Portuguese writers have never shown a marked genius for dramatic action in their works, and although several hundreds of autos were written in the sixteenth century, and Antonio Ferreira (1528-69) introduced the classical drama into Portugal, yet drama might almost be said not to exist in Portugal were it not for two great writers: Gil Vicente, of the sixteenth century, and Almeida Garrett, of the nineteenth. Living Portuguese writers include some dramatic authors of remarkable merit, and the theatre has its devoted followers in Lisbon. But the opera and the cinematograph are the great favourites, and plays often owe their success to the scenic effects rather than to the drama in itself. Gil Vicente’s plays in the sixteenth century were, we know, accompanied by lavish scenic display, but their dialogue is so spirited, life-like and natural that they scarcely require alien adornments. Several of these plays have been recently revived, adapted or translated (from Spanish to Portuguese) by the poet Snr. Affonso Lopes Vieira, and favourably received at Lisbon.
As, together with the totally different plays of Garrett, with the principal of which, Frei Luiz de Sousa, English readers are familiar in the translation by Mr. Edgar Prestage (Elkin Mathews, 1909), these plays of Gil Vicente, lyric poet, satirist, goldsmith, playwright and actor, form the chief dramatic baggage of the Portuguese, it will not be amiss to give a few extracts from them. But, of course, to be fully appreciated, they must be read whole, and a forthcoming critical edition will make this less difficult for the ordinary reader than it has hitherto been.
Servant Girl. Sir, an honest lady is here and would speak with you.
Merchant. Let her come in, if she will, for I am free at present.
Widow. Look here, my young gossip, do not you betray me.
S.G. Not I, by my life.
W. For you are the greatest chatterer I saw in all my life.
S.G. Oh, what fun! And should I tell that you are a poor gentleman without a horse and without a shilling, dressed up as a woman to deceive a thief!...
W. Good-day, Sir.
M. Good-day, senhora. What is it you would have?
W. I will tell you anon. Ah me, how tired I am, how tired and worried.
M. Take one of these chairs.
W. Oh, that is nothing: believe me, distress knows little rest.
M. By my life you say true, and I agree with you entirely.
W. I say, sir, that the Lord Treasurer of the noble King Telebano owes me last year’s pension won in the sweat of my brow.
S.G. (aside): Yes, a fine pension of your imagination.
M. How much is it?
W. This note will tell you.
M. Let me have a look at it. I congratulate you: it is 40,000 réis.
W. Sir, I am in despair, and unless you buy it of me, they will distrain upon my goods to-morrow.
M. No more of that; I shall certainly do nothing of the kind.
W. That is not a good answer.
M. And what of the penalty imposed by law?
W. Our agreement will be secret.
M. Impossible.
W. Who is to know of it?
M. When I go to change this note.
W. Do not reduce me to despair. You will know how to manage it.
M. Well, well, I will be an arrant fool, simply in order to help you. What will you sell for?
W. I leave that to your conscience.
M. I will tell you: 10,000 réis will I give you, cash down.
W. Ai Jesu! Ho, there! help!
M. I will not give more, there’s no use in further discussion.
W. Would you be so cruel to a poor widow woman? O, what a sad thing is poverty, abandoned by all!
M. No more, senhora.
W. Will you not be content now with 20,000, one half?
M. No, nor 25,000, I may tell you.
W. Well, let me have them, plague upon it.
Of the scenes which follow only the English version is here given—
Amancio Vaz. Are you going to the fair, compadre?
Deniz Lourenço. To the fair, compadre.
A. So. Let us go together, you and me, along this stream.
D. Let us go, in sooth.
A. I am very glad to find you here.
D. Are you going to see some one or do you mean to buy?
A. I will tell you, and we will talk as we go, and have a look at the village girls. Compadre, my wife has a very difficult temper, and now, God willing, I am thinking of selling her, and will give her for next to nothing.
