Chapter V: Part 5

On the ensuing morning Ines was about the house earlier than usual, and to her surprise found the chamber of Marcella empty, and no appearance of her having slept there that night. Astonished at so strange a circumstance, she left the room to seek her, and was still more surprised on finding the outer door unlocked, which her master had so carefully fastened the night before, and which now, as if for the purpose of disturbing Don Marcos’s ideas of security, had been left wide open.

On seeing this, Ines became terribly alarmed, and flew to the chamber of her mistress, raising an outcry that the house had been broken into. The bridegroom, half stupified with terror, leaped from the couch, calling for his wife to do the same; at the same time drawing aside all the curtains, and throwing open all the windows, in order that there might be no deficiency of light to see whether anything were missing. The first thing he beheld was what he supposed to be his wife, but so altered, that he could scarce believe her to be the same; instead of six-and-thirty years of age, which she professed to be, this sudden and unwelcome visitation of morning light added at least twenty years to her appearance; small locks of grey hair peeped from beneath her nightcap, which had been carefully concealed by the art of the hair-dresser, but the false hair had in the carelessness of sleep been unluckily transferred to the ground.

The suddenness of this morning’s alarm had produced another no less unfortunate mischance; her teeth, which Don Marcos had so complimented for their regularity and whiteness, were now, alas! not to be seen, and the lady at least verified the old proverb of not casting pearls before swine. We will not attempt to describe the consternation of the poor hidalgo, or waste words which the imagination can so much better supply. We will only say that Donna Isidora was confounded. It was intolerable that her imperfections should be made thus manifest at so unseasonable an hour, and snatching up her strayed locks, she attempted to replace them, but with such little success, owing to her extreme hurry, that had not Don Marcos been overwhelmed with consternation, he would assuredly hardly have refrained from laughter. She then sought to lay hands on the dress she had worn the previous day; but, alas! nothing of the rich paraphernalia in which she had been attired by the gallantry of her husband—not one of the jewels and trinkets in which she had dazzled the spectators’ eyes—remained.

Don Marcos, on his part, was struck dumb with horror, on finding that his own wedding suit was missing, and likewise a valuable gold chain which he had worn at the ceremony, and which he had drawn from his treasure for the purpose. No pen can describe the agony of Don Marcos upon this fatal discovery; he could not even console himself with the youthful graces of his wife, for turning towards her he saw nothing but age and ugliness, and turning his eyes again from her, he found his expensive clothes all vanished, and his chain gone.

Almost out of his wits, he ran out into the saloon, and throughout the apartments, attired only in his shirt, wringing his hands, and betraying every sign of a miser’s lamentation and despair. While in this mood, Donna Isidora escaped to her dressing-room, without giving herself the trouble of inquiring into the minor catastrophe, and busied herself in repairing the personal injuries which the untoward event had produced. Don Augustin had by this time risen, and Ines recounted to him the adventures of the morning, and they both laughed heartily at the consternation of poor Don Marcos, the ridiculous accident of Donna Isidora, and the roguishness of Marcella.

_Doña Maria de Zayas_ (_fl._ 1637). _Trans. Roscoe._

_THE MARKET OF ANCESTORS._

They hereupon entered a fairly wide street, littered with coffins, amongst which walked several sextons, while a number of grave-diggers were breaking into various graves. Don Cleofas said to his companion—

“What street is this, it is the oddest I have ever seen?”

“This is more worldly and of the times than any other,” replied the Limping Devil, “and the most useful. It is the old-clothes market of ancestors, where anybody in want of forefathers, his own not suiting him, or being somewhat shabby, comes to pick out the one he likes best for his money. Just look at that poor, deformed gentleman trying on a grandmother he badly wants, and the other, who has already chosen a father, putting on a grandfather as well, who’s much too big for him. That fellow lower down is exchanging his grandfather for another, offering a sum of money into the bargain, but can’t come to terms because the sexton, who is the dealer, would be a loser by it. The man over there has just turned his great-grandfather inside out and is patching him up with somebody else’s great-grandmother. Her another with a policeman to look for an ancestor of whom he has been robbed, and who is hanging up in the market. If you want an ancestor or two on credit, no your chance; one of the dealers is a friend of mine.”

“I could do with some money, but I’m not in want of ancestors,” replied the student. So they continued their adventures.

“_The Limping Devil._” _Velez de Guevara_ (1644).

_VISION OF THE LAST JUDGMENT._

Homer, we find, represents Jupiter as the author or inspirer of dreams, more especially the dreams of princes and governors, granting always that the subject of them be of a religious and important character. It is stated, moreover, as the opinion of the learned Propertius, “that good dreams are sent from above, have their meaning, and ought not to be slighted.” To give frankly my own idea upon this subject, I am inclined to his way of thinking, in particular as to the case of a certain dream I had the other night. As I was reading a sermon concerning the end of the world, it happened that I fell asleep over it, and pursuing the same line of thought, dreamed the following dream of the Last Judgment—a thing rarely admitted into the house of a poet, so much as in a dream. I was in this way reminded too of an observation in “Claudian,” “that all creatures dream at night of what they have heard and seen in the day; as the hound,” says Petronius Arbiter, “dreams of hunting the hare.”

