SECOND NIGHT

Phoebus Apollo was just taking shelter behind blue curtains and inviting night to cover the world with her black mantle as all the ladies and gentlemen who'd assembled for the first night's party again gathered at the noble Laura's house. This discreet lady and her beautiful daughter greeted them with great courtesy and delight. They took their seats in the order established on the previous night and don Diego announced that his servants would start the party with some lively dances and an improvised play they wanted to present.

When the ladies saw that they wouldn't be called upon to dance that night, they settled back in their places. Lysis was wearing a soft woolen gown of silvered purple and about her neck a diamond collar bearing don Diego's initial. He'd sent his new mistress the gift that very afternoon upon receiving the purple band she'd sent for him to wear with his green cross. These signals caused don Juan some uneasiness, although Lisarda sought to distract him with her numerous attentions.

The beautiful Lysis was readying her instrument and preparing to sing the ballad she'd composed and set to music that afternoon when the musicians begged her to save her song for the third night. They wanted to sing the song don Juan had composed especially for them to perform this evening. Everyone applauded this suggestion because they knew don Juan was as consummate in composition as in everything he did. The musicians took their places and sang this ballad:

    One Sunday Anton goes
to Menga's house,
but Gila is sour-faced;
it must be jealousy.
The lad complains of her
and proper is his complaint,
for suspicion without fact
is an aberration of faith.
She blames him, innocent,
of course that's an offense;
she so freely accuses him
that it hurts him deep inside.
To speak with friendly Menga
is not wrong, well can you see,
for while there is no love without pleasure,
there can be pleasure without love.
Gila would like Anton to avoid
Menga, harsh demand,
for him to be discourteous
simply to show her favor.
The rules are not the same
for men as for women;
what is disdain in women
is rudeness in a man.
No one can reason
with jealousy, and, by heaven,
people who heed not reason
must be very foolish.
Empty fears, Gila,
mean nothing, except perhaps
that to fear without reason
may prepare one for a fall.
To forbid him to look at Menga,
I don't know if that's wise,
for, simply by being forbidden,
they say, it may create desire.
There is polite subjugation,
and, as I see it, it's enough for Anton
to be subject to his darling
without being bound to her error.
Thus is love for men;
their candor is duplicity,
their innocence a crime.
A curse on love, amen!

Anyone who watched the beautiful Lysis while the ballad was sung could easily detect in her restlessness the irritation she felt in listening. She caught the openness with which don Juan reproved her for her jealousy of Lisarda. She was on the verge of saying something, when she noticed how melancholy don Diego looked to see her so upset, and she recovered her composure. Her brow relaxed and her face brightened when, as president of the soiree, she commanded don Alvaro to tell his enchantment. He obeyed instantly, beginning:

"Avarice is the most pernicious vice a man can have. When a man is greedy then he's foolish, boring, irritating, and hateful to everyone. No one wants to cross his path, and rightfully so, as you will see in my enchantment, which goes like this":

The Miser's Reward

A gentleman from Navarre came to serve a grandee at court, a man of lofty aspirations but humble earthly possessions, for stepmother Fortune had endowed him with the single possession of a meager bed to sleep on at night and to sit on during the day. This young man, whom we shall call don Marcos, had lived with his ancient father, so old that his many years had been their major source of income, for he used his age to soften even the hardest of hearts. Don Marcos was only twelve years old when he came to Madrid. That same number of years had passed since he had lost his father, who died of a terrible pain in his side.

Don Marcos found a position as page in a princely house and there he had all the usual schooling in manginess, squalor, knavery, and money-grubbing. Although don Marcos graduated in each of these schools, it was in the last where he really shone. He willfully condemned himself to a penury more extreme than any hermit would endure. He spent the eighteen coppers he earned so sparingly that he was able to keep the total from diminishing hardly at all. This he managed to do at the expense of his own stomach and his companions' meals. If he did spend any money, it was so little you'd scarcely note its absence.

Don Marcos was of medium height but, given the delicacy of his eating habits, he turned from a youth into a stalk of asparagus. The only time his stomach escaped from want was when it was his turn to serve at his master's table. Then he would relieve the dishwashers

of their task, so thoroughly did he clean off the dishes that they were cleaner than when they went to the table. He would stuff his purse with absolutely every leftover he could safely use the next day.

In this wretched way he spent his youth. He also accompanied his master on his many travels when his master had important business in Spain or abroad. Don Marcos was finally promoted from page to servant. In making such a change, his master accomplished something that heaven could not. The eighteen coppers became five silver coins plus a few coppers; but don Marcos didn't change his way of life nor did he increase the rations he allowed his stomach. Indeed, now that he had more obligations he only knotted his purse more tightly. He virtually never saw a light in his house. If, on rare occasion he did splurge, it was only because his craftiness discovered a candle stub some careless butler had overlooked, which he would use parsimoniously. He would begin undressing the very moment he entered the front hall from the street so that, by the time he got to his room, he could drop his clothes and snuff out the candle in an instant.

When he got up in the morning, he'd take an old broken pot and go out to the street door and wait for the water-boys to pass. He'd ask the first one he saw to supply his need, and this would last him two or three days, so sparingly did he use it. Sometimes he would go out to where the little boys played and he'd give a copper to one to come make his bed and sweep the floor. When he did hire a servant, he'd make an agreement that the most he would give him was two coppers and a mat to sleep on. When he didn't have one, he'd find a jack-of-all-trades to do his chores and empty the unusual chamber pot he used for all his necessities. Having once served as a honey bucket, it was more battered than a worn-out well bucket. Even in the matter of doing his duty he was stingy.

He would eat a penny loaf of bread, meat scraps, or half a pound of stringy beef which he'd give to the cook with meticulous instructions on how to prepare it. This wasn't every day, only holidays. All he usually ate was a penny loaf and some cheese. He would enter the room where his fellow servants were eating and go up to the nearest one, saying:

"From the lovely aroma, that stew must be delicious. I think I'll have a little taste."

