Chapter VI: Part 6

_Cres._ A patent of Gentility! upon thy life now dost think ther a soul who does know that no gentleman at all, but just a plain farmer? Wha the use of my buying a patent of Gentility, if I ca buy the gentle blood along with it? will any one think me a bit more of a gentleman for buying fifty patents? Not a whit; I should only prove I was worth so many thousand royals, not that I had gentle blood in my veins, which ca be bought at any price. If a fello been bald ever so long, and buys him a fine wig and claps it on, will his neighbours think it is his own hair a bit the more? No, they will say, “So-and-so has a fine wig; and, wha more, he must have paid handsomely for it too.” But they know his bald pate is safe under it all the while. Tha all he gets by it.

_Juan._ Nay, sir, he gets to look younger and handsomer, and keeps off sun and cold.

_Cres._ Tut! I’ll have none of your wig honour at any price. My grandfather was a farmer, so was my father, so is yours, and so shall you be after him. Go, call your sister.

_Enter_ ISABEL _and_ INES.

Oh, here she is. Daughter, our gracious king (whose life God save these thousand years!) is on his way to be crowned at Lisbon; thither the troops are marching from all quarters, and among others that fine veteran Flanders regiment, commanded by the famous Don Lope de Figuerroa, will march into Zalamea, and be quartered here to-day; some of the soldiers in my house. Is it not as well you should be out of the way?

_Isab._ Sir, ’twas upon this very errand I came to you, knowing what nonsense I shall have to hear if I stay below. My cousin and I can go up to the garret, and there keep so close, the very sun shall not know of our whereabout.

_Cres._ That’s my good girl. Juanito, you wait here to receive them in case they come while I am out looking after their entertainment.

_Isab._ Come, Ines.

_Ines._ Very well——

“Though I’ve heard in a song what folly ’twould be
To try keep in a loft what wo keep on the tree.”

[_Exeunt._

_Enter_ CAPTAIN _and_ SERGEANT.

_Serg._ This is the house, sir.

_Capt._ Is my kit come?

_Serg._ Yes, sir, and (_aside_) I’ll be the first to take an inventory of the pretty daughter.

[_Exit._

_Juan._ Welcome, sir, to our house; we count it a great honour to have such a cavalier as yourself for a guest, I assure you. (_Aside._) What a fine fellow! what an air! I long to try the uniform, somehow.

_Capt._ Thank you, my lad.

_Juan._ You must forgive our poor house, which we devoutly wish was a palace for your sake. My father is gone after your supper, sir; may I go and see that your chamber is got ready for you?

_Capt._ Thank you, thank you.

_Juan._ Your servant, sir.

[_Exit._

_Enter_ SERGEANT.

_Capt._ Well, sergeant, wher the Dulcinea you told me of?

_Serg._ Deuce take me, sir, if I hav been looking everywhere—in parlour, bedroom, kitchen, and scullery, upstairs and downstairs, and ca find her out.

_Capt._ Oh, no doubt the old fellow has hid her away for fear of us.

_Serg._ Yes, I as a serving wench, and she confess’d her master had loc the girl up in the attic, with strict orders not even to look out so long as we were in the place.

_Capt._ Ah! these clodpoles are all so jealous of the service. And what is the upshot? Why, I, who did care a pin to see her before, shall never rest till I get at her now.

_Serg._ But how, without a blow-up?

_Capt._ Let me see; how shall we manage it?

_Serg._ The more difficult the enterprise, the more glory in success, you know, in love as in war.

_Capt._ I have it!

_Serg._ Well, sir?

_Capt._ You shall pretend—but no, here comes one will serve my turn better.

_Enter_ REBOLLEDO _and_ CHISPA.

_Reb._ (_to_ CHISPA). There he is; now if I can get him into a good humour.

_Chis._ Speak up then, like a man.

_Reb._ I wish some of your courage; but do you leave me while I tackle him. Please, your Honour——

_Capt._ (_to_ SERGEANT). I tell you I’ve my eye on Rebolledo to do him a good turn; I like his spirit.

_Serg._ Ah, he’ one of a thousand.

_Reb._ (_aside_). Her luck! Please, your Honour——

_Capt._ Oh, Rebolledo—Well, Rebolledo, what is it?

_Reb._ You may know I am a gentleman who has, by ill-luck, lost all his estate; all that ever I had, have, shall have, may have, or can have, through all the conjugations of the verb “_to have_.” And I want your Honour——

_Capt._ Well?

_Reb._ To desire the ensign to appoint me roulette-master to the regiment, so I may pay my liabilities like a man of honour.

_Capt._ Quite right, quite right; I will see it done.

_Chis._ (_aside_). Oh, brave captain! Oh, if I only live to hear them all call me Madame Roulette!

_Reb._ Shall I go at once and tell him?

_Capt._ Wait. I want you first to help me in a little plan I have.

_Reb._ Out with it, noble captain. Slow said slow sped, you know.

_Capt._ You are a good fellow; listen. I want to get into that attic there, for a particular purpose.

_Reb._ And why does your Honour go up at once?

_Capt._ I do like to do it in a strange house without an excuse. Now look here; you and I will pretend to quarrel; I get angry and draw my sword, and you run away upstairs, and I after you, to the attic, tha all; I’ll manage the rest.

_Chis._ (_aside_). Ah, he seems to be getting on famously.

_Reb._ I understand. When are we to begin?