Well, methought I beheld a noble-looking youth towering in the air, and drawing loud and solemn tones from a mighty trumpet. The vehemence of his breath did certainly detract somewhat from the effect of his glorious beauty, yet even the monumental marbles, the earth-closed caverns—nay, the very dead within—obeyed his fearful call; for the ground was seen gradually to open, the bones to rise and unite together, and a mighty harvest of the living spring from the long-sown seed of the dead. The first that appeared were soldiers,—such as generals of armies, captains, lieutenants, and the common foot, who, thinking that a fresh charge had sounded, rose out of their graves with considerable boldness and alacrity, as if they had been preparing for combat, or a sudden assault. The misers next put their heads out, all pale and trembling, with the idea they were going to be again plundered. Cavaliers and boon companions came trooping along, supposing they were going to a horse-race, or a grand hunt. In short, though all heard the trumpet sound, not any one seemed to understand it, for their thoughts were plain enough to be read by the strangeness of their looks and gestures.

While the souls came trooping in on all sides, many were seen to approach their new bodies, not without signs of considerable aversion and difficulty. Others stood spellbound with wonder and horror, as if not venturing to come nearer to so dreadful a spectacle; for this wanted an arm, that an eye, and the other a head. Though, on the whole, I could not forbear smiling at so strange a variety of figures, I found yet greater matter for awe and admiration at the power of Providence, which drew order out of chaos, and restored every part and member to its particular owner. I dreamed that I was myself in a churchyard; that I saw numbers busied in changing heads, who were averse to make their appearance; and an attorney would have put in a demurrer, on the plea that he had got a soul that could be none of his, for that his soul and body belonged to some different ones elsewhere.

When it came at length to be generally understood that here at last was the Day of Judgment, it was curious to observe what strange evasions and excuses were made use of among the wicked. The man of pleasure, the betrayer of innocence, the epicure, and the hypocrite, would not own their eyes, nor the slanderer his tongue, because they were sure to appear in evidence against them. Pick-pockets were seen running away as fast as possible from their own fingers, while an old usurer wandered about anxiously inquiring if the money-bags were not to rise as well as the bodies? I should have laughed outright at this, had not my attention been called away to a throng of cutpurses, hastening all speed from their own ears, now offered them, that they might not hear so many sad stories against themselves.

I was a witness to the whole scene, from a convenient station above it, when all at once there was uttered a loud outcry at my feet of “Withdraw, withdraw!” No sooner was it pronounced, than down I came, and forthwith a number of handsome women put out their heads and called me a base clown for not showing the respect and courtesy due to their high quality, not being a whit the less inclined to stand upon their etiquette,—although in Hell itself. They appeared half-naked, and as proud as Juno’s peacock, whenever they happened to catch your eye; and, to say truth, they had a good complexion, and were well made. When they were informed, however, that it was no other than the Day of Judgment, they took the alarm, all their vivacity vanished, and slowly they took their way towards an adjacent valley, quite pensive and out of humour. Of these one among the rest had wedded seven husbands, and promised to each of them that she would never marry again, for she was unable to love any one like she had loved the last. Now the lady was eagerly inventing all manner of excuses, in order that she might return a proper answer when examined on this part of her conduct. Another, that had been common as the common air, affected to hum a tune, and delay the arrival on pretence of having forgotten some of her trickeries, as an eye-brow, or a comb; but, spite of her art—for she could now neither lead nor drive—she was impelled on till she came within sight of the throne. There she beheld a vast throng, among whom were not a few she had brought far on their way to the worst place; and no sooner did they recognise her than they began to hoot after and pursue her, till she took refuge in a troop of city police.

Next appeared a number of persons driving before them a certain physician along the banks of a river, whither he had unfairly dispatched them considerably before their time. They assailed his ears all the way with cries of “_justice! justice!_” at the same time urging him forwards towards the seat of judgment, where they at length arrived. Meantime, I heard upon my left hand something like a paddling in the water, as if some one were trying to swim; and what should it all be but a judge, plunged into the middle of a river, and vainly trying to wash his hands of the foul matter that adhered to them. I inquired what he was employed about, and he told me, that in his lifetime he had often had them oiled so as to let the business slip the better through them, and he would gladly get out the stains before he came to hold up his hand before the bar. What was yet more horrible, I saw coming under guard of a legion of devils, all armed with rods, scourges, and clubs, a whole posse of vintners and tailors, suffering no little correction; and many pretended to be deaf, being unwilling to leave the grave under dread of a far worse lodging.

As they were proceeding, however, up started a little dapper lawyer, and inquired whither they were going; to which it was replied, that they were going to give an account of their works. On hearing this, the lawyer threw himself down flat on his face in his hole again, exclaiming at the same time, “If down I must without a plea, I am at least so far on my way.” An innkeeper seemed in a great sweat as he walked along, while a demon at his elbow jeering at him cried,—“Well done, my brave fellow, get rid of the water, that we may have no more of it in our wine.” But a poor little tailor, well bolstered up, with crooked fingers, and bandy legged, had not a word to say for himself all the way he went, except, “Alas! alas! how can any man be a thief that dies for want of bread!” As he cried, his companions, however, rebuked him for running down his own trade. Next followed a gang of highwaymen, treading upon the heels of one another, and in no little dread of treachery and cheating among each other. These were brought up by a party of devils in the turning of a hand, and were quartered along with the tailors; for, as was observed by one of the company, your real highwayman is but a wild sort of tailor. To be sure, they were a little quarrelsome at the first, but in a short time they went together down into the valley, and took up their quarters very quietly together. A little behind them came Folly, Bells, and Co., with their band of poets, fiddlers, lovers, and fencers—that kind of people, in short, that last dream of a day of reckoning. These were chiefly distributed among the hangmen, Jews, scribes, and philosophers. There were also a great many solicitors, greatly wondering among themselves how they could have so much conscience when dead, and none at all in their lifetime. In short, the catch-word “silence” was the order of the day.