No sooner said than done. He'd grab a huge chunk. He'd go all around the table doing this, sampling each and every dish. It got so that when they saw him coming, everyone who could finished off his

food in one gulp, and the ones who couldn't covered their plates with their hands.

He had one friend who was a servant in the same household. Don Marcos used to wait for this friend to go inside to eat and then, with his bread and cheese in his hand, he'd follow after, saying:

"I'll come bore you with my conversation while we eat."

Then he'd sit down at the table and scrounge as much as he could. He never bought wine in his life, though he did drink it every now and then, and this is how he obtained it: he'd stand in the doorway to the street and, when he saw a little boy or girl pass by carrying wine, he'd very politely ask them to let him taste it in such a way that they could hardly refuse. If the youngster was courteous, don Marcos would ask for another sip. Once when he was traveling on mule to Madrid a lad joined company with him and, to earn expenses, worked as his servant. To avoid paying him, one day don Marcos sent the boy off for wine. While the boy was gone, don Marcos mounted his mule and departed, leaving the boy to beg his way to the capital. At any inn he never lacked some relative from whom he could sponge and so avoid paying for his meal. Once he even fed his mule the straw stuffing from the mattress to keep from spending any money.

Many tales were told about don Marcos which entertained his master and his friends and so cheered their hearts that don Marcos became known throughout the city as the world's most temperate man. He was also chaste for, as he was wont to say, no woman is beautiful if she costs money and no woman is ugly if she's free, especially if she sews handkerchiefs and collars and other dainties typical of the fastidious woman.

Because don Marcos lived like this till he was thirty, everyone believed that he was rich and with good reason, for at the expense of his health and his good name, he'd managed to scrimp and save some six thousand ducats. He always carried them on his person as he greatly feared the wiles of bankers who, if they catch the slightest carelessness, clip a client quick as a fox. Because don Marcos was known not to be a gambler or a womanizer, almost every day he received an offer of marriage. He invariably shied away, fearful of some dreadful outcome. The women who sought him for a husband thought he could be a little more spendthrift, not quite so penny-wise—this is the word they used for his stinginess.

Among the many who aspired to become his wife was a lady who, although she'd never married, was considered a widow. A woman of

good taste who, while a little older, disguised her age with artful makeup and dress. She was a merry widow who always wore a mourning dress of heavy silk and a chignon with a regal headdress. People said that doña Isidora, which was her name, was very rich and she certainly lived as if she were. But people always assume more than meets the eye. This match was proposed to don Marcos and the bride was described in glowing colors with the assurance that her wealth exceeded fourteen or fifteen thousand ducats. He was told that her late consort had been one of the finest gentlemen in the famous city of Seville in Andalucia, and that's how the lady always described him. When don Marcos heard all this, he considered himself as good as married.

The intermediary who negotiated the marriage was a cunning matchmaker who worked all kinds of deals and not just marriages; he trafficked in pretty faces and fat purses. He knew all the good and all the evil in the whole city, which is why doña Isidora promised him a fat reward if he could accomplish her desire. After the matchmaker made his proposition to don Marcos, he suggested that they visit doña Isidora that very afternoon to avoid any problem delay might cause.

When don Marcos entered doña Isidora's apartment, he was thunderstruck at all the rooms and all the beautiful and well-arranged furnishings. He examined everything very carefully because he'd been told that the woman who was about to become the mistress of his heart was mistress of all this. She'd surrounded herself with so much rich damask, so many furnishings like escritories and pictures, that he thought it looked more like the house of a titled noble than an everyday house. The lavish parlor, the tidiness of the house, everything smelling so clean and fresh, seemed more like heaven than earth. Likewise, doña Isidora was so well dressed and neat that, as a poet friend of mine says, I think it was from her that well-attired ladies came to be known as "isidoras."

She had two maids who lived with her, one to do the sewing, the other charged with the general chores. If our gentleman hadn't been the kind of man he was, and if his meager diet hadn't diminished his energy, he might have married their mistress just to get the maids, so pretty were their faces. Especially the kitchen maid, she could've been a queen if kingdoms were granted on the basis of beauty.

Don Marcos was particularly impressed with doña Isidora's charm and her good sense. Because of her gentility and courteous manner, he thought she was grace personified. She spoke to him at great length

and very pleasantly, and everything she said not only delighted don Marcos, it enamored him; so absolutely simple and without duplicity was he that is heart warmed in appreciation.

Doña Isidora thanked the matchmaker for the favor he'd done her in finding such a suitable match. She had arranged an elaborate and expensive luncheon to show off her many rich and aromatic dishes, set off by a white tablecloth and all the other tableware necessary to a sumptuous household such as Isidora's. This hooked don Marcos.

A handsome young man also came to lunch. He was debonair and so witty that he verged on being roguish. Doña Isidora introduced him as her nephew, whose name was Augustin. She obviously doted on him. Inez served the table while, at her mistress's command, the other maid, by name Marcela, took up the guitar, which she knew how to play very well. Indeed the best musician in the city played no better and, while she played, she sang in a voice more like an angel's than a woman's, as best don Marcos could judge. Without waiting to be cajoled, probably because she knew she sang well or else it was just her way, she sang this song with grace and charm:

Clear fountains,
since you whisper,
whisper to Narcissus
that he knows not how to love.

Whisper that he lives
free and unaffected
and that my affection
is written in water;
he should feel sorrow
if he knows my sorrow
which is the sweet prison
of all my freedom.
Whisper to Narcissus
that he knows not how to love.

Whisper that his heart
is made of ice,
and for his own solace
he makes me sorrow;
if I ask for his favor
he answers, "Let her suffer,"
and if I ask for mercy,
he feigns sleep.