_Capt._ Now directly.

_Reb._ Very good. (_In a loud voice._) This is the reward of my services—a rascal, a pitiful, scoundrel, is preferred, when a man of honour—a man who has seen service——

_Chis._ (_aside_). Halloa! Rebolledo up? All is not so well.

_Reb._ Who has led you to victory?

_Capt._ This language to me, sir?

_Reb._ Yes, to you, who have so grossly insulted and defrauded——

_Capt._ Silence! and think yourself lucky if I take no further notice of your insolence.

_Reb._ If I restrain myself, it is only because you are my captain, and as such—but ‘fore God, if my cane were in my hand——

_Chis._ (_advancing_.) Hold! hold!

_Capt._ I’ll show you, sir, how to talk to me in this way. (_Draws his sword._)

_Reb._ It is before your commission, not you, I retreat.

_Capt._ That sha’n’t save you, rascal!

(_Pursues_ REBOLLEDO _out_.)

_Chis._ Oh! I sha’n’t be Madame Roulette after all. Murder! murder!

[_Exit calling._

SCENE III.—ISABEL’S _Garret_. ISABEL _and_ INES.

_Isab._ What noise is that on the stairs?

_Enter_ REBOLLEDO.

_Reb._ Sanctuary! Sanctuary!

_Isab._ Who are you, sir?

_Enter_ CAPTAIN.

_Capt._ Where is the rascal?

_Isab._ A moment, sir! This poor man has flown to our feet for protection; I appeal to you for it; and no man, and least of all an officer, will refuse that to any woman.

_Capt._ I swear no other arm than that of beauty, and beauty such as yours, could have withheld me. (_To_ REBOLLEDO.) You may thank the deity that has saved you, rascal.

_Isab._ And I thank you, sir.

_Capt._ And yet ungratefully slay me with your eyes in return for sparing him with my sword.

_Isab._ Oh, sir, do not mar the grace of a good deed by poor compliment, and so make me less mindful of the real thanks I owe you.

_Capt._ Wit and modesty kiss each other, as well they may, in that lovely face. (_Kneels._)

_Isab._ Heavens! my father!

_Enter_ CRESPO _and_ JUAN _with swords_.

_Cres._ How is this, sir? I am alarmed by cries of murder in my house—am told you have pursued a poor man up to my daughte room; and, when I get here expecting to find you killing a man, I find you courting a woman.

_Capt._ We are all born subjects to some dominion—soldiers especially to beauty. My sword, though justly raised against this man, as justly fell at this lad bidding.

_Cres._ No lady, sir, if you please; but a plain peasant girl—my daughter.

_Juan._ (_aside_). All a trick to get at her. My blood boils. (_Aloud to Captain._) I think, sir, you might have seen enough of my father’s desire to serve you to prevent your requiting him by such an affront as this.

_Cres._ And, pray, who bid thee meddle, boy? Affront! what affront? The soldier affronted his captain; and if the captain has spared him for thy siste sake, pray what hast thou to say against it?

_Capt._ I think, young man, you had best consider before you impute ill intention to an officer.

_Juan._ I know what I do know.

_Cres._ What! you will go on, will you?

_Capt._ It is out of regard for you I do not chastise him.

_Cres._ Wait a bit; if that were wanting, ’twould be from his father, not from you.

_Juan._ And wha more, I would endure it from any one but my father.

_Capt._ You would not?

_Juan._ No! death rather than such dishonour!

_Capt._ What, pray, is a clodpol idea of honour.

_Juan._ The same as a captain’s—no clodpole no captain, I can tell you.

_Capt._ ‘Fore Heaven, I must punish this insolence.

(_About to strike him._)

_Cres._ You must do it through me, then.

_Reb._ Eyes right!—Don Lope!

_Capt._ Don Lope!

_Enter_ DON LOPE.

_Lope._ How now? A riot the very first thing I find on joining the regiment? What is it all about?

_Capt._ (_aside_). Awkward enough!

_Cres._ (_aside_). By the lord, the boy would have held his own with the best of ‘em.

_Lope._ Well! No one answer me? ‘Fore God, I’ll pitch the whole house, men, women, and children, out of windows, if you do tell me at once. Here have I had to trail up your accursed stairs, and then no one will tell me what for.

_Cres._ Nothing, nothing at all, sir.

_Lope._ Nothing? that would be the worst excuse of all, but swords are drawn for nothing; come, the truth?

_Capt._ Well, the simple fact is this, Don Lope; I am quartered upon this house; and one of my soldiers——

_Lope._ Well, sir, go on.

_Capt._ Insulted me so grossly I was obliged to draw my sword on him. He ran up here, where it seems these two girls live; and I, not knowing there was any harm, after him; at which these men, their father or brother, or some such thing, take affront. This is the whole business.

_Lope._ I am just come in time then to settle it. First, who is the soldier that began it with an act of insubordination?

_Reb._ What, am I to pay the piper?

_Isab._ (_pointing to_ REBOLLEDO). This, sir, was the man who ran up first.

_Lope._ This? handcuff him!

_Reb._ Me! my lord?

_Capt._ (_aside to_ REBOLLEDO). Do blab, I’ll bear you harmless.

_Reb._ Oh, I dare say, after being marched off with my hands behind me like a coward. Noble commander, ’twas the captain’s own doing; he made me pretend a quarrel, that he might get up here to see the women.

_Cres._ I _had_ some cause for quarrel, you see.

