
duly accompanied, and so beautiful that none could compare with her in
London, now that Isabella's charms were gone.
Richard was astounded at this unexpected arrival, and fearing that it
would have a fatal effect upon Isabella, he went to her bedside, and
said to her, in presence of her parents, "Beloved of my soul, my
parents, in their great love for me, but ill conceiving how great is
mine for you, have brought hither a Scotch lady, to whom they arranged
to marry me before I knew your worth. They have done so, I believe, upon
the supposition that her great beauty will efface from my soul the image
of yours, which is deeply impressed upon it. But from the moment I first
loved you, Isabella, it was with a different love from that which finds
its end attained in the gratification of the sensual appetite: for
though your great beauty captivated my senses, your infinite virtues
enthralled my soul, so that if I loved you in your beauty, I adore you
in your plainness. That I may confirm that truth, put your hand in
mine."
She held out her right hand; he took it in his, and continued:
"By the Catholic faith which my Christian parents have taught me; or, if
that is not as pure and perfect as it ought, then, by that held by the
Roman pontiff, and which in my heart I confess, believe, and hold, do I
swear, and by the true God who hears us, I promise you, Isabella, soul
of my soul! to be your husband; and your husband I am from this moment,
if you will raise me up so high."
Isabella could only kiss Richard's hand again and again, and tell him in
a voice broken by her tears, that she accepted him as hers, and gave
herself to him as his slave. Richard kissed her disfigured face, which
he had never ventured to kiss in its beauty; and her parents, with tears
of affection, ratified their solemn betrothal. Richard told them that he
would find a way to postpone his marriage with the Scotch lady, and that
when his father proposed to send them to Spain they were not to refuse,
but were to go to Cadiz and wait for him there or in Seville for two
years, within which time he gave them his word he would be with them, if
God spared his life. Should he not appear within that time, they might
be assured that he was prevented by some insuperable impediment, and
most probably by death. Isabella replied that she would wait for him not
only two years, but all the years of her life, until she knew that he
was no longer alive; for the moment that brought her that news would be
her last.
Richard having at length quitted Isabella, went and told his parents
that on no account would he marry the Scotch lady until he had first
been to Rome for the satisfaction of his conscience; and he represented
the matter in such a light to them and to the relations of Clesterna
(that was the name of the Scotch lady), that as they were all Catholics,
they easily assented, and Clesterna was content to remain in her
father-in-law's house until the return of Richard, who proposed to be
away a year. This being settled, Clotald told his son of his intention
to send Isabella and her parents to Spain, if the queen gave them leave;
perhaps her native air would confirm and expedite her incipient
recovery. Richard, to avoid betraying his secret intentions, desired
his father, with seeming indifference, to do as he thought best; only he
begged him not to take away from Isabella any of the presents which the
queen had given her. Clotald promised this, and the same day he went and
asked the queen's leave both to marry his son to Clesterna, and to send
Isabella and her parents to Spain. The queen granted both requests, and
without having recourse to lawyers or judges, she forthwith passed
sentence on the lady keeper, condemning her to lose her office, and to
pay down ten thousand crowns for Isabella. As for Count Ernest, she
banished him from England for six years.
Four days afterwards Richard set out on his exile, and the money had
been already paid. The queen, sending for a rich merchant, resident in
London, who was a Frenchman, and had correspondents in France, Italy,
and Spain, put the ten thousand crowns into his hands, and desired him
to let Isabella's father have bills for the amount on Seville or some
other place in Spain. The merchant having deducted his profit, told the
queen he would give good and safe bills on another French merchant, his
correspondent in Seville, in the following manner:--He would write to
Paris that the bills might be drawn there by another correspondent of
his, in order that they should be dated from France and not from
England, because of the interdicted communication between that country
and Spain. It would only be necessary to have a letter of advice from
him, with his signature and without date, in sight of which the merchant
of Seville would immediately pay the money, according to previous advice
from the merchant of Paris.
In fine, the queen took such securities from the merchant as made the
payment certain; and not content with this, she sent for the master of a
Flemish vessel who was about to sail for France, only to obtain a
manifest from some French port, in order to be allowed to land in Spain;
and she begged him to take Isabella and her parents, treat them well,
and land them safely at the first Spanish port he reached. The master,
who desired to please the queen, said he would do so, and would land
them at Lisbon, Cadiz, or Seville. After this the queen sent word to
Clotald not to take from Isabella any of the presents she had given her,
whether jewels or clothes.
The next day Isabella and her parents came to take leave of the queen,
who received them with great affection. The queen gave them the
merchant's bills, besides many other presents, both in money and in
things suitable for their voyage. Isabella expressed her gratitude in
such terms as to increase the queen's gracious disposition towards her.
She took leave of the ladies of the court, who, now that she had become
plain, would rather have had her remain among them, having no longer
reason to envy her beauty, and being willing to enjoy her society for
the sake of her good qualities of mind and disposition. The queen
embraced the three, and took leave of them, commending them to good
fortune and to the master of the vessel, and asking Isabella to inform
her of her arrival in Spain, and of her health at all times through the
French merchant. That evening they embarked, not without tears on the
part of Clotald, his wife, and his whole household, by whom Isabella was
exceedingly beloved. Richard was not present at the departure, for, in
order to avoid betraying his feelings, he had gone with some of his
friends to the chase.
Many were the dainties which the lady Catherine gave. Isabella for use
on the voyage; endless were her embraces, her tears, and her injunctions
that she should write to her; for all which Isabella and her parents
returned suitable thanks. That night the vessel set sail, and having
reached France with a fair wind, and obtained the necessary papers to
enable them to enter Spain, they crossed the bar of Cadiz thirty days
afterwards, and there Isabella and her parents disembarked. Being known
to the whole city, they were joyfully welcomed, and warmly congratulated
on their recovery of Isabella, and on their liberation, from their
Turkish captors (for that fact had been made known by the captives whom
Richard generously released), and also from detention in England. By
this time Isabella began to give great hopes that she would quite
recover her original beauty.
For more than a month they remained in Cadiz, recruiting themselves
after the toils of their voyage; and then they went to Seville, to see
if they should obtain payment of the ten thousand crowns upon the French
merchant's bill. Two days after their arrival they called upon the
person on whom it was drawn. He acknowledged it, but said that, until
the arrival of advices from Paris, he could not pay the money.
Isabella's father hired a large house facing St. Paul's, because there
was in that holy convent a nun who was remarkable for rare musical
talents, and who was his own niece. They chose the house to be near her
for that reason, and because Isabella had told Richard that if he came
to look for her he would find her in Seville, and her cousin, the nun of
St. Paula's, would tell him where: he had only to ask for the nun who
had the best voice in the convent; every one would know her by that
description.
It was forty days more before the advices came from Paris, and two days
after their arrival the French merchant paid Isabella the ten thousand
crowns, which she handed over to her parents. With that sum, and
something more made by the sale of part of Isabella's numerous jewels,
her father again began business as a merchant, to the surprise of those
who were cognisant of his great losses. After a few months his lost
credit began to return; so, too, did his daughter's good looks, so that,
whenever female beauty was the subject of discourse, the palm was
universally conceded to the Spanish-English lady; for by that name, as
well as for her great beauty, she was known throughout the city. Through
the French merchant of Seville, Isabella and her parents wrote to the
queen of England, announcing their arrival in such grateful and dutiful
terms as the many favours received at her Majesty's hands required. They
also wrote to Clotald and Catherine, whom Isabella addressed as her
revered parents.
Their letters to the queen remained unanswered, but from Clotald and his
wife they received a reply, congratulating them on their safe arrival,
and informing them that their son Richard had set out from France the
day after their departure, and thence to other countries, which it
behoved him to visit for the tranquillity of his conscience. Isabella
immediately concluded that Richard had left England for no other purpose
than to seek her; and cheered by this hope, she was as happy as she
could be, and strove to live in such a manner that, when Richard arrived
in Seville, the fame of her virtues should reach his ears before he
learned where she lived.
She seldom or never quitted the house, except to go to the convent, and
attended no other church services than those performed there. She never
went near the river, or to Triana, or witnessed the general rejoicings
at the Campo de Tablada, or the Puerta de Xeres on Sari Sebastian's day,
celebrated by an almost innumerable multitude; in short, she never went
abroad for any kind of amusement in Seville; her whole time was spent in
her devotions, and in praying and hoping for Richard's arrival. The
consequence of this strict retirement was a great increase of the
general interest about her; thence came serenades in her street by
night, and promenades by day. The desire which so many felt to see her,
and the difficulty of accomplishing it, was a great source of gain to
the professional go-betweens, who severally professed that they alone
had the ear of Isabella, and some there were who had recourse to what
are called charms, which are nothing but deceits and follies; but in
spite of all this, Isabella was like a rock in the ocean, which the
winds and waves assail in vain. A year and a half had now passed, and
her heart began to yearn more and more as the end of the period assigned
by Richard drew near. Already, in imagination, she looked upon him as
arrived; he stood before her eyes; she asked him what had caused his
long delay; she heard his excuses; she forgave him, embraced and
welcomed him as the half of her soul; and then there was put into her
hands a letter from the lady Catherine, dated from London fifty days
before. It was as follows:--
"Daughter of my heart,--You doubtless recollect Richard's page,
Guillart. He accompanied Richard on his journey the day after you
sailed, to France and other parts, whereof I informed you in a former
letter. This said Guillart, after we had been sixteen months without
hearing news of my son, yesterday entered our house with news that Count
Ernest had basely murdered Richard in France. Imagine, my daughter, the
effect upon his father, myself, and his intended wife, of such news as
this, coming to us in such wise as left no doubt of our misfortune. What
Clotald and myself beg of you once more, daughter of my soul, is that
you will pray heartily to God for the soul of Richard, for well he
deserves this service at your hands, he who loved you so much as you
know. Pray also to our Lord to grant us patience, and that we may make a
good end; as we will pray for long life for you and your parents."
This letter and the signature left no doubt in Isabella's mind of the
death of her husband. She knew the page Guillart very well, and knew
that he was a person of veracity, and that he could have had no motive
for publishing false news in such a matter; still less could the lady
Catharine have had any interest in deceiving her so painfully. In fine,
in whatever way she considered the subject, the conclusion at which she
invariably arrived was, that this dismal intelligence was unquestionably
true. When she had finished reading the letter, without shedding tears
or showing any outward tokens of grief, with a composed face and
apparently tranquil breast, she rose from her seat, entered an oratory,
and kneeling before a crucifix, made a vow to become a nun, thinking
herself free to do so, as she was no longer a betrothed maiden, but a
widow. Her parents studiously concealed the grief which this affecting
news caused them, in order that they might the better console their
bereaved daughter; whilst she, as if mistress over her sorrow, having
subdued it by the holy Christian resolution she had made, became their
comforter. She made her intention known to them, and they advised her to
postpone its execution, until the two years were elapsed which Richard
had assigned as the duration of his absence. That delay would suffice
for confirming the news of his death, and then she might with more
security change her condition. Isabella followed their advice; and the
six months and a half which remained to complete the term of two years
were spent by her in devotional exercises, and in arranging for her
entrance into the convent of Santa Paula, in which her cousin was a nun.
The remainder of the two years elapsed, and the day arrived when she was
to take the veil. The news having spread through the city, the convent,
and the space between it and Isabella's abode, was thronged by those who
knew her by sight, or by report only; and her father having invited her
friends, and these having invited others, Isabella had for her escort
one of the most imposing retinues ever seen in Seville on such
occasions. It included the chief justice of Seville, the vicar-general,
and all the titled personages of both sexes in the city, so great was
the desire of all to behold the sun of Isabella's beauty, which had been
for so many months eclipsed. And as it is customary for maidens about to
take the veil to dress themselves in their very gayest attire on the day
when they are to renounce for ever the pomps and vanities of the world,
Isabella wore the same splendid dress in which she was presented to the
queen of England, with her necklace and girdle of lustrous pearls, her
diamond ring, and all her other sumptuous jewels. Thus gorgeously
attired, Isabella set out from home on foot, for the short distance to
the convent seemed to render carriages superfluous; but the concourse
was so great that the procession could hardly advance, and its members
regretted too late that they had not chosen to ride instead of walking.
Some of the spectators blessed the father and mother of that lovely
creature; others praised Heaven that had endowed her with so much
beauty. Some strained forward to see her; others, having seen her once,
ran forward to have a second view of her. Among those who were most
eager to behold her, was a man who attracted the notice of many by his
extraordinary efforts. He was dressed in the garb of a slave lately
ransomed, and wore on his breast the emblem of the Holy Trinity, by
which it was known that he had been redeemed by the charity of the
Redemptorist fathers.
Already Isabella had set one foot on the threshold of the convent gate,
where the prioress and the nuns stood ready to receive her with the
cross, when this ransomed captive cried out, "Stop, Isabella, stop!"
Isabella and her parents turned at this cry, and saw the man cleaving
his way towards them through the crowd by main strength. The blue hat he
wore having fallen oft through the violence of his exertions, disclosed
a profusion of flaxen hair, and a clear red and white complexion, which
showed him at once to be a foreigner.
Struggling, stumbling, and rising again, he at last reached the spot
where Isabella stood, caught her hand in his, and said, "Do you know me,
Isabella? I am Richard, your betrothed." "Well do I know you," said
Isabella, "if indeed you are not a phantom come to trouble my repose."
Her parents also examined his features attentively, and saw that this
captive was indeed Richard. As for him, weeping at Isabella's feet, he
implored her not to let the strange garb he wore prevent her recognising
him, nor his low fortune impede the fulfilment of the pledges exchanged
between them. In spite of the impression which the letter from Richard's
mother had made on her memory, Isabella chose rather to believe the
living evidence before her eyes; and embracing the captive, she said,
"Without doubt, my lord and master, you are he who alone could hinder
the fulfilment of my Christian determination; you are without doubt the
half of my soul; my own betrothed! your image is stamped upon my memory,
and treasured in my heart. The news of your death, sent me by your lady
mother, not having killed me on the spot, I resolved to dedicate myself
to religion, and I was just about to enter this convent for the rest of
my days; but since God has shown us by so just an impediment that he
wills otherwise, it is not for me to refuse obedience. Come, señor, to
the house of my parents, which is yours, and there I will give myself to
you in the way which our holy catholic faith prescribes."
This dialogue, overheard by the spectators, struck them all with
amazement. The chief justice and the vicar-general immediately demanded
what was all this ado, who was this stranger, and what marriage was this
they talked about. Isabella's father replied, that what they had seen
was the sequel of a story which required a different place for the
telling of it; therefore, he begged that all who desired to hear it
should turn back to his house, which was close by, and there he would
fully satisfy their curiosity, and fill them with wonder at the strange
things he should relate.
Just then one of the crowd cried out, "Señors, this young man is the
great English corsair. It is not much more than two years since he took
from the Algerine corsairs the great Portuguese galleon from the Indies.
There is not the least doubt that he is the very man; I know him,
because he set me at liberty, and gave me money to carry me to Spain,
and not me only, but three hundred other captives likewise." These words
increased the general excitement and the desire to see all these
intricate matters cleared up. Finally, the principal persons of the
city, with the chief justice and the vicar-general, went back with
Isabella to her father's house, leaving the nuns sorely discomfited, and
crying with vexation at the loss they had sustained in not having the
beautiful Isabella to grace their nunnery. The company being arrived at
the house of Isabella's father, she made them be seated in a long hall,
and though Richard would willingly have taken it upon himself to tell
his story, yet he thought it better to trust it to Isabella's tongue
than to his own, which was not very expert in speaking Spanish.
Accordingly she began her narration in the midst of profound silence and
attention.
She related all that happened to her from the day when Clotald carried
her off from Cadiz until her return thither; also Richard's engagement
with the Turks; his liberality to the Christians; the promise they had
given each other to be husband and wife; the two years' delay agreed on,
and the news she had received of his death, which seemed to her so
certain, as to have nearly occasioned her taking the veil! She extolled
the liberality of the queen of England, the Christian faith of Richard
and his parents, and she concluded by saying, that Richard would relate
what had happened to him since he left London until that moment, when he
stood before them in the dress of a captive, and with the mark of having
been ransomed by charity. "I will do so," said Richard, "and briefly
relate the hardships I have undergone.
"I quitted London to avoid marrying Clisterna, the Scottish Catholic
lady, to whom Isabella has told you that my parents wished to unite me,
and I took with me Guillart, my page, the same who carried the news of
my death to London, as my mother stated in her letter. Passing through
France, I arrived in Rome, where my soul was gladdened, and my faith
fortified. I kissed the feet of the supreme pontiff, confessed my sins
to the grand penitentiary, obtained absolution, and received the
necessary certificates of my confession and penance, and of the
submission I had paid to our holy mother, the church. This done, I
visited the numberless holy places in that sacred city, and out of two
thousand crowns I had with me in gold, I deposited one thousand six
hundred with a money-changer, who gave me a letter of credit for them on
one Roqui, a Florentine, in this city. With the four hundred that
remained, I set out for Spain, by way of Genoa, where I had heard that
there were two galleys of that signory bound for this country. I arrived
with Guillart at a place called Aquapendente, which is the last town in
the pope's dominions on the road to Florence, and in an inn at which I
alighted, I met Count Ernest, my mortal enemy. He had four servants with
him, he was disguised, and was going, as I understood, to Rome, not
because he was a Catholic, but from motives of curiosity. I thought he
had not recognised me, and shut myself up in a room with my servant
Guillart, where I remained on my guard, intending to shift my quarters
at nightfall. I did not do so, however, for the perfect indifference
shown by the count and his servants made me confident that they had not
recognised me. I supped in my room, locked the door, looked to my sword,
commended myself to God, but would not lie down.
"My servant lay asleep, and I sat on a chair between asleep and awake;
but a little after midnight, I was near put to sleep for eternity by
four pistol shots fired at me, as I afterwards learned, by the count and
his servants. They left me for dead, and their horses being in
readiness, they rode off, telling the innkeeper to bury me suitably, for
I was a man of quality. My servant, awaking in terror at the noise,
leaped out of a window, and ran away in such mortal fear, that it seems
he never stopped till he got to London, for it was he brought the news
of my death.
"The people of the inn came up and found I had been struck by four balls
and several slugs, but none of the wounds in any vital part. Calling for
a confessor, I received all the sacraments as became a Catholic
Christian; but I gradually recovered, though it was two months before I
was able to continue my journey. I then proceeded to Genoa, but found no
other means of passage than two feluccas, which were hired by myself and
two Spanish gentlemen. One of them we employed to go before and pilot
the way, and in the other we ourselves embarked. In this way we pursued
our voyage, closely hugging the shore; but when we came to a spot on the
coast of France, called the Three Marias, two Turkish galleys suddenly
came out upon us from a creek, and one keeping to seaward of us, the
other more in shore, they cut off our escape to the land and captured
us. The corsairs stripped us to the skin, plundered the feluccas, and
having completely emptied them, let them drift ashore, instead of
sinking them, saying that they might serve to bring them more pickings
another time.
"You may well believe how bitterly I felt my captivity, and above all,
the loss of the certificates from Rome, which I carried in a tin case,
with the bill for the sixteen hundred ducats; but, by good fortune, they
fell into the hands of a Christian slave, a Spaniard, who kept them, for
if the Turks had got hold of them, they would have required for my
ransom at least the amount of the bill. They carried us to Algiers,
where I found that the fathers of the Most Holy Trinity were redeeming
Christian slaves. I spoke to them, told them who I was, and they, moved
by charity, ransomed me, though I was a foreigner. The price set upon me
was three hundred ducats; they paid down one hundred on the spot, and
engaged to pay the remaining two hundred as soon as the ship should
return with the contributions for the release of the Redemptorist father
who remained in Algiers in pledge for four thousand ducats, which he had
spent over and above the amount he had brought in hand; for so extreme
is the charity of these compassionate fathers, that they give their
liberty for another's, and remain in captivity that others may go free.
In addition to the happiness of obtaining my liberty, I recovered the
case with the certificates and the bill. I showed its contents to the
good father, and promised him five hundred ducats, in addition to the
amount of my ransom, as a contribution towards the payment of the sum
for which he was a hostage.
"It was nearly a year before the ship returned with the redemption
money. What befel me in that year would, of itself, furnish matter for
another history too long to relate at present. I will only say, that I
was recognised by one of the twenty Turks whom I liberated with the
Christians on the occasion already mentioned; but he was so grateful and
so honest, that he would not betray me, for had the Turks known me to be
the person who had sunk two of their galleys, and despoiled them of the
great Indian galleon, they would either have put me to death, or
presented me to the Grand Turk, in which case I should never have
recovered my liberty. Finally, the Redemptorist father came to Spain
with me, and fifty other ransomed Christians. We made a general
procession in Valentia, and from that place we dispersed and took each
his own several way, wearing this garb in token of the means by which we
had been released. For myself, I arrived to-day in this city, burning
with desire to see Isabella, my betrothed, and asked my way at once to
the convent, where I was to hear of her. What happened there you all
know. It now only remains for me to exhibit these certificates to
satisfy you of the truth of my strange story."
So saying, he produced the documents from a tin case, and placed them in
the hands of the vicar-general, who examined them along with the chief
justice, and found nothing in them to make him doubt the truth of what
Richard had stated. Moreover, for the fuller confirmation of his story,
Heaven ordained that among the persons present should be that very
Florentine merchant on whom the bill for sixteen hundred ducats was
drawn. He asked to see it, found it genuine, and accepted it on the
spot, for he had received advice of it several months before. Thereupon
Richard confirmed the promise he had made of contributing five hundred
ducats to the funds of the Redemptorist fathers. The chief justice
embraced him, Isabella, and her parents, and complimented them all in
the most courteous terms. So, too, did the vicar-general, who requested
Isabella to commit this whole story to writing, that he might lay it
before his superior, the archbishop, and this she promised to do.
The deep silence in which the audience had listened to this
extraordinary narrative was broken by thanksgivings to God for his great
marvels; and all present, from the highest to the lowest, congratulated
Isabella, Richard, and their parents, and prayed for their happiness as
they took leave of them. Eight days afterwards, Richard and Isabella
were united before the altar, their marriage being honoured by the
presence of the chief justice, and all the persons of distinction in
Seville. Thus, after so many vicissitudes, Isabella's parents recovered
their daughter, and re-established their fortune; and she, favoured by
heaven, and aided by her many virtues, in spite of so many crosses and
troubles, obtained for her husband a man so deserving as Richard, with
whom it is believed that she lives to this day, in the house facing
Santa Paula, which her father had hired, and which they subsequently
bought of the heirs of a gentleman of Burgos, named Hernando Cifuentes.
This tale may teach us what virtue and what beauty can effect, since
they are sufficient together, or either singly, to win the love even of
enemies; and how Heaven is able to bring forth our greatest happiness
even out of our heaviest misfortunes.
THE FORCE OF BLOOD.
One night, after a sultry summer's day, an old hidalgo of Toledo walked
out to take the air by the river's side, along with his wife, his little
boy, his daughter aged sixteen, and a female servant. Eleven o'clock had
struck: it was a fine clear night: they were the only persons on the
road; and they sauntered leisurely along, to avoid paying the price of
fatigue for the recreation provided for the Toledans in their valley or
on the banks of their river. Secure as he thought in the careful
administration of justice in that city, and the character of its
well-disposed inhabitants, the good hidalgo was far from thinking that
any disaster could befal his family. But as misfortunes commonly happen
when they are least looked for, so it chanced with this family, who were
that night visited, in the midst of their innocent enjoyment, by a
calamity which gave them cause to weep for many a year.
There was in that city a young cavalier, about two-and-twenty years of
age, whom wealth, high birth, a wayward disposition, inordinate
indulgence, and profligate companions impelled to do things which
disgraced his rank. This young cavalier--whose real name we shall, for
good reasons, conceal under that of Rodolfo--was abroad that night with
four of his companions, insolent young roisterers like himself, and
happened to be coming down a hill as the old hidalgo and his family were
ascending it. The two parties, the sheep and the wolves, met each other.
Rodolfo and his companions, with their faces muffled in their cloaks,
stared rudely and insolently at the mother, the daughter, and the
servant-maid. The old hidalgo indignantly remonstrated; they answered
him with mocks and jeers, and passed on. But Rodolfo had been struck by
the great beauty of Leocadia, the hidalgo's daughter, and presently he
began to entertain the idea of enjoying it at all hazards. In a moment
he communicated his thoughts to his companions, and in the next moment
they resolved to turn back and carry her off to please Rodolfo; for the
rich who are open-handed always find parasites ready to encourage their
bad propensities; and thus to conceive this wicked design, to
communicate it, approve it, resolve on ravishing Leocadia, and to carry
that design into effect was the work of a moment.
They drew their swords, hid their faces in the flaps of their cloaks,
turned back, and soon came in front of the little party, who had not yet
done giving thanks to God for their escape from those audacious men.
Rodolfo laid hold on Leocadia, caught her up in his arms, and ran off
with her, whilst she was so overcome with surprise and terror, that far
from being able to defend herself or cry out, she had not even sense or
sight left to see her ravisher, or know whither he was carrying her. Her
father shouted, her mother shrieked, her little brother cried, the
servant-maid tore her own face and hair; but the shouts and shrieks were
disregarded, the wailings moved no pity, the clawing and scratching was
of no avail; for all was lost upon the loneliness of the spot, the
silence of the night, and the cruel hearts of the ravishers. Finally,
the one party went off exulting, and the other was left in desolation
and woe.
Rodolfo arrived at his own house without any impediment, and Leocadia's
parents reached theirs heart-broken and despairing. They were afraid to
appeal for justice to the laws, lest thereby they should only publish
their daughter's disgrace; besides, though well born they were poor, and
had not the means of commanding influence and favour; and above all,
they knew not the name of their injurer, or of whom or what to complain
but their luckless stars. Meanwhile Rodolfo had Leocadia safe in his
custody, and in his own apartment. It was in a wing of his father's
house, of which he had the keys, a great imprudence on the part of any
parent. When Leocadia fainted in his arms, he had bandaged her eyes, in
order that she might not notice the streets through which she passed, or
the house into which he took her; and before she recovered her senses,
he effected his guilty purpose.
Apathy and disgust commonly follow satiated lust. Rodolfo was now
impatient to get rid of Leocadia, and made up his mind to lay her in
the street, insensible as she was. He had set to work with that
intention, when she came to herself, saying, "Where am I? Woe is me!
What darkness is this? Am I in the limbo of my innocence, or the hell of
my sins? Who touches me? Am I in bed? Mother! dear father! do you hear
me? Alas, too well I perceive that you cannot hear me, and that I am in
the hands of enemies. Well would it be for me if this darkness were to
last for ever, and my eyes were never more to see the light! Whoever
thou art," She exclaimed, suddenly seizing Rodolfo's hand, "if thy soul
is capable of pity, grant me one prayer: having deprived me of honour,
now deprive me of life. Let me not survive my disgrace! In mercy kill me
this moment! It is the only amends I ask of you for the wrong you have
done me."
Confused by the vehemence of her reproaches, Rodolfo knew not what to
say or do, and answered not a word. This silence so astonished Leocadia,
that she began to fancy she was dreaming, or haunted by a phantom; but
the hands she grasped were of flesh and blood. She remembered the
violence with which she had been torn from her parents, and she became
but too well aware of the real nature of her calamity. After a
passionate burst of tears and groans, "Inhuman youth!" she continued,
"for your deeds assure me that your years are few, I will forgive the
outrage you have done me, on the sole condition that you promise and vow
to conceal your crime in perpetual silence, as profound as this darkness
in which you have perpetrated it. This is but a small recompense for so
grievous a wrong; but it is the greatest which I can ask, or you can
grant me. I have never seen your face, nor ever desire to see it. It is
enough for me to remember the injury I have sustained, without having
before my mind's eye the image of my ravisher. My complaints shall be
addressed only to Heaven: I would not have them heard by the world,
which judges not according to the circumstances of each case, but
according to its own preconceived notions. You may wonder to hear me
speak thus, being so young. I am surprised at it myself; and I perceive
that if great sorrows are sometimes dumb, they are sometimes eloquent.
Be this as it may, grant me the favour I implore: it will cost you
little. Put me at once into the street, or at least near the great
church; for I shall know my way thence to the house of my parents. But
you must also swear not to follow me, or make any attempts to ascertain
my name or that of my family, who if they were as wealthy as they are
noble, would not have to bear patiently such insult in my person. Answer
me, and if you are afraid of being known by your voice, know, that
except my father and my confessor, I have never spoken with any man in
my life, and that I should never be able to tell who you were, though
you were to speak ever so long."
The only reply Rodolfo made to the unhappy Leocadia was to embrace her,
and attempt a repetition of his offence; but she defended herself with
hands, feet, and teeth, and with a strength he could not have supposed
her capable of exerting. "Base villain," she cried, "you took an
infamous advantage of me when I had no more power to resist than a stock
or a stone; but now that I have recovered my senses, you shall kill me
before you shall succeed. You shall not have reason to imagine, from my
weak resistance, that I pretended only to faint when you effected my
ruin." In fine, she defended herself with such spirit and vigour as
completely damped Rodolfo's ardour. Without saying a word he left the
room, locked the door behind him, and went in quest of his companions,
to consult them as to what he should do.