The throne of the Eternal being at length elevated, and the mighty day of days at hand which spake of comfort to the good, and of terror to the wicked; the sun and the stars, like satraps, cast their glory round the footstool of the Supreme Judge—the avenger of the innocent, and the Judge of the greatest monarchs and judges of the earth. The wind was stilled; the waters were quiet in their ocean-sleep—the earth being in suspense and anguish for fear of her human offspring. The whole creation looked about to yield up its trust in huge confusion and dismay. The just and righteous were employed in prayer and thanksgiving; the impious and wicked were vainly busy in weaving fresh webs of sophistry and deceit, the better to mitigate their sentence. On one side stood the guardian angels ready to show how they had fulfilled the part entrusted to them; and on the other frowned the evil genii, or the devils who had eagerly contended with the former, and fomented the worst human passions, attending now to aggravate every matter of charge against their unfortunate victims. The Ten Commandments held the guard of a narrow gate, so straight indeed, that the most subdued and extenuated body could not get through without leaving the better part of his skin behind.

In one portion of this vast theatre were thronged together Disgrace, Misfortune, Plague, Grief, and Trouble, and all were in a general clamour against the doctors. The plague admitted fairly that she had smitten many, but it was the doctor at last who did their business. Black Grief and Shame both said the same; and human calamities of all kinds made open declaration that they never brought any man to his grave without the help and abetting of a doctor. It was thus the gentlemen of the faculty were called to account for the number of fellow-men they had killed, and which were found to exceed by far those who had fallen by the sword. They accordingly took their station upon the scaffold, provided with pen, ink, and paper; and always as the dead were called, some or other of them made answer to the name, and quoted the year and day when such or such a patient passed from time to eternity through his hands.

They began the inquiry as far back as Adam, who, to say the truth, was rather roughly handled about biting an apple. “Alas!” cried one Judas that stood by, “if that were such a fault, what must be the end of me, who sold and betrayed my own Lord and Master?” Then next approached the race of patriarchs; and next the Apostles, who took up their places by the side of St. Peter. It was well worth observing that on this day there was not a whit distinction between kings and beggars: all were equal before the judgment-seat. Herod and Pilate had no sooner put out their heads, than they found it was likely to go hard with them. “My judgment, however, is just,” exclaimed Pilate. “But alas!” cried Herod, “what have I to confide in? Heaven is no abiding place for me, and in Limbo I shall fall among the very innocents whom I murdered; I have no choice, therefore, but must e’en take up my quarters in Hell—the general refuge for the most notorious malefactors.” After this, a rough sort of sour, ill-grained fellow, made his appearance: “See here,” he cried, “here are my credentials—take these letters.” The company, surprised at his odd humour, inquired of the porter who he was? “Who am I?” quoth he, “I am master of the noble science of defence”: then pulling out a number of sealed parchments, “These will bear witness to my exploits.” As he said these words, the testimonials fell out of his hand, and two devils near him were just going to pick them up, to keep as evidence against him at his trial, but the fencer was too nimble for them, and seized on them. An angel, however, now offered him his hand to help him in; while he, as if fearing an attack, leapt a step back, throwing himself into an attitude of defence. “Now,” he exclaimed, “if you like, I will give you a taste of my skill”; upon which the company set a-laughing, and this sentence was pronounced against him: “That since by his art he had caused so many duels and murders, he should himself be allowed to go to the devil in a perpendicular line.” He pleaded he was no mathematician, and knew no such a line; but with that word a devil came up, and gave him a twirl or two round, and down he tumbled before he could bring his sentence to an end.

The public treasurers came after him, pursued by such a hooting at their heels, that some supposed the whole band of thieves themselves were coming; which others denying, the company fell into a dispute upon it. They were greatly troubled at the word “thieves,” and one and all requested they might be permitted to have the benefit of counsel. “For a very good reason,” said one of the devils. “Here’s a discarded apostle, a Judas, that played into both hands at once; seize him!”

On hearing this, the treasurers turned away; but a vast roll of accusations against them, held in another devil’s hand, met their eyes, and one of them exclaimed, “For mercy’s sake, away with those informations! We will one and all submit to any penalty; to remain in purgatory a thousand years, if you will only remove them from our sight.” “Is it so?” quoth the cunning devil that had drawn out the charges—“you are hard put to it to think of compounding on terms like these.” The treasurers had no more to say; but, finding they must make the best of a bad case, they very quietly followed the dancing-master.

Close upon the last came an unfortunate pastryman, and on being asked if he wished to be tried, he replied that he did, and with the help of the Lord would stand the venture. The counsel against him then prest the charge; namely, that he had roasted cats for hares, and filled his pies with bones in place of meat, and sold nothing but horse-flesh, dogs, and foxes, in lieu of good beef and mutton. It turned out, in fact, that Noah had never had so many animals in his ark as this ingenious fellow had put in his pies (for we hear of no rats and mice in the former); so that, in utter despair, he threw up his cause, and went to be baked in his turn with other sinners like himself.

“Next came and next did go” a company of barefoot philosophers with their syllogisms, and it was amusing enough to hear them chop logic, and try all manner of questions in mood and figure, at the expense of their own souls. Yet the most entertaining of them all were the poets, who refused to be tried at any lesser tribunal than that of Jupiter himself. Virgil, with his _Sicelides Musæ_, made an eloquent defence of himself, declaring that he had prophecied the Nativity. But up jumped a devil with a long story about Mæcenas and Octavius, declaring that he was no better than an idolater of the old school. Orpheus then put in a word, asserting that, as he was the elder, he ought to be allowed to speak for all, commanding the poet to repeat his experiment of going into hell, and trying to get out again, with as many of the company as he could take along with him.

