الفصل الفصل 11 · THE ILLUSTRIOUS SCULLERY-MAID

In the famous city of Burgos there lived two wealthy cavaliers, one of

whom was called Don Diego de Carriazo, and the other Don Juan de

Avendaño. Don Diego had a son called after himself, and Don Juan

another, whose name was Don Tomas de Avendaño. These two young gentlemen

being the principal persons of the following tale, we shall for the sake

of brevity call them Carriazo and Avendaño.

Carriazo might be about thirteen or little more, when, prompted by a

scampish disposition, without having had any cause to complain of bad

treatment at home, he ran away from his father's house, and cast himself

upon the wide world. So much did he enjoy a life of unrestricted

freedom, that amidst all the wants and discomforts attendant upon it, he

never missed the plenty of his father's house. He neither tired of

trudging on foot, nor cared for cold or heat. For him all seasons of the

year were genial spring. His sleep was as sound on a heap of straw as on

soft mattresses, and he made himself as snug in a hayloft as between two

Holland sheets. In short, he made such way in the profession he had

chosen, that he could have given lessons to the famous Guzman de

Alfarache.

During the three years he absented himself from home, he learned to play

at sheepshanks in Madrid, at _rentoy_ in the public-houses of Toledo,

and at _presa y pinta_ in the barbacans of Seville. In spite of the

sordid penury of his way of life, Carriazo showed himself a prince in

his actions. It was easy to see by a thousand tokens that he came of

gentle blood. His generosity gained him the esteem of all his comrades.

He seldom was present at drinking bouts; and though he drank wine, it

was in moderation, and he carried it well. He was not one of those

unlucky drinkers, who whenever they exceed a little, show it immediately

in their faces, which look as if they were painted with vermilion or red

ochre. In short, the world beheld in Carriazo a virtuous, honourable,

well-bred, rogue, of more than common ability. He passed through all

the degrees of roguery till he graduated as a master in the tunny

fisheries of Zahara, the chief school of the art. O kitchen-walloping

rogues, fat and shining with grease; feigned cripples; cutpurses of

Zocodober and of the Plaza of Madrid; sanctimonious patterers of

prayers; Seville porters; bullies of the Hampa, and all the countless

host comprised under the denomination of rogues! never presume to call

yourself by that name if you have not gone through two courses, at

least, in the academy of the tunny fisheries. There it is that you may

see converging as it were in one grand focus, toil and idleness, filth

and spruceness, sharp set hunger and lavish plenty, vice without

disguise, incessant gambling, brawls and quarrels every hour in the day,

murders every now and then, ribaldry and obscenity, singing, dancing,

laughing, swearing, cheating, and thieving without end. There many a man

of quality seeks for his truant son, nor seeks in vain; and the youth

feels as acutely the pain of being torn from that life of licence as

though he were going to meet his death. But this joyous life has its

bitters as well as its sweets. No one can lie down to sleep securely in

Zahara, but must always have the dread hanging over him of being carried

off to Barbary at any moment. For this reason, they all withdraw at

night into some fortified places on the coast, and place scouts and

sentinels to watch whilst they sleep; but in spite of all precautions,

it has sometimes happened that scouts, sentinels, rogues, overseers,

boats, nets, and all the posse comitatus of the place have begun the

night in Spain and have seen the dawn in Tetuan. No apprehensions of

this kind, however, could deter Carriazo from spending three successive

summers at the fisheries for his pastime; and such was his luck during

his third season, that he won at cards about seven hundred reals, with

which he resolved to buy himself good clothes, return to Burgos, and

gladden the heart of his sorrowing mother.

He took a most affectionate leave of his many dear friends, assuring

them that nothing but sickness or death should prevent his being with

them in the following summer; for his heart was in Zahara, and to his

eyes its parched sands were fresher than all the verdure of the Elysian

fields. Ambling merrily along on shanks' mare, he arrived at Valladolid,

where he stopped a fortnight to get rid of the mahogany hue of his

complexion, and to change his rogue's costume for that of a gentleman.

Having equipped himself properly, he had still a hundred reals left,

which he spent on the hire of a mule and a servant, that he might make a

good figure when he presented himself to his parents. They received him

with the utmost joy, and all the friends and relations of the family

came to congratulate them on the safe arrival of their son Don Diego de

Carriazo. I had forgotten to mention that, during his peregrination, Don

Diego had taken the name of Vidiales, and by that name alone he was

known to his new acquaintances.

Among those who came to see the new arrival were Don Juan de Avendaño

and his son Don Tomas, with the latter of whom, as they were both of the

same age and neighbours, Carriazo contracted a very close friendship.

Carriazo gave his parents a long and circumstantial account of all the

fine things he had seen and done during the three years he had been from

home, in all which there was not one word of truth; but he never so much

as hinted at the tunny fisheries, though they were constantly in his

thoughts, more especially as the time approached in which he had

promised his friends he would return to them. He took no pleasure in the

chase, with which his father sought often to divert him, nor in any of

the convivial meetings of that hospitable city. All kinds of amusements

wearied him, and the best enjoyments that could be offered to him were

not to be compared, he thought, with those he had known at the tunny

fisheries. His friend Avendaño, finding him often melancholy and musing,

ventured to inquire after the cause, at the same time professing his

readiness to assist his friend in any way that might be requisite, and

to the utmost of his power, even at the cost of his blood. Carriazo felt

that it would be wronging the great friendship subsisting between him

and Avendaño if he concealed from the latter the cause of his present

sadness; and therefore he described to him in detail the life he had led

at Zahara, and declared that all his gloom arose from his strong desire

to be there once more. So attractive was the picture he drew, that

Avendaño, far from blaming his taste, expressed his entire sympathy with

it. The end of the matter was that Avendaño determined to go off with

Carriazo, and enjoy for one summer that delicious life of which he had

just heard such a glowing description; and in this determination he was

strongly encouraged to persist by Carriazo, who was glad to be so

countenanced in his own low propensities. They set their wits to work to

see how they could scrape together as much money as possible, and the

best means that occurred to them was that suggested by Avendaño's

approaching departure for Salamanca, where he had already studied for

three years, and where his father wished him to complete his education,

and take a degree in whatever faculty he pleased. Carriazo now made

known to his father that he had a strong desire to go with Avendaño and

study at Salamanca. Don Diego gladly fell in with his son's proposal; he

talked with his friend Don Juan on the subject, and it was agreed

between them that the two young men should reside together at Salamanca,

and be sent thither well supplied with all requisites, and in a manner

suitable to the sons of men of quality.

The time for their departure being arrived, they were furnished with

money, and with a tutor who was more remarkable for integrity than for

mother wit. Their fathers talked much and impressively to their sons

about what they should do, and how they should govern themselves, in

order that they might become fraught with virtue and knowledge, for that

is the fruit which every student should aspire to reap from his labours

and his vigils, especially such as are of good family. The sons were all

humility and obedience; their mothers cried; both parents gave them

their blessing, and away they went, mounted on their own mules, and

attended by two servants of their respective households, besides the

tutor, who had let his beard grow, to give him a more imposing air of

gravity, as became his charge.

When they arrived at Valladolid, they told their tutor they should like

to remain there a couple of days to see the city, having never been in

it before. The tutor severely reprimanded them for entertaining any such

idle notion, telling them they had no time to lose in silly diversions;

that their business was to get as fast as possible to the place where

they were to pursue their studies; that he should be doing extreme

violence to his conscience if he allowed them to stop for one hour, not

to speak of two days; that they should continue their journey forthwith,

or, if not, then brown bread should be their portion.

Such was the extent of the ability in his office possessed by this

tutor, or major-domo, as we should rather call him. The lads, who had

already gathered in their harvest, since they had laid hands upon four

hundred gold crowns which were in the major-domo's keeping, begged that

he would let them remain in Valladolid for that day only, that they

might see the grand aqueducts, which were then in course of

construction, for the purpose of conveying the waters of Argales to that

city. He consented at last, but with extreme reluctance, for he wished

to avoid the expense of an additional day on the road, and to spend the

night at Valdiastellas, whence he could easily reach Salamanca in two

days. But the bay horse thinks one thing, and the man on his back

another thing, and so it proved in the major-domo's case. The lads,

mounted on two excellent mules, and attended by only one servant, rode

out to see the fountain of Argales, famous for its antiquity and the

abundance of its water. On their arrival there, Avendaño gave the

servant a sealed paper, bidding him return forthwith to the city, and

deliver it to his tutor, after which the servant was to wait for them at

the Puerta del Campo. The servant did as he was bid, and went back to

the city with the letter; and they, turning their mules' heads another

way, slept that night in Mojados, and arrived two days afterwards in

Madrid, where they sold their mules.

