Patrañas

“There is one thing, father, you can do for me – one only thing, but it is too great to ask!”

“Nothing is too great to-day – ask away, boy, never fear!” The barber looked towards Juanita to gain courage, and, seeing her approving smile, fell on his knees and begged Juan to let him marry her. “With all my heart, if the wench so will,” replied the old man; “I cannot see her wedded to an honester fellow!” Juan was not slow to read in her eyes what her sentiments were, and so, without more ado, he took the hand of each to place them in one another. But both drew back. The barber, with all his charity and delicacy and taste, was very ugly, and he could not believe in his good fortune; and Juanita had one condition to lay down first. “How now! what’s this?” said the father. “Come, friend barber, explain yourself.”

“Well, sir, I think it is but fair to give Juanita time to consider it all. I know I’m not so good-looking as her husband ought to be. Long ago should I have told her how I loved her but for this – but I dared not! I longed to offer the 500 maravedis over and over again, but I dared not speak to her; and now the joy is all so strange I feel I must not hurry her.”

“Well spoken, young man! but, Juanita, what do you hang back for?”

“I – I have one little condition to make;” and she turned to the barber. “I have been thinking that we have not acted quite honestly with the Corregidora. She has a superstition against wearing dead people’s hair, and she has paid honourably for that of a living person – so what she has bought must be taken back to her. Moreover, I recognize that all my life this hair has been a snare to me, and whenever I have been led from the path of duty it has been by its means – so I am resolved never to wear it again, and to be known in future by no other name but that of Juanita the Bald! What say you, are you content to marry me now?” The honest barber – perhaps on the whole not very sorry for a stipulation which put them somewhat nearer on a condition of equality in regard to personal appearance – only answered by clasping her in his embrace.

“What! what is all this,” fell in the old man, “about hair and the Corregidora, and Juanita the – the Bald! – eh?” Then the barber was obliged to explain to him the sacrifice Juanita had made, first to obtain his cure, and again to her sense of honour, and her delicacy of conscience. The old man was quite unnerved by the recital. At first he was determined to resist her resolution; but his own mind was too well regulated not to acknowledge on reflection that she had chosen the good part.

Then, after blessing solemnly, both her and her betrothed, he exclaimed, “Did I not choose rightly from among the three gifts?” (in his humility he would not say rewards). “If I had chosen riches, they would have burst the bag and run away. And if I had chosen power, my retainers would have mocked my want of knowledge, and forsaken me. But a daughter’s love – what can compare with it?”

STARVING JOHN THE DOCTOR

No one was ever more appropriately named than ‘Starving John.’ He had nothing to live upon, yet he had a wife and a whole tribe of children to support: how to feed them all he knew not; and as for himself it was seldom enough he got a morsel to eat!

One day the cat caught a hare, and John’s wife managed to take it from him; and having made a savoury mess of it, she put it into a wallet and said to John, “Here, take this hato23; it’s a lucky taste of something nice, such as you don’t often get; and go out into the fields with it before those sharks of children snatch it out of your mouth.”

John, who was ready to die of hunger, didn’t wait to be told twice, but set off running as fast as his legs would carry him. At last he came to an olive-grove; and there, making an easy-chair of a hollow olive-tree, he sat down to eat his hare, as happy as a king.

Somehow however – he could never tell how – there suddenly stood before him a dreadful old woman, all dressed in black: she had sunken eyes as dull as a blown-out candle, or a lamp-wick when the oil fails; her skin was as withered and yellow as a Simancas24 parchment; her mouth like a clothes-basket; and her nose I don’t know how to describe – for she had no nose at all to speak of.

“A pretty figure this to fall from heaven, like God’s rain, on a poor fellow!” said John to himself; but as he was polite and hospitable, as a Spanish peasant always is, he nevertheless asked if she would share his meal.

This was just what the old creature wanted; down she sat, and at once attacked the hare. But it was not like ordinary eating, it was regular devouring; and, en un decir tilin25, she had stowed away the whole mess between her heart and her shoulders!