They were no sooner gone, than a churlish old miser knocked at the gate, but was informed that it was guarded by the Ten Commandments, to which he had always been an utter stranger. Yet he contended that if he had not kept, he had never broken, any of them, and proceeded to justify his conduct from point to point. His quirks, however, were not admitted—his works were made the rule of decision—and he was marched off to receive a due reward.

He was succeeded by a gang of housebreakers and others of the same stamp, some of whom were so fortunate as to be saved just in the nick of time. The usurers and attorneys, seeing this, thought they too had a good chance, and put so good a face on the matter that Judas and Mahomet began to look about them, and advanced rather confidently to meet their trial, a movement which made the devils themselves fall to laughing.

It was now the accusing demons of the usurers and attorneys proceeded with their accusations, which they took not from the bills of indictment made out, but from the acts of their lives, insisting upon the plain matter of fact, so as to leave them without the possibility of an excuse. Addressing the Judge—“The great crime of which these men were guilty was their being attorneys at all;”—to which it was ingeniously answered by the men of law—“No, not so; we only acted as the secretaries of other men.” They nearly all denied their own calling; and the result was that, after much cross-questioning and pleading, two or three only were acquitted, while to the rest their accusers cried out, “You here! you are wanted elsewhere;” and they then proceeded to swear against some other people, some bribing the witnesses, making them say things which they had never heard, and see things they had never seen, in order to leave innocence no chance of escape. The lie was concocted in all its labyrinths; and I saw Judas, Mahomet, and Luther draw back, while the former prest his money-bag closer to him. Luther observed that he did just the same thing in his writings (_i.e._, draw back); but the doctor interrupted him, declaring that, compelled by those who had betrayed him, _he_ now appeared with the apothecary and the barber to defend himself. On this a demon with the accusations in his hand turned sharp round on him, asking, “Who it was had sent the greater part of the dead then present, and with the aid of his worthy _aide-de-camps_, had, in fact, occasioned the whole proceedings of that day.” But the apothecary’s advocate put in a plea for him, asserting that he had dosed the poor people for nothing. “No matter,” retorted a devil, “I have him down on my list; two of his pill-boxes despatched more than ten thousand pikes could do in a battle, such was the virulence of his poisonous drugs, with which indeed he entered into a partnership with the plague, and destroyed two entire villages.” The physician defended himself from any participation in these exploits, and at last the apothecary was obliged to succumb, the physician and the barber each taking the deaths that respectively belonged to them.

A lawyer was next condemned for taking bribes from both sides, and betraying both; and lurking behind him was discovered a fellow who seemed very desirous of concealing himself, and who, on being asked his name, replied that he was a player. “And a very comic player indeed,” rejoined a devil, “who had done better not to appear on that stage to-day.” The poor wretch promised to retire, and was as good as his word. A tribe of vintners next took their station, accused of having assassinated numbers of thirsty souls by substituting bad water for good wine. They tried to defend themselves on the plea of compensation, having supplied a hospital gratis with wine for the sacred ceremonies; but this was overruled, as was that preferred by the tailors, of having clothed some charity boys on the same terms, and they were all sent to the same place.

Three or four rich merchants next appeared, who had got wealth by defrauding their correspondents and creditors, but the accusing demon now informed them they would find it more difficult to make a composition; and turning towards Jupiter, he said, “Other men, my Lord Judge, have to give account of their own affairs, but these have had to do with everybody’s.” Sentence was forthwith pronounced, but I could not well catch it, so speedily they all disappeared. A cavalier now came forward with so good a face, and so upright, as to challenge even justice itself. He made a very lowly obeisance on entering, but his collar was of such a size as to defy you to say whether he had got any head in it at all. A messenger inquired, on the part of Jupiter, if he was a man, to which he courteously replied in the affirmative, adding that his name was Don Fulano, on the faith of a cavalier. At this one of the devils laughed, and he was then asked what it was he wanted? To which he replied that he wanted to be saved. He was delivered over to the demons, whom he entreated to use him gently, lest they should chance to disorder his mustachios and ruff. Behind him came a man uttering great lamentations, which he himself interrupted by saying, “Though I cry, I am none so badly off, for I have shaken the dust off the saints themselves before now.” Every one looked round, thinking to see a hero, or a Diocletian, from his brushing the ears of the saints; but he turned out to be a poor wretch whose highest office was to sweep the pictures, statues, and other ornaments of the church. His cause seemed safe, when all at once he was accused by one of the devils of drinking the oil out of the lamps, but which he again laid to the charge of an owl; that he had moreover clothed himself out of the church suits, that he drank the wine, ate the bread, and even laid a duty on the fees. He made but a lame defence, and was ordered to take the left hand road in his descent.

He made way for a bevy of fine ladies, tricked out in cap and feather, and so full of merriment that they fell to amuse themselves with the odd figures of the demons themselves. It was stated by their advocate that they had been “excellent devotees.” “True,” retorted the demon, “devoted to anything but chastity and virtue.” “Yes, certainly,” replied one that had taken her full fling in life, and whose trial now came on. She was accused of making religion itself a cloak, and even marrying, the better to conceal the enormities of her conduct. When condemned she retired, bitterly complaining that, had she known the result, she would have taken care not to have done any of the charitable things, and said so many masses as she had.

Next, after some delay, appeared Judas, Mahomet, and Martin Luther, of whom a messenger inquired which of the three was Judas? To this both Mahomet and Luther replied that he was the man; on which Judas cried out in a rage that they were both liars, for that he was the true Judas, and that they only affected to be so, in order to escape a worse fate than his, for though he had indeed sold his Master, the world had been the better of it, while the other rascals, by selling both themselves and his Master, had well-nigh ruined it. They were all sent to the place they deserved.

