Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. All other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

HUMOUR SERIES

Edited by W. H. DIRCKS

THE HUMOUR OF SPAIN

ALREADY ISSUED

• FRENCH HUMOUR
• GERMAN HUMOUR
• ITALIAN HUMOUR
• AMERICAN HUMOUR
• DUTCH HUMOUR
• IRISH HUMOUR
• SPANISH HUMOUR

“WHILE YOUR DAUGHTER WALKS OUT WITH HER BLACK EYES.”—P. 318.

THE
HUMOUR OF SPAIN

THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD.,
PATERNOSTER SQUARE, LONDON, E.C.
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS,
153-157 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
1909.

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION.

A certain mysterious charm clings to the Spanish people, by reason of the long domain of more than seven hundred years of the Moors over the Peninsula, and consequent intermingling, to some degree, of race, and considerable Oriental influence on the national life and characteristics. The chief sport of the Spaniards, the bull-fight, is of Moorish origin; their popular dances and songs raise recollections of Indian Nautch-girls and the choruses in Moroccan coffee-houses; their predominant sentiment, the jealousy over their women, points back to the strict seclusion of the harem. To divert to another paramount influence, Spain, to this day the most Catholic country in the world, is in history of awful interest as the country in which the dread Inquisition took root most firmly: here alone 32,000 persons were condemned to the auto-da-fe! Gloominess, pride, and reserve have for centuries been the reputed qualities of the Spaniards. Oriental races are not mirthful; it is difficult to make the dignified Moor smile, much less laugh: the influence of the Moor, therefore, and the absolute power of the Church as little, could scarcely be conducive to merriment. And yet Spanish literature is illumined throughout with bright flashes of humour, like the silver lining to the dark cloud of the history of the people—a humour which shows itself in almost every phase of the national literature, from the twelfth to the nineteenth century: from incidents in the “Poema del Cid” which tickled the rough sense of humour of the warriors of the Middle Ages, to the delicate and subtle irony of Valera in “Pepita Jimenez”—quaint and naïve in the ballads and collections of tales, sprightly in the drama, boisterous in the “Novela Picaresca,” inimitable in “Don Quixote.” A humour, moreover, not laboured, not purely literary (though the latter kind is not lacking), but spontaneous, and embodying the salient features of the national life and characteristics.

It is both unnecessary and invidious to descant upon “Don Quixote,” par excellence the work of Spanish Humour. The death-blow to the chivalrous literature throughout civilised Europe (in Spain more rankly luxuriant than elsewhere, and where it perhaps reached its climax of absurdity), this marvellous work spread rapidly from land to land, and was first put into English in the year 1612. It is here given from the latest and most scholarly translation, the labour of love for eighteen years of Mr. H. E. Watts. It may be as well, however, to draw attention to the special phase of Spanish life round which Spanish humour collected in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries—namely, the life of rogues in the “Novela Picaresca”—to which a section of this volume has been devoted, and the influence of which is traceable in other authors (such as Guevara and Santos) not included in that section. This peculiar taste, called El Gusto Picaresco (pícaro = rogue) owes its origin, according to Ticknor, to the condition of certain portions of society in the reigns of Charles V. and Philip II., and it has ever been in popular favour. Le Sage boldly imitated it in his famous “Gil Blas”;[1] and Fielding, Smollet, and other English authors show its influence upon English literature. This typical rogue, who generally starts in life as a servant, has his counterpart on the stage in the Gracioso (the valet), prototype of the Barbier de Seville of Beaumarchais, and Molière's Scapin.

As this collection is not intended to be comprehensive, no apology need be made for omissions obvious perhaps to Spanish scholars. Among other works, such as those of the Archpriest of Hita, of Castillejo, Forner, Pitillas, and Moratin, the “Gatomaquia” (see Notes) and “Mosquea,” burlesque epics after the pattern of the “Batrachomyomachia,” are not represented; nor yet the famous “Murciliego Alevoso” (in which is displayed a humour not unlike Pop) of Gonzalez, and the celebrated periodical El Padre Cobos.[2] That the drama, however, the richest in Europe, and original and characteristic as only either the Greek or the English drama, should be so little represented is due to the fact that the fun of a Spanish comedy generally lies in the plot and in comic situations.

With regard to the tales and anecdotes (both ancient and modern), the difficulty is any certainty of their origin, though this applies to the literature of all countries. The story of the cook and the crane is a common chestnut (with us the crane is a goose), the travellers’ tale of the huge cauldron and the cabbage is perhaps too familiar to please; but they are here of interest as from Spanish Tablebooks of so long ago as the sixteenth century.

To come to the nineteenth century, our English periodical essayists of the eighteenth—Addison, Steele, and Johnson—will be recognised as prototypes of Figaro, El Curioso Parlante, El Solitario, &c. These Spanish Tatlers and Spectators are, however, on the whole, no servile imitators, and are justly held in high esteem by the Spaniards, though little known outside the Peninsula.[3] The nineteenth-century novel, in which critics see the continuity of the Spanish genius, is here well represented by Valer “Pepita Jiménez,” and “Sister Saint Sulpice” of Valdés; other novelists, the rightly popular Alarcon, and the distinguished authoress, Emilia Pardo Bazan, have contributed short tales.