John was too polite to grumble out aloud, but he said to himself, “Why, the children had better have had the hare than this old hag! but ¡el que tiene mala fortuna nada le sale derecho26!”

When his visitor had finished her meal – not leaving so much as the tail of the hare in the ollita27 – she exclaimed, “Do you know, John, your hare was very good!”

“So I see,” said John, who could not repress a little bitterness. And he added, ironically, in honour of her decrepit appearance, “¡viva Usted mil años28!”

“So I shall,” answered the hag; “I have lived many thousands already, for I have to tell you I am no less a person than Death!”

John gave a start, and was like one struck dumb at this announcement.

“Don’t be afraid, John,” she continued, “I don’t want to hurt you; and what is more, as you have treated me so well, I’ll give you a good counsel in return. Make yourself a doctor – there’s nothing like it for making money!”

“I am much obliged to you, Mistress Death,” answered John, very respectfully, “but it will be quite return enough, if you’ll promise to leave me alone for a good number of years. As to being a doctor, I’ve no notion how to set about it. I know neither Latin nor Greek; I can’t write because my hand is palsied; and I can’t read because I hate poring over those little black figures!”

“Go along with you, you silly fellow!” answered Mrs. Death; “you don’t suppose any of this is necessary? It’s I who lead the doctors, not they me. You are not such a goose as to think I go and come because they hiss me or call me, are you? when I get tired of any one, I take him by the ear and drag him off, doctor or no doctor. When the world began there were no doctors, and men lived to a good old age. But since they invented doctors there have been no more Methuselahs! You make yourself a doctor, as I advise you; and if you are perverse and obstinate, I’ll carry you off with me, mas fijo que el reloj29! Don’t prate!” she added, as she saw he was going to urge some objection; “this is all you have to do – when they call you into a bed-room look out for me. If you see me standing at the head of the bed, you’ll know it’s all up – you have only to say so, and they’ll find you’re a wise prophet. If, on the other hand, you don’t see me, you have only to prescribe a dose of clean water, with any thing harmless you like in it, and the sick person will recover.”

With that the ugly old lady took herself off, courtesying like a French dancing-mistress.

“I hope your worship won’t forget, Mistress Death, what I asked you!” John cried after her – “your worship won’t visit me again for a long time to come, eh?”

“Don’t be afraid, John,” she answered, as she disappeared, “until your house crumbles to pieces you won’t have a visit from me.”

John returned home to his wife, and told her all that had happened; and his wife, being sharper than he, determined to make use of Mrs. Death’s advice, and in spite of his remonstrances spread about every where the news that her husband was a famous doctor – that he had only to look at a patient to tell whether he would live or die.

All the neighbours, however, only laughed at the idea of Starving John turning doctor in his old age, and called him “Don John” in ridicule.

One Sunday they went so far as to arrange a practical joke to show off his ignorance. A number of girls were to sit round a basket of figs, as they often did of a holiday afternoon in the fruit season, when, all of a sudden, one of them was to give a terrible cry as if taken ill, and some of the others were to carry her off to bed, while the rest ran for Starving John the Doctor.

John had no great faith in Mrs. Death’s promises, and was loath to expose himself to the ridicule of the girls, but at his wife’s urging he went along with them, when, lo and behold, he no sooner entered the room of the pretended patient, than he saw Mrs. Death herself standing at the head of the bed! “The girl is very ill indeed – too ill for me to save. She’ll die before night!” pronounced John, in a knowing tone. And he went home amid the laughter of the assembled neighbours, who knew what the girls were playing at. But it so happened that the unfortunate girl had been eating the fruit too freely – that she was taken ill and died that very night!

As you will readily guess, this made Starving John’s fortune.

Far or near, there was no patient slightly or dangerously ill to whom he was not called; fees flowed in like rain. No longer was he dressed in rags; his clothes were properly made by a tailor. Instead of his pinched, woebegone look, his face grew as ruddy as the sun; his withered hands, as smooth as pork-sausages; his shaking legs, as firm as marble columns; and his empty stomach assumed dimensions to vie with the dome of a church. For his children he bought honourable employments, and badges of office to sew on in front, and keys30 to hang out behind.