Finding herself left alone, Leocadia got out of bed, and groped about
the room, and along the walls, feeling for a door or window through
which she might make her escape. She found the door, but it was locked
outside. She succeeded in opening the window; and the moonlight shone in
so brightly, that she could distinguish the colour of some damask
hangings in the room. She saw that the bed was gilded, and so rich, that
it seemed that of a prince rather than of a private gentleman. She
counted the chairs and the cabinets, observed the position of the door,
and also perceived some pictures hanging on the walls, but was not able
to distinguish the subjects. The window was large, and protected by a
stout iron grating: it looked out on a garden, surrounded by high walls,
so that escape in that direction was as impossible as by the door.
Everything she observed in this sumptuous apartment showed her that its
master was a person of quality, and of extraordinary wealth. Among other
things on which she cast her eyes was a small crucifix of solid silver,
standing on a cabinet near the window. She took it, and hid it in the
sleeve of her gown, not out of devotion, nor yet with a felonious
intention, but with a very proper and judicious design. Having done
this, she shut the window as before, and returned to the bed, to see
what would be the end of an affair which had begun so badly. In about
half an hour, as it seemed to her, the door was opened; some one came
in, blindfolded her, and taking her by the arm, without a word spoken,
led her out of the room, which she heard him lock behind him.
This person was Rodolfo, who though he had gone to look for his friends,
had changed his mind in that respect, not thinking it advisable to
acquaint them with what had passed between him and the girl. On the
contrary, he resolved to tell them, that repenting of his violence, and
moved by her tears, he had only carried her half-way towards his house,
and then let her go. Having come to this resolution, he hastened back to
remove Leocadia before daylight appeared, which would compel him to keep
her in his room all the following day. He led her then to the Plaza del
Ayuntamiento, and there, in a feigned voice, speaking half Portuguese
and half Spanish, he told her she might go home without fear, for she
should not be followed; and he was already out of sight before she had
taken the bandage from her eyes.
Leocadia looked all round her: she was quite alone: no one was in sight;
but suspecting that she might be followed at a distance, she stopped
every now and then on her way home, which was not far, and looked behind
her. To baffle any spies that might perchance be watching her, she
entered a house which she found open; and by and by she went from it to
her own, where she found her parents stupefied with grief. They had not
undressed, or thought of taking any rest. When they saw her, they ran to
her with open arms, and welcomed her with tears. Choking with emotion,
Leocadi made a sign to her parents that she wished to be alone with
them. They retired with her, and she gave them a succinct account of all
that had befallen her. She described the room in which she had been
robbed of her honour, the window, the grating, the garden, the cabinets,
the bed, the damask hangings, and, last of all, she showed them the
crucifix which she had carried off, and before which the three innocent
victims renewed their tears, imprecated Heaven's vengeance on the
insolent ravisher, and prayed that he might be miraculously punished.
She told her parents, that although she had no wish to know the name of
him at whose hands she had received such cruel wrong, yet if they
thought fit to make such a discovery, they might do so by means of the
crucifix, by directing the sacristans of the several parishes in the
city to announce from the pulpits that whoever had lost such an image
would find it in the hands of a certain monk whom he should name. By
this means, they would discover their enemy in the person of the owner
of the crucifix.
"That would be very well, my child," replied her father, "if your plan
were not liable to be frustrated by ordinary cunning; but no doubt this
image has been already missed by its owner, and he will have set it down
for certain that it was taken out of the room by the person he locked up
there. To give him notice that the crucifix was in the hands of a
certain monk would only serve to make known the person who deposited it
in such keeping, but not to make the owner declare himself; for the
latter might send another person for it, and furnish him with all the
particulars by which he should identify it. Thus you see we should only
damage ourselves without obtaining the information we sought; though to
be sure we might employ the same artifice on our side, and deposit the
image with the monk through a third hand. What you had best do, my
child, is to keep it, and pray to it, that since it was a witness to
your undoing, it will deign to vindicate your cause by its righteous
judgment. Bear in mind, my child, that an ounce of public dishonour
outweighs a quintal of secret infamy; and since, by the blessing of God,
you can live in honour before the public eye, let it not distress you so
much to be dishonoured in your ownself in secret. Real dishonour
consists in sin, and real honour in virtue. There are three ways of
offending God; by thought, word, and deed; but since neither in thought,
nor in word, nor in deed have you offended, look upon yourself as a
person of unsullied honour, as I shall always do, who will never cease
to regard you with the affection of a father."
Thus did this humane and right-minded father comfort his unhappy
daughter; and her mother embracing her again did all she could to soothe
her feelings. In spite of all their tenderness her anguish was too
poignant to be soon allayed; and from that fatal night, she continued to
live the life of a recluse under the protection of her parents.
Rodolfo meanwhile having returned home, and having missed the crucifix,
guessed who had taken it, but gave himself no concern about it. To a
person of his wealth such a loss was of no importance; nor did his
parents make any inquiry about it, when three days afterwards, on his
departure for Italy, one of his mother's women took an inventory of all
the effects he left in his apartment. Rodolfo had long contemplated a
visit to Italy; and his father, who himself had been there, encouraged
him in that design, telling him that no one could be a finished
gentleman without seeing foreign countries. For this and other reasons,
Rodolfo readily complied with the wishes of his father, who gave him
ample letters of credit on Barcelona, Genoa, Rome, and Naples. Taking
with him two of his companions, he set out on his travels, with
expectations raised to a high pitch, by what he had been told by some
soldiers of his acquaintance, concerning the good cheer in the
hostelries of Italy and France, and the free and easy life enjoyed by
the Spaniards in their quarters. His ears were tickled with the sound of
such phrases as these: _ecco li buoni polastri_, _picioni_, _presuto_,
_salcicie_, and all the other fine things of the sort, which soldiers
are fond of calling to mind when they return from those parts to Spain.
In fine, he went away with as little thought or concern about what had
passed between him and the beautiful Leocadia as though it had never
happened. She meanwhile passed her life with her parents in the
strictest retirement, never letting herself be seen, but shunning every
eye lest it should read her misfortune in her face. What she had thus
done voluntarily at first, she found herself, in a few months,
constrained to do by necessity; for she discovered that she was
pregnant, to the grievous renewal of her affliction.
Time rolled on: the hour of her delivery arrived: it took place in the
utmost secrecy, her mother taking upon her the office of midwife: and
she gave birth to a son, one of the most beautiful ever seen. The babe
was conveyed, with the same secrecy, to a village, where he remained
till he was four years old, when his grandfather brought him, under the
name of nephew, to his own house, where he was reared, if not in
affluence, at least most virtuously. The boy, who was named Luis after
his grandfather, was remarkably handsome, of a sweet docile disposition;
and his manners and deportment, even at that tender age, were such as
showed him to be the son of some noble father. His grandfather and
grandmother were so delighted with his grace, beauty, and good
behaviour, that they came at last to regard their daughter's mischance
as a happy event, since it had given them such a grandson. When the boy
walked through the streets, blessings were showered upon him by all who
saw him--blessings upon his beauty, upon the mother that bore him, upon
the father that begot him, upon those who brought him up so well. Thus
admired by strangers, as well as by all who knew him, he grew up to the
age of seven, by which time he could already read Latin and his mother
tongue, and write a good round hand; for it was the intention of his
grandparents to make him learned and virtuous, since they could not make
him rich, learning and virtue being such wealth as thieves cannot steal,
or fortune destroy.
One day, when the boy was sent by his grandfather with a message to a
relation, he passed along a street in which there was a great concourse
of horsemen. He stopped to look at them; and to see them the better, he
moved from his position, and crossed the street. In doing so, he was not
rapid enough to avoid a fiery horse, which its rider could not pull up
in time, and which knocked Luis down, and trampled upon him. The poor
child lay senseless on the ground, bleeding profusely from his head. A
moment after the accident had happened, an elderly gentleman threw
himself from his horse with surprising agility, took the boy out of the
arms of a person who had raised him from the ground, and carried him to
his own house, bidding his servants go fetch a surgeon.
Many gentlemen followed him, greatly distressed at the sad accident
which had befallen the general favourite; for it was soon on everybody's
lips that the sufferer was little Luis. The news speedily reached the
ears of his grandparents and his supposed cousin, who all hurried in
wild dismay to look for their darling. The gentleman who had humanely
taken charge of him being of eminent rank, and well known, they easily
found their way to his house, and arrived there just as Luis was under
the surgeon's hands. The master and mistress begged them not to cry, or
raise their voices in lamentation; for it would do the little patient no
good. The surgeon, who was an able man, having dressed the wound with
great care and skill, saw that it was not so deadly as he had at first
supposed. In the midst of the dressing, Luis came to his senses, and was
glad to see his relations, who asked him how he felt. "Pretty well," he
said, only his head and his body pained him a good deal. The surgeon
desired them not to talk to him, but leave him to repose. They did so,
and the grandfather then addressed himself to the master of the house,
thanking him for the kindness he had shown to his nephew. The gentleman
replied that there was nothing to thank him for; the fact being, that
when he saw the boy knocked down, his first thought was that he saw
under the horses' heels the face of a son of his own, whom he tenderly
loved. It was this that impelled him to take the boy up, and carry him
to his own house, where he should remain all the time he was in the
surgeon's hands, and be treated with all possible care. The lady of the
house spoke to the same effect, and with no less kindness and
cordiality.
The grandfather and grandmother were surprised at meeting with so much
sympathy on the part of strangers; but far greater was the surprise of
their daughter, who, on looking round her, after the surgeon's report
had somewhat allayed her agitation, plainly perceived that she was in
the very room to which she had been carried by her ravisher. The damask
hangings were no longer there; but she recognised it by other tokens.
She saw the grated window that opened on the garden: it was then closed
on account of the little patient; but she asked if there was a garden on
the outside, and was answered in the affirmative. The bed she too well
remembered was there; and, above all, the cabinet, on which had stood
the image she had taken away, was still on the same spot. Finally, to
corroborate all the other indications, and confirm the truth of her
discovery beyond all question, she counted the steps of the staircase
leading from the room to the street, and found the number exactly what
she had expected; for she had had the presence of mind to count them on
the former occasion, when she descended them blindfold. On her return
home, she imparted her discovery to her mother, who immediately made
inquiries as to whether the gentleman in whose house her grandson lay
ever had a son. She found he had one son, Rodolfo--as we call him--who
was then in Italy; and on comparing the time he was said to have been
abroad with that which had elapsed since her daughter's ravishment, she
found them to agree very closely. She made all this known to her
husband; and it was finally settled between the three that they should
not move in the matter for the present, but wait till the will of Heaven
had declared itself respecting the little patient.
Luis was out of danger in a fortnight; in a month he rose from his bed;
and during all that time he was visited daily by his mother and
grandmother, and treated by the master and mistress of the house as if
he was their own child. Doña Estafania, the kind gentleman's wife, often
observed, in conversation with Leocadia, that the boy so strongly
resembled a son of hers who was in Italy, she never could look at him
without thinking her son was actually before her. One day, when Doña
Estafania repeated this remark, no one being present but herself and
Leocadia, the latter thought it a good opportunity to open her mind to
the lady, in the manner previously concerted between herself and her
parents.
"Señora," she said, "when my parents heard of the terrible accident that
had befallen their nephew, they felt as if the sky had fallen upon their
heads. For them it was losing the light of their eyes, and the staff of
their age, to lose their nephew, their love for whom far surpasses that
which parents commonly bear towards their sons. But, as the proverb
says, with the disease God sends the remedy. The boy found his recovery
in this house; and I found in it reminiscences of events I shall never
forget as long as I live. I, señora, am noble, for so are my parents,
and so were all my ancestors, who, though but moderately endowed with
the gifts of fortune, always happily maintained their honour where-ever
they lived."
Doña Estafania listened attentively to Leocadia, and was astonished to
hear her speak with an intelligence beyond her years, for she did not
think her more than twenty; and without interrupting her by a single
word, she heard her relate her whole story, how she had been forcibly
carried into that chamber, what had been done to her there, and by what
tokens she had been able to recognise it again. In confirmation of all
this, she drew forth from her bosom the crucifix she had taken away with
her, and thus addressed it: "Lord, who wast witness of the violence done
to me, be thou the judge of the amends which are my due. I took thee
from off this cabinet, that I might continually remind thee of my wrong,
not in order to pray to thee for vengeance, which I do not invoke, but
to beseech thee to inspire me with some counsel which may enable me to
bear it with patience." Then turning to Doña Estafania, "This boy,
señora," she said, "towards whom you have manifested the extreme of your
great kindness and compassion, is your own grandson. It was by the
merciful providence of Heaven that he was run over, in order that being
taken to your house, I should find him in it, as I hope to find there,
if not the remedy most appropriate to my misfortune, at least the means
of alleviating it." Thus saying, and pressing the crucifix to her
breast, she fell fainting into the arms of Doña Estafania, who as a
gentlewoman, to whose sex pity is as natural as cruelty is to man,
instantly pressed her lips to those of the fainting girl, shedding over
her so many tears that there needed no other sprinkling of water to
recover Leocadia from her swoon.
Whilst the two were in this situation, Doña Estafania's husband entered
the room, leading little Luis by the hand. On seeing his wife all in
tears, and Leocadia fainting, he eagerly inquired the cause of so
startling a spectacle. The boy having embraced his mother, calling her
his cousin, and his grandmother, calling her his benefactress, repeated
his grandfather's question. "I have great things to tell you, señor,"
said Doña Estafania to her husband, "the cream and substance of which is
this: the fainting girl before you is your daughter, and that boy is
your grandson. This truth which I have learned from her lips is
confirmed by his face, in which we have both beheld that of our son."
"Unless you speak more fully, señora, I cannot understand you," replied
her husband.
Just then Leocadia came to herself, and embracing the cross seemed
changed into a sea of tears, and the gentleman remained in utter
bewilderment, until his wife had repeated to him, from beginning to end,
Leocadia's whole story; and he believed it, through the blessed
dispensation of Heaven, which had confirmed it by so many convincing
testimonies. He embraced and comforted Leocadia, kissed his grandson,
and that same day he despatched a courier to Naples, with a letter to
his son, requiring him to come home instantly, for his mother and he had
concluded a suitable match for him with a very beautiful lady. They
would not allow Leocadia and her son to return any more to the house of
her parents, who, overjoyed at her good fortune, gave thanks for it to
Heaven with all their hearts.
The courier arrived at Naples; and Rodolfo, eager to become possessed of
so beautiful a wife as his father had described, took advantage of the
opportunity offered by four galleys which were ready to sail for Spain;
and two days after the receipt of the letter he embarked with his two
comrades, who were still with him. After a prosperous run of twelve
days, he reached Barcelona, whence he posted in seven to Toledo, and
entered his father's house, dressed in the very extreme of fashionable
bravery. His parents were beyond measure rejoiced at his safe arrival,
after so long an absence; and Leocadia was filled with indescribable
emotions, as she beheld him, herself unseen, from a secret place in
which she had been stationed by Doña Estafania's contrivance. Rodolfo's
two comrades proposed to take leave of him at once, and retire to their
own homes; but Estafania would not suffer them to depart, for their
presence was needful for the execution of a scheme she had in her head.
It was nearly night when Rodolfo arrived; and whilst preparations were
making for supper, Estafania took her son's companions aside, believing
that they were two of the three whom Leocadia mentioned as having been
with Rodolfo on the night of her abduction. She earnestly entreated them
to tell her, if they remembered that her son had carried off a young
woman, on such a night, so many years ago; for the honour and the peace
of mind of all his relations depended on their knowing the truth of that
matter. So persuasive were her entreaties, and so strong her assurances
that no harm whatever could result to them from the information she
sought, they were induced to confess that one summer's night, the same
she had mentioned, themselves and another friend being out on a stroll
with Rodolfo, they had been concerned in the abduction of a girl whom
Rodolfo carried off, whilst the rest of them detained her family, who
made a great outcry, and would have defended her if they could. They
added that Rodolfo told them, on the following day, that he had carried
the girl to his own apartment; and this was all they knew of the matter.
All doubts which could possibly have remained on the case having been
removed by this confession, Estafania determined to pursue her scheme.
Shortly before supper she took her son in private into a room, where she
put the portrait of a lady into his hands, saying, "Here is something to
give you an appetite for your supper, Rodolfo; this is the portrait of
your bride; but I must tell you that what she wants in beauty is more
than made up for in virtue. She is of good family, and tolerably
wealthy; and since your father and I have made choice of her, you may be
assured she will suit you very well."
"Well," said Rodolfo, staring at the portrait, "if the painter of this
portrait has flattered the original as much as painters usually do, then
beyond all doubt the lady must be the very incarnation of ugliness.
Truly, my lady mother, if it is just and right that sons should obey
their parents in all things, it is no less proper that parents should
have regard to the inclinations of their sons; and since matrimony is a
bond not to be loosed till death, they ought to take care that it shall
press as smoothly and equably as possible. Virtue, good birth, prudence,
and the gifts of fortune, are all very good things, and may well gladden
the heart of whoever may have the lot to obtain this lady for a wife;
but that her ugliness can ever gladden the eyes of her spouse, appears
to me an impossibility. I am a bachelor to be sure, but I perfectly
comprehend the coincidence there should be between the sacrament of
marriage and the just and due delight mutually enjoyed by the married
pair, and that if that be wanting, the object of marriage is frustrated;
for to imagine that an ugly face which one must have before his eyes at
all hours, in the hall, at table, and in bed, I say once more that is
impossible. For God's sake, my lady mother, give me a wife who would be
an agreeable companion, not one who will disgust me, so that we may both
bear evenly, and with mutual good-will, the yoke imposed on us by
Heaven, instead of pulling this way and that way, and fretting each
other to death. If this lady is well-born, discreet, and rich as you
say, she will easily find a husband of a different humour from mine.
Some look for noble blood in a wife, some for understanding, others for
money, and others again for beauty, and of the latter class I am one. As
for high birth, thank Heaven and my ancestors I am well enough off in
that respect; as for understanding, provided a woman is neither a dolt
nor a simpleton, there is no need of her having a very subtle wit; in
point of wealth, I am amply provided by my parents; but beauty is what I
covet, with no other addition than virtue and good breeding. If my wife
brings me this, I will thank Heaven for the gift, and make my parents
happy in their old age."
Estafania was delighted to hear Rodolfo speak thus, for the sentiments
he expressed were just such as best accorded with the success of the
scheme she had in hand. She told him that she would endeavour to marry
him in conformity with his inclination, and that he need not make
himself uneasy, for there would be no difficulty in breaking off the
match which seemed so distasteful to him. Rodolfo thanked her, and
supper being ready they went to join the rest of the party at table. The
father and mother, Rodolfo and his two companions had already seated
themselves, when Doña Estafania said, in an off-hand way, "Sinner that I
am, how well I behave to my guest! Go," she said to a servant, "and ask
the señora. Doña Leocadia to honour our table with her presence, and
tell her she need not stand on any punctilio, for all here are my sons
and her servants." All this was part of her scheme, with the whole of
which Leocadia had been previously made acquainted.
The lady soon appeared, presenting a most charming spectacle of perfect
beauty, set off by the most appropriate adornments. The season being
winter, she was dressed in a robe and train of black velvet, with gold
and pearl buttons; her girdle and necklace were of diamonds; her head
was uncovered, and the shining braids and ringlets of her thick chestnut
hair, spangled with diamonds, dazzled the eyes of the beholders. Her
bearing was graceful and animated; she led her son by the hand, and
before her walked two maids with wax-lights and silver candlesticks. All
rose to do her reverence, as if something from heaven had miraculously
appeared before them; but gazing on her, entranced with admiration, not
one of them was able to address a single word to her. Leocadia bowed to
them all with courteous dignity, and Estafania taking her by the hand
led her to a seat next herself and opposite to Rodolfo, whilst the boy
was seated beside his grandfather. "Ah," said Rodolfo to himself, as he
gazed on the lovely being before him, "could I find but half that beauty
in the wife my mother has chosen for me, I should think myself the
happiest man in the world. Good God! what is it I behold? Is it some
angel in human shape that sits before me?" Whilst his eyes were thus
making his soul captive to the lovely image of Leocadia, she, on the
other hand, finding herself so near to him who was dearer to her than
the light of those eyes with which she furtively glanced at him from
time to time, began to revolve in her mind what had passed between her
and Rodolfo. The hopes her mother had given her of being his wife began
to droop, and the fear came strong upon her that such bliss was not for
one so luckless as herself. She reflected how near she stood to the
crisis which was to determine whether she was to be blessed or unhappy
for ever, and racked by the intensity of her emotions, she suddenly
changed colour, her head dropped, and she fell forward in a swoon into
the arms of the dismayed Estafania.
The whole party sprang up in alarm and hastened to her assistance, but
no one showed more earnest sympathy than Rodolfo, who fell twice in his
haste to reach her. They unlaced her, and sprinkled her face with cold
water; but far from coming to her senses, the fulness of her congested
bosom, her total insensibility, and the absence of all pulse gave such
mortal indications, that the servants began imprudently to cry out that
she was dead. This shocking news reached the ears of her parents, whom
Doña Estafania had concealed in another room that they might make their
appearance at the right moment. They now rushed into the supper room,
and the parish priest, who was also with them, went up to the prostrate
lady to see if she could by any signs make known that she repented of
her sins in order that he might give her absolution; but instead of one
fainting person he found two, for Rodolfo lay with his face on
Leocadia's bosom. His mother had left her to him as being her destined
protector; but when she saw that he too was insensible, she was near
making a third, and would have done so had he not come to himself. He
was greatly confused at finding that he had betrayed such emotion; but
his mother, who guessed his thoughts, said to him, "Do not be ashamed,
my son, at having been so overcome by your feelings; you would have been
so still more had you known what I will no longer conceal from you,
though I had intended to reserve it for a more joyful occasion. Know
then, son of my heart, that this fainting lady is your real bride: I say
real, because she is the one whom your father and I have chosen for you,
and the portrait was a pretence."
When Rodolfo heard this, carried away by the vehemence of his passion,
and on the strength of his title as a bridegroom disdaining all
conventional proprieties, he clasped Leocadia in his arms, and with his
lips pressed to hers, seemed as if he was waiting for her soul to issue
forth that he might absorb and mingle it with his own. Just at the
moment when the tears of the pitying beholders flowed fastest, and their
ejaculations were most expressive of despair, Leocadia gave signs of
recovery, and brought back gladness to the hearts of all. When she came
to her senses, and, blushing to find herself in Rodolfo's arms, would
have disengaged herself, "No, señora," he said, "that must not be;
strive not to withdraw from the arms of him who holds you in his soul."
There needed no more than these words to complete her revival; and Doña
Estafania having no further need of stratagem, requested the priest to
marry her son to Leocadia on the spot. This was done; for the event took
place at a time when the consent of the parties was sufficient for the
celebration of a marriage, without any of the preliminary formalities
which are now so properly required. I leave it to a more ingenious pen
than mine to describe the gladness of all present; the embraces bestowed
on Rodolfo by Leocadia's parents; the thanks they offered to Heaven, and
to his father and mother; the congratulations on both sides; the
astonishment of Rodolfo's companions who saw him so unexpectedly married
to so charming a bride on the very night of his arrival; and above all,
when they learned from the statement openly made by Doña Estafania,
that Leocadia was the very person whose abduction her son had effected
with their aid. Nor was Rodolfo less surprised than they; and the better
to assure himself of so wonderful a fact, he begged Leocadia to give him
some token which should make perfectly clear to him that which indeed he
did not doubt, since it was authenticated by his parents.
"Once when I recovered from a swoon," replied Leocadia, "I found myself,
señor, in your arms without honour; but for that I have had full
compensation, since on my recovery from my this day's swoon I found
myself in the same arms, but honoured. If this is not enough for you,
let it suffice to mention a crucifix which no one could have purloined
from you but myself, if it be true that you missed it in the morning,
and that it is the same that is now in the hands of your mother, my
lady."
"You are mine, the lady of my soul, and shall be so as long as God
grants me life," cried Rodolfo; embracing her again, amidst a fresh
shower of benedictions and congratulations from the rest of the party.
At last they sat down to a merry supper to the sound of music, for the
performers, who had been previously engaged, were now arrived. Rodolfo
saw his own likeness in his son's face as in a mirror. The four
grandparents wept for joy: there was not a corner of the house but was
full of gladness; and though night was hurrying on with her swift black
wings, it seemed to Rodolfo that she did not fly, but hobble on
crutches, so great was his impatience to be alone with his beloved
bride. The longed-for hour came at last: every one retired to rest: the
whole house was buried in silence; but not so shall be the truth of this
story, which will be kept alive in the memory of men by the many
children and descendants of that illustrious house in Toledo, where that
happy pair still live, and have, for many prosperous years, enjoyed the
society of each other, their children, and their grandchildren, by the
blessing of Heaven, and through the force of that blood which was seen
shed on the ground by the valorous, illustrious, and Christian
grandfather of the little Luis.
THE JEALOUS ESTRAMADURAN.
Not many years ago there issued from a town in Estramadura a hidalgo
nobly born, who, like another prodigal son, went about various parts of
Spain, Italy, and Flanders, squandering his years and his wealth. At
last, after long peregrinations, his parents being dead and his fortune
spent, he made his appearance in the great city of Seville, where he
found abundant opportunity to get rid of the little he had left. Finding
himself then so bare of money, and not better provided with friends, he
adopted the remedy to which many a spendthrift in that city has
recourse; that is, to betake themselves to the Indies, the refuge of the
despairing sons of Spain, the church of the homeless, the asylum of
homicides, the haven of gamblers and cheats, the general receptacle for
loose women, the common centre of attraction for many, but effectual
resource of very few. A fleet being about to sail for Tierrafirma, he
agreed with the admiral for a passage, got ready his sea-stores and his
shroud of Spanish grass cloth, and embarking at Cadiz, gave his
benediction to Spain, intending never to see it again. The fleet slipped
from its moorings, and, amidst the general glee of its living freight,
the sails were spread to the soft and prosperous gale, which soon wafted
them out of sight of land into the wide domains of the great father of
waters, the ocean.
Our passenger now became very thoughtful, revolving in his memory the
many and various dangers he had passed in the years of his
peregrinations, and the thriftless conduct he had pursued all his life
long. The result of the account to which he thus called himself was a
firm resolution to change his way of life, to keep a much better hold of
whatever wealth God might yet be pleased to bestow upon him, and to
behave with more reserve towards women than he had hitherto done.
The fleet was nearly becalmed whilst the mind of Felipe de Carrizales
was actuated by these reflections. The wind soon after rose and became
so boisterous that Carrizales had enough to do to keep on his legs, and
was obliged to leave off his meditations, and concern himself only with
the affairs of his voyage. It was so prosperous that they arrived
without check or accident at the port of Cartagena. To shorten the
introduction of my narrative and avoid all irrelevant matter, I content
myself with saying that Felipe was about eight-and-forty years of age
when he went to the Indies, and that in the twenty years he remained
there he succeeded, by dint of industry and thrift, in amassing more
than a hundred and fifty thousand crowns. Seeing himself once more rich
and prosperous, he was moved by the natural desire, which all men
experience, to return to his native country. Rejecting therefore great
opportunities for profit which presented themselves to him, he quitted
Peru, where he had amassed his wealth, turned all his money into ingots,
and putting it on board a registered ship, to avoid accidents, returned
to Spain, landed at San Lucar, and arrived at Seville, loaded alike with
years and riches.
Having placed his property in safety, he went in search of his friends,
and found they were all dead. He then thought of retiring to his native
place, and ending his days there, although he had ascertained that death
had not left him one survivor of his kindred; and if, when he went to
the Indies poor and needy, he had no rest from the thoughts that
distracted him in the midst of the wide ocean, he was now no less
assailed by care, but from a different cause. Formerly his poverty would
not let him sleep, and now his wealth disturbed his rest; for riches are
as heavy a burden to one who is not used to them, or knows not how to
employ them, as indigence to one who is continually under its pressure.
Money and the want of it alike bring care; but in the one case the
acquisition of a moderate quantity affords a remedy; the other case
grows worse by further acquisition. Carrizales contemplated his ingots
with anxiety, not as a miser, for, during the few years he had been a
soldier, he had learned to be liberal; but from not knowing what to do
with them; for to hoard them was unprofitable, and keeping them in his
house was offering a temptation to thieves. On the other hand, all
inclination for resuming the anxious life of traffic had died out in
him, and at his time of life his actual wealth was more than enough for
the rest of his days. He would fain have spent them in his native place,
put out his money there to interest, and passed his old age in peace and
quiet, giving what he could to God, since he had given more than he
ought to the world. He considered, however, that the penury of his
native place was great, the inhabitants very needy, and that to go and
live there would be to offer himself as a mark for all the importunities
with which the poor usually harass a rich neighbour, especially when
there is only one in the place to whom they can have recourse in their
distress.
He wanted some one to whom he might leave his property after his death,
and with that view, taking measure of the vigour of his constitution, he
concluded that he was not yet too old to bear the burthen of matrimony.
But immediately on conceiving this notion, he was seized with such a
terrible fear as scattered it like a mist before the wind. He was
naturally the most jealous man in the world, even without being married,
and the mere thought of taking a wife called up such horrible spectres
before his imagination that he resolved by all means to remain a
bachelor.