The chronological order, which on the whole is adhered to down to the eighteenth century, is somewhat neglected in the nineteenth for the sake of variety and harmony in the arrangement of the selections. It is also to be feared that a few names of minor importance have crept in among the authors of the present century.

This compilation is based upon Ticknor’s great work upon Spanish literature[4] and Padre Blanco Garcia’s “History of the Literature of the Nineteenth Century” (published 1891), besides some valuable advice, generously given under great stress of work and worry, by Senõr Don Rubió y Lluch, professor of Spanish Literature to the University of Barcelona. Other authorities consulted, biographies, &c., are too numerous to detail.

Existing translations have been used, and the translators’ names appended. Among these many famous ones from Elizabethan to modern times will be noticed. Many of the selections have been considerably adapted for various reasons, principally to suit the requirements of a work intended to be popular. Others are almost literal. In many cases it has been no little difficulty to select passages comprehensive enough to dispense with explanations or a long introductory notice.

On the whole liveliness and attractiveness (whether with success or no) is aimed at rather than scholarly exactness, though it is to be hoped the collection will also be of interest to the student, and give a faithful reflection of Spanish humour so far as possible in a foreign garb.

With regard to the insertion of extracts from ‪‬‬‬‬‬translations or Spanish originals published within the last ten years, I have to thank the Cassell Publishing Co., New York, for “The Account Book,” translated by Mary J. Serrano; Messrs. Thomas J. Crowell & Co., New York, for the extracts from “Sister Saint Sulpice,” translated by N. H. Dole; Mr. Heinemann, for his kind permission to insert the given extract from the translation of “Pepita Jiménez”; Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner, and Co. for permission to insert the ballad from Mr. Gibson’s Spanish Romances; Señora Doña Emilia Pardo Bazan for her gracious permission to select from her tales; Mr. H. E. Watts for permission to insert extracts from his translation of “Don Quixote.”

Finally, my best thanks are due to kind friends in Catalonia (possessors in the Catalan of a distinct tongue and valuable literature, if less important than the Castilian) for their great help during my residence at Barcelona by the furthering of my Spanish studies, privately, and at the University. While I owe much, to cultured Spaniards, from Santander to Seville, for valuable information on their national life and customs, and to my Mother, a patient and enthusiastic traveller, and the origin, in more than one way, of my sojourn and travels in Spain.

Susette M. Taylor.

THE HUMOUR OF SPAIN.

MY CID PLEDGES TWO COFFRES FULL OF SAND TO THE JEWS RACHEL AND VIDAS.

“Martin Antolinez, a dowghtye lance art thow
And be my troth thy hire shall ne stinted be, I vow

My gold, alack, is all yespent and eke the silver toe,

And richesse bere I none with me as God on hye is trewe.

With an ill wille I do itte, for my brave companye’s sake,

Togither with thy gude reade tweye strong chests we will make,

The leather schal be cramasie, the nails schal be of gold,

And we’ll fill them ful of gravele, as much as thei can hold

Toe Rachel and to Vidas, now hie thee speedilee:

An outlawe I from Burgos towne, the Kyng is wrath with me,

I needs must leave my tresor because of its sore weyt,

And I will plege it to them at an anantageus rate.”

Martin Antolinez spedde to towne without delai,

And saw the tweye Jewes upon that verye day.

“O Rachel and thow Vidas, dere frendes are ye in trothe,

A message I have privyly to telle onto youe bothe.”

They did not keep him waiting, they went asyde all thre.

“Here Rachel, and thow Vidas, praye giv your handes to me,

Betray me not to Xtian nor yet to any More,

And I will make you ryche, you schal never more be poor.

The Campeador alate gathered in the landes dutie,

And keped from the Kyng grete and mickle bootie;

Tweye coffres he has gotten brimful of shinand gold

And he cannot bere hem with him, unless he had them sold;

But he’ll give them in your keepyng, and borrow what is just,

Soe take the coffres in your care, with hem we youe entrust,

And laye your handes within mine and tel me one and bothe,

That you wil not look insyde them al this yere upon your oathe”—

“And what will my Cid paye toe us for keepyng safe his treasure?”—

Quoth Martin Antolinez, “He will paye you in due measure

But now he needes a hundred markes, and you can paye them here.”—

“We never paye,” the Jewes sayde, “afore we have the ware.”

Soe they mounted ther swift corsiares and rade richt speedilee,

Wen my Cid saw them comynge, he lought most lustilee.

The Jewes bent loe and kissed his hande, Martin wrote down the deed,

Thei sholde have care of the coffers but of lookyng in tayk heed.

The myrth youe sholde have witnest wen the chests were borne away,

They coulde not bere them by themselves all gyf no striplings they.

Sayd Rachel to the Campeador, “O Cid, I kisse thy hand,

Myght I a fyn red moorish skynne on thi returne demande?”

“Richt willyngley,” sayde my Cid, “sych gifts I gladly offer,

Shoulde I perchaunce forget itte, youe must count it on the coffer.”

In the middle of the hall they stretch’d a carpet fringed and rare,

And a shete of fyn bleached linen was also laid out ther.