_Lope._ Not enough to peril the peace of the town for. Halloa there! beat all to quarters on pain of death. And, to prevent further ill blood here, do you (_to the_ CAPTAIN) quarter yourself elsewhere till we march. I’ll stop here.

_Capt._ I shall of course obey you, sir.

_Cres._ (_to_ ISABEL). Get you in. (_Exeunt_ ISABEL _and_ INES.) I really ought to thank you heartily for coming just as you did, sir; else, have done for myself.

_Lope._ How so?

_Cres._ I should have killed this popinjay.

_Lope._ What, sir, a captain in his Majest service?

_Cres._ Aye, a general, if he insulted me.

_Lope._ I tell you, whoever lays his little finger on the humblest private in the regiment, I’ll hang him.

_Cres._ And I tell you, whoever points his little finger at my honour, I’ll cut him down before hanging.

_Lope._ Know you not, you are bound by your allegiance to submit.

_Cres._ To all cost of property, yes; but of honour, no, no, no! My goods and chattels, aye, and my life—are the kin; but my honour is my own sou, and that is—God Almight.

_Lope._ ‘Fore God, ther some truth in what you say.

_Cres._ ‘Fore God, there ought to be, for I’ve been some years saying it.

_Lope._ Well, well. I’ve come a long way, and this leg of mine, which I wish the devil who gave it would carry [_sic_] away with him! cries for rest.

_Cres._ And who prevents its taking some? the same devil I suppose who gave you your leg, gave me a bed, which I do want him to take away again, however, on which your leg may lie if it like.

_Lope._ But did the devil, when he was about it, make your bed as well as give it?

_Cres._ To be sure he did.

_Lope._ Then I’ll unmake it—Heaven knows weary enough.

_Cres._ Heaven rest you then.

_Lope._ (_aside_). Devil or saint alike he echoes me!

_Calderon de la Barca_ (1600-1681).

_Trans. Edward Fitzgerald._

_THE SIMPLE GROOMS._

“Look,” said Juanillo, “we have now arrived at the Puerta del Sol, one of the chief resorts in Madrid. This site of beautiful things, rightly called the Sol or Sun, is renowned not only in Madrid, but throughout the whole world.” Just then the cries and loud sobs of a lad made them turn to inquire the cause, and Onofre, asking a boy close by, was told it was a doctor’s groom who had gone out to sell a mule too slow for his master, who, on account of his large practice, required one with more go.

“Are there so many sick in Madrid?” asked Onofre; to which the boy replied: “He lives in a suburb of delicate people, who dress richly, lie a long time in bed, have all their windows shut to keep out the air, and if their chocolate is too sweet or too highly spiced, say it has done them harm, and then they send for the doctor, who, to feel the pulses and purses of all, needs a lively mule, and so he wanted to sell his slow one.”

The boy went on to relate how the groom soon found a buyer in the servant of a country doctor, just arrived on horseback between the panniers of bread, a trick worthy of the devil himself, since that they might not suspect Death was entering the gates of Madrid, he came cloaked with the chief support of life; for they say he was abandoning his last residence, since it had lost half its population during the one year of his stay, and was, therefore, coming to Madrid, where, on account of its size, he hoped his work would not be so noticeable. With this executione servant ... a bargain was struck, and the buyer allowed to try the mule, after entertaining and bribing the groom; whereupon he vanished down the street of Alcalá.

Onofre smiled at the youth’s humour, and approaching the blubbering groom, heard the crowd trying to advise and console him in various ways: to look in all the hostries, where the thief might have taken the mule to give it a feed; that his master would easily earn his value in four days; that it was no good crying over spilt milk, to all of which the groom wept loudly, the big tears running down his cheeks, which, as well as his nose, he wiped with his cape and shirt-sleeves. Onofre felt sorry for the poor fellow, but Juanillo, calling him, told him such things often happened market days, and he knew another case, which showed the astuteness of some thieves.

A groom went, like this one, to sell a mule, which was, however, so young and wild, his master could not ride it. He arrived at the market and straightway found a buyer, for those simple fellows always come across crafty rogues, up to all kinds of tricks. They quickly came to terms, and the thief asked the lad to come for his money astride his mule to a surgeon-barber, for whom it was purchased. He then lead him to a shop where he had been shaved once or twice, and, leaving him outside on the mule, inquired for the master, and after the customary salutations, told him he had brought a sick groom whom he wished to be examined, and cured if possible, but that, as he was very shy and embarrassed, and had put off coming to a doctor for a long time, he must try not to frighten him, and ask the lad to wait a while inside till he could see him, lest he should run away. He then paid half the fee and said he would pay the rest afterwards. The barber, highly pleased, went out and asked the groom to come in and wait, and his business would soon be despatched.

“You know my business?” said the lad.

“Certainly,” said the barber.

The cheat, telling the groom that the barber would give him a dozen reals for himself beside the price for the mule, mounted, clapped spurs to the mule, and made off.

The groom, after waiting some little time, found out the fraud as soon as the barber began questioning him as to his health, and set up a great hullabaloo, whereupon the police hastened by, but could only warn him to be more prudent next time, with the hope that God would console him meanwhile.

“_Day and Night in Madrid._” _Santos_ (_fl._ 1697).

_PORTUGUESE EPITAPHS AND SAYINGS._

A noble Portuguee lies here,
By name Don Vasco Cid Figuere,
Not in bloodshed
Died he, he fled
From wars and Moors, and did all he could
To die in bed as a gentleman should.