But what he spared least of all was the money required to keep his house in good repair. He even salaried a bricklayer, whose business it was to see there was never so much as a tile loose, remembering that Mrs. Death had said she would never come to visit him till his house crumbled to pieces.

Years rolled by as John’s fortune increased, but as prosperous years always roll away – fast; and then came less fortunate years. First his hair fell off, and then he lost his teeth; then his spine got curved like a reaping-hook; and then he grew halt in one of his legs. One day, when he was ill, Mrs. Death sent him a bat, with her compliments, to inquire after him; but John didn’t like the look of the creature, and drove it away. After that he had a cough; and Mrs. Death sent an owl, to say she would come and see him very soon, and John drove him away too. After that he had a fit; and Mrs. Death sent a dog, to give him to understand, by howling at his door, that she was on her way, and John drove him away also. But he got ill for all that, and then he got worse, and then Mrs. Death knocked at the door, so John hobbled out of bed, and locked it and put up the bar; but Death contrived to creep in under the door.

“Mrs. Death!” said John, indignantly, “this isn’t fair. You told me you wouldn’t come so long as my house was not crumbling to pieces.”

“Oh!” answered Death, “isn’t your body your house – and hasn’t that been crumbling to pieces? Didn’t your strength fail first, and then your hair, and then your teeth, and then your limbs; haven’t they all been crumbling away?”

“I certainly didn’t understand you so!” answered John, dolefully, “and relying on your word, your coming now takes me by surprise.”

“That is your fault, John,” answered Death. “Men ought to be always prepared for my coming, and then I should never take them by surprise.”

RAMON THE DISCONTENTED

Ramon was a discontented man. Instead of thanking Providence for all the good gifts of earth, and the promise of the joys of heaven, he was always repining at the hardships of his life, and finding out one thing after another to grumble at. Work he specially objected to. He wanted a cottage, and a pig, and a stock of poultry, and a vine, and a wife, a smoking cazuela31, and plenty of tobacco; but when it came to working to pay for them, then it was quite another story. He was an only son; his hard-working parents had spoilt him by letting him have his own way, supplying him with all he wanted out of their own earnings; and so he grew up idle and apathetic, finding fault with fate, instead of putting his shoulder to the wheel: “Estan las cosas en este mundo como cuernos en un costal – todas de punta” was a favourite proverb of his, meaning that the events of this life are like packing horns into a bag, the points of those first put in are always making their way through and obstructing the others. And indeed, if people indulge a discontented disposition, every thing must go wrong with them.

Strange, that any one can find pleasure in such an ugly habit as grumbling. Ramon had been made by nature a good-looking boy; but a sour, gloomy expression soon superseded the engaging smile of youth; and as he had never a pleasant word, his society was gradually shunned by all the village. The last to give him up was Carmen, the bright little playmate of his childhood, but he wore out even her patience, and then, when he was left to himself, he grew more and more sour and morose.

In the meantime, his good old father and mother had died, and for a time he had been living on the savings they had left him; but this was soon at an end, and hunger forced home the reflection, “What was to become of him?” Then every thing seemed gloomier than ever before even – he sat down to think under the old patriarchal vine, which had shaded his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather before him; but the fierce sun came through the withered branches and maddened him. He had neglected to tend it, and it had no shelter for him. Instead of blaming his own neglect, he turned with an imprecation upon the vine, and his ill-humour overflowed on to the old house, against the wall of which he leant and which was also crumbling to decay because he had left it without repair; and upon Carmen, whose patience he had wearied, and upon fortune, whose gifts he had left waste. And in his fury he said that he would die. “Die!” echoed a little leaf of the withered vine, as it fell rustling past him, “You can’t die when you will, you must fulfil the work God has set you, whatever it be.”

“Work! I will do no work. I will die!” he answered fiercely.

“You cannot die when you will!” whispered another rustling leaf.