In a single lot of silver thre hundrith markes they payed;

Brave Antolinez counted them but did not have hem weyed.

Thre hundrith more he toke in gold, and then bespake the two:

“O Rachel and thow Vidas, mickle gain I’ve brought to you,

And in soth I’ve earned your thanks gif not a pair of breeches toe.”

Vidas and Rachel youde asyde and speedilye agreed

That Antolinez verile had earned of them ryche meede.

“Thritte odde markes, wich is but just, Martin, we’ll giv to youe,

And you can buye some fur, a cloake, and paire of breeches toe.

Soe Antolinez took the markes and thanked them hertelye,

And tayking curteous leave of them spedde backe richt merrylye.

“Poema del Cid” (Twelfth Century).

THE CID PLEDGES TWO COFFERS OF SAND TO THE JEWS.

THE COWARDICE OF THE INFANTES OF CARRION WHEN THE LION BREAKS LOOSE.

TWO years after their marriage did the Infantes of Carrion sojourn in Valencia in peace and pleasure, to their own great contentment, and their uncle Suero Gonzalez with them; and at the end of those two years there came to pass a great misadventure, by reason of which they fell out with the Cid, in whom there was no fault. There was a lion in the house of the Cid who had grown a large one, and a strong, and was full nimble; three men had the keeping of this lion, and they kept him in a den which was in a courtyard, high up in the palace; and when they cleansed the court they were wont to shut him up in his den, and afterward to open the door that he might come out and eat: the Cid kept him for his pastime, that he might take pleasure with him when he was minded so to do. Now it was the custom of the Cid to dine every day with his company, and after he had dined he was wont to sleep awhile upon his seat. And one day when he had dined there came a man and told him that a great fleet was arrived in the port of Valencia, wherein there was a great power of the Moors, whom King Bucar had brought over, the son of the Miramamolin of Morocco. And when the Cid heard this his heart rejoiced and he was glad, for it was nigh three years since he had had a battle with the Moors. Incontinently he ordered a signal to be made that all the honourable men who were in the city should assemble together. And when they were all assembled in the Alcazar, and his sons-in-law with them, the Cid told them the news, and took counsel with them in what manner they should go out against this great power of the Moors. And when they had taken counsel the Cid went to sleep upon his seat, and the Infantes and the others sat playing at tables and chess. Now at this time the men who were keepers of the lion were cleaning the court, and when they heard the cry that the Moors were coming, they opened the den, and came down into the palace where the Cid was, and left the door of the court open. And when the lion had ate his meat and saw that the door was open he went out of the court and came down into the palace, even into the hall where they all were; and when they who were there saw him, there was a great stir among them; but the Infantes of Carrion showed greater cowardice than all the rest. Ferrando Gonzalez having no shame, neither for the Cid nor for the others who were present, crept under the seat whereon the Cid was sleeping, and in his haste he burst his mantle and his doublet also at the shoulders. And Diego Gonzalez, the other, ran to a postern door, crying, “I shall never see Carrion again!” This door opened upon a courtyard where there was a winepress, and he jumped out, and by reason of the great height could not keep on his feet, but fell among the lees and defiled himself therewith. And all the others who were in the hall wrapped their cloaks around their arms, and stood round about the seat whereon the Cid was sleeping, that they might defend him. The noise which they made awakened the Cid, and he saw the lion coming towards him, and he lifted up his hand and said, “What is this?”... And the lion, hearing his voice, stood still; and he rose up and took him by the mane as if he had been a gentle mastiff, and led him back to the court where he was before, and ordered his keepers to look better to him for the time to come. And when he had done this he returned to the hall and took his seat again; and all they who beheld it were greatly astonished.

After some time, Ferrando Gonzalez crept from under the seat where he had hidden himself, and he came out with a pale face, not having yet lost his fear, and his brother Diego got from among the lees: and when they who were present saw them in this plight you never saw such sport as they made; but my Cid forbade their laughter. And Diego went out to wash himself and change his garments, and he sent to call his brother forth, and they took counsel together in secret.

“Chronicle of the Cid” (Thirteenth Century).

Trans. Southey.

BRAVERY OF THE CID WHEN THE LION BREAKS LOOSE.

THE CAT TURNED NUN.

IN a certain convent there was a cat which had killed all the mice in the convent but one, which was very big, which she could not catch. The cat mused in her heart in what manner she might deceive the mouse that she might kill him; and thought so long till she agreed she must take the veil, and clothe herself in nun’s garb, and sit amongst the nuns at table, and then she might get at the mouse; and she did as she had thought. The mouse, when he saw the cat eating with the nuns, rejoiced greatly, and thought, since the cat had become religious, that she would henceforth do him no harm, insomuch that Don Mouse came near to where the nuns were eating, and began to leap about here and there. Then the cat rolled her eyes as one who has no longer eyes for any vanity or folly, and she kept a peaceful and humble countenance; and the mouse, seeing that, drew near little by little; and when the cat saw him nigh her she sprang upon him with her claws and began to throttle him. And the mouse said, “How is it that thou, a nun, art so cruel as to wish to kill me?” Whereupon the cat replied, “Think not thy cries will cause me to free thee; for know, brother, that when it pleases me I am a nun, and when it pleases me a canoness.”[5]

“The Book of Cats” (Fourteenth Century).

