Patrañas

When daylight returned, and the boot-maker came to his work, he was in a great fury at what was done, and began shouting to the neighbours to come and avenge him, for the Frenchman had spoilt all his work. Then they all came running helter-skelter to exercise summary justice on the minstrel.

But the minstrel stood up and confronted them, and said, “Good people! first hear me. This man is a maker of boots and I am a maker of ballads. True I have spoilt his boots, I do not deny it; but he first spoilt my ballads: what I have done is but fair. If you will hear us sing one after the other, you will yourselves give judgment in my favour.” So the people told the boot-maker to stand up and sing, which he did in his clumsy droning way, with plenty of false notes and mispronunciations. After him the minstrel stood up and warbled his song in tones so soft and sweet, that the people wondered how they ever could have listened to the other, and with one voice they cried out, “The minstrel is right! The minstrel is right!”

Then the minstrel, who bore no malice, and had only acted out of love for his art, repaid the boot-maker amply for all the damage to his leather, but took a promise of him that he would never sing his songs again.

EL CLAVEL34

The carnation is the flower of predilection of the Andalusian peasant. His cottage does not seem like home without its scent; nor is the maiden’s toilet complete without one of its glorious blossoms placed behind her ear, in the ebon setting of her massive hair-braids: it is the token of gladness in their festivals; of love, where coyly offered with a trembling hand. The people sing of its perfections and its meaning in a thousand little ditties.

Among all the trees of the woodThe laurel bears questionless sway.What maid can compete with my Anna?What flower, with carnations, I pray35?

They always speak of it, thus, as only next in order to female beauty, and the amorous swain is continually raising the comparison.

To January’s biting frostNo carnation trusts its charms,The tints that Heav’n thy cheeks has given,Are dyed ingrain and fear no harms36,

he sings; or perhaps, —

My carnation was raising a plaint,I ask’d it to tell me its grief,And it said that thy lips were so fair,Of their charms it would e’en be the thief37.

The one his fair has given him he declares binds him to her for ever.

The carnation which thou gav’st me,On holy Thursday last,Was no flower, but a fetterTo bind me to thee fast38.

The one she nurtures he watches as a token of all that is dearest and most beautiful in her.

My maid has a fav’rite carnationWhich she watches both early and late;I give it a kiss on its petals,Whenever I pass by her gate39.

And she in her turn guards her charge with a jealous eye.

A ruddy carnation have I,But I keep it secure from the cold,And I shade off the gaze of the sun,Lest it tarnish, if he were too bold40.

Such a carnation was once thus tended by a poor village girl: it had grown up and blossomed and put forth its deep, rich hues under her care, though she was so poor that she had nothing to grow it in but a broken olla41. Nevertheless when she thought of the happy day when it should become a love-token to one worthy of her, she took such care of it, covering it up when the sun was too hot, watering it with water from the purest spring, sheltering it from the wind, bringing it into her room to guard through the night, lest any evil should befall it, that never carnation flourished so gloriously; it was her only flower, the object of her whole care.

One day there came into the garden a maja42 in her gala costume. According to the pretty Andalusian custom, she carried a bunch of bright, sparkling flowers twisted into her raven hair behind her left ear.

“Ah!” cried the handsome carnation from the depths of its broken olla, “why should it not be my lot to adorn the head of this lovely creature, instead of being abandoned to the care of a penniless peasant?”

The maja smiled, and passed round the garden two or three times, to see if the carnation persisted in his idea. Every time her black veil caught, as she passed, in the sharp edge of the broken pipkin, the carnation wafted a soft sigh, —

“Ah, why was I not born to adorn that shining hair?”

The maja deferred no longer to fulfil his wish: throwing the bunch of showy flowers on to the ground, she plucked the carnation and plaited it into her hair.

Right proud was the carnation to find himself thus grandly enthroned; far too proud to have a thought of compassion for the other flowers cast away for his sake; too triumphant even to smart under the puncture of the hair-pin which fixed him on the maja’s head. Many a scornful glance he cast at the broken olla which had been his nursery, and the cot of the lowly child who had nurtured him.