An attorney who held the evidence in his hand now called on the alguazils and runners to answer the accusations brought against them. They cut a woful figure, and so clear was the case against them, that they were condemned without more ado.

An astrologer now entered with his astrolabes, globes, and other quackery, crying out that there was some mistake, for that was not the Day of Judgment, as Saturn had not yet completed his course, nor he out of sheer fear his own. But a devil turned round on him, and seeing him loaded with wooden instruments and maps, exclaimed, “Well done, friend, you have brought firewood along with you, though it is a hard thing, methinks, after making so many heavens as are here, you should be sent to the wrong place at last for the want of a single one.” “I will not go, not I,” said the astrologer. “Then carry him,” said the devil, and away he went.

The whole court after this broke up: the shadows and clouds withdrew, the air grew refreshing, flowers scented once more the breezes, the sunny sky reappeared, while I methought remained in the valley; and wandering about, heard a good deal of noise and voices of lamentation, as if rising out of the ground. I pressed forward to inquire what it could be, and I saw in a hollow cavern (a fit mouth to hell) a number of persons in pain. Among these was a _Letrado_, but busied not so much with dead laws as with live coals,—and an _Escrivano_, devouring only letters. A miser was there, counting more pangs than pieces; a physician contemplating a dead patient; and an apothecary steeped in his own mixtures.

I laughed so outright at this that I started wide awake, and was withal more merry than sad to find myself on my bed.

The foregoing indeed are dreams, but such as if your excellency will sleep upon them, it will come to pass, that in order to see the things as I see them, you will pray for them to turn out as I say they are.

_Gomez de Quevedo_ (1580-1645). _Trans. Roscoe._

_THE REVENGE OF DON LUCAS._

DON LUCAS, _a rich, fat, ugly little man, betrothed to his ward_,
DOÑA ISABEL, _against her will_.
DON PEDRO, _young cousin to_ DON LUCAS, _and in love with_ ISABEL.
DON LUIS, _a gaunt old batchelor, also in love with_ ISABEL.
DOÑA ISABEL.
DOÑA ALFONSA, _an old maid, sister to_ DON LUCAS, _and in love with_
DON PEDRO.
PERIWIG, _valet to_ DON LUCAS.

DON LUCAS _and_ DON LUIS.

_Don Luis._ I tell you—yesterday at Illescas she departed from her mute coyness and, quitting her chamber, came to discourse with me under the porch, where she told me she would be my bride with all her heart, and that her hand was bestowed upon you against her will. If this be truth, why separate two loving souls? ... I hold you for a man of mind, and therefore come to demand....

_Don Lucas._ No more, for by the devil, I’ll pay you out....

_D. Alfonsa._ (_knocking without_). Is my brother here?

_Don Lucas._ Into my bedroom, quick, I must see my sister.

_Don Luis._ Let me know first if my life and liberty are secure!

_Don Lucas._ Be off with you, ther time enough to look after your life and liberty.

[_Exit_ DON LUIS.

DON LUCAS _and_ DOÑA ALFONSA.

_D. Alfonsa._ Brother?

_Don Lucas._ Well, sister Alfonsa?

_D. Alfonsa._ I have something to tell you.

_Don Lucas._ Deuce take it, everybody has something to tell me. But it’s my own fault for listening.

_D. Alfonsa._ Are we alone?

_Don Lucas._ Yes, sister.

_D. Alfonsa._ Will you be angry at what I’m going to tell you?

_Don Lucas._ How do I know?

_D. Alfonsa._ Well, you know....

_Don Lucas._ I don’t know.

_D. Alfonsa._ ... That I am a woman....

_Don Lucas._ I don’t know anything of the kind.

_D. Alfonsa._ Brother?...

_Don Lucas._ Do be quick and have done with it. You’ll all be the death of me.

_D. Alfonsa._ Well, I am a woman, and in love....

_Don Lucas._ The point at last.

_D. Alfonsa._ And with Don Pedro.

_Don Lucas._ All right.

_D. Alfonsa._ But he doesn’t love me; the treacherous wretch is courting Doña Isabel, and betraying both of us.

_Don Lucas._ I say, I don’t believe it.

_D. Alfonsa._ Well, you know, I often have fainting fits.

_Don Lucas._ Yes!

_D. Alfonsa._ And do you remember that I also had one at the inn at Illescas?

_Don Lucas._ Well, what of that?

_D. Alfonsa._ You must know it was feigned.

_Don Lucas._ And now who’ll believe you when you really have one?

_D. Alfonsa._ I did it with a motive. Don Pedro, the traitor, thinking it was real, seized the opportunity to say a thousand tender things to Doña Isabel. I would have given vent to my rage, but he is so far gone, he even makes love to her before _you_.

_Don Lucas._ A pretty how-d’ye-do!

_D. Alfonsa._ Last—night—he—met—her—in—the—parlour—secretly.... And now you know my wrongs. Make haste and avenge both yourself and me on that treacherous Don Pedro.

_Don Lucas._ A pretty kettle of fish. But, devil take it, Don Luis has just been to tell me that Isabel is in love with _him_. Perhaps she loves them both, she seems to have a great facility that way. But if Don Pedro is her accepted lover, I’ll pay them both out! I shall have such a revenge as shall last their whole lives! To kill them would be too poor a vengeance.

_D. Alfonsa._ What do you mean to do?

_Don Lucas._ (_calling_). Don Pedro!

_D. Alfonsa._ There, he’s just come in.

