Patrañas; or, Spanish Stories, Legendary and Traditional
by Rachel Harriette Busk · English · Gutenberg #45859 · 471,886 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Patrañas; or, Spanish Stories, Legendary and Traditional
Author: Rachel Harriette Busk
Illustrator: Edward Henry Corbould
Release date: June 1, 2014 [eBook #45859]
Most recently updated: November 28, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PATRAÑAS; OR, SPANISH STORIES, LEGENDARY AND TRADITIONAL ***
Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project
Gutenberg (This book was produced from scanned images of
public domain material from the Google Print project.)
PATRAÑAS;
OR
SPANISH STORIES,
Legendary and Traditional.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF "TRADITIONS OF TIROL."
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY E. H. CORBOULD.
LONDON:
GRIFFITH AND FARRAN,
SUCCESSORS TO NEWBERY AND HARRIS,
CORNER OF ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD.
MDCCCLXX.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
Introduction 1
POPULAR.
Carlo Magno and the Giant 6
El Conde Sol 20
Simple Johnny and the Spell-bound Princesses 24
Turian and Floreta 45
The Blood-stain of the Alcázar of Seville 63
The Adventures of Doña Josefa Ramirez y Marmolejo 67
The Steeple of Coveña 89
Another Fair Maid of Zaragoza 96
Juanita the Bald; or, A Daughter's Love 107
Starving John the Doctor 123
Ramon the Discontented 131
The Ballad-maker and the Boot-maker 140
El Clavel 143
The Ill-tempered Princess 148
The Hermit and the Fig-tree 159
Too Clever by Half 171
The Wind's Story 173
What Ana saw in the Sunbeam 181
The Pedro Jimenez Grape 201
St. Martin in Spain 209
Marvellous Stories. --I. St. Michael's Feather 213
Marvellous Stories. II. "Eyes to the Blind" 214
Marvellous Stories. III. The Floating Chest 215
Marvellous Stories. IV. The Whale of the Manzanáres 216
The Sun of Wittenburg 218
Merino 219
LEGENDARY.
King Vamba 221
Doña Terea 228
The Irish Princess 234
El Conde Fernan Gonzalez 245
The First Tunny Fishing 249
"Where One can Dine, Two can Dine" 254
CABALLERESCO.
Hormesinda 261
Filial Love before all 265
Raguel; or, The Jewess of Toledo 276
Don Jaime de Aragon 283
Don Alonso de Aguilar 286
The Black Charger of Hernando 291
The Infante Don Henrique and the Lions 299
Blanca the Haughty 303
MORESQUE.
Moorish Remnants. --I. Issy-ben-Aran 323
Moorish Remnants. II. Móstafa Alvilá 326
Moorish Remnants. III. The Emir in search of an Eye 329
Moorish Remnants. IV. Yussuf's Friend 332
Moorish Remnants. V. The Sultana's Perfumer-in-Chief 335
El Moro Santon 337
DE ULTRAMAR [1].
Hernan Cortes in Sanctuary 340
Araucania the Indomitable. --I 343
Araucania the Indomitable. II. Tegualda 351
Araucania the Indomitable. III. Fiton's Cave 360
Matanzas 370
PATRAÑAS;
OR,
Spanish Stories, Legendary and Traditional.
INTRODUCTION.
You will often have it said to you, when smarting under a
disappointment, "Never mind! it is all for the best!" I dare say you
are sometimes inclined to doubt the truth of this maxim; I remember
when I was a child I did, but I have found out in life, that it does
very often prove true. And if you like, I will tell you one instance
in which this was the case.
In the course of one of my rambles in Spain it happened one day that
I was tempted by an old longing to make acquaintance with one of her
most out-of-the-way and primitive villages, to separate from my party
at the comfortable hotel at C---- and make my way with only one young
companion to a place some five miles west, called Guadaxox, a name
which I dare say in your longest geography lesson you have never been
called on to pronounce; and you would find it no easy matter to do so,
unless I wrote it for you thus: Guadakquoth.
Five miles' walk through the clear bright air of Spain, and the fresh
spring breeze charged with all the perfume from the mountains, is a
pleasant prospect enough; and as I can usually adapt myself to any
quarters which may fall to my lot on a march, I had little fear of
not being sufficiently rested to perform the return journey easily
before sunset. My companion was a hearty lad of fourteen, who had
joined us for his Easter vacation from Eton, and the prospect proposed
even less difficulties to him.
I think you would be amused with our little adventures by the way
through a country in which every outline of foreground or horizon,
every tree and plant, every beast or fowl, every implement of
husbandry, every article of dress of the people, every individual
thing you meet, will probably prove new to an English eye. But I must
not dwell on these things now. I will only tell you that we had such
a bright and pleasant day as I have hardly ever known out of Spain;
that we found so much to sketch and so much to interest us altogether,
that we never noticed how the time passed, nor how the wind from the
mountains had covered the fair sky with angry clouds. It was only
when the first great drops of the storm patted us on the shoulder
that we realized the extent of our difficulty. We looked at the
banks of clouds and then at each other, for we each felt there was
little chance of holding up that evening, and if it did, some of the
mountain paths we had to traverse would be rendered too slippery by
the torrent to be pleasant, not to say safe, for our lowland-bred feet.
It was a contretemps which disconcerted us not a little; but we turned
with what courage remained to see after a shelter for the night. Time
forbids me to describe the only venta, or inn, the place boasted,
it will suffice to say it wanted for every comfort. It only expected
to have hardy peasants to house who would not object to the earthen
floor or the companionship of pigs and fowls in their slumbers. My Eton
companion thought it rather manly to roll himself up in his great coat
and compose himself to sleep on a board sloped from a low bench on to
the floor. For myself I preferred sitting up, and established myself
bravely in a chair, having previously taken the precaution to replenish
the lamp. The first stage of weariness was just coming on when the
door, which there was no means of locking, was thrown rudely open, and
a couple of rough carters were ushered in to take up their quarters in
the same apartment. I remonstrated at the intrusion without success,
and something of an altercation ensued, in the midst of which another
door, which I had not before noticed, was opened by a lady in black,
who beckoned me into her room. I followed her, glad of an escape, but
with a misgiving, lest I had not mended the matter. At first sight I
had felt inclined to set her down as "an old hag;" but as she talked
I saw intelligent benevolence in her dark eye, and traced remnants of
early beauty in her shrivelled countenance. We were soon friends. She
was travelling from place to place with her daughter, who supported
them both by her exertions on the stage; she had gone on with friends
to another village that evening, so her bed was free; it did not look
inviting, and I excused myself as delicately as I could. She had the
tact not to press the matter; and we continued sitting up, talking
about the customs and legends of the people, a matter in which the
old lady was well versed, and which had always had a special charm
for me. She was delighted to have some one who would listen to her
"long yarn;" and I was delighted to have found a source at which to
satisfy some of my curiosity about Spanish Traditions.
The next day, as I sat in the hotel at C---- writing down the substance
of what she had told me, and which I have embodied in the following
collection of tales, I could not help saying to myself, "Well, it was
all for the best. I thought that storm a great annoyance yesterday,
but it has procured me an acquaintance with the very subjects after
which I had had many fruitless researches before."
The store thus begun has been added to since in many various ways
which I will not detain you by narrating, as I sincerely hope you
are anxious to plunge into them, and still more that they will answer
your expectations and entertain you as they did me.
I dare say they will seem to you at first very like other stories
you have read, but if you follow them attentively you will trace many
singular national characteristics. One in particular to which I would
call your attention is the spirit of humour of which the Spanish and
particularly the Andalusian people are so fond. This will sometimes
lead them to what we should be inclined to consider irreverence; but
it is nothing of the sort with them; and if you find them speaking
with playfulness on a sacred subject [2], it is because such a vein
of faith underlies all they say that the notion of being irreverent
never occurs to them.
CARLO MAGNO AND THE GIANT.
Many tales of Spain are full of memories of Charlemagne. It is strange
that history says comparatively little of his doings there; but his
was a character such as the Spanish Romancers were sure to seize,
and, with their habit of heaping all perfections on their heroes,
ascribe to him all manner of fabulous achievements. Here is one of
the exploits they tell of him:--
One of the Moorish kings, who sought his alliance in the internecine
turmoils in which the chiefs of their race were at the time engaged,
had an only and beautiful daughter, the apple of his eye, who was
guarded with jealous care, indulged in every wish, waited on by the
most beautiful maidens in a fairy-like palace, and suffered to know
nothing of her father's wars and dangers. Life seemed all smoothness
and pleasure to her; and every one, who at any time met her eye,
made it their delight to obey her faintest sign.
But life passed even amid continual sunshine, flowers, and harmony may
become monotonous. When the Moorish princess had had fifteen years of
it, she began to seek some pleasure newer and more exciting. Her fond
father, only glad to hear her express a wish, that he might have the
satisfaction of gratifying it, promised to give her a fresh diversion
such as she had never before seen.
For this purpose he ordered a great fête, and chose out all the
mightiest men of his forces, to perform feats of arms and mock combats
before her.
The princess, who had never witnessed any combat more serious than that
of her pet doves, was delighted beyond measure with the new sensation,
and thought she could never tire of seeing the brave horsemen contend;
dealing each other such heavy blows, and all the while seeming so
indifferent to danger. Nevertheless the time came when the sameness
of these shows struck her too, and she began to crave for something
newer yet.
The king then ordered that valiant men out of other countries should
be invited to come and contend before her, each after the fashion
of their own country; and many warriors of renown were content to
come and display their prowess; the Moslem in the hope of winning
the bright smile of the king's daughter; Christians, to have the
opportunity of displaying their might before the infidel horde.
Among the strangers, but belonging to neither of these categories,
came one day a powerful giant, five cubits high, who rode on a horse
as tall as a house. All the mighty men of the king's army turned pale
when they saw him; and the king regretted that his invitations to all
comers had been so unlimited that he could find no courteous excuse
for excluding him; to prefer an unfair one would have been dangerous,
as his ire would have been terrible if provoked. So he received him
as smilingly as his trepidation would permit; and the giant seemed
a very good-natured person, too full of his own consequence to think
of any thing else, even of picking a quarrel with any one.
He challenged every one to fight with him, but no one would venture;
and this testimony to his might put him in still better humour. Then
he showed off all his feats of strength, to the great delight of
the court, and of none more than the princess, who was so astonished
at the prodigies he rehearsed, that she leant out from her balcony,
and suffered the veil to blow away from her face.
The giant happened to be looking towards her at the moment, and that
moment sufficed to make him fall in love with her. For the rest of
the day he exhibited his surprising strength with renewed energy;
but the evening was no sooner come, than he stole up to her window,
which, though it was in a very high tower of the alcázar [3], was
just at a convenient height for his head to reach as he stood upon the
ground. Putting his face against the lattice, he whispered very softly
that he must speak to her. The poor little princess was dreadfully
frightened, and could not guess what he wanted, but thought it would
not be dignified to show any fear; so she went near enough to the
window to be heard by him, and asked him his pleasure. The giant
told her that he loved her, and she must marry him. The princess
was dreadfully terrified when she heard this, for she knew she had
no possible means of resisting him if he chose to carry her off by
force; and she reflected, too, that her father himself would have
very little chance if he attempted to fight him: and what a dreadful
thing it would be if he should kill her father--her dear father, who
was so fond of her! Yet in the fright she was in, she could think of
no better stratagem than to stammer forth that he must give her time
to think about it.
The giant was not very dissatisfied with this reply, and promised he
would leave her quite to herself till the next day. All that night,
and all the next day, the little princess thought and thought of
what excuse she could make; but she could think of nothing but to
ask him to give her another day; and then again she sat and thought,
and no invention would come: and she durst not tell, her father,
lest he should in his indignation challenge the giant to fight,
and be killed by him. But when he came the third time, and she could
still think of no stratagem for getting rid of him, she was obliged
to tell him plainly that she could not make up her mind to marry him.
At first the giant tried all sorts of clumsy persuasions and
entreaties; but the maiden held firm; and at last, finding she would
not yield, he grew fiercely angry, seized the alcázar by the roof,
and made it rock backwards and forwards, tore up the trees, and threw
them on the ground, and stamped upon the soil with a noise like peals
of thunder. The poor little princess was so terrified she hardly knew
what was happening, only she heard him swear that he would come back
and take her by a way she could not escape him; and after repeating
that threat several times at length disappeared.
It was a long time before the princess came to her senses again,
for she had fainted with the dire terror, and when she did, she began
to wonder what the terrible trouble was which had so shattered her;
by degrees the memory of the stormy scenes lately passed came back
to her, but all was now so calm and still, she could hardly realize
the truth of what she had gone through. It was a great relief to find
the giant was quite gone--far away; and she learnt that he lived a
long, long way off, in a valley as far below the level of the plain
as the height on which her father's alcázar stood was above it. She
remembered, indeed, his threat that he would come back, but it seemed
that it would have been so easy for him to have taken her then had
he been so minded, that she could not think he was serious in the
intention to carry her off at all. Why should he come back to do what
he might just as well have done at once?
Time passed on, and she heard no more of the giant; people left
off talking of his feats of strength, and she began to forget all
about him. A matter happened, too, which gave another direction to
her thoughts. A neighbouring king made war upon her father, and with
such overwhelming preparations, that this time he could not conceal
the fact from her. Every one was full of apprehensions, and the king,
distracted with the fear of losing his kingdom, had no time even to
think of the fancies of his beloved daughter. The princess heard from
one and another of the attendants that things were going very wrong,
that the enemy were getting the upper hand, and advancing nearer and
nearer; but she learnt more from their anxious looks than from their
lips, for every one was afraid to distress her by giving her details
of the truth.
We must now go back to the giant, whom we left marching off in no
good humour. The truth about him was, that with all his strength he
was not very courageous--he was more of a bully than a warrior. He
had heard a great deal of the bravery and more particularly of the
excellent arms of the Moors, and as he knew they would rise as one
man to defend their princess if he carried her off, he did not like
the idea of their making pincushions of his legs with their fine sharp
swords, even if they could not reach to do him further damage. So he
resolved to carry out his plan in a way which would be less fraught
with danger to himself.
Coming down from the alcázar, he went on to the neighbouring sovereign,
and treacherously gave him a description of all he had seen at
the court where he had just been staying; told him the number and
situation of the army, and the condition of the defences, and pointed
out the least protected points of the country by which an incursion
could be made. Having received a rich guerdon for this information,
he continued his way homewards, and then set all his people to work
to cut a long cave, which he made them extend further and further
in a sloping direction till it should come out opposite the alcázar
where the Moorish princess dwelt, by means of which he could reach
her unperceived, and carry her off without danger to his own skin,
while the city was in the midst of the tumult which he thought
would be brought about by the inroad of the inimical power he had
perfidiously invoked.
Various underground rumblings had been observed for some time past by
the country people, but as they held little communication with each
other it did not strike them that the sounds continually advanced in
the direction of the capital. Indeed, all minds were too much filled
with apprehensions of the destruction the advancing foe above ground
was likely to reek upon their property, to have time to give way to
fears of a chimerical foe in the regions below the soil.
Thus the giant worked on steadily and without hindrance, while
the poor little princess was far from thinking of her tormentor
otherwise than as at a safe distance; much less did she dream of his
continually nearing approach! Enough she had to excite her anxiety
without this. And she sat crying over her father's danger till her
face became quite pale and her eyes worn with tears.
At last a day came when every one seemed bright with fresh hope;
and they ran hastily enough to tell her the good news. The youthful
conqueror, Carlo Magno, had been appealed to by the king to help
him. His advent had entirely turned the tide of affairs: the enemy
had been completely repulsed, and the victorious army was returning
in triumph to the city.
The news spread like wildfire; every one hasted to deck their
houses festively, and put on their best attire, to do honour to the
conquerors; and when they appeared, shouted their thanks in loud
acclamations. The little princess was very desirous to see the young
hero who had saved her father's life; and, though it is not the custom
for Moorish women to appear in public, she contrived to see him as he
passed by, and thought in the silence of her heart how nice it would
have been if it had been the handsome Christian who had wanted to marry
her instead of the monstrous giant. Having once seen him, she was so
desirous to see him again that she sent to ask him to come, that she
might thank him for having saved her father's kingdom; but it was
not entirely for her father's sake that she contrived the interview.
When he came, however, though he was very courteous towards her,
he was also very reserved, and stayed a very short time; assured
her that what he had done was nothing at all; that his sword was
ever ready to defend the right, whoever it might be invoked his aid;
and with that took his leave without paying her any compliments. The
Moorish princess was sad when she saw him go out so; and sadder still
when she learnt that no Christian prince cared to know a Moorish
maid. Carlo Magno himself, however, was sorry for the poor child,
as he had seen that she wanted to be better acquainted with him;
but he could hold no intimacy with the unbeliever.
The giant, meantime, had gone on boring away; and, though he had now
got quite under the alcázar, every one was so full of festivity and
rejoicing that nobody heeded the sound of his pickaxe. On his part,
he had not been altogether unmindful to listen for the sounds which
might keep him informed of what was going on in the upper world,
he had been very well satisfied with what he heard. There had been
unmistakable clashings of battle, and he never doubted that the
princess's father must be getting the worst of it; and now, when he
heard the sounds of busy running to and fro in the festive palace,
he made sure it was his allies pillaging the place.
At last the tunnel was complete; he crept out in the first fall of
the darkness of night, threaded the familiar way up to the princess's
window, rested his foot on the cornice of the first story for a
stepping-stone, and with one grasp of his hand had swept her off her
couch before she had time to open her eyes. Then closing her mouth,
so that she might not cry and raise an alarm, walked quietly back
with her to his subterranean passage, down the sloping path of which
he carried her in exultation.
Quickly and silently as the feat had been performed, the keen bright
eyes of a little black slave had followed the whole affair, as she
lay at the foot of her mistress's couch. She had seen the huge hand
spread over the room,--the nail of its little finger had indeed sadly
grazed her forehead. She recognized it at once as belonging to the
giant, her mistress's dread of whom she had so often shared. And no
sooner was her helplessness to rescue her apparent, than she rushed
madly into the banqueting-hall, tearing her clothes and plucking out
her hair, and crying out in wailing accents what had befallen. It was
not easy to gain credence to so strange a story; and when at last her
earnestness induced belief in her sincerity, the princess's room had
to be searched to afford the necessary proof that she was gone. When
this was found to be indeed but too true, the wail was taken up by
all the people. The banquet was broken up, and every one went hither
and thither, not knowing what to do; for, withal that the giant was
so big, none had seen him pass to tell which way he had gone.
But Carlo Magno, brave and self-possessed in the midst of all, saw
an occasion to be of service to the poor Moorish princess, and make
up for the disappointment he had caused her in the morning. It was
plain to him that if the giant had stood under the window, as the
little black slave had said, he must have left his foot-prints there;
and that he could thence be tracked whithersoever he had gone. So he
raised a loud voice, and bid all the people be still: and that if they
would all remain without stirring, he would deliver their princess;
for he wanted them not to stir up the soil any more, lest they should
destroy the track.
The voice of Carlo Magno, after what he had already done for them,
possessed great authority with the people; and so all stood quite
still, while he bade the little black slave guide him to the window;
and there, under it, sure enough he found the giant's footprints,
two great holes in the sand, like dry tanks for water. Allowing due
space for his prodigious stride, the prince readily found another
and another, till they brought him to the mouth of the tunnel, where
he had indeed passed. When all the people saw the great gaping hole
which had never appeared there before that night, and gazed down its
descending gullet, no wonder they thought it was the mouth of hell
opened to vomit forth its monster.
But Carlo Magno said he would deliver the princess though his
enterprise should indeed lead him into the realms of Hades. And all the
people applauded his courage, but he went down the black path alone.
Though he travelled at all speed, the giant had now good start,
and the length of his step was equal to several of the Christian
prince's charger; but Carlo Magno made such good haste that he had
not got above a hundred miles before he heard the giant's laugh,
exulting over his prize, resounding through the gloomy passage,
though still at some considerable distance. This roused the Christian
prince's indignation, and made him urge his steed yet faster, till at
last he came within sight of him. And then, when he saw his monstrous
arms bearing the little helpless princess, his compassion made him use
yet greater speed, till at length just as he reached the mouth of the
cave, Carlo Magno managed to overstep him by one bound of his horse,
and then wheeling round confronted him with fearless eye.