They dressed themselves like peasants in short jerkins, loose breeches,

and gray stockings. An old clothes dealer, to whom they sold their

handsome apparel in the morning, transformed them by night in such a

manner that their own mothers would not have known them. Lightly

equipped, as suited their purpose, and without swords, for they had sold

them to the old clothes dealer, they took to the road to Toledo. There

let us leave them for the present, stepping out briskly with merry

hearts, while we return to the tutor, and see him open the letter

delivered to him by the servant, which he read as follows:--

"Your worship, señor Pedro Alonso, will be pleased to have patience and

go back to Burgos, where you will say to our parents that we, their

sons, having with mature deliberation considered how much more arms

befit cavaliers than do letters, have determined to exchange Salamanca

for Brussels, and Spain for Flanders. We have got the four hundred

crowns; the mules we intend to sell. The course we have chosen, which is

so worthy of persons of our quality, and the length of the journey

before us, are sufficient to excuse our fault, though a fault it will

not be deemed by any one but a coward. Our departure takes place now;

our return will be when it shall please God, to whose keeping, we, your

humble pupils, heartily commend you. Given from the fountain of Argales,

with one foot in the stirrup for Flanders.

"CARRIAZO,

"AVENDANO."

Aghast at the contents of this letter, Pedro Alonso hurried to his

valise, and found that the paper spoke but too truly, for the money was

gone. Instantly mounting the remaining mule, he returned to Burgos to

carry these tidings to his patrons, in order that they might take

measures to recover possession of their sons' persons. But as to how he

was received, the author of this tale says not a word, for the moment he

has put Pedro Alonso into the saddle, he leaves him to give the

following account of what occurred to Avendaño and Carriazo at the

entrance of Illescas.

Just by the town gate they met two muleteers, Andalusians apparently,

one of whom was coming from Seville, and the other going thither. Said

the latter to the former, "If my masters were not so far ahead, I should

like to stop a little longer to ask you a thousand things I want to

know, for I am quite astonished at what you have told me about the

conde's having hanged Alonzo Gines and Ribera without giving them leave

to appeal."

"As I'm a sinner," replied the Sevillian, "the conde laid a trap for

them, got them under his jurisdiction--for they were soldiers, and once

having them in his gripe, the court of appeal could never get them out

of it. I tell you what it is, friend, he has a devil within him, that

same conde de Puñonrostro. Seville, and the whole country round it for

ten leagues, is swept clear of swash-bucklers; not a thief ventures

within his limits; they all fear him like fire. It is whispered,

however, that he will soon give up his place as corregidor, for he is

tired of being at loggerheads at every hand's turn with the señores of

the court of appeal."

"May they live a thousand years!" exclaimed he who was going to

Seville; "for they are the fathers of the miserable, and a refuge for

the unfortunate. How many poor fellows must eat dirt, for no other

reason than the anger of an arbitrary judge of a corregidor, either

ill-informed or wrong-headed! Many eyes see more than two; the venom of

injustice cannot so soon lay hold on many hearts as on one alone."

"You have turned preacher!" said he of Seville; "but I am afraid I can't

stop to hear the end of your sermon. Don't put up to night at your usual

place, but go to the Posada del Sevillano, for there you will see the

prettiest scullery-wench I know. Marinilla at the Venta Tejada is a

dishclout in comparison with her. I will only tell you that it is said

the son of the corregidor is very sweet upon her. One of my masters gone

on ahead there, swears, that on his way back to Andalusia, he will stop

two months in Toledo, and in that same inn, only to have his fill of

looking at her. I myself ventured once to give her a little bit of a

squeeze, and all I got for it was a swinging box on the ear. She is as

hard as a flint, as savage as a kestrel, and as touch-me-not as a

nettle; but she has a face that does a body's eyes good to look at. She

has the sun in one cheek, and the moon in the other; the one is made of

roses and the other of carnations, and between them both are lilies and

jessamine. I say no more, only see her for yourself, and you will see

that all I have told you is nothing to what I might say of her beauty.

I'd freely settle upon her those two silver gray mules of mine that you

know, if they would let me have her for my wife; but I know they won't,

for she is a morsel for an archbishop or a conde. Once more I say, go

and see her; and so, good-bye to you, for I must be off."

The two muleteers went their several ways, leaving the two friends much

struck by what they had overheard of the conversation, especially

Avendaño, in whom the mere relation which the muleteer had given of the

scullery-maid's beauty awoke an intense desire to see her. It had the

same effect on Carriazo, but not to an equal degree, nor so as to

extinguish his desire to reach his beloved tunny fisheries, from which

he would not willingly be delayed to behold the pyramids of Egypt, or

any or all of the other seven wonders of the world.

Repeating the dialogue between the muleteers, and mimicking their tones

and gestures, served as pastime to beguile the way until they reached

Toledo. Carriazo, who had been there before, led the way at once to the

Posada del Sevillano; but they did not venture to ask for accommodation

there, their dress and appearance not being such as would have gained

them a ready welcome. Night was coming on, and though Carriazo

importuned Avendaño to go with him in search of lodgings elsewhere, he

could not prevail on him to quit the doors of the Sevillano, or cease

from hanging about them, upon the chance that the celebrated

scullery-maid might perhaps make her appearance. When it was pitch dark

Carriazo was in despair, but still Avendaño stuck to the spot; and, at

last, he went into the courtyard of the inn, under pretence of inquiring

after some gentlemen of Burgos who were on their way to Seville. He had

but just entered the courtyard, when a girl, who seemed to be about

fifteen, and was dressed in working clothes, came out of one of the side

doors with a lighted candle. Avendaño's eyes did not rest on the girl's

dress, but on her face, which seemed to him such as a painter would give

to the angels; and so overcome was he by her beauty, that he could only

gaze at it in speechless admiration, without being able to say one word

for himself.

"What may you please to want, brother?" said the girl. "Are you servant

to one of the gentlemen in the house?"

"I am no one's servant but yours," replied Avendaño, trembling with

emotion.

"Go to, brother," returned the girl disdainfully, "we who are servants

ourselves have no need of others to wait on us;" and calling her master,

she said, "Please to see, sir, what this lad wants."

The master came out, and, in reply to his question, Avendaño said that

he was looking for some gentlemen of Burgos who were on their way to

Seville. One of them was his master, and had sent him on before them to

Alcalá de Henares upon business of importance, bidding him, when that

was done, to proceed to Toledo, and wait for him at the Sevillano; and

he believed that his master would arrive there that night or the

following day at farthest.

So plausibly did Avendaño tell this fib that the landlord was quite

taken in by it. "Very well, friend," said he, "you may stop here till

your master comes."

"Many thanks, señor landlord," replied Avendaño; "and will your worship

bid them give me a room for myself, and a comrade of mine who is

outside? We have got money to pay for it, as well as another."

"Certainly," said the host, and turning to the girl he said, "Costanza,

bid la Argüello take these two gallants to the corner room, and give

them clean sheets."

"I will do so, señor," and curtsying to her master she went away,

leaving Avendaño by her departure in a state of feeling like that of the

tired wayfarer when the sun sets and he finds himself wrapt in cheerless

darkness. He went, however, to give an account of what he had seen and

done to Carriazo, who very soon perceived that his friend had been

smitten in the heart; but he would not say a word about the matter then,

until he should see whether there was a fair excuse for the hyperbolical

praises with which Avendaño exalted the beauty of Costanza above the

stars.

At last they went in doors, and la Argüello, the chamber maid, a woman

of some five-and-forty years of age, showed them a room which was

neither a gentleman's nor a servant's, but something between the two. On

their asking for supper, la Argüello told them they did not provide

meals in that inn; they only cooked and served up such food as the

guests bought and fetched for themselves; but there were eating-houses

in the neighbourhood, where they might without scruple of conscience go

and sup as they pleased. The two friends took la Argüello's advice, and

went to an eating-house, where Carriazo supped on what they set before

him, and Avendaño on what he had brought with him, to wit, thoughts and

fancies. Carriazo noticed that his friend ate little or nothing, and, by

way of sounding him, he said on their way back to the inn, "We must be

up betimes to-morrow morning, so that we may reach Orgez before the heat

of the day."

"I am not disposed for that," replied Avendaño, "for I intend, before I

leave this city, to see all that is worth seeing in it, such as the

cathedral, the waterworks of Juanelo, the view from the top of St.

Augustine's, the King's garden, and the promenade by the river."

"Very well, we can see all that in two days."

"What need of such haste? We are not posting to Rome to ask for a vacant

benefice."

"Ha! ha! friend, I see how it is, I'll be hanged if you are not more

inclined to stay in Toledo than to continue our journey."

"That's true, I confess; it is as impossible for me to forego the sight

of that girl's face, as it is to get into heaven without good works."

"Gallantly spoken, and as becomes a generous breast like yours! Here's a

pretty story! Don Tomas de Avendaño, son of the wealthy and noble

cavalier, Don Juan de Avendaño, over head and ears in love with the

scullery-maid at the Posada del Sevillano!"