“We shall see!” said Ramon; and with that he took up the rope of the well, and, stalking wildly upstairs, he deliberately made a noose, into which he inserted his throat, tied one end over a beam in the loft, and placed himself on an old chest, ready to jump off and so swing tight the fatal knot which was to end his days.

He shut his eyes, and took a desperate leap … but … instead of drawing the noose tight, the beam above broke in twain, and the two ends came with him to the ground. He had scarcely recovered from one surprise, when he had to encounter another. On each side of him a stream of golden coins came running through the broken ends of the hollowed beam. What a sight for a lazy, self-indulgent man! Ramon thought no more of hanging now. He untied the knot, gathered up the gold, and secured it in chests and hiding-places, and came down to enjoy himself once more in his old idle way.

He trod on a dry leaf of the old vine, as he passed through the garden, and it whispered, —

“What a chance for you, Ramon! Buy yourself a patch of land, and set to work like a man, and show Carmen you are worthy of her.”

“Work! while I have gold enough to last for ever? Not I, indeed!”

“It won’t last for ever, Ramon,” rustled out another falling leaf.

But Ramon heeded not. Some of his treasure he spent rationally enough, I must say, in having the old cottage repaired, and the old vine tended; but the bulk he squandered in excesses, and in a few years was as badly off as ever.

Want once more stared him in the face, and once more he resolved to put an end to his existence.

“You are not fit to die!” said the patriarchal vine; but Ramon hastened away, he had not the courage to encounter the dreadful thought.

He snatched up a rusty, disused spade – he was out of conceit with hanging. This time he would dig a deep hole in the ground, and thrust himself in head foremost, and stifle himself that way.

Digging was hard work for arms so unused to labour, but he had never thought to find it so hard as it proved. He had not taken out a dozen spadefuls when the spade seemed to refuse to enter the ground any more. Had his arms grown so stiff they could not move? Or was the earth so hard he could not break it?

The evening breeze rustled by, bearing with it some leaves of the old vine; and as they passed they whispered, —

“You can’t die when you will, Ramon! Only be content to work as hard as now in a good cause, and you won’t want to die till your time comes.”

Provoked into energy by what he considered a taunt, instead of being softened by the fatherly counsel, he made one more desperate thrust of the spade into the hole. Instead of entering deeper, its rusty pan broke short off, but with a sound which showed him it had struck against something made of metal; and putting his hand down to the place whence the sound came, he distinctly made out the shape of a copper vessel.

Here was a discovery which gave him a presentiment of another chance of good fortune. Partly with the broken spade and partly with his own hands, he succeeded in tearing up the soil around, and bringing to light a large jar heavy enough to be full of gold; and so it proved.

Thus provided with means, Ramon once more commenced a new lease of his dissipated life.

“Take my advice,” said the old vine, “and put your treasure in something that will last, this time.”

This was too much trouble for Ramon. He went on in his old reckless way, spending and taking no heed.

But during all the years of neglect, the brambles had overgrown his ground; and his uncultivated place afforded a cover for idlers and vagabonds. So it happened that when he was making one of his nightly visits to his treasure he was overlooked, and, as you may readily imagine, by the next occasion the treasure was gone.

His rage at this discovery was unbounded: he resolved now once for all to have done with life, and let nothing interfere to prevent him.

As he lay in bed that night, he contrived a plan to prevent all possibility of escape, and with the first rays of the morning sun he sallied out fully equipped.

He bore a rope and a blunderbuss, and he bent his steps to a crag which overhung the sea, where he had marked a tree whose branches spread over the briny waves. Tying his cord to a branch, he held his blunderbuss ready to blow out his brains if the noose was too slack, while, if the rope should break, he would at least have a good chance of drowning.

Off he leapt with the rope round his neck; but the noose did not draw itself tight. Faithful to his plan, he pulled the rusty trigger, but, like every thing else belonging to Ramon, the gun was out of order, and didn’t go off; but as he hung struggling in the air the old well-rope broke, and down he fell splashing into the sea. There was no easy drowning for him, however; the water was not so deep as he had imagined, and he was left floundering in the waves, and bruised about among the sunken rocks.