Thus he was borne about, displaying his beautiful hues in the sun, and charming every one with his perfume all day. Then night came: the maja stood at her reja43, looking out for her serenader. He came at last, and brought in his hand a beautiful white rose; the maja stretched out her hand to receive it with delight; with loud and joyous thanks she placed it on her head, flinging the hapless carnation from her without a thought.

Instead of blooming on his lordly stalk as at the first, the pride and pet of the peasant maid, he was soon trampled to atoms by a drove of pigs, passing on their way to market!

THE ILL-TEMPERED PRINCESS

There was once a poor young knight, and he went out into the world, to seek adventures and do knightly deeds. As he went, he met a man standing in front of a long narrow tunnel in a rock, and blowing through it with his cheeks stretched like two ripe pomegranates, to whom the knight called out, “Halloa! fellow, what do you do there?”

And the man made reply, “Disturb me not, your worship, for with my breath I am turning five hundred and thirty-two mills.”

So the knight asked, “Then who are you?”

And the man made answer, “I am Blowo, son of Blowon44, the good blower.”

Then the knight said, “Will you come out with me to seek fortune?”

And the man made answer, “Your worship is not readier to ask than I to accept, for I am tired enough of blowing.” So he gave one more good strong blow, enough to set the mills twirling for a long time, and walked on behind the knight.

A little farther along they came upon a man toiling up the hill-side, with a load of a hundred and thirty-two hundred-weight upon his back.

To whom the knight called out, “Halloa! man, you carry more than a waggon with two yoke of oxen! Who are you?”

And the man made answer, “I am Porto, son of Porton, the strong porter.”

Then the knight said, “Will you come out with me to seek fortune?”

And the man made answer, “Your worship is not more ready to ask, than I to accept, for I am weary of this burden.” So he laid the weight down by the road-side, and walked along behind the knight.

A little farther on they came to a long stretch where the road was very straight, and by the side a man walked up and down twisting a rope, to whom the knight cried out, —

“Halloa! fellow, what do you there? and who are you?”

And the man made answer, “I am Ropo, son of Ropon, the cunning rope-maker, and I make ropes which none can break.”

Then the knight said, “Will you come out with me to seek fortune?”

And the man made answer, “Your worship is not more ready to ask than I to accept, for I am weary of twisting this rope.” So he left there his rope by the road-side, and walked along behind the knight.

A little farther on they came upon a man crouched down by the way-side.

To whom the knight called out, “Halloa! fellow, what do you there? and who are you?”

And the man made answer, “I am Listeno, son of Listenon, the ready listener.”

So the knight said, “What are you listening for?”

And the man made answer, “Blowo has left off turning the mills, and I am listening for the wind to come down from the mountains of Burgos.”

“Fellow! the mountains of Burgos are a hundred leagues off.”

“What does that signify, if my hearing reaches as far?”

Then the knight said, “Will you come along with me and seek fortune?”

And the man made answer, “Your worship is not more ready to ask than I to accept, for I am weary of straining my ears.” So he set up three flags, that all the country might know the wind would be there in three days, and walked along behind the knight.

Then, after three days’ journey, they came in sight of a magnificent castle, extending half a mile every way over the top of a mountain, but all desolate and in ruins; and the way up to it was overgrown with interlacing brambles and briars, so that they could hardly pass through. Then to increase their difficulty, a heavy storm came on, which would soon have wetted them through; but Blowo cried out, —

“Never fear, your worship; for I will soon clear the air.”

So he blew a mighty blast, and sent all the big thunder-clouds travelling back to the Sierra; and they went on toiling up the brake.

When they came up to the castle, they found there was no door or opening, nor any way in. Porto, Ropo, Listeno, and Blowo wanted to give up the attempt, and pass on farther; but the knight would not hear of abandoning the adventure.

“If your worship is so determined,” said Porto, “I’ll open a way for you.”

