Fortune

On coming at last to the door I found this wayside inn to be of a mean condition, but at least it had four walls to it, and therefore might be called an inn. Such as it was it promised food and rest and the society of man. Observing a stable to be near at hand I led Babieca to it. A wretched hovel it was, yet it also had four walls of a sort and therefore might be called a stable.

Although no one came out of the inn to receive me and a great air of desolation was upon everything, I led Babieca within the hovel and contrived to find him a place in which he might repose. After much groping in the starlight—other light there was none—which came through the holes in the mud walls I was able to scrape enough straw together to form his bed. Also I was able to find him a supper of rough fare. And in so doing I observed that this poor place was in the occupation of a horse of a singular appearance. As well as I could learn in the darkness this was a very tall, large-boned, and handsome beast, sleek and highly fed. Near to it, hanging upon a nail in the wall, was a saddle so massive of artifice and so rarely bedizened as to indicate that both this piece of furniture and the beast that bore it were in such a degree above the common sort as doubtless to be the property of a lord. And this conclusion pleased me very well; for I was glad to believe that one of his condition had lent his presence to this mean place, because there is no need to tell you, gentle reader, a man of birth needs one of a similar quality with whom to beguile his leisure.

As I issued, however, from the stable and made to enter the inn I was stayed at the door by a dismal rustic who proved to be the landlord. His bearing was of such singular dejection and in his countenance was such sore embarrassment as to make it clear that either a grievous calamity had lately befallen him or that one was about to do so.

“I give you good evening, honest fellow. Have you seen a ghost?”

The dismal wight placed a finger to his lip.

“Hush, sir! hush, I pray you!” he whispered hoarsely.

“Nay, my good fellow, I hush for no man—that is, unless you have a corpse in the house.”

“I have worse than a corpse in the house,” said the innkeeper, crossing himself.

“Worse than a corpse?”

“Yes, kind gentleman, a thousand times worse! How shall I speak it? I have the Devil.”

The innkeeper made a piteous groan.

“I can hardly believe that,” said I. “He is not often seen in Spain nowadays.”

“Yes, it’s the Devil right enough,” said the innkeeper, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his jerkin. “I am a ruined man.”

“How does he seem in appearance? Are there horns on his head and does fire proceed out of his mouth?”

“He has an eye,” said the innkeeper.

In spite of my incredulity I could not help shivering a little.

“The evil eye, your worship, the mal d’ojo. And he is so enormous! When he rises from his stool his head goes into the roof.”

“Peace, honest fellow,” I said stoutly. “The age of monsters is overpast.”

“Ojala!” wailed the innkeeper, “your worship is in the wrong entirely. You can form no conception of what a fiend is this.”

“There have been no monsters in Spain since the time of the Cid,” said I, placing my hand on my sword.

“I tell you this is the fiend,” said the innkeeper vehemently. “He is hugeous, gigantical; and when he cools his porridge he snorts like a horse. Three weeks has he lain upon me like the pestilence. He has picked my larder bare, and swears by his beard he’ll treat my bones the same if I do not use him like an emperor. He has poured all the choice red wine out of my skins into his thrice cursed one. He outs his bilbo if a man so much as looks upon him twice. All my custom is scattered to the wind. Me hace volver loco! His mouth is packed with barbarous expressions. And he has an eye.”

In spite of my father’s sword and the natural resolution that goes with my name and province the strange excitement of the landlord made me thrill all over.

“It is the eye of the fiend,” he said. “It glows red like a coal; it is hungry like a vulture’s, fierce like a wolf’s. And then his voice—it is like an earthquake in the mountains. Oh, your worship, it is Lucifer in person who has come to comb my hair!”

I reproved the poor rustic for this levity.

“Nay, your worship, I speak the truth,” he said miserably. “The good God knows it is so. I am a ruined man. The Devil has lain three weeks in my house, yet I have not received a cuarto for his maintenance. A lion could not be so ravenous. He has devoured lean meat, fat meat, not to mention goodly vegetable. He has drunk wine enough to rot his soul. Ten men together could not use their fangs like he and roar so loud, yet I assure your worship I have not received so much as a cuarto.”

“This matter is certainly grievous,” said I. “Is there nothing you can do to get this person out of your house?”

“Nothing, nothing,” said the innkeeper miserably. “Why, sir, I offered him the whole of the profits I made last year—no less than the sum of ten crowns—to go away from my inn before ruin had come upon me. He took my money, and said he would bring his mind to bear upon the subject.”

“Was your course a wise one?”

“It may have been wise, your worship, and yet it may not. For upon bringing his mind to bear upon the subject, he said he had decided to curtail his visit by ten days; but as he is lying upon me still, it appears uncommonly like it that honest Pedro has had dealings with a villain.”

“That is as may be,” said I; “but the good Don Ygnacio de Sarda y Boegas, who died a week ago of the stone, would have no man judged harshly until his conduct had been carefully weighed.”

“If Don Ygnacio was as good as you say, I expect he never had the Devil in person cooling his porridge at the side of his chimney.”

“No, by my faith. But are you not calling this unlucky individual out of his true character?”