The giant I have already said was more of a bully than a warrior. When
he saw the Christian knight so brave and firm, and withal encased in
such strong armour, and brandishing his trenchant sword, he felt his
best defence lay in hectoring and boasting, and thereby frightening
the Christian hero from attempting to fight him.
With a terrible voice, therefore, which made the rocks resound,
he asked his opponent, on whom he lavished every startling epithet,
what he meant by venturing to appear before him; following up the
question by such a volley of imprecations and threats as he fancied
would suffice to make him wish to escape with a whole skin.
Carlo Magno, however, who knew that the dogs who bark most bite least,
waited unmoved till he had exhausted his whole repertory of violent
language, and then quite undismayed summoned him to surrender the
maiden.
Another loud and angry volley followed upon this demand, with further
threats of the terrible vengeance he intended to take on the intruder.
"Then," said Carlo Magno, "if you will not give her up quietly, I
must even take her by force." And with that he dismounted and drew
his sword. The giant saw now that he must defend his life, or he
would lose it; and so, forced to fight, he drew his clumsy sword and
began laying about him in right-determined fashion; but all his blows
alighted far and wide of the Christian prince. Furious at finding his
awkward efforts ineffectual, while the highly trained agility of the
prince saved him from all his strokes, he began laying about him with
such untempered violence that at last his weapon dropped from his
hand. Fully expecting that Carlo Magno would try to possess himself
of it, he hastily bent down to regain it. But Carlo Magno had other
thoughts. Waiting calmly till the monster had bent him sufficiently
low, he swung his fine sharp blade and buried it deep in his heart
with the unerring dexterity with which the matador lays low his
bull--at one thrust.
Of course he severed the giant's head afterwards to bear away as his
trophy; and raising the princess in his arms, who had swooned away
at sight of the horrid combat, bore her swiftly upwards through the
subterranean path and delivered her, yet unconscious, to her father.
EL CONDE SOL.
A great war was proclaimed between Spain and Portugal, and the king
called all his knights to arms to follow him into the field.
"Tell me, Conde," said the wife of Conde Sol, "how many years will
you be absent in this campaign?"
"If I am not back, Condesa, in six years, reckon me dead, and forget
me, and take another husband."
Six years pass, and eight, and ten, and one more yet, and the Conde
Sol is not come back, nor has any news been heard of him. Men say
he has fallen in the wars; but the Countess believes them not; her
heart tells her that her husband lives, and she will take no rest and
no diversion. Her father comes to see her, and he finds her always
in tears.
"What ails thee, daughter dear? Why are thy eyes ever filled with
tears?"
"Father, let me go to seek the Count; for my heart tells me he lives,
and that I shall find him."
"Do all thou wilt, daughter, and my blessing go with thee!"
The next morning the Countess sets out and goes to seek the Count,
bowed down with sadness, by land and by sea, through all Spain
and Italy and France. One day she comes to a vast plain shaded by
pine-trees, and in the shade a herd of kine grazing.
"Tell me, I pray you, vaquerita [4], and tell me now in truth, whose
are the kine grazing in these pastures?"
"They belong to the Conde Sol, lady, who commands all this country."
"And all these wheat crops that they are just garnering in, vaquerita;
tell me in truth, whose are they?"
"The Conde Sol's, lady; for it is he sows these fields."
"And whose are all those sheep, vaquerita, all with their little
lambs gathered round them so tenderly?"
"The Conde Sol's, lady; for it is he who has them bred."
"And whose these gardens and this royal-seeming palace, vaquerita? Tell
me the truth, I pray."
"Also the Conde Sol's, lady; for it is there he has his abode."
"And whose are those horses, vaquerita, which I hear neighing in
the stall?"
"They belong to the Conde Sol, lady; for he goes with them to the
hunt."
"And whose is that fair dame, vaquerita, who stands so near that
knight?"
"That is the affianced of the Conde Sol, lady, whom he is just going
to make his bride."
"Now, vaquerita, vaquerita, by the love of our Lord's sufferings,
give me here thy poor dress, and take my robe of silk, and let me go,
for I have found him I seek!"
Then she put on the poor dress, and went and stood where the Count
must pass, begging charity. When the Count came by, he bent down over
his saddle-bow, and gave her an alms, and asked her,--
"Good stranger woman, whence are you?"
"In Spain was I born," answered the Countess, with a faltering voice.
"And why do you come hither?"
"I go over all countries seeking my long lost husband, and so by
chance I came here too. I have gone through perils on the sea, and
hardships on the land; my feet are cut by the stony rocks; and--will
you believe me, Conde?--when at last I find him I learn that he is
about to be married, Conde; that he had so forgotten his fond and
lawful spouse who had come so far for love of him!"
"Romerica, romerica [5]! Hush now, say not so. Confess that the evil
one has sent you to tempt me with a false story."
"Neither has the evil one sent me, Conde, neither do I seek to tempt
thee; but nevertheless I am thy true wife, Conde, who has come so
far to seek thee."
Then the Conde Sol, when he heard that, sent to fetch a light-footed
palfrey wearing a breast-band covered with silver bells, and with
stirrups and spurs of gold; and on to this he sprang, and rode back
to the castle bearing his good wife in his arms, and presenting her
to all his people, bade them honour her as their lawful mistress.
SIMPLE JOHNNY AND THE SPELL-BOUND PRINCESSES.
When Ferdinand King of Spain drove the Moors out of his dominions with
his invincible sword, there were among their chiefs many descended from
right noble lineage. Among them was one, of whose ancestor Clotaldo
the following story was told, who for his prowess was elected king of
the fertile provinces of that part of the East which is called Syria.
Clotaldo had three beautiful daughters, who were so beautiful that
men said they were divinities and not women. The King thought that as
they were so very beautiful they ought not to be given in marriage
in the ordinary way, but that whoso would marry them should perform
some great deed of valour. So he called together all the masons of
the kingdom and made them build an immense castle, so high that it
seemed to reach up to heaven. And more than this, he gathered all
the magicians and made them enchant it with all their enchantments,
so that no one might ever be able to get at them or see them unless
the King himself should admit him.
So the magicians enchanted the castle with all their spells, and set
three enchanted horses to guard the enclosure so that no one might
break through.
Meantime the King sent heralds round into all countries to proclaim
that every noble, or knight of high degree, who could make his
way into the castle should have one of his daughters in marriage;
they were likewise at the same time to set forth their beauty, to
let all men know the worth of the prize for which they were asked to
contend. And he did this because he thought that none but one worthy
of them would be able to overcome all the obstacles he had interposed.
Many were the adventurous and valorous knights and nobles and princes
who were drawn to try their fortune at this high enterprise. But
none could find any way into the castle, and they all came back
crest-fallen, without having effected any thing.
At last came three brothers, who though but simple knights and poor
of estate, yet were of high and noble lineage, and of higher and
nobler courage. They no sooner heard Clotaldo's heralds pronounce
this embassy in their country, which was Denmark, than they set out
to try whether they might not be fortunate enough to deliver the
three princesses from the enchanted tower.
First they came to Clotaldo and told him their purpose, who ordered
that every thing they asked for should be given them for their
assistance; so the two elder brothers asked for mettled horses and
shining arms; but the youngest brother said all he wanted was a waggon
and two oxen, with provisions for several days, an immeasurably long
rope, some long nails, and a powerful hammer. Whatever each asked
for he received.
The two elder brothers set off very confidently on their dashing
steeds, and in a very short time arrived at an eminence overlooking
the castle; but to their dismay they found it was ten times as high
as they had ever imagined; and then, too, that it had neither door
nor window, nor the smallest break of any kind in the massive walls.
"How can we ever get into a place like this?" said the eldest brother,
looking very foolish.
"It looks to me very like a fool's errand," said the other.
"I vote we go back," answered the first.
"The best thing we can do," rejoined the second.
"And the sooner the better," continued the first.
"Here we go, then," added the second; and they turned their horses'
heads round, like chicken-hearted men, and galloped back by the way
they had come.
They had not gone far when they met their younger brother toiling
along in his cart.
"It is no use your going to the castle," said the eldest brother:
"we have been there, and find the game is impossible."
"We shall see," answered the youth.
"But I tell you the thing can't be done!" ejaculated the second.
"When I go out to do a thing I don't go back without doing it," said
the youngest, quietly. "But as there is a considerable distance to
be got over yet, I am going to have some dinner: you had better do
the same."
The other brothers, who had not had the foresight to bring any
provisions themselves, were very glad of the invitation, so they all
sat down and dined. When they had done, the youngest brother set out to
continue his journey in his waggon, and the two horsemen were going to
pursue theirs homewards, when suddenly one of them said to the other,
"Suppose we stop and see what he does; may-be he will succeed, and
then, as we are two to one, who knows but that we may be able to
overcome him, and take the merit to ourselves?"
"Well thought!" exclaimed the eldest, heartily; and they turned
their horses' heads again, and followed behind the cart; telling
their younger brother they had come to see if they could not be of
any service in case his temerity led him into danger.
The younger had overheard their conversation; but he saw no way of
getting rid of the brothers, who were well armed and well mounted;
so he could but continue his way and trust to his wits to save him
from their intentions afterwards. As he rode along he measured the
vast height of the castle with his eye, and laid all his plans in his
head. Arrived under the wall, he bound the nails and hammer into his
girdle, and, tying one end of the rope round his arm, proceeded to
scale the wall of the castle.
The brothers sat on their horses watching him, expecting every minute
to see him fall to the ground; but on he went, steady and lithe,
with the tenacity of a cat or squirrel, till he got so high that he
looked like a little speck, and at last was lost from sight altogether.
Scarcely had he attained the battlements of the wall, and trod a few
steps upon the flat, than three most beautiful nymphs, who seemed more
divine than human, came out to meet him. At first he was so dazzled
with the sight of their exceeding beauty, that he could not speak,
but stood gazing at them while they said,--
"Who art thou, young man, who venturest to profane the decorum of this
alcázar [6], the abode of three virgin princesses? With thy life must
thou expiate this temerity."
"To die at your command, fair ladies, and in your sight, would be
joy enough for me," stammered forth the young knight; "but yet I have
first a work to accomplish, which is your liberation. So tell me now,
what is it I have to do to set you free?"
"Since thou art so stout-hearted and so well-spoken," responded the
sisters, "we will even tell thee what thou hast to do, and great shall
be thy reward. Know, then, in this castle are three noble horses, and
thou hast to take one hair from the tail of each, for in this lies
the spell which binds us. But they are fierce and shy of approach;
nevertheless fear not if they even breathe out fire upon thee; for
if thou art bold, thou shalt succeed."
The young knight went out to meet the three enchanted horses without
fearing or flinching; and though they breathed out fire upon him,
he took the three hairs from their tails, and destroyed the spell of
the princesses.
Then he bound the cord round the first princess, and with much care and
address he lowered her gently and safely on to the ground below. He
did the same with the second. But when he would have parted from the
third, she turned and thanked him with gentle words, and said,--
"Take this necklace, noble youth, which for both workmanship and power
has no other like to it on earth. Never part from it, and may-be that
one day it may deliver thee from as great strait as that from which
thou hast delivered us."
With that she waved her hand to him, and prepared to descend as her
sisters had done.
As soon as the young knight had watched her reach the ground in safety,
he turned to drive the strong nails into the tower to make fast the
rope for his own descent; but scarcely was he thus occupied than his
wicked brothers, seeing the moment of their advantage had arrived,
gave a violent pull to the rope, and down it came, leaving him no
means of escape!
Then they made haste and carried off the princesses, riding on without
stopping till they came to the king.
Clotaldo, seeing his daughters free, never doubted but that those
who had brought them were their true deliverers, and therefore
loaded them with honour and favour, and married them to the two
elder princesses. It was in vain that the youngest princess tried to
explain the deceit: there were four living witnesses against her;
for the elder princesses took the part of their promised husbands,
and said that the long imprisonment had turned their younger sister's
mind, and no one listened to her. So there was a great rejoicing,
and a noble marriage-feast; but she sat in her chamber apart, weeping.
Meantime the youngest brother was left full of terror and dismay on
top of the exceeding high tower, with no means of ever getting away
from it, and, which was worst of all, with the prospect of never again
seeing his little princess. He did not care about the others, but she
who alone had thanked him, and that so prettily, and who had had a
thought for his future welfare in giving him the splendid necklace,
he could not give her up.
He took it out and looked at it: it was indeed of curious workmanship,
and the bright gems sparkled like rays of hope. He kissed it because
it reminded him of the kind little princess, but he could not see how
it was to help him; so after gazing at it for a long time, he at last
wrapped it up, and put it by in his bosom again. But as he continued
to think of all that had lately taken place, he remembered how the
sisters had spoken of the wonderful qualities of the horses who held
their spell, and at last he began to wonder whether with their aid
he could not make his escape.
To remain where he was was certain death, and a shameful, pusillanimous
death to boot. He was never wanting in clear thoughts, or fair courage
to execute them, and a plan now ripened rapidly in his mind which he
determined to put into execution.
"If thou art bold, thou shalt succeed." The words rang in his ears,
and seemed an omen of good fortune. He went back to the place where
he had found the horses before: there they stood, all three abreast
of each other, as if waiting a word of command from him.
Resolutely the young knight sprang on the back of the centre one,
and gathering the floating manes of the three in his hand, all started
together, and with one fearful bound, which seemed to shiver the tower
to atoms behind them, they dashed off the battlements, the wild career
through the air depriving him of the use of his senses.
When he came to, he found himself lying on the ground in a wild
wood so full of thick trunks of withered trees that daylight hardly
penetrated. He walked on for a long lonesome way, till at last he
came to a place where cattle were feeding. Of the herd tending them
he asked where he was, and found he was on the borders of Clotaldo's
kingdom; "but," said the herd, "you are not of this people, by your
dress and speech."
"No, friend," replied the young knight; "I am a poor foreigner, who am
come out to seek fortune, and she has reduced me to a sad plight. But
I have one favour to ask, which is that you will exchange clothes
with me."
The cattle-herd was pleased enough at the proposal, and asked no
further questions. He had soon arrayed himself in the knight's fine
clothes, and he in turn found a complete disguise in the rough clothing
of undressed skins which made up the peasant's attire.
Thus he walked on eight hundred leagues, begging alms to sustain
his life by the way; and with all the fatigues, and privations, and
hardships he had endured, he was quite altered, so that his brothers
would not know him again. That he might appear still more different
from his former self, he assumed the manners of a half-silly person,
and took the name of Juan; and all the people called him "Juanillo
el loco [7]."
All this time Clotaldo had been urging his youngest daughter that she
should marry like her sisters, but she never would look at any of the
princes he named to her. She had determined to belong to no one but the
young knight her deliverer, and she felt all confidence in his valour,
that he would find means to make his way to her. At last, one day, when
the king had been persuading her very urgently to follow his counsel,
she brought out a drawing she had made in secret of the necklace she
had bestowed on her knight, and told her father that when he could find
any one who could produce a necklace like that, she would be his wife.
The king was very glad to have her consent on any conditions,
and forthwith set clever draughtsmen to copy the drawing, and sent
heralds abroad over the whole earth, to proclaim that whoever could
make the necklet to the required pattern should have the hand of
his daughter. But the workmanship was so fine, and the setting of
the jewels so cunningly devised, that no goldsmith on earth could
produce it.
It was just about the time that Juan reached the kingdom that all the
people were full of excitement about this subject, and thus it came
to his ears also. So when he heard the conditions the princess had
made, and remembered her words when she gave him the necklet--"that
the earth could not produce such another"--he was beside himself for
joy, for he knew that she was waiting for his return.
However, not to betray himself too soon, he continued his silly
ways, and, as if he knew nothing of the matter, asked to see the
design. The guards and people told him to go away, but the king was
a very just man, and said there was no exception named in his decree,
and therefore whoever applied must be allowed a fair trial.
"But," he added, when he saw the rough, uncouth form of the suppliant,
"remember, fellow, if you fail, your throat shall pay the forfeit of
your impudence."
The feigned Juanillo played his part perfectly; he gave his assent by
a silly grin, and a nod of his head to all the remonstrances used to
dissuade him; and at last they shut him up in a tower, with a furnace
and crucible, and much gold, and priceless diamonds, and emeralds,
and rubies.
So the knight let them fasten the gate as if he were going to set to
work in earnest. And at the end of three days, when they came to see
what he had done, he brought out the original necklet; and every one
was in amazement, because all could see that it presented the perfect
image of the design.
When the princess heard by the cries of all the people that some one
had succeeded in producing the necklet, she came forward to see who
it was; and in an instant, through all the disguise, she knew her
deliverer again; and she turning to the king said,--
"Well, the conditions are fulfilled: I am ready to do your bidding!"
Her father was amazed at her readiness to marry the rough, silly
man Juanillo appeared, and tried all he could to dissuade her; but,
as she would not change her mind, there was no excuse for him to
go back from the word plighted by his proclamation. So the princess
and the knight were married; though Clotaldo was so ashamed of the
bridegroom, he had the ceremony performed in the quietest way, and
assigned them a little house outside the walls of the town to live in,
where no one should see or hear any thing more of them.
Clotaldo had had a very prosperous career hitherto; but the troubles
of life were beginning to press round him, and the first trouble he
had was failing eyesight. His physicians could not understand the
malady, or do any thing for him; and at last he became quite blind. In
despair at the loss of his sight, he sent into all countries to call
together the wisest mediciners; but none could help him; till one
day an ancient man appeared, who said that the only remedy for his
case was the water of a fountain flowing out of a sharp rock in the
mountains of Sclavonia; but that it was a perilous journey to fetch
it, on account of the fierce beasts inhabiting the surrounding country.
As there was no one with sufficient courage to run the great risks,
the king called his two sons-in-law, and said, as they had been
so valiant in overcoming the spells of the great castle, they could
doubtless help him now; and that they would not shrink from the perils
of the journey, which was to procure the means of restoring his sight.
The knights did not dare to show any hesitation, as it would have
betrayed their former deception. So they set out on the journey,
but with heavy hearts, and plotting as they went what excuse they
could make for coming back without success.
But Juanillo, the moment he had heard the old physician's sentence,
had taken counsel with his princess, and at her bidding went out into
the wilderness, and called one of the enchanted horses, and vaulting
on to him, sped away like a whirlwind. After passing through ten
thousand perils, he filled his flask with the water of the fountain
which sprang out of the sharp rock in the mountains of Sclavonia,
and made the best of his way back again.
As he had nearly reached home he met his two brothers riding out,
looking very doleful and in great perplexity. When they saw him
speeding along like the wind, they were very curious to know who
he was and whence he came; so they called to him to stop and tell
them. And he answered, courteously,--
"I have been to fill my flask with water which flows over the sharp
rock in the mountains of Sclavonia!"
When they heard that, their first impulse was to spring upon him
and take the prize from him; but when they saw his impetuous horse,
and reflected that he had come back unscathed from all the perils of
the adventure, they perceived who he was, and feared to measure their
strength against his, therefore they assumed a different tone. Instead,
however, of making up for past faults, and cheerfully acquiescing
and rejoicing in his success, they still followed their selfish aim,
but in a more covert way than they had at first meditated. Thus they
offered him any bribe he liked to name if he would give them the
flask of water.
Juanillo gave them the flask, but refused their bribes, naming as
his only guerdon two golden pears which the king had given them off
a tree in his garden, which only produced two every year, and which
none might pluck but he.
The bargain was thus settled. Juanillo returned to tell all to the
little princess; and the two knights bore the flask exulting to the
king, and vaunting the deeds of valour by which they pretended they
had won it, taking care to say nothing about poor Juanillo.
The king recovered his sight, and loaded them with rewards and
honours. But before long he was stricken with another infirmity:
gradually his hearing began to fail; and getting no relief from his
physicians, he very soon became quite deaf. A proclamation of great
reward attracted the learned in the medical art again to his court,
and among the men of science came once more the old doctor who had
given effectual counsel before.
