The Pacha of Many Tales

The old lady was very much astonished at the information, and very angry that her niece should have presumed to make an acquaintance without her knowledge. I waited until she had said all she could think of, and then calmly took up the right of a confessor, pointing out that she had herself fallen into the same error in her youthful days; that the young man had confessed to me that his views were honourable; but had not an idea, at the time, that I was acquainted with the family. Donna Celia then appeared to be more pacified, and asked many questions: all that she seemed to object to, was the mystery about his family, which at her request I promised to clear up before any other steps should be taken. Cautioning her against any violence of language to her niece, I took my leave. As I went out I spoke a few words to Clara, informing her of the dénouement which had taken place, and recommending her by no means to irritate her aunt, but to be very penitent when she was reproved. Clara obeyed my injunctions, and the next day, when I called, I found her sitting by the side of Donna Celia, who was apparently reconciled. I motioned Clara out of the room, when Donna Celia informed me that she had acknowledged her error; and as she had promised for the future to be regulated by her advice, she had overlooked her indiscretion. When she had finished: “Prepare yourself, madam,” said I, “for strange tidings—the ways of Heaven are wonderful. Last evening I had an explanation with the young cavalier, Don Pedro, and he proves to be—that son whose loss you have so much lamented.”

“Merciful Heaven!” cried the old lady, and she fainted away. As soon as she recovered, she cried out, “Oh where is he! bring him to me—let a mother’s eyes be blessed with his sight—let the yearnings of a mother’s heart be recompensed in his embraces—let the tears of affection be wept upon his bosom.”

“Calm yourself, my dear madam,” replied I: “the proofs you have not yet seen. First be satisfied, and then indulge in your delightful anticipation. When I pressed Don Pedro upon the subject of his family, I told him candidly that his only chance of success was unlimited confidence: he acknowledged that he had been sent to the Asylum when an infant, and that he did not know his parents; that the mystery and consequent stigma on his birth had been a source of mortification to him through life. I asked him if he knew his age, or had a copy of the register of his reception. He took it out of a small cabinet; it was on the 18th of February, in the same year that your child was sent there. Still as I was not sure, I stated that I would call upon him this morning, and see what could be done; assuring him that his candid avowal had created strong interest in his favour. This morning I repaired to the Asylum, when I examined the register. Two children were brought in on that night: here is the extract, and I feel much mortified, as you will observe, that no marks are mentioned. If, therefore, the wart you spoke of was not still remaining, the uncertainty would have been as great as ever. When I returned to him about an hour since, I renewed the subject, and stated that I thought it was the custom to make a note of any particular marks upon the children, by which they might be eventually reclaimed. He replied that it was customary when they were indelible, but not otherwise: that he had no indelible mark, although a large wart had been on the back of his neck as long as he could remember; ‘but,’ added he, ‘it is of no use,—all hopes of finding my parents have long since been abandoned, and I must submit to my unfortunate destiny. I have thought upon what has passed, and I feel that I have acted wrong. Without family and without name, what right have I to aspire to the hand of any young lady of good parentage? I have made the resolution to conquer my feelings; and before the intimacy has been carried on to an extent that a rupture would occasion any pangs to her that I adore, I will retire from Seville, and lament in solitude my unfortunate condition.’

“‘Are you capable of making such a sacrifice, Don Pedro?’ said I. ‘I am, Father Anselmo,’ replied he: ‘I will always act as a man of honour and of family, although I cannot prove my descent.’

“‘Then,’ said I, ‘Don Pedro, do me the favour to call upon me this evening at my convent, and I hope to have some pleasing intelligence to impart.’ I then left him, to come here and acquaint you with the joyful discovery.”

“But why did you not bring him here immediately?” cried Donna Celia.

“Madam, I have important duties at my convent which will occupy me with the superior till late at night. These must be attended to; and it is not impossible that the affairs of our convent may require my absence for some time, as there are new leases of our lands to be granted, and I have reason to expect that the superior may despatch me on that business. I will acquaint the young man with what has been discovered, and will then send him to your arms; but it were advisable that you allow a few hours to repose after the agitation which you have undergone, and previous to the affecting scene that will naturally take place. I wish I could be present; for it is not often, in this world, that we can witness the best affections of the heart in their virtuous action.”