Whisper to Narcissus
that he knows not how to love.

Whisper that he calls
other eyes his heaven
only to annoy me,
not because he loves them,
and he repays with disdain
my burning passion,
favoring her
to disfavor me.
Whisper to Narcissus
that he knows not how to love.

When, out of courtesy,
he responds to my love
his favor never lasts
more than a day.
He laughs gaily
at my sorrows
and shows me no mercy
even when he sees me dying.
Whisper to Narcissus
that he knows not how to love.

Whisper that for days
he has seemed loving
and has even made an effort
to respond to my attention:
my melancholy
makes him happy
and, when I change heart,
then he shows affection.
Whisper to Narcissus
that he knows not how to love.

Whisper that I've been
an unfortunate Echo
and, although scorned,
I've always followed him.
When I beg him
to hear my plaint,
disdainfully he lets
my eyes go on weeping.
Whisper to Narcissus
that he knows not how to love.

Whisper that, haughty,
disdainful, he lives free
while I live without peace
because of my love for him;
he does not accept
my eternal love,
instead, harshly,
he seeks my death.
Whisper to Narcissus
that he knows not how to love.

Whisper that his eyes,
serious and severe,
always quick
to cause me pain,
conquer many spoils
by their mere glance;
his haughty pride
knows no equal.
Whisper to Narcissus
that he knows not how to love.

Whisper that
with his happy smile
he has given to Belisa
glory that he took from me,
not as a lover
but as a traitor,
for although he feigns love
he deceives too much.
Whisper to Narcissus
that he knows not how to love.

Whisper my jealousy,
my wrenching sorrow,
oh, you lovely fountains,
heaven to my eyes!
whisper of my sadness,
my sorrow, and my pain,
my pleasure gone:
whisper, fountains,
and please tell Narcissus
that he knows not how to love.

I wouldn't venture to say which pleased don Marcos more, the spicy empanadas, the tasty meat pies, the savory ham with flavorful fresh fruit, or Marcela's sweet voice. The meal was accompanied by the poor

man's blessed remedy, wine, which, although well iced, was fiery. Maybe that's why one of its devotees called soda water a kind of fire extinguisher. All the while Marcela sang, don Marcos gorged himself, served by both doña Isidora and Augustin. He felt like a king because her voice was a treat to his ears just as the luncheon was a treat to his poor stomach, as bereft of treats as of nourishment. Doña Isidora also served Augustin, but don Marcos paid attention solely to the revivification of his stomach after its perennial fast. Without being able to swear to it, I think that luncheon saved him from six days of fasting and maybe even more, with all the tasty morsels doña Isidora and her nephew stuffed and crammed into the good gentleman's bottomless purse, enough provisions to last him a long, long time.

The meal ended just as day was ending, and four candles in lovely candelabras illuminated with their soft light the sweet music Augustin played on Marcela's guitar, while she and Inez danced several lively Spanish dances so nimbly and gracefully that the eyes and the hearts of their worthy audience danced along with their nimble feet. Now that don Marcos was full, he craved entertainment so, at his request, Marcela again took up the guitar and ended the party with this ballad:

    Blas has left his cottage,
God knows if he'll ever return,
since Menga is most devoted,
and Blas is most ungrateful.
He doesn't know how to be constant;
whenever he sees himself loved, he turns faint;
a person who doesn't know how to love
doesn't even know how to appreciate.
Menga hasn't made him jealous,
she didn't know how,
but if she had, perhaps
she'd have been appreciated.
Blas is a free spirit,
he doesn't want to be tied down,
so, seeing himself loved,
he quickly turns neglectful.
Not only does he seek out pleasures,
he also makes them public,
and, by making others suffer, he tries
to improve upon his fame.
It's certain that he won't come back,
for love is a fine thing
but when it turns sour
it can never be the same again.

He's dying of love for another
but he won't really die,
for he knows how to feign love,
until he gets what he wants.
Pity the mountain lass
who sets her heart on him
for although she may sow love
all she'll reap is sorrow.
Menga is sure she's lost little,
for no matter how much she risks,
she cannot suffer more.
He is generous with disdain,
liberal with neglect,
extreme in excess,
scanty in affection.
Menga says she's glad;
I don't know if that is true,
it's a dubious illness
to be scorned and suffer so.
People usually boast of health
when they're close to death;
but I don't deny that it's smart
to know how to dissimulate.
Hiding to avoid being seen
or hearing him spoken of
without speaking in his praise,
these show signs of health.
But to live unhappy,
cry in secret and get upset
when he looks at another
are sure signs of love.
What I have gleaned
from all my theology
is that the person most insulting
is closest to granting pardon.
Menga boasts of being noble
and I doubt if she'll forget him,
for, once a choice is made,
it's ignoble to reverse it.
But she has told me
that now that she knows
jealousy, offense, insult,
to see him again would be an affront.

When the ballad ended, the trafficker in misfortune rose to his feet and told don Marcos it was time for doña Isidora to retire. They said good-bye to her, Augustin, and the two damsels and went to don

Marcos's house. As they walked down the street the enamored don Marcos described how much doña Isidora had impressed him. He expressed his desire to become her husband as soon as possible. In his conversation he revealed more interest in her money than in her person. He said he'd give a finger from his right hand to see the marriage a fait accompli . There could be no doubt that she suited him to a T, though he didn't think they would live so grandly, so ostentatiously, after they were married. That was fine for a prince but not for an ordinary man like himself. Just the necessary food and a few other things would be expense enough. His six thousand ducats and a like amount they could save by selling all the unnecessary items in doña Isidora's house would be plenty to support a gentleman's servant and his wife. All they really needed for their house would be four spoons, a jar, a platter, a good bed, and a few other essential items you can't live without. Everything else really was unnecessary and it would be better to sell it and invest the money, which would provide ample income for him to live like a prince and even have enough for his children to live honorably, if God so blessed him. If he had no children, doña Isidora had that nephew and it would all be for him, providing, of course, he was respectful and obedient and treated don Marcos like a father.