In the deserts of Albania, he said, under the shade of the highest
mountains, live, among their many wild beasts, a race of lionesses,
more fierce than the rest of their kind: if any one can by artifice
procure the milk of one of these, without injury to her life, that
would be the sovereign remedy.
Juanillo no sooner heard the sentence than he went out into the
wilderness and called another of the enchanted horses, and started
off on him like the wind, to the desert of Albania; and, armed with
the words of magic the little princess had taught him, he could get
up to the lioness without being perceived by her, and fill his flask
with her milk.
Meantime the king had called his two elder sons-in-law, and not
doubting that, as they had acquitted themselves so well before, they
would be able to accomplish this feat also, despatched them to the
mountains of Albania. They, suspecting that their brother would do the
work as before, set out with less concern than on former occasions,
and only plotted how they should cajole him this time. Nor had they
advanced many leagues when they met him coming back at full speed
on his brave steed, and the bottle of lioness' milk in a flask at
his girdle.
"Good morrow, friend!" they cried, as he came near: "whence ride ye,
so fast and so early?"
"I have been to the desert of Albania, to fetch the lioness' milk to
bathe the ears of our good king," replied the younger brother.
"At what price do ye put it, friend?"
"Nay, this I sell not."
"But we have come out to fetch it, and how shall we return to the
king without it?" And they pleaded so wheedlingly, that Juanillo was
fain to give them the flask, but exacting this time the penalty of
an ear of each of them.
The condition was hard, but the game was desperate now. If they
returned empty-handed this time, it was an acknowledgment of their
perfidy before; and after all it was a much less injury than might
have befallen them in the deserts of Albania if they had pursued the
journey, or from the anger of the king and the populace if they had
remained at home. So they combed the hair over their ears to conceal
the loss, and pushed their way home to the king with their trophy,
while Juanillo returned to his little princess.
Clotaldo recovered his hearing by the use of the lioness' milk. But
a direr danger awaited him now; for a powerful neighbouring sovereign
suddenly declared war against him, while he was quite unprepared. His
prowess in battle in his younger days it was which had procured him the
throne; but now, in his declining years, he feared to take the field,
not through any coward fear for his life, but lest the glory of his
country should be tarnished by his waning energy. So he called his two
sons-in-law to him, and said that their valour, which had been proved
in so many enterprises, had now a signal occasion for manifesting
itself; and he gave them the command of Captains-General of his forces,
and sent them out as if they had been his own sons, to meet the foe.
This order gave them greater trepidation than any of the preceding,
for there appeared no way out of it. How was Juanillo himself to fight
the battle for them without an army? and how could they transfer the
command of the army to him without betraying all?
While they were going along, then, sad of heart, to put themselves
at the head of the forces and trust to good luck to extricate them
from the fray, they met Juanillo, coming along at fiery speed, with
two of the enemy's standards planted on his stirrups, and they saw by
the colours that the enemy had been laid low. For at the first threat
of war he had taken soft leave of the little princess, had gone out
into the wilderness and called the third of the enchanted horses,
and with him had ridden with such impetuosity against the enemy,
imitating Saint Jago, that he had put the whole army to flight,
and borne off their banners as trophies.
But the brothers talked and persuaded him, with soft words, into
giving these up also; and the payment he exacted this time was, that
they should let him brand them on the shoulder as if they had been
his slaves of war.
After this he returned home to the little princess, and his brothers
carried the banners to the king's feet. When the king saw this fresh
testimony to their merit, his indignation rose high against his third
son-in-law, whom he supposed to be living in shameful indolence,
and doing nothing for the honour of the dynasty and nation. So he
pronounced a decree banishing him from his kingdom, and forbidding
him ever to appear before him again. The brothers, who had always
lived in fear that their treachery would come out some day, upheld
him in his intention, as they thought they would breathe easier when
he was removed to a distance.
Now Juanillo had been very forbearing and very generous all this time,
but this was rather too much. He could not bear that his little
princess should be banished from her friends and country without
any fault; and she, too, represented to him how sad it would be for
the people when the old king died, if they were to live under the
governance of the two wicked brothers. So Juanillo went up to the
king, and begged him with great humility on his knees that he would
grant him one last favour before he went away for good and all; and
that was, to have a famous banquet on the last day, and invite all
the kingdom to it.
The good king granted the request; and a day was appointed when all
the great men and small of the kingdom met for a famous banquet.
Simple Johnny dressed himself for this occasion in his true
character. His massive chestnut curls were parted on his lofty
forehead, and every one was struck by the dignity with which his
broad shoulders carried the crimson and ermine mantle; in fact, few
suspected that it was Simple Johnny at all, and the most inclined to
believe it were still doubtful. But he, as one who had a great duty
to perform, went up with earnest mien to the king, and laying down
the two pears and the ears before him said,--
"The time is come, O King, to make known the truth to thee. Long have I
suffered in secret; but if my silence is to occasion my banishment and
that of my dear wife, I must make known that it was I who delivered
the princesses, I who fetched the water from the sharp rock in the
mountains of Sclavonia, I who brought the milk of the lioness from
the deserts of Albania, I who overcame thine enemies and brought
home the two standards. Here are my proofs; and if more are needed,
bid the princes uncover their shoulders, and they shall be found
branded as my slaves taken in war."
The good king was much astonished at this revelation; but now something
came back to him of what the little princess had said, and how he
had thought her mad for the story. And when he had investigated all
patiently, and was convinced of the truth of Juanillo's statement,
he was full of indignation, and commanded the bad brothers to be put
to death, and his daughters banished for their silent participation in
their infamy. To Simple Johnny he gave a very hearty embrace in the
sight of the people, and not only made him heir to all the kingdom,
but associated him with himself in the government, beginning from
that very day.
Simple Johnny, however, would not allow his brothers to be put to
death, but only deprived them of the right to reign, which might have
brought misery on the kingdom, and appointed them houses and money
that they might spend the rest of their days in harmless retirement.
TURIAN AND FLORETA.
There lived once in very ancient times in Spain a young prince, the
Infante Turian. He was a very beautiful youth, and the only child
of his parents, King Canamor and his consort Leonela: they were thus
tempted to indulge him very much, and, as we should say, to spoil him;
in fact, he was allowed to have every thing he asked for, and when any
present or novel article of merchandise was brought to the palace,
if it happened to take his fancy, he got into a way of expecting to
have it for his own, and no one thought of thwarting him.
One day there came a foreign merchant to the court, who, instead of
having a train of mules heavily laden with varieties of his wares
to suit all tastes and fancies, was quite alone and unattended, and
himself bore his whole stock. It consisted, indeed, of but one little
parcel easily stowed away in the folds of his cloak. The servants
were scandalized at such a mean apparatus, and would have driven
him away without letting him have a chance of addressing himself
to their masters, telling him if he had nothing more to show than
the contents of one little case, it was not worth while to trouble
them. It was in vain the merchant urged that what he had to show was
of priceless value, and in itself alone was worth all the mule-loads
of other merchants put together: they held it for idle raving, and
bid him begone.
It happened, however, that the Infante Turian was coming home at the
moment, and hearing the altercation, his curiosity was piqued to know
what it could be that could be counted so precious. He had horses,
and arms, and trappings, and gay clothes, and games, and baubles
of every sort, and he had wearied of them all. He had acquired them
without labour, and he consequently held them without esteem. Now there
appeared a chance of some quite fresh sensation; moreover, the merchant
himself had a strange air which fascinated him; again, his accent was
different from any he had heard before, and suggested that he brought
the productions of some climate which had not yet laid its stores at
his feet. Proud, too, to show his power in setting the man free from
the importunate scorn of the servants, he ordered them to stand back,
and then gave the strange merchant permission to open his store.
Assuming an air of mystery, which excited the young prince still more,
the merchant, however, now told him he must take him to some private
recess apart, as what he had to show must be seen only by royal
eyes. The prince accepted all conditions in his eagerness, and was
indeed rather flattered by this one. As soon as they were quite alone,
the strange merchant placed before him a portrait. Yes, nothing but a
portrait in a very simple frame! But it was such a portrait that it
quite turned poor Turian's head. He had never before dreamt of any
thing so beautiful; he went into ecstasies at first sight, kissed
it, gazed at it, paced up and down the hall with it, raved about it,
and grew almost frantic, when the strange merchant at last went up
to him and said it was time for him to go home, and he must have the
portrait to pack up again.
"Pack up again!" cried the prince: "why, I buy it of you at triple,
tenfold, an hundredfold its weight in gold."
The merchant assured him it could not be sold; he required, indeed,
a considerable price for suffering it to be seen, but part with it
he could not, on any conditions whatever.
The prince threw his purse to him, and ordered him in no measured
terms to depart while the way was clear, otherwise he would set on
him the myrmidons from whom he had but now released him.
The strange merchant quietly picked up the purse, counted out
conscientiously the sum he had named as the price for the sight of the
picture, and laid down the rest; deliberately stowed away his fee in
his belt, and at the same time took from it, unperceived by the prince,
a little box of powder; then suddenly turning round, he scattered its
contents over his face, producing instant insensibility. Prepared for
the effect, he caught him in his arms, and laid him gently on a bench,
and then, possessing himself of his picture, he stealthily left the
castle, unperceived by all.
When the Infante Turian came to himself, some hours afterwards, of
course pursuit was vain; nor could any trace be learnt of the way
the stranger had taken.
The prince was furious that, at least, he had not learnt some clue
as to the original of the portrait, but there had not been time for
a word of inquiry. And when he set himself to recall every detail,
all that would come back to his mind was, that on the blue embroidery
of the white drapery which veiled the matchless form, he had made out
in curious characters the name Floreta. Armed with this only guide,
he determined to roam the world till he discovered the real beauty
whose ideal had so absorbed him.
King Canamor and Queen Leonela were inconsolable at the idea of their
only son leaving them on so wild an errand; but they had never taught
him obedience and self-control, and they could not move him now. All
their persuasions could obtain was his consent to be accompanied by
the Conde Dirlos, an ancient counsellor of great wisdom and authority
in the kingdom, who would know how to procure him assistance by
land and sea, in whatever enterprise he might be minded to take in
hand. But it was stipulated that he was to control him in nothing:
simply watch over him, and further his designs, so as to save him
from fatigue and danger.
On they wandered for a year and a day, meeting many adventures and
incurring many perils; but no one knew the name of Floreta. Wherever
they went it was still a foreign name. At last--it was just the day
year that the strange merchant had brought the portrait--their travels
brought them to a steep mountain-path, which led down to the sea. At
a turn of the winding road, just below them, a tall figure appeared,
wrapped in a long cloak, and wearing a high-peaked cap. The prince
gave a bound of joy, and shouted to the figure to halt. It paid no
heed, however. "Stop! or you are dead!" shouted the prince, at the
same time pointing an arrow with unerring aim at a spot a little in
advance of the moving figure. As if conscious of what was going on,
though he never moved his head, the strange merchant--for it was
he, and the prince had instantly recognized him--stood still for an
instant, as the bolt rattled in the ground on which he would have
stood had he pursued his way three steps further, and then passed
on unheeding. The prince shouted more madly than before; but to no
purpose; and in another moment the wind of the road had taken him
out of sight.
Madly the prince spurred his horse in pursuit, and reached the turn;
but no living form was to be seen. The rocks now resounded with the
cries and imprecations with which he adjured the magician--for such he
now rightly deemed him--to stand forth. At last, when he was silent
from sheer exhaustion, a low but commanding voice from the depths
of a neighbouring cave bade him listen, but, as he valued his life,
advance not.
"Speak!" cried the prince; "nor torture me with longer suspense. What
must I do to find Floreta? I am prepared to go to the end of the world,
to undergo any hardship, any torture, to find her; but find her I
am determined: if you refuse your help, then by help of some other;
so you see it is idle to turn a deaf ear."
"By none other help but mine," answered the magician, "can you find
Floreta; so your threats are vain. But if I had not meant you to see
her, I should not have shown you the portrait at first, for I knew its
influence could not be other than that it has exercised. I am going to
instruct you how to reach her; but first you must give me my guerdon."
"Name it; ask what you will," interposed the impetuous prince;
"ask my kingdom if you like; but keep me not in suspense."
"I only ask what is reasonable," answered the magician; "the real
is worth a thousandfold the representation;" and he named a price
equivalent to a thousand times the sum he had originally received.
Without so much as waiting to reply, Turian turned to Conde Dirlos
and told him now was the time to fulfil his father's behest by
accomplishing this requirement, and begged him to raise the money
without an instant's loss of time.
The count remonstrated in vain, and in vain represented the miseries
he would be inflicting on the people by requiring, in so sudden a
manner, the levy of so large a sum. Turian, blinded by his passion,
bid him save his words, as nothing could change his purpose; and the
king's orders to obey him having been unconditional, Conde Dirlos
set out with a heavy heart to comply.
Ten days of anxious suspense during his absence were spent by the
prince in wandering over the rugged declivities of the coast: the
ardour of his excitement demanded to be fed with deeds of daring
and danger. When he was not so occupied, he was seated panting on
the topmost crags, scouring the whole country with his eager glance
to descry the first impression of the return of the count, with the
means of pursuing his desperate resolve.
The day came at last. And afar off, first only like so many black
specks, but gradually revealing themselves as Conde Dirlos on
his faithful steed, and a long file of heavily-laden mules, came
the anxiously expected train. And now he never left his point of
observation; but cursed the sluggish hours, as he watched the team now
steering over the sandy plain, which seemed interminable in expanse,
unmeasured by landmarks; now toiling backwards and forwards up the
zig-zagged steep, with provoking seeming of being further off one
hour than the last, as at each wind they turned upon their steps;
now detached-liked spectres against the sky, as they crossed from
one reach of the lofty sierra to the next.
All things have an end, even Turian's anxious suspense; and as the
count at last neared the magician's cave, he descended at break-neck
pace to meet him.
"There is the price," said the count, in sad and solemn accents;
"but before rendering it out of your hands, stop and consider it;" and
as he spoke he removed from the treasure the brilliant red and yellow
cloths, the royal colours of Spain, with which it was covered. "Here,
from each province of your father's dominions, is the due proportion
of the tribute you have demanded. See--will you spend it so?"
The prince darted forward to glance at the goodly sight of so much
gold, but drew back with horror.
What could he have seen to turn his flushed cheeks so deadly pale?
"Count!" he cried, choking with fury, "what have you brought to
mock me? This is not coin. You have brought me tears, burning tears,
instead of gold."
"It is all the same," replied the count; "I saw you were infatuated,
and I brought the money in this form, that the sight might warn you of
what you are doing, and by its sad horror arrest you. There is time to
return it back into the bosom of those from whom it has been wrung,
and no harm will have been done. But if you persist, you will find
the magician will take them for current coin."
"Quite so!" chimed in the voice from the cave; "it is the money I
like best. But I cannot stand dallying thus: if the treasure be not
handed over at once, the bargain is at an end, and you never hear of
me again."
It only wanted this to quench any little spark of pity and misgiving
which the old count's judicious stratagem might have awakened. So
without further loss of time the prince called to the magician to
come forth and take the spoil.
He was not slow to comply, and taking a handful of the weird currency
out of each mule-load, rang it on the rock, where it sounded like
the clanking of a captive's chains.
"That is good," he said in a satisfied tone, when he had concluded his
scrutiny. "Now for my part of the bargain. I am not of those who fail
because I am paid beforehand: you will find me as good as my word,
and even better; for I will supply an item of the bargain which you,
impetuous youth, never thought to stipulate for, though the most
important of all. I will not only instruct you how to see Floreta,
I will give you moreover the means whereby, if she pleases you,
you can take her captive and bear her away."
"Nay, interrupt me not," he continued, as Turian, nettled at the
exposure of his want of diplomacy, was about to declare that he had
never thought of any other means to captivate her being required but
his own smile and his own strong arm; "I must begin, and have but
time to complete my directions. You see yon castle on a rock out at
sea;" and as his long bony finger pointed westward, there seemed to be
traced against the sky the form of a royal castle at about three days'
journey, which Turian, who had for ten days been beating about the
coast, could have sworn was not to be seen there before. Nevertheless,
fascinated by the magician's commanding manner, he durst say nothing
but a murmur of assent.
"Then that is your haven; take ship and steer for it. When you reach
the land throw down this token," and he gave into his hand a fine coil
of silken chains; "follow its leadings till it take you to Floreta,
and if she please you, cast it round her, and she is yours."
As he spoke he disappeared from sight, with the mules and their burden.
Turian now once more reminded Conde Dirlos of his father's command,
and bid him provide him with the swiftest galley on all the coasts
of the kingdom, manned with the stoutest rowers, and that with the
utmost speed.
If the wise old count shrunk from the former mission, his horror was
but the greater at this one. He reminded the prince that when the king
had given his consent to the adventure, he had not contemplated any
other than a loyal undertaking, such as a noble prince might entertain:
he would never have trusted him on one of this nature.
Turian felt the force of the reproach, but lacked the strength of
character to command himself. Hurried on by his uncontrolled desire,
he bid the old man remember that the command to fulfil his orders
was quite unconditional, and there was no limit whatever named.
The count owned this was unfortunately true, and as he could prevail
nothing by argument, set himself to remedy the Infante's headstrong
wilfulness by making the journey as safe as possible. He not only
insisted on having the galley examined as to its seaworthiness by the
most experienced shipwrights, and selected the steadiest oarsmen to
man the banks, but appointed a consultation of all the astronomers of
the kingdom to name the day when they might be sure of safe passage,
free from winds. It was pronounced that a storm was just then impending
which would last ten days, and after that there would be ten days of
fair weather, so that if they allowed ten days for their preparations,
they would have time to make the journey and return in all security.
The delay seemed another age to the Infante; nevertheless he was
now so near the accomplishment of his object that it passed swiftly
enough in the enjoyment of the pleasure of anticipation. The count,
too, found some relief to his anxieties in the fact that the storm
came on at the predicted moment, giving him great confidence that
the halcyon days predicted to succeed might be surely counted on.
They came duly; and a shout of admiration rose from the people on
the shore as the gallant vessel moved out over the face of the blue,
sunlit waters, which glittered as if showered over with every precious
stone at each stroke of the countless oars. And those on board were
equally entranced with the gorgeous sight as they seemed to soar
along over the soft bosom of the crystal deep; and the noble outline
of their native mountains, peak above peak, from the verdant slopes
where the cattle browsed lazily, to the wild steeps where even the
mountain goats ceased to find a footing, receded with ever-varying
forms of beauty from their sight.
It was not on these that Turian's eye rested. His glance was bent on
the castle for which they were making, and his thoughts were bound
up in the beauteous treasure within. Such confidence had he in the
magician's word, that he had laid his arms aside and held only the
silken chain that was to be his guiding line to happiness; and toyed
with it, thinking how he would throw it round the prized form of the
portrait's original, and how he would gaze on her when she was his.
While he was still wrapt in these thoughts they drew near to the
mysterious shore, and every one was occupied in admiring the strength
and noble proportions of the castle. But Turian had no thought but for
the treasure it contained. Springing lightly on to the land, he lost
no time in fulfilling the magician's injunctions; and sure enough the
chain uncoiled itself, and, wriggling with a serpent's motion, went
straight before him to a gate in the castle wall. It was unlocked,
and Turian, pushing it aside, gained entrance to a sumptuous garden,
at one end of which was a shady arbour, and in a bank of perfumed roses
Floreta herself lay asleep. How his heart beat at the sight! Just as
she had seemed in the portrait; just as he had pictured her in his
sleeping and waking dreams. Riveted to the spot, he stood contemplating
her, as well he might, for her complexion was white as snow, or rather
as pure crystal, and tinted as the fresh rose yet on the rose-tree [8].
The cautious count, fearful of some ambush, had marshalled the crew of
the galley into a guard to track his steps noiselessly and be ready in
case of sudden attack. The play of light upon their arms passing in
sudden reflection over the scene woke the Infante from his reverie,
and roused him to action. The coiling silken links readily embraced
Floreta's limbs, and such was their hidden power that, though she
woke at the Infante's approach, she was powerless to resist or cry.