"It strikes me, I may answer you in the same strain. Here's Don Diego de

Carriazo, son and sole heir of the noble knight of Alcántara of the same

name, a youth finely gifted alike in body and mind, and behold him in

love--with whom, do you suppose? With queen Ginevra? No such thing, but

with the tunny fisheries of Zahara, and all its rogues and rascals,--a

more loathsome crew, I suspect, than ever beset St. Anthony in his

temptations."

"You have given me tit for tat, friend, and slain me with my own weapon.

Let us say no more now, but go to bed, and to-morrow who knows but we

come to our senses?"

"Look ye, Carriazo, you have not yet seen Costanza; when you have seen

her, I will give you leave to say what you like to me."

"Well, I know beforehand what will be the upshot of the matter."

"And that is?"

"That I shall be off to my tunny fisheries, and you will remain with

your scullery-maid."

"I shall not be so happy."

"Nor I such a fool as to give up my own good purpose for the sake of

your bad one."

By this time they reached the inn, where the conversation was prolonged

in the same tone, half the night long. After they had slept, as it

seemed to them, little more than an hour, they were awakened by the loud

sound of clarions in the street. They sat up in bed, and after they had

listened awhile, "I'll lay a wager," said Carriazo, "that it is already

day, and that there is some feast or other in the convent of Nostra

Señora del Carmen, in this neighbourhood, and that is why the clarions

are pealing."

"That can't be," said Avendaño; "we have not been long asleep. It must

be some time yet till dawn."

While they were talking, some one knocked at the door, and called out,

"Young men, if you want to hear some fine music, go to the window of the

next room, which looks on the street; it is not occupied."

They got up and opened the door, but the person who had spoken was gone.

The music still continuing, however, they went in their shirts, just as

they were, into the front room, where they found three or four other

lodgers, who made place for them at the window; and soon afterwards an

excellent voice sang a sonnet to the accompaniment of the harp. There

was no need of any one to tell Carriazo and Avendaño that this music was

intended for Costanza, for this was very clear from the words of the

sonnet, which grated so horribly on Avendaño's ears, that he could have

wished himself deaf rather than have heard it. The pangs of jealousy

laid hold on him, and the worst of all was, that he knew not who was his

rival. But this was soon made known to him when one of the persons at

the window exclaimed, "What a simpleton is the corregidor's son, to make

a practice of serenading a scullery-maid. It is true, she is one of the

most beautiful girls I have ever seen, and I have seen a great many; but

that is no reason why he should court her so publicly."

"After all," said another, "I have been told for certain that she makes

no more account of him than if he never existed. I warrant she is this

moment fast asleep behind her mistress's bed, without ever thinking of

all this music."

"I can well believe it," said the first speaker, "for she is the most

virtuous girl I know; and it is marvellous that though she lives in a

house like this, where there is so much traffic, and where there are new

comers every day, and though she goes about all the rooms, not the least

thing in the world is known to her disparagement."

Avendaño began to breathe more freely after hearing this, and was able

to listen to many fine things which were sung to the accompaniment of

various instruments, all being addressed to Costanza, who, as the

stranger said, was fast asleep all the while.

The musicians departed at the approach of dawn. Avendaño and Carriazo

returned to their room, where one of them slept till morning. They then

rose, both of them eager to see Costanza, but the one only from

curiosity, the other from love. Both were gratified; for Costanza came

out of her master's room looking so lovely, that they both felt that all

the praises bestowed on her by the muleteer, fell immeasurably short of

her deserts. She was dressed in a green bodice and petticoat, trimmed

with the same colour. A collar embroidered with black silk set off the

alabaster whiteness of her neck. The thick tresses of her bright

chestnut hair were bound up with white ribbon; she had pendents in her

ears which seemed to be pearls, but were only glass; her girdle was a

St. Francis cord, and a large bunch of keys hung at her side. When she

came out of the room she crossed herself, and made a profound reverence

with great devotion to an image of our Lady, that hung on one of the

walls of the quadrangle. Then looking up and seeing the two young men

intently gazing on her, she immediately retired again into the room, and

called thence to Argüello to get up.

Carriazo, it must be owned, was much struck by Costanza's beauty; he

admired it as much as his companion, only he did not fall in love with

her; on the contrary, he had no desire to spend another night in the

inn, but to set out at once for the fisheries.

La Argüello presently appeared in the gallery with two young women,

natives of Gallicia, who were also servants in the inn; for the number

employed in the Sevillano was considerable, that being one of the best

and most frequented houses of its kind in Toledo. At the same time the

servants of the persons lodging in the inn began to assemble to receive

oats for their masters' beasts; and the host dealt them out, all the

while grumbling and swearing at his maid-servants who had been the cause

of his losing the services of a capital hostler, who did the work so

well and kept such good reckoning, that he did not think he had ever

lost the price of a grain of oats by him. Avendaño, who heard all this,

seized the opportunity at once. "Don't fatigue yourself, señor host," he

said; "give me the account-book, and whilst I remain here I will give

out the oats, and keep such an exact account of it that you will not

miss the hostler who you say has left you."

"Truly I thank you for the offer, my lad," said the host, "for I have no

time to attend to this business; I have too much to do, both indoors

and out of doors. Come down and I will give you the book; and mind ye,

these muleteers are the very devil, and will do you out of a peck of

oats under your very nose, with no more conscience than if it was so

much chaff."

Avendaño went down to the quadrangle, took the book, and began to serve

out pecks of oats like water, and to note them down with such exactness

that the landlord, who stood watching him, was greatly pleased with his

performance. "I wish to God," he said, "your master would not come, and

that you would make up your mind to stop with me; you would lose nothing

by the change, believe me. The hostler who has just quitted me came here

eight months ago all in tatters, and as lean as a shotten herring, and

now he has two very good suits of clothes, and is as fat as a dormouse;

for you must know, my son, that in this house there are excellent vails

to be got over and above the wages."

"If I should stop," replied Avendaño, "I should not stand out much for

the matter of what I should gain, but should be content with very little

for sake of being in this city, which, they tell me, is the best in

Spain."

"At least it is one of the best and most plentiful," said the host. "But

we are in want of another thing, too, and that is a man to fetch water,

for the lad that used to attend to that job has also left me. He was a

smart fellow, and with the help of a famous ass of mine he used to keep

all the tanks overflowing, and make a lake of the house. One of the

reasons why the muleteers like to bring their employers to my house is,

that they always find plenty of water in it for their beasts, instead of

having to drive them down to the river."

Carriazo, who had been listening to this dialogue, and who saw Avendaño

already installed in office, thought he would follow his example, well

knowing how much it would gratify him. "Out with the ass, señor host,"

he said; "I'm your man, and will do your work as much to your

satisfaction as my comrade."

"Aye, indeed," said Avendaño, "my comrade, Lope Asturiano will fetch

water like a prince, I'll go bail for him."

La Argüello, who had been all the while within earshot, here put in her

word. "And pray, my gentleman," said she to Avendaño, "who is to go bail

for you? By my faith, you look to me as if you wanted some one to

answer for you instead of your answering for another."

"Hold your tongue, Argüello," said her master; "don't put yourself

forward where you're not wanted. I'll go bail for them, both of them.

And mind, I tell you, that none of you women meddle or make with the

men-servants, for it is through you they all leave me."

"So these two chaps are engaged, are they?" said another of the

servant-women; "by my soul, if I had to keep them company I would never

trust them with the wine-bag."

"None of your gibes, señora Gallega," cried her master; "do your work,

and don't meddle with the men-servants, or I'll baste you with a stick."

"Oh, to be sure!" replied the Gallician damsel; "a'nt they dainty dears

to make a body's mouth water? I'm sure master has never known me so

frolicksome with the chaps in the house, nor yet out of it, that he

should have such an opinion of me. The blackguards go away when they

take it into their heads, without our giving them any occasion. Very

like indeed they're the right sort to be in need of any one's putting

them to bidding their masters an early good morning, when they least

expect it."

"You've a deal to say for yourself, my friend," said the landlord; "shut

your mouth and mind your business."

While this colloquy was going on Carriazo had harnessed the ass, jumped

on his back, and set off to the river, leaving Avendaño highly delighted

at witnessing his jovial resolution.

Here then, we have Avendaño and Carriazo changed, God save the mark!

into Tomas Pedro, a hostler, and Lope Asturiano, a water-carrier:

transformations surpassing those of the long-nosed poet. No sooner had

la Argüello heard that they were hired, than she formed a design upon

Asturiano, and marked him for her own, resolving to regale him in such a

manner, that, if he was ever so shy, she would make him as pliant as a

glove. The prudish Gallegan formed a similar design upon Avendaño, and,

as the two women were great friends, being much together in their

business by day, and bed-fellows at night, they at once confided their

amorous purposes to each other; and that night they determined to begin

the conquest of their two unimpassioned swains. Moreover they agreed

that they must, in the first place, beg them not to be jealous about

anything they might see them do with their persons; for girls could

hardly regale their friends within doors, unless they put those without

under contribution. "Hold your tongues, lads," said they, apostrophising

their absent lovers, "hold your tongues and shut your eyes; leave the

timbrel in the hands that can play it, and let those lead the dance that

know how, and no pair of canons in this city will be better regaled than

you will be by our two selves."