D. Your wife is good enough, I don’t know what is the matter with, you, my friend.
A. If she had married you, you would complain just as I do now.
D. Well, as to mine, compadre, she is so slack and clumsy that she can never knead bread without knocking over the flour....
(Later enter Branca Annes, wife of A., and Marta Dias, wife of D.)
B.A. Since in so ill an hour I married, cousin, and such a husband, I will buy a tub here and keep him under it, and a great stone on top. For he goes to the fig-trees and eats ripe and unripe, and all my hung grapes he devours till he seems a very rubbish heap. He goes for the plums before they are ripe, he breaks down the cherry trees, and as to the grapes of the vines I don’t know what he does with them. He eats all day, sleeps all night, never does anything, and is always telling me that he is hungry.
M. To me he seems a good husband.[43]
Joanne. Have you seen my brown smock? When you do you will lose your wits, it looks so well, so well. What in the world is this, you will say.
Catalina. O, what a simpleton! Do not open your mouth if anyone is at hand.
J. O, to the devil with such a life as mine! Catalina, if I take it into my head, I will go as soon as anything. Is not there India? What good am I doing here? Better to go.
C. And what is that to me? There comes Fernando. Good-day, Fernando. I waited for you at the pass.
Fernando. Is Madanella here?
C. And why are you looking for her? Have you taken a dislike to me?
J. Really, Catalina?
C. No more, consider that you have left me.
J. Really, Catalina?
F. You don’t say where Madanella is gone.
C. Why do you ask for her?
F. Because so fortune wills.
C. A plague upon you.
J. Really, Catalina? Well, if I had known this, I wouldn’t have given you the distaff that I brought from Santarem.[43]
Frei Paço. What are you grumbling at, peasant?
Peasant. At God, who clearly has a great spite against me.
F.P. But what do you complain of?
P. He drives me to despair.
F.P. But how?
P. He sends rain when I don’t want it, and when I would have some rain the very stars glow like the sun. Now He swamps the newly sown fields or parches everything, or sends a cruel wind or snow to kill the flocks, and little He cares. And if I would sue Him for damage done by lightning and thunder, hail and frost, who is to find out His dwelling and summon Him! He cares for no one, and will do as He likes. He might do me good and no one a penny the worse, but not a bit of it. And so I say He has a grudge against me, and if you doubt it you have but to look at my year’s harvest.
F.P. Do you think, then, God lives with you?
P. Look you, padre, what I say is, let Him temper the winter’s rages, and let the corn ripen, but He in his spite without gaining a farthing by it, sends rain in January and frost in April, and summer heat in February, mists in the month of May, and hail in mid-July. I toil till I drop, and He in whose care I am makes it ever worse for me.
F.P. Consider if you duly pay Him what is His.
P. I would pay my tithes willingly enough if He in sheer malice did not damage what is His and mine.
F.P. And do you ever pray to Him to free you from these troubles?
P. Much store He sets on my prayers. I pray quite enough. I don’t know how it is, but everything is done at His good pleasure. He killed my father and my master, and then my wife. Ask yourself why He should kill my aunt with all her charities, and leave the tax-gatherers, who plague me daily.
F.P. They say there is no better gift than good advice. Do then as I bid you: conform yourself with the will of God, and make good sense your mirror.
P. Let Him conform Himself with me. I am poor as a dog, and tell Him so daily, and He, it may be, rejoices. Offering and prayer avail me not a whit: now He gives but straw without grain, and now neither grain nor straw, but only infinite oppression. Therefore, I would have this boy of mine enter the Church, not that he is especially inclined that way, but that he may live a life of greater ease. If you, padre, will teach him, all I have will be yours.
F.P. Yes, if he is so minded.
P. He has intelligence for anything, and a good singing voice.
F.P. Here, take this paper, and read those verses.
Sebastian. Is this for cummin or must I go for saffron?
F.P. You know nothing at all.
S. I know where the village shop is.
P. He is as sharp as a sword, there isn’t a goat in the herd that he doesn’t know.
F.P. Come now, without more ado, say the A B C D E.