Don Marcos went along elaborating upon these thoughts and the matchmaker figured it was as good as settled. He told don Marcos he'd speak with doña Isidora the next morning and finalize the arrangements because, in these kinds of marriages, delay can cause more damage than death. They said good night.

Anxious to get his reward, the matchmaker hurried back to doña Isidora's to tell her every word don Marcos had uttered. Don Marcos went to his master's house and, since it was so late, everything was quiet. He took a candle stub from his purse, stuck it on the end of his sword, and lit it from the lamp illuminating a crucifix in the street. He said a short prayer that this new life he was about to begin would turn out well for him. He entered his room and went straight to bed, eager for the new day, yet fearful that his good fortune might evaporate.

Let's let him sleep and go back to the matchmaker, back to doña Isidora's house. As the matchmaker recounted the whole conversation, he commented on how well it was working out. Doña Isidora knew that better than he did, as you will soon find out. She gave the intermediary her official consent and four escudos as down payment.

She urged him to visit don Marcos first thing in the morning to tell him that she felt honored to become his wife. "Don't let him slip through our fingers!" she exclaimed, urging him to bring don Marcos to dine with her and her nephew so they could complete the arrangements and sign the papers that very afternoon. What double good news for don Marcos: to be accepted as bridegroom and to be invited to dinner!

Because he bore such good tidings, the matchmaker got up at the crack of dawn and went to greet our gentleman, whom he found already dressing. (Don Marcos's excitement about his lady love wouldn't let him rest an instant.) With arms open wide, he embraced his good friend, as he called that procurer of sorrows. His heart overflowed with joy when he heard of his good fortune. Quickly he finished dressing, donning the most elegant finery his penury permitted. Accompanying his guide to misfortune, he went to the house of his lady love and mistress, where that siren received him with the exquisite music of her loving words and Augustin, who was still dressing, greeted him with a thousand pleasantries. They passed the time until lunch in delightful conversation and the crafty youth, acting submissive, expressed effusive appreciation of his great good fortune, grateful that don Marcos treated him like a son. From the parlor they went into the dining room where the sideboard and the table were laid as you'd expect to find in the house of a great lord.

Doña Isidora didn't have to waste any words inviting don Marcos to take a seat at the table, for he beat her to it, himself urging everyone else to sit down, thus freeing them from any minor embarrassment. From the abundant and well-seasoned food elaborately laid out on the sideboard, the special guest satisfied his every desire. In his mind he kept going over and over the speeches he'd rehearsed the night before and some new ones as well, because he considered doña Isidora too lavish and extravagant. He thought her grandness and ostentation were entirely unnecessary and certainly a great waste of money if he had to pay for it himself.

The meal ended and, since they didn't have a guest bed for don Marcos, they asked him if, instead of taking a siesta, he would like to play a game of cards called jugar al hombre ("being a man"). He replied that he served in the household of a man so Christian and so virtuous that, if his master ever found out that one of his servants gambled or even played a single hand of blackjack, he wouldn't keep him in his service another instant. Knowing this, don Marcos had made it a rule

always to please his master. Besides the fact that his inclinations were good and virtuous, he didn't know how to play that game jugar al hombre . Why, he wouldn't recognize a single card in the deck and, to tell the truth, he thought it just as well for it saved him many ducats each year.

"Well," doña Isidora said, "our friend don Marcos is so virtuous that he doesn't know how to play cards. I keep telling Augustin that's better for one's soul and for one's pocketbook. Now, son, run along and tell Marcela to hurry and finish eating so she can play the guitar and Inez her castanets and we'll entertain ourselves until Mr. Gamarra (that's the matchmaker's name) gets back with the notary to draw up all the papers."

Augustin went off on his aunt's errand and, while he was gone, don Marcos continued the conversation she had begun. Don Marcos said:

"Well, if Augustin truly wants to please me, he must give up gambling and going out at night. That way we'll be friends. If not, we'll have a thousand disagreements because I believe in going to bed early on those nights when there's nothing to do. When I get home, I not only lock the door, I nail it shut. Not that I'm jealous, for a man who has an honorable wife would be a fool to be jealous, but rich houses are never safe from robbers and I don't want some thief to clean me out by simply walking in and taking what has cost me such effort and hard work to earn. Anyhow, either he gives up his vices or there'll be the devil to pay."

Doña Isidora saw don Marcos becoming so angry she could hardly calm him down. She told him not to get upset, the boy would do anything to please him because he was the most docile lad she'd ever known, as time would tell.

"Good," don Marcos replied.

Augustin and the damsels entered, interrupting this conversation. Each one carried a musical instrument. The brassy Marcela started the entertainment with these verses:

Lauro, when I loved you,
your harshness offended me;
sad by night and sad by day
I lamented your ingratitude;
nowhere did I find
remedy for my grief,
when only one single favor

would bring relief to my weary eyes,
but always in your thankless eyes
I found cruelty instead of love.

When I prayed to heaven
to die so as not to see you,
all of my efforts were spent
abasing myself and blaming you;
then I learned what jealously is
and, although worthy of being loved,
I sought to end my life.
Tell me, how can there be
greater misfortune than
being cruelly scorned?

I believe that that's worse
than living in oblivion
for, if I lived in oblivion,
my love would not annoy you.
I consider the sight of you a favor,
but your neglect offers me
a relief that one who scorns
usually denies to his adorer;
so oblivion will be
less harmful than it might seem.