While the Gallegan and la Argüello were settling matters in this way,

our good friend, Lope Asturiano, was on his way to the river, musing

upon his beloved tunny fisheries and on his sudden change of condition.

Whether it was for this reason, or that fate ordained it so, it happened

that as he was riding down a steep and narrow lane, he ran against

another water-carrier's ass, which was coming, laden, up-hill; and, as

his own was fresh and lively and in good condition, the poor,

half-starved, jaded brute that was toiling up hill, was knocked down,

the pitchers were broken, and the water spilled. The driver of the

fallen ass, enraged by this disaster, immediately flew upon the

offender, and pommelled him soundly before poor Lope well knew where he

was. At last, his senses were roused with a vengeance, and seizing his

antagonist with both hands by the throat, he dashed him to the ground.

That was not all, for, unluckily, the man's head struck violently

against a stone; the wound was frightful, and bled so profusely, that

Lope thought he had killed him. Several other water-carriers who were on

their way to and from the river, seeing their comrade so maltreated,

seized Lope and held him fast, shouting, "Justice! justice! this

water-carrier has murdered a man." And all the while they beat and

thumped him lustily. Others ran to the fallen man, and found that his

skull was cracked, and that he was almost at the last gasp. The outcry

spread all up the hill, and to the Plaza del Carmen, where it reached

the ears of an alguazil, who flew to the spot with two police-runners.

They did not arrive a moment too soon, for they found Lope surrounded by

more than a score of water-carriers, who were basting his ribs at such a

rate that there was almost as much reason to fear for his life as that

of the wounded man. The alguazil took him out of their hands, delivered

him and his ass into those of his followers, had the wounded man laid

like a sack upon his own ass, and marched them all off to prison

attended by such a crowd that they could hardly make way through the

streets. The noise drew Tomas Pedro and his master to the door, and, to

their great surprise, they saw Asturiano led by in the gripe of two

police-runners, with his face all bloody. The landlord immediately

looked about for his ass, and saw it in the hands of another catchpoll,

who had joined the alguazil's party. He inquired the cause of these

captures, was told what had happened, and was sorely distressed on

account of his ass, fearing that he should lose it, or have to pay more

for it than it was worth.

Tomas followed his comrade, but could not speak a single word to him,

such was the throng round the prisoner, and the strictness of the

catchpolls. Lope was thrust into a narrow cell in the prison, with a

doubly grated window, and the wounded man was taken to the infirmary,

where the surgeon pronounced his case extremely dangerous.

The alguazil took home the two asses with him, besides five pieces of

eight which had been found on Lope. Tomas returned greatly disconcerted

to the inn, where he found the landlord in no better spirits than

himself, and gave him an account of the condition in which he had left

his comrade, the danger of the wounded man, and the fate of the ass. "To

add to the misfortune," said he, "I have just met a gentleman of Burgos,

who tells me that my master will not now come this way. In order to make

more speed and shorten his journey by two leagues, he has crossed the

ferry at Aceca; he will sleep to-night at Orgaz, and has sent me twelve

crowns, with orders to meet him at Seville. But that cannot be, for it

is not in reason that I should leave my friend and comrade in prison and

in such peril. My master must excuse me for the present, and I know he

will, for he is so good-natured that he will put up with a little

inconvenience rather than that I should forsake my comrade. Will you do

me the favour, señor, to take this money, and see what you can do in

this business. While you are spending this, I will write to my master

for more, telling him all that has happened, and I am sure he will send

us enough to get us out of any scrape."

The host opened his eyes a palm wide in glad surprise to find himself

indemnified for the loss of his ass. He took the money and comforted

Tomas, telling him that he could make interest with persons of great

influence in Toledo, especially a nun, a relation of the corregidor's,

who could do anything she pleased with him. Now the washerwoman of the

convent in which the nun lived had a daughter, who was very thick indeed

with the sister of a friar, who was hand and glove with the said nun's

confessor. All he had to do, then, was to get the washerwoman to ask her

daughter to get the monk's sister to speak to her brother to say a good

word to the confessor, who would prevail on the nun to write a note to

the corregidor begging him to look into Lope's business, and then,

beyond a doubt, they might expect to come off with flying colours; that

is provided the water-carrier did not die of his wound, and provided

also there was no lack of stuff to grease the palms of all the officers

of justice, for unless they are well greased they creak worse than the

wheels of a bullock cart.

Whatever Tomas thought of this roundabout way of making interest, he

failed not to thank the innkeeper, and to assure him that he was

confident his master would readily send the requisite money.

Argüello, who had seen her new flame in the hands of the officers, ran

directly to the prison with some dinner for him; but she was not

permitted to see him. This was a great grief to her, but she did not

lose her hopes for all that. After the lapse of a fortnight the wounded

man was out of danger, and in a week more, the surgeon pronounced him

cured. During this time, Tomas Pedro pretended to have had fifty crowns

sent to him from Seville, and taking them out of his pocket, he

presented them to the innkeeper, along with a fictitious letter from his

master. It was nothing to the landlord whether the letter was genuine or

not, so he gave himself no trouble to authenticate it; but he received

the fifty good gold crowns with great glee. The end of the matter was,

that the wounded man was quieted with six ducats, and Asturiano was

sentenced to the forfeiture of his ass, and a fine of ten ducats with

costs, on the payment of which he was liberated.

On his release from prison, Asturiano had no mind to go back to the

Sevillano, but excused himself to his comrade on the ground that during

his confinement he had been visited by Argüello, who had pestered him

with her fulsome advances, which were to him so sickening and

insufferable, that he would rather be hanged than comply with the

desires of so odious a jade. His intention was to buy an ass, and to do

business as a water carrier on his own account as long as they remained

in Toledo. This would protect him from the risk of being arrested as a

vagabond; besides, it was a business he could carry on with great ease

and satisfaction to himself, since with only one load of water, he could

saunter about the city all day long, looking at silly wenches.

"Looking at beautiful women, you mean," said his friend, "for of all the

cities in Spain, Toledo has the reputation of being that in which the

women surpass all others, whether in beauty or conduct. If you doubt it,

only look at Costanza, who could spare from her superfluity of

loveliness charms enough to beautify the rest of the women, not only of

Toledo, but of the whole world."

"Gently, señor Tomas; not so fast with your praises of the señora

scullion, unless you wish that, besides thinking you a fool, I take you

for a heretic into the bargain."

"Do you call Costanza a scullion, brother Lope? God forgive you, and

bring you to a true sense of your error."

"And is not she a scullion?"

"I have yet to see her wash the first plate."

"What does that matter, if you have seen her wash the second, or the

fiftieth?"

"I tell you brother she does not wash dishes, or do anything but look

after the business of the house, and take care of the plate, of which

there is a great deal."

"How is it, then, that throughout the whole city they call her the

illustrious scullery-maid, if so be she does not wash dishes? Perhaps it

is because she washes silver and not crockery that they give her that

name. But to drop this subject, tell me, Tomas, how stand your hopes?"

"In a state of perdition; for during the whole time you were in gaol, I

never have been able to say one word to her. It is true, that to all

that is said to her by the guests in the house, she makes no other reply

than to cast down her eyes and keep her lips closed; such is her virtue

and modesty; so that her modesty excites my love, no less than her

beauty. But it is almost too much for my patience, to think that the

corregidor's son, who is an impetuous and somewhat licentious youth, is

dying for her; a night seldom passes but he serenades her, and that so

openly, that she is actually named in the songs sung in her praise. She

never hears them to be sure, nor ever quits her mistress's room from the

time she retires until morning; but in spite of all that, my heart

cannot escape being pierced by the keen shaft of jealousy."

"What do you intend to do, then, with this Portia, this Minerva, this

new Penelope, who, under the form of a scullery-maid, has vanquished

your heart?"

"Her name is Costanza, not Portia, Minerva, or Penelope. That she is a

servant in an inn, I cannot deny; but what can I do, if, as it seems,

the occult force of destiny, and the deliberate choice of reason, both

impel me to adore her? Look you, friend, I cannot find words to tell you

how love exalts and glorifies in my eyes this humble scullery-maid, as

you call her, so that, though seeing her low condition, I am blind to

it, and knowing it, I ignore it. Try as I may, it is impossible for me

to keep it long before my eyes; for that thought is at once obliterated

by her beauty, her grace, her virtue, and modesty, which tell me that,

beneath that plebeian husk, must be concealed some kernel of

extraordinary worth. In short, be it what it may, I love her, and not

with that common-place love I have felt for others, but with a passion

so pure that it knows no wish beyond that of serving her, and prevailing

on her to love me, and return in the like kind what is due to my

honourable affection."

Here Lope gave a shout, and cried out in a declamatory tone, "O Platonic

love! O illustrious scullery-maid! O thrice-blessed age of ours, wherein

we see love renewing the marvels of the age of gold! O my poor tunnies,

you must pass this year without a visit from your impassioned admirer,

but next year be sure I will make amends, and you shall no longer find

me a truant."