“Well, your worship, it is like this, do you see,” said the innkeeper humbly; “poor Pedro once had the misfortune to steal a horse.”

“You stole a horse, and yet you were not hanged!”

“No, your worship; they hanged my poor son in error. But perchance, if I unload my breast of this misfortune, it may please the Virgin Mary to lessen my afflictions.”

“If you are a wise man you will also burn a candle or two. But, innkeeper, I will enter this venta of yours and speak with your guest, whoever he may be. For myself, I don’t put much faith in the black arts.”

I confess that our discussion of these unnatural affairs had provoked strange feelings. But I spoke as boldly as I could, and laid my hand on the hilt of my sword with so much determination that the poor wight of an innkeeper fell into a violent trembling.

“Oh no, your worship,” he cried; “I would have you go upon your road. He is so prompt to violence that he will certainly slay you if you so much as show him your eyes.”

“That is as may be,” said I, taking a tighter grip upon my sword.

“Oh, your worship,” said the innkeeper, “I pray you use him tenderly. I beseech you be gentle of your discourse. He would pare the nails of the Cid. He fills the world with woes as easily as a she-ass fills a house with fleas.”

“You must obey me, innkeeper,” I said sternly, but without anger I hope, for the state of the poor fellow’s mind had moved me to pity. “You must remember that a caballero of my province is afeared only of God.”

The unlucky wight, finding that I was not to be gainsaid, led the way, with many misgivings, into his squalid house.

There was only one apartment for the service of guests. It was a poor one enough, with hardly anything in it except the lice on the walls and three candles which burned dismally. Such a hovel was only fit for the entertainment of pigs, cows, and chickens; yet it was not its quality that first awoke my attention. Neither was it the extremely singular personage that was seated at the side of the fire.

It was the delicious smell of cookery that filled the whole place. This proceeded out of a great seething pot that hung in the chimney. To one who had travelled all day nothing could have been more delectable. At its sight and odour my hunger began to protest fiercely, for my last piece of victual had been eaten at noon.

Seated on a low stool, as near to the pot as he might venture without being scorched in the legs, I found the author of these grievances. His gaze was riveted upon this delicious kettle. His enormous limbs were outstretched across the hearth, a rare cup of liquor was beside his stool, and so earnestly was he gazing at the meat as it tossed and hissed in the cauldron that upon my entrance he did not stir, but, without so much as removing his chin from his hands, continued in his occupation with an air of approval and expectancy.

For myself, I honoured him with a long and grave look. Since that distant evening in my youth I have met with many chances and adventures in my travels. I have fallen in with persons of all kinds—the virtuous, the wicked, and those who are neither one nor the other. I have broken bread with princes, philosophers, rogues, slaves, and men of the sword—men of all nations and of every variety of fortune-yet I believe never one so remarkable as he who now kept the chimney of this wretched venta upon a three-legged stool. The length of his limbs was extraordinary; his shoulders were those of a giant; and even in his present careless and recumbent attitude he wore an uncommonly sinister and formidable look.

His dress at one time would scarcely have come amiss to a prince, yet now it was barely redeemed from that of a beggar. The original colour of his doublet, which hung in tatters, was an orange tawny, but it was now so soiled and rent that it could have stood for any hue one cared to name. His cloak, which hung upon the wall, was of a bright blue camlet, and was but little superior to the condition of his doublet. Purple silk had once formed the substance of his hose, but now the better part of it was cloth, having suffered many patchings with that material. Added to such conspicuous marks of indigence, his long yellow riding boots were split in pieces, one even revealed the toe of a worsted stocking; whilst his scabbard was in such case as it sprawled on the ground beside his leg that the naked point was visible.

When I came near and fell to regard him the better, he did me the honour to lift his left eye off the cooking-pot. He proceeded to stare at me in a manner of the most lazy indifference, and yet of the greatest insolence imaginable. Then, without saying a word, he yawned in my face and turned the whole of his attention again to the kettle.

Such a piece of sauciness made me feel angry. Had I been a dog I could not have been met with less civility. My hand went again to the hilt of my sword as I took a closer view of his visage. It was as red as borracho, shining with cunning and the love of the cup. But it was the eye he had fixed upon me that gave me the most concern. The poor innkeeper was right when he spoke of his eye. It was as rude as a tiger’s, and animated with such a hungry look that it might have belonged to a dragon who desired to know what sort of meal stood before him.

Though I might be in doubt as to what was his station, whether it was that of a lord or a mendicant, since his assemblance suggested that he partook of both these conditions, I had no doubt at all that he was not a Spanish gentleman—for where should you find a caballero of our most courteous nation who would so soil his manners as to treat a stranger with this degree of impudency? Yet there was a great air of possession about him as he sat his stool, as though every stick and rafter of the inn was his own private furniture, so that I almost felt that I was intruding within his castle. There was, again, that insolence in his looks as clearly implied that it was his habit to command a deal of consideration from the world; and as a lord is a lord in every land, whether he happen to be a Spaniard or a German Goth, I opened, like a skirmisher, in the lightest manner, not to provoke offence, for I trust that Miguel Jesus Maria de Sarda y Boegas has ever too much respect for his forebears to humiliate a man of birth.