So he broke off a huge piece of rock as big as two men, and, standing a hundred yards off, he flung it against the wall, with a noise that could be heard a hundred miles off. The wall trembled and clattered; but it was held together by a stronger than human power, and all Porto’s great strength could produce no effect on it.

“Let us go away from here, Master,” pleaded Ropo, “this is no place for us. There is something wrong about this place; and the blessing of God is not here.”

“No,” replied the knight, “we will first learn all about it; there may be work for us.”

So they continued walking round the walls to see where they might effect an entrance, and all to no purpose. By and by Listeno exclaimed, “I hear some one cry;” and they all listened, but could hear nothing. So Listeno made them follow him in the direction whence the sound proceeded till at last they were near enough for the others to hear the sound also; and they went on following it up, till they came to the mouth of a great well all grown over with climbing-plants; when they had cleared these away, the hole looked so black and deep, it seemed as if it went down to the centre of the earth, and up the shaft there came sounds of a woman’s wailing, so loud and pitiful, they were all moved to pity, and anxious to run to the relief of the distressed person; but there was no means of telling how to reach the bottom. Then Ropo came forward, and said, “We will all go abroad, and gather five thousand bundles of esparto, and palmito45 grass, and all five shall set to work to make a long rope; and with that we will reach the bottom.”

So said, so done. They gathered five thousand bundles of esparto, and palmito grass, and they all five set to work under Ropo’s directions and twisted away at the rope; and now and then they tied a fragment of rock to the end and let it down, to see if it reached the bottom. They went on thus for five years, and at last it splashed the water, and when they let it down again it sounded on the rock, and they found only a few feet of the rope was wet, for the water was not deep.

Then Listeno put his ear to the top and told them it was not standing water, but that a brook ran through, along the bottom of the cave. As they were twisting the rope, they talked away about the great deeds each would do; and each had a conjecture as to what they might find at the bottom of the well. They all thought they should find a treasure, and Porto said he would take it up on his shoulders and carry it home for them, though it should weigh as much as all the lead of the Sierra Almagrera46.

But when the rope was finished, and it was a question of who should go down, not one of the knight’s followers, though they had been boasting so loudly before, would venture down into the well. So the knight laughed, and said he was not afraid; and one end of the rope having been lashed tightly to a rock, the four followers undertook to pay it out steadily, and down the knight descended into the black, gloomy depth.

Day and night he went on steadily descending for three days and three nights, and at the end he came into the water. It was not more than breast high, so he waded through it for several yards till he came to a place where the bank widened sufficiently for him to get out and walk along it; and then he came to some trees, and through the trees was an open space lighted by a lurid light which came from a deeper cave. On a sloping bank, covered with shining grass and strange flowers, lay a beautiful princess all dressed in white, and decked with shining jewels; and as she lay, she moaned and cried and prayed for deliverance. So the knight was hastening towards her, and drew his sword to cut the bonds which confined her, but at that instant up started a fierce demon whom he had not observed before, as he lay coiled up at the mouth of the cave.

“Not so fast, fine caballero!” he cried, “for she is mine, and you will have to fight me before you can touch her.” The knight disregarded the menace, and continued his way towards the princess, but the air was stiff all around him – though he could see no hindrance, he found he could not make any way towards her.

“Ha! ha!” roared the demon, “my fine caballero, you’ll find you will have to do with me at last!”

“And who are you?” shouted the baffled knight, “and what is this beautiful princess to you?”

“I am bound to answer the knight who asks that question,” answered the demon, “or it is little you would have learnt from me. Know, then, that this princess was the only daughter of King Euríc, to whom belonged all the country as far as eye can see; and she would have succeeded to his kingdom, but her temper was so violent, no one could bear with her. Upon the least contradiction she would order a subject to be executed; and her arbitrary conduct was continually involving the kingdom in discontent and trouble. Her father, who tenderly loved her, used to coax her and use every endeavour to soften her, but with no avail. At last, one day she provoked him so sore that in his anger he exclaimed, ‘Go to the horned one!’ When I heard myself called, I hastened to seize her, but, notwithstanding all my speed, before I could arrive he had revoked the curse, and so I was tricked out of her. This happened several times, but each time fatherly fondness was quicker than my utmost haste. At last, a day came when she excited him greatly, and he said again, ‘Go to the horned one!’ and before he could recall the words that time, he had fallen down a lifeless corpse. So now she is mine, and mine she must remain till some knight will win her in arms from me, and marry her, and restore her to her castle and her kingdom.”