* * * * *

Here lies who once lived and is now dead, and although he died, he lives, for the world trembles at the sound of his name.

* * * * *

Here lies the body of Senhor Vasco Barreto,
He died by God’s will and much against his own.
Breathe an _Ave Maria_ for the repose of his soul.

* * * * *

Here lies Alfonso Galego. He died for the glory of God in spite of the Devil.

* * * * *

A Portuguese preacher once said: “The Moors are our neighbours, and the Jews are our neighbours, and even the Castilians are also our neighbours.”

Another time a Portuguese friar, preaching on the anniversary of a great battle, said: “The Christians were on one side of the river, and the Castilians on the other.”

(_Seventeenth Century_).

_LA TARASCA AND THE CARRIERS._

A town in Spain on the banks of the Tagus, just about to celebrate Corpus Christi, sent to a neighbouring town for the giants and the huge serpent, called La Tarasca. On the eve of the festival the bearers, in order to arrive in good time to join the procession, set out at dusk, with the intention of reaching their destination at break of day. They were inside the huge effigies, which were borne on their shoulders exactly as when they dance through the streets. The moon rose during their journey and shone down on the strange figures, to the great amazement and alarm of some carriers with loads of wine, who, becoming aware of the serpent and the giants behind, only screwed together enough courage to take to their heels as fast as they could. The bearers cried after them to come back and look after their teams, but in vain, the more they shouted, the faster they fled. Thereupon the porters of La Tarasca set her down and repaired to the mules, and when they perceived the sweet spoils they had won without any bloodshed, called to the bearers of the giants, and they all drank to each other’s health in such long draughts and hearty quaffs, that the liquor rose to their heads and laid them full length on the road.

The carriers, who were great braggarts, returned home and told their Alcalde how they had encountered such giant thieves; and the whole township, armed with cross-bows, lances and cudgels, sallied out in quest of these odd fish. They arrived at the spot, making so great a din, they almost awakened their foes, whom they found stretched on the ground.

The Alcalde, much amused at the jest, gave judgment that the carriers were to pay with wine those who had come to their help; upon which all drank to their hear content till the citizens and soldiers returned homewards and the porters again shouldered their burdens.

“_Truth on the Rack._” _Santos_ (_fl._ 1697).

_PEDIGREE OF FOOLS._

They say Lost Time married Ignorance, and had a son called I Thought, who married Youth, and had the following children: I Did Know, I Did Think, Who Would Have Expected.

Who Would Have Expected married Heedlessness, and had for children I All Right, To-morrow Will Do, Ther Plenty of Time, Next Opportunity.

Ther Plenty of Time married Doña I Did Think, and had for family I Forgot, I Know All About It, Nobody Can Deceive Me.

I Know All About It espoused Vanity, and begat Pleasure, who, marrying Tha Not Likely, became father to Let Us Enjoy Ourselves and Bad Luck.

Bad Luck took to wife Little Sense, and had a very large family, among whom were This Will Do, What Business Is It Of Theirs, It Seems To Me, I Not Possible.

Pleasure was widowed, and, marrying again, espoused Folly. Consuming their inheritance, they said one to the other, “Have Patience, let us spend our capital and enjoy ourselves this year, for God will provide for the next.” But Deception took them to prison, and Poverty to the workhouse, where they died.

Strange obsequies were performed at their funeral, at which were present the five Senses, Intellect, Memory, and Will, although in a pitiful condition. Repentance, who came somewhat late, found no seat, and had to stand the whole time, while Consolation and Contentment were represented by Desolation and Melancholy, daughters of Memory.

Despair, grandchild of the deceased, went about begging for several days, in which he could only collect six maravedies, with which he bought a rope and hanged himself from a turret, which is the end of the family of Fools.

_Anon._ (_Seventeenth Century_).

_THE FAMOUS PREACHER, FRIAR BLAS._

He was in the full perfection of his strength, just about three-and-thirty years old, tall, robust, and stout; his limbs well set and well proportioned; manly in gait, inclining to corpulence, with an erect carriage of his head, and the circle of hair round his tonsure studiously and exactly combed and shaven. His clerical dress was always neat, and fell round his person in ample and regular folds. His shoes fitted him with the greatest nicety, and, above all, his silken cap was adorned with much curious embroidery and a fanciful tassel—the work of certain female devotees who were dying with admiration of their favourite preacher. In short, he had a very youthful, gallant look; and, adding to this a clear, rich voice, a slight fashionable lisp, a peculiar grace in telling a story, a talent at mimicry, an easy action, a taking manner, a high-sounding style, and not a little effrontery—never forgetting to sprinkle jests, proverbs, and homely phrases along his discourses with a most agreeable aptness—he won golden opinions in his public discourses, and carried everything before him in the drawing-rooms he frequented.

It was well known that he always began his sermons with some proverb, some jest, some pothouse witticism, or some strange fragment, which, taken from its proper connections and relations, would seem, at first blush, to be an inconsequence, a blasphemy, or an impiety; until at last, having kept his audience waiting a moment in wonder, he finished the clause, or came out with an explanation which reduced the whole to a sort of miserable trifling. Thus, preaching one day on the mystery of the Trinity, he began his sermon by saying, “I deny that God exists a Unity in essence and a Trinity in person,” and then stopped short for an instant. The hearers, of course, looked round on one another scandalised, or, at least, wondering what would be the end of this heretical blasphemy. At length, when the preacher thought he had fairly caught them, he went on, “Thus says the Ebionite, the Marcionite, the Arian, the Manichean, the Socinian; but I prove it against them all from the Scriptures, the Councils, and the Fathers.”