“I give the greeting of God to your excellency,” I began, uncloaking myself and bowing low, as became a hidalgo of my nation.

The occupant of the stool made no sign that I had addressed him, except that he spat in the fire.

“May it please you, sir—a thousand pardons,” said I; “but I have heard a tale of you from the keeper of this inn that never did consist with gallantry. And may I pray you to have it rectified, for the poor fellow is sorely afflicted in his understanding.”

At this address the occupant of the stool took his left eye off the cooking-pot for the second time, and fixed it upon me slowly and mockingly, and said in a rude, foreign accent that was an offence to my ears,

“Yes, my son, pray me by all means; or shrive me, or baptize me, or do with me just as you please. I have grown old in the service of virtue, yet perhaps I ought to mention that I have not so much as the price of a pot of small ale in my poke.”

“By your leave, sir, you are upon some misapprehension,” said I. “It is not your money that I crave, but your civility.”

“Civility, my son. Well, I dare say I can arrange for as much of that as you require.”

“It is pleasing to know that, sir. But this innkeeper—unhappy man—does not appear to have partaken of it.”

The occupant of the stool took my remonstrance in fairer part than there was reason to expect. Indeed he even abated his manners into some appearance of politeness.

“You appear to judge shrewdly for one of your years, my young companion,” he said, in a voice that fell quite soft. “But if I must speak the truth, this innkeeper is a notorious villain; and if I am ever civil to a notorious villain, I hope Heaven will correct me.”

“Even upon such a matter as that, sir,” I said gravely, “there may be two sorts of opinion. Even if this poor innkeeper is not so virtuous as he might be, it will not help him on the true path to be mulcted in his substance.”

“By cock!” said the occupant of the stool, “it is an old head you wear on your shoulders, my young companion. You speak to a point. I can tell you have been to college.”

“Sir, you are mistaken in this, although I come of a good family upon the side of both my parents. My uncle Nicolas is magister in the university of Salamanca; and as for my father, lately deceased, he was one of the wisest men that ever lived.”

“Yes, I can see that,” said the occupant of the stool, whose voice had fallen softer than ever. “It is as plain as my hand.”

Somewhat curiously, and perhaps with a little of the vanity of youth, I sought a reason for this estimate.

“It is as plain as the gown of a woman of virtue,” he said, with a stealthy down-looking glance. “I have a wonderful eye for merit. You can never disguise birth and condition from one like myself. I am a former clerk of Oxford, and my lineage is such that modesty forbids me to name it before supper.”

“Oxford,” said I, taking this quaint, barbarous name upon my tongue with pain. “Saving your presence, sir, what part of our great peninsula is that? It sounds not unlike the province of Galicia, where I know the dialect and the people are allowed to be a little uncivil.”

“Not too quickly, my son. The university of Oxford is about a day’s journey from the centre of the world.”

“Then, sir, it must be somewhere in Castile.”

“Why Castile, my son?”

“Madrid is in the province of Castile, and that, I believe, is generally reckoned to be the centre of the world.”

“My young companion, I sit corrected,” said the occupant of the stool, with a humble air that went not at all well with his countenance. “When I was young I was always taught that the centre of the world was London; but I dare say the world has moved on a little since those days.”

“London, sir!” said I; for here was another barbarous word I had never heard before. “I pray you tell me in what part of our peninsula is London.”

Instead of replying to this question, the occupant of the stool began to purse his lips in an odd manner, and to rub his chin with his forefinger.

“By my soul,” he said, “that is a plaguy odd question to address to an English gentleman!”

“Doubtless it may be,” said I, “to one who has travelled much, and knows our great peninsula from one end to the other; but I confess I never left my native province before this morning.”

“Never left your province before this morning!” said this strange person, laughing softly. “Is it conceivable? If you had kept it close it would have required great wisdom to suspect it. Your mind has been finely-trained, my young companion, and your air is so finished that I should like to see it at the court of Sophy.”

I was fain to bow at so much civility. Yet he was laughing softly all the while, and there was a covert look in his eye that I mistrusted.

“Would you say that I had been drinking,” said he, “if I declare to you upon my honour that London never was in Spain at all?”

“I take it nowise amiss, sir; yet if London is no part of Spain I fail to see how it can be the centre of the world.”

For the moment I feared this extraordinary man would fall from his stool, so forcibly did his laughter ascend to the roof. I felt some discomposure, for surely such an action was no part of courtesy. Judging, however, that it is the first business of the polite to refrain from outfacing the rude with their own manners, I gathered all my patience and said, not without haughtiness, I fear: “Sir, are you not from foreign parts?”

“Nay, my young son of the Spains, I am come to foreign parts, if that is your question. I was born and bred in England; I am the natural son of an English king; I have dwelt in England half my years; and when I die my bones shall lie in England, for since the time of Uthyr Pendragon, the respected progenitor of an English sovereign, no scion of my name has left his bones to rot in a foreign climate.”

“England,” said I; “the land is as strange to me as far Cathay.”

It was in vain that I strove to recall what I had heard of this remote island country. Yet, as I could recollect nothing whatever about it, I was fain to believe that I had never heard of it at all.