That point was settled; but it was not yet settled what he should do
with the rest of his life, when it chanced that, passing one day through
a street, he looked up and saw at a window a young girl apparently about
thirteen or fourteen, with a face so very handsome and so very pleasing
in its expression, that poor old Carrizales was vanquished at once, and
surrendered without an effort to the charms of the beautiful Leonora,
for that was the girl's name. Without more ado, he began to string
together a long train of arguments to the following effect:--"This girl
is very handsome, and to judge from the appearance of the house, her
parents cannot be rich. She is almost a child too; assuredly a wife of
her age could not give a husband any uneasiness. Let me see: say that I
marry her; I will keep her close at home, I will train her up to my own
hand, and so fashion her to my wishes that she will never have a thought
beyond them! I am not so old but that I may yet hope to have children to
inherit my wealth. Whether she brings me any dower or not is a matter of
no consideration, since Heaven has given me enough for both, and rich
people should not look for money with a wife, but for enjoyment, for
that prolongs life, whereas jarring discontent between married people
makes it wear out faster than it would do otherwise. So be it then; the
die is cast, and this is the wife whom heaven destines me to have."
Having thus soliloquised, not once but a hundred times on that day, and
the two or three following, Carrizales had an interview with Leonora's
parents, and found that, although poor, they were persons of good birth.
He made known his intention to them, acquainted them with his condition
and fortune, and begged them very earnestly to bestow their daughter
upon him in marriage. They required time to consider his proposal, and
to give him also an opportunity to satisfy himself that their birth and
quality was such as they had stated.
The parties took leave of each other, made the necessary inquiries,
found them satisfactory on both sides, and finally Leonora was betrothed
to Carrizales, who settled upon her twenty thousand ducats, so hotly
enamoured was the jealous old bridegroom. But no sooner had he
pronounced the conjugal "yes," than he was all at once assailed by a
host of rabid fancies; he began to tremble without cause and to find his
cares and anxieties come thicker and faster upon him than ever. The
first proof he gave of his jealous temper was, in resolving that no
tailor should take measure of his betrothed for any of the many wedding
garments he intended to present her. Accordingly, he went about looking
for some other woman, who might be nearly of the same height and figure
as Leonora. He found a poor woman, who seemed suitable for his purpose,
and having had a gown made to her measure, he tried it on his betrothed,
found that it fitted well, and gave orders that it should serve as a
pattern for all the other dresses, which were so many and so rich that
the bride's parents thought themselves fortunate beyond measure, in
having obtained for themselves and their daughter a son-in-law and a
husband so nobly munificent. As for Leonora, she was at her wit's end
with amazement at the sight of such gorgeous finery, for the best she
had ever worn in her life had been but a serge petticoat and a silk
jacket.
The second proof of jealousy given by Felipe was, that he would not
consummate his marriage until he had provided a house after his own
fancy, which he arranged in this singular manner. He bought one for
twelve thousand ducats, in one of the best wards of the city, with a
fountain and pond, and a garden well stocked with orange trees. He put
screens before all the windows that looked towards the street, leaving
them no other prospect than the sky, and did much the same with all the
others in the house. In the gateway next the street, he erected a stable
for a mule, and over it a straw loft, and a room for an old black
eunuch, who was to take care of the mule. He raised the parapets round
the flat roof of the house so high, that nothing could be seen above
them but the sky, and that only by turning one's face upwards. In the
inner door, opening from the gateway upon the quadrangle, he fixed a
turning box like that of a convent, by means of which articles were to
be received from without. He furnished the house in a sumptuous style,
such as would have become the mansion of a great lord; and he bought
four white slave girls, whom he branded in the face, and two negresses.
For the daily supplies of his establishment he engaged a purveyor, who
was to make all the necessary purchases, but was not to sleep in the
house or ever enter it further than to the second door, where he was to
deposit what he had brought in the turning box. Having made these
arrangements, Carrizales invested part of his money in sundry good
securities; part he placed in the bank, and the rest he kept by him to
meet any emergencies that might arise. He also had a master key made for
his whole house; and he laid up a whole year's store of all such things
as it is usual to purchase in bulk at their respective seasons; and
everything being now ready to his mind, he went to his father-in-law's
house and claimed his bride, whom her parents delivered up to him with
no few tears, for it seemed to them as if they were giving her up for
burial.
Leonora knew not, poor young creature, what was before her, but she shed
tears because she saw her parents weep, and taking leave of them with
their blessing, she went to her new home, her husband leading her by the
hand, and her slaves and servants attending her. On their arrival
Carrizales harangued all his domestics, enjoining them to keep careful
watch over Leonora, and by no means, on any pretence whatsoever, to
allow anybody to enter within the second gate, not even the black
eunuch. But the person whom above all others he charged with the safe
keeping and due entertainment of his wife was a dueña of much prudence
and gravity, whom he had taken to be Leonora's monitress, and
superintendent of the whole house, and to command the slaves and two
other maidens of Leonora's age whom he had also added to his family,
that his wife might not be without companions of her own years. He
promised them all that he would treat them so well, and take such care
for their comfort and gratification, that they should not feel their
confinement, and that on holidays they should every one of them without
exception be allowed to go to mass; but so early in the morning that
daylight itself should scarcely have a chance of seeing them. The
servant maids and the slaves promised to obey all his orders cheerfully
and with prompt alacrity and the bride, with a timid shrinking of her
shoulders, bowed her head, and said that she had no other will than that
of her lord and spouse, to whom she always owed obedience.
Having thus laid down the law for the government of his household, the
worthy Estramaduran began to enjoy, as well as he could, the fruits of
matrimony, which, to Leonora's inexperienced taste, were neither
sweet-flavoured nor insipid. Her days were spent with her dueña, her
damsels, and her slaves, who, to make the time pass more agreeably, took
to pampering their palates, and few days passed in which they did not
make lots of things in which they consumed a great deal of honey and
sugar. Their master gladly supplied them with all they could wish for in
that way without stint, for by that means he expected to keep them
occupied and amused, so that they should have no time to think of their
confinement and seclusion. Leonora lived on a footing of equality with
her domestics, amused herself as they did, and even in her simplicity
took pleasure in dressing dolls and other childish pastime. All this
afforded infinite satisfaction to the jealous husband; it seemed to him
that he had chosen the best way of life imaginable, and that it was not
within the compass of human art or malice to trouble his repose:
accordingly his whole care was devoted to anticipating his wife's wishes
by all sorts of presents, and encouraging her to ask for whatever came
into her head, for in everything it should be his pleasure to gratify
her.
On the days she went to mass, which as we have said was before daylight,
her parents attended at church and talked with their daughter in
presence of her husband, who made them such liberal gifts as mitigated
the keenness of their compassion for the secluded life led by their
daughter. Carrizales used to get up in the morning and watch for the
arrival of the purveyor, who was always made aware of what was wanted
for the day by means of a note placed over-night in the turning box.
After the purveyor had come and gone, Carrizales used to go abroad,
generally on foot, locking both entrance doors behind him--that next the
street, and that which opened on the quadrangle,--and leaving the negro
shut up between them. Having despatched his business, which was not
much, he speedily returned, shut himself up in his house, and occupied
himself in making much of his wife and her handmaids, who all liked him
for his placid and agreeable humour, and above all for his great
liberality towards them. In this way they passed a year of novitiate,
and made profession of that manner of life, resolved every one of them
to continue in it to the end of their days; and so it would have been,
if the crafty perturber of the human race had not brought their chaste
purposes to nought, as you shall presently hear.
Now, I ask the most long-headed and wary of my readers, what more could
old Felipe have done in the way of taking precautions for his security,
since he would not even allow that there should be any male animal
within his dwelling? No tom-cat ever persecuted its rats, nor was the
barking of a dog ever heard within its walls; all creatures belonging to
it were of the feminine gender. He took thought by day, and by night he
did not sleep; he was himself the patrol and sentinel of his house, and
the Argus of what he held dear. Never did a man set foot within the
quadrangle; he transacted his business with his friends in the street;
the pictures that adorned his rooms were all female figures, flowers, or
landscapes; his whole dwelling breathed an odour of propriety,
seclusion, and circumspection; the very tales which the maid servants
told by the fireside in the long winter nights, being told in his
presence, were perfectly free from the least tinge of wantonness. Her
aged spouse's silver hairs seemed in Leonora's eyes locks of pure gold;
for the first love known by maidens imprints itself on their hearts like
a seal on melted wax. His inordinate watchfulness seemed to her no more
than the due caution of an experienced and judicious man. She was fully
persuaded that the life she led was the same as that led by all married
women. Her thoughts never wandered beyond the walls of her dwelling, nor
had she a wish that was not the same as her husband's. It was only on
the days she went to mass that she set eyes on the streets, and that was
so early in the morning, that except on the way home she had not light
to look about her. Never was there seen a convent more closely barred
and bolted; never were nuns kept more recluse, or golden apples better
guarded; and yet for all his precautions poor Felipe could not help
falling into the pit he dreaded,--or at least believing that he had so
fallen.
There is in Seville an idle pleasure-seeking class of people who are
commonly called men on town,[80] a sauntering, sprucely dressed,
mellifluous race, always finding means to make, themselves welcome at
rich men's feasts. Of these people, their manners and customs, and the
laws they observe among themselves, I should have much to say, but
abstain from it for good reasons. One of these gallants, a bachelor,--or
a _virote_, as such persons are called in their jargon, the newly
married being styled _matones_,--took notice of the house of Carrizales,
and seeing it always shut close, he was curious to know who lived there.
He set about this inquiry with such ardour and ingenuity, that he failed
not to obtain all the information he desired. He learned the character
and habits of the old man, the beauty of Leonora, and the singular
method adopted by her husband in order to keep her safe. All this
inflamed him with desire to see if it would not be possible, by force or
stratagem, to effect the reduction of so well-guarded a fortress. He
imparted his thoughts to three of his friends, and they all agreed that
he should go to work, for in such an enterprise no one lacks counsellors
to aid and abet him. At first they were at a loss how to set about so
difficult an exploit; but after many consultations they agreed upon the
following plan:--Loaysa (so the virote was named) disappeared from
among his friends, giving out that he was leaving Seville for some time.
Then drawing on a pair of linen drawers and a clean shirt, he put over
them a suit of clothes so torn and patched, that the poorest beggar in
the city would have disdained to wear such rags. He shaved off the
little beard he had, covered one of his eyes with a plaster, tied up one
of his legs, and hobbling along on two crutches, appeared so completely
metamorphosed into a lame beggar, that no real cripple could have looked
less of a counterfeit than he.
[80] "Men on town," _gente de barrio_, literally, people of the ward or
quarter.
In this guise he posted himself closely at the hour of evening prayer
before the door of Carrizales' house, which was fast shut, and Luis the
negro locked up between the two doors. Having taken up his position
there, Loaysa produced a greasy guitar, wanting some of its strings, and
as he was something of a musician, he began to play a few lovely airs,
and to sing Moorish ballads in a feigned voice, with so much expression
that all who were passing through the street stopped to listen. The boys
all made a ring round him when he sang, and Luis the negro, enchanted by
the virote's music, would have given one of his hands to be able to open
the door, and listen to him more at his ease, such is the fondness for
music inherent in the negro race. When Loaysa wanted to get rid of his
audience, he had only to cease singing, put up his guitar, and hobble
away on his crutches.
Loaysa four or five times repeated this serenade to the negro, for whose
sake alone he played and sang, thinking that the way to succeed in his
sap and siege was to begin by making sure of old Luis; nor was his
expectation disappointed. One night when he had taken his place as usual
before the door, and had begun to time his guitar, perceiving that the
negro was already on the alert, he put his lips to the key-hole and
whispered, "Can you give me a drop of water, Luis? I am dying with
thirst, and can't sing."
"No," said the negro, "for I have not the key of this door, and there is
no hole through which I can give you drink."
"Who keeps the key, then?"
"My master, who is the most jealous man in the world; and if he knew
that I was now talking here with any one, it were pity of my life. But
who are you who ask me for water?"
"I am a poor cripple, who get my bread by asking alms of all good people
in God's name; besides which I teach the guitar to some moriscoes, and
other poor people. Among my pupils I have three negroes, slaves to three
aldermen, whom I have taught so well that they are fit to sing and play
at dance or in any tavern, and they have paid me for it very well
indeed."
"A deal better would I pay you to have the opportunity of taking
lessons; but it is not possible, for when my master goes out in the
morning he locks the door behind him, and he does the same when he comes
in, leaving me shut up between two doors."
"I vow to God, Luis, if you would only contrive to let me in a few
nights to give you lessons, in less than a fortnight I would make you
such a dabster at the guitar, that you need not be ashamed to play at
any street corner; for I would have you to know that I have an
extraordinary knack in teaching; moreover, I have heard tell that you
have a very promising capacity, and from what I can judge from the tone
of your voice, you must sing very well."
"I don't sing; badly; but what good is that since I don't know any
tunes, except the 'Star of Venus,' or, 'In the green meadow,' or the
tune that is now so much in vogue, 'Clinging to her grated window, with
a trembling hand?'"
"All these are moonshine to what I could teach you, for I know all the
ballads of the Moor Abendaraez, with those of his lady Xarifa, and all
those comprising the history of the grand sofi Tomunibeyo, and the
divine sarabands which enchant the souls of the Portuguese themselves,
among whom they are most in vogue; and all these I teach by such methods
and with such facility, that almost before you have swallowed three or
four bushels of salt, you will find yourself an out-and-out performer in
every kind of guitar music."
"What's the good of all that," (here the negro sighed heavily,) "since I
can't get you into the house?"
"There's a remedy for all things: contrive to take the keys from your
master, and I will give you a piece of wax, with which you may take an
impression of the wards, for I have taken such a liking to you, I will
get a locksmith, a friend of mine, to make new keys, and then I can come
in at night and teach you to play better than Prester John in the
Indies. It is a thousand pities that a voice like yours should be lost
for want of the accompaniment of the guitar; for I would have you to
know, brother Luis, that the finest voice in the world loses its
perfection when it is not accompanied by some instrument, be it guitar
or harpsichord, organ or harp; but the instrument that will suit your
voice best is the guitar, because it is the handiest and the least
costly of all."
"All that is very good; but the thing can't be done, for I never get
hold of the keys, nor does my master ever let them out of his keeping;
day and night they sleep under his pillow."
"Well, then, there's another thing you may do, if so be you have made up
a mind to be a first-rate musician; if you haven't, I need not bother
myself with advising you."
"Have a mind, do you say? Ay, and to that degree that there is nothing I
wouldn't do, if it were possible anyhow, for sake of being able to play
music."
"Well, if that's the case, you have only to scrape away a little mortar
from the gate-post near the hinge, and I will give you, through that
opening, a pair of pincers and a hammer, with which you may by night
draw out the nails of the staple, and we can easily put that to rights
again, so that no one will ever suspect that the lock was opened. Once
shut up with you in your loft, or wherever you sleep, I will go to work
in such style that you will turn out even better than I said, to my own
personal advantage, and to the increase of your accomplishments. You
need not give yourself any concern about what we shall have to eat. I
will bring enough to last us both for more than a week, for I have
pupils who will not let me be pinched."
"As for that matter we are all right; for with what my master allows me,
and the leavings brought me by the slave-girls, we should have enough
for two more besides ourselves. Only bring the hammer and pincers, and I
will make an opening close to the hinge, through which you may pass them
in, and I will stop it up again with mud. I will take the fastenings out
of the lock, and even should it be necessary to give some loud knocks,
my master sleeps so far off from this gate, that it must be either a
miracle or our extraordinary ill luck if he hears them."
"Well, then, with the blessing of God, friend Luis, in two days from
this time you shall have everything necessary for the execution of your
laudable purpose. Meanwhile, take care not to eat such things as are apt
to make phlegm, for they do the voice no good, but a deal of harm."
"Nothing makes me so hoarse so much as wine, but I would not give it up
for all the voices above ground."
"Don't think I would have you do so; God forbid! Drink, Luis my boy,
drink; and much good may it do you, for wine drunk in measure never did
any one harm."
"I always drink in measure. I have a jug here that holds exactly three
pints and a half. The girls fill this for me unknown to my master, and
the purveyor brings me on the sly a bottle holding a good gallon, which
makes up for the deficiency of the jug."
"That's the way to live, my boy, for a dry throat can neither grunt nor
sing."
"Well, go your ways now, and God be with you; but don't forget to come
and sing here every night until such time as you bring the tools for
getting you within doors. My fingers itch to be at the guitar."
"I'll come, never fear, and I'll bring some new tunes too."
"Ay, do; but before you go away now, sing me something that I may go to
sleep pleasantly; and for the matter of payment, be it known to the
_señor pobre_ that I will be more liberal than many a rich man."
"Oh, I ain't uneasy on that score. If you think I teach you well, I will
leave it to yourself to pay me accordingly. And now I'll just sing you
one song, but when I am inside you will see wonders."
Here ended this long dialogue, and Loaysa sang a sprightly ditty with
such good effect, that the negro was in ecstacies, and felt as if the
time for opening the door would never arrive.
Having finished his song, Loaysa took his departure, and set off at a
rounder pace than might have been expected of a man on crutches, to
report to his friends what a good beginning he had made. He told them
what he had concerted with the negro, and the following day they
procured tools of the right sort, fit to break any fastening as if it
was made of straw. The virote failed not to serenade the negro, nor the
latter to scrape at the gate-post till he had made a sufficiently wide
hole, which he plastered up so well, that no one could perceive it
unless he searched for it on purpose. On the second night Loaysa passed
in the tools, Luis went to work with them, whipped off the staple in a
trice, opened the door, and let in his Orpheus. Great was his surprise
to see him on his two crutches, with such a distorted leg, and in such a
tattered plight. Loaysa did not wear the patch over his eye, for it was
not necessary, and as soon as he entered he embraced his pupil, kissed
him on the cheek, and immediately put into his hand a big jar of wine, a
box of preserves, and other sweet things, with which his wallet was well
stored. Then throwing aside his crutches, he began to cut capers, as if
nothing ailed him, to the still greater amazement of the negro.
"You must know, brother Luis," said Loaysa, "that my lameness does not
come of natural infirmity, but from my own ingenious contrivance,
whereby I get my bread, asking alms for the love of God. In this way,
and with the help of my music, I lead the merriest life in the world,
where others, with less cleverness and good management, would be starved
to death. Of this you will be convinced in the course of our
friendship."
"We shall see," said the negro; "but now let us put this staple back in
its place, so that it may not appear that it has been moved."
"Very good," said Loaysa, and taking out some nails from his wallet, he
soon made the lock seem as secure as ever, to the great satisfaction of
the negro, who, taking him at once to his loft, made him as comfortable
there as he could. Luis lighted a lamp; Loaysa took up his guitar, and
began to strike the chords softly and sweetly, so that the poor negro
was transported with delight. After he had played awhile, he drew forth
a fresh supply of good things for a collation, which they partook of
together, and the pupil applied himself so earnestly to the bottle that
it took away his senses still more than the music had done. Supper over,
Loaysa proposed that Luis should take his first lesson at once; and
though the poor negro was too much fuddled to distinguish one string
from another, Loaysa made him believe that he had already learnt at
least two notes. So persuaded was the poor fellow of this, that he did
nothing all night but jangle and strum away. They had but a short sleep
that night. In the morning, just on the strike of six, Carrizales came
down, opened both entrance doors, and stood waiting for the purveyor,
who came soon afterwards; and after depositing the day's supplies in the
turning-box, called the negro down to receive his ration and oats for
the mule. After the purveyor was gone, old Carrizales went out, locking
both doors after him, without having seen what had been done to the lock
of one of them, whereat both master and pupil rejoiced not a little.
No sooner was the master of the house gone, than the negro laid hold on
the guitar, and began to scrape it in such a manner, that all the
servant maids came to the second door, and asked him, through the
turning-box, "What is this, Luis? How long have you had a guitar? Who
gave it you?"
"Who gave it me? The best musician in the world, and one who is to teach
me in six days more than six thousand tunes!"
"Where is he, this musician?" said the dueña.
"He is not far off," replied the negro; "and if it were not for fear of
my master, perhaps I would tell you where at once, and I warrant you
would be glad to see him."
"But where can he be for us to see him," returned the dueña, "since no
one but our master ever enters this house?"
"I will not tell you any more about the matter till you have heard what
I can do, and how much he has taught me in this short time."
"By my troth, unless he is a demon who has taught you, I don't know how
you can have become a musician all at once."
"Stop a bit and you shall hear him, and mayhap you will see him too some
day."
"That can't be," said another of the women, "for there are no windows on
the street through which we could hear or see anybody."
"Never mind" said the negro; "there's a remedy for everything but
death. If you only could or would keep silence--"
"Keep silence! Ay that we will, brother Luis, as if we were born dumb. I
give you my word, friend, I am dying to hear a good voice, for ever
since we have been shut up here we have not even heard the birds sing."
Loaysa listened with great inward glee to this conversation, which
showed how readily the women were taking the very bent he would have
given them. The negro was afraid lest his master should return and catch
him talking with them; but they would not go away until he had promised
that, when they least expected it, he would call them to hear a capital
voice. He then retreated to his loft, where he would gladly have resumed
his lessons, but durst not do so by day for fear of detection. His
master returned soon after and went into the house, locking both doors
behind him as usual. When Luis went that day to the turning-box for his
victuals, he told the negress, who brought them, to let her
fellow-servants know that when their master was asleep that night, they
should all of them come down to the turning-box, when he would be sure
to give them the treat he had promised. He was enabled to say so much,
having previously entreated his music-master to condescend to sing and
play that night before the inner door for the amusement of the women.
The maestro suffered himself to be pressed very hard to do the thing he
most desired, but after much seeming reluctance he at last yielded to
the solicitations of his esteemed pupil, and said he would be happy to
oblige him. The negro embraced him cordially, in testimony of his
grateful sense of the promised favour, and treated him that day to as
good cheer as he could possibly have had at home, or perhaps better.
Towards midnight Luis knew, by the signals cautiously given at the
turning-box, that the women were all there; whereupon he and Loaysa went
down from the loft with the guitar, complete in all its strings and well
tuned. The maestro asked how many were there to hear him, and was told
that all the women in the house were there, except their lady, who was
in bed with her husband. This was not what Loaysa wished for,
nevertheless, by way of making a beginning and obliging his pupil, he
touched the guitar softly, and drew from it such tones as ravished the
ears of his audience. But who could describe the delight of the women
when he sang _Pesame de ello_, and followed it up with the magic strains
of the saraband, then new in Spain? There was not one of them that did
not keep time to the music as if she were dancing like mad, but all
noiselessly and with extreme caution, keeping scouts on the watch to
warn them if the old man awoke. Loaysa finally played them several
seguidillas, and so put the climax to his success, that they all eagerly
begged the negro to tell them who was this marvellous musician. Luis
replied that he was a poor beggar, but the most gallant and genteel man
in all the back slums of Seville. They conjured the negro to contrive
some means that they might see him, and not to let him quit the house
for a fortnight, for they would take care to supply him with the best of
good cheer, and plenty of it. They were curious to know how Luis had
managed to get him into the house; but to this the negro made no reply.
For the rest he told them that if they wanted to see the maestro, they
might bore a small hole in the turning-box and afterwards stop it up
with wax; and that as for keeping him in the house, he would do his
best.
Loaysa then addressed them, and offered them his services in such
obliging and polite terms, that they were sure such fine language never
came out of the head of a poor beggar. They entreated he would come the
next night, and they would prevail on their lady to come down and hear
him, in spite of the light sleep of her lord and master--the result not
so much of his age as of his extreme jealousy. Loaysa replied that if
they wished to hear him without fear of being surprised by the old man,
he would give them a powder to put in his wine, which would make him
sleep more soundly. "Good heaven!" cried one of the damsels, "if that
were true, what a blessing would have come home to us without our
knowing or deserving it! It would not be a sleeping powder for him so
much as it would be a powder of life for all of us, and for my poor dear
lady, Leonora his wife, to whom he sticks as close as her shadow, never
losing sight of her for a moment. Ah, señor of my soul! bring that
powder, and may God reward you with all the good you can desire. Go!
don't lose a moment--bring it, señor mio; I will take it upon me to put
it in his wine and to be his cupbearer. Oh, that it might please God
that the old man should sleep three days and nights! Three glorious days
and nights they would be for us."
"Well, I'll bring it then," said Loaysa. "It is of such a nature that it
does no harm to the person who takes it; the only effect of it being to
cause a most profound sleep."
They all entreated him to bring it without delay, and then they took
their leave of him, after agreeing that on the following night they
would make a hole in the turning-box with a gimlet, and that they would
try and persuade their mistress to come down. By this time it was nearly
daylight, yet the negro wished to take a lesson. Loaysa complied with
his desire, and assured him that among all the pupils he had ever
taught, he had not known one with a finer ear; and yet the poor negro
could never, to the end of his days, have learned the gamut.
Loaysa's friends took care to come at night to Carrizales' door to see
if their friend had any instructions to give them, or wanted anything.
On the second night, when they had made him aware of their presence by a
preconcerted signal, he gave them, through the key-hole, a brief account
of the prosperous beginning he had made, and begged they would try and
get him something to be given to Carrizales to make him sleep. He had
heard, he said, that there were powders which produced that effect. They
told him they had a friend, a physician, who would give them the best
drug for that purpose if he happened to have it; and after encouraging
him to persist in the enterprise, and promising to return on the
following night, they left him.
Presently the whole flock of doves came to the lure of the guitar, and
among them was the simple Leonora, trembling for fear her husband should
awake. So great was her dread of his discovering her absence, that her
women had great difficulty in persuading her to make the hazardous
venture. But they all, especially the dueña, told her such wonderful
things of the sweetness of the music, and the engaging manners of the
poor musician, whom, without having seen him, they extolled above
Absalom and Orpheus, that they persuaded her to do what she would never
have done of her own accord. Their first act was to bore a hole in the
turning-box through which they might peep at the musician, who was no
longer clad in rags, but in wide breeches of buff silk, cut sailor
fashion, a jacket of the same material, a satin cap to match, and a
starched double-pointed ruff, all which he had brought in his wallet,
expecting that he would have to show himself on an occasion which would
require him to change his costume. Loaysa was young, good-looking, and
of pleasing deportment; and as the eyes of all the women had been so
long accustomed only to the sight of old Carrizales, they fancied as
they looked at Loaysa that they beheld an angel.
Each of them took her turn at the peephole, and that they might see him
the better, the negro stood by him with a lighted flambeau, which he
moved up and down before the maestro's body. After all the women, from
the lady of the house down to the two negresses, had thus gratified
their eyes, Loaysa took his guitar, and played and sang more
bewitchingly than ever. Leonora's women were bewildered with delight,
and all besought Luis to contrive so that the señor maestro should come
in through the inner door, so that they might hear and see him better,
instead of squinting at him through a gimlet-hole, and without the risk
they ran of being caught in the fact by their master, which would not be
so great if they had the musician concealed inside. Their lady
strenuously opposed this proposition, declaring she would not permit any
such thing. She was shocked to hear them mention it, for they could hear
and see him well enough as it was, without danger to their honour.
"Honour," exclaimed the dueña; "the king has plenty. Your ladyship may
shut yourself up with your Methusalem, if you have a mind, but leave us
to amuse ourselves as well as we can; the more so since this señor
appears to be too much the gentleman to ask anything of us but what
would be pleasing to ourselves."
"Never!" interposed Loaysa. "I came hither, ladies, with no other
intention than to offer you my humble services, with all my heart and
soul, moved by commiseration for the unparalleled rigour of your
confinement, and for the precious moments that are lost to you through
this recluse way of life. By the life of my father, I am a man so
artless, so meek, so tractable and obedient, that I will never do more
than I am bidden. If any one of you should please to say, 'Maestro, sit
down here; Maestro, step this way, step that way, go yonder,' I will do
just as you bid me, like the tamest and best trained dog that jumps for
the king of France."
"Well, if that be so," said the inexperienced Leonora, "what is to be
done, so that the señor maestro may come in?"
"Nothing can be easier," said Loaysa. "So please you, ladies, just take
the trouble to make an impression on wax with the key of this door; and
I will take care that by to-morrow night another shall be made exactly
like it, which will answer our purpose."
"With that key," one of the women remarked, "we shall have those of the
whole house, for it is a master-key."
"So much the better," said Loaysa.
"That is true," said Leonora; "but this señor must first of all swear,
that when he is inside here he will not attempt to do anything but sing
and play when he is asked, and that he will keep close and quiet
wherever we may put him."
"I swear to this," said Loaysa.
"That oath is good for nothing," replied Leonora: "the señor must swear
by the life of his father, and by the cross, which he must kiss in sight
of us all."
"I swear by the life of my father," said Loaysa, "and by this sign of
the cross, which I kiss with my unworthy mouth;" and crossing two of his
fingers, he kissed them three times.
"That will do," said one of the women; "and now, señor, be sure you
don't forget the powder, for that is the main thing of all."
Here the conversation ended for that night, and all parties retired
highly satisfied with the interview. Good luck had evidently declared in
favour of Loaysa; and just then, about two o'clock in the morning, it
brought his friends to the door. On their giving the usual signal by
blowing a French horn, he went to the door, told them what progress he
had made, and asked had they brought the powder or other drug to put
Carrizales to sleep. At the same time, he spoke to them respecting the
master-key. They told him that on the following night they would bring
the powder, or else an ointment of such virtue that one had only to rub
the patient's wrists and temples with it to throw him into such a
profound sleep, that he would not wake for two days, unless the
anointed parts were well washed with vinegar. As to the key, he had
only to give them the impression in wax, and they would have a false one
made forthwith. Having said this, the friends retired, and Loaysa and
his pupil went to rest for the short remainder of the night. The next
day hung heavily on hand, as always happens to those who are filled with
eager expectation; but the longest day must have an end, and Loaysa's
impatient desire was at last gratified.