Your attitude invites me
to ask the favor of your disfavor,
if, in the end, you will forget me
and be no longer offended by my love,
may your harshness some day
choose to love
and not ignore;
but if scorn me you must,
Lauro, then I prefer being scorned
to having have been scorned.

I cannot say whether Marcela's sweet voice or the words she sang pleased her listeners more. When she finished, everyone praised the song. Even though the verses were not the most polished or refined, Marcela's verve lent them a spirit that made up for any deficiencies. Doña Isidora then commanded Inez to dance with Augustin. She told don Marcos that, as soon as they concluded their dance, she would have Marcela sing again, she did it so marvelously. This is the ballad Marcela zestfully sang, to don Marcos's great delight:

Now I see the culmination
of my misfortune,
and I see my jealousy
in favors you grant to others.

No longer can I expect love
from you, ungrateful Ardenio.
All my suffering
equals your disaffection,
so now may you be chilled by my fire,
may I not be inflamed by your ice,
may all my hopes die,
may I no longer live this torment;
since there is no relief or remedy
for my sorrowful confusion
no longer do I even seek it,
I suffer in despair.
Now I see the culmination
of my misfortune,
and I see my jealousy
in favors you grant to others.

What can I hope for now,
how can I try to oblige
one who boldly seeks
only to cause my death?
I imitate those brothers
who suffer in hell
and work in vain
to serve out all their time.
End my life, draw your sword,
and thrust it through my constant heart;
then I shall cease sorrowing,
unless this torture be eternal.
Now I see the culmination
of my misfortune,
and I see my jealousy
in favors you grant to others.

I love you well.
Fierce punishment for my crime!
But though I try
to obligate you
you free yourself;
who would believe that all my qualities,
considered divine by some,
seem hellish to your eyes

since you flee from them.
You men always say you seek
a woman who, in this age,
is a model of constancy,
but when by chance you find one,
you treat her in such a way
that to protect her honor
she has to risk it a hundred times.
Look at your love and at mine:
you can't ask for a clearer mirror:
in it you will see that there are women
who love and who suffer.
Now I see the culmination
of my misfortune,
and I see my jealousy
in favors you grant to others.

Until now I intended to remain silent
enduring all your madness
but since willfully you publish your love
how can I, so jealous, stay silent?
Let the world know I loved you,
let the world know you killed me,
and let that tyrant who is my lord
and my love know that as well.
As for Portia, flames are small,
as for Dido, steel is slight,
worse it is to die from jealousy,
the fire that burns deep within my soul.
Now I see the culmination
of my misfortune,
and I see my jealousy
in favors you grant to others.

Ungrateful Ardenio, my power is slight
and today I think it's even less
for my suffering does not obligate you;
never by suffering did I obligate you.
I want you to have your pleasures
but to enjoy them with respect,
for you once called me your own,
either truly or in pretense.
When I look for myself in your eyes
I see in them another mistress.
Can you tell me anything
that is truer than this?
Now I see the culmination

of my misfortune,
and I see my jealousy
in favors you grant to others.

Ingrate, if all your triumphs
no longer fit within your breast,
you can have them, for all I care,
they're really poisons, not triumphs.
But you must enjoy seeing me live
my days dying for your love,
since your scorn is so extreme.
If you enjoy killing me,
then kill me quickly and end it all.
Since I live in jealousy,
why do I seek any other death?
Now I see the culmination
of my misfortune,
and I see my jealousy
in favors you grant to others.

Since don Marcos was a typical Castilian rustic and as pure as silk from China, the ballad didn't seem long to him. Indeed, he wished it had lasted longer because his simple wit wasn't like the woolly wits at court who get bored after six stanzas. He thanked Marcela profusely and would have asked her to keep on singing if, just then, Gamarra hadn't arrived with a man he said was a notary, but who looked more like a lackey than anything else. They drew up all the agreements and papers. Doña Isidora put up her house and twelve thousand ducats as dowry. Because of his simplicity, don Marcos postponed the exercise of his authority and asked for no verification. He felt immensely pleased with the dowry, and his darling wife—that's what he called her now—made him feel so loving that he danced with her.

That evening they supped with the same lavish ostentation as at lunch, in spite of don Marcos's obsession with moderation in all expenditures. As master now of the house and the estate, he thought that if they kept on living like that the dowry wouldn't last four days, but he held his tongue for a more suitable occasion.

Finally it came time to retire and, to save himself the trouble of going back to his lodgings, he wanted to stay the night with his wife. She, very modestly, said that until she'd received the blessing of the church, no man would set foot in her chaste bed, which had belonged exclusively to her late lord and master.

So don Marcos had to go home to sleep. (It would be more ac-

curate to say to stay awake, for the task of having the banns published had him up and dressed at five.) That was quickly done on three holidays, which Fortune luckily provided all in a row, so it must have been August, which brings holy days two by two. The banns were published and the wedding set for Monday, which is no worse a day for marriage than Tuesday. They held the civil wedding at the same time as they took their religious vows the way grandees do, all dressed up for the elaborate celebration and party.

Don Marcos humbled his nature and conquered his stinginess to buy a rich dress and an overskirt for his bride—on credit, so as not to diminish his six thousand ducats. He justified the expense by reasoning that it could also serve as her shroud, not because he wanted doña Isidora to die but because he thought that if she wore it only from Christmas to Christmas, it would last until Judgment Day. He invited a witness from his master's house, and everyone lauded his choice of a bride and his good fortune, thinking he'd really done well to find such an attractive women who was also rich. Although doña Isidora was older than her bridegroom, she disguised it so well that it was a delight to see the art with which she fixed herself up, despite the dictums of Aristotle and other ancient philosophers.

Late in the afternoon following the wedding dinner, they celebrated. While Inez and Augustin kept things lively with their dances, doña Isidora asked Marcela to add her lovely voice. She didn't have to be asked twice. With grace and charm, she sang:

If the dawn laughs,
she laughs at me,
the one I adore is cold,
and I die constant.