"I see, Asturiano," said Tomas, "how openly you mock me. Why don't you

go to your fisheries? There is nothing to hinder you. I will remain

where I am, and you will find me here on your return. If you wish to

take your share of the money with you, take it at once; go your ways in

peace, and let each of us follow the course prescribed to him by his own

destiny."

"I thought you had more sense," said Lope. "Don't you know that I was

only joking? But now that I perceive you are in earnest, I will serve

you in earnest in everything I can do to please you. Only one thing I

entreat in return for the many I intend to do for you: do not expose me

to Argüello's persecution, for I would rather lose your friendship than

have to endure hers. Good God, friend! her tongue goes like the clapper

of a mill; you can smell her breath a league off; all her front teeth

are false, and it is my private opinion that she does not wear her own

hair, but a wig. To crown all, since she began to make overtures to me,

she has taken to painting white, till her face looks like nothing but a

mask of plaster."

"True, indeed, my poor comrade; she is worse even than the Gallegan who

makes me suffer martyrdom. I'll tell you what you shall do; only stay

this night in the inn, and to-morrow you shall buy yourself an ass, find

a lodging, and so secure yourself from the importunities of Argüello,

whilst I remain exposed to those of the Gallegan, and to the fire of my

Costanza's eyes."

This being agreed on, the two friends returned to the inn, where

Asturiano was received with great demonstrations of love by Argüello.

That night a great number of muleteers stopping in the house, and those

near it, got up a dance before the door of the Sevillano. Asturiano

played the guitar: the female dancers were the two Gallegans and

Argüello, and three girls from another inn. Many persons stood by as

spectators, with their faces muffled, prompted more by a desire to see

Costanza than the dance; but they were disappointed, for she did not

make her appearance. Asturiano played for the dancers with such spirit

and precision of touch that they all vowed he made the guitar speak; but

just as he was doing his best, accompanying the instrument with his

voice, and the dancers were capering like mad, one of the muffled

spectators cried out, "Stop, you drunken sot! hold your noise, wineskin,

piperly poet, miserable catgut scraper!" Several others followed up this

insulting speech with such a torrent of abuse that Lope thought it best

to cease playing and singing; but the muleteers took the interruption so

much amiss, that had it not been for the earnest endeavours of the

landlord to appease them, there would have been a terrible row. In spite

indeed of all he could do, the muleteers would not have kept their hands

quiet, had not the watch happened just then to come up and clear the

ground. A moment afterwards the ears of all who were awake in the

quarter were greeted by an admirable voice proceeding from a man who

had seated himself on a stone opposite the door of the Sevillano.

Everybody listened with rapt attention to his song, but none more so

than Tomas Pedro, to whom every word sounded like a sentence of

excommunication, for the romance ran thus:

In what celestial realms of space

Is hid that beauteous, witching face?

Where shines that star, which, boding ills,

My trembling heart with torment fills?

Why in its wrath should Heaven decree

That we no more its light should see?

Why bid that sun no longer cheer

With glorious beams our drooping sphere?

Yes, second sun! 'tis true you shine,

But not for us, with light divine!

Yet gracious come from ocean's bed;

Why hide from us your radiant head?

Constance! a faithful, dying swain

Adores your beauty, though in vain;

For when his love he would impart,

You fly and scorn his proffered heart!

O let his tears your pity sway,

And quick he'll bear you hence away;

For shame it is this sordid place,

Should do your charms such foul disgrace

Here you're submissive to control,

Sweet mistress of my doating soul!

But altars youths to you should raise,

And passion'd vot'ries sound your praise!

Quit then a scene which must consume

Unworthily your early bloom!

To my soft vows your ear incline,

Nor frown, but be for ever mine!

His gladsome torch let Hymen light,

And let the god our hearts unite!

This day would then before its end,

See me your husband, lover, friend.

The last line was immediately followed by the flight of two brick-bats,

which fell close to the singer's feet; but had they come in contact with

his head, they would certainly have knocked all the music and poetry out

of it. The poor frightened musician took to his heels with such speed

that a greyhound could not have caught him. Unhappy fate of

night-birds, to be always subject to such showers! All who had heard

the voice of the fugitive admired it, but most of all, Tomas Pedro, only

he would rather the words had not been addressed to Costanza, although

she had not heard one of them. The only person who found fault with the

romance was a muleteer, nicknamed Barrabas. As soon as this man saw the

singer run off, he bawled after him; "There you go, you Judas of a

troubadour! May the fleas eat your eyes out! Who the devil taught you to

sing to a scullery-maid about celestial realms, and spheres, and

ocean-beds, and to call her stars and suns and all the rest of it? If

you had told her she was as straight as asparagus, as white as milk, as

modest as a lay-brother in his novitiate, more full of humours and

unmanageable than a hired mule, and harder than a lump of dry mortar,

why then she would have understood you and been pleased; but your fine

words are fitter for a scholar than for a scullery-maid. Truly, there

are poets in the world who write songs that the devil himself could not

understand; for my part, at least, Barrabas though I am, I cannot make

head or tail of what this fellow has been singing. What did he suppose

Costanza could make of them? But she knows better than to listen to such

stuff, for she is snug in bed, and cares no more for all these

caterwaulers than she does for Prester John. This fellow at least, is

not one of the singers belonging to the corregidor's son, for they are

out and out good ones, and a body can generally understand them; but, by

the Lord, this fellow sets me mad."

The bystanders coincided in opinion with Barrabas, and thought his

criticism very judicious. Everybody now went to bed, but no sooner was

the house all still, than Lope heard some one calling very softly at his

bed-room door. "Who's there?" said he. "It is we," whispered a voice,

"Argüello and the Gallegan. Open the door and let us in, for we are

dying of cold."

"Dying of cold indeed," said Lope, "and we are in the middle of the dog

days."

"Oh, leave off now, friend Lope," said the Gallegan; "get up and open

the door; for here we are as fine as archduchesses."

"Archduchesses, and at this hour? I don't believe a word of it, but

rather think you must be witches or something worse. Get out of that

this moment, or, by all that's damnable, if you make me get up I'll

leather you with my belt till your hinder parts are as red as poppies."

Finding that he answered them so roughly, and in a manner so contrary to

their expectations, the two disappointed damsels returned sadly to their

beds; but before they left the door, Argüello put her lips to the

key-hole, and hissed through it, "Honey was not made for the mouth of

the ass;" and with that, as if she had said something very bitter

indeed, and taken adequate revenge on the scorner, she went off to her

cheerless bed.

"Look you, Tomas," said Lope to his companion, as soon as they were

gone, "set me to fight two giants, or to break the jaws of half a dozen,

or a whole dozen of lions, if it be requisite for your service, and I

shall do it as readily as I would drink a glass of wine; but that you

should put me under the necessity of encountering Argüello, this is what

I would never submit to, no, not if I were to be flayed alive. Only

think, what damsels of Denmark[81] fate has thrown upon us this night.

Well, patience! To-morrow will come, thank God, and then we shall see."

[81] See the romance of Amadis of Gaul.

"I have already told you, friend," replied Tomas, "that you may do as

you please--either go on your pilgrimage, or buy an ass and turn

water-carrier as you proposed."

"I stick to the water-carrying business," said Lope. "My mind is made up

not to quit you at present."

They then went to sleep till daylight, when they rose; Tomas Pedro went

to give out oats, and Lope set off to the cattle-market to buy an ass.

Now it happened that Tomas had spent his leisure on holidays in

composing some amorous verses, and had jotted them down in the book in

which he kept the account of the oats, intending to copy them out

fairly, and then blot them out of the book, or tear out the page. But,

before he had done so, he happened to go out one day and leave the book

on the top of the oat-bin. His master found it there, and looking into

it to see how the account of the oats stood, he lighted upon the verses.

Surprised and annoyed, he went off with them to his wife, but before he

read them to her, he called Costanza into the room, and peremptorily

commanded her to declare whether Tomas Pedro, the hostler, had over made

love to her, or addressed any improper language to her, or any that

gave token of his being partial to her. Costanza vowed that Tomas had

never yet spoken to her in any such way, nor ever given her reason to

suppose that he had any bad thoughts towards her.

Her master and mistress believed her, because they had always found her

to speak the truth. Having dismissed her, the host turned to his wife

and said, "I know not what to say of the matter. You must know, señora,

that Tomas has written in this book, in which he keeps the account of

the oats, verses that give me an ugly suspicion that he is in love with

Costanza."

"Let me see the verses," said the wife, "and I'll tell you what we are

to conclude."

"Oh, of course; as you are a poet you will at once see into his

thoughts."

"I am not a poet, but you well know that I am a woman of understanding,

and that I can say the four prayers in Latin."

"You would do better to say them in plain Spanish; you know your uncle

the priest has told you that you make no end of blunders when you patter

your Latin, and that what you say is good for nothing."