In another sermon, which was on the Incarnation, he began by crying out, “Your health, cavaliers!” and, as the audience burst into a broad laugh at the free manner in which he had said it, he went on, “This is no joking matter, however; for it was for your health and for mine, and for that of all men, that Christ descended from heaven and became incarnate in the Virgin Mary. It is an article of faith, and I prove it thus: ‘_Propter nos, homines et nostram salutem decendit de cœlo et incarnatus est_,’”—whereat they all remained in delighted astonishment, and such a murmur of applause ran round the church that it wanted little of breaking out into open acclamation.

_Trans. Ticknor._

_THE MUSICAL ASS._

The fable which I now present
Occur to me by accident;
And whether bad or excellent,
Is merely so by accident.

A stupid Ass this morning went
Into a field by accident
And crop his food and was content,
Until he spied by accident
A flute, which some oblivious gent
Had left behind by accident;
When, sniffing it with eager scent,
He breathed on it by accident,
And made the hollow instrument
Emit a sound by accident.
“Hurrah, hurrah!” exclaimed the brute,
“How cleverly I play the flute!”

A fool, in spite of nature’s bent,
May shine for once—by accident.

_Yriarte_ (1750-1791). _Trans. R. Rockliff._

_THE BASHFUL SHEPHERDESS._

No shady fruit-tree
In the early year
Dec with blossoms sweet
In the day dawn clear
So gladdens my eyes,
And raises my heart,
As when I catch sight
Of my own sweetheart.
He says, if I like,
In the fair springtime
We will married be,
For his love I see.
But to tell him yes
I feel such shame,
And no to answer
Gives still more pain.
But a thousand times yes,
The very first time
That he asks again,
Is the answer mine.

_Iglesias_ (_d._ 1791).

_THE BEAR, THE APE, AND THE PIG._

A bear, whose dancing hel to gain
His own and owne livelihood,
And whose success had made him vain
As any petit-maitre, stood
Upon his hinder legs to try
The figure of a new quadrille,
When, seeing that an Ape was nigh,
He stump’d about with all his skill,
And, “Tell me how you like,” he cried,
“My dancing, for always glad
To hear the truth.” The Ape replied,
“I really think it very bad.”
“’Tis plain enough,” rejoin’d the Bear,
“That envy makes you censure so;
For have I not a graceful air,
A slender shape and limber toe?”
But here a tasteless Pig began
To grunt applause, and said, “I vow
I’ve never met, in brute or man,
With one who danced so well as thou.”
The bear, on hearing this, became
Sedate and pensive for awhile;
And then, as if abash’d with shame.
Replied, in a more humble style:
“The agile Ape’s rebuke might be
Inspired by jealousy or spleen;
But, since the Pig commends, I see
How bad my dancing must have been.”

Let every author think on this,
And hold the maxim for a rule—
The worst that can befall him is
The approbation of a fool.

_Yriarte_ (1750-1791). _Trans. R. Rockliff._

_THE FROG AND THE HEN._

As once a Frog,
Who all day long had chatte from his bog,
Began to close
His mouth and eyes, and drop into a dose,
He chanced just then
To hear the sudden cackle of a hen.
“What sound is this?”
He cried. “Dear madam, what can be amiss,
That thus you scream,
And keep a quiet neighbour from his dream?”
The Hen replied,
Her feathers fluttering with maternal pride,
“I humbly beg
Your pardon, sir; but, having laid an egg,
I could not chuse
To let you sleep in ignorance of the news.”
“What! all this clatter
About a single egg!—so small a matter!”
“True, neighbour, true;
’Tis but a single egg—a small one, too;
But if you blame
The rout that I have made about the same,
’Tis doubly wrong
In you to croak for nothing all day long.
The egg’s of use,
And therefore I may brag with some excuse;
But the dull brute
Tha unproductive should be also mute.”

_Yriarte._ _Trans. R. Rockliff._

_MARIQUITA THE BALD._

(A TALE AFTER THE STYLE OF AN OLD CHRONICLE.)

It is as sorry a matter to use the words of which one ignores the meaning as it is a blemish for a man of sense to speak of what he knows nothing about. I say this to those of you who may have the present story in your hands, however often you may have happened to have heard _Mariquita the Bald_ mentioned, and I swear by my doublet that you shall soon know who Mariquita the Bald was, as well as I know who ate the Christmas turkey, setting aside the surmise that it certainly must have been a mouth.