The appointed hour having arrived, all the domestics, great and small,
black and white, repaired to the turning-box, longing to see the señor
musico fairly within their seraglio; but no Leonora was there. When
Loaysa inquired for her, they said she was in bed with her good man, who
had locked the bed-room door, and put the key under his pillow; and that
their lady had told them, that when the old man had fallen asleep she
would take the key, and they were to go to her by and by for the wax
impression she would take from it, and pass to them through a trap-hole
in the door. Loaysa was astonished at the old man's extreme wariness, in
spite of which he by no means despaired of baffling his precautions.
Just then the French horn was heard: Loaysa hastened to the door, and
received from his friends a pot containing the promised ointment.
Bidding them wait awhile, and he would bring them the mould of the key,
he went back to the turning-box, and told the dueña, who seemed the most
eager of all the women for his admission, to give the ointment to her
lady, bid her anoint her husband with it so cautiously that he should
not be aware of what she was doing, and she would soon see wonders. The
dueña took the pot, stole up to her mistress's door, and found her
waiting on the inside, stretched full length on the floor, with her face
to the trap-hole. The dueña laid herself down in the same manner, and
putting her mouth to her mistress's ear, whispered that she had brought
the ointment, telling her at the same time how to apply it. Leonora took
the ointment, but told the dueña that she could by no means get the key,
for her husband had not put it under the pillow as usual, but between
the mattresses, just under where he lay. However, she was to tell the
maestro, that if the ointment operated as he said, she could easily get
the key as often as she pleased, and so there would be no need of
copying it in wax. Having delivered this message at once, the dueña was
to come back, and see how the ointment worked, for she intended to apply
it forthwith. The dueña having reported all this to Loaysa, he sent away
his friends who were waiting without for the mould of the key.
Trembling in every limb, and scarcely daring to breathe, Leonora began
to rub the wrists of her jealous husband. Next she smeared his nostrils;
but as she did so, the old man jerked his head, and Leonora was
petrified with terror, believing that he was awake, and had caught her
in the fact. It was a false alarm, however, and she went on with her
task the best way she could, till she had completed it according to her
instructions. It was not long before its effects manifested themselves;
for presently the old man began to snore loud enough to be heard in the
street. This was music more delightful to Leonora's ears than the
maestro's voice or guitar; but still hardly trusting what she saw, she
ventured to shake him, a very little at first, to see if he would wake;
and then a wee bit more and more, till finding that he still snored on,
she made bold to turn him over from one side to the other, without his
showing any signs of waking. Seeing this, she stepped joyfully to the
door; and in a voice not so low as before, called out to the dueña, who
was waiting with her ear to the trap-hole. "Good news, sister;
Carrizales is sleeping more soundly than the dead."
"What stops you then from taking the key, señora?" said the dueña. "The
musico has been waiting for it this hour and more."
"Stay a moment, sister; I am going for it," said Leonora; and stepping
back to the bed, she put her hand between the mattresses, and drew out
the key without the old man's perceiving it. No sooner was the key in
her hands, than dancing with delight she unlocked the door, and gave it
to the exulting dueña, bidding her let in the maestro, and bring him
into the gallery; but as for herself, she durst not stir from that spot,
for fear of what might happen. But before all things she insisted that
the maestro should ratify anew the oath he had taken not to do more than
they should order him; and if he would not give this renewed pledge, he
was not to be let in on any consideration.
"Never fear," said the dueña; "not a bit shall he come in until he has
sworn, and sworn again, and kissed the cross at least six times."
"Don't bind him to any fixed number," said Leonora; "but let him kiss
the cross as many times as he pleases; but be sure that he swears by the
life of his father, and by all he holds dear; for then we shall be safe
and sure, and we may take our fill of hearing him sing and play; and
exquisitely he does so, upon my word. There now, get you gone without
more delay, and let us not waste the night in words."
The good dueña caught up her petticoats, and ran with all her speed to
the turning-box, where the whole party was impatiently awaiting her; and
no sooner had she shown them the key in her hand, than they hoisted her
upon their shoulders, and paraded up and down with her, crying "Viva!
viva!" But still greater was their joy when she told them there was no
need to have a false key made; for so soundly did the old man sleep
after being anointed, that they might have the house-key as often as
they required it.
"Quick then, good friend," said one of the troop, "open the door, and
let in this gentleman who has been waiting so long, and let us have a
jolly bout of music, for that is all we have now to do."
"Nay, but there is more to be done," replied the dueña; "for we must
exact another oath of him; the same as last night."
"He is so good," said one of the slave girls, "that he won't grudge
taking as many oaths as we like."
The dueña now unlocked the door, and holding it ajar called to Loaysa,
who had been listening at the aperture to all that had passed. He was
for springing in at a bound; but the dueña stopped him, laying her hand
on his breast, and said, "Fair and softly, señor; I would have you to
know, as God is my judge, we are all of us virgins here as truly as the
mothers that bore us, except my lady; and I am one too, the Lord forgive
me, though you would take me for forty years old; but I am not thirty
all out, wanting two months and a fortnight of my thirtieth birthday;
and if I look older, it is that cares, and troubles, and vexations tell
upon one more than years. Now this being so, it does not stand to
reason, that for the sake of hearing two or three songs we should risk
the loss of so much virginity as is here collected together. And so you
see, my sweet sir, before you enter our domain, you must first take a
very solemn oath, that you will do nothing beyond our orders. If you
think it is much we ask of you, do but consider how much more it is we
risk; and if your intentions are good and proper, you will not be loth
to swear; for a good paymaster does not mind giving security."
"Well said, Marialonso," cried one of the damsels; "spoken like a person
of sense, and who knows what's what. If the señor won't swear, then let
him not come in here."
"Tell you what," said Guiomar, the negress, in her broken jargon,
"s'ppose him no swear, let him in all the same, in devil's name; for
s'ppose him swear, once him in, him forget eberyting."
Loaysa listened very demurely to the Señora Marialonso's harangue, and
replied with great gravity, "Be assured, ladies, my charming sisters and
companions, my intention never was, is, or shall be other than to
gratify and content you to the utmost of my powers; and therefore I make
no difficulty with regard to this oath which is required of me, though I
could have wished that some confidence had been reposed in my simple
word, which, given by such a person as I am, would have been as good as
a bond signed and sealed; for I would have you to know, ladies, that
under a bad cloak there is often a good drinker. But to the end that you
may all be assured of my upright intentions, I will take the oath as a
catholic and a man of parts. I swear then by the immaculate efficacy,
wherever it abides in greatest sanctity and fulness, by all the
entrances and exits of the holy mount Libanus, and by all that is
contained in the preface to the true history of Charlemagne, with the
death of the giant Fierabras, not to swerve or depart from the oath I
have taken, or from the commands which may be laid upon me by the least
of these ladies, under penalty, should I do otherwise, or attempt to do
otherwise, that from this time forth till then, and from thenceforth
till now, the same shall be null and void and of no effect whatsoever."
When honest Loaysa had got so far in his oath, one of the young maidens,
who had listened to him with wrapt attention, cried out, "Well, if that
is not what you may call an oath! it is enough to melt the heart of a
stone. Plague take me if you shall swear any more for me; for after
such an oath as that you might enter the very cave of Cabra." So saying,
she caught hold of him by the breeches, and drew him within the door,
where the rest immediately gathered close round him. One of them ran off
with the news to her mistress, who stood watching her husband; and who,
when she heard that the musico was actually within doors, was moved
almost at the same moment by joy and fear, and hurriedly asked if he had
sworn. The girl told her he had done so, and with the most singular form
of oath she had ever heard in her life.
"Well, since he has sworn, we have him fast," said Leonora. "Oh, what a
good thought it was of mine to make him swear!"
They were now met by the whole party advancing in procession, with the
musico in the midst of them, and the negro and Guiomar lighting the way.
As soon as Loaysa saw Leonora, he threw himself at her feet to kiss her
hands; but without saying a word, she made signs to him to rise, and he
obeyed. Observing then that they all remained as mute as if they had
lost their tongues, Loaysa told them they might talk, and talk aloud
too; for there was no fear that their lord-master would wake and hear
them, such being the virtue of the ointment, that without endangering
life it made a man lie like one dead.
"That I fully believe," said Leonora; "for were it not so, he would have
been awake twenty times before this, such a light sleeper he is, in
consequence of his frequent indispositions; but ever since I anointed
him, he has been snoring like a pig."
"That being the case," said the dueña, "let us go into the saloon, where
we may hear the gentleman sing, and amuse ourselves a little."
"Let us go," said Leonora; "but let Guiomar remain here on the watch, to
warn vis if Carrizales wakes."
"Ay," said Guiomar, "black woman stay, white woman go: God pardon all."
Leaving the negress behind, the rest all went to the saloon, where they
seated themselves on a rich carpet, with Loaysa in the centre of the
group. Marialonso took a candle, and began to examine the figure of the
musician from bead to foot. Every one had something to say in his
commendation: "Oh, what a nice curly head of hair he has!" said one.
"What nice teeth!" cried another; "blanched almonds are nothing to
them." "What eyes!" exclaimed a third; "so large and full, and so green!
By the life of my mother, they look for all the world like emeralds."
Leonora alone said not a word; but as she looked at the maestro, she
could not help thinking that he was better looking than her good man.
Presently the dueña took the guitar out of the negro's hands, and
putting it into Loaysa's, begged he would sing to it a villanetta then
in high fashion at Seville. He complied; the women all jumped up, and
began to dance; whilst the dueña sang the words of the song with more
good will than good voice.
Close you watch me, mother mine,
Watch me, and immure me:
Don't you know without my help
You can not secure me?
Appetite, 'tis said with truth,
By privation groweth;
Thwarted love, like flame confined,
All the fiercer gloweth.
Better therefore 'twere, methinks,
You should not immure me:
Don't you know without my help
You can not secure me?
Close you watch me, &c.
Moths will to the taper fly,
Bees on flowers will cluster;
Keep a loving maid who can
From love's golden lustre!
Fear you lest that beacon light
From your arms should lure me?
Well I know without my help
You can not secure me.
Close you watch me, &c.
There's a way where there's a will:
Keep the will from straying.
Wayward hearts will have their fling,
Spite of all gainsaying.
If you'd have me very good,
Don't be hard on poor me;
Sure I am without, my help
You can not secure me.
Close you watch me, &c.
The song and the dance were just ended, when in rushed Guiomar in wild
affright, gesticulating as if she was in a fit, and in a voice between a
croak and a whisper, she stammered out, "Master wake, señora; señora,
master wake: him getting up, and coming." Whoever has seen a flock of
pigeons feeding tranquilly in the field, and has marked the fear and
confusion with which they take flight at the terrible sound of the gun,
may picture to himself the fluttering dismay of the dancers at the
unexpected news blurted out by Guiomar. Off they ran in all directions,
leaving the musico in the lurch, and in a pitiable state of perplexity.
Leonora wrung her beautiful hands; and the Señora Marialonso beat her
face, and tore her hair, but not with great violence. In short, all was
panic and confusion; but the dueña, who had more cunning and presence of
mind than the rest, directed that Loaysa should go into her own room,
whilst she and her mistress remained where they were, never doubting but
they should find some excuse or another to put off upon Carrizales.
Loaysa hid himself, and the dueña bent her ear to listen for her
master's footsteps; but hearing nothing, she took courage by degrees,
and stealing on tip-toe to his bed-room, she found him snoring there as
soundly as ever. Back she ran, at her best speed, to gladden her
mistress's heart with the joyful intelligence; and then discreetly
resolving not to lose so lucky an opportunity of being the first to
enjoy the good graces of the musico, she told Leonora to wait there
whilst she went and called him. Hastily entering the room where he was
concealed, she found him sorely discomfited by the untoward issue of his
adventure, cursing the inefficiency of the ointment, the credulity of
his friends, and his own want of forethought in not making an experiment
with the ointment on some other person before he tried its effect on
Carrizales. But when the dueña assured him that the old man was sleeping
as soundly as ever, there was an end to all his uneasiness, and he lent
a complacent ear to the very liquorish language in which Marialonso
addressed him. "Oho," said he to himself, "that's what you would be at,
is it? Well, you will do capitally as a bait to fish with for your
lady."
Whilst this _tête-à-tête_ was pending, the rest of the women had one by
one crept out of their several hiding-places, to see if it was true that
their master was awake; and finding all still in the house, they
returned to the saloon where they had left their mistress. Having learnt
from her that the alarm had been a false one, they asked what had become
of the musico and the dueña. Leonora told them that Marialonso had gone
to fetch the maestro, whereupon they all stole out of the room as
noiselessly as they had entered it, and set themselves to listen at the
door to what was passing between the pair. Guiomar was one of the party,
but the negro was not among them; for upon the first alarm he had run
off, hugging his guitar, and hid himself in his loft, where he lay
huddled up under the bed-clothes, sweating with terror; in spite of
which he could not forbear from tinkling the guitar from time to time,
so inordinate--may Satanas confound him!--was his love of music. The
soft speeches of the amorous dueña were distinctly heard by the group
outside the door; and there was not one of them but bestowed a blessing
upon her from the wrong side of the mouth, with the addition of sundry
epithets which I had rather not repeat. The result of the confabulation
between the pair was that Loaysa would comply with the dueña's desires,
provided that first of all she brought her mistress to consent to his.
It cost the dueña something to subscribe to these conditions; but, after
all, there was nothing she would not have done to compass the
gratification of the desires that had laid hold on her soul and body,
and were undermining her very bones and marrow. The bargain was struck;
and quitting the room to go and speak to her mistress, she found all the
rest of the women assembled round the door. Putting a bold face on the
matter, she bade them all go to bed, and next night they should be able
to enjoy themselves without any such false alarm as had spoiled their
sport for that time. The women all knew well that the old dueña only
wanted to be left alone; but they could not help obeying her, for she
had command over them all.
Having got rid of the servants, the dueña went back to the saloon, and
began to exercise her powers of persuasion upon Leonora. She made her a
long and plausible harangue, so well put together that one might have
supposed she had composed it beforehand. She extolled the good looks of
the gentle musico, the elegance of his manners, his wondrous suavity,
and his countless other good qualities; represented how infinitely more
agreeable must be the caresses of such a charming young gallant than
those of the old husband; assured her the affair would never be
discovered, and plied her with a thousand other arguments which the
devil put into her mouth, all so specious and so artfully coloured, that
they might have beguiled the firmest mind, much more that of a being so
artless and unwary as poor Leonora. O dueñas, born and used for the
perdition of thousands of modest, virtuous beings! O ye long plaited
coifs, chosen to impart an air of grave decorum to the _salas_ of noble
ladies, how do you reverse the functions of your perhaps needful office!
In fine, the dueña talked with such effect, that Leonora consented to
her own undoing, and to that of all the precautions of the wary
Carrizales, whose sleep was the death of his honour. Marialonso took her
mistress by the hand, led the weeping lady almost by force to Loaysa,
and wishing them much joy with a diabolical leer, she left them both
shut in together, and laid herself down in the saloon to sleep, or
rather to await the reward she had earned. Overcome, however, by the
loss of rest on two successive nights, she could not keep her eyes open,
but fell fast asleep on the carpet.
And now, if we did not know that Carrizales was asleep, it would not be
amiss to ask him, where now were all his jealous cares and precautions?
What now availed the lofty walls of his house, and the exclusion from it
of every male creature? What had he gained by his turning-box, his thick
walls, his stopped up windows, the enormously strict seclusion to which
he had doomed his family, the large jointure he had settled on Leonora,
the presents he was continually making her, his liberal treatment of her
attendants, and his unfailing alacrity in supplying them with everything
he imagined they could want or wish for? But as we have said, he was
asleep. Had he been awake, and disposed to reply, he could not have
given a better answer than by saying, as he shrugged his shoulders and
arched his eyebrows, that all this had been brought to nought by the
craft of an idle and vicious young man, and the wickedness of a
faithless dueña, working upon the weakness of an artless and
inexperienced girl. Heaven save us all from such enemies as these,
against whom the shield of prudence and the sword of vigilance are alike
impotent to defend us!
Such, nevertheless, was Leonora's rectitude, and so opportunely did she
manifest it, that all the villanous arts of the crafty seducer were of
no avail; till both of them, wearied by the contest, the baffled tempter
and the victorious defender of her own chastity, fell asleep almost at
the moment when it pleased Heaven that Carrizales should awake in spite
of the ointment. As usual he felt all about the bed, and not finding his
dear wife in it, he jumped up in the utmost consternation, and with
strange agility for a man of his years. He looked all over the room for
her, and when he found the door open, and the key gone from between the
mattresses, he was nearly distracted. Recovering himself a little, he
went out into the gallery, stole softly thence to the saloon, where the
dueña was asleep, and seeing no Leonora there, he went to the dueña's
own room, opened the door gently, and beheld Leonora in Loaysa's arms,
and both of them looking as if the soporific ointment was exerting its
influence over themselves instead of upon the jealous husband.
Carrizales was petrified with horror; his voice stuck in his throat; his
arms fell powerless by his sides, and his feet seemed rooted to the
ground; and though the fierce revulsion of his wrath presently aroused
his torpid senses, he yet could scarcely breathe, so intense was his
anguish. Thirsting for vengeance as terrible as his monstrous wrong, but
having no weapon at hand, he returned to his chamber as stealthily as he
had quitted it, in search of a dagger, with which he would wash out the
stain cast upon his honour in the blood of the guilty pair, and then
massacre his whole household; but he had no sooner reached his room than
his grief again overpowered him, and he fell senseless on the bed.
Day broke now, and found Leonora still in the arms of Loaysa. Marialonso
awoke, and thinking it time to receive what she counted was due to her,
she awoke Leonora, who was shocked to find it so late, and bitterly
accused her own imprudence and the dueña's negligence. With trembling
steps the two women crept up to Felipe's bedroom, praying inwardly to
Heaven that they might find him still snoring; and when they saw him
lying on the bed, apparently asleep, they made no doubt that he was
still under the effect of the opiate, and embraced each other in a
transport of joy. Leonora went up to her husband, and taking him by the
arm, turned him over on his side to see if he would wake without their
being obliged to wash him with vinegar according to the directions
given with the ointment; but the movement roused Carrizales from his
swoon, and heaving a deep sigh, he ejaculated in a faint and piteous
tone, "Miserable man that I am! to what a woeful pass I am come!"
Leonora did not distinctly hear what her husband said; but seeing with
surprise that the effect of the opiate was not so lasting as she had
been led to expect, she bent over him, put her cheek to his, and
pressing him closely in her arms, said, "What ails you, dear señor? You
seem to be complaining?"
Carrizales opened his eyes to their utmost width, and turning them full
upon her, stared at her a long while with a look of profound amazement.
At last he said, "Do me the pleasure, señora, to send instantly for your
parents in my name, and ask them to come hither, for I feel something at
my heart which distresses me exceedingly. I fear I have but a short time
to live, and I should like to see them before I die."
Leonora immediately despatched the negro with this message to her
parents. She fully believed what her husband had told her, and
attributing his danger to the violence of the opiate instead of to its
real cause, she put her arms round his neck, caressed him more fondly
than ever she had done before, and inquired how he felt, with such
tender solicitude, as if she loved him above everything in the world;
while he, on the other hand, continued to gaze upon her with the same
unvarying look of astonishment, every endearing word or caress of hers
being like a dagger to his heart. The dueña had, by this time,
acquainted Loaysa and the domestics with her master's illness, which,
she remarked, was evidently very serious, since he had forgotten to give
orders that the street door should be locked after the negro's departure
to summon her lady's parents. The message was itself a portentous
occurrence, for neither father nor mother had ever set foot within that
house since their daughter's marriage. In short, the whole household was
in anxiety, though no one divined the true cause of the old man's
illness. He lay sighing at intervals, so heavily that every sigh seemed
like the parting of soul and body. Leonora wept to see him in such a
state, whilst he beheld her feigned tears, as he deemed them, with a
bitter smile, that looked like the grin of insanity.
Leonora's parents now arrived, and were struck with no little
misgivings when they found both entrance doors open and the house all
lonely and silent. They went up to their son-in-law's room, and found
him in the posture he had all along maintained, with his eyes immovably
fixed on his wife, whom he held by the hands, whilst both were in tears;
she, because she saw his flow, and he at seeing how deceitfully she
wept. As soon as they entered the room, Carrizales begged them to be
seated, ordered all the domestics to withdraw except Marialonso, then
wiped his eyes, and with a calm voice and an air of perfect composure
addressed them thus:--
"I am sure, my respected father and mother-in-law, I need no other
witnesses than yourselves to the truth of what I have now to say to you
in the first place. You must well remember with how much love and what
tender affection I received your daughter when you bestowed her upon me
one year, one month, five days, and nine hours ago, as my lawful wife.
You know, also, with what liberality I behaved to her, for the
settlement I made upon her would have been more than enough to furnish
three young ladies of her quality with handsome marriage portions. You
must remember the pains I took to dress and adorn her with everything
she could desire or I could think of as suitable to her. It is known to
you likewise how, prompted by my natural disposition, fearful of the
evil to which I shall surely owe my death, and taught by the experience
of a long life to be on my guard against the many strange chances that
occur in life, I sought to guard this jewel which I had chosen and you
had bestowed upon me, with all possible care and caution. I raised the
walls of this house higher, blocked up all the windows that looked on
the street, doubled the locks of the doors, set up a turning-box as in a
nunnery, and perpetually banished from my dwelling every vestige of the
male sex. I gave my wife female servants and slaves to wait upon her: I
denied neither her nor them anything they chose to ask of me. I made her
my equal, communicated my most secret thoughts to her, and put my whole
property at her disposal. Having done all this, I thought I might fairly
expect to enjoy securely what had cost me so much, and that it would be
her care not to afford me cause for conceiving any kind of jealous fear
whatever. But it is not within the power of human efforts to prevent
the chastisement which Heaven is pleased to inflict on those who do not
rest their whole hopes and desires upon it alone. No wonder then if mine
have been deceived, and I have myself prepared the poison of which I am
now dying. But I see how anxiously you hang upon the words of my mouth.
I will therefore keep you no longer in suspense, but conclude this long
preamble by telling you, in one word, what no words were adequate to
describe, were I to speak for ever. This morning I found this woman,"
(here he pointed to his wife,) "who was born for the ruin of my peace
and the destruction of my life, in the arms of a young gallant, who is
now shut up in the bed-chamber of this pestilent dueña."
Carrizales had no sooner uttered these words than Leonora swooned, and
fell with her head upon his lap. Marialonso turned as white as ashes,
and Leonora's parents were so astounded that they could not utter a
word. After a short pause, Carrizales continued thus:--
"The vengeance I intend to take for this outrage shall be no common one.
As I have been singular in all my other actions, so will I be in this.
My vengeance shall fall upon myself, as the person most culpable of all,
for I ought to have considered how ill this girl's fifteen years could
assort with my threescore and ten. I have been like the silkworm, which
builds itself a house in which it must die. I do not reproach you,
misguided girl"--here he bent down and kissed his still insensible
wife--"for the persuasions of a wicked old woman, and the wheedling
tongue of an amorous youth, easily prevail over the little wit of a
green girl; but that all the world may see how strong and how true was
the love I bore you, I shall give such a proof of it here on my
death-bed, as the world has never seen or heard of;--one that shall
remain an unparalleled example, if not of goodness, at least of
singleness of heart. I desire that a notary be immediately sent for to
make my will, wherein I will double Leonora's jointure, and recommend
her, after my death, which will not be long delayed, to marry that young
man whom these gray hairs have never offended. Thus she will see that,
as in life I never departed in the slightest particular from what I
thought could please her, so I wish her to be happy when I am no more,
and to be united to him whom she must love so much. The rest of my
fortune I will bequeath to pious uses, after leaving to you both
wherewith to live honourably for the rest of your days. Let the notary
come instantly, for the anguish I am now suffering is such that, if it
continues, my time here will be very short."
Here Carrizales was seized with a terrible swoon, and sank down so close
to Leonora that their faces touched. During this scene the dueña stole
out of the room, and went to apprize Loaysa of all that had happened.
She advised him to quit the house immediately, and she would take care
to keep him informed of all that was going on, for there were no locked
doors now to hinder her from sending the negro to him whenever it was
necessary. Astounded at this news, Loaysa took her advice, put on his
beggar's rags again, and went away to make known to his friends the
strange issue of his amour.
Leonora's father, meanwhile, sent for a notary, who arrived soon after
both husband and wife had recovered their senses. Carrizales made his
will in the manner he had stated, without saying anything of his wife's
transgressions; he only declared that, for good reasons, he advised, and
begged her to marry, should he die, that young man of whom he had spoken
to her in private. When Leonora heard this, she threw herself at her
husband's feet, and cried, while her heart throbbed as if it would
burst, "Long may you live, my lord and my only joy; for though you may
not believe a word I say, indeed, indeed I have not offended you, except
in thought."
More she would have said, but when she attempted to exculpate herself by
a full statement of what had really occurred, her tongue failed her, and
she fainted away a second time. The poor old man embraced her as she
lay; so, too, did her parents--all three weeping bitterly; and even the
notary could not refrain from tears. Carrizales gave the negro and the
other slaves their liberty, and left all the servants enough to maintain
them; the perfidious Marialonso alone was to have nothing beyond the
arrears of her wages. Seven days afterwards Carrizales was laid in his
grave.
Leonora remained a mourning though wealthy widow; and whilst Loaysa
expected that she would fulfil the desire which he knew her husband had
expressed in his will, he learned that within a week she had become a
nun in one of the most austere and rigid convents in all Seville.
Mortified by this disappointment, he left the country and went to the
Indies. Leonora's father and mother were deeply grieved, but found
consolation in the wealth which their son-in-law had bequeathed them.
The two damsels likewise consoled themselves, as did the negro and the
female slaves, the former being well provided for, and the latter having
obtained their freedom; the wicked dueña alone was left to digest, in
poverty, the frustration of her base schemes. For my part I was long
possessed with the desire to complete this story, which so signally
exemplifies the little reliance that can be put in locks, turning-boxes,
and walls, whilst the will remains free; and the still less reason there
is to trust the innocence and simplicity of youth, if its ear be exposed
to the suggestions of your demure dueñas, whose virtue consists in their
long black gowns and their formal white hoods. Only I know not why it
was that Leonora did not persist in exculpating herself, and explaining
to her jealous husband how guiltless she had been in the whole of that
unhappy business. But her extreme agitation paralysed her tongue at the
moment, and the haste which her husband made to die, left her without
another opportunity to complete her justification.
THE ILLUSTRIOUS SCULLERY-MAID.
In the famous city of Burgos there lived two wealthy cavaliers, one of
whom was called Don Diego de Carriazo, and the other Don Juan de
Avendaño. Don Diego had a son called after himself, and Don Juan
another, whose name was Don Tomas de Avendaño. These two young gentlemen
being the principal persons of the following tale, we shall for the sake
of brevity call them Carriazo and Avendaño.
Carriazo might be about thirteen or little more, when, prompted by a
scampish disposition, without having had any cause to complain of bad
treatment at home, he ran away from his father's house, and cast himself
upon the wide world. So much did he enjoy a life of unrestricted
freedom, that amidst all the wants and discomforts attendant upon it, he
never missed the plenty of his father's house. He neither tired of
trudging on foot, nor cared for cold or heat. For him all seasons of the
year were genial spring. His sleep was as sound on a heap of straw as on
soft mattresses, and he made himself as snug in a hayloft as between two
Holland sheets. In short, he made such way in the profession he had
chosen, that he could have given lessons to the famous Guzman de
Alfarache.
During the three years he absented himself from home, he learned to play
at sheepshanks in Madrid, at _rentoy_ in the public-houses of Toledo,
and at _presa y pinta_ in the barbacans of Seville. In spite of the
sordid penury of his way of life, Carriazo showed himself a prince in
his actions. It was easy to see by a thousand tokens that he came of
gentle blood. His generosity gained him the esteem of all his comrades.