Ramon had no fortitude; at each bump he could not restrain an exclamation of pain, and the distressful cries attracted the attention of no less a person than Carmen, who was gathering esparto grass32 on the wild coast at no great distance.

All her former womanly compassion returned when she saw her poor Ramon in suffering and distress. Without an instant’s hesitation, she caught up a hank of strong esparto rope, which she used to tie up her bundles, and hurried to the water’s edge. Making one end of it fast to a rock, with the vigorous exertion of an arm strengthened by labour and directed by intelligence and affection, she contrived to throw the other end within reach of his grasp.

Ramon, who by this time had been long enough within sight of the terrors of death to feel his wish to encounter it considerably cooled, no sooner saw who was steadying the line, than he felt all the love of life which is implanted in the heart of man revive with its full vigour.

He caught the rope and twisted it round his arm, and with its aid breasted the breakers. By the time he reached the shore, however, the exhaustion consequent on so much excitement and exertion overcame him so completely, that every remaining spark of ill-will in Carmen’s bosom was extinguished, and her only thought was how to restore him to strength.

Her exertions were blessed with success, and his weakness found scope for all her womanly sympathies, while her tender care roused all the better qualities of his nature into action. Her smile mingled with the visions of his feeble state, and warmed all his prospects of the future.

When he dreamt of the dreary old house and its haunting associations with the guilty past, he fancied he saw the sunny halo of her presence dispelling all its gloomy phantasms, and her playful innocence silencing even the convicting warnings of the stern old vine. Shared with her, even labour seemed to lose its repugnance.

As soon as he was well enough, he opened to her his resolutions full of repentance, which, with a woman’s instinct, she was forward to foster.

You will be pleased to hear that after all these lessons, crowned by Carmen’s winning confidence in his promised amendment, Ramon set himself seriously to follow a new line of conduct. Carmen showed her faith in his penitence by marrying him, and he took honest care that she should never repent her generosity.

The old cottage once more looked homely and inviting; and in the summer evening, when Ramon and Carmen sat resting beneath the shadow of the old vine, now sturdy and fruitful under the culture it received, and watching the gambols of a troop of chiquillos33 whom God had given them, the leaves, as they fell rustling about them, whispered playfully in Ramon’s ear, “You don’t want to die now?” And Ramon in revenge plucked a bunch of ruddy grapes, and distributed it among the happy party.

THE BALLAD-MAKER AND THE BOOT-MAKER

There was a minstrel who went travelling about the country from time to time singing sweet songs which people loved to hear. His music was not like the music of the Spanish people, for he came from the kingdom of Provence, and every one thronged to hear the strange sweet melody. And when he had passed on, and there was no one left to sing as he sang, people tried to remember his words and his tones, and to sing like him.

At one of the towns where he passed there was a boot-maker, who, as he sat all day alone at his last, diverted himself with singing; and as he had sung a good deal, he thought he could sing very well. He was much delighted with the minstrel’s songs, caught up a good many of them, and never tired of singing them – after his fashion. But from being quite ignorant both of music and of the Provençal language, he made, as we should say, a great mess of it. Yet, as the people knew no more about it than himself, they were very well pleased to listen to him.

So, a long time after, when the Provençal minstrel came back that way, they would not admit him, but cried out, “We have one of our own people who sings your songs for us as well as you, and we need no Frenchman here.”

Now the minstrel was one greatly devoted to his art, he did not merely sing for sordid gain; so instead of being angry because he was supplanted, he was really pleased to hear that the people in that far-off town had learnt the language and melody of his dear Provence; and he said he would hear the boot-maker himself.

Imagine how great was his annoyance and mortification, when he heard the beautiful ballads lamed and spoilt by the rude, unlearned attempts of the boot-maker!

“Is it possible,” he said, “that this man has been deluding all the people into the idea that what he sings is like my songs? And how can I prevent his going on keeping them under this error?” Then he bethought him what to do. He went by night to the boot-maker’s workshop, and putting all the wrong pieces of leather together, he sewed them up into all sorts of foolish, useless shapes.