_Don Lucas._ (_calling_). Doña Isabel!

_D. Alfonsa._ Here she is.

_Enter_ DOÑA ISABEL, DON PEDRO, _and_ PERIWIG.

_D. Isabel._ Why are you calling me?

_Don Pedro._ What can I do for you?

_Don Lucas._ Just wait for a bit. Periwig, shut that door.

_Periwig._ Yes, sir. (_Shuts it._)

_Don Lucas._ Lock it.

_Periwig._ Certainly, sir. (_Locks it._)

_Don Lucas._ Give me the key.

_Periwig._ Here it is, your honour. (_Hands him the key._)

_Don Lucas._ (_opening his bedroom door_). Come out, Don Luis.

_Don Luis._ Here I am. (_Comes out._)

_D. Isabel._ What are you going to do?

_Don Pedro._ }
} What’s all this?
_Don Luis._ }

_Don Lucas._ Listen, all of you. Señor Don Luis, whom you here behold, has told me he is Doña Isabel’s lover, and that he must marry her, for she gave him her word at Illescas and....

_Periwig._ Oh no, beg pardon, sir. I saw the gent knock at a door at Illescas and palaver with Doña Alfonsa, whom he took for the young lady. Don’t you remember, sir, you heard a noise, and came out with a light and your sword? Well, it was him, sir.

_Don Luis._ I will not deny it. You came forth, and I discreetly hid, but I thought I was speaking with Isabel, not with Alfonsa.

_D. Alfonsa._ Wait, it was I with whom you spoke, but I took you for Don Pedro.

_Don Pedro._ (_aside_). Blessings upon Cupid and my lucky star.

_Don Lucas._ Well, that’s one gallant done with. But to proceed (_to Don Pedro_), my sister, Doña Alfonsa, tells me treacherous and unloyal fellow, that you love Isabel.

_Don Pedro._ Yes, it is so. I confess I have long loved her, before you even thought of her; and who can blame my impotence to stifle a love so great that....

_Don Lucas._ Hold your tongue, young cousin, for by h——, but no, I won’t swear.... I must have fierce and fatal vengeance.

_Don Pedro._ Plunge your poniard into this my throat.

_Don Lucas._ No, I won’t do that; I don’t want to kill you: that’s what you’d like.

_Don Pedro._ Then what will you do?

_Don Lucas._ You shall know. You, Don Pedro, are a pauper, and but for me would have starved.

_Don Pedro._ It is true.

_Don Lucas._ Doña Isabel is a beggar. I was going to marry her for her looks only, for she hasn’t a farthing for a dowry.

_Don Pedro._ But she is virtuous and beautiful.

_Don Lucas._ Well, then, give her your hand, for this is my vengeance. You are very poor, and she is very poor; no more happiness for you. Love flies out of the window when poverty enters the door. On your wedding-day you may laugh at me, but on the morrow when breakfasting on kisses, with vows on the table for victuals, and constancy for supper, Love instead of a silk frock, and “Darling” to keep you warm, you will see who laughs longest and last.

_Don Pedro._ Cousin....

_Don Lucas._ I say, you shall marry her.

_Periwig._ (_aside_). The punishment is _too_ severe!

_Don Lucas._ (_joins_ DON PEDRO’S _and_ DOÑA ISABEL’S _hands_).

Join hands, you fond and pretty fools,
By vengeance is the nuptial knot:
Too soon you’ll learn what Love is like
When there is nothing in the Pot.

“_Entre Bobos anda el Juego._” _Francesco Rojas de Zorrilla_ (_fl._ 1670).

_THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA._

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

KING PHILIP II.[7]
DON LOPE DE FIGUERROA.
DON ALVARO DE ATAIDE.

PEDRO CRESPO, _a Farmer of Zalamea_.
JUAN, _his Son_.
ISABEL, _his Daughter_.
INES, _his Niece_.

DON MENDO, _a poor Hidalgo_.
NUÑO, _his Servant_.

REBOLLEDO, _a Soldier_.
CHISPA, _his Sweetheart_.

A SERGEANT, A NOTARY, SOLDIERS, LABOURERS, CONSTABLES,
ROYAL SUITE, &c.

ACT I.

SCENE I.—_Country near Zalamea._ _Enter_ REBOLLEDO, CHISPA, _and
Soldiers_.

_Reb._ Confound, say I, these forced marches from place to place, without halt or bait; what say you, friends?

_All._ Amen!

_Reb._ To be trailed over the country like a pack of gipsies, after a little scrap of flag upon a pole, eh?

_1st. Soldier._ Rebolledo’s off!

_Reb._ And that infernal drum, which has at last been good enough to stop a moment, stunning us.

_2nd. Sold._ Come, come, Rebolledo, don’t storm; we shall soon be at Zalamea.

_Reb._ And where will be the good of that if I’m dead before I get there? And if not, ’twill only be from bad to worse: for if we all reach the place alive, as sure as death up comes Mr. Mayor to persuade the Commissary we had better march on to the next town. At first Mr. Commissary replies very virtuously, “Impossible! the men are fagged to death.” But after a little pocket persuasion, then it’s all “Gentlemen, I’m very sorry, but orders have come for us to march forward, and immediately,” and away we have to trot, foot-weary, dust bedraggled, and starved as we are. Well, I swear if I do get alive to Zalamea to-day, I’ll not leave it this side o’ sunrise for love, lash, or money. It won’t be the first time in my life I’ve given ‘em the slip.