He seldom was present at drinking bouts; and though he drank wine, it
was in moderation, and he carried it well. He was not one of those
unlucky drinkers, who whenever they exceed a little, show it immediately
in their faces, which look as if they were painted with vermilion or red
ochre. In short, the world beheld in Carriazo a virtuous, honourable,
well-bred, rogue, of more than common ability. He passed through all
the degrees of roguery till he graduated as a master in the tunny
fisheries of Zahara, the chief school of the art. O kitchen-walloping
rogues, fat and shining with grease; feigned cripples; cutpurses of
Zocodober and of the Plaza of Madrid; sanctimonious patterers of
prayers; Seville porters; bullies of the Hampa, and all the countless
host comprised under the denomination of rogues! never presume to call
yourself by that name if you have not gone through two courses, at
least, in the academy of the tunny fisheries. There it is that you may
see converging as it were in one grand focus, toil and idleness, filth
and spruceness, sharp set hunger and lavish plenty, vice without
disguise, incessant gambling, brawls and quarrels every hour in the day,
murders every now and then, ribaldry and obscenity, singing, dancing,
laughing, swearing, cheating, and thieving without end. There many a man
of quality seeks for his truant son, nor seeks in vain; and the youth
feels as acutely the pain of being torn from that life of licence as
though he were going to meet his death. But this joyous life has its
bitters as well as its sweets. No one can lie down to sleep securely in
Zahara, but must always have the dread hanging over him of being carried
off to Barbary at any moment. For this reason, they all withdraw at
night into some fortified places on the coast, and place scouts and
sentinels to watch whilst they sleep; but in spite of all precautions,
it has sometimes happened that scouts, sentinels, rogues, overseers,
boats, nets, and all the posse comitatus of the place have begun the
night in Spain and have seen the dawn in Tetuan. No apprehensions of
this kind, however, could deter Carriazo from spending three successive
summers at the fisheries for his pastime; and such was his luck during
his third season, that he won at cards about seven hundred reals, with
which he resolved to buy himself good clothes, return to Burgos, and
gladden the heart of his sorrowing mother.
He took a most affectionate leave of his many dear friends, assuring
them that nothing but sickness or death should prevent his being with
them in the following summer; for his heart was in Zahara, and to his
eyes its parched sands were fresher than all the verdure of the Elysian
fields. Ambling merrily along on shanks' mare, he arrived at Valladolid,
where he stopped a fortnight to get rid of the mahogany hue of his
complexion, and to change his rogue's costume for that of a gentleman.
Having equipped himself properly, he had still a hundred reals left,
which he spent on the hire of a mule and a servant, that he might make a
good figure when he presented himself to his parents. They received him
with the utmost joy, and all the friends and relations of the family
came to congratulate them on the safe arrival of their son Don Diego de
Carriazo. I had forgotten to mention that, during his peregrination, Don
Diego had taken the name of Vidiales, and by that name alone he was
known to his new acquaintances.
Among those who came to see the new arrival were Don Juan de Avendaño
and his son Don Tomas, with the latter of whom, as they were both of the
same age and neighbours, Carriazo contracted a very close friendship.
Carriazo gave his parents a long and circumstantial account of all the
fine things he had seen and done during the three years he had been from
home, in all which there was not one word of truth; but he never so much
as hinted at the tunny fisheries, though they were constantly in his
thoughts, more especially as the time approached in which he had
promised his friends he would return to them. He took no pleasure in the
chase, with which his father sought often to divert him, nor in any of
the convivial meetings of that hospitable city. All kinds of amusements
wearied him, and the best enjoyments that could be offered to him were
not to be compared, he thought, with those he had known at the tunny
fisheries. His friend Avendaño, finding him often melancholy and musing,
ventured to inquire after the cause, at the same time professing his
readiness to assist his friend in any way that might be requisite, and
to the utmost of his power, even at the cost of his blood. Carriazo felt
that it would be wronging the great friendship subsisting between him
and Avendaño if he concealed from the latter the cause of his present
sadness; and therefore he described to him in detail the life he had led
at Zahara, and declared that all his gloom arose from his strong desire
to be there once more. So attractive was the picture he drew, that
Avendaño, far from blaming his taste, expressed his entire sympathy with
it. The end of the matter was that Avendaño determined to go off with
Carriazo, and enjoy for one summer that delicious life of which he had
just heard such a glowing description; and in this determination he was
strongly encouraged to persist by Carriazo, who was glad to be so
countenanced in his own low propensities. They set their wits to work to
see how they could scrape together as much money as possible, and the
best means that occurred to them was that suggested by Avendaño's
approaching departure for Salamanca, where he had already studied for
three years, and where his father wished him to complete his education,
and take a degree in whatever faculty he pleased. Carriazo now made
known to his father that he had a strong desire to go with Avendaño and
study at Salamanca. Don Diego gladly fell in with his son's proposal; he
talked with his friend Don Juan on the subject, and it was agreed
between them that the two young men should reside together at Salamanca,
and be sent thither well supplied with all requisites, and in a manner
suitable to the sons of men of quality.
The time for their departure being arrived, they were furnished with
money, and with a tutor who was more remarkable for integrity than for
mother wit. Their fathers talked much and impressively to their sons
about what they should do, and how they should govern themselves, in
order that they might become fraught with virtue and knowledge, for that
is the fruit which every student should aspire to reap from his labours
and his vigils, especially such as are of good family. The sons were all
humility and obedience; their mothers cried; both parents gave them
their blessing, and away they went, mounted on their own mules, and
attended by two servants of their respective households, besides the
tutor, who had let his beard grow, to give him a more imposing air of
gravity, as became his charge.
When they arrived at Valladolid, they told their tutor they should like
to remain there a couple of days to see the city, having never been in
it before. The tutor severely reprimanded them for entertaining any such
idle notion, telling them they had no time to lose in silly diversions;
that their business was to get as fast as possible to the place where
they were to pursue their studies; that he should be doing extreme
violence to his conscience if he allowed them to stop for one hour, not
to speak of two days; that they should continue their journey forthwith,
or, if not, then brown bread should be their portion.
Such was the extent of the ability in his office possessed by this
tutor, or major-domo, as we should rather call him. The lads, who had
already gathered in their harvest, since they had laid hands upon four
hundred gold crowns which were in the major-domo's keeping, begged that
he would let them remain in Valladolid for that day only, that they
might see the grand aqueducts, which were then in course of
construction, for the purpose of conveying the waters of Argales to that
city. He consented at last, but with extreme reluctance, for he wished
to avoid the expense of an additional day on the road, and to spend the
night at Valdiastellas, whence he could easily reach Salamanca in two
days. But the bay horse thinks one thing, and the man on his back
another thing, and so it proved in the major-domo's case. The lads,
mounted on two excellent mules, and attended by only one servant, rode
out to see the fountain of Argales, famous for its antiquity and the
abundance of its water. On their arrival there, Avendaño gave the
servant a sealed paper, bidding him return forthwith to the city, and
deliver it to his tutor, after which the servant was to wait for them at
the Puerta del Campo. The servant did as he was bid, and went back to
the city with the letter; and they, turning their mules' heads another
way, slept that night in Mojados, and arrived two days afterwards in
Madrid, where they sold their mules.
They dressed themselves like peasants in short jerkins, loose breeches,
and gray stockings. An old clothes dealer, to whom they sold their
handsome apparel in the morning, transformed them by night in such a
manner that their own mothers would not have known them. Lightly
equipped, as suited their purpose, and without swords, for they had sold
them to the old clothes dealer, they took to the road to Toledo. There
let us leave them for the present, stepping out briskly with merry
hearts, while we return to the tutor, and see him open the letter
delivered to him by the servant, which he read as follows:--
"Your worship, señor Pedro Alonso, will be pleased to have patience and
go back to Burgos, where you will say to our parents that we, their
sons, having with mature deliberation considered how much more arms
befit cavaliers than do letters, have determined to exchange Salamanca
for Brussels, and Spain for Flanders. We have got the four hundred
crowns; the mules we intend to sell. The course we have chosen, which is
so worthy of persons of our quality, and the length of the journey
before us, are sufficient to excuse our fault, though a fault it will
not be deemed by any one but a coward. Our departure takes place now;
our return will be when it shall please God, to whose keeping, we, your
humble pupils, heartily commend you. Given from the fountain of Argales,
with one foot in the stirrup for Flanders.
"CARRIAZO,
"AVENDANO."
Aghast at the contents of this letter, Pedro Alonso hurried to his
valise, and found that the paper spoke but too truly, for the money was
gone. Instantly mounting the remaining mule, he returned to Burgos to
carry these tidings to his patrons, in order that they might take
measures to recover possession of their sons' persons. But as to how he
was received, the author of this tale says not a word, for the moment he
has put Pedro Alonso into the saddle, he leaves him to give the
following account of what occurred to Avendaño and Carriazo at the
entrance of Illescas.
Just by the town gate they met two muleteers, Andalusians apparently,
one of whom was coming from Seville, and the other going thither. Said
the latter to the former, "If my masters were not so far ahead, I should
like to stop a little longer to ask you a thousand things I want to
know, for I am quite astonished at what you have told me about the
conde's having hanged Alonzo Gines and Ribera without giving them leave
to appeal."
"As I'm a sinner," replied the Sevillian, "the conde laid a trap for
them, got them under his jurisdiction--for they were soldiers, and once
having them in his gripe, the court of appeal could never get them out
of it. I tell you what it is, friend, he has a devil within him, that
same conde de Puñonrostro. Seville, and the whole country round it for
ten leagues, is swept clear of swash-bucklers; not a thief ventures
within his limits; they all fear him like fire. It is whispered,
however, that he will soon give up his place as corregidor, for he is
tired of being at loggerheads at every hand's turn with the señores of
the court of appeal."
"May they live a thousand years!" exclaimed he who was going to
Seville; "for they are the fathers of the miserable, and a refuge for
the unfortunate. How many poor fellows must eat dirt, for no other
reason than the anger of an arbitrary judge of a corregidor, either
ill-informed or wrong-headed! Many eyes see more than two; the venom of
injustice cannot so soon lay hold on many hearts as on one alone."
"You have turned preacher!" said he of Seville; "but I am afraid I can't
stop to hear the end of your sermon. Don't put up to night at your usual
place, but go to the Posada del Sevillano, for there you will see the
prettiest scullery-wench I know. Marinilla at the Venta Tejada is a
dishclout in comparison with her. I will only tell you that it is said
the son of the corregidor is very sweet upon her. One of my masters gone
on ahead there, swears, that on his way back to Andalusia, he will stop
two months in Toledo, and in that same inn, only to have his fill of
looking at her. I myself ventured once to give her a little bit of a
squeeze, and all I got for it was a swinging box on the ear. She is as
hard as a flint, as savage as a kestrel, and as touch-me-not as a
nettle; but she has a face that does a body's eyes good to look at. She
has the sun in one cheek, and the moon in the other; the one is made of
roses and the other of carnations, and between them both are lilies and
jessamine. I say no more, only see her for yourself, and you will see
that all I have told you is nothing to what I might say of her beauty.
I'd freely settle upon her those two silver gray mules of mine that you
know, if they would let me have her for my wife; but I know they won't,
for she is a morsel for an archbishop or a conde. Once more I say, go
and see her; and so, good-bye to you, for I must be off."
The two muleteers went their several ways, leaving the two friends much
struck by what they had overheard of the conversation, especially
Avendaño, in whom the mere relation which the muleteer had given of the
scullery-maid's beauty awoke an intense desire to see her. It had the
same effect on Carriazo, but not to an equal degree, nor so as to
extinguish his desire to reach his beloved tunny fisheries, from which
he would not willingly be delayed to behold the pyramids of Egypt, or
any or all of the other seven wonders of the world.
Repeating the dialogue between the muleteers, and mimicking their tones
and gestures, served as pastime to beguile the way until they reached
Toledo. Carriazo, who had been there before, led the way at once to the
Posada del Sevillano; but they did not venture to ask for accommodation
there, their dress and appearance not being such as would have gained
them a ready welcome. Night was coming on, and though Carriazo
importuned Avendaño to go with him in search of lodgings elsewhere, he
could not prevail on him to quit the doors of the Sevillano, or cease
from hanging about them, upon the chance that the celebrated
scullery-maid might perhaps make her appearance. When it was pitch dark
Carriazo was in despair, but still Avendaño stuck to the spot; and, at
last, he went into the courtyard of the inn, under pretence of inquiring
after some gentlemen of Burgos who were on their way to Seville. He had
but just entered the courtyard, when a girl, who seemed to be about
fifteen, and was dressed in working clothes, came out of one of the side
doors with a lighted candle. Avendaño's eyes did not rest on the girl's
dress, but on her face, which seemed to him such as a painter would give
to the angels; and so overcome was he by her beauty, that he could only
gaze at it in speechless admiration, without being able to say one word
for himself.
"What may you please to want, brother?" said the girl. "Are you servant
to one of the gentlemen in the house?"
"I am no one's servant but yours," replied Avendaño, trembling with
emotion.
"Go to, brother," returned the girl disdainfully, "we who are servants
ourselves have no need of others to wait on us;" and calling her master,
she said, "Please to see, sir, what this lad wants."
The master came out, and, in reply to his question, Avendaño said that
he was looking for some gentlemen of Burgos who were on their way to
Seville. One of them was his master, and had sent him on before them to
Alcalá de Henares upon business of importance, bidding him, when that
was done, to proceed to Toledo, and wait for him at the Sevillano; and
he believed that his master would arrive there that night or the
following day at farthest.
So plausibly did Avendaño tell this fib that the landlord was quite
taken in by it. "Very well, friend," said he, "you may stop here till
your master comes."
"Many thanks, señor landlord," replied Avendaño; "and will your worship
bid them give me a room for myself, and a comrade of mine who is
outside? We have got money to pay for it, as well as another."
"Certainly," said the host, and turning to the girl he said, "Costanza,
bid la Argüello take these two gallants to the corner room, and give
them clean sheets."
"I will do so, señor," and curtsying to her master she went away,
leaving Avendaño by her departure in a state of feeling like that of the
tired wayfarer when the sun sets and he finds himself wrapt in cheerless
darkness. He went, however, to give an account of what he had seen and
done to Carriazo, who very soon perceived that his friend had been
smitten in the heart; but he would not say a word about the matter then,
until he should see whether there was a fair excuse for the hyperbolical
praises with which Avendaño exalted the beauty of Costanza above the
stars.
At last they went in doors, and la Argüello, the chamber maid, a woman
of some five-and-forty years of age, showed them a room which was
neither a gentleman's nor a servant's, but something between the two. On
their asking for supper, la Argüello told them they did not provide
meals in that inn; they only cooked and served up such food as the
guests bought and fetched for themselves; but there were eating-houses
in the neighbourhood, where they might without scruple of conscience go
and sup as they pleased. The two friends took la Argüello's advice, and
went to an eating-house, where Carriazo supped on what they set before
him, and Avendaño on what he had brought with him, to wit, thoughts and
fancies. Carriazo noticed that his friend ate little or nothing, and, by
way of sounding him, he said on their way back to the inn, "We must be
up betimes to-morrow morning, so that we may reach Orgez before the heat
of the day."
"I am not disposed for that," replied Avendaño, "for I intend, before I
leave this city, to see all that is worth seeing in it, such as the
cathedral, the waterworks of Juanelo, the view from the top of St.
Augustine's, the King's garden, and the promenade by the river."
"Very well, we can see all that in two days."
"What need of such haste? We are not posting to Rome to ask for a vacant
benefice."
"Ha! ha! friend, I see how it is, I'll be hanged if you are not more
inclined to stay in Toledo than to continue our journey."
"That's true, I confess; it is as impossible for me to forego the sight
of that girl's face, as it is to get into heaven without good works."
"Gallantly spoken, and as becomes a generous breast like yours! Here's a
pretty story! Don Tomas de Avendaño, son of the wealthy and noble
cavalier, Don Juan de Avendaño, over head and ears in love with the
scullery-maid at the Posada del Sevillano!"
"It strikes me, I may answer you in the same strain. Here's Don Diego de
Carriazo, son and sole heir of the noble knight of Alcántara of the same
name, a youth finely gifted alike in body and mind, and behold him in
love--with whom, do you suppose? With queen Ginevra? No such thing, but
with the tunny fisheries of Zahara, and all its rogues and rascals,--a
more loathsome crew, I suspect, than ever beset St. Anthony in his
temptations."
"You have given me tit for tat, friend, and slain me with my own weapon.
Let us say no more now, but go to bed, and to-morrow who knows but we
come to our senses?"
"Look ye, Carriazo, you have not yet seen Costanza; when you have seen
her, I will give you leave to say what you like to me."
"Well, I know beforehand what will be the upshot of the matter."
"And that is?"
"That I shall be off to my tunny fisheries, and you will remain with
your scullery-maid."
"I shall not be so happy."
"Nor I such a fool as to give up my own good purpose for the sake of
your bad one."
By this time they reached the inn, where the conversation was prolonged
in the same tone, half the night long. After they had slept, as it
seemed to them, little more than an hour, they were awakened by the loud
sound of clarions in the street. They sat up in bed, and after they had
listened awhile, "I'll lay a wager," said Carriazo, "that it is already
day, and that there is some feast or other in the convent of Nostra
Señora del Carmen, in this neighbourhood, and that is why the clarions
are pealing."
"That can't be," said Avendaño; "we have not been long asleep. It must
be some time yet till dawn."
While they were talking, some one knocked at the door, and called out,
"Young men, if you want to hear some fine music, go to the window of the
next room, which looks on the street; it is not occupied."
They got up and opened the door, but the person who had spoken was gone.
The music still continuing, however, they went in their shirts, just as
they were, into the front room, where they found three or four other
lodgers, who made place for them at the window; and soon afterwards an
excellent voice sang a sonnet to the accompaniment of the harp. There
was no need of any one to tell Carriazo and Avendaño that this music was
intended for Costanza, for this was very clear from the words of the
sonnet, which grated so horribly on Avendaño's ears, that he could have
wished himself deaf rather than have heard it. The pangs of jealousy
laid hold on him, and the worst of all was, that he knew not who was his
rival. But this was soon made known to him when one of the persons at
the window exclaimed, "What a simpleton is the corregidor's son, to make
a practice of serenading a scullery-maid. It is true, she is one of the
most beautiful girls I have ever seen, and I have seen a great many; but
that is no reason why he should court her so publicly."
"After all," said another, "I have been told for certain that she makes
no more account of him than if he never existed. I warrant she is this
moment fast asleep behind her mistress's bed, without ever thinking of
all this music."
"I can well believe it," said the first speaker, "for she is the most
virtuous girl I know; and it is marvellous that though she lives in a
house like this, where there is so much traffic, and where there are new
comers every day, and though she goes about all the rooms, not the least
thing in the world is known to her disparagement."
Avendaño began to breathe more freely after hearing this, and was able
to listen to many fine things which were sung to the accompaniment of
various instruments, all being addressed to Costanza, who, as the
stranger said, was fast asleep all the while.
The musicians departed at the approach of dawn. Avendaño and Carriazo
returned to their room, where one of them slept till morning. They then
rose, both of them eager to see Costanza, but the one only from
curiosity, the other from love. Both were gratified; for Costanza came
out of her master's room looking so lovely, that they both felt that all
the praises bestowed on her by the muleteer, fell immeasurably short of
her deserts. She was dressed in a green bodice and petticoat, trimmed
with the same colour. A collar embroidered with black silk set off the
alabaster whiteness of her neck. The thick tresses of her bright
chestnut hair were bound up with white ribbon; she had pendents in her
ears which seemed to be pearls, but were only glass; her girdle was a
St. Francis cord, and a large bunch of keys hung at her side. When she
came out of the room she crossed herself, and made a profound reverence
with great devotion to an image of our Lady, that hung on one of the
walls of the quadrangle. Then looking up and seeing the two young men
intently gazing on her, she immediately retired again into the room, and
called thence to Argüello to get up.
Carriazo, it must be owned, was much struck by Costanza's beauty; he
admired it as much as his companion, only he did not fall in love with
her; on the contrary, he had no desire to spend another night in the
inn, but to set out at once for the fisheries.
La Argüello presently appeared in the gallery with two young women,
natives of Gallicia, who were also servants in the inn; for the number
employed in the Sevillano was considerable, that being one of the best
and most frequented houses of its kind in Toledo. At the same time the
servants of the persons lodging in the inn began to assemble to receive
oats for their masters' beasts; and the host dealt them out, all the
while grumbling and swearing at his maid-servants who had been the cause
of his losing the services of a capital hostler, who did the work so
well and kept such good reckoning, that he did not think he had ever
lost the price of a grain of oats by him. Avendaño, who heard all this,
seized the opportunity at once. "Don't fatigue yourself, señor host," he
said; "give me the account-book, and whilst I remain here I will give
out the oats, and keep such an exact account of it that you will not
miss the hostler who you say has left you."
"Truly I thank you for the offer, my lad," said the host, "for I have no
time to attend to this business; I have too much to do, both indoors
and out of doors. Come down and I will give you the book; and mind ye,
these muleteers are the very devil, and will do you out of a peck of
oats under your very nose, with no more conscience than if it was so
much chaff."
Avendaño went down to the quadrangle, took the book, and began to serve
out pecks of oats like water, and to note them down with such exactness
that the landlord, who stood watching him, was greatly pleased with his
performance. "I wish to God," he said, "your master would not come, and
that you would make up your mind to stop with me; you would lose nothing
by the change, believe me. The hostler who has just quitted me came here
eight months ago all in tatters, and as lean as a shotten herring, and
now he has two very good suits of clothes, and is as fat as a dormouse;
for you must know, my son, that in this house there are excellent vails
to be got over and above the wages."
"If I should stop," replied Avendaño, "I should not stand out much for
the matter of what I should gain, but should be content with very little
for sake of being in this city, which, they tell me, is the best in
Spain."
"At least it is one of the best and most plentiful," said the host. "But
we are in want of another thing, too, and that is a man to fetch water,
for the lad that used to attend to that job has also left me. He was a
smart fellow, and with the help of a famous ass of mine he used to keep
all the tanks overflowing, and make a lake of the house. One of the
reasons why the muleteers like to bring their employers to my house is,
that they always find plenty of water in it for their beasts, instead of
having to drive them down to the river."
Carriazo, who had been listening to this dialogue, and who saw Avendaño
already installed in office, thought he would follow his example, well
knowing how much it would gratify him. "Out with the ass, señor host,"
he said; "I'm your man, and will do your work as much to your
satisfaction as my comrade."
"Aye, indeed," said Avendaño, "my comrade, Lope Asturiano will fetch
water like a prince, I'll go bail for him."
La Argüello, who had been all the while within earshot, here put in her
word. "And pray, my gentleman," said she to Avendaño, "who is to go bail
for you? By my faith, you look to me as if you wanted some one to
answer for you instead of your answering for another."
"Hold your tongue, Argüello," said her master; "don't put yourself
forward where you're not wanted. I'll go bail for them, both of them.
And mind, I tell you, that none of you women meddle or make with the
men-servants, for it is through you they all leave me."
"So these two chaps are engaged, are they?" said another of the
servant-women; "by my soul, if I had to keep them company I would never
trust them with the wine-bag."
"None of your gibes, señora Gallega," cried her master; "do your work,
and don't meddle with the men-servants, or I'll baste you with a stick."
"Oh, to be sure!" replied the Gallician damsel; "a'nt they dainty dears
to make a body's mouth water? I'm sure master has never known me so
frolicksome with the chaps in the house, nor yet out of it, that he
should have such an opinion of me. The blackguards go away when they
take it into their heads, without our giving them any occasion. Very
like indeed they're the right sort to be in need of any one's putting
them to bidding their masters an early good morning, when they least
expect it."
"You've a deal to say for yourself, my friend," said the landlord; "shut
your mouth and mind your business."
While this colloquy was going on Carriazo had harnessed the ass, jumped
on his back, and set off to the river, leaving Avendaño highly delighted
at witnessing his jovial resolution.
Here then, we have Avendaño and Carriazo changed, God save the mark!
into Tomas Pedro, a hostler, and Lope Asturiano, a water-carrier:
transformations surpassing those of the long-nosed poet. No sooner had
la Argüello heard that they were hired, than she formed a design upon
Asturiano, and marked him for her own, resolving to regale him in such a
manner, that, if he was ever so shy, she would make him as pliant as a
glove. The prudish Gallegan formed a similar design upon Avendaño, and,
as the two women were great friends, being much together in their
business by day, and bed-fellows at night, they at once confided their
amorous purposes to each other; and that night they determined to begin
the conquest of their two unimpassioned swains. Moreover they agreed
that they must, in the first place, beg them not to be jealous about
anything they might see them do with their persons; for girls could
hardly regale their friends within doors, unless they put those without
under contribution. "Hold your tongues, lads," said they, apostrophising
their absent lovers, "hold your tongues and shut your eyes; leave the
timbrel in the hands that can play it, and let those lead the dance that
know how, and no pair of canons in this city will be better regaled than
you will be by our two selves."
While the Gallegan and la Argüello were settling matters in this way,
our good friend, Lope Asturiano, was on his way to the river, musing
upon his beloved tunny fisheries and on his sudden change of condition.
Whether it was for this reason, or that fate ordained it so, it happened
that as he was riding down a steep and narrow lane, he ran against
another water-carrier's ass, which was coming, laden, up-hill; and, as
his own was fresh and lively and in good condition, the poor,
half-starved, jaded brute that was toiling up hill, was knocked down,
the pitchers were broken, and the water spilled. The driver of the
fallen ass, enraged by this disaster, immediately flew upon the
offender, and pommelled him soundly before poor Lope well knew where he
was. At last, his senses were roused with a vengeance, and seizing his
antagonist with both hands by the throat, he dashed him to the ground.
That was not all, for, unluckily, the man's head struck violently
against a stone; the wound was frightful, and bled so profusely, that
Lope thought he had killed him. Several other water-carriers who were on
their way to and from the river, seeing their comrade so maltreated,
seized Lope and held him fast, shouting, "Justice! justice! this
water-carrier has murdered a man." And all the while they beat and
thumped him lustily. Others ran to the fallen man, and found that his
skull was cracked, and that he was almost at the last gasp. The outcry
spread all up the hill, and to the Plaza del Carmen, where it reached
the ears of an alguazil, who flew to the spot with two police-runners.
They did not arrive a moment too soon, for they found Lope surrounded by
more than a score of water-carriers, who were basting his ribs at such a
rate that there was almost as much reason to fear for his life as that
of the wounded man. The alguazil took him out of their hands, delivered
him and his ass into those of his followers, had the wounded man laid
like a sack upon his own ass, and marched them all off to prison
attended by such a crowd that they could hardly make way through the
streets. The noise drew Tomas Pedro and his master to the door, and, to
their great surprise, they saw Asturiano led by in the gripe of two
police-runners, with his face all bloody. The landlord immediately
looked about for his ass, and saw it in the hands of another catchpoll,
who had joined the alguazil's party. He inquired the cause of these
captures, was told what had happened, and was sorely distressed on
account of his ass, fearing that he should lose it, or have to pay more
for it than it was worth.
Tomas followed his comrade, but could not speak a single word to him,
such was the throng round the prisoner, and the strictness of the
catchpolls. Lope was thrust into a narrow cell in the prison, with a
doubly grated window, and the wounded man was taken to the infirmary,
where the surgeon pronounced his case extremely dangerous.
The alguazil took home the two asses with him, besides five pieces of
eight which had been found on Lope. Tomas returned greatly disconcerted
to the inn, where he found the landlord in no better spirits than
himself, and gave him an account of the condition in which he had left
his comrade, the danger of the wounded man, and the fate of the ass. "To
add to the misfortune," said he, "I have just met a gentleman of Burgos,
who tells me that my master will not now come this way. In order to make
more speed and shorten his journey by two leagues, he has crossed the
ferry at Aceca; he will sleep to-night at Orgaz, and has sent me twelve
crowns, with orders to meet him at Seville. But that cannot be, for it
is not in reason that I should leave my friend and comrade in prison and
in such peril. My master must excuse me for the present, and I know he
will, for he is so good-natured that he will put up with a little
inconvenience rather than that I should forsake my comrade. Will you do
me the favour, señor, to take this money, and see what you can do in
this business. While you are spending this, I will write to my master
for more, telling him all that has happened, and I am sure he will send
us enough to get us out of any scrape."
The host opened his eyes a palm wide in glad surprise to find himself
indemnified for the loss of his ass. He took the money and comforted
Tomas, telling him that he could make interest with persons of great
influence in Toledo, especially a nun, a relation of the corregidor's,
who could do anything she pleased with him. Now the washerwoman of the
convent in which the nun lived had a daughter, who was very thick indeed
with the sister of a friar, who was hand and glove with the said nun's
confessor. All he had to do, then, was to get the washerwoman to ask her
daughter to get the monk's sister to speak to her brother to say a good
word to the confessor, who would prevail on the nun to write a note to
the corregidor begging him to look into Lope's business, and then,
beyond a doubt, they might expect to come off with flying colours; that
is provided the water-carrier did not die of his wound, and provided
also there was no lack of stuff to grease the palms of all the officers
of justice, for unless they are well greased they creak worse than the
wheels of a bullock cart.
Whatever Tomas thought of this roundabout way of making interest, he
failed not to thank the innkeeper, and to assure him that he was
confident his master would readily send the requisite money.
Argüello, who had seen her new flame in the hands of the officers, ran
directly to the prison with some dinner for him; but she was not
permitted to see him. This was a great grief to her, but she did not
lose her hopes for all that. After the lapse of a fortnight the wounded
man was out of danger, and in a week more, the surgeon pronounced him
cured. During this time, Tomas Pedro pretended to have had fifty crowns
sent to him from Seville, and taking them out of his pocket, he
presented them to the innkeeper, along with a fictitious letter from his
master. It was nothing to the landlord whether the letter was genuine or
not, so he gave himself no trouble to authenticate it; but he received
the fifty good gold crowns with great glee. The end of the matter was,
that the wounded man was quieted with six ducats, and Asturiano was
sentenced to the forfeiture of his ass, and a fine of ten ducats with
costs, on the payment of which he was liberated.