S. ’A be seedy.
F.P. Say A X.
S. Aex was a tailor who lived by the Cathedral.
P. If your life is spared, Sebastian, you will make a fine scholar.
S. It looks as if the plough had been at work among these letters.
F.P. You need much examining. And now, as to Latin: say Beatus vir.
S. O, that is easy enough: Bi ora tres ratos vir (I saw three mice).
P. See what learning![44]
Frey Paço enters in cassock and cape, with velvet cap and gloves and gilt sword, mincing like a very sweet courtier, and says:
He who sees me enter with such antics will think I am gone mad till he knows that I am Frey Paço. Glory be to God and For ever and ever are not for me, but a gilt sword, since it looks well to wear a sword at court. So refined am I; and that there should be no doubt of it, I had an excellent idea: I never let them shave my tonsure. So do not expect me to address you with Glory to God or Praised be Jesus Christ, for all my priest’s frock. And I am so finished a courtier that I may well say that the psalms I recite are—envy and gossip. My speech is gentle and courteous with great store of compliments. Expect no deeds from me but be content with words borne away by the wind. Favour and disaffection am I, the protector of lovers; I disillusion those who trust me and am the very temple of the god of love and the hell of the love-lorn. But since the law of love is changed, and everything grows cold, I love now by agreement and sigh to order.[45]
Frei Paço. My friend, a noble lady must be rich and fair, sensitive, serene, courteous, gentle, charming.
Apariço. Giralda is all that.
F.P. Let us see how this head-dress suits her.
A. Away, away with it, it is not fit for anyone to wear.
F.P. You mean, peasant, that it is not for harvesters but for the Court.
A. It is a magpie’s tail, and not for a woman to wear; so thinks Apariço.
F.P. Yet it didn’t suit her ill.
A. Who ever saw a sparrow with its tail at the back of its head!
F.P. I’m afraid she will not suit.
A. Why?
F.P. Well, she has not the air.
A. She has been treading grapes in the wine-press and is all stained, but she will go and have a wash....
F.P. Drop me a curtsey now. Let us see how she does it.
G. This side or that?
F.P. See what a manner for the Court! My fine lady keeper of goats, you must do thus. Did you mark me? And make the steps so. Do you understand? And you will look thus, with lofty mien, your body very straight, laughing little and subtly, with a spice of honest deceit. To speak only occasionally is excellent. You must not be in love nor give love over, and to show that you are fancy-free be careful not to sigh.[46]
Payo. Since it is the will of God that I should pay so harmful a shepherdess, in reward for your trouble, take this pot of oil and go and sell it at the fair, and perhaps you will prosper, since I cannot with you in my service.
Mofina. Straightway in God’s name to the fair of Trancoso will I go, and will make much money. With the money of the oil I will buy ducks’ eggs, which is the cheapest thing I can get there, and each egg hatched will give me a duck and every duck a shilling. At a low price they will yield over a million and a half (réis?). These ducks’ eggs will bring me a rich and honourable marriage, and on the day of my wedding I will go dressed in a robe of scarlet, and before me the bridegroom will go courting me. I will come from within dancing a dance like this and singing this song.
(So speaks Mofina Mendes with the pot of oil on her head, and as she gives her mind ever more to the dancing, it falls off.)[47]
Ordonho. Who is your master, brother, say?
Apariço. O, it is the devil himself. Year in, year out, we are both dead of hunger and misery.
O. Who does he pass the time with?
A. What do I know! He goes about like a scalded dog.
O. And what is his occupation?
A. That of a fool. Combing his hair and fasting, all day without food, singing and playing on the guitar, sighing and yawning. He is ever talking to himself, and the verses he makes are so cold and insipid and senseless that they make one pity him. And the airs he gives himself! That is what enrages me. I have been in his service three years and have never seen him with half a crown, but in our expenditure a shilling lasts a month.