_1st. Sold._ Nor the first time a poor fellow has had the slip given him for doing so. And more likely than ever now that Don Lope de Figuerroa has taken the command, a fine brave fellow they say, but a devil of a tartar, who’ll have every inch of duty done, or take the change out of his own son, without waiting for trial either.[8]

_Reb._ Listen to this now, gentlemen! By Heaven, I’ll be beforehand with him.

_2nd. Sold._ Come, come, a soldier shouldn‘t talk so.

_Reb._ I tell you it isn’t for myself I care so much, as for this poor little thing that follows me.

_Chis._ Signor Rebolledo, don’t you fret about me; you know I was born with a beard on my heart if not on my chin, if ever girl was; and your fearing for me is as bad as if I was afeard myself. Why, when I came along with you I made up my mind to hardship and danger for honour’s sake; else if I’d wanted to live in clover, I never should have left the Alderman who kept such a table as all aldermen don’t, I promise you. Well, what’s the odds? I chose to leave him and follow the drum, and here I am, and if I don’t flinch, why should you?

_Reb._ ‘Fore Heaven, you’re the crown of womankind!

_Soldiers._ So she is, so she is, _Viva la Chispa!_

_Reb._ And so she is, and one cheer more for her—hurrah! especially if she’ll give us a song to lighten the way.

_Chis._ The castanet shall answer for me.

_Reb._ I’ll join in—and do you, comrades, bear a hand in the chorus.

_Soldiers._ Fire away!

_Chispa sings._

I.

“Titiri tiri, marching is weary,
Weary, weary, and long is the way:
Titiri tiri, hither, my deary,
What meat have you got for the soldier to-day?
‘Meat have I none, my merry men,’Titiri tiri, then kill the old hen.
‘Alas and a day! the old hen is dead!’Then give us a cake from the
oven instead.
Titiri titiri titiri tiri,
Give us a cake from the oven instead.

II.

Admiral, admiral, where have you been-a?
I‘ve been fighting where the waves roar.’ Ensign, ensign, what have
you seen-a?
‘Glory and honour and gunshot galore;
Fighting the Moors in column and line,
Poor fellows, they never hurt me or mine—
Titiri titiri titiri tina ...’”

_1st Sold._ Look, look, comrades—what between singing and grumbling we never noticed yonder church among the trees.

_Reb._ Is that Zalamea?

_Chis._ Yes, that it is, I know the steeple. Hoorah! we’ll finish the song when we get into quarters, or have another as good; for you know I have ‘em of all sorts and sizes.

_Reb._ Halt a moment, here’s the sergeant.

_2nd. Sold._ And the captain, too.

_Enter_ CAPTAIN _and_ SERGEANT.

_Capt._ Good news, men, no more marching for to-day at least; we halt at Zalamea till Don Lope joins with the rest of the regiment from Llerena. So who knows but you may have a several days’ rest here?

_Reb. and Solds._ Hurrah for our captain!

_Capt._ Your quarters are ready, and the Commissary will give every one his billet on marching in.

_Chis._ (_singing_). Now then for

“Titiri tiri, hither, my deary,
Heat the oven and kill the old hen.”

[_Exit with Soldiers._

_Capt._ Well, Mr. Sergeant, have you my billet?

_Serg._ Yes, sir.

_Capt._ And where am I to be put up?

_Serg._ With the richest man in Zalamea, a farmer, as proud as Lucifer’s heir-apparent.

_Capt._ Ah, the old story of an upstart.

_Serg._ However, sir, you have the best quarters in the place, including his daughter, who is, they say, the prettiest woman in Zalamea.

_Capt._ Pooh! a pretty peasant! splay hands and feet.

_Serg._ Shame! shame!

_Capt._ Isn’t it true, puppy?

_Serg._ What would a man on march have better than a pretty country lass to toy with?

_Capt._ Well, I never saw one I cared for, even on march. I can’t call a woman a woman unless she’s clean about the hands and fetlocks, and otherwise well appointed—a lady, in short.

_Serg._ Well, any one for me who’ll let me kiss her. Come, sir, let us be going, for if you won’t be at her, I will.

_Capt._ Look, look yonder!

_Serg._ Why, it must be Don Quixote himself, with his very Rosinante too, that Michel Cervantes writes of.

_Capt._ And his Sancho at his side. Well, carry you my kit on before to quarters, and then come and tell me when all’s ready.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.—_Zalamea, before_ CRESPO’S _House_. _Enter_ DON MENDO _and_ NUÑO.

_Men._ Ho the grey horse?

_Nuñ._ You may as well call him the _Dun_; so screw’d he ca move a leg.

_Men._ Did you have him wal gently about?

_Nuñ._ Wal about! when it’s corn he wants, poor devil!

_Men._ And the dogs?

_Nuñ._ Ah, now, they might do if yo give them the horse to eat.

_Men._ Enough, enough—it has struck three. My gloves and tooth-pick.

_Nuñ._ That sinecure tooth-pick?

_Men._ I tell you I would brain anybody who insinuated to me I had not dined—and on game too. But tell me, Nuño, hav the soldiers come into Zalamea this afternoon?

_Nuñ._ Yes, sir.

_Men._ What a nuisance for the commonalty who have to quarter them.

_Nuñ._ But worse for those who hav.

_Men._ What do you mean, sir?

_Nuñ._ I mean the squires. Ah, sir; if the soldiers are billeted on them, do you know why?

_Men._ Well, why?

_Nuñ._ For fear of being starved—which would be a bad job for the kin service.

_Men._ God rest my father’s soul, says I, who left me a pedigree and patent all blazon’d in gold and azure, that exempts me from such impositions.

_Nuñ._ I wish he’d left you the gold in a more available shape, however.