Thus he bore her to the galley, and the men having resumed their places
on the rowers' banks, in silent order they pushed off unperceived by
any one on the island, for it was the hour of the noontide rest.
But soon Floreta's maidens, coming to attend her rising, discovered
her loss. The king her father and all the people quickly gathered
their arms and ran wildly in every direction, till at last they saw
the strange vessel making fast away, and they doubted not it was
carrying off their princess, but they could only stand on the shore
throwing up their arms and crying in powerless despair.
Turian had in the mean time removed the chain from his prize;
and thus freed from the spell, Floreta, too, held out her arms
towards her parents and countrymen, and cried unavailingly on them
for help. Turian, incapable of contradicting her, yet incapable also
of giving her up, contented himself with admiring her at a distance,
and let her spend herself in lamentations at first; but when the good
galleon had put sufficient distance between itself and the castle
to destroy the freshness of the impression of parting, the Infante
commanded his people to cast anchor that he might try his power
of consoling her more at ease. And indeed, it was not long before
his sweet words of admiration and his protestations of affection and
devotion seemed to succeed in reconciling her to her situation; before
long they were very good friends and very happy, and the sun shone and
the sea sparkled, and nature smiled, and all seemed fair and bright.
Nevertheless the prudent old count had his misgivings. True, there were
yet several more days of the promised calm before them, but he felt
he should never be easy till he had his charge safe at home again;
so he urged the Infante to give orders to put under way once more,
and right glad was he to feel the bark moving towards the port and
in good time to reach home before the next storm.
Nevertheless,--
Quando Dios quiere
En sereno lluve [9],
says the proverb, and while they were singing and making merry,
and dancing to amuse Floreta, suddenly the sky became overcast
and the wind sprang up, and the waves dashed against the bulwarks,
and instead of being able to row the vessel into port the oarsmen
could hardly keep their seats. Then in the midst of their fright
and horror and piteous cries for help, an ancient seaman stood up,
and having commanded silence, harangued the crew, and told them that
they might be sure the tempest was sent them because they had the
strange damsel on board; that if they would save their lives they
must bid defiance to the Infante's wishes, and take him from her and
cast her into the sea. The danger to all was manifest and terrible;
any way out of it was preferable to succumbing, so the old man found
a willing audience. The dismayed count had but time to rush in to
the Infante and tell him of the mutiny before the angry mariners had
already burst into his presence. If they were for a moment staggered
by pity at sight of the exceeding beauty of Floreta, and by Turian's
agonized assurances that the fearful sacrifice would have no effect
upon the storm, the old mariner's voice overruled their hesitation
and rendered them pitiless as the blast.
Then at his command they tore the Infante from off Floreta, to whom
he clung declaring that they should not destroy her without him,
but that he would go down into the deep with her, and they bound him
fast hand and foot and took Floreta, too full of terror to resist or
cry, to throw her into the raging sea. But before they had completed
the sacrifice, the cries of the prince, seconded as he was by the
prudent old count, ever ready to second a middle course, prevailed,
and instead of committing her to the deep, they set her on an island
past which the bark was drifting, Turian thinking in his own mind
that as soon as the fury of the storm was spent he should be able to
induce them to put back and fetch her off.
The old seaman knew what was in his mind, and he knew that the work
was but half done. He inveighed that the half-measure was useless;
he predicted that the storm would not thereby be quenched. But it was
too late to listen to him now: they were carried past the land where
Floreta was; and it was beyond their efforts to go back to fulfil his
purpose now. Meanwhile, as he had predicted, the tempest raged higher
and higher; the oarsmen were powerless: but the bark drifted nearer
and nearer home; and at last, just as a great wave dashed against it
and broke it up, they were brought just so near to land that they
could swim to shore. One young and vigorous oarsman took charge of
the old count, who was rendered more unfit for the feat by dismay
at the ill-success of his mission even than by the weakness of his
age. But none looked after the Infante, for he was known to be the
expertest swimmer of all the country round.
It was not till the hull had heeled over and gone down that they
remembered they had bound him hand and foot, and he could not
escape. And so he, who was the cause of all, alone was lost.
THE BLOOD-STAIN OF THE ALCÁZAR OF SEVILLE.
Of all the beautiful things which are to be seen at Seville, there is
perhaps none which engrosses the attention as the alcázar--so called
because built after the fashion of a Moorish palace. To the traveller
unacquainted with the East it affords a practical realization of the
famed elaboration of Moorish magnificence. It is not very certain
whether in it Pedro the Cruel erected a new foundation, or restored
an old one remaining from the time of the Moorish occupation; but he
certainly left nothing wanting to make it the worthy habitation of one
of the most powerful monarchs of the time [10]. The present century has
not been wanting to the example thus set; and by dint of the artistic
care bestowed upon it, its beauties shine now as brilliantly as at
the moment of their first completion. The gardens, with their groves
of plantains, datunas, tunales, myrtles, box-trees, and oranges, may
appear stiff to an English eye; but be there in the summer, and you
readily realize the luxury of paths so contrived as to be always in
the shade, and which, when this even is too hot, can be cooled down
by turning on a flow of icy water over the tiles which pave them.
It is in the interior, however, that the greatest luxuriance of
imagination has been displayed. It is all one blaze of dazzling tints,
such as, one would think, no one but some of Aladdin's genii could
have produced. The walls are panelled with a delicate embroidery-like
fretwork of every gorgeous hue; the roofs cieled with seeming liquid
gold, suspended in burnished drops. It is the dazzling image of all
one has dreamt of Byzantine or Persian colouring; it is like being
in the fairy palace which was all one large prism. It might have been
imagined by mad genii, and executed by frantic fairies. It might be the
laboratory where tints are prepared for rainbows and tropical sunsets,
or where the painting of peacocks and butterflies, humming-birds,
and exotic flowers is devised. Or it might be the jewel-storehouse of
some thrice-rich monarch, to whom emeralds and rubies are plentiful
as figs and peaches, and all in cabinets of wrought gold.
Amid all this splendour there is one sad, dark spot, which has outlived
the wear of five centuries, to stand a witness of the judgment of
Heaven overtaking the tyrant and the oppressor. Pedro the Cruel was
the only Christian monarch who ever indulged himself with such a nest;
and I fear the life he led within it was not what that of a Christian
monarch ought to be. Not to speak of his other faults, his thirst for
blood was so great as to be surpassed only by the atrocities ascribed
to Nero. Whoever displeased him in any way was summarily put to death,
and that sometimes amid cruel tortures, without form of trial.
An old ballad has lately been found, which arranges in rhyming order
the whole catalogue of names and qualities of the distinguished people
whose lives were forfeited by his hand, or at his behest, which served
the people to perpetuate their detestation of his character. There
was Don Garcilaso, and his little brothers Don Juan and Don Diego; the
Infante of Aragon, his cousin; Don Fernando, a knight of high renown;
the noble youth Don Luis de Albuquerque; and Peralvarez Osorio,
who had injured him in nothing. Then the Queen of Aragon, to whom
his father was brother; and Doña Blanca, his own wife; Doña Juana
and Doña Isabel, high ladies both, of the Asturias; and Gutierrez
of Toledo, and the Archbishop his brother; Don Iñigo d'Orozco, who
fought him in the field; and Don Suero, the good prelate, Archbishop
of Santiago, and also Bermejo de Granada. And besides these many more,
both hidalgos and caballeros.
Thus at last his wickedness outgrew the people's patience; and when
the good Henry of Trastamare rose up against him, and provoked him to
fight, and slew him, they all hailed the act as the execution of the
sentence of Divine Justice, and acclaimed Henry as their deliverer
and their ruler in his stead; for Alonso, the son of his unblessed
union with Maria Padilla, whom he had forced the people to acknowledge
for his successor, had been carried off by sudden death soon after;
and though the daughter of his lawful marriage had married our own
John of Gaunt, all his reputation, and that of the Black Prince his
father, could not outweigh their disinclination for a foreign king.
With regard to the mode of Pedro the Cruel's death, the more credited
account is that his end was an episode of the siege of Montiel,
where he had sought to hide himself from the victorious pursuit of
Henry de Trastamare. Local tradition loves to think it found him out
with poetical justice, and left its stain in the very hall which had
been the scene of his wanton excesses; where others had fallen at
his command, and whence the decree had gone forth for the relentless
execution of his victims.
THE ADVENTURES OF DOÑA JOSEFA RAMIREZ Y MARMOLEJO.
Doña Josefa Ramirez was the only child of noble parents of
Valencia. She grew up in every virtue, and joined the wisdom of
a Minerva to the beauty of a Venus. She was hardly eighteen before
various noble youths were contending for her good graces; but of them
all the only one she favoured was Don Pedro de Valenzuela, who, though
of noble lineage, yet did not possess the fortune or position that
her parents thought should entitle him who wedded with the descendant
of the illustrious houses of Ramirez and Marmolejo.
Little Doña Josefa did not think of all this; she was much attached
to her boyish playmate, and hoped that as her parents were very fond
of her she would one day win their consent to receive his attentions;
in the mean time, she thoughtlessly listened with great delight when he
came and sang a love song under her windows, and even, I am afraid,
sometimes came to the reja [11] to give him a coy look of thanks
and encouragement.
One day, as the youthful Don Pedro de Valenzuela was thus pleasantly
occupied, he had finished his song and was waiting to see if a pair
of bright eyes would not come sparkling behind the reja, when, his
thoughts being quite engrossed by this expectation, and his attention
abstracted from every thing around him, he suddenly found himself
attacked from behind by two men who were wrapt up in their cloaks and
masked so that he could not recognize them, nor indeed had he time
to think about it, for before he could even draw his sword they had
stretched him dead upon the ground; he could only cry out Josefa's
name, and expire.
Doña Josefa was thrilled with dread at the tone in which her name
was uttered; it seemed to portend something dreadful, such as she had
never known before. She flew to the window, and by what remained of
the gloaming light, she saw her lover's body stretched lifeless on the
ground, while the assassins had escaped without leaving a trace behind.
The terrible sight seemed to change Doña Josefa's nature: all her
woman's weakness was quenched within her, and every thought bound
up in the one determination of avenging the precious life which had
been so cruelly sacrificed for love of her. She tore off her woman's
gear with the indignation of an enraged lioness, and arrayed herself
in a full cavalier's suit, with a montera [12] to cover her head and
an ample cloak to hide her from scrutiny. Then she took a belt well
furnished with arms, and a sword and blunderbuss to boot; and then a
purse with two hundred doubloons; thus accoutred she wandered forth
in quest of Don Pedro de Valenzuela's assassins, making her way in
all haste out of Valencia, for she knew the assassins would not long
have remained there.
Hiding herself in the mountains by day, and taking the most
unfrequented paths by night, she wandered on till she came to Murcia,
and there she resolved to take up her abode for some little time to
rest, and also to learn what she might chance to hear.
Here, in her cavalier's dress, she walked about on the promenades,
joined knots of speakers in the public plazas, and at night sat
down at the card-tables and other places of resort, every where
keeping her ears open to drink in any word any one might let fall
about her lover's assassination. One night, as she was sitting at a
table carelessly shuffling a pack of cards, she heard two gentlemen
talking very earnestly, and some words they dropped made her strain
all her attention to catch the thread of their discourse.
"Yes, they are gone on; I am sure of it; and some hours ago,"
asseverated the first speaker, as if he had been contradicted before.
"To be sure," rejoined the other, in a tone of yielding conviction;
"it was not likely they should remain in the country. No doubt it is
as you say."
"Excuse me," said Doña Josefa, approaching the speakers with a courtly
bow, for she could restrain her curiosity no longer, "but I think
you were speaking of some gentlemen of Seville.... I am of Seville,
and----"
"Of Valencia," politely rejoined the gentleman, fairly caught in the
trap. Had Josefa said she was of Valencia, his mouth would have been
sealed for fear of betraying secrets.
"Oh, indeed, of Valencia!" she continued, assuming a tone of
disappointment; and then, after a moment's pause, she added, as if
indifferent, "I think you spoke as if concerned for some friends
in trouble?"
"Oh, not friends," answered the person addressed, with a slight
shudder; "we had but the most distant acquaintance with them; but they
called on us yesterday to ask us to help them out of a difficulty."
"Ah! that is very often the way of the world," replied Doña Josefa,
for she felt she must keep the conversation going till she could get
all the information she wanted, though scarcely seeing how to bring
it to the right point without exciting suspicions. "I'll warrant
now it was a regular piece of Valencian roguery [13]; they came with
some pitiful pretence, begging, I'll be bound; and I dare say at this
moment are laughing at the ease with which their doleful story loosed
your purse-strings; ha, ha, ha!"
The silvery laugh and biting tone of the young cavalier stung
the Murcians to the quick; it seemed a point of honour to justify
themselves from the censure of having been cajoled. The friend who
had all this time remained silent, not quite liking the freedom,
but now completely reassured by the noble bearing, fair smooth brow,
and perhaps also by the sad but winning glance of the young stranger,
here joined in.
"You have a fine knowledge of the world, young friend, and such
wise words do not often come from lips on which the hair is not yet
grown. Nevertheless there was no deception on this occasion: I never
saw men more blasted with fear and shame."
"Ah!" pursued Josefa as carelessly as she could, for she saw she was
now on the right track, "it is easy for a Valencian to assume a look
of shame."
"But, man, these were not men used to shame; these were true men and
gentlemen of blood--blood as blue as any blood in Spain."
"Pshaw! they told you so!" rejoined Josefa with an incredulous shrug,
which she knew must bring out the names.
"Why it was no less than Don Leonardo and Don Gaspar Contreras!" broke
in the other speaker.
"Don Leonardo and Don Gaspar Contreras!" ejaculated Josefa, this time
hardly master of her contending emotions; yet knowing the importance
of playing her part to the end, she added in a tone of thundering
indignation,--
"And you can stand there and tell me that Don Leonardo and Don Gaspar
Contreras came before you bowed with a look of shame,--to beg alms?"
"Even so, fair sir," rejoined the Murcians; "and if you still have
doubts you can go to Valencia, and seek for them; you will not find
them there."
"And pray, sir, why should I not find Don Leonardo and Don Gaspar
Contreras in their noble palacio at Valencia?"
"Because they dare not show their faces there," replied one.
"Because they are at this moment riding for their lives to the sea
coast, and you would be more likely to find them at Cartagena,"
exclaimed the other at the same moment.
Josefa had now learnt pretty well all she desired to know;
nevertheless, to make quite sure of her facts, she sat down again,
pushing chairs towards the Murcians, and continued in a more pacific
and friendly tone,--
"You must excuse me, gentlemen, if the idea of coupling shame with
the name of Contreras came upon me as so strange and unaccountable a
conjunction, that I could not bring myself to accept it at first; but
I am fain to take it on your honourable testimony. But pray tell me,
what can have happened to bring this about? I have a cousin married to
a Contreras, and whatever affects the honour of their house affects
my own. It must have been some terrible necessity reduced them to
this plight."
"The old story--jealousy working in ill-regulated minds!" answered the
elder speaker. "It seems Valencia possesses some monster of beauty,
which has turned the hearts of all her cavaliers."
"Doña Josefa Ramirez y Marmolejo!" interposed the younger Murcian
apologetically, as though he thought it a reproach not to have the
name of the beauty of the day on the tip of his lips.
"Well, the young lady, it seems, preferred to every one else of
Valencia a certain Don Pedro de Valenzuela----"
Josefa had managed to preserve her composure, in spite of her emotion
at hearing her attractions canvassed by the two strangers, but at
mention of Don Pedro's name the blood fairly left her cheeks. To hide
her embarrassment, she dropped her glove and stooped to pick it up,
till she had summoned the colour back.
"The other gallants," continued the speaker, not heeding the
interruption, "were the more nettled at this, that he was not of so
high estate as they----"
Josefa could hardly refrain from exclaiming that he was better than
all of them put together; but she coughed and bit her lip, and by a
supreme effort kept the tears out of her eyes.
"And when they found they were slighted, while he was allowed to come
and strum night after night at the reja, they grew furious. None
were more indignant than the two cousins Leonardo and Gaspar de
Contreras. One night, as they were passing casually by Doña Josefa's
house, and saw Don Pedro standing under the window, basking in
the smiles of the lady, while they had to wander by as unrecognized
outcasts, their blood was up, and without reflection or premeditation,
they set upon him there and then, without calling upon him to defend
himself, and killed him like a----"
"But what ails you, fair sir?" ejaculated the speaker, as he observed
poor Josefa making vain efforts to look indifferent, and trembling
from head to foot.
"Nothing, sir, thank you," stammered Josefa bravely; "the wind is high
to-night. With your permission I will e'en close this window." The
moment's seclusion from the company, and the gasp of air thus gained,
enabled her to appear once more a not too eager listener.
"I can now understand why the Contreras are running away like--dogs,"
she replied, not without some little display of feeling, for she
burned to bandy back against the assassins the epithet which, though
it had not been breathed, had so nearly been applied to her lover.
A very little more talk elicited that the cousins expected to find a
ship sailing from Cartagena in three days; in the mean time they were
making the best of their way to the coast. Worn out with the long
tension of suppressed emotion, Josefa was glad to retire as soon as
there was a break in the conversation.
Next morning she purchased a horse, fleet as the wind, and arrived
the same night at Cartagena; and here she once more set to work to
find out the retreat of the assassins. In this, fortune again favoured
her. For having placed her horse in a stable, and hired a room in the
principal inn for herself, she sat down beside an open window, while
she thought upon the plan to pursue. As she sat here, her attention
was arrested by a conversation going on between two men seated under
a leafy parral [14], which effectually concealed her from their sight.
"Where are you going to-night, so finely arrayed?" inquired one of
the voices.
"Where every one is going," responded the other; "to the house of
Don Juan Mancilla, for he gives a right noble banquet in honour of
two guests he has staying with him, natives of Valencia. He is to
give a representation of a comedy, and many other fine things."
Doña Josefa held her breath, and leant further out of the window.
"Something I heard of their arrival yesterday morning," rejoined the
first voice. "But why all this haste? Methinks the comedy would have
been the better got up for one or two days' rehearsal."
"Ah, but you see, the Valencians take ship at half-past twelve this
very night," replied the other; and then in a lower key, "They are
even now running from Valencia for some charge of a duel there----"
"Hold, man, hold!" warily ejaculated the first voice; "who knows who
may overhear you?"
Doña Josefa had overheard enough; her work now up to half-past twelve
was but to learn the situation of Don Juan Mancilla's house, and the
way thence to the harbour; no difficult task, for Don Juan Mancilla's
was one of the first names in Cartagena; and near the landing-place
she met a garrulous servant of the Contreras, who was easily led to
speak of his masters' movements. Between the two points lay an alameda,
or promenade, planted with poplars, such as adorns the outskirts of
every Spanish town, affording a most convenient spot for the rencontre
for which she had now with beating heart to lie in wait.
The tress which on that last sad night she had severed from her
lover's fair young head, and which now alone remained of him who had
been all to her, in her hand, she paced backwards and forwards under
the pollard poplars, like a knight keeping watch before a sacred
shrine. Her thoughts wrapt in the absorbing memories of the past,
and the fantastic part fate had assigned to herself, she had taken
no note of how the hours had sped by, and when the clocks chimed out
the hour of mid-night, it came upon her as a sudden warning. Not many
minutes more had elapsed, before she perceived two cavaliers advancing
towards her, whom her eye, practised by long acquaintance, readily
recognized as the game she had come so far to seek. Their loud talk,
swaggering mien, lofty stature, and moreover the clanking of their
swords as they walked, reminding that in Valencia the Contreras bore
the reputation of the most accomplished fencers of all the country
round, might have made a less resolute heart faint even then, and
give up the enterprise. But Doña Josefa never flinched. With one foot
firmly planted on the path, and resting on the other as a kind of prop,
placed in position to support her against any attempt to thrust her
aside, she stood firmly and calmly waiting their approach.
"Don Leonardo, and you, Don Gaspar Contreras!" she said, as soon as
they had advanced within hearing, "know ye, who I am?"
"Another time, good friend," said Don Leonardo impatiently, and tried
to pass on.