"That was an arrow from his niece's quiver. She is jealous of seeing me

take the Latin hours in hand, and make my way through them as easily as

through a vineyard after the vintage."

"Well, have it your own way. Listen now, here are the verses;" and he

read some impassioned lines addressed to Costanza.

"Is there any more?" said the landlady.

"No. But what do you think of these verses?"

"In the first place, we must make sure that they are by Tomas."

"Of that there can be no manner of doubt, for the handwriting is most

unquestionably the same as that in which the account of the oats is

kept."

"Look ye, husband, it appears to me that although Costanza is named in

the verses, whence it may be supposed that they were made for her, we

ought not for that reason to set the fact down for certain, just as if

we had seen them written, for there are other Costanzas in the world

besides ours. But even supposing they were meant for her, there is not a

word in them that could do her discredit. Let us be on the watch, and

look sharply after the girl; for if he is in love with her, we may be

sure he will make more verses, and try to give them to her."

"Would it not be better to get rid of all this bother by turning him out

of doors?"

"That is for you to do if you think proper. But really, by your own

account, the lad does his work so well that it would go against one's

conscience to turn him off upon such slight grounds."

"Very well; let us be on the watch as you say, and time will tell us

what we have to do." Here the conversation ended, and the landlord

carried the book back to the place where he had found it.

Tomas returned in great anxiety to look for his book, found it, and that

it might not occasion him another fright, he immediately copied out the

verses, effaced the original, and made up his mind to hazard a

declaration to Costanza upon the first opportunity that should present

itself. Her extreme reserve, however, was such that there seemed little

likelihood of his finding such an opportunity; besides, the great

concourse of people in the house made it almost impossible that he

should have any private conversation with her,--to the despair of her

unfortunate lover. That day, however, it chanced that Costanza appeared

with one cheek muffled, and told some one who asked her the reason, that

she was suffering from a violent face ache. Tomas, whose wits were

sharpened by his passion, instantly saw how he might avail himself of

that circumstance. "Señora Costanza," he said, "I will give you a prayer

in writing, which you have only to recite once or twice, and it will

take away your pain forthwith."

"Give it me, if you please," said Costanza, "and I will recite it; for I

know how to read."

"It must be on condition, however," said Tomas, "that you do not show it

to anybody; for I value it highly, and I should not wish it to lose its

charm by being made known to many."

"I promise you that no person shall see it; but let me have it at once,

for I can hardly bear this pain."

"I will write it out from memory, and bring it you immediately."

This was the very first conversation that had ever taken place between

Tomas and Costanza during all the time he had been in the house, which

was nearly a month. Tomas withdrew, wrote out the prayer, and found

means to deliver it, unseen by any one else, into Costanza's hand; and

she, with great eagerness, and no less devotion, went with it into a

room, where she shut herself up alone. Then, opening the paper, she read

as follows:--

"Lady of my soul, I am a gentleman of Burgos; and if I survive my

father, I shall inherit a property of six thousand ducats yearly income.

Upon the fame of your beauty, which spreads far and wide, I left my

native place, changed my dress, and came in the garb in which you see

me, to serve your master. If you would consent to be mine in the way

most accordant with your virtue, put me to any proof you please, to

convince you of my truth and sincerity; and when you have fully

satisfied yourself in this respect, I will, if you consent, become your

husband, and the happiest of men. For the present, I only entreat you

not to turn such loving and guileless feelings as mine into the street;

for if your master, who has no conception of them, should come to know

my aspirations, he would condemn me to exile from your presence, and

that would be the same thing as sentencing me to death. Suffer me,

señora, to see you until you believe me, considering that he does not

deserve the rigorous punishment of being deprived of the sight of you,

whose only fault has been that he adores you. You can reply to me with

your eyes, unperceived by any of the numbers who are always gazing upon

you; for your eyes are such that their anger kills, but their compassion

gives new life."

When Tomas saw that Costanza had gone away to read his letter, he

remained with a palpitating heart, fearing and hoping either his

death-doom, or the one look that should bid him live. Presently Costanza

returned, looking so beautiful in spite of her muffling, that if any

extraneous cause could have heightened her loveliness, it might be

supposed that her surprise at finding the contents of the paper so

widely different from what she had expected, had produced that effect.

In her hand she held the paper torn into small pieces, and returning,

the fragments to Tomas, whose legs could hardly bear him up, "Brother

Tomas," she said, "this prayer of yours seems to me to savour more of

witchcraft and delusion than of piety, therefore I do not choose to put

faith in it or to use it, and I have torn it up that it may not be seen

by any one more credulous than myself. Learn other prayers, for it is

impossible that this one can ever do you any good."

So saying, she returned to her mistress's room, leaving Tomas sorely

distressed, but somewhat comforted at finding that his secret remained

safe confined to Costanza's bosom; for as she had not divulged it to her

master, he reckoned that at least he was in no danger of being turned

out of doors. He considered also, that in having taken the first step,

he had overcome mountains of difficulties, for in great and doubtful

enterprises the chief difficulty is always in the beginning.

Whilst these things were happening in the posada, Asturiano was going

about the market in search of an ass. He examined a great many, but did

not find one to his mind; though a gipsy tried hard to force upon him

one that moved briskly enough, but more from the effects of some

quicksilver which the vendor had put into the animal's ears, than from

its natural spirit and nimbleness. But though the pace was good enough,

Lope was not satisfied with the size, for he wanted an ass big and

strong enough to carry himself and the water vessels, whether they were

full or empty. At last a young fellow came up, and whispered in his ear,

"If you want a beast of the right sort for a water-carrier's business, I

have one close by in a meadow; a bigger or a better you will not find in

Toledo. Take my advice, and never buy a gipsy's beast, for though they

may seem sound and good, they are all shams, and full of hidden defects.

If you want to buy the real thing, come along with me, and shut your

mouth."

Lope consented, and away went the pair shoulder to shoulder, till they

arrived at the King's Gardens, where they found several water-carriers

seated under the shade of a water wheel, whilst their asses were grazing

in an adjoining meadow. The vendor pointed out his ass, which took

Lope's fancy immediately, and was praised by all present, as a very

strong animal, a good goer, and a capital feeder. The bargain was soon

struck, and Lope gave sixteen ducats for the ass, with all its

accoutrements. The bystanders congratulated him on his purchase, and on

his entrance into the business, assuring him that he had bought an

exceedingly lucky ass, for the man who had sold him had, in less than a

year, without over-working himself, made enough to buy two suits of

clothes, over and above his own keep, and that of the ass, and the

sixteen ducats, with which he intended to return to his native place,

where a marriage had been arranged with a half kinswoman of his. Besides

the water-carriers who assisted at the sale of the ass, there was a

group of four stretched on the ground, and playing at primera, the earth

serving them for a table, and their cloaks for a table cloth. Lope went

up to watch their game, and saw that they played more like archdeacons

than like water-carriers, each of them having before him a pile of more

than a hundred reals in cuartos and in silver. Presently two of the

players, having lost all they had, got up; whereupon the seller of the

ass said, that, if there was a fourth hand, he would play, but he did

not like a three-handed game.

Lope, who never liked to spoil sport, said that he would make a fourth.

They sat down at once, and went at it so roundly that, in a few moments,

Lope lost six crowns which he had about him, and finding himself without

coin, said if they liked to play for the ass he would stake him. The

proposal was agreed to, and he staked one quarter of the ass, saying

they should play for him, quarter by quarter. His luck was so bad, that

in four consecutive games he lost the four quarters of his ass, and they

were won by the very man who had sold him. The winner got up to take

possession, but Lope stopped him, observing that he had only played for

and lost the four quarters of his ass, which the winner was welcome to

take, but he must leave him the tail. This queer demand made all present

shout with laughter; and some of them, who were knowing in the law, were

of opinion that his claim was unreasonable, for when a sheep or any

other beast is sold, the tail is never separated from the carcass, but

goes as a matter of course with one of the hind quarters. To this Lope

replied that in Barbary they always reckon five quarters to a sheep, the

tail making the fifth, and being reckoned as valuable as any of the

other quarters. He admitted that when a beast was sold alive, and not

quartered, that the tail was included in the sale; but this was not to

the point in question, for he had not sold his ass, but played it away,

and it had never been his intention to stake the tail; therefore he

required them forthwith to give him up the same, with everything thereto

annexed, or pertaining, that is to say, the whole series of spinal

bones, from the back of the skull to where they ended in the tail, and

to the tips of the lowest hairs thereof.

"Well," said one, "suppose it be as you say, and that your claim is

allowed; leave the tail sticking to the rest of the ass, and hold on by

it."

"No," said Lope, "give me up the tail, or all the water-carriers in the

world shall never make me give up the ass. Don't imagine because there

are so many of you, that I will let you put any cheating tricks on me,

for I am a man who can stand up to another man, and put two handbreadths

of cold steel into his guts without his being able to tell how he came

by them. Moreover, I won't be paid in money for the tail at so much a

pound, but I will have it in substance, and cut off from the ass, as I

have said."