Author unknown.

“THE MOUSE, WHEN HE SAW THE CAT EATING WITH THE NUNS, REJOICED GREATLY.”

THE MADMAN IN THE BATH.

NOW it chanced that a good man kept some baths, and a neighbour, a madman, was the first to come daily to this bath; afterwards awaiting the arrival of the people to bathe, he commenced, as soon as he saw them, to beat them with sticks or throw stones at them, so that the proprietor of the baths soon lost all his customers. The good man, seeing this, determined to rise very early one day, undressed himself, and went into the bath before the madman arrived, having at hand a pail full of very hot water and a wooden club. When the madman came to the bath, determined, as usual, to attack all who came in his way, the good man, seeing him enter, allowed him to approach, when he suddenly upset the pail of hot water over his head, attacking him at the same time with the club. The madman now gave himself up for dead; nevertheless, he managed to escape, and, running away, he told every one he met to be careful, for there was a madman in the bath.

Don Juan Manuel (d. 1347). Trans. James York.

“SUDDENLY UPSET THE PAIL OF HOT WATER.”

THE NAKED KING.

THREE impostors came to a king and told him they were cloth-weavers, and could fabricate a cloth of so peculiar a nature that a legitimate son of his father could see the cloth; but if he were illegitimate, though believed to be legitimate, he could not see it.

Now the King was much pleased at this, thinking that by this means he would be able to distinguish the men in his kingdom who were legitimate sons of their supposed father’s from those who were not, and so be enabled to increase his treasures, for among the Moors only legitimate children inherit their father’s property; and for this end he ordered a palace to be appropriated to the manufacture of this cloth. And these men, in order to convince him that they had no intention of deceiving him, agreed to be shut up in this palace until the cloth was manufactured, which satisfied the King.

When they were supplied with a large quantity of gold, silver, silk, and many other things, they entered the palace, and, putting their looms in order, gave it to be understood that they were working all day at the cloth.

After some days, one of them came to the King and told him the cloth was commenced, that it was the most curious thing in the world, describing the design and construction; he then prayed the King to favour them with a visit, but begged he would come alone. The King was much pleased, but wishing to have the opinion of some one first, sent the Lord Chamberlain to see it, in order to know if they were deceiving him. When the Lord Chamberlain saw the workmen, and heard all they had to say, he dared not admit he could not see the cloth, and when he returned to the King he stated that he had seen it; the King sent yet another, who gave the same report. When they whom he had sent declared that they had seen the cloth, he determined to go himself.

On entering the palace and seeing the men at work, who began to describe the texture and relate the origin of the invention, as also the design and colour, in which they all appeared to agree, although in reality they were not working; when the King saw how they appeared to work, and heard the character of the cloth so minutely described, and yet could not see it, although those he had sent had seen it, he began to feel very uneasy, fearing he might not be the son of the King who was supposed to be his father, and that if he acknowledged he could not see the cloth he might lose his kingdom; under this impression he commenced praising the fabric, describing its peculiarities after the manner of the workmen.

“HE MOUNTED ON HORSEBACK AND RODE INTO THE CITY.”

On the return to his palace he related to his people how good and marvellous was the cloth, yet at the same time suspected something wrong.

At the end of two or three days the King requested his “Alguacil” (or officer of justice) to go and see the cloth. When the Alguacil entered and saw the workmen, who, as before, described the figures and pattern of the cloth, knowing that the King had been to see it, and yet could not see it himself, he thought he certainly could not be the legitimate son of his father, and therefore could not see it. He, however, feared if he was to declare that he could not see it he would lose his honourable position; to avoid this mischance he commenced praising the cloth even more vehemently than the others.

When the Alguacil returned to the King and told him that he had seen the cloth, and that it was the most extraordinary production in the world, the King was much disconcerted; for he thought that if the Alguacil had seen the cloth, which he was unable to see, there could no longer be a doubt that he was not the legitimate son of the King, as was generally supposed; he therefore did not hesitate to praise the excellency of the cloth and the skill of the workmen who were able to make it.

On another day he sent one of his Councillors, and it happened to him as to the King and the others of whom I have spoken; and in this manner, and for this reason, they deceived the King and many others, for no one dared to say he could not see the cloth.

Things went on thus until there came a great feast, when all requested the King to be dressed in some of the cloth; so the workmen, being ordered, brought some rolled up in a very fine linen, and inquired of the King how much of it he wished them to cut off; so the King gave orders how much and how to make it up.

Now when the clothes were made, and the feast day had arrived, the weavers brought them to the King, informing his Majesty that his dress was made of the cloth as he had directed, the King all this time not daring to say he could not see it.