"We are pressed, and have but time to join our ship," said Don Gaspar;
and he endeavoured, though not without courtesy, to make his way
past her.
"You must hear me, Señores de Contreras," rejoined Doña Josefa in
a hollow voice; "and when you have heard me, you will never want a
ship more."
"Come, this is more than pleasantry!" exclaimed Don Leonardo,
getting angry.
"Make way, good sir; you see we are pressed for time," said Don Gaspar,
more conciliatingly; for he felt it was no time for picking a quarrel.
"It is no pleasantry, indeed!" Doña Josefa had replied almost before
he spoke; "but most serious earnest. Señores de Contreras, again I ask,
Do you know me?"
"What does this trifling mean?" exclaimed Don Leonardo, hotly, and
at the same time putting his hand on his sword.
"It means," replied Josefa, calmly and solemnly--"It means that you are
called to answer with your vile lives for the noble life of Don Pedro
Valenzuela, whom you treacherously slew without so much as calling on
him to draw. My sword is the sword of justice, not of the assassin;
yet I call on you to defend yourselves, if you dare!"
"Good sir, you rave; we are not those you seek; and we know not who
you are!" interposed Don Gaspar, putting his hand on Don Leonardo's
sword-arm, for he had already drawn.
"I have twice asked you if you do not know me," answered Josefa. "Now,
then, I tell you: I am Doña Josefa Ramirez y Marmolejo. Have I not
a right to avenge the blood of Don Pedro Valenzuela?"
"Ho! ho! so brave anon, you would now make this pretence of womanhood
a shield. Methinks your tongue knows not the timidity of woman,
and that your arms are no woman's toys," blurted out Don Leonardo
contemptuously, despite of Don Gaspar's warnings.
"Draw! Don Leonardo," commanded Josefa; "nor waste more time in
words. I seek no quarter, nor--give any!"
"At you then!" exclaimed Don Leonardo, rendered furious by her
impassibility, and breaking away from Don Gaspar's hold.
Josefa awaited his onset firmly, her drawn sword extended in her hand,
like a statue of the avenging angel. Don Leonardo rushing at her,
blind with rage, thrust himself right upon her rapier, which pierced
him through and through; and, before he had time to utter a cry,
he fell a lifeless corpse at Don Gaspar's feet.
Don Gaspar, who had no idea that there was any truth in Josefa's
declaration of her sex, felt no inclination to measure his sword
against so successful an antagonist; but, in order not to appear to
avoid the fray ignominiously, bent down and busied himself with the
effort to remove the body of his cousin.
"It is your turn now, Don Gaspar!" said the avenging angel calmly,
having just withdrawn her sword from the breast of her prostrate
victim. "Stand on guard, for your hour has come!"
This confident assertion, and the conviction that the encounter
could not be escaped, excited Don Gaspar almost to the same pitch of
indignation as Don Leonardo had displayed, notwithstanding that he
was by nature less irascible.
"Think not to find so easy a victory a second time!" he exclaimed.
"It matters little," replied the lady calmly; "you have killed my
life already, when you killed Don Pedro!"
While she was yet speaking, Don Gaspar had already rushed to the
encounter; and she, standing with her trusty sword prepared to meet
him, sent his body to measure the ground, and his soul to its account,
after the same manner that she had served Don Leonardo.
Meantime the bandying of angry words and the clash of steel had not
been unheard by the guests, who were even then traversing the alameda,
as the banquet of Don Juan Mancilla broke up. Quickly as the contest
had been carried through there was still time for many persons to
assemble, and there was every chance of Josefa being caught and handed
over to justice. All sank away, however, before the high and innocent
glance of her flashing eyes and the noble mien, which stood surety
hers had been no vulgar aim.
"The Sanctuary of S. Francis may yet be reached," whispered an old
nobleman, who perceived at a glance that the young stranger belonged
to his order, which he had rather not see subjected to the ordeal
of a public inquisition. "Here, boy, follow me. Courage!" he added,
as he observed she had hardly energy left to move from the spot;
"we shall soon be there."
Doña Josefa, so courageous anon, felt palsied at the sight of the
advancing strangers, and the apprehension of having all her motions
and manoeuvres sifted in the vulgar sieve of public opinion. She
knew what she had done could only be judged and appreciated by the
few who had felt what she had felt. This very terror at last nerved
her to take the old man's counsel; and so, wrapping her wide cloak
around her, she followed at a little distance, delicacy prompting
her to avoid appearing to belong to him, so that he might not be
compromised through his good-nature. All those who were about at
the time were men of similar position, who judged that the course
adopted was the wisest, and so Josefa and her guide proceeded to
their journey's end without molestation. Arrived at the church door,
the old nobleman pointed to the entrance and passed on his way.
Josefa began to explain to an old Brother who kept the door the
misadventure which had brought her thither, but it was more than she
could do to conclude the narrative, her feeble powers were already
overstrained, and she sank fainting at his feet. For several days she
was carefully tended in the hospital; and one day, when the noise
of the affair had blown over, and the knowledge that she had taken
refuge in the Sanctuary had quieted the pursuit of justice, she sent
a messenger to the inn to fetch the swift courser she had left there
on arriving, and under favour of the darkness of the evening set out
to return to Valencia.
She had travelled a considerable distance without accident, when
suddenly she perceived three travellers coming towards her; the moon
shone brightly, and her keen eyes, quickened by natural feminine
apprehension, were not slow to make out that they were of the kind
most unwelcome under the circumstances, though to meet any one was
awkward enough.
She had no time to consider what she should do, for the strangers
were advancing at a rapid pace; nor were they slow to declare their
character. The chief called out to her before they had even come up,
to 'stand and deliver.' The only circumstance in her favour was that
they stood on the narrow ledge of a mountain path, the one closely
packed behind the other as one man.
"It is idle to attempt to resist us, young gallant," cried the leader
as he saw her draw her sword; "we are too many for one even as valiant
as I dare say you fancy yourself; besides, there are more of us behind
who will soon be up."
Doña Josefa uttered no boast, she took up a firm position; her fine
well-tempered rapier extended in her hand received them on its point,
and threaded them through as they came, one behind the other.
But, alack! the strong men, in the contortions of their last agony,
overstepped the narrow footing of the path, and fell over the brink,
carrying in their bodies the trusty sword which had stood her in such
good stead.
"There are more of us behind who will soon be up!" she repeated to
herself, as with dogged determination she still held up against her
misfortunes, and proceeded on her way for a wind or two of the path
without disturbing incidents. One more turn and there stood before
her three more bandits in the same order as the last. She had her
trabuco [15] ready to aim, and her aim was so steady, that before
they had time to perceive her purpose, her ball had pierced through
the three of them, and they were sent rolling over the precipice,
to join the bodies of their companions below.
Whether Josefa thought that these exploits might bring her into fresh
conflict with the arm of the law, or whether the fresh horrors gave
a gloomy turn to her mind, and indisposed her for venturing home, I
know not; but whatever her motive, she made up her mind at this point
of the journey to continue her wanderings only as far as Barcelona,
and there take ship to make a pilgrimage to Rome.
The sea was not much more propitious to poor Doña Josefa's fortunes
than the land had been. The vessel on which she had embarked had not
been two days out before it was attacked by Algerine Corsairs, who
took every soul on board prisoners, and carried them off to Africa,
where they were sold as slaves.
It fell to Josefa's lot to be bought by a rich renegade of Tunis,
whom she served under the name of Pedro, a name she deemed she had
a certain right to take. The renegade was much pleased with her
soft discreet manners, and general superiority and uprightness of
character; and soon advanced her to the post of steward over his
household, having her first instructed in the Arabic tongue. Things
went smoothly enough for some time; but when she had been in this
service about three years, it happened that one day, when the master
was gone out hunting, a maid-servant, who held a high place in the
household, and whose forwardness the supposed Pedro had often noticed,
came and made a free confession of an irrepressible affection for him,
and entreated him to marry her. Josefa, much annoyed at the incident,
could only answer that it was impossible: for she had not confidence
in the girl to trust her with her secret.
The enraged girl, furious at the repulse, swore by Mahomet to be
revenged; accordingly, no sooner was the master returned, than she
went to him with every token of distress and indignation, and accused
Pedro of abusing his power as steward of the house, and having sought
to force her to marry him although she had resisted because he was
a Christian, and the law of Mahomet forbade such an union.
The master, highly incensed at the perfidy of the slave he had treated
with so much forbearance and indulgence, ordered him to be thrown
into a dungeon and starved to death, without hearing any defence.
Such would indeed have been Josefa's fate, but that one of the slaves
who respected her brought her daily the scanty means of subsistence
she was able to secure. At the end of several days the master, coming
to the dungeon to see what had befallen, was greatly provoked to
find her not only alive but comparatively well, and took up a cord
to administer summary chastisement.
This indignity was more than Josefa could endure; to avert it, she
begged him to listen to her; told him she could easily prove the
falsity of the accusation under which she was suffering, seeing she
was a woman.
The master was delighted to hear the exculpation of his favourite
slave, and immediately had her released and reinstated in her
authority, and the shameless accuser consigned to the same prison.
From this time he continued to extend his favour and confidence towards
her: of all the people about him who shared his pleasures and his
riches, she was the only one to whom he could talk of the absorbing
agony of his soul, the remorse for having renounced his religion and
become a renegade. The result was that he one day announced to her
that he had made arrangements for realizing the greater part of his
fortune, which he divided in two parts, one of which he bestowed on
her; with the other he had resolved to go to Rome in pilgrimage and
endow a shrine, where he would pass the remainder of his days in
prayer and penance.
He had found a merchant of his acquaintance who would take them
in his ship to Alicante, whence he would start again for Rome, and
Josefa would be free either to continue her journey thither or return
to Valencia.
Josefa's desire of once more embracing her parents made her elect the
latter course. Their plan was executed to the letter without hindrance.
Arrived once more at Valencia, Josefa was not slow to find her way
to her father's palace. An old servant who had been in the house
before she was born, and watched her grow up, opened the door, but
did not recognize her, which she took for a presage that she might
come unknown into her parents' presence also.
She found them seated side by side, and bewailing the loss of their
only child.
"I have come to tell you," she broke in, "that your child is now in
this very city; three years and a half she has been a captive slave
in Tunis, though not serving as a slave, for she was absolute master
of the household of her owner. And at the end of that time he gave
her her liberty together with a large fortune in money."
"Oh, sir, tell us where is she!" ejaculated Don Juan Ramirez;
"let our aged eyes rest on her again before we die, so shall we be
consoled for our troubles!"
Then Doña Josefa threw off her disguise, and falling on her knees
before them, entreated their pardon for all her errors and all the
anxiety she had given them.
Having received that, she told them she had determined to pass the
rest of her days in penitence in a convent, which she did with their
hearty approval; and in this kind of life she spent many years,
affording a lively and edifying example to all. And thus ended in
peace the tragic adventures of Doña Josefa Ramirez y Marmolejo.
THE STEEPLE OF COVEÑA.
At a very little distance from Madrid you may already discern against
the horizon the outline of the steeple of Coveña, which is one of the
handsomest edifices of New Castile; and all the thitherward way it
is before you, standing against the sky as a landmark to the traveller.
The people are so proud of having a church which bears so unusual a
proportion to the size of their village, that they will not allow it
was designed by any architect of less renown than Juan de Herrera,
the architect of the Escorial, whom another tradition declares to
have had a hand in the works at St. Peter's, in Rome.
Nor are they satisfied with the mere statement; they are also very
circumstantial in their account of his connexion with it, though
both are declared to be quite apocryphal. They say he was so pleased
with this work of his genius that he had it produced entirely under
his own eye. He watched while the foundations were laid, while the
materials were collected round the spot, while every stone was laid
in its place; in fact, he was never tired of looking at it: now he
would take a long walk into the country to enjoy its appearance in
the distant view; now he would stand in the plaza beneath, and gaze
up at the storied decorations with which his fancy had invested it;
now he would mount the interior staircase of the tower, and look down
from the monument he had raised, upon the insignificant dwellings
with which it was surrounded.
On one of these latter expeditions he observed that he was one day
followed by Andres, his son, a boy of some fifteen years of age. The
circumstance pleased him, because he had noticed with growing sorrow
that Andres on many occasions had failed to display that fearless
disposition which is the characteristic of a brave and generous
spirit. Through an opening in the tracery he turned to watch, from
a higher stage, the boy's proceedings. For a certain distance he
mounted steadily enough, but in proportion as he got higher and had
completed more turnings, giddiness seemed to overcome him. Juan de
Herrera began to lose patience. The boy wiped the perspiration from
his forehead, and sat down in a recess. Herrera felt so provoked
that he could not restrain an impetuous movement; slight as was the
attendant noise, it struck upon the boy's excited nerves; he started
from his resting-place, trembling like an aspen leaf.
"What's the matter, Andres, my boy?" cried his father, to reassure him:
"it is only I, your father."
"I'm all right!" replied Andres, ashamed to be caught under a display
of weakness.
"Then come on, boy; and don't sit panting like a broken-winded
horse. There, put your head out of that slit in the wall, and look
down and see what a fine height I have made this tower. You'll see
Dolores and Pepito and Luis and Mariquilla playing in the plaza,
and they will look like ants from this high tower."
Andres somewhat recovered from his exertions and his alarm, and,
curious to see his playmates looking "like ants," summoned sufficient
courage to put his head through the loophole.
For the first time the boy experienced the effect of the giddy height;
he hung back and turned pale, then pressed his hands against the wall
for support.
"Coward! you don't mean to say you are afraid!" exclaimed Juan
de Herrera.
"Oh--no--I'm not afraid," stammered poor Andres, making a convulsive
effort to look out through the slit once more.
This time he remained so long opposite the opening and so steadily,
that his father hoped he had got over the first fears; but, watching
him anxiously, he observed, as he at length turned away, that he had
his eyes closed.
Indignant that his son should not have as robust courage as the
peasant boys of the village, and still more that he should not be
in a condition to enjoy his favourite structure, Juan de Herrera,
unable to master his irritation, loaded the boy with reproaches;
and Andres slunk away, grieved at having distressed his father,
yet unable to summon courage sufficient to satisfy his wishes.
Some days after this, the consecration of the church took place, and
the municipal functionaries invited the architect and his son to a
banquet on the occasion, at which were assembled all the notabilities
of the place, as well as many from neighbouring villages, and even
from Madrid. Juan de Herrera deemed, with more zeal than judgment,
that this would be a favourable opportunity for curing his son of his
weakness, and to effect this narrated to the company the circumstance
stated above.
"Father, it was a passing folly," cried the boy, burning with shame;
"give me an opportunity, and I will show you that I do not deserve
your opinion."
There was a pause, for the boy spoke with such thrilling earnestness
that the smile of derision which had been raised at his expense died
away from every lip.
"The galera [16] has just brought down the cross and ball for the
summit of the steeple," continued Andres; "let me go up and place it,
and I shall have had the merit of crowning your work."
"You will never dare it!" answered Juan de Herrera contemptuously.
"Let me show you I am not so bad," pleaded Andres.
"Bear in mind, boy, that if your courage fails when you get to that
height it will cost you your life."
"Don't be afraid; my courage will not be wanting," replied Andres.
"Be it so then," rejoined Juan de Herrera; "to-morrow you shall show
what you are worth," and he clasped the boy's hand to encourage him in
his courageous resolution, and all round the table applauded his pluck.
The next morning found all who were at the banquet, and many more
whose curiosity the report of the story had excited, gathered in the
plaza round the Church of Coveña. There at the foot of the steeple lay
shining the huge cross and ball, newly clad with gilding and bound
with strong ropes, by means of which it was to be hoisted over the
ready adjusted pulleys into its place.
"If you don't feel up to the mark, you had better give in, even
now!" whispered Juan de Herrera, under the porch. "It is still time;
and, mind, it is no easy task!"
"My head is quite steady," answered Andres, piqued to find his father
still doubted his daring; and, his head erect, without waiting to
hear another word of warning, he commenced the ascent of the spiral
stair at a rapid pace.
Not altogether free from uneasiness, Juan de Herrera went out to watch
the result from the stone cross in the centre of the plaza. The whole
crowd was nearly as breathless and anxious as the father, but before
two minutes had elapsed Andres was seen emerging from behind one of
the pinnacles of a platform, level with the beam on which the bell
had been hung a few days before.
A shudder seized the throng, for some one whispered that he had
heard the bell sound as the youth passed by, and the rest took up
the words and repeated under their breath with superstitious terror,
"La campana ha tocado á muerto [17]!"
Herrera, meantime, stood leaning against the cross a little way from
the crowd, and too much absorbed to catch the report. He seemed quite
tranquil and had heard no sound.
Most probably the lad had touched the clapper as he passed it.
Meantime Andres was steadily mounting a step-ladder placed on the
roof by which the final stage was to be reached, and from the steps
was engaged in arranging the support that was to receive the ball.
The workmen below were drawing the pulleys, and the ornament had
nearly reached the summit; as it rose, Andres had to mount two steps
more. He raised his foot, but his courage failed.
"My son is lost, for he hesitates!" cried the terror-stricken father,
in a hoarse voice.
The multitude took up the cry; but, simultaneously with its utterance,
the luckless boy was precipitated to the ground, dashing against one
of the buttresses as he fell.
Juan de Herrera, adds the tradition, was never seen to smile again.
One day he went up to the top of the lantern of St. Lorenzo of the
Escorial, and gazed over towards Coveña. It seemed to him that he saw
two fiery eyes glaring upon him from the steeple which had once been
his pride.
Eight days after he was found a corpse. It was the anniversary of
the death of his son.
ANOTHER FAIR MAID OF ZARAGOZA.
The title of the courageous maid who helped to defend the walls
of her native Zaragoza against the assault of the French invaders,
has already become a household word among us. The troubles of the
early part of Queen Isabella's reign elicited another instance of
feminine constancy, which has likewise received its tribute of local
celebration, though exhibited in a more confined and womanly sphere.
Two sisters, Jacinta and Isabella, lived in Zaragoza with their
brother, Don Froilan. Among their acquaintance were two intimate
friends, Don Pablo and Don Matias, who both held commissions in
the National Militia. Don Matias was a handsome, generous young
man, and a general favourite, but also somewhat light-hearted and
unscrupulous. Don Pablo, on the other hand, was of a more solid,
thoughtful character, rather respected after long acquaintance than
liked at first sight. Now the characters of the two sisters, Jacinta
and Isabella, were very much like those of their two friends; Jacinta
being light and thoughtless, and Isabella steady and reflective;
yet in spite of this, Don Pablo was more fascinated by Jacinta's
brilliant qualities than by Isabella's good and careful ways; while
Isabella's good sense had taught her to prefer such a character as Don
Pablo's. And it was with a bleeding heart she saw it agreed between
him and her giddy sister that they were to be united for ever. Her
sisterly affection, however, forbid her to do more than sigh in secret,
and sigh she did many a day; not only for her own loss, but for Don
Pablo, whom she sincerely respected. For her light-hearted sister,
in spite of her engagement to him, used to continue to be very merry
with Don Matias too.
Just before the day appointed for the wedding, an émeute broke out
at some little distance, and the Zaragoza Militia was ordered out to
quell the disturbance. The world of Zaragoza turned out to see the
military array; and Don Froilan took his sisters on to the Cosa [18],
along with the rest; and while Jacinta chatted merrily with both Don
Pablo and Don Matias, as if they were going out to a review instead
of to fight, Isabella, impressed with the danger of the situation,
and the chance of never seeing her dear friend again, could hardly
bring herself to bid them adieu.
Time passed on, and no certain tidings came of the fate of the two
officers. Every day there were conflicting reports, but nothing
reliable as to individual results.
At last a day came when the Zaragoza regiment returned, covered with
laurels and with hardly any losses from its ranks.
The Cosa was thronged with people welcoming the safe return of their
fellow townsmen. Jacinta was soon in earnest conversation with Don
Matias, while Isabella leant against a tree for support, as her gazing
eyes vainly sought Don Pablo.