The winner of the four quarters and the rest of the company began to

think that it would not be advisable to resort to force in this

business, for Lope seemed to them to be a man of such mettle, that he

would not be vanquished without some trouble. Nor were they mistaken;

for, as became a man who had spent three seasons at the tunny fisheries,

where all sorts of rows and brawls are familiar things, he rattled out a

few of the most out of the way oaths in vogue there, threw his cap into

the air, whipped out a knife from beneath his cloak, and put himself

into such a posture as struck the whole company with awe and respect. At

last, one of them, who seemed the most rational, induced the rest to

agree that Lope should be allowed to stake the tail against a quarter of

the ass at a game of _quinola_. So said, so done. Lope won the first

game; the loser was piqued and staked another quarter, which went the

way of the first; and in two more games the whole ass was gone. He then

proposed to play for money: Lope was unwilling, but was so importuned on

all hands, that at last he consented; and such was his run of luck that

he left his opponent without a maravedi. So intense was the loser's

vexation, that he rolled and writhed upon the ground and knocked his

head against it. Lope, however, like a good-natured, liberal gentleman,

raised him up, returned all the money he had won, including the sixteen

ducats the price of the ass, and even divided what he had left among the

bystanders. Great was the surprise of them all at this extraordinary

liberality; and had they lived in the time of the great Tamerlane, they

would have made him king of the water-carriers.

Accompanied by a great retinue, Lope returned to the city, where he

related his adventure to Tomas, who in turn recounted to him his own

partial success. There was no tavern, or eating house, or rogues'

gathering, in which the play for the ass was not known, the dispute

about the tail, and the high spirit and liberality of the Asturian; but

as the mob are for the most part unjust, and more prone to evil than to

good, they thought nothing of the generosity and high mettle of the

great Lope, but only of the tail; and he had scarcely been two days

carrying water about the city, before he found himself pointed at by

people who cried, "There goes the man of the tail!" The boys caught up

the cry, and no sooner had Lope shown himself in any street, than it

rang from one end to the other with shouts of "Asturiano, give up the

tail! Give up the tail, Asturiano!" At first Lope said not a word,

thinking that his silence would tire out his persecutors; but in this he

was mistaken, for the more he held his tongue the more the boys wagged

theirs, till at last he lost patience, and getting off his ass began to

drub the boys; but this was only cutting off the heads of Hydra, and for

every one he laid low by thrashing some boy, there sprang up on the

instant, not seven but seven hundred more, that began to pester him more

and more for the tail. At last he found it expedient to retire to the

lodgings he had taken apart from his companion in order to avoid

Argüello, and to keep close there until the influence of the malignant

planet which then ruled the hours should have passed away, and the boys

should have forgotten to ask him for the tail. For two days he never

left the house except by night to go and see Tomas, and ask him how he

got on. Tomas told him that since he had given the paper to Costanza he

had never been able to speak a single word to her, and that she seemed

to be more reserved than ever. Once he had found as he thought an

opportunity to accost her, but before he could get out a word, she

stopped him, saying, "Tomas, I am in no pain now, and therefore have no

need of your words or of your prayers. Be content that I do not accuse

you to the Inquisition, and give yourself no further trouble." But she

made this declaration without any expression of anger in her

countenance. Lope then related how the boys annoyed him, calling after

him for the tail, and Tomas advised him not to go abroad, at least with

his ass, or if he did that he should choose only the least frequented

streets. If that was not enough, he had an unfailing remedy left, which

was to get rid of his business and with it of the uncivil demand to

which it subjected him. Lope asked him had the Gallegan come again to

his room. He said she had not, but that she persisted in trying to

ingratiate herself with him by means of dainties which she purloined out

of what she cooked for the guests. After this conversation Lope went

back to his lodgings, intending not to leave them again for another six

days, at least in company with his ass.

It might be about eleven at night, when the corregidor most unexpectedly

entered the Posado del Sevillano, at the head of a formidable posse. The

host and even the guests were startled and agitated by his visit; for as

comets, when they appear, always excite fears of disaster, just so the

ministers of justice, when they suddenly enter a house, strike even

guiltless consciences with alarm. The unwelcome visitor walked into a

room, and called for the master of the house, who came tremblingly to

know what might be the señor corregidor's pleasure. "Are you the

landlord?" said the magistrate with great gravity. "Yes, señor, and your

worship's humble servant to command," was the reply. The corregidor then

ordered that every one else should quit the room, and leave him alone

with the landlord. This being done, he resumed his questions.

"What servants have you in your inn, landlord?"

"Señor, I have two Gallegan wenches, a housekeeper, and a young man who

gives out the oats and straw, and keeps the reckoning."

"No more?"

"No, señor."

"Then tell me, landlord, what is become of a girl who is said to be a

servant in this house, and so beautiful that she is known all over this

city as the illustrious scullery-maid? It has even reached my ears that

my son Don Perequito is in love with her, and that not a night passes in

which he does not serenade her."

"Señor, it is true that this illustrious scullery-maid, as they call

her, is in my house, but she neither is my servant, nor ceases to be

so."

"I do not understand you. What do you mean by saying that she is and is

not your servant?"

"It is the real truth, and if your worship will allow me, I will explain

the matter to you, and tell you what I have never told to any one."

"Before I hear what you have to say, I must first see this

scullery-maid."

Upon this the landlord went to the door and called to his wife to send

in Costanza, When the landlady heard that, she was in great dismay, and

began to wring her hands, saying, "Lord, have mercy on me! What can the

corregidor want with Costanza, and alone! Some terrible calamity must

surely have happened, for this girl's beauty bewitches the men."

"Don't be alarmed, señora," said Costanza, "I will go and see what the

señor corregidor wants, and if anything bad has happened, be assured the

fault is not mine;" and without waiting to be called a second time, she

took a lighted candle in a silver candlestick, and went into the room

where the corregidor was. As soon as he saw her, he bade the landlord

shut the door, and then taking the candle out of her hand; and holding

it near her face, he stood gazing at her from head to foot. The blush

which this called up into Costanza's cheeks, made her look so beautiful

and so modest that it seemed to the corregidor he beheld an angel

descended on earth. After a long scrutiny, "Landlord," he said, "an inn

is not fit setting for a jewel like this, and I now declare that my son

Don Perequito has shown his good sense in fixing his affections so

worthily. I say, damsel, that they may well call you not only

illustrious, but most illustrious: but it should not be with the

addition of scullery-maid, but with that of duchess."

"She is no scullery-maid, señor," said the host; "her only service in

the house is to keep the keys of the plate, of which, by God's bounty, I

have some quantity for the service of the honourable guests who come to

this inn."

"Be that as it may, landlord," returned the corregidor; "I say it is

neither seemly nor proper that this damsel should live in an inn. Is she

a relation of yours?"

"She is neither my relation nor my servant; and if your worship would

like to know who she is, your worship shall hear, when she is not

present, things that will both please and surprise you."

"I should like to know it. Let Costanza retire, and be assured she may

count on me in all things, as she would upon her own father; for her

great modesty and beauty oblige all who see her to offer themselves for

her service."

Costanza replied not a word, but with great composure made a profound

reverence to the corregidor. On leaving the room she found her mistress

waiting in great agitation. She told her all that had passed, and how

her master remained with the corregidor to tell some things, she knew

not what, which he did not choose her to hear. All this did not quite

tranquilise the landlady, nor did she entirely recover her equanimity

until the corregidor went away, and she saw her husband safe and free.

The latter meanwhile had told the corregidor the following tale:--

"It is now, by my reckoning, señor, fifteen years, one month, and four

days, since there came to this house a lady dressed in the habit of a

pilgrim, and carried in a litter. She was attended by four servant-men

on horseback, and two dueñas and a damsel who rode in a coach. She had

also two sumpter mules richly caparisoned, and carrying a fine bed and

all the necessary implements for cooking. In short, the whole equipage

was first rate, and the pilgrim had all the appearance of being some

great lady; and though she seemed to be about forty years of age, she

was nevertheless beautiful in the extreme. She was in bad health, looked

pale, and was so weary, that she ordered her bed to be instantly made,

and her servants made it in this very room. They asked me who was the

most famous physician in this city. I said Doctor de la Fuente. They

went for him instantly; he came without delay, saw his patient alone,

and the result was that he ordered the bed to be made in some other part

of the house, where the lady might not be disturbed by any noise, which

was immediately done. None of the men-servants entered the lady's

apartment, but only the two dueñas and the damsel. My wife and I asked

the men-servants who was this lady, what was her name, whence she came,

and whither she was going? Was she wife, widow, or maid, and why she

wore that pilgrim's dress? To all these questions, which we repeated

many and many a time, we got no other answer than that this pilgrim was

a noble and wealthy lady of old Castile, that she was a widow, and had

no children to inherit her wealth; and that having been for some months

ill of the dropsy, she had made a vow to go on a pilgrimage to our Lady

of Guadalupe, and that was the reason for the dress she wore. As for her

name, they were under orders to call her nothing but the lady pilgrim.