I then took my leave, requesting Donna Celia to inform her niece of the circumstances, as I presumed there would now be no obstacle to the mutual attachment of the young people.

My reason for an early departure was that I might arrange the story I should tell, when, as Don Pedro, my new mother would demand from me the events of my life. I had also to request leave of absence, which I obtained in expectation of some property being left to the convent by an elderly gentleman residing at Alicant, who was expected to die, and from whom I produced a letter, requesting my presence. As I was on the best terms with the superior, and there was a prospect of obtaining money, his consent was given. That I should be there in time, I was permitted to depart that evening. I took my leave of the superior, and the rest of the monks, intending never to return, and hastened to my lodgings, where I threw off my monastic habit, which from that hour has never been resumed. I repaired to Donna Celia’s house, was admitted and ushered into a room, to await her arrival. My person had been set off to the best advantage. I had put on a new wig, a splendid velvet cloak, silk doublet and hose; and as I surveyed myself for a second or two in the mirror, I felt the impossibility of recognition, mingled with pride at my handsome contour. The door opened, and Donna Celia came in, trembling with anxiety. I threw myself on my knees, and in a voice apparently choked with emotion, demanded her blessing. She tottered to the sofa overpowered by her feelings; and still remaining on my knees, I seized her hand, which I covered with kisses.

“It is—it is my child,” cried she at last; “all powerful nature would have told me so, if it had not been proved,” and she threw her arms round my neck, as she bent over me and shed tears of gratitude and delight. I do assure your highness that I caught the infection, and mingled my tears with hers; for I felt then, and I even now firmly believe, that I was her son. Although my conscience for a moment upbraided me, during a scene which brought back virtuous feelings to my breast, I could not but consider, that a deception which could produce so much delight and joy, was almost pardonable. I took my seat beside her, and she kissed me again and again, as one minute she would hold me off to look at me, and the next strain me in her embraces.

“You are the image of your father, Pedro,” observed she, mournfully, “but God’s will be done. If he has taken away, he also hath given, and truly grateful am I for his bounty.” When we had in some degree recovered our agitation, I intreated her to narrate to me the history of my father, of whom I had heard but little from the good brother Anselmo, and she repeated to me those events of her youthful days which she had communicated before.

“But you have not been introduced to Clara: the naughty girl little thought that she was carrying on an amour with her own cousin.”

When Donna Celia called her down, I made no scruple of pressing the dear girl to my heart, and implanting a kiss upon her lips: with our eyes beaming with love and joy, we sat down upon the sofa, I in the centre, with a hand locked in the hand of each. “And now, my dear Pedro, I am anxious to hear the narrative of your life,” said Donna Celia: “that it has been honourable to yourself, I feel convinced.” Thanking her for her good opinion, which I hoped neither what had passed, or might in future occur, would be the means of removing, I commenced the history of my life in the following words…

“Commenced the history of your life?” interrupted the pacha. “Does the slave laugh at our beards? What then is all this you have been telling us?”

“The truth, your highness,” replied the Spaniard.

“What I am about to tell, is the history of my life, which I invented to deceive the old lady Donna Celia, and which is all false.”

“I understand, Mustapha, this kafir is a regular kessehgou (Eastern story-teller), he makes one story breed another; but it is late; see that he attends to-morrow afternoon, Bero! Go, infidel, the muezzin calls to prayers.”

The Spaniard quitted the sublime presence, and in obedience to the call of the muezzin, the pacha and Mustapha paid their customary evening devotions—to the bottle.

Volume One–Chapter Four

The next day the Spanish slave was summoned to continue his narrative.

“Your sublime highness of course recollects where I left off yesterday evening,” commenced the slave.

“Perfectly well,” replied the pacha, “you left off at the beginning of your story; but I hope you will finish it this evening, as I have already forgotten a great deal of what you said.”

“Your highness may recollect that I was seated—”

“Yes, in our presence,” interrupted the pacha; “such was our condescension to a Giaour. Now go on with your story.”