_Men._ Though, indeed, when I come to think of it, I do know if I owe him any thanks; considering that, unless he had consented to beget me an Hidalgo at once, I would have been born at all, for him or any one.

_Nuñ._ Humph! Could you have hel it?

_Men._ Easily.

_Nuñ._ How, sir.

_Men._ You must know that every one that is born is the essence of the food his parents eat——

_Nuñ._ Oh! Your parents did eat, then, sir? You have not inherited _that_ of them, at all events.

_Men._ Knave, do you insinuate——

_Nuñ._ I only know it is now three lock, and we have neither of us yet had anything but our own spittle to chew.

_Men._ Perhaps so, but there are distinctions of rank. An Hidalgo, sir, has no belly.

_Nuñ._ Oh, Lord! that I were an Hidalgo!

_Men._ Possibly; servants must learn moderation in all things. But let me hear no more of the matter; we are under Isabel’s window.

_Nuñ._ There again——If you are so devoted an admirer, why on earth, sir, do you ask her in marriage of her father; by doing which you would kill two birds with one stone: get yourself something to eat, and his grandchildren squires.

_Men._ Hold your tongue, sir, it is impious. Am I, an Hidalgo with such a pedigree, to demean myself with a plebeian connection just for money’s sake?

_Nuñ._ Well, I’ve always heard say a mean father-in-law is best; better stumble on a pebble than run your head again a post. But, however, if you do mean marriage, sir, what do you mean?

_Men._ And pray, sir, what business is that of yours? But go directly, and tell me if you can get a sight of her?

_Nuñ._ afraid lest her father should get a sight of me.

_Men._ And what if he do, being my man? Go and do as I bid you.

_Nuñ._ (_after going to look_). Come, sir, you owe one meal at least now—sh at the window with her cousin.

_Men._ Go again and tell her something about her window being another East, and she a second Sun dawning from it in the afternoon.

(ISABEL _and_ INES _come to the window_.)

_Ines._ For heave sake, cousin, le stand here and see the soldiers march in.

_Isab._ Not I, while that man is in the way, Ines; you know how I hate the sight of him.

_Ines._ With all his devotion to you!

_Isab._ I wish he would spare himself and me the trouble.

_Ines._ I think you are wrong to take it as an affront.

_Isab._ How would you have me take it?

_Ines._ Why, as a compliment.

_Isab._ What, when I hate the man?

_Men._ Ah! ‘pon the honour of an Hidalgo (which is a sacred oath), I could have sworn that till this moment the sun had not risen. But why should I wonder? When indeed a second Aurora——

_Isab._ Signor Don Mendo, how often have I told you not to waste your time playing these foo antics before my window day after day.

_Men._ If a pretty woman only knew, la! how anger improves its beauty! her complexion needs no other paint than indignation. Go on, go on, lovely one, grow angrier and lovelier still.

_Isab._ You shan’t have even that consolation; come, Ines.

[_Exit._

_Ines._ Beware of the portcullis, sir knight.

(_Shuts down the blind in his face._)

_Men._ Ines, beauty must be ever victorious, whether advancing or retreating.

_Enter_ CRESPO.

_Cres._ That I can never go in or out of my house without that squireen haunting it!

_Nuñ._ Pedro Crespo, sir!

_Men._ Oh—ah—let us turn another way; ’tis an ill-conditioned fellow.

_As he turns, enter_ JUAN.

JUAN. That I never can come home but this ghost of an Hidalgo is there to spoil my appetite.

_Nuñ._ His son, sir!

_Men._ He’s worse. (_Turning back._) Oh, Pedro Crespo, good-day, Crespo, good man, good-day.

[_Exit with_ NUÑO.

_Cres._ Good-day, indeed; I’ll make it bad day one of these days with you, if you do take care. But how now, Juanito, my boy?

_Juan._ I was looking for you, sir, but could not find you; where have you been?

_Cres._ To the barn, where high and dry
The jolly sheaves of corn do lie,
Which the sun, arch-chemist of old,
Turn’d from black earth into gold,
And the swinging flail one day
On the barn-floor shall assay,
Separating the pure ore
From the drossy chaff away.
This I’ve been about. And now,
Juanito, what hast thou?

_Juan._ Alas, sir, I ca answer in so good rhyme or reason. I have been playing at fives, and lost every bout.

_Cres._ What signifies if you paid?

_Juan._ But I could not, and have come to you for the money.

_Cres._ Before I give it you, listen to me.
There are things two
Thou never must do;
Swear to more than thou knowest,
Play for more than thou owest;
And never mind cost,
So credit’s not lost.

_Juan._ Good advice, sir, no doubt, that I shall lay by for its own sake as well as for yours. Meanwhile I have also heard say—

“Preach not to a beggar till
The beggar’s empty hide you fill.”

_Cres._ ‘Fore Heaven, thou pat me in my own coin. But——

_Enter_ SERGEANT.

_Serg._ Pray, does one Pedro Crespo live hereabout?

_Cres._ Have you any commands for him, if he does?

_Serg._ Yes, to tell him of the arrival of Don Alvaro de Ataide, captain of the troop that has just marched into Zalamea, and quartered upon him.

_Cres._ Say no more; my house and all I have is ever at the service of the king, and of all who have authority under him. If you will leave his things here, I will see his room is got ready directly; and do you tell his Honour that, come when he will, he shall find me and mine at his service.

_Serg._ Good—he will be here directly.

[_Exit._

_Juan._ I wonder, father, that, rich as you are, you still submit yourself to these nuisances.

_Cres._ Why, boy, how could I help them?

_Juan._ You know; by buying a patent of Gentility.