O. Mercy on us, what do you eat?
A. Not even of bread do we eat our fill.
O. And his horse?
A. Skin and bones, the bones piercing the skin. I and the horse and he eat scarcely anything. Yet you should see him boasting and pretending to be a valiant knight, and singing his own praises the whole live-long day. But the other day, in an alley there, they gave him a fine thrashing. O, such a thrashing!
O. What with?
A. With an old stick.
O. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
A. It gave me such pleasure.
O. And he said nothing?
A. Took it without a word, blow on blow. He comes home late at night, being shut in the house all day since he dare not show himself on account of his clothes. And he calls out gaily, “To supper,” as if he had supper ready. And I have nothing for him, and he has nothing for me to give him. And he takes a crust of bread and a shrivelled turnip and fastens his teeth in it like a dog. I don’t know how he keeps up his strength.[49]
Do they call a chest a bed here or is there no meaning in words! All my nights in his house were nights spent in an open boat at sea, not to speak of other evils. Senhor Judge, I have been six years in this gentleman’s service, and might have been a barber by now but for his false promises. When I entered his service he was in better plight, but now, good lack, it is all up with him, and his guitar, and his horse, and his bed, and his clothes, and my service, and all the rest. This last night, as I lay ill at ease on a chest with my feet hanging over, he woke me up at one o’clock, and: “O, if you knew, Fernando, what verses I have just made.” He bids me light the lamp and hold the inkstand for him, and there was his dog howling and I standing there cursing because in my first sleep my master must needs make verses.[50]
Chaplain. Senhor, it seems time....
Nobleman. Say on, padre, say on.
C. I say that it is close on three years that I have been your chaplain.
N. Most true. Say on.
C. And I might have been the Prince’s or even the King’s.
N. In good sooth, I don’t know about that, padre.
C. Yes, indeed, I might, though I am in your service. Consider then, sir, what you will give me, for, besides serving at the altar, I was employed to buy provisions.
N. I won’t deny it. Draw me up a petition of all your claims.
C. Senhor, do not put me off, for the matter has no ending, as perhaps you wish, for indeed I am become for you both clergyman and man of business.
N. And I have given you favours, yes, so far as my poor means allowed, have done more for you than others do. For what more does a clergyman want in wages or income than that he should be given his food—a good penny a day—and allowed to live as he wills. And think of the honour! “He is chaplain of So-and-So.”
C. Yes, and what about clothes, and meals snatched anyhow, and sleeping so ill at ease that my head lies on the floor without a pillow, and always at one o’clock in the morning Mass before the chase? And to please you, moreover, I served you out of doors, even buying fish in the market-place. And other errands too, ill befitting my dignity. Indeed, indeed, sir, I was your carrier on the high road, driven this way and that; and I had charge of the cats and of the negroes in the kitchen, and I used to clean your boots for you, and do many another thing besides.
N. Yes, I trusted you with all my alms-giving, and you gave for the love of God, and I never asked you for accounts.
C. For the three years to which I’m referring I can give them now without more ado. You once bade me give twopence to a blind man in charity.
N. I’m not denying it.[51]
Page. Sir, the goldsmith is here.
Nobleman. Show him in. He will be wanting money. Good-day to you, sir. Put your hat on, please. You have a great friend in me, and one who sings your merits. I was praising you only yesterday to the King with all my might, and I know he will employ you, and I will help you in this as often as I can. For sometimes such help is better than a pension, and you know well the value of your reputation and other such things.
Goldsmith. Sir, I will serve him with all my heart.
N. Do you know what I like about you—I said so to the King, and it is greatly to your credit: you do not mind if you are paid or left unpaid. I never saw such patience, such superiority, such a will to please.
G. Our account is so small and so long overdue that it is dying of hope deferred, and to present it fills me with presentiment.
N. O, how skilfully you limn your speech. Glad indeed am I not to have paid you so as to hear you hammer out your words so well.
G. Sir, I kiss your hands, but would gladly see what is mine in mine.
N. Another courtier’s phrase! “Sir, I kiss your hands, but would gladly see what is mine in mine!” O, what fine flowers of speech![52]