On his release from prison, Asturiano had no mind to go back to the
Sevillano, but excused himself to his comrade on the ground that during
his confinement he had been visited by Argüello, who had pestered him
with her fulsome advances, which were to him so sickening and
insufferable, that he would rather be hanged than comply with the
desires of so odious a jade. His intention was to buy an ass, and to do
business as a water carrier on his own account as long as they remained
in Toledo. This would protect him from the risk of being arrested as a
vagabond; besides, it was a business he could carry on with great ease
and satisfaction to himself, since with only one load of water, he could
saunter about the city all day long, looking at silly wenches.
"Looking at beautiful women, you mean," said his friend, "for of all the
cities in Spain, Toledo has the reputation of being that in which the
women surpass all others, whether in beauty or conduct. If you doubt it,
only look at Costanza, who could spare from her superfluity of
loveliness charms enough to beautify the rest of the women, not only of
Toledo, but of the whole world."
"Gently, señor Tomas; not so fast with your praises of the señora
scullion, unless you wish that, besides thinking you a fool, I take you
for a heretic into the bargain."
"Do you call Costanza a scullion, brother Lope? God forgive you, and
bring you to a true sense of your error."
"And is not she a scullion?"
"I have yet to see her wash the first plate."
"What does that matter, if you have seen her wash the second, or the
fiftieth?"
"I tell you brother she does not wash dishes, or do anything but look
after the business of the house, and take care of the plate, of which
there is a great deal."
"How is it, then, that throughout the whole city they call her the
illustrious scullery-maid, if so be she does not wash dishes? Perhaps it
is because she washes silver and not crockery that they give her that
name. But to drop this subject, tell me, Tomas, how stand your hopes?"
"In a state of perdition; for during the whole time you were in gaol, I
never have been able to say one word to her. It is true, that to all
that is said to her by the guests in the house, she makes no other reply
than to cast down her eyes and keep her lips closed; such is her virtue
and modesty; so that her modesty excites my love, no less than her
beauty. But it is almost too much for my patience, to think that the
corregidor's son, who is an impetuous and somewhat licentious youth, is
dying for her; a night seldom passes but he serenades her, and that so
openly, that she is actually named in the songs sung in her praise. She
never hears them to be sure, nor ever quits her mistress's room from the
time she retires until morning; but in spite of all that, my heart
cannot escape being pierced by the keen shaft of jealousy."
"What do you intend to do, then, with this Portia, this Minerva, this
new Penelope, who, under the form of a scullery-maid, has vanquished
your heart?"
"Her name is Costanza, not Portia, Minerva, or Penelope. That she is a
servant in an inn, I cannot deny; but what can I do, if, as it seems,
the occult force of destiny, and the deliberate choice of reason, both
impel me to adore her? Look you, friend, I cannot find words to tell you
how love exalts and glorifies in my eyes this humble scullery-maid, as
you call her, so that, though seeing her low condition, I am blind to
it, and knowing it, I ignore it. Try as I may, it is impossible for me
to keep it long before my eyes; for that thought is at once obliterated
by her beauty, her grace, her virtue, and modesty, which tell me that,
beneath that plebeian husk, must be concealed some kernel of
extraordinary worth. In short, be it what it may, I love her, and not
with that common-place love I have felt for others, but with a passion
so pure that it knows no wish beyond that of serving her, and prevailing
on her to love me, and return in the like kind what is due to my
honourable affection."
Here Lope gave a shout, and cried out in a declamatory tone, "O Platonic
love! O illustrious scullery-maid! O thrice-blessed age of ours, wherein
we see love renewing the marvels of the age of gold! O my poor tunnies,
you must pass this year without a visit from your impassioned admirer,
but next year be sure I will make amends, and you shall no longer find
me a truant."
"I see, Asturiano," said Tomas, "how openly you mock me. Why don't you
go to your fisheries? There is nothing to hinder you. I will remain
where I am, and you will find me here on your return. If you wish to
take your share of the money with you, take it at once; go your ways in
peace, and let each of us follow the course prescribed to him by his own
destiny."
"I thought you had more sense," said Lope. "Don't you know that I was
only joking? But now that I perceive you are in earnest, I will serve
you in earnest in everything I can do to please you. Only one thing I
entreat in return for the many I intend to do for you: do not expose me
to Argüello's persecution, for I would rather lose your friendship than
have to endure hers. Good God, friend! her tongue goes like the clapper
of a mill; you can smell her breath a league off; all her front teeth
are false, and it is my private opinion that she does not wear her own
hair, but a wig. To crown all, since she began to make overtures to me,
she has taken to painting white, till her face looks like nothing but a
mask of plaster."
"True, indeed, my poor comrade; she is worse even than the Gallegan who
makes me suffer martyrdom. I'll tell you what you shall do; only stay
this night in the inn, and to-morrow you shall buy yourself an ass, find
a lodging, and so secure yourself from the importunities of Argüello,
whilst I remain exposed to those of the Gallegan, and to the fire of my
Costanza's eyes."
This being agreed on, the two friends returned to the inn, where
Asturiano was received with great demonstrations of love by Argüello.
That night a great number of muleteers stopping in the house, and those
near it, got up a dance before the door of the Sevillano. Asturiano
played the guitar: the female dancers were the two Gallegans and
Argüello, and three girls from another inn. Many persons stood by as
spectators, with their faces muffled, prompted more by a desire to see
Costanza than the dance; but they were disappointed, for she did not
make her appearance. Asturiano played for the dancers with such spirit
and precision of touch that they all vowed he made the guitar speak; but
just as he was doing his best, accompanying the instrument with his
voice, and the dancers were capering like mad, one of the muffled
spectators cried out, "Stop, you drunken sot! hold your noise, wineskin,
piperly poet, miserable catgut scraper!" Several others followed up this
insulting speech with such a torrent of abuse that Lope thought it best
to cease playing and singing; but the muleteers took the interruption so
much amiss, that had it not been for the earnest endeavours of the
landlord to appease them, there would have been a terrible row. In spite
indeed of all he could do, the muleteers would not have kept their hands
quiet, had not the watch happened just then to come up and clear the
ground. A moment afterwards the ears of all who were awake in the
quarter were greeted by an admirable voice proceeding from a man who
had seated himself on a stone opposite the door of the Sevillano.
Everybody listened with rapt attention to his song, but none more so
than Tomas Pedro, to whom every word sounded like a sentence of
excommunication, for the romance ran thus:
In what celestial realms of space
Is hid that beauteous, witching face?
Where shines that star, which, boding ills,
My trembling heart with torment fills?
Why in its wrath should Heaven decree
That we no more its light should see?
Why bid that sun no longer cheer
With glorious beams our drooping sphere?
Yes, second sun! 'tis true you shine,
But not for us, with light divine!
Yet gracious come from ocean's bed;
Why hide from us your radiant head?
Constance! a faithful, dying swain
Adores your beauty, though in vain;
For when his love he would impart,
You fly and scorn his proffered heart!
O let his tears your pity sway,
And quick he'll bear you hence away;
For shame it is this sordid place,
Should do your charms such foul disgrace
Here you're submissive to control,
Sweet mistress of my doating soul!
But altars youths to you should raise,
And passion'd vot'ries sound your praise!
Quit then a scene which must consume
Unworthily your early bloom!
To my soft vows your ear incline,
Nor frown, but be for ever mine!
His gladsome torch let Hymen light,
And let the god our hearts unite!
This day would then before its end,
See me your husband, lover, friend.
The last line was immediately followed by the flight of two brick-bats,
which fell close to the singer's feet; but had they come in contact with
his head, they would certainly have knocked all the music and poetry out
of it. The poor frightened musician took to his heels with such speed
that a greyhound could not have caught him. Unhappy fate of
night-birds, to be always subject to such showers! All who had heard
the voice of the fugitive admired it, but most of all, Tomas Pedro, only
he would rather the words had not been addressed to Costanza, although
she had not heard one of them. The only person who found fault with the
romance was a muleteer, nicknamed Barrabas. As soon as this man saw the
singer run off, he bawled after him; "There you go, you Judas of a
troubadour! May the fleas eat your eyes out! Who the devil taught you to
sing to a scullery-maid about celestial realms, and spheres, and
ocean-beds, and to call her stars and suns and all the rest of it? If
you had told her she was as straight as asparagus, as white as milk, as
modest as a lay-brother in his novitiate, more full of humours and
unmanageable than a hired mule, and harder than a lump of dry mortar,
why then she would have understood you and been pleased; but your fine
words are fitter for a scholar than for a scullery-maid. Truly, there
are poets in the world who write songs that the devil himself could not
understand; for my part, at least, Barrabas though I am, I cannot make
head or tail of what this fellow has been singing. What did he suppose
Costanza could make of them? But she knows better than to listen to such
stuff, for she is snug in bed, and cares no more for all these
caterwaulers than she does for Prester John. This fellow at least, is
not one of the singers belonging to the corregidor's son, for they are
out and out good ones, and a body can generally understand them; but, by
the Lord, this fellow sets me mad."
The bystanders coincided in opinion with Barrabas, and thought his
criticism very judicious. Everybody now went to bed, but no sooner was
the house all still, than Lope heard some one calling very softly at his
bed-room door. "Who's there?" said he. "It is we," whispered a voice,
"Argüello and the Gallegan. Open the door and let us in, for we are
dying of cold."
"Dying of cold indeed," said Lope, "and we are in the middle of the dog
days."
"Oh, leave off now, friend Lope," said the Gallegan; "get up and open
the door; for here we are as fine as archduchesses."
"Archduchesses, and at this hour? I don't believe a word of it, but
rather think you must be witches or something worse. Get out of that
this moment, or, by all that's damnable, if you make me get up I'll
leather you with my belt till your hinder parts are as red as poppies."
Finding that he answered them so roughly, and in a manner so contrary to
their expectations, the two disappointed damsels returned sadly to their
beds; but before they left the door, Argüello put her lips to the
key-hole, and hissed through it, "Honey was not made for the mouth of
the ass;" and with that, as if she had said something very bitter
indeed, and taken adequate revenge on the scorner, she went off to her
cheerless bed.
"Look you, Tomas," said Lope to his companion, as soon as they were
gone, "set me to fight two giants, or to break the jaws of half a dozen,
or a whole dozen of lions, if it be requisite for your service, and I
shall do it as readily as I would drink a glass of wine; but that you
should put me under the necessity of encountering Argüello, this is what
I would never submit to, no, not if I were to be flayed alive. Only
think, what damsels of Denmark[81] fate has thrown upon us this night.
Well, patience! To-morrow will come, thank God, and then we shall see."
[81] See the romance of Amadis of Gaul.
"I have already told you, friend," replied Tomas, "that you may do as
you please--either go on your pilgrimage, or buy an ass and turn
water-carrier as you proposed."
"I stick to the water-carrying business," said Lope. "My mind is made up
not to quit you at present."
They then went to sleep till daylight, when they rose; Tomas Pedro went
to give out oats, and Lope set off to the cattle-market to buy an ass.
Now it happened that Tomas had spent his leisure on holidays in
composing some amorous verses, and had jotted them down in the book in
which he kept the account of the oats, intending to copy them out
fairly, and then blot them out of the book, or tear out the page. But,
before he had done so, he happened to go out one day and leave the book
on the top of the oat-bin. His master found it there, and looking into
it to see how the account of the oats stood, he lighted upon the verses.
Surprised and annoyed, he went off with them to his wife, but before he
read them to her, he called Costanza into the room, and peremptorily
commanded her to declare whether Tomas Pedro, the hostler, had over made
love to her, or addressed any improper language to her, or any that
gave token of his being partial to her. Costanza vowed that Tomas had
never yet spoken to her in any such way, nor ever given her reason to
suppose that he had any bad thoughts towards her.
Her master and mistress believed her, because they had always found her
to speak the truth. Having dismissed her, the host turned to his wife
and said, "I know not what to say of the matter. You must know, señora,
that Tomas has written in this book, in which he keeps the account of
the oats, verses that give me an ugly suspicion that he is in love with
Costanza."
"Let me see the verses," said the wife, "and I'll tell you what we are
to conclude."
"Oh, of course; as you are a poet you will at once see into his
thoughts."
"I am not a poet, but you well know that I am a woman of understanding,
and that I can say the four prayers in Latin."
"You would do better to say them in plain Spanish; you know your uncle
the priest has told you that you make no end of blunders when you patter
your Latin, and that what you say is good for nothing."
"That was an arrow from his niece's quiver. She is jealous of seeing me
take the Latin hours in hand, and make my way through them as easily as
through a vineyard after the vintage."
"Well, have it your own way. Listen now, here are the verses;" and he
read some impassioned lines addressed to Costanza.
"Is there any more?" said the landlady.
"No. But what do you think of these verses?"
"In the first place, we must make sure that they are by Tomas."
"Of that there can be no manner of doubt, for the handwriting is most
unquestionably the same as that in which the account of the oats is
kept."
"Look ye, husband, it appears to me that although Costanza is named in
the verses, whence it may be supposed that they were made for her, we
ought not for that reason to set the fact down for certain, just as if
we had seen them written, for there are other Costanzas in the world
besides ours. But even supposing they were meant for her, there is not a
word in them that could do her discredit. Let us be on the watch, and
look sharply after the girl; for if he is in love with her, we may be
sure he will make more verses, and try to give them to her."
"Would it not be better to get rid of all this bother by turning him out
of doors?"
"That is for you to do if you think proper. But really, by your own
account, the lad does his work so well that it would go against one's
conscience to turn him off upon such slight grounds."
"Very well; let us be on the watch as you say, and time will tell us
what we have to do." Here the conversation ended, and the landlord
carried the book back to the place where he had found it.
Tomas returned in great anxiety to look for his book, found it, and that
it might not occasion him another fright, he immediately copied out the
verses, effaced the original, and made up his mind to hazard a
declaration to Costanza upon the first opportunity that should present
itself. Her extreme reserve, however, was such that there seemed little
likelihood of his finding such an opportunity; besides, the great
concourse of people in the house made it almost impossible that he
should have any private conversation with her,--to the despair of her
unfortunate lover. That day, however, it chanced that Costanza appeared
with one cheek muffled, and told some one who asked her the reason, that
she was suffering from a violent face ache. Tomas, whose wits were
sharpened by his passion, instantly saw how he might avail himself of
that circumstance. "Señora Costanza," he said, "I will give you a prayer
in writing, which you have only to recite once or twice, and it will
take away your pain forthwith."
"Give it me, if you please," said Costanza, "and I will recite it; for I
know how to read."
"It must be on condition, however," said Tomas, "that you do not show it
to anybody; for I value it highly, and I should not wish it to lose its
charm by being made known to many."
"I promise you that no person shall see it; but let me have it at once,
for I can hardly bear this pain."
"I will write it out from memory, and bring it you immediately."
This was the very first conversation that had ever taken place between
Tomas and Costanza during all the time he had been in the house, which
was nearly a month. Tomas withdrew, wrote out the prayer, and found
means to deliver it, unseen by any one else, into Costanza's hand; and
she, with great eagerness, and no less devotion, went with it into a
room, where she shut herself up alone. Then, opening the paper, she read
as follows:--
"Lady of my soul, I am a gentleman of Burgos; and if I survive my
father, I shall inherit a property of six thousand ducats yearly income.
Upon the fame of your beauty, which spreads far and wide, I left my
native place, changed my dress, and came in the garb in which you see
me, to serve your master. If you would consent to be mine in the way
most accordant with your virtue, put me to any proof you please, to
convince you of my truth and sincerity; and when you have fully
satisfied yourself in this respect, I will, if you consent, become your
husband, and the happiest of men. For the present, I only entreat you
not to turn such loving and guileless feelings as mine into the street;
for if your master, who has no conception of them, should come to know
my aspirations, he would condemn me to exile from your presence, and
that would be the same thing as sentencing me to death. Suffer me,
señora, to see you until you believe me, considering that he does not
deserve the rigorous punishment of being deprived of the sight of you,
whose only fault has been that he adores you. You can reply to me with
your eyes, unperceived by any of the numbers who are always gazing upon
you; for your eyes are such that their anger kills, but their compassion
gives new life."
When Tomas saw that Costanza had gone away to read his letter, he
remained with a palpitating heart, fearing and hoping either his
death-doom, or the one look that should bid him live. Presently Costanza
returned, looking so beautiful in spite of her muffling, that if any
extraneous cause could have heightened her loveliness, it might be
supposed that her surprise at finding the contents of the paper so
widely different from what she had expected, had produced that effect.
In her hand she held the paper torn into small pieces, and returning,
the fragments to Tomas, whose legs could hardly bear him up, "Brother
Tomas," she said, "this prayer of yours seems to me to savour more of
witchcraft and delusion than of piety, therefore I do not choose to put
faith in it or to use it, and I have torn it up that it may not be seen
by any one more credulous than myself. Learn other prayers, for it is
impossible that this one can ever do you any good."
So saying, she returned to her mistress's room, leaving Tomas sorely
distressed, but somewhat comforted at finding that his secret remained
safe confined to Costanza's bosom; for as she had not divulged it to her
master, he reckoned that at least he was in no danger of being turned
out of doors. He considered also, that in having taken the first step,
he had overcome mountains of difficulties, for in great and doubtful
enterprises the chief difficulty is always in the beginning.
Whilst these things were happening in the posada, Asturiano was going
about the market in search of an ass. He examined a great many, but did
not find one to his mind; though a gipsy tried hard to force upon him
one that moved briskly enough, but more from the effects of some
quicksilver which the vendor had put into the animal's ears, than from
its natural spirit and nimbleness. But though the pace was good enough,
Lope was not satisfied with the size, for he wanted an ass big and
strong enough to carry himself and the water vessels, whether they were
full or empty. At last a young fellow came up, and whispered in his ear,
"If you want a beast of the right sort for a water-carrier's business, I
have one close by in a meadow; a bigger or a better you will not find in
Toledo. Take my advice, and never buy a gipsy's beast, for though they
may seem sound and good, they are all shams, and full of hidden defects.
If you want to buy the real thing, come along with me, and shut your
mouth."
Lope consented, and away went the pair shoulder to shoulder, till they
arrived at the King's Gardens, where they found several water-carriers
seated under the shade of a water wheel, whilst their asses were grazing
in an adjoining meadow. The vendor pointed out his ass, which took
Lope's fancy immediately, and was praised by all present, as a very
strong animal, a good goer, and a capital feeder. The bargain was soon
struck, and Lope gave sixteen ducats for the ass, with all its
accoutrements. The bystanders congratulated him on his purchase, and on
his entrance into the business, assuring him that he had bought an
exceedingly lucky ass, for the man who had sold him had, in less than a
year, without over-working himself, made enough to buy two suits of
clothes, over and above his own keep, and that of the ass, and the
sixteen ducats, with which he intended to return to his native place,
where a marriage had been arranged with a half kinswoman of his. Besides
the water-carriers who assisted at the sale of the ass, there was a
group of four stretched on the ground, and playing at primera, the earth
serving them for a table, and their cloaks for a table cloth. Lope went
up to watch their game, and saw that they played more like archdeacons
than like water-carriers, each of them having before him a pile of more
than a hundred reals in cuartos and in silver. Presently two of the
players, having lost all they had, got up; whereupon the seller of the
ass said, that, if there was a fourth hand, he would play, but he did
not like a three-handed game.
Lope, who never liked to spoil sport, said that he would make a fourth.
They sat down at once, and went at it so roundly that, in a few moments,
Lope lost six crowns which he had about him, and finding himself without
coin, said if they liked to play for the ass he would stake him. The
proposal was agreed to, and he staked one quarter of the ass, saying
they should play for him, quarter by quarter. His luck was so bad, that
in four consecutive games he lost the four quarters of his ass, and they
were won by the very man who had sold him. The winner got up to take
possession, but Lope stopped him, observing that he had only played for
and lost the four quarters of his ass, which the winner was welcome to
take, but he must leave him the tail. This queer demand made all present
shout with laughter; and some of them, who were knowing in the law, were
of opinion that his claim was unreasonable, for when a sheep or any
other beast is sold, the tail is never separated from the carcass, but
goes as a matter of course with one of the hind quarters. To this Lope
replied that in Barbary they always reckon five quarters to a sheep, the
tail making the fifth, and being reckoned as valuable as any of the
other quarters. He admitted that when a beast was sold alive, and not
quartered, that the tail was included in the sale; but this was not to
the point in question, for he had not sold his ass, but played it away,
and it had never been his intention to stake the tail; therefore he
required them forthwith to give him up the same, with everything thereto
annexed, or pertaining, that is to say, the whole series of spinal
bones, from the back of the skull to where they ended in the tail, and
to the tips of the lowest hairs thereof.
"Well," said one, "suppose it be as you say, and that your claim is
allowed; leave the tail sticking to the rest of the ass, and hold on by
it."
"No," said Lope, "give me up the tail, or all the water-carriers in the
world shall never make me give up the ass. Don't imagine because there
are so many of you, that I will let you put any cheating tricks on me,
for I am a man who can stand up to another man, and put two handbreadths
of cold steel into his guts without his being able to tell how he came
by them. Moreover, I won't be paid in money for the tail at so much a
pound, but I will have it in substance, and cut off from the ass, as I
have said."
The winner of the four quarters and the rest of the company began to
think that it would not be advisable to resort to force in this
business, for Lope seemed to them to be a man of such mettle, that he
would not be vanquished without some trouble. Nor were they mistaken;
for, as became a man who had spent three seasons at the tunny fisheries,
where all sorts of rows and brawls are familiar things, he rattled out a
few of the most out of the way oaths in vogue there, threw his cap into
the air, whipped out a knife from beneath his cloak, and put himself
into such a posture as struck the whole company with awe and respect. At
last, one of them, who seemed the most rational, induced the rest to
agree that Lope should be allowed to stake the tail against a quarter of
the ass at a game of _quinola_. So said, so done. Lope won the first
game; the loser was piqued and staked another quarter, which went the
way of the first; and in two more games the whole ass was gone. He then
proposed to play for money: Lope was unwilling, but was so importuned on
all hands, that at last he consented; and such was his run of luck that
he left his opponent without a maravedi. So intense was the loser's
vexation, that he rolled and writhed upon the ground and knocked his
head against it. Lope, however, like a good-natured, liberal gentleman,
raised him up, returned all the money he had won, including the sixteen
ducats the price of the ass, and even divided what he had left among the
bystanders. Great was the surprise of them all at this extraordinary
liberality; and had they lived in the time of the great Tamerlane, they
would have made him king of the water-carriers.
Accompanied by a great retinue, Lope returned to the city, where he
related his adventure to Tomas, who in turn recounted to him his own
partial success. There was no tavern, or eating house, or rogues'
gathering, in which the play for the ass was not known, the dispute
about the tail, and the high spirit and liberality of the Asturian; but
as the mob are for the most part unjust, and more prone to evil than to
good, they thought nothing of the generosity and high mettle of the
great Lope, but only of the tail; and he had scarcely been two days
carrying water about the city, before he found himself pointed at by
people who cried, "There goes the man of the tail!" The boys caught up
the cry, and no sooner had Lope shown himself in any street, than it
rang from one end to the other with shouts of "Asturiano, give up the
tail! Give up the tail, Asturiano!" At first Lope said not a word,
thinking that his silence would tire out his persecutors; but in this he
was mistaken, for the more he held his tongue the more the boys wagged
theirs, till at last he lost patience, and getting off his ass began to
drub the boys; but this was only cutting off the heads of Hydra, and for
every one he laid low by thrashing some boy, there sprang up on the
instant, not seven but seven hundred more, that began to pester him more
and more for the tail. At last he found it expedient to retire to the
lodgings he had taken apart from his companion in order to avoid
Argüello, and to keep close there until the influence of the malignant
planet which then ruled the hours should have passed away, and the boys
should have forgotten to ask him for the tail. For two days he never
left the house except by night to go and see Tomas, and ask him how he
got on. Tomas told him that since he had given the paper to Costanza he
had never been able to speak a single word to her, and that she seemed
to be more reserved than ever. Once he had found as he thought an
opportunity to accost her, but before he could get out a word, she
stopped him, saying, "Tomas, I am in no pain now, and therefore have no
need of your words or of your prayers. Be content that I do not accuse
you to the Inquisition, and give yourself no further trouble." But she
made this declaration without any expression of anger in her
countenance. Lope then related how the boys annoyed him, calling after
him for the tail, and Tomas advised him not to go abroad, at least with
his ass, or if he did that he should choose only the least frequented
streets. If that was not enough, he had an unfailing remedy left, which
was to get rid of his business and with it of the uncivil demand to
which it subjected him. Lope asked him had the Gallegan come again to
his room. He said she had not, but that she persisted in trying to
ingratiate herself with him by means of dainties which she purloined out
of what she cooked for the guests. After this conversation Lope went
back to his lodgings, intending not to leave them again for another six
days, at least in company with his ass.
It might be about eleven at night, when the corregidor most unexpectedly
entered the Posado del Sevillano, at the head of a formidable posse. The
host and even the guests were startled and agitated by his visit; for as
comets, when they appear, always excite fears of disaster, just so the
ministers of justice, when they suddenly enter a house, strike even
guiltless consciences with alarm. The unwelcome visitor walked into a
room, and called for the master of the house, who came tremblingly to
know what might be the señor corregidor's pleasure. "Are you the
landlord?" said the magistrate with great gravity. "Yes, señor, and your
worship's humble servant to command," was the reply. The corregidor then
ordered that every one else should quit the room, and leave him alone
with the landlord. This being done, he resumed his questions.
"What servants have you in your inn, landlord?"
"Señor, I have two Gallegan wenches, a housekeeper, and a young man who
gives out the oats and straw, and keeps the reckoning."
"No more?"
"No, señor."
"Then tell me, landlord, what is become of a girl who is said to be a
servant in this house, and so beautiful that she is known all over this
city as the illustrious scullery-maid? It has even reached my ears that
my son Don Perequito is in love with her, and that not a night passes in
which he does not serenade her."
"Señor, it is true that this illustrious scullery-maid, as they call
her, is in my house, but she neither is my servant, nor ceases to be
so."
"I do not understand you. What do you mean by saying that she is and is
not your servant?"
"It is the real truth, and if your worship will allow me, I will explain
the matter to you, and tell you what I have never told to any one."
"Before I hear what you have to say, I must first see this
scullery-maid."
Upon this the landlord went to the door and called to his wife to send
in Costanza, When the landlady heard that, she was in great dismay, and
began to wring her hands, saying, "Lord, have mercy on me! What can the
corregidor want with Costanza, and alone! Some terrible calamity must
surely have happened, for this girl's beauty bewitches the men."
"Don't be alarmed, señora," said Costanza, "I will go and see what the
señor corregidor wants, and if anything bad has happened, be assured the
fault is not mine;" and without waiting to be called a second time, she
took a lighted candle in a silver candlestick, and went into the room
where the corregidor was. As soon as he saw her, he bade the landlord
shut the door, and then taking the candle out of her hand; and holding
it near her face, he stood gazing at her from head to foot. The blush
which this called up into Costanza's cheeks, made her look so beautiful
and so modest that it seemed to the corregidor he beheld an angel
descended on earth. After a long scrutiny, "Landlord," he said, "an inn
is not fit setting for a jewel like this, and I now declare that my son
Don Perequito has shown his good sense in fixing his affections so
worthily. I say, damsel, that they may well call you not only
illustrious, but most illustrious: but it should not be with the
addition of scullery-maid, but with that of duchess."
"She is no scullery-maid, señor," said the host; "her only service in
the house is to keep the keys of the plate, of which, by God's bounty, I
have some quantity for the service of the honourable guests who come to
this inn."
"Be that as it may, landlord," returned the corregidor; "I say it is
neither seemly nor proper that this damsel should live in an inn. Is she
a relation of yours?"
"She is neither my relation nor my servant; and if your worship would
like to know who she is, your worship shall hear, when she is not
present, things that will both please and surprise you."
"I should like to know it. Let Costanza retire, and be assured she may
count on me in all things, as she would upon her own father; for her
great modesty and beauty oblige all who see her to offer themselves for
her service."
Costanza replied not a word, but with great composure made a profound
reverence to the corregidor. On leaving the room she found her mistress
waiting in great agitation. She told her all that had passed, and how
her master remained with the corregidor to tell some things, she knew
not what, which he did not choose her to hear. All this did not quite
tranquilise the landlady, nor did she entirely recover her equanimity
until the corregidor went away, and she saw her husband safe and free.
The latter meanwhile had told the corregidor the following tale:--
"It is now, by my reckoning, señor, fifteen years, one month, and four
days, since there came to this house a lady dressed in the habit of a
pilgrim, and carried in a litter. She was attended by four servant-men
on horseback, and two dueñas and a damsel who rode in a coach. She had
also two sumpter mules richly caparisoned, and carrying a fine bed and
all the necessary implements for cooking. In short, the whole equipage
was first rate, and the pilgrim had all the appearance of being some
great lady; and though she seemed to be about forty years of age, she
was nevertheless beautiful in the extreme. She was in bad health, looked
pale, and was so weary, that she ordered her bed to be instantly made,
and her servants made it in this very room. They asked me who was the
most famous physician in this city. I said Doctor de la Fuente. They
went for him instantly; he came without delay, saw his patient alone,
and the result was that he ordered the bed to be made in some other part
of the house, where the lady might not be disturbed by any noise, which
was immediately done. None of the men-servants entered the lady's
apartment, but only the two dueñas and the damsel. My wife and I asked
the men-servants who was this lady, what was her name, whence she came,
and whither she was going? Was she wife, widow, or maid, and why she
wore that pilgrim's dress? To all these questions, which we repeated
many and many a time, we got no other answer than that this pilgrim was
a noble and wealthy lady of old Castile, that she was a widow, and had
no children to inherit her wealth; and that having been for some months
ill of the dropsy, she had made a vow to go on a pilgrimage to our Lady
of Guadalupe, and that was the reason for the dress she wore. As for her
name, they were under orders to call her nothing but the lady pilgrim.