Soon the truth was learnt from Don Matias. After waiting about in the
cover of houses and trees and hillocks for the insurgents for some
time, they had come to an open engagement with them, in which they
were in a short time entirely routed by the gallant Militia, who came
off with only two killed and half a dozen wounded--but one of those
two left for dead on the field was no other than Don Pablo! It needed
all Isabella's fortitude and self-command to avoid showing greater
agony at this announcement than was consistent with her having no
nearer tie than that of an intended sister-in-law, while Jacinta,
who had no self-control, burst into a fearful excitement of grief.
Taking Isabella's assumed calmness of manner for indifference towards
the absent, the young officer within a few hours of his return began
paying her attentions. Jacinta's jealousy at this quenched all her
light grief for Don Pablo, and Don Matias soon found that his suit
would have far more chance of fortune with her. With characteristic
fickleness he lost no time in urging it in the quarter where it met
with favour, and pushed it so warmly that their marriage was fixed
for an early day, being but a month from that on which Don Pablo was
believed to have fallen.
To faithful Isabella's intense disgust, not only was the wedding so
hurried on, but all Zaragoza was invited to a grand ball to celebrate
the occasion. Dressed in deep mourning she refused to have any thing
to do with the festivity; but, on the contrary, ordered a funeral
service to be celebrated in the church to the memory of her lost hero.
It was just at this juncture, while the music of the marriage-ball [19]
was sounding merrily through the open windows of Don Froilan's house,
and the solemn doble [20] was ringing from a neighbouring church,
that Don Pablo, healed of his wounds, and choosing the cool of the
evening for his journey, came through the streets of Zaragoza, well
wrapt up in his military cloak, intending to make straight for the
house of his affianced bride. He stopped, however, at the barbiere's
to have his hair and beard, long neglected during the campaign, made
presentable. The barbiere is an institution in Spain which almost
supplies the place of an English club. Men go in to submit to the
barber's attentions, and while they are under his hands, or waiting
their turn, they have leisure to discuss with each other the news
and gossip of the day.
Don Pablo was, as we have said, a serious man; his habits were
reserved and homely, he had never cared for the barber's gossip,
and his habit had been to manage his shaving arrangements at home,
so he was no acquaintance of the barber. Accordingly, he came in on
this occasion unrecognized.
"Strange are the vicissitudes of human life!" he exclaimed, as
he seated himself in the barber's chair--for he was somewhat of a
philosopher. "Marriage-music and funeral-bells sounding at the same
time--what a strange lesson!"
"Stranger still," broke in the prattling barber, "if your worship
knew what reference each bears to the same person!"
"To the same person!" rejoined Don Pablo; "how can that possibly be?"
"Why, the bells are for a funeral service for a distinguished officer,
lost in the late encounter; and the merry music is for the marriage
of his betrothed to a brother-officer!"
Don Pablo started as if he had been shot. The barber noticed his
emotion. "Your worship doubtless knows the officer of whom I speak,"
replied the barber.
"Ye--es, I do--o!" stammered Don Pablo, relieved to find the barber
had not hit nearer the mark. "You speak of Don Pablo, of course?"
"Of course I do!" exclaimed the barber; "no one has spoken of any
one else these last days. And here come some of his friends round
the corner; if you want to hear them speak of him you have only to
listen. I'll warrant he is the subject of their talk."
"I should like to hear what they say," said Don Pablo, whose curiosity
was strongly excited by these revelations about himself; "but it
might embarrass them to see so near a friend to him as I was, here."
"Step to this unlighted window, and you will hear all without being
seen."
Don Pablo did as he was bid, and readily distinguished a group of
his acquaintances, with Don Froilan in their midst, standing at the
barber's door, lighting their cigars [21].
"How now, Don Froilan!" exclaimed Don Lupercio; "a ball at your own
house in honour of your sister's wedding, and you out here!"
("Ah, poor fellow!" said Don Pablo to himself, "he won't countenance
his sister's fickleness. He was always a great friend of mine.")
"Why, to tell you the truth," replied Don Froilan, "the first part
of a ball is always dull work. I have set them going, and I'm off to
the opera. I always enjoy the second act of an opera; it's the cream
of the whole. I shall just skim that off, and then run back to the
best of the ball."
("So," said Don Pablo, sadly, "this is the man I have so often helped
through his difficulties! And I really thought he cared for me!")
"Now, really!" said Don Mariano, "I thought you were going to say
that you had come out to attend the funeral service for your friend
Don Pablo----"
("Ah, yes, that would have been more like a friend!" sighed Don Pablo.)
"A--a--funeral service? no--no, I'm not fond of that sort of thing,
it's so melancholy! And then what's the use--if the fellow died,
as I've no doubt he did, without so much as saying an 'Our Father,'
what's the use of praying for him?"
("The atrocious calumny!" exclaimed Don Pablo; "and not one of them
to say a word in my defence!")
An awkward pause ensued, which was broken by the gallant young Don
Antonio: "And while we are wasting our time here, your sisters are
dancing away and charming every one, as usual!"
("Dancing away while the church bells are tolling for poor me!")
"My sisters--eh? No--o, not exactly; that is, only one of them. Jacinta
is dancing, of course; but Isabella--a--won't--a--come in. I believe
she's gone to the church instead."
("So, indeed, there's one of them at least who hasn't forgotten me! And
one, too, whose remembrance is more worth having than all the others'
put together!")
"Indeed!" replied Don Lupercio; "but I thought it was the other sister
who had been more attached to him."
"Attached? ah, yes--in one way; that is, she was engaged to him;
but as to attachment, that is, of the heart--between you and me--it
was Isabella who cared for him. Jacinta, you see, only wanted to be
married, and Don Matias will do just as well for that--ha, ha, ha!"
"You don't surprise me," responded young Don Antonio, who generally
knew which way the ladies' inclination turned. "Something of this I
suspected too."
"And I," added Don Mariano.
("Fool that I was!" growled Don Pablo; "all these butterflies saw it,
and I never ventured to think of it! I looked on her as a priestess,
a goddess--I never ventured to think of her in any other way. She
was always so grand and grave; and Jacinta was so accessible.")
"But, good evening, gentlemen! I shall really miss the opera, if I
stand chatting any longer," broke in Don Froilan.
They dispersed: Don Froilan bending his steps towards the opera, and
the rest towards the ball-room. Meantime, sadly veiled in black, and
attended by Ramon, the old and trusty family-servant, Isabella crossed
the street, and entered the church as the last tolls were sounding.
"There she goes to pray for me--it is true enough!--while others are
dancing!" exclaimed Don Pablo, rapturously. "But I'll have my joke
with Don Froilan yet."
"Barber!" he cried, "send me a notary, quick! I've some important
business which must be transacted instantly."
"On the instant, your worship!" replied the barber. "There is one
lodging, luckily, in the sixth floor of this very house."
Ten minutes' conference with the notary settled the affair. Then he
bid him run with the paper to Don Froilan's box at the theatre [22],
and took up his station again at the window, to have the happiness
of seeing Isabella once more as she came out of the church, and also
to take the chance of enjoying the effect of the paper he had sent
to Don Froilan. Nor did he wait long. In less time than he would
have thought possible, Don Froilan came running out of the opera,
hurrying to take his place at the funeral service, and give a public
token of his attention to the deceased. But the doors were closed,
and Don Pablo's thoughts were diverted from her brother by the sight
of Isabella, pale and haggard, her eyes worn with tears, coming out
of the church, leaning on Ramon's arm.
"What! is it too late?" cried Don Froilan, stumbling against her on the
steps in the dark. "Oh dear, how hard! and I made such haste to come!"
"But why this sudden haste, brother?" replied Isabella,
contemptuously. "This morning you chid me for disturbing the ball!"
"Hush, child! if I did it, it was to please Jacinta--it was quite,
quite against my own inclination. Oh, why wasn't I by to assist him
in his last moments?"
"But why all this sudden grief now?"
"Sudden! it's not sudden; you know I always loved him as a brother;
and here's the proof of how well he loved me. A notary has just brought
me a will he left with him before he went to the war, constituting
me his heir to all he had, dear fellow!"
Isabella pushed by him with a movement of disdain, which perfectly
delighted Don Pablo, and made her way mournfully into the house,
attended as before by Ramon.
Don Pablo lost little time in following her. Who could be proof
against so much constancy? If he had looked on her as an inaccessible
divinity before, he felt sufficient encouragement now to tell her
that he thought so.
The faithful Ramon was very ready to lend his assistance, and Don
Pablo having taken him into confidence he dexterously managed to
break the good news of his resurrection to his young mistress, who
consented to come down to the ball-room and confront her brother and
sister on Don Pablo's presenting himself there too. The consternation
caused by his appearance was of course very great. Some of the ladies
nearly fainted. Don Froilan guessed the trap he had fallen into,
and turned away to cover his shame as well as disappointment at the
loss of the inheritance. Jacinta and Matias hid their faces behind
her fan; while Isabella and Pablo joined their loving hands amid the
joyful congratulations of their assembled friends.
JUANITA THE BALD; OR, A DAUGHTER'S LOVE.
There lived once upon a time on the banks of the Tagus a poor shepherd
named Juan; and he was as honest as he was poor, and as contented as
he was honest. He had just enough wages to buy the coarse meal which
supported him and his hard-working wife, Consolacion. A zamarra, or
suit of rough sheepskin, which served to keep out the cold for several
years together, was afforded him from the flock, and with weaving
and knitting Consolacion provided the rest of their scanty wardrobe.
Now Juan had a large flock confided to his care, and his master
reposed entire trust in him; but if he never had the provocation of
being looked after, neither had he ever the satisfaction of being
praised. Yet, notwithstanding this lack of all earthly stimulus,
Juan was always faithful to his trust: no sheep ever strayed that he
did not seek out over the barren waste and the steep mountain-side;
no little lamb was ever left by any sad accident without its dam,
but he brought it home to Consolacion, and the honest pair reared it
as tenderly as if it had been their own infant.
But if Juan's master neglected to commend his integrity, there
was One who did not forget him, but kept a just account of all his
actions. Thus it chanced one day, when after a long drought the herbage
was dried up, and he had had endless trouble in keeping his flock
together, as the poor things would wander hither and thither while
seeking pasture, that at last he got led away far from home, along
a wild path he had never trodden before, and the country all around
him looked strange, and yet there was the track of his runaway sheep
before him, and on and on he went. The way was sandy, and the sun was
fierce, and at last his strength failed him; footsore and dispirited
he sank down at the foot of a tree, whose shelter he vainly sought,
as its foliage had long been burnt up by the parching sun, and only
the bleached trunk and thirsty branches remained. Half maddened with
thirst and heat, he fell into a sort of trance, and he thought he
saw an ancient hermit of severe aspect standing before him, who chid
him that he lay there taking his rest while his master's sheep were
astray, calling him only a zagal (or shepherd's helper).
Juan did not lose his temper at the reprimand, but meekly begged
forgiveness, and endeavoured to rise that he might get him upon his
way again. His strength failed him, however, and he sank once more
upon the ground. Then, in the place of the hermit, he saw before him
a beautiful child with a shepherd's crook in his hand, and carrying a
lamb in his bosom, who told him to be comforted, for he had found his
sheep, and fed them, and led them safely home to the fold. He commended
too his faithful service, and told him that he was come to offer him a
reward, and gave him the choice of three. The first was a large sum
of money, with which he could go down to one of the rich seaports
of Spain and trade. The second was a grand castle in the mountains,
where he would have ease and luxury and plenty of retainers to do
his bidding. The third was to retain his present humble condition,
while to his hearth was added the presence of a gentle daughter.
Then honest Juan did not hesitate which to choose. "Give me not money,"
said he, "for money begets covetousness, and codicia rompe el saco
[23]. Give me not power, for I was not born to it, and the proverb
of our forefathers says, A fallen rich man may make a good master,
but not an enriched poor man (Sierve á un rico empobrecido y no
á un pobre enriquecido). But give me--oh, give me a child to love
me in my old age! I am but a poor, worthless servant to ask this
thing--nevertheless, it is the bounty of God."
When Juan woke to consciousness, the great heat of the day had
passed away, and his shaggy dog was licking his face, as if to warn
him that he had but little time to get home before dark. Trusting
to the animal's sagacity for guidance, he soon found his way home,
where the sheep were safely folded, as the beautiful shepherd-child
had promised, and Consolacion was waiting on the threshold of the hut,
to welcome him home to supper.
To his other virtues Juan added humility, and, indeed, without it they
would have been of little value; and it seemed so much like vanity
to talk of his vision that he never mentioned a word of it, till it
slipped off his tongue unawares years after. Nevertheless, before a
twelvemonth was out, a dear little baby was found in Consolacion's
arms, completing their simple happiness.
Juanita (little Janey)--so they called her--was beautiful as a child
of promise should be, but her chief glory was the rich profusion of
waving hair which covered her like a veil, and rested gracefully on
the ground as she knelt in prayer. She grew up the joy of her parents,
and being very docile soon learnt all the domestic arts of her mother,
and was never so happy as when she was relieving her of her household
cares. If they had any thing to complain of with her it was that she
had quite a passion for admiring her beautiful hair; and when she
was sent to the fountain she would sometimes waste hours looking at
herself, and arranging it according to various fancies. But when her
mother looked grave on her return, it was quite sufficient to keep
her from offending so again for many days.
Thus many years of tranquil, homely joy passed away. Peace and
gladness is not of long continuance in this world for the good, and
Juan's time of trouble was at hand. First, it pleased Providence to
take Consolacion to Himself; then, as a result of much weeping over
her, and his great privations and long exposure to sun and weather,
his eyes grew dim, and then his sight failed him entirely. Then the
old dog, by whose help he still managed to keep the sheep together,
in spite of his blindness, died too; and he was of no use any longer
as a shepherd, and he had nothing left to him but Juanita. Juanita,
it is true, fulfilled all a daughter's part, and by her industry
supported him above actual want.
But her little head was always running on how his sight
could be regained; and one day she revealed the result of her
cogitations. "Father dear, do not all the wise people live in great
cities? Let us now get us down to prosperous Segovia, or noble Toledo,
or beautiful Sevilla, and let us find some of the cunning men to heal
of whom we have heard, and get you back your sight."
But Juan lacked the courage to undertake so great a journey and
expose his little daughter to all the attendant risks by the way;
and he was a man of great patience to endure what the Lord sent; and
so they remained in the mountain-hut for five years more. By that
time Juanita was fifteen, and quite a little woman, and her advice
began to have the weight of a woman's authority with her father,
and at last she got him to consent to her often-urged prayer that
they should journey to seek a doctor.
Juanita's ears had been ever open to learn every story of healing from
every traveller who chanced to pass their cot, and in this way she
had learnt the fame of a certain Jew mediciner, who dwelt at Toledo,
and to Toledo therefore she was bent on directing their steps.
A beautiful sight it was to see the venerable old man leaning his hand,
withered with honest labour, on the silken tresses of his courageous
child. The way was long, but there was no lack of hospitality; the
admiration of the peasants they passed was every where kindled by
Juan's patience and Juanita's devotion, and a bite and a sup never
failed them. At last they came to Toledo; and in a great city it was
not so easy to find shelter, but God warmed to them the heart of an
old woman who had herself suffered and learnt compassion by suffering;
she gave them a bed, and Juanita's busy fingers, before long, provided
means of subsistence.
Her next care was to make out the Hebrew doctor, which was not of the
easiest, as those of his race were scarcely tolerated, and did not care
to make themselves ostensible. However, a daughter's love overcomes
all obstacles, and at last she found the means to bring her father
before the wise man. Imagine her joy, when after all her labours, he
pronounces with confidence that he can restore her father's sight! For
a moment of joy, a twelve-month of anxiety, however. In another minute
she has learnt that he demands 500 maravedis for the cure!
"Abate something for charity? What! charity to a dog of a
Christian! Why, it was enough that he soiled his fingers with healing
him, but to forego his pitiful fee too,--never! by the Holy City,
never!"
Juanita could speak no word more for tears. In silence she placed her
father's hand on her glittering hair, and in sadness guided his weak
footsteps back to their poor shelter.
Hard work it had been to provide subsistence for them both, and to
make a little extra to have something to offer to the lone widow,
who had taken them in--but how hope ever to make up 500 maravedis? If
in the first days of their arrival she had wasted some precious hours
over her old favourite pastime of arranging her luxuriant tresses,
and had taken pleasure when people called out in admiration--all that
was gone by now. She sat at her little loom, work, work, work!--she
never took her hands off, never lifted her eyes, never even saw that
the barber who lived opposite was constantly gazing upon her. The only
thing to cheer her was the placid voice of Juan, who would continually
bid her be of good comfort and put her trust in God.
One day, in the midst of her toil, there came a messenger from the
Corregidor of the city. His aunt had died that day, and as she died
unmarried, a procession of girls equal in number to the years of her
life must follow her to the grave, draped in white. She numbered
eighty years, and Juanita was required to make up the eightieth
attendant. Juanita could not say "Nay," even though it cost her such
precious hours.
When she came into the hall where the mourners were assembled
she found to her no slight disgust that the dress she had to wear
consisted in part of a great white hood. It was hard, on the only day
she suffered herself to part from her work, to have to cover up her
glorious hair! At all events, till the procession began to move she
would throw it back. She did so, and it made her look the picture
of an angel, as it fell in rich curls over the white dress. At the
same moment the Corregidor's wife passed through the hall. Though
younger than her defunct sister-in-law she had arrived at that age
when nature sometimes thinks it right to withdraw her gift of hair,
and sorely did she lament the loss. For a long time past she had left
an order with a clever barber of the city to manufacture her a wig
which should make good the defect, and he was to swear it was no dead
person's hair. She had a superstition that in wearing the hair of a
dead person, you assumed the responsibility of all their sins, and,
the good lady being sufficiently satisfied with her own position in the
scale of grace, had no desire to run the risk of getting a worse one,
even for the sake of the coveted wig. But a wig made of the hair of
a living person was not an order easy to execute. The moment her eyes
fell on Juanita's magnificent cabellera (head of hair) she determined
that it should not be long before it should decorate her own head.
Accordingly, she hastened to call the Corregidor aside and assure him
he must procure it for her. The Corregidor knowing the attachment
a maiden was likely to have for such an adornment, endeavoured to
convince her of the impossibility of the task. All was of no use,
save to render her more resolute. The Corregidor knew that in disputes
with his wife he always had to give in at last, and so, to pacify her,
promised he would do his best, and to satisfy her that he did so the
interview was arranged to take place in her presence.
The funeral was no sooner over than the Corregidor beckoned Juanita
to follow him into his wife's room.
Poor little Juanita never thought of resisting an order from so great
a functionary, but tripped along lightly behind him.
What was her surprise to find herself severely chid for wasting
the time she might spend in working for her father in the vanity of
decking out her hair! Juanita did not grow angry, or deny her fault,
but could not forbear asking, with great simplicity, "Was it her
fault if God had given her a great mass of hair to comb out?"
"Not your fault at all, my dear child," said the Corregidor, much
relieved to find she took his admonitions so meekly. "Not your fault
at all, so long as you keep it on your head; but you might cut it
all off."
"Cut it off!" repeated poor Juanita, mechanically; "what would be
the use of that?"
"Why, you might sell it, child. I myself would give you fifty maravedis
for it."
"Give me fifty maravedis for it!" exclaimed the child, wondering what
he could possibly want it for.
The Corregidor, fancying her surprise was dictated by indignation at
the smallness of his offer, and incited by a gesture from his wife,
impatient lest she should lose the prize, hastened to reply, "Well,
if that does not content you, I'll give you 100 maravedis."
But Juanita's astonishment only increased; so she stared at him
instead of answering.
"I'd even say 150," continued the Corregidor.
But Juanita only looked the more surprised. And so they went on, his
anxiety bidding against her bewilderment, till at last he got up to
500 maravedis!