When the King had professed to dress himself in this suit, he mounted on horseback and rode into the city; but fortunately for him it was summer time. The people seeing his Majesty come in this manner were much surprised; but knowing that those who could not see this cloth would be considered illegitimate sons of their fathers, kept their surprise to themselves, fearing the dishonour consequent upon such a declaration. Not so, however, with a negro, who happened to notice the King thus equipped; for he, having nothing to lose, came to him and said, “Sire, to me it matters not whose son I am, therefore I tell you that you are riding without any clothes.” On this the King commenced beating him, saying that he was not the legitimate son of his supposed father, and therefore it was that he could not see the cloth. But no sooner had the negro said this, than others were convinced of its truth, and said the same; until, at last, the King and all with him lost their fear of declaring the truth, and saw through the trick of which these impostors had made them the victims. When the weavers were sought for they were found to have fled, taking with them all they had received from the King by their imposition.

Don Juan Manuel. Trans. James York.

“NOT EVEN THE DAY OF THE MUD?”

THE King Abit, of Seville, was married to Romaquia, and he loved her better than anything in the world. She was a very virtuous woman, and the Moors recount many of her good acts. But in one thing she did not display much wisdom; this was that she generally had some caprice or other which the King was always willing to gratify.

One day, being in Cordova during the month of February, there happened to be (which was very unusual) a very heavy fall of snow. When Romaquia saw this she began to weep. The King, seeing her so afflicted, desired to know the cause of her grief.

“I weep,” said she, “because I am not permitted to live in a country where we sometimes see snow.”

The King, anxious to gratify her, ordered almond-trees to be planted on all the mountains surrounding Cordova, for, it being a very warm climate, snow is seldom or never seen there. But now, once a year, and that in the month of February, the almond-trees came forth in full blossom, which, from their whiteness, made it appear as if there had been a fall of snow on the mountains, and was a source of great delight to the Queen for a time.

On another occasion Romaquia, being in her apartment, which overlooked the river, saw a woman without shoes or stockings kneading mud on the banks of the river for the purpose of making bricks. When Romaquia saw this she began to cry, which the King observing, begged to know the cause of her grief.

She replied, “It is because I am not free to do as I please; I cannot do as yonder woman is doing.”

Then the King, in order to gratify her, ordered a lake at Cordova to be filled with rose-water in place of ordinary water, and to produce mud he had this filled with sugar, powdered cinnamon and ginger, beautiful stones, amber, musk, and as many other fragrant spices and perfumes as could be procured, and in place of straws he ordered to be placed ready small sugar-canes. Now when this lake was full of such mud, as you may imagine, the King informed Romaquia that now she might take off her shoes and stockings and enjoy herself by making as many bricks as she pleased.

“THE KING ORDERED A LAKE AT CORDOVA TO BE FILLED WITH ROSE-WATER.”

Another day, taking a fancy for something not immediately procurable, she began weeping as before. The King again entreated to know the cause of her grief.

“How can I refrain from tears,” said she, “when you never do anything to please me?”

The King, seeing that so much had been done to please and gratify her caprices, and feeling now at his wits’ end, exclaimed, in Arabic, “Ehu alenahac aten,” which means, “Not even the day of the mud.” That is to say, that, although all the rest had been forgotten, she might at least have remembered the mud he had prepared to humour her.

Don Juan Manuel (d. 1347). Trans. James York.

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

THERE lived in a city a Moor who was much respected, and who had a son, the most promising youth in the world, but not being rich enough to accomplish the great deeds which he felt in his heart equal to, he was greatly troubled, having the will and not the power. Now in the same town there lived another Moor who held a higher position, and was very much richer than his father, and who had an only daughter, the very reverse in character and appearance of the young man, she being of so very violent a temper that no one could be found willing to marry such a virago. One day the young man came to his father and said, “You know that your means will not allow you to put me in a position to live honourably,” adding that, as he desired to live an easy and quiet life, he thought it better to seek to enrich himself by an advantageous marriage, or to leave that part of the country. The father told him that he would be very happy if he could succeed in such a union. On this the son proposed, if it were agreeable to his father, to seek the daughter of their neighbour in marriage. Hearing this, the father was much astonished, and asked how he could think of such a thing when he knew that no man, however poor, could be induced to marry her.

Nevertheless the son insisted, and although the father thought it a strange whim, in the end he gave his consent. The good man then visited his neighbour telling him the wish of his son.

When the good man heard what his friend said, he answered, “By heaven, my friend, were I to do such a thing I should prove myself a very false friend, for you have a worthy son, and it would be base in me to consent to his injury or death, and I know for certain that, were he to live with my daughter, he would soon die, or death, at least, would be preferable to life. Do not think I say this from any objection to your alliance, for I should only be too grateful to any man who would take her out of my house.”

The young man’s father was much pleased at this, as his son was so intent on the marriage. All being ultimately arranged, they were in the end married, and the bride taken home, according to the Moorish fashion, to the house of her husband, and left to supper, the friends and relations returning to their respective homes, waiting anxiously for the following day, when they feared to find the bridegroom either dead or seriously injured.