"So much we learned then; but three days after one of the dueñas called

myself and my wife into the lady's presence, and there, with the door

locked, and before her women, she addressed us with tears in her eyes, I

believe in these very words:--

"'Heaven is my witness, friends, that without any fault of mine, I find

myself in the cruel predicament which I shall now declare to you. I am

pregnant, and so near my time, that I already feel the pangs of travail.

None of my men-servants are aware of my misfortune, but from my women

here I have neither been able nor desirous to conceal it. To escape

prying eyes in my own neighbourhood, and that this hour might not come

upon me there, I made a vow to go to our Lady of Guadalupe; but it is

plainly her will that my labour should befal me in your house. It is now

for you to succour and aid me with the secrecy due to one who commits

her honour to your hands. In this purse there are two hundred gold

crowns, which I present to you as a first proof how grateful I shall be

for the good offices I am sure you will render me;' and taking from

under her pillow a green silk purse, embroidered with gold, she put it

into the hands of my wife, who, like a simpleton, stood gaping at the

lady, and did not say so much as a word in the way of thanks or

acknowledgment. For my part I remember that I said there was no need at

all of that, we were not persons to be moved more by interest than by

humanity to do a good deed when the occasion offered. The lady then

continued, 'You must immediately, my friends, look out for some place to

which you may convey my child as soon as it is born, and also you must

contrive some story to tell to the person in whose charge you will leave

it. At first I wish the babe to remain in this city, and afterwards to

be taken to a village. As for what is subsequently done, I will give you

instructions on my return from Guadalupe, if it is God's will that I

should live to complete my pilgrimage, for in the meantime I shall have

had leisure to consider what may be my best course. I shall have no need

of a midwife; for as I know from other confinements of mine, more

honourable than this, I shall do well enough with the aid of my women

only, and thus I shall avoid having an additional witness to my

misfortune.'

"Here the poor distressed pilgrim ended what she had to say, and broke

out into a flood of tears, but was partly composed by the soothing words

spoken to her by my wife, who had recovered her wits. I immediately went

in search of a woman to whom I might take the child when it was born;

and, between twelve and one o'clock that night, when all the people in

the house were fast asleep, the lady was delivered of the most beautiful

little girl that eyes ever beheld, and the very same that your worship

has just seen. But the wonder was that neither did the mother make any

moan in her labour, nor did the baby cry; but all passed off quietly,

and in all the silence that became this extraordinary case. The lady

kept her bed for six days, during which the doctor was constant in his

visits; not that she had informed him of the cause of her illness, or

that she took any of the medicines he prescribed; but she thought to

blind her men-servants by his visits, as she afterwards informed me when

she was out of danger. On the eighth day she left her bed, apparently as

big as she had been before her delivery, continued her pilgrimage, and

returned in three weeks, looking almost quite well, for she had

gradually reduced the bulk of her artificial dropsy. The little girl had

been christened Costanza, in accordance with the order given me by her

mother, and was already placed with a nurse in a village about two

leagues hence, where she passed for my niece. The lady was pleased to

express her satisfaction with all I had done, and gave me when she was

going away a gold chain, which is now in my possession, from which she

took off six links, telling me that they would be brought by the person

who should come to claim the child. She also took a piece of white

parchment, wrote upon it, and then cut zigzag through what she had

written. Look, sir, here are my hands locked together with the fingers

interwoven. Now suppose your honour were to write across my fingers, it

is easy to imagine that one could read the writing whilst the fingers

were joined, but that the meaning would be lost as soon as the hands

were separated, and would appear again as soon as they were united as

before. Just so with the parchment; one half serves as a key to the

other; when they are put together the letters make sense, but separately

they have no meaning. One-half of the parchment and the whole chain,

short of the six links, were left with me, and I keep them still, always

expecting the arrival of the person who is to produce the counterparts;

for the lady told me that in two years she would send for her daughter,

charging me that I should have her brought up not as became her mother's

quality, but as a simple villager; and if by any chance she was not able

to send for the child so soon, I was on no account to acquaint her with

the secret of her birth, even should she have arrived at years of

discretion. The lady moreover begged me to excuse her if she did not

tell me who she was; having for the present important reasons to conceal

her name. Finally, after giving us four hundred gold crowns more, and

embracing my wife with tears, she departed, leaving us filled with

admiration for her discretion, worth, beauty, and modesty.

"Costanza remained at nurse in the village for two years. At the end of

that time I brought her home, and have kept her ever since constantly

with me, in the dress of a girl who had to work for her bread, as her

mother directed. Fifteen years, one month, and four days I have been

looking for the person who should come and claim her, but the length of

time that has elapsed makes me begin to lose all hope of his coming. If

he does not make his appearance before this year is out, it is my

determination to adopt her and bequeath her all I am worth, which is

upwards of sixteen thousand ducats, thanks be to God. It now remains for

me, señor Corregidor, to enumerate to you the virtues and good qualities

of Costanza, if it be possible for me to express them. First and

foremost, she is most piously devoted to our Lady; she confesses and

communicates every month; she can read and write; there's not a better

lace maker in all Toledo; she sings without accompaniment like an angel;

in the matter of behaving with propriety she has not her equal; as for

her beauty, your worship has seen it with your own eyes. Señor Don

Pedro, your worship's son, has never exchanged a word with her in her

life. It is true that from time to time he treats her to some music,

which she never listens to. Many señors, and men of title too, have put

up at this house, and have delayed their journey for several days solely

to have their fill of looking at her; but I well know there is not one

of them can boast with truth that she ever gave them opportunity to say

one word to her either alone or before folk. This, señor, is the real

history of the illustrious scullery-maid, who is no scullion, in which I

have not departed one tittle from the truth."

The host had long ended his narrative before the corregidor broke

silence, so much was he struck by the strange facts he had heard. At

last he desired to see the parchment and the chain; the host produced

them without delay, and they corresponded exactly to the description he

had given of them. The chain was of curious workmanship, and on the

parchment were written, one under the other, on the projecting portions

of the zigzag, the letters, TIITEREOE which manifestly required to be

joined with those of the counterpart to make sense. The corregidor

admired the ingenuity of the contrivance, and judged from the costliness

of the chain, that the pilgrim must have been a lady of great wealth. It

was his intention to remove the lovely girl from the inn as soon as he

had chosen a suitable convent for her abode; but for the present he

contented himself with taking away the parchment only, desiring the

innkeeper to inform him if any one came for Costanza, before he showed

that person the chain, which he left in his custody. And with this

parting injunction the corregidor left the house, much marvelling at

what he had seen and heard.

Whilst all this affair was going on, Tomas was almost beside himself

with agitation and alarm, and lost in a thousand conjectures, every one

of which he dismissed as improbable the moment it was formed. But when

he saw the corregidor go away, leaving Costanza behind him, his spirits

revived and he began to recover his self-possession. He did not venture

to question the landlord, nor did the latter say a word about what had

passed between him and the corregidor to any body but his wife, who was

greatly relieved thereby, and thanked God for her delivery out of a

terrible fright.

About one o'clock on the following day, there came to the inn two

elderly cavaliers of venerable presence, attended by four servants on

horseback and two on foot. Having inquired if that was the Posada del

Sevillano, and being answered in the affirmative, they entered the

gateway, and the four mounted servants, dismounting, first helped their

master's out of their saddles. Costanza came out to meet the new-comers

with her wonted propriety of demeanour, and no sooner had one of the

cavaliers set eyes on her, than, turning to his companion, he said, "I

believe, señor Don Juan, we have already found the very thing we are

come in quest of." Tomas, who had come as usual to take charge of the

horses and mules, instantly recognised two of his father's servants; a

moment after he saw his father himself, and found that his companion was

no other than the father of Carriazo. He instantly conjectured that they

were both on their way to the tunny fisheries to look for himself and

his friend, some one having no doubt told them that it was there, and

not in Flanders, they would find their sons. Not daring to appear before

his father in the garb he wore, he made a bold venture, passed by the

party with his hand before his face, and went to look for Costanza,

whom, by great good luck, he found alone. Then hurriedly, and with a

tremulous voice, dreading lest she would not give him time to say a word

to her, "Costanza," he said, "one of those two elderly cavaliers is my

father--that one whom you will hear called Don Juan de Avendaño. Inquire

of his servants if he has a son, Don Tomas de Avendaño by name, and that

is myself. Thence you may go on to make such other inquiries as will

satisfy you that I have told you the truth respecting my quality, and

that I will keep my word with regard to every offer I have made you. And

now farewell, for I will not return to this house until they have left

it."

Costanza made him no reply, nor did he wait for any, but hurrying out,

with his face concealed as he had come in, he went to acquaint Carriazo

that their fathers had arrived at the Sevillano. The landlord called for

Tomas to give out oats, but no Tomas appearing, he had to do it himself.