"500 maravedis!" echoed the child, as if waking from a trance at the
words which brought back to memory the fee required to restore her
father's sight. "Oh, yes! give me 500 maravedis, it is all yours
at that!" And then the thought of her great loss made her burst
into a flood of tears. It was a thought which for a moment almost
overpowered her strong sense of filial piety, and in the depth of
her little heart she half wished the Corregidor would repent of his
bargain. But no such luck; at her first sign of yielding the lady had
run off to fetch her largest scissors, and in a trice she had begun
shearing at the glittering spoil. Down the bright silken masses fell
on the snowy drapery, and beside them fell the child's pearly tears
over her lost treasure. At last the sacrifice was complete; and poor
Juanita stood in the midst of the ruin more dead than alive.
Then the Corregidor counted into her lap the promised sum, and the
reckoning once more woke a sensation of joy. Wrapping her hood close
round her, Juanita lost not a moment in flying to conduct her father
to the house of the Jew.
Her thoughts were now entirely fixed on the moment of his restoration,
but even this thought was embittered by the reflection that his one
reason for desiring to have his sight back was to look on her--and
she was no longer what she had been!
The strange alteration in her appearance soon got whispered about among
the neighbours; and she got so much stared at that she never ventured
into the street but when forced by sheer necessity, and then she ran
along, looking neither to the right hand nor the left, and not even
perceiving how considerately her opposite neighbour the barber followed
her steps, and defended her from the rudeness of the street boys.
At last her father's tedious cure was completed, and she was admitted
to see him. Some one had, unperceived by her, followed her respectfully
all the way, ready to protect her at all hazards. In the zaguan (sort
of vestibule) of the Jew's house this faithful follower confronted
her, and she recognized the gallant barber at once. Gently pushing
back her hood he substituted another covering for her head. Juanita
put up her hand, and, to her surprise, found it tangled in the masses
of her own rich hair! She stroked it with both hands, and found it all
there, just as if by enchantment. Finding her dumb with astonishment,
the barber hastened to explain that the wife of the Corregidor having
sent the hair to him to make up, he had resolved no one should wear
it but herself, and for the Corregidora he had put together the best
match he could from the store he kept by him for such purposes. They
were now interrupted by a summons from the Jew, who was ready to remove
Juan's bandages. They no sooner reached the room where he was, than
he ran and clasped Juanita in his arms, exclaiming, "God be praised
that I can see you, my child--a few years' blindness are well repaid
when it is reserved to one to see such a daughter as you!" Then,
perceiving the barber, he embraced him too, and said, "God be praised
for my sight! since I can now work for my living again, and repay you,
my benefactor, for well I know, though I would never tell Juanita
to increase her burden, that it is you who have paid the rent of our
lodging all this time! My son, my dear son, what can I do for you?"
"There is one thing, father, you can do for me--one only thing,
but it is too great to ask!"
"Nothing is too great to-day--ask away, boy, never fear!" The
barber looked towards Juanita to gain courage, and, seeing her
approving smile, fell on his knees and begged Juan to let him marry
her. "With all my heart, if the wench so will," replied the old man;
"I cannot see her wedded to an honester fellow!" Juan was not slow to
read in her eyes what her sentiments were, and so, without more ado,
he took the hand of each to place them in one another. But both drew
back. The barber, with all his charity and delicacy and taste, was
very ugly, and he could not believe in his good fortune; and Juanita
had one condition to lay down first. "How now! what's this?" said
the father. "Come, friend barber, explain yourself."
"Well, sir, I think it is but fair to give Juanita time to consider it
all. I know I'm not so good-looking as her husband ought to be. Long
ago should I have told her how I loved her but for this--but I dared
not! I longed to offer the 500 maravedis over and over again, but I
dared not speak to her; and now the joy is all so strange I feel I
must not hurry her."
"Well spoken, young man! but, Juanita, what do you hang back for?"
"I--I have one little condition to make;" and she turned to the
barber. "I have been thinking that we have not acted quite honestly
with the Corregidora. She has a superstition against wearing dead
people's hair, and she has paid honourably for that of a living
person--so what she has bought must be taken back to her. Moreover,
I recognize that all my life this hair has been a snare to me, and
whenever I have been led from the path of duty it has been by its
means--so I am resolved never to wear it again, and to be known in
future by no other name but that of Juanita the Bald! What say you,
are you content to marry me now?" The honest barber--perhaps on the
whole not very sorry for a stipulation which put them somewhat nearer
on a condition of equality in regard to personal appearance--only
answered by clasping her in his embrace.
"What! what is all this," fell in the old man, "about hair and the
Corregidora, and Juanita the--the Bald!--eh?" Then the barber was
obliged to explain to him the sacrifice Juanita had made, first to
obtain his cure, and again to her sense of honour, and her delicacy of
conscience. The old man was quite unnerved by the recital. At first
he was determined to resist her resolution; but his own mind was too
well regulated not to acknowledge on reflection that she had chosen
the good part.
Then, after blessing solemnly, both her and her betrothed, he
exclaimed, "Did I not choose rightly from among the three gifts?" (in
his humility he would not say rewards). "If I had chosen riches, they
would have burst the bag and run away. And if I had chosen power,
my retainers would have mocked my want of knowledge, and forsaken
me. But a daughter's love--what can compare with it?"
STARVING JOHN THE DOCTOR.
No one was ever more appropriately named than 'Starving John.' He had
nothing to live upon, yet he had a wife and a whole tribe of children
to support: how to feed them all he knew not; and as for himself it
was seldom enough he got a morsel to eat!
One day the cat caught a hare, and John's wife managed to take it from
him; and having made a savoury mess of it, she put it into a wallet
and said to John, "Here, take this hato [24]; it's a lucky taste of
something nice, such as you don't often get; and go out into the fields
with it before those sharks of children snatch it out of your mouth."
John, who was ready to die of hunger, didn't wait to be told twice,
but set off running as fast as his legs would carry him. At last he
came to an olive-grove; and there, making an easy-chair of a hollow
olive-tree, he sat down to eat his hare, as happy as a king.
Somehow however--he could never tell how--there suddenly stood before
him a dreadful old woman, all dressed in black: she had sunken eyes
as dull as a blown-out candle, or a lamp-wick when the oil fails;
her skin was as withered and yellow as a Simancas [25] parchment;
her mouth like a clothes-basket; and her nose I don't know how to
describe--for she had no nose at all to speak of.
"A pretty figure this to fall from heaven, like God's rain, on a poor
fellow!" said John to himself; but as he was polite and hospitable,
as a Spanish peasant always is, he nevertheless asked if she would
share his meal.
This was just what the old creature wanted; down she sat, and at
once attacked the hare. But it was not like ordinary eating, it was
regular devouring; and, en un decir tilin [26], she had stowed away
the whole mess between her heart and her shoulders!
John was too polite to grumble out aloud, but he said to himself,
"Why, the children had better have had the hare than this old hag! but
¡el que tiene mala fortuna nada le sale derecho [27]!"
When his visitor had finished her meal--not leaving so much as the
tail of the hare in the ollita [28]--she exclaimed, "Do you know,
John, your hare was very good!"
"So I see," said John, who could not repress a little bitterness. And
he added, ironically, in honour of her decrepit appearance, "¡viva
Usted mil años [29]!"
"So I shall," answered the hag; "I have lived many thousands already,
for I have to tell you I am no less a person than Death!"
John gave a start, and was like one struck dumb at this announcement.
"Don't be afraid, John," she continued, "I don't want to hurt you;
and what is more, as you have treated me so well, I'll give you a
good counsel in return. Make yourself a doctor--there's nothing like
it for making money!"
"I am much obliged to you, Mistress Death," answered John, very
respectfully, "but it will be quite return enough, if you'll promise
to leave me alone for a good number of years. As to being a doctor,
I've no notion how to set about it. I know neither Latin nor Greek;
I can't write because my hand is palsied; and I can't read because
I hate poring over those little black figures!"
"Go along with you, you silly fellow!" answered Mrs. Death; "you don't
suppose any of this is necessary? It's I who lead the doctors, not
they me. You are not such a goose as to think I go and come because
they hiss me or call me, are you? when I get tired of any one, I take
him by the ear and drag him off, doctor or no doctor. When the world
began there were no doctors, and men lived to a good old age. But
since they invented doctors there have been no more Methuselahs! You
make yourself a doctor, as I advise you; and if you are perverse
and obstinate, I'll carry you off with me, mas fijo que el reloj
[30]! Don't prate!" she added, as she saw he was going to urge some
objection; "this is all you have to do--when they call you into a
bed-room look out for me. If you see me standing at the head of the
bed, you'll know it's all up--you have only to say so, and they'll
find you're a wise prophet. If, on the other hand, you don't see me,
you have only to prescribe a dose of clean water, with any thing
harmless you like in it, and the sick person will recover."
With that the ugly old lady took herself off, courtesying like a
French dancing-mistress.
"I hope your worship won't forget, Mistress Death, what I asked
you!" John cried after her--"your worship won't visit me again for
a long time to come, eh?"
"Don't be afraid, John," she answered, as she disappeared, "until
your house crumbles to pieces you won't have a visit from me."
John returned home to his wife, and told her all that had happened;
and his wife, being sharper than he, determined to make use of
Mrs. Death's advice, and in spite of his remonstrances spread about
every where the news that her husband was a famous doctor--that he
had only to look at a patient to tell whether he would live or die.
All the neighbours, however, only laughed at the idea of Starving John
turning doctor in his old age, and called him "Don John" in ridicule.
One Sunday they went so far as to arrange a practical joke to show off
his ignorance. A number of girls were to sit round a basket of figs,
as they often did of a holiday afternoon in the fruit season, when,
all of a sudden, one of them was to give a terrible cry as if taken
ill, and some of the others were to carry her off to bed, while the
rest ran for Starving John the Doctor.
John had no great faith in Mrs. Death's promises, and was loath to
expose himself to the ridicule of the girls, but at his wife's urging
he went along with them, when, lo and behold, he no sooner entered the
room of the pretended patient, than he saw Mrs. Death herself standing
at the head of the bed! "The girl is very ill indeed--too ill for
me to save. She'll die before night!" pronounced John, in a knowing
tone. And he went home amid the laughter of the assembled neighbours,
who knew what the girls were playing at. But it so happened that the
unfortunate girl had been eating the fruit too freely--that she was
taken ill and died that very night!
As you will readily guess, this made Starving John's fortune.
Far or near, there was no patient slightly or dangerously ill to
whom he was not called; fees flowed in like rain. No longer was he
dressed in rags; his clothes were properly made by a tailor. Instead
of his pinched, woebegone look, his face grew as ruddy as the sun;
his withered hands, as smooth as pork-sausages; his shaking legs, as
firm as marble columns; and his empty stomach assumed dimensions to
vie with the dome of a church. For his children he bought honourable
employments, and badges of office to sew on in front, and keys [31]
to hang out behind.
But what he spared least of all was the money required to keep his
house in good repair. He even salaried a bricklayer, whose business
it was to see there was never so much as a tile loose, remembering
that Mrs. Death had said she would never come to visit him till his
house crumbled to pieces.
Years rolled by as John's fortune increased, but as prosperous years
always roll away--fast; and then came less fortunate years. First his
hair fell off, and then he lost his teeth; then his spine got curved
like a reaping-hook; and then he grew halt in one of his legs. One
day, when he was ill, Mrs. Death sent him a bat, with her compliments,
to inquire after him; but John didn't like the look of the creature,
and drove it away. After that he had a cough; and Mrs. Death sent
an owl, to say she would come and see him very soon, and John drove
him away too. After that he had a fit; and Mrs. Death sent a dog,
to give him to understand, by howling at his door, that she was on
her way, and John drove him away also. But he got ill for all that,
and then he got worse, and then Mrs. Death knocked at the door, so
John hobbled out of bed, and locked it and put up the bar; but Death
contrived to creep in under the door.
"Mrs. Death!" said John, indignantly, "this isn't fair. You told me
you wouldn't come so long as my house was not crumbling to pieces."
"Oh!" answered Death, "isn't your body your house--and hasn't that
been crumbling to pieces? Didn't your strength fail first, and then
your hair, and then your teeth, and then your limbs; haven't they
all been crumbling away?"
"I certainly didn't understand you so!" answered John, dolefully,
"and relying on your word, your coming now takes me by surprise."
"That is your fault, John," answered Death. "Men ought to be always
prepared for my coming, and then I should never take them by surprise."
RAMON THE DISCONTENTED.
Ramon was a discontented man. Instead of thanking Providence for
all the good gifts of earth, and the promise of the joys of heaven,
he was always repining at the hardships of his life, and finding out
one thing after another to grumble at. Work he specially objected
to. He wanted a cottage, and a pig, and a stock of poultry, and a
vine, and a wife, a smoking cazuela [32], and plenty of tobacco; but
when it came to working to pay for them, then it was quite another
story. He was an only son; his hard-working parents had spoilt him
by letting him have his own way, supplying him with all he wanted out
of their own earnings; and so he grew up idle and apathetic, finding
fault with fate, instead of putting his shoulder to the wheel: "Estan
las cosas en este mundo como cuernos en un costal--todas de punta"
was a favourite proverb of his, meaning that the events of this life
are like packing horns into a bag, the points of those first put in
are always making their way through and obstructing the others. And
indeed, if people indulge a discontented disposition, every thing
must go wrong with them.
Strange, that any one can find pleasure in such an ugly habit as
grumbling. Ramon had been made by nature a good-looking boy; but a
sour, gloomy expression soon superseded the engaging smile of youth;
and as he had never a pleasant word, his society was gradually shunned
by all the village. The last to give him up was Carmen, the bright
little playmate of his childhood, but he wore out even her patience,
and then, when he was left to himself, he grew more and more sour
and morose.
In the meantime, his good old father and mother had died, and for a
time he had been living on the savings they had left him; but this
was soon at an end, and hunger forced home the reflection, "What was
to become of him?" Then every thing seemed gloomier than ever before
even--he sat down to think under the old patriarchal vine, which had
shaded his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather
before him; but the fierce sun came through the withered branches and
maddened him. He had neglected to tend it, and it had no shelter for
him. Instead of blaming his own neglect, he turned with an imprecation
upon the vine, and his ill-humour overflowed on to the old house,
against the wall of which he leant and which was also crumbling to
decay because he had left it without repair; and upon Carmen, whose
patience he had wearied, and upon fortune, whose gifts he had left
waste. And in his fury he said that he would die. "Die!" echoed a
little leaf of the withered vine, as it fell rustling past him, "You
can't die when you will, you must fulfil the work God has set you,
whatever it be."
"Work! I will do no work. I will die!" he answered fiercely.
"You cannot die when you will!" whispered another rustling leaf.
"We shall see!" said Ramon; and with that he took up the rope of the
well, and, stalking wildly upstairs, he deliberately made a noose,
into which he inserted his throat, tied one end over a beam in the
loft, and placed himself on an old chest, ready to jump off and so
swing tight the fatal knot which was to end his days.
He shut his eyes, and took a desperate leap ... but ... instead of
drawing the noose tight, the beam above broke in twain, and the two
ends came with him to the ground. He had scarcely recovered from one
surprise, when he had to encounter another. On each side of him a
stream of golden coins came running through the broken ends of the
hollowed beam. What a sight for a lazy, self-indulgent man! Ramon
thought no more of hanging now. He untied the knot, gathered up the
gold, and secured it in chests and hiding-places, and came down to
enjoy himself once more in his old idle way.
He trod on a dry leaf of the old vine, as he passed through the garden,
and it whispered,--
"What a chance for you, Ramon! Buy yourself a patch of land, and set
to work like a man, and show Carmen you are worthy of her."
"Work! while I have gold enough to last for ever? Not I, indeed!"
"It won't last for ever, Ramon," rustled out another falling leaf.
But Ramon heeded not. Some of his treasure he spent rationally enough,
I must say, in having the old cottage repaired, and the old vine
tended; but the bulk he squandered in excesses, and in a few years
was as badly off as ever.
Want once more stared him in the face, and once more he resolved to
put an end to his existence.
"You are not fit to die!" said the patriarchal vine; but Ramon hastened
away, he had not the courage to encounter the dreadful thought.
He snatched up a rusty, disused spade--he was out of conceit with
hanging. This time he would dig a deep hole in the ground, and thrust
himself in head foremost, and stifle himself that way.
Digging was hard work for arms so unused to labour, but he had never
thought to find it so hard as it proved. He had not taken out a dozen
spadefuls when the spade seemed to refuse to enter the ground any
more. Had his arms grown so stiff they could not move? Or was the
earth so hard he could not break it?
The evening breeze rustled by, bearing with it some leaves of the
old vine; and as they passed they whispered,--
"You can't die when you will, Ramon! Only be content to work as hard as
now in a good cause, and you won't want to die till your time comes."
Provoked into energy by what he considered a taunt, instead of being
softened by the fatherly counsel, he made one more desperate thrust
of the spade into the hole. Instead of entering deeper, its rusty
pan broke short off, but with a sound which showed him it had struck
against something made of metal; and putting his hand down to the
place whence the sound came, he distinctly made out the shape of a
copper vessel.
Here was a discovery which gave him a presentiment of another chance
of good fortune. Partly with the broken spade and partly with his
own hands, he succeeded in tearing up the soil around, and bringing
to light a large jar heavy enough to be full of gold; and so it proved.
Thus provided with means, Ramon once more commenced a new lease of
his dissipated life.
"Take my advice," said the old vine, "and put your treasure in
something that will last, this time."
This was too much trouble for Ramon. He went on in his old reckless
way, spending and taking no heed.
But during all the years of neglect, the brambles had overgrown his
ground; and his uncultivated place afforded a cover for idlers and
vagabonds. So it happened that when he was making one of his nightly
visits to his treasure he was overlooked, and, as you may readily
imagine, by the next occasion the treasure was gone.
His rage at this discovery was unbounded: he resolved now once for
all to have done with life, and let nothing interfere to prevent him.
As he lay in bed that night, he contrived a plan to prevent all
possibility of escape, and with the first rays of the morning sun he
sallied out fully equipped.
He bore a rope and a blunderbuss, and he bent his steps to a crag which
overhung the sea, where he had marked a tree whose branches spread over
the briny waves. Tying his cord to a branch, he held his blunderbuss
ready to blow out his brains if the noose was too slack, while, if the
rope should break, he would at least have a good chance of drowning.
Off he leapt with the rope round his neck; but the noose did not draw
itself tight. Faithful to his plan, he pulled the rusty trigger, but,
like every thing else belonging to Ramon, the gun was out of order,
and didn't go off; but as he hung struggling in the air the old
well-rope broke, and down he fell splashing into the sea. There was
no easy drowning for him, however; the water was not so deep as he
had imagined, and he was left floundering in the waves, and bruised
about among the sunken rocks.
Ramon had no fortitude; at each bump he could not restrain an
exclamation of pain, and the distressful cries attracted the attention
of no less a person than Carmen, who was gathering esparto grass [33]
on the wild coast at no great distance.
All her former womanly compassion returned when she saw her poor
Ramon in suffering and distress. Without an instant's hesitation,
she caught up a hank of strong esparto rope, which she used to tie
up her bundles, and hurried to the water's edge. Making one end of
it fast to a rock, with the vigorous exertion of an arm strengthened
by labour and directed by intelligence and affection, she contrived
to throw the other end within reach of his grasp.
Ramon, who by this time had been long enough within sight of the
terrors of death to feel his wish to encounter it considerably
cooled, no sooner saw who was steadying the line, than he felt all
the love of life which is implanted in the heart of man revive with
its full vigour.
He caught the rope and twisted it round his arm, and with its aid
breasted the breakers. By the time he reached the shore, however,
the exhaustion consequent on so much excitement and exertion overcame
him so completely, that every remaining spark of ill-will in Carmen's
bosom was extinguished, and her only thought was how to restore him
to strength.
Her exertions were blessed with success, and his weakness found scope
for all her womanly sympathies, while her tender care roused all
the better qualities of his nature into action. Her smile mingled
with the visions of his feeble state, and warmed all his prospects
of the future.
When he dreamt of the dreary old house and its haunting associations
with the guilty past, he fancied he saw the sunny halo of her presence
dispelling all its gloomy phantasms, and her playful innocence
silencing even the convicting warnings of the stern old vine. Shared
with her, even labour seemed to lose its repugnance.
As soon as he was well enough, he opened to her his resolutions full of
repentance, which, with a woman's instinct, she was forward to foster.