“That will I!” said the knight stoutly; for though he feared the lady’s violent temper after what he had heard, his devotion to chivalry bound him to use his best endeavours to deliver her.

Accordingly he drew his sword, and called to the demon to come on. “Remember one thing,” said the demon, “if you should win her, she is yours for ever; I take her back no more.”

Meantime, Listeno, at the top of the well, had been reporting to his companions all that he heard going on below, and their curiosity getting the better of their fears, they let themselves down by the rope, and all four arrived in time to witness the terrible contest.

Never was such a fight seen in this world as that between this knight and the demon; and at last the knight cut off the demon’s ear. No tongue could describe the demon’s rage at finding his ear in possession of a mortal.

“Give me my ear!” he cried in tones so sharp that they almost stunned Listeno’s sensitive hearing powers.

“Never,” replied the knight, “or at least not without a heavy ransom. In the first place I exact that without further ado you reinstate the Princess in her castle and all her power.” The demon stamped and raged, but the knight was firm. The demon was ashamed to go home without his ear, so he thought it best to comply.

The Princess was restored to her throne, the castle was restored to its strength, the garrison was restored to the ramparts, the servants were restored to the halls. The knight married the princess; great rejoicings and festivities were celebrated, and to his four followers were given places of trust and consequence in the palace.

The demon often came to beg for his ear, but the knight felt that at some time or other he might have need of him, so he would not lose his hold over him.

For a time all went well enough, but by little and little the Princess forgot her years of adversity and the debt she owed the knight: she grew more and more wilful, and before a year was out she had become so violent again, that he grew weary of his life, and declared he could no longer endure the continual turmoil. Remonstrance and coaxing were alike unheeded, and it was vain that he tried her father’s remedy, for the demon had sworn never to take her back.

In this strait Porto reminded him of the ear he held in hostage, adding, “I will take it upon myself to deliver you of her.” So putting the bottle of brine in which the ear was kept into his pocket, he swung the Princess over his shoulder, and all her struggling was useless against “the son of the strong porter.”

Thus laden he went to find out the demon. “You are to take back this princess, she is only fit for your company,” he said, when he had found him.

“Not I!” answered the demon, grinning: “I told your master when he would have her he must take her for good and all.”

“Do you know this ear?” then asked Porto, showing him the bottle.

The demon clutched at it.

“Not so fast!” cried Porto. “If you want to have it back, this is my master’s condition: you must take back the princess along with it.”

So, crest-fallen and glad to get his ear back on any condition, the demon accepted the bargain as it was dictated to him; and the princess who could not command her temper never found another knight to deliver her.

THE HERMIT AND THE FIG-TREE

There was an old man of Toledo who had one son, whom he brought up in the fear of God. Now it happened that this old man had to go to a distant town of Estramadura, to receive some money of a creditor, and the creditor dying, his heirs disputed the debt, and drove the old man to a lawsuit which kept him absent many years. When at last the suit was just decided in his favour, the old man fell ill and died. Meantime the son, growing uneasy at his father’s prolonged absence, arranged his affairs as well as he could, and prepared to take the journey to see after him. Calling in his three clerks, Jacinto, Gonzalo, and Diego, who were all men whom his father trusted, and whom he therefore respected, he divided his property in three parts, and to each he gave charge of one part, leaving it to each to do the best he could for him, saying, “The wisdom of your grey hairs will do better for me than any instructions my inexperience could give you.”