I desire, therefore, to enlighten your ignorance of this subject, and beg to inform you that the said noted Maria (Mariquita is a diminutive of Maria) was born in the District of Segovia, and in the town of Sant Garcia, the which town is famed for the beauty of the maidens reared within its walls, who for the most part have such gentle and lovely faces, that may I behold such around me at the hour of my death. Mari father was an honest farmer, by name Juan Lanas, a Christian old man, and much beloved, and who had inherited no mean estate from his forefathers, though with but little wit in his crown, a lack which was the cause of much calamity to both the father and the daughter, for in the times to which we have attained, God forgive me if it is not necessary to have more of the knave than of the fool in on composition. Now it came to pass that Juan Lanas, for the castigation of his sins, must needs commit himself to a lawsuit with one of his neighbours about a vine stock which was worth about fifty maravedis; and Juan was in the right, and the judges gave the verdict in his favour, so that he won his case, excepting that the suit lasted no less than ten years and the costs amounted to nothing less than fifty thousand maravedies, not to speak of a disease of the eyes which after all was over left him blind. When he found himself with diminished property and without his eyesight, in sorrow and disgust he turned into money such part of his patrimony as sufficed to rid him of the hungry herd of scribeners and lawyers, and took his way to Toledo with his daughter, who was already entering upon her sixteenth year, and had matured into one of the most beautiful, graceful, and lovable damsels to be found throughout all Castile and the kingdoms beyond. For she was white as the lily and red like the rose, straight and tall of stature, and slender in the waist, with fair, shapely hips; and again her foot and hand were plump and small to a marvel, and she possessed a head of hair which reached to her knees. For I knew the widow Sarmiento who was their housekeeper, and she told me how she could scarcely clasp Mariquita’s hair with both hands, and that she could not comb the hair unless Maria stood up and the housekeeper mounted on a footstool, for if Maria sat down, the long tresses swept the ground, and therefore became all entangled.

And do not imagine her beauty and grace being such that she sinned greatly in pride and levity, as is the wont of girls in this age. She was as humble as a cloistered lay-sister, and as silent as if she were not a woman, and patient as the sucking lamb, and industrious as the ant, clean as the ermine, and pure as a saint of those times in which, by the grace of the Most High, saintly women were born into the world. But I must confide to you in friendship that our Mariquita was not a little vain about her hair, and loved to display it, and for this reason, now in the streets, now when on a visit, now when at mass, it is said she used to subtilely loosen her mantilla so that her tresses streamed down her back, the while feigning forgetfulness and carelessness. She never wore a hood, for she said it annoyed her and choked her; and every time that her father reproached her for some deed deserving of punishment and threatened to cut off her hair, I warrant you she suffered three times more than after a lash from the whip, and would then be good for three weeks successively; so much so that Juan Lanas, perceiving her amendment, would laugh under his cloak, and when saying his say to his gossips would tell them that his daughter, like the other saint of Sicily, would reach heaven by her hair. Having read so far, you must now know that Juan Lanas, the blind man, with the change of district and dwelling did not change his judgment, and if he was crack-brained at Sant Garcia, he remained crack-brained at Toledo, consuming in this resort his monies upon worthless drugs and quacks which did not cure his blindness and impoverished him more and more every day, so that if his daughter had not been so dexterous with her fingers in making and broidering garments of linen, wool, and silk, I promise you that this miserable Juan would have to have gone for more than four Sundays without a clean shirt to put on or a mouthful to eat, unless he had begged for it from door to door. The years passed by to find Maria every day more beautiful, and her father every day more blind and more desirous to see, until his affliction and trouble took such forcible possession of his breast and mind, that Maria saw as clear as daylight that if her father did not recover his sight, he would die of grief. Maria thereupon straightway took her father and led him to the house of an Arabian physician of great learning who dwelt at Toledo, and told the Moor to see if there were any cure for the old ma sight. The Arabian examined and touched Juan, and made this and that experiment with him, and everything was concerted in that the physician swore great oaths by the heel-bone of Mohammed that there was a complete certainty of curing Juan and making him to see his daughter again, if only he, the physician, were paid for the cure with five hundred maravedies all in gold. A sad termination for such a welcome beginning, for the two unhappy creatures, Juan and Maria, had neither maravedi nor cuarto in their money box! So they went thence all downcast, and Maria never ceased praying to his Holiness Saint John and his Holiness Saint James (the patron saint of Spain) to repair to their assistance in this sad predicament.

“In what way,” conjectured she inwardly—“in what way can I raise fifty maravedies to be quits with the worthy Moor who will give back his sight to my poor old father? Ah! I have it. I am a pretty maid, and suitors innumerable, commoners and nobles, pay their addresses and compliments to me. But all are trifling youths who only care for love-making and who seek light o’ loves rather than spouses according to the law of the Lord Jesus Christ. I remember, notwithstanding, that opposite our house lives the sword-cutler, Master Palomo, who is always looking at me and never speaks to me, and the Virgin assist me, he appears a man of very good condition for a husband; but what maiden, unless she were cross-eyed or hunch-backed, could like a man with such a flat nose, with that skin the colour of a ripe date, with those eyes like a dead cal, and with those huge hands, which are more like the paws of a wild beast than the belongings of a person who with them should softly caress the woman whom Destiny bestows upon him for a companion? ’Tis said that he is no drunkard, nor cudgeller, nor dallier with woman, nor a liar, and that he is besides possessed of much property and very rich. Pity ’tis that one who is so ugly and stiff-necked should unite such parts.”

Thus turning the matter over and over in her mind, Maria together with Juan reached their home, where was awaiting them an esquire in a long mourning robe, who told Maria that the aunt of the Mayor of the city had died in an honest estate and in the flower of her age, for she had not yet completed her seventy years, and that the obsequies of this sexagenarian damsel were to be performed the following day, on which occasion her coffin would be carried to the church by maidens, and he was come to ask Maria if she would please to be one of the bearers of the dead woman, for which she would receive a white robe, and to eat, and a ducat, and thanks into the bargain.