“With due submission to your highness, I was seated on a sofa, between my mother Donna Celia and my mistress Donna Clara.”

“Very true; I recollect now that you were.”

“A hand clasped in the hand of each.”

“Exactly,” replied the pacha, impatiently.

“And was about to tell a story of my own invention, to deceive the old lady my mother.”

“Anna senna! curses on your mother!” cried the pacha, in an angry tone. “Sit down and continue your story. Is a pacha nothing? Is the lion to be chafed by a jackal? Wallah el Nebi! By God and the Prophet! do you laugh at our beard? The story!”

“The story requested by your highness,” replied the slave, with great coolness, “was commenced in the following words.”

Story of the Monk

What occurred during my infancy, my dearest mother, I do not recollect; but I can retrace to the age of seven years, when I found myself in company with a number of others, from the squalling infant of a few days old, up to about my own age. I also recollect that our fare was indifferent, and our punishment severe.

“Poor child!” exclaimed Donna Celia, pressing my hand which was still locked in hers. I continued there until the age of ten, when an old lady who came to the asylum, took a fancy to me; for I often heard it remarked, that I was a very handsome boy, although I have rather grown out of my good looks lately, Clara.

A pressure of my other hand, and a negative smile, was the answer; and I proceeded—The old lady Donna Isabella, who was of the noble family of Guzman, wanted a page, and intended to bring me up in that capacity. She carried me to her house where I was clad in a fancy dress. I used to sit by her side on the carpet, and run upon any message which might be required; in fact, I was a sort of human bell, calling up every body and fetching every thing that was wanted; but I was well fed, and very proud of a little dagger which I wore in my girdle. The only part of my education to which I objected, was learning to read and write from a priest, who was domiciled in the family, and who had himself as great an aversion to teaching as I had to learning. Had the affair rested entirely between us, we might have arranged matters so as to please both parties; but as the old lady used to prove my acquirements by making me read to her, as she knotted, we neither of us could help fulfilling our engagements. By dint of bullying and beating, at last I was sufficiently enlightened to be able to read a romance to my mistress, or answer an invitation-note in the negative or affirmative. My mistress had two nieces who lived with her, both nearly grown up when I entered the family. They taught me dancing for their own amusement, as well as many other things; and by their care I improved very much, even in reading and writing. Although a child, I had a pleasure in being taught by two pretty girls. But it is necessary that I should be more particular in my description of these two young ladies. The eldest, whose name was Donna Emilia, was of a prudent, sedate disposition, always cheerful, but never boisterous; she constantly smiled, but seldom, if ever, indulged in a laugh. The youngest, Donna Teresa, was very different—joyous and light-hearted, frank and confiding in her temper, generous in disposition: her faults arose from an excess of every feeling—a continual running into extremes. Never were two sisters more fond of each other—it appeared as if the difference between their dispositions but added to their attachment. The serious character of the elder was roused to playfulness by the vivacity of the younger, and the extravagance of the younger was kept in due bounds by the prudence of the elder. As a child I liked Donna Emilia, but I was devotedly fond of Donna Teresa.

I had been three years in this situation, when legal business required the presence of Donna Isabella at Madrid. The young ladies, who were both very handsome, and remarkably like each other in person, were much admired by the cavaliers. Two had gained the victory over the rival candidates—Don Perez was the favoured suitor of Donna Emilia, while Don Florez was proud to wear the chains of the lively Teresa. Donna Isabella had, however, no intention that her nieces should quit her for the present; and aware, by the serenading which took place every night, that there were pretenders to her nieces’ smiles, she hastened back to Seville sooner than she had intended.

Although I had not been trusted by either, I had an idea of what was going on; but with more prudence than most boys of my age, I made no remarks either to my mistress or to the young ladies. We had returned to Seville about a month, when Donna Emilia called me aside, and said, “Pedro, can you keep a secret?”

I told her—“Yes, if I was paid for it.”

“And what do you want to induce you to keep it, you little miser?”

I replied—“From her, only a kiss.”

She called me a little rogue, gave me the kiss, and then told me, that a cavalier would be under the window a little after vesper bell, and that I must give him a billet, which she put into my hand. Of course, having received my payment beforehand, I consented. At the time mentioned I looked out of the gate, and perceiving a cavalier under the window, I accosted him, “What ho, senhor, what is it you expect from a fair lady?”