“If the Lord bless it, it shall increase; and if He curse it, it shall not prosper,” answered Jacinto, the eldest; “behold I am nothing in the matter;” and he shook his venerable head, and raised his eyes to heaven.

“Whatever I have done for your father I will continue to do for you,” said Gonzalo, the second in order, and hurried back to his papers as if it was wrong to waste a moment in talking.

“I will endeavour that you shall have nothing to complain of,” quietly replied Diego, the third.

The young man was pleased with what they said, and without further loss of time set out on his journey.

The weather was fair, and his father’s friends by the way received him hospitably; but crossing the Sierra47, a violent storm came on, and he would soon have been drenched with rain. Right glad he was to see, perched on the mountain-ledge, a hermit’s cell, where he readily found shelter. In the morning, when the sky was serene again, he rose to take his leave; and as he stood on the threshold thanking the hermit for his care of him, he could not forbear pausing to admire the beauties around him. Far away stretched the plains below, studded with smiling cities and watered by the mazy windings of the rivers, and shaded by dark groves of ancient cork-trees; behind him were rocky heights reaching to the sky, presenting every degree of rich vegetation and solemn barrenness. But what attracted his sight most of all was a luxuriant plantation of fig-trees, which made a complete bower of the hermit’s cell.

“How successful you are with your fig-trees!” said the traveller; “I never saw so fine a show. You have three, one as fine as the other – it is impossible to say which of them is most flourishing; and to judge by the fruit you gave me, which doubtless is their produce, they are the finest trees in Spain, and that is saying a great deal. I must add too, after your liberality with them, that you put to shame the proverb, —

“En tiempo de higosNo hay amigos48.”

“For what you say of the proverb, son,” replied the hermit, “I have no merit, for it is the very essence of my rule of life to call nothing my own, according to our Lord’s counsel. These figs are the gift of God, to me, or to you, or to whomsoever is here to need them. But for the rest, you judge according to the measure of the inconsiderateness of your years. Nevertheless, you seem to me a good youth, and I will therefore show you something which may be of use to you in your dealings with the world. Know then that but one of these fig-trees is really what it seems; the other two are worthless. That is, worthless,” he added, “as bearers of fruit, for there is nothing that God makes but has its worth, and even these trees which bear no fruit are useful to give shade, and for other purposes besides.”

“You surprise me,” said the young man; “I never saw trees of more equal promise!”

“Nevertheless, it is as I say; and if the season of figs were not just over, according to our Lord’s saying, by their fruit you should know them, or, as you say in the world, “al freir, lo vereis49.” Meantime, learn, my son, not to judge of men and things by their appearance, but wait and see what their fruit is like.”

The sun was now beginning to make way above the horizon, and, fearing to be overtaken by the heat, the young man was obliged to set out on his journey without further parley than promising to visit the hermit on his return.

Great was his grief, when he arrived at the end of his journey, to find his good father had been so suddenly called away, and instead of being clasped to his bosom, to find the last earthly communication he could ever receive from him was a scrap of paper, on which, at intervals of his death agony, he had convulsively written down a few directions to guide him in entering into possession of his worldly goods, mingled with counsels to him to continue to direct all his dealings according to the fear of God.

This sudden death had thrown matters into some confusion, and it took a considerable time to set all straight again; it was some ten or eleven months before the young merchant had to re-cross the Sierra in a homeward direction.

It was a brilliant summer evening when he came upon the hermit’s cell again. The old man was sitting making his meditation before the door. Occupied with grief and care, as he had been during his absence, the bereaved son had forgotten all about the fig-trees; but, on looking around, he saw that something was changed, and soon had a clear demonstration of what the hermit had told him. One noble tree was laden with the ripe green and purple fruit; the soft, downy skins seeming ready to burst with the rich and luscious burden within, while the broad leaves spread out their hands and shaded them from the too great heat, and fanned them gently when the day was sultry.

The second tree was covered with luxuriant leaves as before, but not a single ripe fig was on it – there were a few young green beginnings, but too small and sickly to have a chance of ripening that season.