"So much we learned then; but three days after one of the dueñas called
myself and my wife into the lady's presence, and there, with the door
locked, and before her women, she addressed us with tears in her eyes, I
believe in these very words:--
"'Heaven is my witness, friends, that without any fault of mine, I find
myself in the cruel predicament which I shall now declare to you. I am
pregnant, and so near my time, that I already feel the pangs of travail.
None of my men-servants are aware of my misfortune, but from my women
here I have neither been able nor desirous to conceal it. To escape
prying eyes in my own neighbourhood, and that this hour might not come
upon me there, I made a vow to go to our Lady of Guadalupe; but it is
plainly her will that my labour should befal me in your house. It is now
for you to succour and aid me with the secrecy due to one who commits
her honour to your hands. In this purse there are two hundred gold
crowns, which I present to you as a first proof how grateful I shall be
for the good offices I am sure you will render me;' and taking from
under her pillow a green silk purse, embroidered with gold, she put it
into the hands of my wife, who, like a simpleton, stood gaping at the
lady, and did not say so much as a word in the way of thanks or
acknowledgment. For my part I remember that I said there was no need at
all of that, we were not persons to be moved more by interest than by
humanity to do a good deed when the occasion offered. The lady then
continued, 'You must immediately, my friends, look out for some place to
which you may convey my child as soon as it is born, and also you must
contrive some story to tell to the person in whose charge you will leave
it. At first I wish the babe to remain in this city, and afterwards to
be taken to a village. As for what is subsequently done, I will give you
instructions on my return from Guadalupe, if it is God's will that I
should live to complete my pilgrimage, for in the meantime I shall have
had leisure to consider what may be my best course. I shall have no need
of a midwife; for as I know from other confinements of mine, more
honourable than this, I shall do well enough with the aid of my women
only, and thus I shall avoid having an additional witness to my
misfortune.'
"Here the poor distressed pilgrim ended what she had to say, and broke
out into a flood of tears, but was partly composed by the soothing words
spoken to her by my wife, who had recovered her wits. I immediately went
in search of a woman to whom I might take the child when it was born;
and, between twelve and one o'clock that night, when all the people in
the house were fast asleep, the lady was delivered of the most beautiful
little girl that eyes ever beheld, and the very same that your worship
has just seen. But the wonder was that neither did the mother make any
moan in her labour, nor did the baby cry; but all passed off quietly,
and in all the silence that became this extraordinary case. The lady
kept her bed for six days, during which the doctor was constant in his
visits; not that she had informed him of the cause of her illness, or
that she took any of the medicines he prescribed; but she thought to
blind her men-servants by his visits, as she afterwards informed me when
she was out of danger. On the eighth day she left her bed, apparently as
big as she had been before her delivery, continued her pilgrimage, and
returned in three weeks, looking almost quite well, for she had
gradually reduced the bulk of her artificial dropsy. The little girl had
been christened Costanza, in accordance with the order given me by her
mother, and was already placed with a nurse in a village about two
leagues hence, where she passed for my niece. The lady was pleased to
express her satisfaction with all I had done, and gave me when she was
going away a gold chain, which is now in my possession, from which she
took off six links, telling me that they would be brought by the person
who should come to claim the child. She also took a piece of white
parchment, wrote upon it, and then cut zigzag through what she had
written. Look, sir, here are my hands locked together with the fingers
interwoven. Now suppose your honour were to write across my fingers, it
is easy to imagine that one could read the writing whilst the fingers
were joined, but that the meaning would be lost as soon as the hands
were separated, and would appear again as soon as they were united as
before. Just so with the parchment; one half serves as a key to the
other; when they are put together the letters make sense, but separately
they have no meaning. One-half of the parchment and the whole chain,
short of the six links, were left with me, and I keep them still, always
expecting the arrival of the person who is to produce the counterparts;
for the lady told me that in two years she would send for her daughter,
charging me that I should have her brought up not as became her mother's
quality, but as a simple villager; and if by any chance she was not able
to send for the child so soon, I was on no account to acquaint her with
the secret of her birth, even should she have arrived at years of
discretion. The lady moreover begged me to excuse her if she did not
tell me who she was; having for the present important reasons to conceal
her name. Finally, after giving us four hundred gold crowns more, and
embracing my wife with tears, she departed, leaving us filled with
admiration for her discretion, worth, beauty, and modesty.
"Costanza remained at nurse in the village for two years. At the end of
that time I brought her home, and have kept her ever since constantly
with me, in the dress of a girl who had to work for her bread, as her
mother directed. Fifteen years, one month, and four days I have been
looking for the person who should come and claim her, but the length of
time that has elapsed makes me begin to lose all hope of his coming. If
he does not make his appearance before this year is out, it is my
determination to adopt her and bequeath her all I am worth, which is
upwards of sixteen thousand ducats, thanks be to God. It now remains for
me, señor Corregidor, to enumerate to you the virtues and good qualities
of Costanza, if it be possible for me to express them. First and
foremost, she is most piously devoted to our Lady; she confesses and
communicates every month; she can read and write; there's not a better
lace maker in all Toledo; she sings without accompaniment like an angel;
in the matter of behaving with propriety she has not her equal; as for
her beauty, your worship has seen it with your own eyes. Señor Don
Pedro, your worship's son, has never exchanged a word with her in her
life. It is true that from time to time he treats her to some music,
which she never listens to. Many señors, and men of title too, have put
up at this house, and have delayed their journey for several days solely
to have their fill of looking at her; but I well know there is not one
of them can boast with truth that she ever gave them opportunity to say
one word to her either alone or before folk. This, señor, is the real
history of the illustrious scullery-maid, who is no scullion, in which I
have not departed one tittle from the truth."
The host had long ended his narrative before the corregidor broke
silence, so much was he struck by the strange facts he had heard. At
last he desired to see the parchment and the chain; the host produced
them without delay, and they corresponded exactly to the description he
had given of them. The chain was of curious workmanship, and on the
parchment were written, one under the other, on the projecting portions
of the zigzag, the letters, TIITEREOE which manifestly required to be
joined with those of the counterpart to make sense. The corregidor
admired the ingenuity of the contrivance, and judged from the costliness
of the chain, that the pilgrim must have been a lady of great wealth. It
was his intention to remove the lovely girl from the inn as soon as he
had chosen a suitable convent for her abode; but for the present he
contented himself with taking away the parchment only, desiring the
innkeeper to inform him if any one came for Costanza, before he showed
that person the chain, which he left in his custody. And with this
parting injunction the corregidor left the house, much marvelling at
what he had seen and heard.
Whilst all this affair was going on, Tomas was almost beside himself
with agitation and alarm, and lost in a thousand conjectures, every one
of which he dismissed as improbable the moment it was formed. But when
he saw the corregidor go away, leaving Costanza behind him, his spirits
revived and he began to recover his self-possession. He did not venture
to question the landlord, nor did the latter say a word about what had
passed between him and the corregidor to any body but his wife, who was
greatly relieved thereby, and thanked God for her delivery out of a
terrible fright.
About one o'clock on the following day, there came to the inn two
elderly cavaliers of venerable presence, attended by four servants on
horseback and two on foot. Having inquired if that was the Posada del
Sevillano, and being answered in the affirmative, they entered the
gateway, and the four mounted servants, dismounting, first helped their
master's out of their saddles. Costanza came out to meet the new-comers
with her wonted propriety of demeanour, and no sooner had one of the
cavaliers set eyes on her, than, turning to his companion, he said, "I
believe, señor Don Juan, we have already found the very thing we are
come in quest of." Tomas, who had come as usual to take charge of the
horses and mules, instantly recognised two of his father's servants; a
moment after he saw his father himself, and found that his companion was
no other than the father of Carriazo. He instantly conjectured that they
were both on their way to the tunny fisheries to look for himself and
his friend, some one having no doubt told them that it was there, and
not in Flanders, they would find their sons. Not daring to appear before
his father in the garb he wore, he made a bold venture, passed by the
party with his hand before his face, and went to look for Costanza,
whom, by great good luck, he found alone. Then hurriedly, and with a
tremulous voice, dreading lest she would not give him time to say a word
to her, "Costanza," he said, "one of those two elderly cavaliers is my
father--that one whom you will hear called Don Juan de Avendaño. Inquire
of his servants if he has a son, Don Tomas de Avendaño by name, and that
is myself. Thence you may go on to make such other inquiries as will
satisfy you that I have told you the truth respecting my quality, and
that I will keep my word with regard to every offer I have made you. And
now farewell, for I will not return to this house until they have left
it."
Costanza made him no reply, nor did he wait for any, but hurrying out,
with his face concealed as he had come in, he went to acquaint Carriazo
that their fathers had arrived at the Sevillano. The landlord called for
Tomas to give out oats, but no Tomas appearing, he had to do it himself.
Meanwhile, one of the two cavaliers called one of the Gallegan wenches
aside, and asked her what was the name of the beautiful girl he had
seen, and was she a relation of the landlord or the landlady. "The
girl's name is Costanza," replied the Gallegan; "she is no relation
either to the landlord or the landlady, nor do I know what she is. All I
can say is, I wish the murrain had her, for I don't know what there is
about her, that she does not leave one of us girls in the house a single
chance, for all we have our own features too, such as God made them.
Nobody enters these doors but the first thing he does is to ask, Who is
that beautiful girl? and the next is to say all sorts of flattering
things of her, while nobody condescends to say a word to the rest of us,
not so much as 'What are you doing here, devils, or women, or whatever
you are?'"
"From your account, then," said the gentleman, "I suppose she has a fine
time of it with the strangers who put up at this house."
"You think so. Well, just you hold her foot for the shoeing, and see how
you'll like the job. By the Lord, señor, if she would only give her
admirers leave to look at her, she might roll in gold; but she's more
touch-me-not than a hedgehog; she's a devourer of Ave Marias, and spends
the whole day at her needle and her prayers. I wish I was as sure of a
good legacy as she is of working miracles some day. Bless you, she's a
downright saint; my mistress says she wears hair-cloth next her skin."
Highly delighted with what he had heard from the Gallegan, the gentleman
did not wait till they had taken off his spurs, but called for the
landlord, and withdrew with him into a private room. "Señor host," said
he, "I am come to redeem a pledge of mine which has been in your hands
for some years, and I bring you for it a thousand gold crowns, these
links of a chain, and this parchment."
The host instantly recognised the links and the parchment, and highly
delighted with the promise of the thousand crowns, replied, "Señor, the
pledge you wish to redeem is in this house, but not the chain or the
parchment which is to prove the truth of your claim; I pray you
therefore to have patience, and I will return immediately." So saying,
he ran off to inform the corregidor of what was happening.
The corregidor, who had just done dinner, mounted his horse without
delay, and rode to the Posada del Sevillano, taking with him the tally
parchment. No sooner had he entered the room where the two cavaliers
sat, than hastening with open arms to embrace one of them, "Bless my
soul! my good cousin Don Juan de Avendaño! This is indeed a welcome
surprise."
"I am delighted to see you, my good cousin," said Don Juan, "and to
find you as well as I always wish you. Embrace this gentleman, cousin;
this is Don Diego de Carriazo, a great señor and my friend."
"I am already acquainted with the señor Don Diego," replied the
corregidor, "and am his most obedient servant."
After a further interchange of civilities they passed into another room,
where they remained alone with the innkeeper, who said as he produced
the chain, "The señor corregidor knows what you are come for, Don Diego
de Carriazo. Be pleased to produce the links that are wanting to this
chain; his worship will show the parchment which he holds, and let us
come to the proof for which I have been so long waiting."
"It appears, then," said Don Diego, "that it will not be necessary to
explain to the señor corregidor the reason of our coming, since you have
done so already, señor landlord."
"He told me something," said the corregidor, "but he has left much
untold which I long to know. Here is the parchment."
Don Diego produced that which he had brought; the two were put together
and found to fit accurately into each other; and between every two
letters of the innkeeper's portion, which as we have said were TIITEREOE
there now appeared one of the following series HSSHTUTKN, the whole
making together the words, _This is the true token_. The six links of
the chain brought by Don Diego were then compared with the larger
fragment, and found to correspond exactly.
"So far all is clear," said the corregidor; "it now remains for us to
discover, if it be possible, who are the parents of this very beautiful
lady."
"Her father," said Don Diego, "you see in me; her mother is not living,
and you must be content with knowing that she was a lady of such rank
that I might have been her servant. But though I conceal her name, I
would not have you suppose that she was in any wise culpable, however
manifest and avowed her fault may appear to have been. The story I will
now briefly relate to you will completely exonerate her memory.
"You must know, then, that Costanza's mother, being left a widow by a
man of high rank, retired to an estate of hers, where she lived a calm
sequestered life among her servants and vassals. It chanced one day
when I was hunting, that I found myself very near her house and
determined to pay her a visit. It was siesta time when I arrived at her
palace (for I can call it nothing else): giving my horse to one of my
servants, I entered, and saw no one till I was in the very room in which
she lay asleep on a black ottoman. She was extremely handsome; the
silence, the loneliness of the place, and the opportunity, awakened my
guilty desires, and without pausing to reflect, I locked the door, woke
her, and holding her firmly in my grasp said, 'No cries, señora! they
would only serve to proclaim your dishonour; no one has seen me enter
this room, for by good fortune all your servants are fast asleep, and
should your cries bring them hither, they can do no more than kill me in
your very arms; and if they do, your reputation will not be the less
blighted for all that.' In fine, I effected my purpose against her will
and by main force, and left her so stupefied by the calamity that had
befallen her, that she either could not or would not utter one word to
me. Quitting the place as I had entered it, I rode to the house of one
of my friends, who resided within two leagues of my victim's abode. The
lady subsequently removed to another residence, and two years passed
without my seeing her, or making any attempt to do so. At the end, of
that time I heard that she was dead.
"About three weeks since I received a letter from a man who had been the
deceased lady's steward, earnestly entreating me to come to him, as he
had something to communicate to me which deeply concerned my happiness
and honour. I went to him, very far from dreaming of any such thing as I
was about to hear from him, and found him at the point of death. He told
me in brief terms that his lady on her deathbed had made known to him
what had happened between her and me, how she had become pregnant, had
made a pilgrimage to our Lady of Guadalupe to conceal her misfortune,
and had been delivered in this inn of a daughter named Costanza. The man
gave me the tokens upon which she was to be delivered to me, namely the
piece of chain and the parchment, and with them thirty thousand gold
crowns, which the lady had left as a marriage portion for her daughter.
At the same time, he told me that it was the temptation to appropriate
that money which had so long prevented him from obeying the dying
behest of his mistress, but now that he was about to be called to the
great account, he was eager to relieve his conscience by giving me up
the money and putting me in the way to find my daughter. Returning home
with the money and the tokens, I related the whole story to Don Juan de
Avendaño, and he has been kind enough to accompany me to this city."
Don Diego had but just finished his narrative when some one was heard
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.
Teodosia had longed for daylight that she might see what manner of man
he was with whom she had been conversing all night; but when she beheld
him, she would have been glad that it had never dawned, but that her
eyes had remained in perpetual darkness, for the cavalier who stood
before her was her brother! At sight of him she was stupefied with
emotion, her face was deadly pale, and she could not utter a word. At
last, rallying her spirits, she drew her dagger, and presenting the
handle to her brother, fell at his feet, and gasped out, "Take it, dear
señor and brother, punish the fault I have committed, and satisfy your
resentment, for my offence deserves no mercy, and I do not desire that
my repentance should be accepted as an atonement. The only thing I
entreat is that you will deprive me of life, but not of my honour; for
though I have placed it in manifest danger by absenting myself from the
house of my parents, yet its semblance may be preserved before the world
if my death be secret."
Her brother regarded her fixedly, and although her wantonness excited
him to vengeance, he could not withstand this affecting appeal. With a
placable countenance he raised her from the ground, and consoled her as
well as he could, telling her, among other things, that as he knew of no
punishment adequate to the magnitude of her folly, he would suspend the
consideration of that matter for the present; and as he thought that
fortune had not yet made all remedy impossible, he thought it bettor to
seek one than at once to take vengeance on her for her levity. These
words restored Teodosia to life; the colour returned to her cheeks, and
her despair gave way to revived hope. Don Rafael (that was the brother's
name) would speak no more on the subject, but bade her change her name
from Teodosia to Teodoro, and decided that they should both proceed at
once to Salamanca in quest of Marco Antonio, though he hardly expected
to find him there; for as they were intimate friends, they would have
met had he been at the university, unless indeed Marco Antonio might
have shunned him from a consciousness of the wrong he had done him. The
new Teodoro acquiesced in everything proposed by her brother; and the
innkeeper coming in, they ordered breakfast, intending to depart
immediately.
Before all was ready another traveller arrived. This was a gentleman who
was known to Don Rafael and Teodoro, and the latter, to avoid being
seen by him, remained in the chamber. Don Rafael, having embraced the
newcomer, asked him what news he brought. His friend replied that he had
just come from the port of Santa Maria, where he had left four galleys
bound for Naples, and that he had seen Marco Antonio Adorno, the son of
Don Leonardo Adorno, on board one of them. This intelligence rejoiced
Don Rafael, to whom it appeared that since he had so unexpectedly
learned what it was of such importance for him to know, he might regard
this an omen of his future success. He asked his friend, who knew his
father well, to exchange the hired mule he rode for his father's nag,
giving him to understand, not that he was coming from Salamanca, but
that he was going thither, and that he was unwilling to take so good an
animal on so long a journey. The other obligingly consented, and
promised to deliver the nag to its owner. Don Rafael and he breakfasted
together, and Teodoro alone; and finally the friend pursued his journey
to Cazallo, where he had an estate, whilst Don Rafael excused himself
from accompanying him by saying that he had to return that day to
Seville.
As soon as the friend was gone, and the reckoning paid, Don Rafael and
Teodoro mounted and bade adieu to the people of the inn, leaving them
all in admiration of the comeliness of the pair. Don Rafael told his
sister what news he had received of Marco Antonio, and that he proposed
they should make all haste to reach Barcelona; for vessels on their way
to or fro between Italy and Spain usually put in at that port; and if
Marco Antonio's ship had not yet arrived there, they would wait for it,
and be sure of seeing him. His sister said he should do as he thought
best, for his will was hers. Don Rafael then told the muleteer who
accompanied him to have patience, for he intended to go to Barcelona,
but would pay him accordingly. The muleteer, who was one of the merriest
fellows of his trade, and who knew Don Rafael's liberality, declared
that he was willing to go with him to the end of the world.
Don Rafael asked his sister what money she had. She told him she had not
counted it; all she knew was that she had put her hand seven or eight
times into her father's strong box, and had taken it out full of gold
crowns. From this Don Rafael calculated that she might have something
about five hundred crowns, which, with two hundred of his own, and a
gold chain he wore, seemed to him no bad provision for the journey; the
more so, as he felt confident of meeting Marco Antonio in Barcelona.
They pursued their journey I rapidly without accident or impediment
until they arrived within two leagues of a town called Igualada, which
is nine leagues from Barcelona, and there they learned that a cavalier
who was going as ambassador to Rome, was waiting at Barcelona for the
galleys, which had not yet arrived. Greatly cheered by this news, they
pushed on until they came to the verge of a small wood, from which they
saw a man running, and looking back over his shoulder with every
appearance of terror. "What is the matter with you, good man?" said Don
Rafael, going up to him. "What has happened to you, that you seem so
frightened and run so fast?"
"Have I not good cause to be frightened and to run fast," said the man,
"since I have escaped by a miracle from a gang of robbers in that wood?"
"Malediction! Lord save us!" exclaimed the muleteer. "Robbers at this
hour! By my halidom, they'll leave us as bare as we were born."
"Don't make yourself uneasy, brother," replied the man from the wood,
"for the robbers have by this time gone away, after leaving more than
thirty passengers stripped to their shirts and tied to trees, with the
exception of one only, whom they have left to unbind the rest as soon as
they should have passed a little hill they pointed out to him."
"If that be so," said Calvete, the muleteer, "we may proceed without
fear, for where the robbers have made an attack, they do not show
themselves again for some days. I say this with confidence, as a man who
has been twice in their hands, and knows all their ways."
This fact being confirmed by the stranger, Don Rafael resolved to go on.
They entered the wood, and had not advanced far, when they came upon the
persons who had been robbed, and who were more than forty in number. The
man who had been left free, had unbound some of them; but his work was
not yet complete, and several of them were still tied to the trees. They
presented a strange spectacle, some of them stripped naked, others
dressed in the tattered garments of the robbers; some weeping over their
disaster, some laughing at the strange figure the others made in their
robber's costume; one dolorously reciting the list of the things he had
lost, another declaring that the loss of a box of Agnus Dei he was
bringing home from Rome afflicted him more than all besides. In short,
the whole wood resounded with the moans and lamentations of the
despoiled wretches. The brother and sister beheld them with deep
compassion, and heartily thanked heaven for their own narrow escape from
so great a peril. But what affected Teodoro more than anything else was
the sight of a lad apparently about fifteen, tied to a tree, with no
covering on him but a shirt and a pair of linen drawers, but with a face
of such beauty that none could refrain from gazing on it. Teodoro
dismounted and unbound him, a favour which he acknowledged in very
courteous terms; and Teodoro, to make it the greater, begged Calvete to
lend the gentle youth his cloak, until he could buy him another at the
first town they came to. Calvete complied, and Teodoro threw the cloak
over his shoulders, asking him in Don Rafael's presence to what part of
the country he belonged, whence he was coming, and whither he was going.
The youth replied that he was from Andalusia, and he named as his
birthplace a town which was but two leagues distant from that of the
brother and sister. He said he was on his way from Seville to Italy, to
seek his fortune in arms like many another Spaniard; but that he had had
the misfortune to fall in with a gang of thieves, who had taken from him
a considerable sum of money and clothes, which he could not replace for
three hundred crowns. Nevertheless he intended to pursue his journey,
for he did not come of a race which was used to let the ardour of its
zeal evaporate at the first check.
The manner in which the youth expressed himself, the fact that he was
from their own neighbourhood, and above all, the letter of
recommendation he carried in his face, inspired the brother and sister
with a desire to befriend him as much as they could. After they had
distributed some money among such of the rest as seemed in most need of
it, especially among monks and priests, of whom there were eight, they
made this youth mount Calvete's mule, and went on without more delay to
Igualada. There they were informed that the galleys had arrived the day
before at Barcelona, whence they would sail in two days, unless the
insecurity of the roadstead compelled them to make an earlier departure.
On account of this news, they rose next morning before the sun, although
they had not slept all night in consequence of a circumstance which had
occurred at supper, and which had more surprised and interested the
brother and sister than they were themselves aware. As they sat at
table, and the youth with them whom they had taken under their
protection, Teodoro fixed her eyes intently on his face, and
scrutinising his features somewhat curiously, perceived that his ears
were bored. From this and from a certain bashfulness that appeared in
his looks, she suspected that the supposed youth was a woman, and she
longed for supper to be over that she might verify her suspicion.
Meanwhile Don Rafael asked him whose son he was, for he knew all the
principal people in the town he had named as his birth place. The youth
said he was the son of Don Enrique de Cardenas. Don Rafael replied that
he was well acquainted with Don Enrique, and knew for certain that he
had no son; but that if he had given that answer because he did not
choose to make known his family, it was of no consequence, and he should
not be questioned again on that subject.
"It is true," said the youth, "that Don Enrique has no children, but his
brother Don Sancho has."
"He has no son either," replied Don Rafael, "but an only daughter, who,
by the bye, they say is one of the handsomest damsels in Andalusia; but
this I know only by report; for though I have been often in her town I
have never seen her."
"It is quite true, as you say, señor, that Don Sancho has only a
daughter, but not one so handsome as fame reports; and if I said that I
was the son of Don Enrique it was only to give myself some importance in
your eyes; for in fact, I am only the son of Don Sancho's steward, who
has been many years in his service, and I was born in his house. Having
displeased my father, I carried off a good sum of money from him, and
resolved to go to Italy, as I have told you, and follow the career of
arms, by which men even of obscure birth have been known to make
themselves illustrious."
Teodoro, who listened attentively to all this conversation, was more and
more confirmed in her suspicion, both by the manner and the substance
of what the youth said. After the cloth was removed, and while Don
Rafael was preparing for bed, she made known to him her surmise, and
then, with his permission, took the youth aside, and, going out with him
upon a balcony which looked on the street, addressed him thus:--
"Don Francisco," for that was the name he had given himself, "I would
fain have done you so much service that you could not help granting me
anything that I should ask of you; but the short time we have known you
has not permitted this. Hereafter perhaps you may know how far I deserve
that you should comply with my desires; but if you do not choose to
satisfy that which I am now about to express, I will not the less
continue to be your faithful servant. Furthermore, before I prefer my
present request, I would impress upon you that although my age does
exceed yours, I have more experience of the world than is usual at my
years, as you will admit when I tell you that it has led me to suspect
that you are not a man, as your garb imports, but a woman, and one as
well-born as your beauty proclaims, and perhaps as unfortunate as your
disguise implies, for such transformations are never made willingly, or
except under the pressure of some painful necessity. If what I suspect
is the case, tell me so, and I swear to you on the faith of a cavalier
to aid and serve you in every way I can. That you are a woman you cannot
make me doubt, for the holes in your ears make that fact very clear. It
was thoughtless of you not to close them with a little flesh-coloured
wax, for somebody else as inquisitive as myself, and not so fit to be
trusted with a secret, might discover by means of them what you have so
ill concealed. Believe me, you need not hesitate to tell me who you are,
in full reliance on my inviolable secrecy."
The youth had listened with great attention to all Teodoro said, and,
before answering her a word, he seized her hands, carried them by force
to his lips, kissed them with great fervour, and even bedewed them
copiously with tears. Teodoro could not help sympathising with the acute
feelings of the youth, and shedding tears also. Although, when she had
with difficulty withdrawn her hands from the youth's lips, he replied
with a deep-drawn sigh, "I will not, and cannot deny, señora, that your
suspicion is true; I am a woman, and the most unfortunate of my sex;
and since the acts of kindness you have conferred upon me, and the
offers you make me, oblige me to obey all your commands, listen and I
will tell you who I am, if indeed it will not weary you to hear the tale
of another's misfortunes."
"May I never know aught else myself," replied Teodoro, "if I shall not
feel a pleasure in hearing of those misfortunes equal to the pain it
will give me to know that they are yours, and that will be such as if
they were my own." And again she embraced and encouraged the seeming
youth, who, somewhat more tranquilised, continued thus:--
"I have spoken the truth with regard to my native place, but not with
regard to my parents; for Don Enrique is not my father but my uncle, and
his brother Don Sancho is my father. I am that unhappy daughter of his
of whom your brother says that she is celebrated for her beauty, but how
mistakenly you now perceive. My name is Leocadia; the occasion of my
disguise you shall now hear.
"Two leagues from my native town there is another, one of the wealthiest
and noblest of Andalusia, where lives a cavalier of quality, who derives
his origin from the noble and ancient Adornos of Genoa. He has a son,
who, unless fame exaggerates his praises as it does mine, is one of the
most gallant gentlemen one would desire to see. Being so near a
neighbour of ours, and being like my father strongly addicted to the
chase, he often came on a visit of five or six days to our house, the
greater part of that time, much of the night even included, being spent
by my father and him in the field. From these visits of his, fortune, or
love, or my own imprudence, took occasion to bring me down to my present
state of degradation. Having observed, with more attention than became a
modest and well-behaved maiden, the graceful person and manners of our
visitor, and taking into consideration his distinguished lineage and the
great wealth of his parents, I thought that to obtain him for my husband
would be the highest felicity to which my wishes could aspire. With this
thought in my head I began to gaze at him most intently, and also, no
doubt, with too little caution, for he perceived it, and the traitor
needed no other hint to discover the secret of my bosom and rob me of my
peace. But why should I weary you by recapitulating every minute detail
of my unfortunate attachment? Let me say at once that he won so far
upon me by his ceaseless solicitations, having plighted his faith under
the most solemn and, as I thought, the most Christian vows that he would
become my husband, that I put myself wholly at his disposal.
Nevertheless, not being quite satisfied with his vows alone, and in
order that the wind might not bear them away, I made him commit them to
writing, and give them to me in a paper signed with his own hand, and
drawn up in terms so strong and unequivocal as to remove all my
mistrust. Once in possession of this paper, I arranged that he should
come to me one night, climb the garden-wall, and enter my chamber, where
he might securely pluck the fruit destined for him alone. The night so
longed for by me at last arrived--"
Up to this point Teodoro had listened with rapt attention, especially
since she had heard the name of Adorno, but now she could contain
herself no longer. "Well," she cried, suddenly interrupting the speaker,
"and then, what did he do? Did he keep the assignation? Were you happy
in his arms? Did he confirm his written pledge anew? Was he content when
he had obtained from you what you say was his? Did your father know it?