Maria, since she was a well brought up maid, replied that if it seemed well to her father, it would also seem well to her.

Juan accepted, and Maria was rejoiced to be able to make a display of her hair, for it is well known that the maidens who bear another to the grave walk with dishevelled locks. And when on the morrow the tiring-women of the Mayoress arrayed Maria in a robe white as the driven snow and fine as the skin of an onion; and when they girt her slender waist with a sash of crimson silk, the ends of which hung down to the broad hem of the skirt; and when they crowned her smooth and white forehead with a wreath of white flowers, I warrant you that, what with the robe and the sash and the wreath, and the beautiful streaming hair and her lovely countenance and gracious mien, she seemed no female formed of flesh and blood, but a superhuman creature or blessed resident of those shining circles in which dwell the celestial hierarchies. The Mayor and the other mourners stepped forth to see her, and all unceasingly praised God, who was pleased to perform such miracles for the consolation and solace of those living in this world. And there in a corner of the hall, motionless like a heap of broken stones, stood one of the mutes with the hood of his long cloak covering his head, so that nothing could be seen but his eyes, the which he kept fixed on the fair damsel. The latter modestly lowered her eyes to the ground with her head a little bent and her cheeks red for bashfulness, although it pleased her no little to hear the praises of her beauty. At this moment a screen was pushed aside, and there began to appear a huge bulk of petticoats, which was nothing less than the person of the Mayoress, for she was with child and drawing near to her time. And when she saw Maria, she started, opened her eyes a hand’s-breadth wide, bit her lips, and called hurriedly for her husband. They stepped aside for a good while, and then hied them thence, and when they returned the mutes and maidens had all gone.

While they are burying the defunct lady I must tell you, curious readers, that the Mayor and Mayoress had been married for many years without having any children, and they longed for them like the countryman for rain in the month of May, and at last her hour of bliss came to the Mayoress, to the great content of her husband. Now, it was whispered that the said lady had always been somewhat capricious; judge for yourselves what she would be now in the time of her pregnancy! And as she was already on the way to fifty, she was more than mediocrely bald and hairless, and on these very same days had commissioned a woman barber, who lived in the odour of witchcraft, to prepare for her some false hair, but it was not to be that of a dead woman, for the Mayoress said very sensibly that if the hair belonged to a dead woman who rejoiced in supreme glory, or was suffering for her sins in purgatory, it would be profanation to wear any pledge of theirs, and if they were in hell, it was a terrible thing to wear on person relics of one of the damned. And when the Mayoress saw the abundant locks of Maria, she coveted them for herself, and it was for this reason that she called to the Mayor to speak to her in private and besought him eagerly to persuade Maria to allow herself to be shorn upon the return from the burial.

“I warn you,” said the Mayor, “that you are desirous of entering upon a very knotty bargain, for the dishevelled girl idolises her hair in such wise, that she would sooner lose a finger than suffer one of her tresses to be cut off.”

“I warn you,” replied the Mayoress, “that if on this very day the head of this young girl is not shorn smooth beneath my hand as a melon, the child to which I am about to give birth will have a head of hair on its face, and if it happens to be a female, look you, a pretty daughter is in store for you!”

“But bethink yourself that Maria will ask, who knows, a good few crowns for this shaving.”

“Bethink yourself, that if not, your heir or heiress, begotten after so many years’ marriage, will come amiss; and bear in mind, by the way, that we are not so young as to hope to replace this by another.”

Upon this she turned her back to the Mayor, and went to her apartment crying out: “I want the hair, I must have the hair, and if I do not get the hair, by my halidom I shall never become a mother.”

In the meantime the funeral had taken place without any novelty to mention, excepting that if in the streets any loose fellow in the crowd assayed to annoy the fair Maria, the hooded mute, of whom we made mention before, quickly drew from beneath his cloak a strap, with which he gave a lash to the insolent rogue without addressing one word to him, and then walked straight on as if nothing had happened. When all the mourners returned, the Mayor seized hold of Mari hand and said to her—

“And now, fair maid, let us withdraw for a little while into this other apartment,” and thus talking whilst in motion he brought her into his wife’s private tiring-room, and sat himself down in a chair and bent his head and stroked his beard with the mien of one who is studying what beginning to give to his speech. Maria, a little foolish and confused, remained standing in front of the Mayor, and she also humbly lowered before him her eyes, black as the sloe; and to occupy herself with something, gently fingered the ends of the sash which girded her waist and hung down over her skirt, not knowing what to expect from the grave mien and long silence of the Mayor, who, raising his eyes and looking up at Maria, when he beheld her in so modest a posture, devised thence a motive with which to begin, saying—

“Forsooth, Maria, so modest and sanctimonious is thy bearing, that it is easy to see thou art preparing thyself to become a black wimpled nun. And if it be so, as I presume it to be, I now offer of my own accord to dispose of thy entry into the cloisters without any dowry, on condition that thou dost give me something that thou hast on thy head, and which then wilt not be necessary for thee.”

“Nay, beshrew me, Sir Mayor,” replied Maria, “for I durst not think that the Lord calls upon me to take that step, for then my poor father would remain in the world without the staff of his old age.”

“Then, now, I desire to give thee some wise counsel, maid Maria. Thou dost gain thy bread with great fatigue, thou shouldst make use of thy time as much as is possible. Now one of thy neighbours hath told me, that in the dressing of thy hair, thou doth waste every day more than an hour. It would be better far if thou didst spend this hour on thy work rather than in the dressing and braiding which thou dost to thy hair.”