Now, being left alone, the young couple sat down to supper, when the bridegroom, looking behind him, saw his mastiff, and said to him, “Bring me water wherewith to wash my hands.” The dog naturally taking no notice of this command, the young man became irritated, and ordered the animal more angrily to bring him water for his hands, which the latter not heeding, the young man arose in a great rage, and, drawing his sword, commenced a savage attack on the dog, who to avoid him ran away, but finding no retreat jumped on the table, then to the fireplace, his master still pursuing him, who, having caught him, first cut off his head, then his paws, hewing him to pieces, covering everything with blood. Thus furious and blood-stained he returned to the table, and looking round saw a cat. “Bring me water for my hands,” said he to him. The animal not noticing the command, the master cried out, “How, false traitor, did you not see how I treated the mastiff for disobeying me? If you do not do as I tell you this instant you shall share his fate.” The poor little harmless cat continuing motionless, the master seized him by the paws and dashed him to pieces against the wall. His fury increasing, he again placed himself at the table, looking about on all sides as if for something to attack next. His wife, seeing this, and supposing he had lost his senses, held her peace. At length he espied his horse, the only one he had, and called to him fiercely to bring him water to wash his hands. The animal not obeying he cried out in a rage, “How is this? Think you that because you are the only horse I have, you may dare thus to disobey my orders? Know, then, that your fate shall be the same as the others, and that any one living who dares to disobey me shall not escape my vengeance.” Saying this he seized the horse, cut off his head, and hacked him to pieces.

And when the wife saw this, and knowing he had no other horse, felt that he was really in earnest, she became dreadfully alarmed.

He again sat down to table, raging and all bloody as he was, swearing he would kill a thousand horses, or even men or women, if they dared to disobey him. Holding at the same time his bloody sword in his hand, he looked around with glaring eyes until, fixing them on his wife, he ordered her to bring him water to wash his hands.

The wife, expecting no other fate than to be cut to pieces if she demurred, immediately arose and brought him the water.

“Ha! thank God you have done so!” said he, “otherwise, I am so irritated by these senseless brutes, that I should have done by you as by them.” He afterwards commanded her to help him to meat. She complied; but he told her, in a fearful tone of voice, to beware, as he felt as if he was going mad. Thus passed the night, she not daring to speak, but strictly obeying all his orders. After letting her sleep for a short time he said to her, “Get up; I have been so annoyed that I cannot sleep, take care that nothing disturbs me, and in the meanwhile prepare me a good and substantial meal.”

While it was yet early the following morning the fathers, mothers, and other relatives came stealthily to the door of the young people, and, hearing no movement, feared the bridegroom was either dead or wounded, and seeing the bride approach the door alone were still more alarmed.

She, seeing them, went cautiously and tremblingly towards them, and exclaimed: “Traitors, what are you doing? How dare you approach this gate? Speak not—be silent, or all of us, you as well as I, are dead.”

When they heard this they were much astonished, and on learning what had taken place the night previous they esteemed the young man very much who had made so good a commencement in the management of his household; and from that day forward his wife became tractable and complaisant, so that they led a very happy life. A few days later his father-in-law, wishing to follow the example of his son, likewise killed a horse in order to intimidate his wife, but she said to him, “My friend, it is too late to begin now; it would not avail you to kill a hundred horses: we know each other too well.”

“Who would not for life be a henpecked fool,

Must show, from the first, that he means to rule.”

Don Juan Manuel. Trans. James York.

A LONG TALE.

A KING kept a man to tell him fables and tales at night before going to sleep. And one night the King, troubled with anxious thoughts, could not sleep, and the man told him three tales more than on other nights. And the King bade him tell still more, but he was unwilling, having told many. And the King said, “Thou hast told many, but they were short; tell me a long one, and then thou canst hie thee to bed.” The man, agreeing, began thus: “A countryman had a thousand shillings, and went to the fair and bought two thousand sheep at sixpence each, and on his way back he found the water had risen in the river, and that he could not cross by either bridge or ford; but he found a little boat, and putting in two sheep, rowed across. And now, the river is wide, the boat very small, and the sheep many; when the rustic has ferried his flock across, I will go on with the tale.” And he got up and hied him to bed.

“Libro de los Exemplos” (Fifteenth Century).

ELECTIO NULLA DEBET ESSE IN MALIS.

A knavish fool condemned to death, asked the judge if he might choose the tree whereon he should be hanged; and this wish granted him, he was taken to the mountains, but could see no tree to please him. And they took him before the King, who asked why he was not yet hanged, to which the fool replied, the fact was he could not find a tree on which he felt he would like to be hanged.

“Libro de los Exemplos” (Fifteenth Century).

THE BITER BIT.

“Who thinks to take another in

Is oft in his turn taken in.”

TWO townsmen and a countryman, on a pilgrimage to Mecca, agreed to share provisions till they should reach Mecca. But the victuals ran short, so that they had nothing left but a little flour—enough to make a loaf. And the townsmen, seeing that, said one to the other: “We have but little food, and our companion eats much, how shall we bring about that he shall eat none of the bread, and that we alone eat it?” And they took this counsel—they would make the loaf, and whilst it was baking should all go to sleep, and whoever dreamed the most marvellous thing in that time, he should alone eat the bread. This they did, thinking to betray the simple rustic, and they made the loaf and put it to bake, and then lay down to sleep. But the rustic saw through their treachery, and when the companions were sleeping took the half-baked bread, ate it, and turned to sleep. Then one of the townsmen awoke as one dreaming and afraid, and called to his companion; and the other said, “What hast thou?”

“I saw a marvellous vision: methought two angels opened the gates of heaven, and bore me before the face of God.”