When I see the dawn
with happy laughter
warn me of my sorrows,
I sigh over my troubles
but I am not surprised
to see her laugh
or to imagine
that she laughs at me.
The one I adore is cold,
and I die constant.

She laughs to see me
with a hundred thousand griefs

my eyes like oceans
on seeing myself scorned.
While my beloved master,
thankless, sleeps,
my sad grief
dismisses all my sleep.
The one I adore is cold,
and I die constant.

She laughs because I say
I'm not in love
and so I keep the secret
of his harshness
to see if I can turn
the terrible disdain
he employs to kill me
into kinder treatment.
The one I adore is cold,
and I die constant.

She laughs because I draw apart
from the man I pursue
and I complain,
calling him my enemy,
and I seek advice
loving him in absence,
cruelly I say farewell
to the others who pursue me.
The one I adore is cold,
and I die constant.

She laughs to see my eyes
announce my disaffection,
while my constancy causes
them a thousand woes,
promising rewards
while hiding my great passion,
glancing surreptitiously
at eyes that are free.
The one I adore is cold,
and I die constant.

She laughs that I try
to hide my jealousy
and I cannot sleep,
despite my vows and oaths,
and trying not to care,

this makes me sad
because love ordains
my sad death,
loving a cold man,
dying constant.

While they were enjoying these entertainments night came, the first night of don Marcos's possession, the first night of his many misfortunes. Even before he could take possession, Fortune began to work her way. The first thing that happened was that Augustin had an attack. I don't know if it was caused by seeing his aunt married, all I know is that it upset the whole household. Doña Isidora, disconsolate, went in to undress him and put him to bed, more lovingly than was proper. She was so solicitous and amorous that she almost made her bridegroom jealous.

After don Marcos saw the sick man become somewhat calm and, while his wife was preparing for bed, he scrupulously locked the doors and drew the bolts on the windows. This extreme caution upset his dear wife's maids. It inspired more concern and worry than you can imagine because they thought it was a question of excessive jealousy when it was really simple avarice. The good man had brought with him all his clothes and the six thousand ducats that had never seen the light of day, and he wanted to go to bed assured that his treasure was safe. When at last he went to bed with his wife, the two maids, instead of going to bed, began to whisper and cry, exaggerating the cautious nature of their new master. Marcela said:

"Inez, what has Fortune brought us? We always used to go to bed at three or four after a lot of dancing and flirting by the door or at the window, with money rolling into the house the way dust rolls into other houses, and now we see the doors locked at eleven and the windows practically nailed shut and we don't dare open them!"

"No, we can't open them," Inez said, "as the Lord is my God. Our new master promises to lock everything up as tight as the legendary cave of Toledo. So, sister dear, the party's over, as the saying goes. We might as well take the veil. But this is what our mistress wanted, despite the fact that she had little need to marry. We had everything we needed, she shouldn't have done this to us. And I really don't understand why it didn't upset her to see poor don Augustin's outburst tonight. Why, it's clear to me that his fit came from seeing her married. It doesn't surprise me because he's used to a life of indulgence, to being pampered, and now suddenly he's caged in like a little

finch. Of course, I'm sure he regrets it as much as I do! If these aren't bad times, you could string me up with a silken cord."

"At least you, Inez," Marcella replied, "get to go out and do the shopping; you don't have any reason to cry. It's much worse for me. Playing the wretched chambermaid, along with all the rest of this hoax, means I have to put up with the fretting of a jealous man who thinks ants look like giants. Well, I'm going to do something about it; I'm sure I can figure out some way to keep from starving to death. A pox on you, sir don Marcos, if you think I'll play your game!"

"Well, Marcela, I'll have to bear with it," Inez said, "because, to tell you the truth, what I want more than anything is don Augustin. Until now the mistress hasn't given me a chance to say a word to him, though I do think he doesn't look on me with disfavor. From now on though, things will be different because she'll have to pay attention to her new husband."

Thus went the conversation of the two maids. The fact was that don Augustin was doña Isidora's gigolo, and he ate, dressed, and gambled at her expense under the guise of being her nephew. He enjoyed other things as well, such as the pleasant social intercourse between ladies and gentlemen that took place in her house, the dances, the games, and all the other little things of the sort. And suddenly he had to adjust to this new game of her having a husband, and his naughty habit of always sleeping in doña Isidora's company left him tossing alone and sleepless that night. The moment Inez had confessed her love for him to Marcela, she decided to go see if he needed anything, and she left Marcela preparing to go to bed. It was her good fortune that, since Augustin was so young, he felt afraid of the dark and he said to her:

"Please, Inez, come to bed with me, for I'm experiencing the greatest terror in the world and if I have to sleep alone I won't be able to shut my eyes from this dreadful fear."

Inez was exceedingly compassionate and felt such pity for him that instantly she obliged him and even rewarded him for arranging things to her liking.

The next morning, Tuesday, after all, Inez feared her mistress might get up first and catch her red-handed with her plunder, so she got up much earlier than usual and went to tell her friend Marcela all about it. Not finding Marcela in her room, she searched the house looking for her. When she got to the little back gate hidden way out behind the corral, she found it standing wide open. It appeared that Marcela

had had a date and, in order to keep it, she'd taken the key and run off with her man, thus escaping from the mess they were in. On purpose, just to annoy don Marcos, she'd left the gate wide open. When Inez saw this, she ran screaming to her mistress, which woke up the poor bridegroom.