“That is true, Sir Mayor,” replied Maria, turning as red as a carnation, “but, look you, it is not my fault if I have a wealth of tresses, the combing and plaiting of which necessitates so long a time every morning.”

“I tell thee it is thy fault,” retorted the Mayor, “for if thou didst cut off this mane, thou would save thyself all this combing and plaiting, and thus would have more time for work, and so gain more money, and would also give no occasion to people to call thee vain. They even say that the Devil will some day carry thee off by thy hair. Nay, do not be distressed, for I already perceive the tears gathering in thy eyes, for thou hast them indeed very ready at hand; I admonish thee for thine own good without any self-interest. Cut thy hair off, shear thyself, shave thyself, good Maria, and to allay the bitterness of the shearing, I will give fifty maravedies, always on condition that thou dost hand me over the hair.”

When Maria at first heard this offer of so reasonable a sum for this her hair, it seemed to her a jest of the Mayo, and she smiled right sweetly while she dried her tears, repeating—

“You will give me fifty maravedies if I shave myself?”

Now it appeared to the Mayor (who, it is said, was not gifted with all the prudence of Ulysses) that that smile signified that the maid was not satisfied with so small a price, and he added—

“If thou wilt not be content with fifty maravedies, I will give thee a hundred.”

Then Maria saw some hangings of the apartment moving in front of her, and perceiving a bulky protuberance, she immediately divined that the Mayoress was hiding behind there, and that the protuberance was caused by her portly form. She now discovered the Mayo design, and that it was probably a caprice of his spouse, and she made a vow not to suffer herself to be shorn unless she acquired by these means the five hundred maravedies needful to pay the Arabian physician who would give her father back his eyesight.

Then the Mayor raised his price from a hundred maravedies to a hundred and fifty, and afterwards to two hundred, and Maria continued her sweet smiling, shaking of the head and gestures, and every time that the Mayor bid higher and Maria feigned to be reluctant, she almost hoped that the Mayor would withdraw from his proposition, for the great grief it caused her to despoil herself of that precious ornament, notwithstanding that by means of it she might gain her father’s health. Finally the Mayor, anxious to conclude the treaty, for he saw the stirring of the curtains, and knew by them the anxiety and state of mind of the listener, closed by saying—

“Go to, hussy, I will give thee five hundred maravedies, see, once and for all, if thou canst agree to these terms.”

“Be it so,” replied Maria, sighing as if her soul would flee from her flesh with these words—“be it so, so long that nobody doth know that I remain bald.”

“I will give my word for it,” said the Mayoress, stepping from behind the curtains with a pair of sharp shears in her hands and a wrapper over her arm.

When Maria saw the scissors she turned as yellow as wax, and when they told her to sit down on the sacrificial chair, she felt herself grow faint and had to ask for a drink of water; and when they tied the wrapper round her throat it is related that she would have immediately torn it asunder if her courage had not failed her. And when at the first movement of the shears she felt the cold iron against her skull, I tell you it seemed to her as if they were piercing her heart with a bright dagger. It is possible that she did not keep her head still for a moment while this tonsuring was taking place; she moved it in spite of herself, now to one side, now to another, to flee from the clipping scissors, of which the rude cuts and the creaking axis wounded her ears. Her posture and movements, however, were of no avail to the poor shorn maiden, and the pertinacious shearer, with the anxiety and covetousness of a pregnant woman satisfying a caprice, seized the hair well, or ill, by handfuls, and went on bravely clipping, and the locks fell on to the white wrapper, slipping down thence till they reached the ground.

At last the business came to an end, and the Mayoress, who was beside herself with joy, caressingly passed the palm of her hand again and again over the mai bald head from the front to the back, saying—

“By my mother’s soul, I have shorn you so regularly and close to root, that the most skilful barber could not have shorn you better. Get up and braid the hair while my husband goes to get the money and I your clothes, so that you can leave the house without any one perceiving it.”

The Mayor and Mayoress went out of the room, and Maria, as soon as she found herself alone, went to look at herself in a mirror that hung there; and when she saw herself bald she lost the patience she had had until then, and groaned with rage and struck herself, and even tried to wrench off her ears, which appeared to her now outrageously large, although they were not so in reality. She stamped upon her hair and cursed herself for having ever consented to lose it, without remembering her father, and just as if she had no father at all. But as it is a quality of human nature to accept what cannot be altered, poor angry Maria calmed down little by little, and she picked up the hair from the ground and bound it together and braided it into great ropes, not without kissing it and lamenting over it many times. The Mayor and the Mayoress returned, he with the money and she with the every-day clothes of Maria, who undressed and folded her white robe in a kerchief, put on her old gown, hid herself with her shawl to the eyes, and walked, moaning, to the house of the Moor, without noticing that the man with the hood over his head was following behind her, and that when she, in a moment of forgetfulness, lowered her shawl through the habit she had of displaying her tresses, her bald head could be plainly seen. The Moor received the five hundred maravedies with that good will with which money is always received, and told Maria to bring Juan Lanas to his house to stay there so long as there was any risk in the cure. Maria went to fetch the old man, and kept silence as to her shorn head so as not to grieve him, and whilst Juan remained the physicia guest, Maria durst not leave her home except after nightfall and then well enveloped; this, however, did not hinder her being followed by the muffled-up man.