What was the end of this good and wise beginning?"
"The end was to bring me to what you see, for he never came."
Teodoro breathed again at these words, and partly recovered her
self-possession, which had been almost destroyed by the frantic
influence of jealousy. Even yet she was not so free from it but that she
trembled inwardly as Leocadia continued her story.
"Not only did he fail to keep the assignation, but a week after I
learned for certain that he had disappeared from home, and carried off
from the house of her parents, persons of distinction in his own
neighbourhood, a very beautiful and accomplished young lady named
Teodosia. I was nearly mad with jealousy and mortification. I pictured
Teodosia to myself in imagination, more beautiful than the sun, more
perfect than perfection itself, and above all, more blissful than I was
miserable. I read the written engagement over and over again; it was as
binding as any form of words could be; but though my hopes would fain
have clung to it as something sacred and inviolable, they all fell to
the ground when I remembered in what company Marco Antonio had departed.
I beat my face, tore my hair, and cursed my fate; but what was most
irksome to me was that I could not practise these self-inflictions at
all hours in consequence of my father's presence. In fine, that I might
be free to indulge my woe without impediment, I resolved to quit my
home. It would seem that the execution of a bad purpose never fails for
want of opportunity. I boldly purloined a suit of clothes belonging to
one of my father's pages, and from himself a considerable sum of money;
then leaving the house by night I travelled some leagues on foot, and
reached a town called Osuna, where I hired a car. Two days afterwards I
entered Seville, where I was quite safe from all pursuit.
"There I bought other clothes, and a mule, and set out with some
cavaliers who were travelling with all speed to Barcelona, that they
might be in time for some galleys that were on their way to Italy. I
continued my journey until yesterday, when the robbers took everything
from me, and among the rest, that precious thing which sustained my soul
and lightened my toils, the written engagement given me by Marco
Antonio. I had intended to carry it with me to Italy, find Marco Antonio
there, and present it to him as an evidence of his faithlessness and my
constancy, and constrain him to fulfil his promise. At the same time I
am conscious that he may readily deny the words written on this paper,
since he has made nought of the obligations that should have been
engraved on his soul; besides, it is plain that if he is accompanied by
the incomparable Teodosia he will not deign to look upon the unfortunate
Leocadia. But happen what may, I am resolved to die or present myself
before the pair, that the sight of me may trouble their joy. This
Teodosia, this enemy of my peace, shall not so cheaply enjoy what is
mine. I will seek her out, I will find her, and will take her life if I
can."
"But how is Teodosia in fault," said Teodoro, "if, as is very probably
the case, she too has been deluded by Marco Antonio, as you, señora,
have been?"
"How can that be so," returned Leocadia, "if he has her with him? Being
with the man she loves, what question can there be of delusion? They are
together, and therefore they are happy, and would be so, though they
were in the burning deserts of Lybia, or the dreary wastes of Scythia.
She is blest in his arms wherever she is, and therefore she shall pay
for all I shall suffer till I find her."
"It is very likely you are mistaken," said Teodoro; "I am very well
acquainted with this enemy of yours, as you call her, and I know her
prudence and modesty to be such, that she never would venture to quit
her father's house and go away with Marco Antonio. And even had she done
so, not knowing you, nor being aware of any claim you had on him, she
has not wronged you at all, and where there is no wrong, vengeance is
out of place."
"Tell me not of her modesty, señor; for I was as modest and as virtuous
as any maiden in the world, and yet I have done what I have told you.
That he has carried her off there is no doubt. I acknowledge, looking on
the matter dispassionately, that she has not wronged me; but the pangs
of jealousy which she occasions me make me abhor her. If a sword were
thrust through my vitals, should I not naturally strive to pluck it out
and break it to pieces?"
"Well, well, señora Leocadia, since the passion that sways you makes you
speak so wildly, I see it is not the fit time to offer you rational
advice. I shall therefore content myself with repeating that I am ready
and willing to render you every service in my power, and I know my
brother's generous nature so well, that I can boldly make you the same
promise on his part. We are going to Italy, and it rests only with
yourself to accompany us. One thing only I entreat, that you will allow
me to tell my brother what I know of your story, that he may treat you
with the attention and respect which is your due. I think you had better
continue to wear male attire, and if it is to be procured in this place,
I will take care that you shall be suitably equipped to morrow. For the
rest, trust to time, for it is a great provider of remedies even for the
most desperate cases."
Leocadia gratefully thanked the generous Teodoro, saying he might tell
his brother whatever he thought fit, and beseeching him not to forsake
her, since he saw to what dangers she was exposed, if she was known to
be a woman. Here the conversation ended, and they retired to rest,
Teodosia in her brother's room, and Leocadia in another next it. Don
Rafael was still awake, waiting for his sister to know what had passed
between her and the suspected woman; and before she lay down, he made
her relate the whole to him in detail. "Well, sister," he said when she
had finished, "if she is the person she declares herself to be, she
belongs to the best family in her native place, and is one of the
noblest ladies of Andalusia. Her father is well known to ours, and the
fame of her beauty perfectly corresponds with the evidence of our own
eyes. My opinion is, that we must proceed with caution, lest she come to
speak with Marco Antonio before us, for I feel some uneasiness about
that written engagement she speaks of, even though she has lost it. But
be of good cheer, sister, and go to rest, for all will come right at
last."
Teodosia complied with her brother's advice so far as to go to bed, but
it was impossible for her to rest, so racked was she by jealous fears.
Oh, how she exaggerated the beauty of Leocadia, and the disloyalty of
Marco Antonio! How often she read with the eyes of her imagination his
written promise to her rival! What words and phrases she added to it, to
make it more sure and binding! How often she refused to believe that it
was lost! And how many a time she repeated to herself, that even though
it were lost, Marco Antonio would not the less fulfil his promise to
Leocadia, without thinking of that by which he was bound to herself! In
such thoughts as these she passed the night without a wink of sleep; nor
was her brother Don Rafael less wakeful; for no sooner had he heard who
Leocadia was, than his heart was on fire for her. He beheld her in
imagination, not tied to a tree, or in tattered male garments, but in
her own rich apparel in her wealthy father's house. He would not suffer
his mind to dwell on that which was the primary cause of his having
become acquainted with her; and he longed for day that he might continue
his journey and find out Marco Antonio, not so much that he might make
him his brother-in-law, as that he might hinder him from becoming the
husband of Leocadia. In fact, he was so possessed by love and jealousy,
that he could have borne to see his sister comfortless, and Marco
Antonio fairly buried, rather than be himself without hope of obtaining
Leocadia.
Thus with different thoughts, they all quitted their beds at break of
day, and Don Rafael sent for the host, and asked him if he could
purchase a suit of clothes in that place for a page who had been
stripped by robbers. The host said he happened to have one for sale
which he would dispose of at a reasonable price. He produced it,
Leocadia found that it fitted her very well, she put it on, and girt
herself with sword and dagger with such sprightly grace that she
enchanted Don Rafael, and redoubled Teodosia's jealousy. Calvete saddled
the mules, and about eight in the morning, they started for Barcelona,
not intending to take the famous monastery of Monserrate on their way,
but to visit it on a future occasion, whenever it might please God to
send them home again with hearts more at ease.
Words are not adequate to describe the feelings of the two brothers, or
with what different eyes they severally regarded Leocadia; Teodosia
wishing for her death, and Don Rafael for her life; Teodosia striving to
find faults in her, in order that she might not despair of her own
hopes; and Don Rafael finding out new perfections, that more and more
obliged him to love her. All these thoughts, however, did not hinder
their speed, for they reached Barcelona before sunset. They admired the
magnificent situation of the city, and esteemed it to be the flower of
the world, the honour of Spain, the terror of all enemies near and far,
the delight of its inhabitants, the refuge of strangers, the school of
chivalry, the model of loyalty, in a word, a union of all that a
judicious curiosity could desire in a grand, famous, wealthy, and
well-built city. Upon their entering it they heard a great uproar, and
saw a multitude of people running with loud cries. They inquired the
cause, and were told that the people of the galleys in the port had
fallen upon those of the town. Don Rafael desired to see what was going
on, though Calvete would have dissuaded him; for, as the muleteer said,
he knew well what mischief came of interfering in such frays as this,
which usually occurred in Barcelona when galleys put in there.
In spite of this good advice, Don Rafael and his fellow-travellers went
down at once towards the beach, where they saw many swords drawn, and
numbers of people slashing at each other without mercy, and they
approached so near the scene without dismounting, that they could
distinctly see the faces of the combatants, for the sun was still above
the horizon. The number of townspeople engaged was immense, and great
crowds issued from the galleys, although their commander, Don Pedro
Vique, a gentleman of Valencia, stood on the prow of the flag-ship,
threatening all who entered the boats to succour their comrades. Finding
his commands disregarded, he ordered a gun to be fired without ball, as
a warning that if the combatants did not separate, the next gun he fired
would be shotted. Meanwhile, Don Rafael, who narrowly watched the fray,
observed among those who took part with the seamen a young man of about
two-and-twenty, dressed in green, with a hat of the same colour, adorned
with a rich loop and buttons apparently of diamonds. The skill and
courage with which he fought, and the elegance of his dress, drew upon
him the attention of all the spectators, and Teodosia and Leocadia both
cried out, as if with one voice, "Good heavens! either my eyes deceive
me, or he in green is Marco Antonio." Then, with great nimbleness, they
dismounted, drew their swords and daggers, cleared their way through the
crowd, and placed themselves one on each side of Marco Antonio. "Fear
nothing, Señor Marco Antonio," cried Leocadia, "for there is one by your
side who will defend your life at the cost of his own." "Who doubts it,"
ejaculated Teodosia, on the other side, "since I am here?" Don Rafael,
who had seen and heard all this, followed his two companions, and took
sides as they did.
Marco Antonio was too busy smiting and defending himself to heed what
his two seconds had said; he could think of nothing but fighting, and no
man ever fought more bravely; but as the party of the town was every
moment increasing in numbers, the people of the galleys were forced to
retreat and take to the water. Marco Antonio retreated with the rest,
much against his will, still attended on either side by his two valiant
Amazons. By this time a Catalonian knight of the renowned House of
Cardonas, made his appearance on a noble charger, and, throwing himself
between the two parties, ordered the townspeople to retire. The majority
obeyed, but some still continued to fling stones, one of which unluckily
struck Marco Antonio on the breast with such force that he fell
senseless into the water, in which he was wading up to his knees.
Leocadia instantly raised and supported him in her arms, and Teodosia
aided her.
Don Rafael, who had turned aside a little to avoid a shower of stones,
saw the accident which had befallen Marco Antonio, and was hastening
forward to his aid, when the Catalonian knight stopped him, saying,
"Stay, señor, and do me the favour to put yourself by my side. I will
secure you from the insolence of this unruly rabble."
"Ah, señor!" replied Rafael, "let me pass, for I see that in great
danger which I most love in this world."
The knight let him pass, but before he could reach the spot, the crew of
the flagship's boat had already taken on board Marco Antonio and
Leocadia, who never let him out of her arms. As for Teodosia, whether it
was that she was weary, or overcome with grief to see her lover wounded,
or enraged with jealousy to see her rival with him, she had not strength
to get into the boat, and would certainly have fallen in a fainting fit
into the water, if her brother had not opportunely come to her aid,
while he himself felt no less torment than his sister at seeing Leocadia
go away with Marco Antonio.
The Catalonian knight being very much taken with the goodly presence of
Don Rafael and his sister (whom he supposed to be a man), called them
from the shore, and requested them to go with him, and they were
constrained to accept his friendly offer, lest they should suffer some
injury from the people, who were not yet pacified. Thereupon, the knight
dismounted, and with his drawn sword in his hand, led them through the
tumultuous throng, who made way at his command. Don Rafael looked round
to see if he could discover Calvete with the mules; but he was not to be
seen, for the moment his employers dismounted, he had gone off to an inn
where he had lodged on previous occasions. On their arrival at the
knight's abode, which was one of the principal houses in the city, he
asked them in which of the galleys they had arrived. Don Rafael replied
that they had not come in any, for they had arrived in the city just as
the fray began; and it was because they had recognised the gentleman who
was wounded with a stone that they had involved themselves in danger.
Moreover, he entreated the knight would have the gentleman brought on
shore, as he was one on whom his own dearest interests depended. "I will
do so with great pleasure," replied the knight, "and I am sure the
general will allow it, for he is a worthy gentleman and a relation of
mine." Thereupon he went at once to the galley, where he found Marco
Antonio under the hands of the surgeon, who pronounced his wound
dangerous, being near the heart. With the general's consent he had him
brought on shore with great care, accompanied by Leocadia, and carried
to his own house in a litter, where he entertained the whole party with
great hospitality.
A famous surgeon of the city was now sent for, but he would not touch
the patient's wound until the following day, alleging that it had no
doubt been properly treated already, army and navy surgeons being always
men of skill, in consequence of their continual experience in cases of
wounds. He only desired that the patient should be placed in a quiet
room and left to rest. Presently the surgeon of the galley arrived, and
had a conference with his colleague, who approved of what he had done,
and agreed with him in thinking the case highly dangerous. Leocadia and
Teodosia heard this with as much anguish of heart as if it had been a
sentence of death upon themselves; but not wishing to betray their
grief, they strove to conceal it in silence. Leocadia, however,
determined to do what she thought requisite for her honour, and as soon
as the surgeons were gone, she entered Marco Antonio's room, where,
going up to his bed side, and taking his hand in presence of the master
of the house, Don Rafael, Teodosia, and others, "Señor Marco Antonio
Adorno," she said, "it is now no seasonable time, considering your
condition, to utter many words; and therefore I shall only entreat you
to lend your ear to some few which concern, if not the safety of your
body, at least that of your soul. But I must have your permission to
speak; for it would ill become me, who have striven never to disoblige
you from the first moment I knew you, to disturb you now in what seems
almost your last."
At these words Marco Antonio opened his eyes, looked steadfastly at
Leocadia, and recognising her rather by the tone of her voice than by
her face, said with a feeble voice, like one in pain, "Say on, señor,
what you please, for I am not so far gone but that I can listen to you;
nor is that voice of yours so harsh and unpleasing that I should dislike
to hear it."
Teodosia hearkened most attentively, and every word that Leocadia spoke
pierced her heart like an arrow, and at the same time harrowed the soul
of Don Rafael. "If the blow you have received," continued Leocadia, "or
rather that which has struck my heart, has not effaced from your memory,
señor Marco Antonio, the image of her whom not long ago you called your
glory and your heaven, you must surely call to mind who Leocadia was,
and what was the promise you gave her in writing under your own hand;
nor can you have forgotten the worth of her parents, her own modesty and
virtue, and the obligation you are under to her for having always
gratified you in everything you desired. If you have not forgotten all
this, you may readily know, in spite of this disguise, that I am
Leocadia. As soon as I heard of your departure from home, dreading lest
new chances and opportunities should deprive me of what is so justly
mine, I resolved, in defiance of the worst miseries, to follow you in
this garb, and to search the wide world over till I found you. Nor need
you wonder at this, if you have ever felt what the strength of true love
is capable of, or know the frenzy of a deceived woman. I have suffered
some hardships in my quest, all of which I regard as pastime since they
have resulted in my seeing you; for, though you are in this condition,
if it be God's will to remove you to a better world, I shall esteem
myself more than happy if before your departure you do what becomes you,
in which case I promise you to live in such a manner after your death
that I shall soon follow you on that last inevitable journey. I beseech
you then, for the love of heaven, for your own honour, and for my sake,
to whom you owe more than to all the world, receive me at once as your
lawful wife, not leaving it to the law to do what you have so many
righteous motives for doing of your own accord."
Here Leocadia ceased speaking. All present had listened to her in
profound silence, and in the same way they awaited the reply of Marco
Antonio. "I cannot deny, señora," he said, "that I know you; your voice
and your face will not suffer me to do that. Nor yet can I deny how much
I owe to you, nor the great worth of your parents and your own
incomparable modesty and virtue. I do not, and never shall, think
lightly of you for what you have done in coming to seek me in such a
disguise; on the contrary, I shall always esteem you for it in the
highest degree. But since, as you say, I am so near my end, I desire to
make known to you a truth, the knowledge of which, if it be unpleasant
to you now, may hereafter be useful to you.
"I confess, fair Leocadia, that I loved you, and you loved me; and yet I
confess also that my written promise was given more in compliance with
your desire than my own; for before I had long signed it my heart was
captivated by a lady named Teodosia, whom you know, and whose parentage
is as noble as your own. If I gave you a promise signed with my hand, to
her I gave that hand itself in so unequivocal a manner that it is
impossible for me to bestow it on any other person in the world. My
amour with you was but a pastime from which I culled only some flowers,
leaving you nothing the worse; from her I obtained the consummate fruit
of love upon my plighted faith to be her husband. That I afterwards
deserted you both was the inconsiderate act of a young man who thought
that all such things were of little importance, and might be done
without scruple. My intention was to go to Italy, and after spending
some of the years of my youth there, to return and see what had become
of you and my real wife; but Heaven in its mercy, as I truly believe,
has permitted me to be brought to the state in which you see me, in
order that in thus confessing my great faults, I may fulfil my last duty
in this world, by leaving you disabused and free, and ratifying on my
deathbed the pledge I gave to Teodosia. If there is anything, señora
Leocadia, in which I can serve you during the short time that remains to
me, let me know it; so it be not to receive you as my wife, for that I
cannot, there is nothing else which I will not do, if it be in my power,
to please you."
Marco Antonio, who had raised himself on one arm while he spoke, now
fell back senseless. Don Rafael then came forward. "Recover yourself,
dear señor," he said, embracing him affectionately, "and embrace your
friend and your brother, since such you desire him to be."
Marco Antonio opened his eyes, and recognising Don Rafael, embraced him
with great warmth. "Dear brother and señor," he said, "the extreme joy I
feel in seeing you must needs be followed by a proportionate affliction,
since, as they say, after gladness comes sorrow; but whatever befals me
now I will receive with pleasure in exchange for the happiness of
beholding you."
"To make your happiness more complete," replied Don Rafael, "I present
to you this jewel as your own." Then, turning to look for his sister, he
found her behind the rest of the people in the room, bathed in tears,
and divided between joy and grief at what she saw and what she had
heard. Taking her by the hand, her brother led her passively to the
bed-side, and presented her to Marco Antonio, who embraced her with
loving tears.
The rest of those present stared in each others' faces in speechless
amazement at these extraordinary occurrences; but the hapless Leocadia,
seeing her whom she had mistaken for Don Rafael's brother locked in the
arms of him she looked on as her own husband, and all her hopes mocked
and ruined, stole out of the room unperceived by the others, whose
attention was engrossed by the scene about the bed. She rushed wildly
into the street, intending to wander over the world, no matter whither;
but she was hardly out of doors before Don Rafael missed her, and, as if
he had lost his soul, began to inquire anxiously after her; but nobody
could tell what had become of her. He hastened in dismay to the inn
where he was told Calvete lodged, thinking she might have gone thither
to procure a mule; but, not finding her there, he ran like a madman
through the streets, seeking her in every quarter, till the thought
struck him that she might have made for the galleys, and he turned in
that direction. As he approached the shore he heard some one calling
from the land for the boat belonging to the general's galley, and soon
recognised the voice as that of the beautiful Leocadia. Hearing his
footsteps as he hastened towards her, she drew her sword and stood upon
her guard; but perceiving it was Don Rafael, she was vexed and confused
at his having found her, especially in so lonely a place; for she was
aware, from many indications, that he was far from regarding her with
indifference; on the contrary, she would have been delighted to know
that Marco Antonio loved her as well. How shall I relate all that Don
Rafael now said to Leocadia? I can give but a faint idea of the glowing
language in which he poured out his soul.
"Were it my fate, beautiful Leocadia," he said, "along with the favours
of fortune to lack also at this moment the courage to disclose to you
the secret of my soul, then would there be doomed to perpetual oblivion
the most ardent and genuine affection that ever was harboured in a
lover's breast. But not to do it that wrong, I will make bold, señora,
come of it what may, to beg you will observe, if your wounded feelings
allow you, that in nothing has Marco Antonio the advantage of me, except
the happiness of being loved by you. My lineage is as good as his, and
in fortune he is not much superior to me. As for the gifts of nature, it
becomes me not to laud myself, especially if in your eyes those which
have fallen to my share are of no esteem. All this I say, adored señora,
that you may seize the remedy for your disasters which fortune offers to
your hand. You see that Marco Antonio cannot be yours, since Heaven has
already made him my sister's; and the same Heaven which has taken him
from you is now willing to compensate you with me, who desire no higher
bliss in this life than that of being your husband. See how good fortune
stands knocking at the door of the evil fortune you have hitherto known.
And do not suppose that I shall ever think the worse of you for the
boldness you have shown in seeking after Marco Antonio; for from the
moment I determine to match myself with you, I am bound to forget all
that is past. Well I know that the same power which has constrained me
so irresistibly to adore you, has brought you also to your present pass,
and therefore there will be no need to seek an excuse where there has
been no fault."
Leocadia listened in silence to all Don Rafael said, only from time to
time heaving a sigh from the bottom of her heart. Don Rafael ventured to
take her hand; she did not withdraw it; and kissing it again and again,
he said, "Tell me, lady of my soul, that you will be so wholly, in
presence of these starry heavens, this calm listening sea, and these
watery sands. Say that _yes_, which surely behoves your honour as well
as my happiness. I repeat to you that I am a gentleman, as you know, and
wealthy; that I love you, which you ought to esteem above every other
consideration; and that whereas I find you alone, in a garb that
derogates much from your honour, far from the home of your parents and
your kindred, without any one to aid you at your need, and without the
hope of obtaining what you were in quest of, you may return home in your
own proper and seemly garb, accompanied by as good a husband as you had
chosen for yourself, and be wealthy, happy, esteemed, and even applauded
by all who may become acquainted with the events of your story. All
this being so, I know not why you hesitate. Say the one word that shall
raise me from the depth of wretchedness to the heaven of bliss, and in
so doing, you will do what is best for yourself; you will comply with
the demands of courtesy and good sense, and show yourself at once
grateful and discreet."
"Well," said the doubting Leocadia, at last, "since Heaven has so
ordained, and neither I nor any one living can oppose its will, be it as
Heaven and you desire, señor. I take the same power to witness with what
bashfulness I consent to your wishes, not because I am unconscious of
what I gain by complying with them, but because I fear that when I am
yours you will regard me with other eyes than those with which hitherto
perhaps you have mistakingly beheld me. But be it as it may, to be the
lawful wife of Don Rafael de Villavicencio is an honour I cannot lose,
and with that alone I shall live contented. But if my conduct after I am
your wife give me any claim to your esteem, I will thank Heaven for
having brought me through such strange circumstances and such great
misfortunes to the happiness of being yours. Give me your hand, Don
Rafael, and take mine in exchange; and, as you say, let the witnesses of
our mutual engagement be the sky, the sea, the sands, and this silence,
interrupted only by my sighs and your entreaties."
So saying, she permitted Don Rafael to embrace her, and taking each
other's hand they solemnised their betrothal with a few tears drawn from
their eyes by the excess of joy succeeding to their past sorrows. They
immediately returned to the knight's house, where their absence had
occasioned great anxiety, and where the nuptials of Marco Antonio and
Teodosia had already been celebrated by a priest, at the instance of
Teodosia, who dreaded lest any untoward chance should rob her of her
new-found hopes. The appearance of Don Rafael and Leocadia, and the
account given by the former of what had passed between them, augmented
the general joy, and the master of the house rejoiced as if they were
his own near relations; for it is an innate characteristic of the
Catalonian gentry to feel and act as friends towards such strangers as
have any need of their services.
The priest, who was still present, desired that Leocadia should change
her dress for one appropriate to her sex, and the knight at once
supplied both the ladies with handsome apparel from the wardrobe of his
wife, who was a lady of the ancient house of the Granolliques, famous in
that kingdom. The surgeon was moved by charity to complain that the
wounded man talked so much and was not left alone; but it pleased God
that Marco Antonio's joy, and the little silence he observed, were the
very means of his amendment, so that when they came to dress his wound
next day, they found him out of danger, and in a fortnight more he was
fit to travel. During the time he kept his bed he had made a vow that if
he recovered he would go on a pilgrimage on foot to Santiago de Galicia,
and in the fulfilment of that vow he was accompanied by Don Rafael,
Leocadia, Teodosia, and even by the muleteer Calvete, unusual as such
pious practices are with men of his calling; but he had found Don Rafael
so liberal and good-humoured that he would not quit him till he had
returned home. The party having to travel on foot as pilgrims, the mules
were sent on to Salamanca.
The day fixed for their departure arrived, and equipped in their
dalmaticas and with all things requisite, they took leave of their
generous and hospitable friend, the knight Don Sancho de Cardona, a man
of most illustrious blood and personally famous; and they pledged
themselves that they and their descendants, to whom they should bequeath
it as a duty, should perpetually preserve the memory of the singular
favours received from him, in order that they might not be wanting at
least in grateful feeling, if they could not repay them in any other
way. Don Sancho embraced them all, and said it was a matter of course
with him to render such services or others to all whom he knew or
supposed to be Castilian hidalgos. They repeated their embraces twice,
and departed with gladness, mingled with some sorrow. Travelling by easy
stages to suit the strength of the lady pilgrims, they reached
Monserrate in three days, remained as many more there, fulfilling their
duties as good Catholic Christians, and resuming their journey, arrived
without accident at Santiago, where they accomplished their vows with
all possible devotion. They determined not to quit their pilgrim garbs
until they reached their homes. After travelling towards them leisurely,
they came at last to a rising ground whence Leocadia and Teodosia
looked down upon their respective birth-places, nor could they restrain
their tears at the glad sight which brought back to their recollection
all their past vicissitudes.
From the same spot they discovered a broad valley, which divided the two
townships, and in it they saw under the shades of an olive a stalwart
knight, mounted on a powerful charger, armed with a strong keen lance
and a dazzlingly white shield. Presently they saw issuing from among
some olive trees two other knights similarly armed, and of no less
gallant appearance. These two rode up to the first, and after remaining
awhile together they separated. The first knight and one of the two
others set spurs to their horses, and charging each other like mortal
enemies, began mutually to deal such vigorous thrusts, and to avoid or
parry them with such dexterity, that it was plain they were masters in
that exercise. The third knight remained a spectator of the fight
without quitting his place. Don Rafael, who could not be content with a
distant view of the gallant conflict, hurried down the hill, followed by
the other three, and came up close to the two champions just as they had
both been slightly wounded. The helmet of one of them had fallen off,
and as he turned his face towards Don Rafael, the latter recognised his
father, and Marco Antonio knew that the other was his own, whilst
Leocadia discovered hers in the third knight who had not fought.
Astounded at this spectacle, the two brothers instantly rushed between
the champions, crying out "Stop, cavaliers! Stop! We who call on you to
do so are your own sons! Father, I am Marco Antonio, for whose sake, as
I guess, your honoured life is put to this peril. Allay your anger; cast
away your weapons, or turn them against another enemy; for the one
before you must henceforth be your brother."
The two knights instantly stopped; and looking round they observed that
Don Sancho had dismounted and was embracing his daughter, who briefly
narrated to him the occurrences at Barcelona. Don Sancho was proceeding
to make peace between the combatants, but there was no need of that, for
he found them already dismounted and embracing their sons with tears of
joy. There now appeared at the entrance of the valley a great number of
armed men on foot and on horseback: these were the vassals of the three
knights, who had come to support the cause of their respective lords;
but when they saw them embracing the pilgrims they halted, and knew not
what to think until Don Sancho briefly recounted to them what he had
learned from his daughter. The joy of all was unbounded. Five of the
vassals immediately mounted the pilgrims on their own horses, and the
whole party set out for the house of Marco Antonio's father, where it
was arranged that the two weddings should be celebrated. On the way Don
Rafael and Marco Antonio learned that the cause of the quarrel which had
been so happily ended was a challenge sent to the father of the latter
by the fathers of Teodosia and Leocadia, under the belief that he had
been privy to the acts of seduction committed by his son. The two
challengers having found him alone would not take any advantage of him,
but agreed to fight him one after the other, like brave and generous
knights. The combat, nevertheless, must have ended in the death of one
or all of them but for the timely arrival of their children, who gave
thanks to God for so happy a termination of the dispute.
The day after the arrival of the pilgrims, Marco Antonio's father
celebrated the marriages of his son and Teodosia, Don Rafael and
Leocadia, with extraordinary magnificence. The two wedded pairs lived
long and happily together, leaving an illustrious progeny which still
exists in their two towns, which are among the best in Andalusia. Their
names, however, we suppress, in deference to the two ladies, whom
malicious or prudish tongues might reproach with levity of conduct. But
I would beg of all such to forbear their sentence, until they have
examined themselves and seen whether they too have not been assailed
some time or other by what are called the arrows of Cupid, weapons whose
force is truly irresistible. Calvete was made happy with the gift of the
mule which Don Rafael had left at Salamanca, and with many other
presents; and the poets of the time took occasion to employ their pens
in celebrating the beauty and the adventures of the two damsels, as bold
as they were virtuous, the heroines of this strange story.
* * * * *
LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, STAMFORD STREET AND
CHARING CROSS.
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