Half dead of fright, he leapt from the bed and called out to doña Isidora to hurry and get up to see if anything was missing. He flung open the window expecting to see his wife there in the bed, but what he saw was a phantom, a deathly ghost. The good woman's face showed each and every wrinkle she had so carefully covered with makeup, successfully disguising her years, which surely were closer to fifty-five than the thirty-six she'd declared on her dowry agreement. Her hair was thin and gray from the many snowy winters she had lived through. This deficiency wasn't serious, thanks to artful arrangement and the chignons, which she sorely missed on this occasion. Much to her annoyance, they had fallen onto the pillow in her sleep. Her teeth likewise were scattered all over the bed—as the prince of poets once said "her teeth were like pearls scattered before swine." Don Marcos even had several caught in his mustache, which looked like a rooftop sprinkled with hoarfrost. They had gotten caught there because of his mustache's friendship with his wife's mouth.

How all of this affected the poor gentleman we shall leave to the imagination of our kind reader so as not to extend our tale excessively with things that are better left to the imagination. All I shall say is that doña Isidora, not accustomed to being seen so early in the morning and upset that her charms had been so brusquely exposed, grabbed her wig and jammed it on her head. She looked worse with it on than without it because in her haste she got it on askew, setting it down over her eyebrows. Oh, cursed Marcela, cause of untold misfortunes! May God never ever pardon you, amen! Finally, recovering her aplomb if not her reason, doña Isidora reached for her pettiskirt to put on so she could go look for the fugitive maid, but it wasn't there. Neither was the rich dress she had worn for her wedding, or the embroidered slippers, or any of the jewels she'd left in a tray, or the chain worth two hundred escudos she'd taken from her hoard to wear the day before to solemnize her marriage. It was all gone. The clever Marcela had not wanted to depart empty-handed.

How do you suppose don Marcos reacted to this? What words can describe it, what pen can set it down? Only one who has earned his money at great cost to his health could understand how deeply he felt

this, particularly when he couldn't even find consolation in his bride's beauty. It was enough to depress the devil himself. He looked at his wife and saw a terrible fright, he looked around and saw the loss of doña Isidora's rich clothes and the chain. In his nightshirt, he paced back and forth in the parlor in a state of shock, sighing and wringing his hands.

While he was pacing like this, doña Isidora repaired to all her magic makeup boxes in the miraculous Jordan of her dressing room. Meanwhile, Augustin got up. Inez had already gone to tell him the news and the two laughed at doña Isidora's appearance and don Marcos's stupidity and rage. Half-dressed, he came out to console his "uncle," uttering all the trite and malicious things he could invent and string together. He urged don Marcos to catch the culprit; he told him to forebear, they were only material things, and so on. Don Marcos finally came to his senses and got dressed. When doña Isidora reappeared, she looked so different that don Marcos wondered whether this was the same person and if he'd been mistaken. Don Marcos and Augustin went out together to search all of Marcela's hideouts as Inez described them.

They would have been smarter not to have gone, or at least don Marcos would have been, as I think Augustin was only playing him for a fool. As you may well imagine, Marcela was nowhere to be found. At last, they realized it was hopeless and returned home, resigned to God's will from on high and to Marcela's from here below, for there was no more they could do. Our wretched gentleman grudgingly performed his duties that day even though he felt terribly depressed; the loss of the chain really stuck in his craw.

Fortune was not yet satisfied and planned to continue her persecution of his stinginess. What happened was this: the moment they sat down to eat, two of the lord admiral's servants appeared, greeted them all, and said that their master kissed doña Isidora's hands and would she kindly return all the silver she'd had on loan for over a month. If she refused, they'd have to collect some other way. When that message was delivered to the lady, the only reply she could give was to surrender to them every piece she possessed—plates, platters, serving dishes, every thing in the house that shone, all the things that had so impressed don Marcos. He tried playing bold, saying that it all belonged to him, they had no right to carry it off, and so on. Finally one of the servants went to get the lord admiral's steward to help while the other one stayed to keep watch over the silver.

Ultimately they carried every bit of silver away. Don Marcos, blind with rage and fury, tore his hair in vain. He began saying and doing the craziest things. He complained about her deception and vowed to sue for divorce. Doña Isidora, very humbly, tried to calm him down, telling him he should thank her, not berate her. She explained that, to catch a husband like him, anything, even deception, was wise and proper and furthermore, it was unthinkable to dissolve the marriage, so he'd better learn patience.

Don Marcos had no other choice, but from that day on, they never knew a moment's peace nor did they eat another bite with pleasure. Don Augustin was present through all this. He kept very quiet and tried to make peace while continuing to eat at their expense and spending delightful nights with Inez. The two of them laughed at doña Isidora's wiles and don Marcos's misfortunes.

If Fortune had left them in peace with the misfortunes she had already wrought, don Marcos might have been content with what was left and gotten along honorably. But as soon as doña Isidora's marriage became known in Madrid, a man who rented furnishings came to collect three months' rent on the wall hangings and the living room furniture. He carried it all away, saying that a woman who'd married as well as doña Isidora no longer needed to rent and should buy furniture of her own.

This shock almost did don Marcos in. It brought him to blows with his wife. Her wig and her teeth flew every which way and she suffered no little pain. Worst of all, the insult of being abused so soon after her wedding made her cry and blame don Marcos for treating a lady like her so brutally only because of a few material possessions. Fortune gives and Fortune takes away, she said, and even if this had been a matter of honor, he punished her too severely.

Don Marcos retorted that to him money was honor. The arguing solved nothing; the owner of the furniture and the hangings carried everything off along with the money she owed for the rental, which don Marcos had to pay because his wife had given up all her customers and clients and no longer knew what color money was; indeed the only money she'd set her eyes on recently was don Marcos's hoard, which he spent sparingly, trying vainly to keep it intact.

With all the screaming and shouting going on, the owner of the house, which don Marcos believed belonged to him, came down. Doña Isidora had told him that the landlord had rented the upstairs

apartment for a year. The landlord said that if they were going to make such a racket all day long every day, they'd have to look for another house and go with God, for he wanted the place quiet.