“A billet, my little page,” replied he.

“Then here you have it,” replied I, pulling it out of my vest. He put a doubloon in my hand, and immediately disappeared.

I liked the gold very much, but I preferred the other payment more. I put the money into my pocket, and returned into the house. I had hardly come into the hall, when Donna Teresa, the other young lady, accosted me. “Pedro, I have been looking for you—can you keep a secret?”

“Yes, if I am paid for it,” replied I, as before.

“And what must it be that will keep that little tongue of yours from chattering?”

“From you,” replied I, “it must be a kiss.”

“Oh! you little manikin—I’ll give you twenty;” and she did so, until she almost took away my breath. “And now,” said she, “there is a senhor waiting below for a note, which you must take him.” I took the note, and when I came to the gate, found a cavalier there, as she had mentioned. “Oh, senhor,” said I, “what are you waiting for, is it a billet-doux from a sweet lady?”

“It is, my pretty boy,” answered he.

“Perhaps this will interest you,” replied I, handing him the note. He snatched it from me, and would have departed. “Senhor,” said I, “I cannot allow my mistress to be affronted. Her favours are beyond all price, but still they are always coupled with gold. Since you are so poor, and gold must pass, here is a piece for you,” and I offered him the doubloon which I had received from the other cavalier.

“You are a witty boy,” replied he, “and have corrected my negligence, for it was nothing more, I assure you. Add this to the other;”—and he put a quarter-doubloon in my hand, and disappeared. I returned to the house; and, as I had been some time away from my mistress, I went into the saloon—where she was sitting alone.

“Pedro, come hither, child; you know how good I have been to you, and how carefully I have brought you up. Now tell me, can you keep a secret?”

“Yes, madam,” replied I, “I can keep yours, for it is my duty.”

“That’s a good child. Well then, I have an idea that my two nieces are followed by some of the gay cavaliers, who saw them at Madrid, and I wish you to find out if it is true.—Do you understand?”

“Oh, yes, madam,” replied I; “I do perfectly.”

“Well then, do you watch,—and Pedro, here are two reals for you, to buy sugar-plums.”

Thus did I enter in one day into the real occupation of a page. I added the two reals to the gold, and, as you may suppose, meant to serve as I was paid. But, as I found out afterwards, I had made a terrible mistake with the two billets-doux. That of Donna Emilia I had given to Don Florez, who was Donna Teresa’s admirer; that of Donna Teresa I had given to Don Perez, who was the lover of Donna Emilia; but I had better explain to you, before I go on, what did not come to my knowledge until the dénouement took place. Don Perez, the lover of Emilia, was a young man who was entitled to large property, at the death of an uncle, to whom he was heir by entail. Don Florez, on the contrary, was in possession of a splendid fortune, and able to choose for himself.

From fear of discovery, the notes were both in a disguised hand, and not signed by the respective christian names of the ladies. Donna Emilia’s ran thus:– “I found your note in the spot agreed, but my aunt has taken away the key of the shrubbery, and is I believe suspicious.—Why are you so urgent?—I trust your affection, like mine, will but increase from delay. It will be impossible to meet you to-night; but I have entered the page in my service, and will write soon.” That of Donna Teresa, which I put in the hands of Don Perez, ran as follows:– “I can no longer refuse your solicitations for an interview. My aunt has locked up the shrubbery, but if you have courage enough to scale the garden wall, I will meet you in the saloon which opens upon the garden; but not a word must be said, as the servants are continually passing the door—neither can we have a light—I must trust to your honour.”

Don Perez was delighted at Donna Emilia’s having at last yielded to his intreaties for a meeting; and Don Florez, as much annoyed at the reserved conduct of his mistress, went home accusing her of coquetry. At the appointed hour, Don Perez met his supposed mistress in the saloon. The two sisters were confidantes; and, as I was in their secret, they made no scruple of talking before me. The next day, when their aunt left the room, they began arguing upon the personal merits of the respective cavaliers. After a good-humoured controversy, they appealed to me.