And his companion said, “Marvellous is that vision. But I dreamed that two angels seized me, and, cleaving the earth, bore me to hell.”

The rustic heard all this and pretended to sleep, but the others called out to him to awake, and he discreetly, as one amazed, replied, “Who are ye that are calling me?”

They replied, “We are thy companions.”

And he said, “Have ye returned?”

And they said, “Whence wouldst thou have us return?”

And the rustic said, “But now methought I saw two angels take the one of you to heaven, and then two other angels take the other to hell; and seeing this, and thinking you would neither return, I got up and ate the loaf.”

“Libro de los Exemplos” (Fifteenth Century).

“WHO ARE YE THAT ARE CALLING ME?”

CALISTO IS SMITTEN WITH MELIBEA’S CHARMS.

Argument.—Calisto, entering into a garden after his usual manner, met there with Melibea, with whose love being caught, he began to court her; by whom being sharply checkt and dismist, he gets him home.

Calisto. Sempronio, Sempronio, why Sempronio, I say, Where is this accursed Varlet?

Sempronio. I am heere, Sir, about your horses.

Calisto. My horses (you knave), how haps it then that thou comst out of the hall?

Sempronio. The Gyrfalcon bated, and I came in to set him on the Pearch.

Calisto. Is’t e’en so? Now the divell take thee; misfortune waite on thy heeles to thy destruction; mischiefe light upon thee; let some perpetuall intolerable torment seyze upon thee in so high a degree that it may be beyond all comparison, till it bring thee (which shortly I hope to see) to a most painfull, miserable, and disastrous death. Goe, thou unlucky rogue, goe I say, and open the chamber doore, and make ready my bed.

Sempronio. Presently, Sir, the bed is ready for you.

Calisto. Shut the windowes, and leave darknesse to accompany him, whose sad thoughts deserve no light. Oh death! how welcome art thou, to those who out-live their happinesse! how welcome, wouldst thou but come when thou art cal! O that Hypocrates and Galen, those learned Physicians, were now living, and both heere, and felt my paine! O heavens! if yee have any pitty in you, inspire that Pleberian heart therewith, lest that my soule, helplesse of hope, should fall into the like misfortune with Pyrramus and Thisbe.

Sempronio. What a thing is this? Wha the matter with you?

Calisto. Away, get thee gone, doe not speake to me, unlesse thou wilt, that these my hands, before thy time be come, cut off thy daies by speedy death.

Sempronio. Since you will lament all alone, and have none to share with you in your sorrowes, I will be gone, Sir.

Calisto. Now the divell goe with thee.

Sempronio. With me Sir? There is no reason that he should goe with me, who stayes with you. O unfortunate, O sudden and unexpected ill; what contrarious accident, what squint-ey’d starre is it that hath robbed this Gentleman of his wonted mirth? and not of that alone, but of it (which is worse) his wits. Shall I leave him all alone? or shall I goe in to him? If I leave him alone, he will kill himselfe. If I goe in, he will kill me. Let him bide alone, and bite upon the bit, come what will come, I care not. Better it is that hee dye, whose life is hatefull unto him, than that I dye, when life is pleasing unto mee, and say that I should not desire to live, save only to see my Elicia, that alone is motive inoughe to make mee louke to my selfe, and guard my person from dangers.... Well, I will let him alone awhile, and give his humour leave to work out it selfe; ... againe, if he see me in sight, I shall see him more incensed against me: For there the sun scorcheth most where he reflecteth most.... And therefore I think it my best play, to play least in sight, and to stay a little longer; but if in the meanewhile he should kill him selfe, then farewell he. Perhaps I may get more by it than every man is aware of, and cast my skinne, changing rags for robes, and penury for plenty. But it is an old saying, He that lookes after dead-men’s shoes, may chance to goe barefoote: Perhaps also the divell hath deceived me. And so his death may be my death, and then all the fat is in the fire: The rope will go after the Bucket: and one losse follows another;—on the other side, your wise men say, That it is a great ease to a grieved soule to have a companion, to whom he may communicate his sorrow. Besides, it is generally received, that the wound which bleedes inward, is ever the more dangerous. Why then in these two extremes hang I in suspense. What I were best to doe? Sure the safest is to enter....

Calisto. Sempronio!

Sempronio. Sir.

Calisto. Reach me that Lute.

Sempronio. Sir, heere it is.

Calisto. “Tell me what griefe so great can be
As to equall my misery.”

Sempronio. This Lute, Sir, is out of tune.

Calisto. How shall he tune it, who himselfe is out of tune?... Or how can he do anything well, whose will is not obedient to reason? who harbors in his brest needles, peace, warre, truce, love, hate, injuries and suspicions; and all these at once, and from one and the same cause. Doe thou therefore take this Lute unto thee, and sing me the most doleful ditty thou canst devise.

Sempronio.

“Nero from Tarpey, doth behold

How Rome doth burne all on a flame;

He heares the cries of young and old,

Yet is not grievéd at the same.”

Calisto. My fire is farre greater, and lesse her pity whom now I speake of——

Sempronio. I was not deceived when I sayd, my Master had lost his wits.

Calisto. Whats that (Sempronio) thou muttrest to thy selfe?

Sempronio. Nothing Sir, not I.