You will be pleased to hear that after all these lessons, crowned
by Carmen's winning confidence in his promised amendment, Ramon set
himself seriously to follow a new line of conduct. Carmen showed her
faith in his penitence by marrying him, and he took honest care that
she should never repent her generosity.
The old cottage once more looked homely and inviting; and in the
summer evening, when Ramon and Carmen sat resting beneath the shadow of
the old vine, now sturdy and fruitful under the culture it received,
and watching the gambols of a troop of chiquillos [34] whom God had
given them, the leaves, as they fell rustling about them, whispered
playfully in Ramon's ear, "You don't want to die now?" And Ramon in
revenge plucked a bunch of ruddy grapes, and distributed it among
the happy party.
THE BALLAD-MAKER AND THE BOOT-MAKER.
There was a minstrel who went travelling about the country from time to
time singing sweet songs which people loved to hear. His music was not
like the music of the Spanish people, for he came from the kingdom of
Provence, and every one thronged to hear the strange sweet melody. And
when he had passed on, and there was no one left to sing as he sang,
people tried to remember his words and his tones, and to sing like him.
At one of the towns where he passed there was a boot-maker, who, as he
sat all day alone at his last, diverted himself with singing; and as he
had sung a good deal, he thought he could sing very well. He was much
delighted with the minstrel's songs, caught up a good many of them,
and never tired of singing them--after his fashion. But from being
quite ignorant both of music and of the Provençal language, he made,
as we should say, a great mess of it. Yet, as the people knew no more
about it than himself, they were very well pleased to listen to him.
So, a long time after, when the Provençal minstrel came back that
way, they would not admit him, but cried out, "We have one of our
own people who sings your songs for us as well as you, and we need
no Frenchman here."
Now the minstrel was one greatly devoted to his art, he did not
merely sing for sordid gain; so instead of being angry because he
was supplanted, he was really pleased to hear that the people in that
far-off town had learnt the language and melody of his dear Provence;
and he said he would hear the boot-maker himself.
Imagine how great was his annoyance and mortification, when he heard
the beautiful ballads lamed and spoilt by the rude, unlearned attempts
of the boot-maker!
"Is it possible," he said, "that this man has been deluding all
the people into the idea that what he sings is like my songs? And
how can I prevent his going on keeping them under this error?" Then
he bethought him what to do. He went by night to the boot-maker's
workshop, and putting all the wrong pieces of leather together,
he sewed them up into all sorts of foolish, useless shapes.
When daylight returned, and the boot-maker came to his work, he was in
a great fury at what was done, and began shouting to the neighbours to
come and avenge him, for the Frenchman had spoilt all his work. Then
they all came running helter-skelter to exercise summary justice on
the minstrel.
But the minstrel stood up and confronted them, and said, "Good
people! first hear me. This man is a maker of boots and I am a maker
of ballads. True I have spoilt his boots, I do not deny it; but he
first spoilt my ballads: what I have done is but fair. If you will
hear us sing one after the other, you will yourselves give judgment in
my favour." So the people told the boot-maker to stand up and sing,
which he did in his clumsy droning way, with plenty of false notes
and mispronunciations. After him the minstrel stood up and warbled his
song in tones so soft and sweet, that the people wondered how they ever
could have listened to the other, and with one voice they cried out,
"The minstrel is right! The minstrel is right!"
Then the minstrel, who bore no malice, and had only acted out of
love for his art, repaid the boot-maker amply for all the damage to
his leather, but took a promise of him that he would never sing his
songs again.
EL CLAVEL [35].
The carnation is the flower of predilection of the Andalusian
peasant. His cottage does not seem like home without its scent; nor
is the maiden's toilet complete without one of its glorious blossoms
placed behind her ear, in the ebon setting of her massive hair-braids:
it is the token of gladness in their festivals; of love, where coyly
offered with a trembling hand. The people sing of its perfections
and its meaning in a thousand little ditties.
Among all the trees of the wood
The laurel bears questionless sway.
What maid can compete with my Anna?
What flower, with carnations, I pray [36]?
They always speak of it, thus, as only next in order to female beauty,
and the amorous swain is continually raising the comparison.
To January's biting frost
No carnation trusts its charms,
The tints that Heav'n thy cheeks has given,
Are dyed ingrain and fear no harms [37],
he sings; or perhaps,--
My carnation was raising a plaint,
I ask'd it to tell me its grief,
And it said that thy lips were so fair,
Of their charms it would e'en be the thief [38].
The one his fair has given him he declares binds him to her for ever.
The carnation which thou gav'st me,
On holy Thursday last,
Was no flower, but a fetter
To bind me to thee fast [39].
The one she nurtures he watches as a token of all that is dearest
and most beautiful in her.
My maid has a fav'rite carnation
Which she watches both early and late;
I give it a kiss on its petals,
Whenever I pass by her gate [40].
And she in her turn guards her charge with a jealous eye.
A ruddy carnation have I,
But I keep it secure from the cold,
And I shade off the gaze of the sun,
Lest it tarnish, if he were too bold [41].
Such a carnation was once thus tended by a poor village girl: it had
grown up and blossomed and put forth its deep, rich hues under her
care, though she was so poor that she had nothing to grow it in but
a broken olla [42]. Nevertheless when she thought of the happy day
when it should become a love-token to one worthy of her, she took
such care of it, covering it up when the sun was too hot, watering
it with water from the purest spring, sheltering it from the wind,
bringing it into her room to guard through the night, lest any evil
should befall it, that never carnation flourished so gloriously;
it was her only flower, the object of her whole care.
One day there came into the garden a maja [43] in her gala
costume. According to the pretty Andalusian custom, she carried a
bunch of bright, sparkling flowers twisted into her raven hair behind
her left ear.
"Ah!" cried the handsome carnation from the depths of its broken olla,
"why should it not be my lot to adorn the head of this lovely creature,
instead of being abandoned to the care of a penniless peasant?"
The maja smiled, and passed round the garden two or three times,
to see if the carnation persisted in his idea. Every time her black
veil caught, as she passed, in the sharp edge of the broken pipkin,
the carnation wafted a soft sigh,--
"Ah, why was I not born to adorn that shining hair?"
The maja deferred no longer to fulfil his wish: throwing the bunch of
showy flowers on to the ground, she plucked the carnation and plaited
it into her hair.
Right proud was the carnation to find himself thus grandly enthroned;
far too proud to have a thought of compassion for the other flowers
cast away for his sake; too triumphant even to smart under the puncture
of the hair-pin which fixed him on the maja's head. Many a scornful
glance he cast at the broken olla which had been his nursery, and
the cot of the lowly child who had nurtured him.
Thus he was borne about, displaying his beautiful hues in the sun,
and charming every one with his perfume all day. Then night came:
the maja stood at her reja [44], looking out for her serenader. He
came at last, and brought in his hand a beautiful white rose; the
maja stretched out her hand to receive it with delight; with loud
and joyous thanks she placed it on her head, flinging the hapless
carnation from her without a thought.
Instead of blooming on his lordly stalk as at the first, the pride
and pet of the peasant maid, he was soon trampled to atoms by a drove
of pigs, passing on their way to market!
THE ILL-TEMPERED PRINCESS.
There was once a poor young knight, and he went out into the world,
to seek adventures and do knightly deeds. As he went, he met a man
standing in front of a long narrow tunnel in a rock, and blowing
through it with his cheeks stretched like two ripe pomegranates,
to whom the knight called out, "Halloa! fellow, what do you do there?"
And the man made reply, "Disturb me not, your worship, for with my
breath I am turning five hundred and thirty-two mills."
So the knight asked, "Then who are you?"
And the man made answer, "I am Blowo, son of Blowon [45], the good
blower."
Then the knight said, "Will you come out with me to seek fortune?"
And the man made answer, "Your worship is not readier to ask than
I to accept, for I am tired enough of blowing." So he gave one more
good strong blow, enough to set the mills twirling for a long time,
and walked on behind the knight.
A little farther along they came upon a man toiling up the hill-side,
with a load of a hundred and thirty-two hundred-weight upon his back.
To whom the knight called out, "Halloa! man, you carry more than a
waggon with two yoke of oxen! Who are you?"
And the man made answer, "I am Porto, son of Porton, the strong
porter."
Then the knight said, "Will you come out with me to seek fortune?"
And the man made answer, "Your worship is not more ready to ask,
than I to accept, for I am weary of this burden." So he laid the
weight down by the road-side, and walked along behind the knight.
A little farther on they came to a long stretch where the road was
very straight, and by the side a man walked up and down twisting a
rope, to whom the knight cried out,--
"Halloa! fellow, what do you there? and who are you?"
And the man made answer, "I am Ropo, son of Ropon, the cunning
rope-maker, and I make ropes which none can break."
Then the knight said, "Will you come out with me to seek fortune?"
And the man made answer, "Your worship is not more ready to ask than
I to accept, for I am weary of twisting this rope." So he left there
his rope by the road-side, and walked along behind the knight.
A little farther on they came upon a man crouched down by the way-side.
To whom the knight called out, "Halloa! fellow, what do you there? and
who are you?"
And the man made answer, "I am Listeno, son of Listenon, the ready
listener."
So the knight said, "What are you listening for?"
And the man made answer, "Blowo has left off turning the mills, and
I am listening for the wind to come down from the mountains of Burgos."
"Fellow! the mountains of Burgos are a hundred leagues off."
"What does that signify, if my hearing reaches as far?"
Then the knight said, "Will you come along with me and seek fortune?"
And the man made answer, "Your worship is not more ready to ask than
I to accept, for I am weary of straining my ears." So he set up three
flags, that all the country might know the wind would be there in
three days, and walked along behind the knight.
Then, after three days' journey, they came in sight of a magnificent
castle, extending half a mile every way over the top of a mountain,
but all desolate and in ruins; and the way up to it was overgrown
with interlacing brambles and briars, so that they could hardly pass
through. Then to increase their difficulty, a heavy storm came on,
which would soon have wetted them through; but Blowo cried out,--
"Never fear, your worship; for I will soon clear the air."
So he blew a mighty blast, and sent all the big thunder-clouds
travelling back to the Sierra; and they went on toiling up the brake.
When they came up to the castle, they found there was no door or
opening, nor any way in. Porto, Ropo, Listeno, and Blowo wanted to
give up the attempt, and pass on farther; but the knight would not
hear of abandoning the adventure.
"If your worship is so determined," said Porto, "I'll open a way
for you."
So he broke off a huge piece of rock as big as two men, and, standing
a hundred yards off, he flung it against the wall, with a noise that
could be heard a hundred miles off. The wall trembled and clattered;
but it was held together by a stronger than human power, and all
Porto's great strength could produce no effect on it.
"Let us go away from here, Master," pleaded Ropo, "this is no place
for us. There is something wrong about this place; and the blessing
of God is not here."
"No," replied the knight, "we will first learn all about it; there
may be work for us."
So they continued walking round the walls to see where they might
effect an entrance, and all to no purpose. By and by Listeno
exclaimed, "I hear some one cry;" and they all listened, but could
hear nothing. So Listeno made them follow him in the direction whence
the sound proceeded till at last they were near enough for the others
to hear the sound also; and they went on following it up, till they
came to the mouth of a great well all grown over with climbing-plants;
when they had cleared these away, the hole looked so black and deep,
it seemed as if it went down to the centre of the earth, and up the
shaft there came sounds of a woman's wailing, so loud and pitiful,
they were all moved to pity, and anxious to run to the relief of the
distressed person; but there was no means of telling how to reach
the bottom. Then Ropo came forward, and said, "We will all go abroad,
and gather five thousand bundles of esparto, and palmito [46] grass,
and all five shall set to work to make a long rope; and with that we
will reach the bottom."
So said, so done. They gathered five thousand bundles of esparto, and
palmito grass, and they all five set to work under Ropo's directions
and twisted away at the rope; and now and then they tied a fragment of
rock to the end and let it down, to see if it reached the bottom. They
went on thus for five years, and at last it splashed the water, and
when they let it down again it sounded on the rock, and they found
only a few feet of the rope was wet, for the water was not deep.
Then Listeno put his ear to the top and told them it was not standing
water, but that a brook ran through, along the bottom of the cave. As
they were twisting the rope, they talked away about the great deeds
each would do; and each had a conjecture as to what they might find at
the bottom of the well. They all thought they should find a treasure,
and Porto said he would take it up on his shoulders and carry it home
for them, though it should weigh as much as all the lead of the Sierra
Almagrera [47].
But when the rope was finished, and it was a question of who should
go down, not one of the knight's followers, though they had been
boasting so loudly before, would venture down into the well. So the
knight laughed, and said he was not afraid; and one end of the rope
having been lashed tightly to a rock, the four followers undertook
to pay it out steadily, and down the knight descended into the black,
gloomy depth.
Day and night he went on steadily descending for three days and
three nights, and at the end he came into the water. It was not more
than breast high, so he waded through it for several yards till he
came to a place where the bank widened sufficiently for him to get
out and walk along it; and then he came to some trees, and through
the trees was an open space lighted by a lurid light which came
from a deeper cave. On a sloping bank, covered with shining grass
and strange flowers, lay a beautiful princess all dressed in white,
and decked with shining jewels; and as she lay, she moaned and cried
and prayed for deliverance. So the knight was hastening towards her,
and drew his sword to cut the bonds which confined her, but at that
instant up started a fierce demon whom he had not observed before,
as he lay coiled up at the mouth of the cave.
"Not so fast, fine caballero!" he cried, "for she is mine, and you will
have to fight me before you can touch her." The knight disregarded
the menace, and continued his way towards the princess, but the air
was stiff all around him--though he could see no hindrance, he found
he could not make any way towards her.
"Ha! ha!" roared the demon, "my fine caballero, you'll find you will
have to do with me at last!"
"And who are you?" shouted the baffled knight, "and what is this
beautiful princess to you?"
"I am bound to answer the knight who asks that question," answered
the demon, "or it is little you would have learnt from me. Know,
then, that this princess was the only daughter of King Euríc, to
whom belonged all the country as far as eye can see; and she would
have succeeded to his kingdom, but her temper was so violent, no one
could bear with her. Upon the least contradiction she would order a
subject to be executed; and her arbitrary conduct was continually
involving the kingdom in discontent and trouble. Her father, who
tenderly loved her, used to coax her and use every endeavour to
soften her, but with no avail. At last, one day she provoked him so
sore that in his anger he exclaimed, 'Go to the horned one!' When I
heard myself called, I hastened to seize her, but, notwithstanding
all my speed, before I could arrive he had revoked the curse, and
so I was tricked out of her. This happened several times, but each
time fatherly fondness was quicker than my utmost haste. At last,
a day came when she excited him greatly, and he said again, 'Go to
the horned one!' and before he could recall the words that time,
he had fallen down a lifeless corpse. So now she is mine, and mine
she must remain till some knight will win her in arms from me, and
marry her, and restore her to her castle and her kingdom."
"That will I!" said the knight stoutly; for though he feared the
lady's violent temper after what he had heard, his devotion to chivalry
bound him to use his best endeavours to deliver her.
Accordingly he drew his sword, and called to the demon to come
on. "Remember one thing," said the demon, "if you should win her,
she is yours for ever; I take her back no more."
Meantime, Listeno, at the top of the well, had been reporting to
his companions all that he heard going on below, and their curiosity
getting the better of their fears, they let themselves down by the
rope, and all four arrived in time to witness the terrible contest.
Never was such a fight seen in this world as that between this
knight and the demon; and at last the knight cut off the demon's
ear. No tongue could describe the demon's rage at finding his ear in
possession of a mortal.
"Give me my ear!" he cried in tones so sharp that they almost stunned
Listeno's sensitive hearing powers.
"Never," replied the knight, "or at least not without a heavy
ransom. In the first place I exact that without further ado you
reinstate the Princess in her castle and all her power." The demon
stamped and raged, but the knight was firm. The demon was ashamed to
go home without his ear, so he thought it best to comply.
The Princess was restored to her throne, the castle was restored to
its strength, the garrison was restored to the ramparts, the servants
were restored to the halls. The knight married the princess; great
rejoicings and festivities were celebrated, and to his four followers
were given places of trust and consequence in the palace.
The demon often came to beg for his ear, but the knight felt that at
some time or other he might have need of him, so he would not lose
his hold over him.
For a time all went well enough, but by little and little the Princess
forgot her years of adversity and the debt she owed the knight: she
grew more and more wilful, and before a year was out she had become so
violent again, that he grew weary of his life, and declared he could
no longer endure the continual turmoil. Remonstrance and coaxing were
alike unheeded, and it was vain that he tried her father's remedy,
for the demon had sworn never to take her back.
In this strait Porto reminded him of the ear he held in hostage,
adding, "I will take it upon myself to deliver you of her." So putting
the bottle of brine in which the ear was kept into his pocket, he
swung the Princess over his shoulder, and all her struggling was
useless against "the son of the strong porter."
Thus laden he went to find out the demon. "You are to take back this
princess, she is only fit for your company," he said, when he had
found him.
"Not I!" answered the demon, grinning: "I told your master when he
would have her he must take her for good and all."
"Do you know this ear?" then asked Porto, showing him the bottle.
The demon clutched at it.
"Not so fast!" cried Porto. "If you want to have it back, this is my
master's condition: you must take back the princess along with it."
So, crest-fallen and glad to get his ear back on any condition,
the demon accepted the bargain as it was dictated to him; and the
princess who could not command her temper never found another knight
to deliver her.
THE HERMIT AND THE FIG-TREE.
There was an old man of Toledo who had one son, whom he brought up
in the fear of God. Now it happened that this old man had to go to
a distant town of Estramadura, to receive some money of a creditor,
and the creditor dying, his heirs disputed the debt, and drove the
old man to a lawsuit which kept him absent many years. When at last
the suit was just decided in his favour, the old man fell ill and
died. Meantime the son, growing uneasy at his father's prolonged
absence, arranged his affairs as well as he could, and prepared to take
the journey to see after him. Calling in his three clerks, Jacinto,
Gonzalo, and Diego, who were all men whom his father trusted, and
whom he therefore respected, he divided his property in three parts,
and to each he gave charge of one part, leaving it to each to do the
best he could for him, saying, "The wisdom of your grey hairs will
do better for me than any instructions my inexperience could give you."
"If the Lord bless it, it shall increase; and if He curse it, it shall
not prosper," answered Jacinto, the eldest; "behold I am nothing in
the matter;" and he shook his venerable head, and raised his eyes
to heaven.
"Whatever I have done for your father I will continue to do for you,"
said Gonzalo, the second in order, and hurried back to his papers as
if it was wrong to waste a moment in talking.
"I will endeavour that you shall have nothing to complain of,"
quietly replied Diego, the third.
The young man was pleased with what they said, and without further
loss of time set out on his journey.
The weather was fair, and his father's friends by the way received
him hospitably; but crossing the Sierra [48], a violent storm came
on, and he would soon have been drenched with rain. Right glad he
was to see, perched on the mountain-ledge, a hermit's cell, where he
readily found shelter. In the morning, when the sky was serene again,
he rose to take his leave; and as he stood on the threshold thanking
the hermit for his care of him, he could not forbear pausing to
admire the beauties around him. Far away stretched the plains below,
studded with smiling cities and watered by the mazy windings of the
rivers, and shaded by dark groves of ancient cork-trees; behind him
were rocky heights reaching to the sky, presenting every degree of
rich vegetation and solemn barrenness. But what attracted his sight
most of all was a luxuriant plantation of fig-trees, which made a
complete bower of the hermit's cell.
"How successful you are with your fig-trees!" said the traveller; "I
never saw so fine a show. You have three, one as fine as the other--it
is impossible to say which of them is most flourishing; and to judge by
the fruit you gave me, which doubtless is their produce, they are the
finest trees in Spain, and that is saying a great deal. I must add too,
after your liberality with them, that you put to shame the proverb,--
"En tiempo de higos
No hay amigos [49]."
"For what you say of the proverb, son," replied the hermit, "I have
no merit, for it is the very essence of my rule of life to call
nothing my own, according to our Lord's counsel. These figs are
the gift of God, to me, or to you
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