“Come, Pedro,” said Teresa, “you shall decide. Which do you think the handsomest cavalier?”

“Why,” answered I, “I think that your senhor is, for a fair man, the handsomest I ever saw—but still the beautiful dark eyes of the Donna Emilia’s cavalier are equally prepossessing.”

“Why, Pedro, you have mistaken the two,” said Emilia, “it is Don Perez, the fair one, who is my admirer, and the dark senhor is Don Florez, who is in love with my sister.” I perceived that I had made a mistake when I delivered the notes, and Teresa coloured up. But I had sense enough to answer:– “Very true, madam, you are right; I now recollect that I am confounding the two.”

Shortly afterwards the aunt came into the room, and Teresa quitted it, beckoning me to follow her. As soon as I had joined her, she said, “Now, Pedro, tell the truth: did you not make the mistake that you stated, and deliver my note to the fair cavalier, Don Perez?”

I answered, “that I had, as I had already delivered Emilia’s note to the dark gentleman.” Donna Teresa put her hands over her face, and wept bitterly,—“Pedro, you must now keep this secret, for it is of the greatest importance.—My God, what will become of me?” cried she; and for some time she was in the greatest distress: at last she wiped her eyes, and after much reflection, she took up paper and wrote a note. “Pedro, take this note to the direction; recollect it is for the dark cavalier that it is intended.” Teresa had read the note of Emilia to Don Perez, which had been received by Don Florez—in consequence her present note ran thus:– “You may think me harsh for having refused to see you last night, but I was afraid. Do not accuse me with trifling with your feelings, I will meet you in the saloon that leads to the garden, which was last night occupied; come at ten this evening.”

I went out with the note and gave it into the hands of Don Florez. “My dear boy, tell Donna Teresa I will not fail; I know now why she could not receive me last night; I only hope I may be as fortunate as Don Perez.” He put a doubloon in my hand, and I went away. I had not quitted the street when I met Don Perez.

“Ah! my little page, this is indeed lucky; just step to my rooms while I write a note to Donna Emilia.” I did so, and he gave me a quarter-doubloon as before. “I thank you, senhor,” replied I; “what with the doubloons of Don Florez and your quarter-doubloons, I shall soon be a rich man.”

“How say you,” replied he, “Don Florez give you doubloons—then he spoils the market; but I must not allow him to pay you better than I do, or I shall not be served so faithfully.—Here’s a doubloon and a half, which, with what you have already received, will make the accounts square.” I made my bow, and with many thanks withdrew.

Young as I was, I had an idea that something had occurred at the mistaken meeting of last night, which seriously affected Donna Teresa. As I was much more partial to her than to her sister, I resolved not to deliver the note of Don Perez to Emilia, until I had consulted Donna Teresa. On my return, I beckoned her into her chamber, and told her the answer of Don Florez, with his observation, “that he hoped he should be as fortunate as Don Perez was last night.” She coloured with shame and vexation; and I then told her how I had met Don Perez, and what had passed. I then gave her the note, and asked whether I should deliver it or not. She hastily tore it open—it ran as follows:—“How can I sufficiently express my gratitude to my adored Emilia, for her kindness to me last night? Tell me, dearest angel, when am I to have the pleasure of meeting you again in the saloon? Till you once more grant me the favour, life will be a blank.”

“Pedro,” said she, “you have indeed done me a service—you have been my preserver. How can I ever repay you?”

“Give me a double allowance of kisses, this time,” replied I.

“I will give you a thousand,” answered she; and she kissed and blessed me while tears ran down her cheeks: she then took some paper, and imitating the hand-writing, wrote as follows:– “I must submit to your wishes, Donna Emilia; and while your sister blesses Don Florez, must yield to the severity of your disposition. Still I hope that you will relent—I am very miserable; write to me, if you have any love still remaining for your adorer.—Perez.”

“Take this to Emilia, my sweet child.—What can I do to reward you?”

“Why you must take care of my money,” said I, “for if my mistress finds it out, I shall never be able to tell how I came by it.” She smiled mournfully as she received my doubloons, and locked them up in a trinket-box. “I will add to your wealth, Pedro,” said she.