Calisto. Tell me what thou saidst: Be not afraid.

Sempronio. Marry I said, How can that fire be greater which but tormenteth one living man, than that which burnt such a Citty as that was, and such a multitude of men?

Calisto. How? I shall tell thee. Greater is that flame which lasteth fourscore yeeres than that which endureth but one day. And greater that fire which burneth one soule, than that which burneth an hundred thousand bodies: See what difference there is betwixt apparencies and existencies; betwixt painted shadowes, and lively substances.... So great a difference is there betwixt that fire which thou speakest of and that which burneth mee.

Sempronio. I see, I did not mistake my byas; which runnes worse and worse. Is it not enough to shew thy selfe a fool, but thou must also speake prophanely?

Calisto. Did I not tell thee, when thou speakest, that thou shouldest speake aloud? Tell me what’s that thou mumblest to thy selfe.

Sempronio. Onely I doubted of what religion your Worship was.

Calisto. I am a Melibean, I adore Melibea, I believe in Melibea, and I love Melibea.

Sempronio. My Master is all Melibea: whose heart not able to containe her, like a boyling vessell, goes bubbling her name in his mouth. Well, I have now as much as I desire: I know on which foot you halt. I shall heale you.

Calisto. Thou speakest of matters beyond the Moone. It is impossible.

Sempronio. O Sir, exceeding easie; for the first recovery of sicknesse, is the discovery of the disease.... Ha, ha, ha, Calisto’s fire; these, his intolerable paines: as if love shot all his arrowes only against him. O Cupid, how high and unsearchable are thy mysteries! What reward has thou ordained for love, since that so necessary a tribulation attends on lovers? That hast set his bounds, as markes for men to wonder at: Lovers ever deeming that they only are cast behinde; that all men breake thorow but themselves, like your light-footed bulls, which being let loose in the Place, and galled with darts, take over the bars as soone as they feele themselves prickt.

Calisto. Sempronio.

Sempronio. Sir.

Calisto. Doe not you goe away.

Sempronio. This pipe sounds in another tune.

Calisto. What dost thou think of my malady?

Sempronio. Why, that you love Melibea.

“Celestina, or the Tragicomedy of Calisto and Melibea.”
The first Act is attributed to Rodrigo Cota, 1480.
Trans. Puede-Ser, or Mabbe.

LOVE AND DEATH.

TAPÁROUSE EN UNA VENTA.

Death and Cupid chanced to meet,

On a day when they were roaming,

At a wayside country inn,

After sunset in the gloaming.

Cupid he was bound for Seville,

Death was marching to Madrid,

Both with knapsacks on their shoulders,

Where their wicked wares were hid.

Seemed to me that they were fleeing

From the clutches of the law,

For the couple gained a living

Dealing death on all they saw.

Cupid slily glanced at Death,

As they sat around the board,

Marvelled at her ugly visage,

Shook his merry sides and roared.

“Madam,” quoth he, “’tis so rude

To behave in such a way;

But, in sooth, so fair a fright

I’ve not seen for many a day.”

Death, whose cheeks grew red and fiery,

Put an arrow in her bow;

Cupid put in his another,

And to combat they would go.

Quick the landlord slipped between them,

As they scowled on one another,

Made them swear eternal friendship,

Bade them sit and sup together.

In the kitchen, by the ingle,

They were fain to lay them down,

For no bed was in the tavern,

And the landlord he had none.

They their arrows, bows and quivers,

Gave into Marina’s care,

She, a buxom wench who waited

On the guests that harboured there;

On the morrow at the dawning,

Cupid started from the floor,

Bade the landlord fetch his arms,

Broke his fast and paid his score.

’Twas the arms of Death the landlord

In his haste to Cupid brought,

Cupid flung them on his shoulder,

Took the road and gave no thought.

Death rose up a little after,

Sour, and limp, and woe-begone,

Took at once the arms of Cupid,

Shouldered them, and wandered on.

From that very day to this,

Cupid’s shafts no more revive;

Youths who feel his fatal arrows

Pass not over twenty-five.

And, ’tis stranger still, the old ones,

Whom Death’s arrows used to slay,

When they feel the shafts of Cupid,

Gain a new life and a gay.

What a world, so topsy-turvey!

What a change in people’s lives!

Cupid giving life destroys,

Death destroying life revives!

Trans. J. Y. Gibson.

THE EATEN PANCAKE.

Leno. Ah, Troico, are you there?

Troico. Yes, my good fellow, do you see I am?

Leno. It would be better if I did not see it.

Troico. Why so, Leno?

Leno. Why, then you would not know a piece of ill-luck that has just happened.

Troico. What ill-luck?

Leno. What day is it to-day?

Troico. Thursday.

Leno. Thursday? How soon will Friday come, then?

Troico. Friday will come to-morrow.

Leno. Well, tha something;—but tell me, are there not other days of ill-luck as well as Fridays?

Troico. Why do you ask?

Leno. Because there may be unlucky pancakes, if there are unlucky Thursdays.

Troico. I suppose so.

Leno. Now, stop there;—suppose one of yours had been eaten of a Thursday, on whom would the ill-luck have fallen—on the pancake, or on you?