"What do you mean, go?" don Marcos asked. "You're the one who has to go, since this is my house."

"What do you mean, your house, you idiot?" the landlord exclaimed. "You lunatic, get out of here. I swear to God, if you weren't crazy, I'd throw you out the window this very instant!"

Don Marcos became furious and his rage emboldened him. Doña Isidora had to intervene and don Augustin enlightened him with the truth. They managed to calm the landlord down by promising to vacate the next day. What could don Marcos do? He either had to shut up or go hang himself; he didn't have the will to do anything else. He was dumbstruck, grief-stricken, beside himself. He took his cape and left the house. Augustin, at his aunt's insistence, followed after trying to pacify him. The two men finally found an apartment near the palace they could move into which wasn't far from the house of don Marcos's master. They made a deposit and arranged to move the next day. Don Marcos told Augustin to go home to eat, but he couldn't go back and face that treacherous, deceitful aunt of his. The youth went home and told her everything that had happened and together the two of them planned the move.

Our miserable hero finally came home to go to bed, down at the mouth and starving to death. Night passed. The next morning, doña Isidora sent him to the new house to receive their clothing while Inez went to get a cart in which to transport everything.

The moment the simple fool had gone, the treacherous doña Isidora, her nephew, and the maid gathered up every item in the house, loaded it onto the cart, and all three fled Madrid taking the road to Barcelona. The only things they left in the house were those things they couldn't carry, things of no value, like pots and pans and such.

Don Marcos waited till close to noon. Worried by their delay, he went back to the old house. Not finding them there, he asked a neighbor when they'd left. She replied quite a while ago. Believing they'd already arrived at their new quarters, he rushed back so as not to keep them waiting. Tired and sweaty, he found that they weren't there and almost died, fearing exactly what had happened. Like a flash, he went back again to their old house and kicked open the door that they'd left locked. The moment it flew open and he entered, he saw there

was nothing there that wasn't worthless. He then realized the full extent of his misfortune. He cried, he shouted, he raced through all the rooms and banged his head against the walls, saying:

"Woe is me! All my fears have come true! What a cursed idea to arrange this blasted marriage that has cost me so dear! Where are you, you deceitful siren, you thief of all my possessions, of everything I saved up at such cost to myself so I could live a life of some ease?"

He shrieked these and similar laments so loudly that people came in from the street. Some servant who knew what had happened told him to accept the fact that they had gone far away, for the van that had carried off his clothes, his wife, her nephew, and the maid, was not a local moving cart but a highway van. He'd asked them where they were going, and they'd said they were leaving Madrid.

That was the last straw! But, as hope springs eternal even in the midst of disaster, don Marcos decided to try to find out which way the cart carrying his heart and his six thousand ducats had taken. He inquired but was able to learn nothing because the owner of the van wasn't very bright. He was just an ordinary working man from Madrid and the clever tricksters who had rented his van far outwitted him. Not knowing which road they'd taken made any attempt to follow them a dead end. Furthermore, don Marcos didn't have a red cent left. His only recourse was to take a loan, but given his indebtedness for the wedding dress and the chain for his bride, he didn't know how he was going to pay even that.

Shriveled by a thousand worries, he set out for his master's house. As he was walking down the Calle Mayor, he ran smack into the crafty Marcela. She tried to escape but couldn't. The instant don Marcos recognized her, he grabbed her. He lost all self-control.

"Now! You swindling thief!" our don Marcos shrieked, "you will give back to me every single thing you stole from me that night you ran away from my house!"

"Alas, sir," Marcela replied, in tears, "well did I know that misfortune would befall me when my mistress made me leave like that! Listen to me, for the love of God! Please don't destroy my honor! I have a good name and I'm engaged to be married and everything would be ruined if such tales were told about me when I'm really innocent. Here, let's go inside this doorway so you can hear my story, and you'll find out who has your clothes and your chain. I knew your grace would suspect me! I told my mistress so that night, but she's a mistress

and I'm just a servant. Pity those who serve, how hard it is for them to earn their bread!"

Don Marcos wasn't very bright (as I said before), so he believed her tears and followed her into the doorway of a nearby house. She told him who doña Isidora really was, about her wheeling and dealing, about her business and customers, and explained why she'd married him. All along she'd planned to deceive don Marcos exactly the way she had and at such great cost to him. Marcela told him as well that don Augustin wasn't really her nephew but her gigolo, a conniving vagabond who'd taken up with a woman of her age and profession simply to get free meals and enjoy a life of leisure. In fact, doña Isidora was the one who'd hidden the clothes and the chain to give to don Augustin just as she gave everything to him. She had ordered Marcela to leave and hide where she couldn't be found in order to cover up her own complicity, so he would think Marcela had stolen everything.

Marcela thought don Marcos was harmless, that's why she dared to tell him all that without fearing what he might do to her. Or maybe she thought that by talking she might be able to slip out of his firm grasp and escape. Or maybe she didn't think about it at all because she was "just a servant," which is most likely. At any rate, the little traitor ended her speech warning him to be careful because, when he least expected it, they planned to steal him blind. Then she repeated several times:

"I've told your grace everything I know, everything my conscience dictates, so now, if it please your grace, I am at your command. I'll do whatever you say."

"Now, friend Marcela, is a fine time for you to warn me!" don Marcos exclaimed. "Now that it's too late! That treacherous woman and that son-of-a-bitch opportunist have already run off with everything I possess."

He then recounted all that had happened since the day when she'd disappeared.

"How can that be?" Marcela asked. "Can there be greater evil? Oh, your grace, not in vain did I pity you, but I never dared say anything. The night my mistress sent me from the house, I wanted to warn your grace, knowing what was going on, but I was afraid because, when I refused to hide the chain, she beat me up verbally and physically, as God can attest."

"Well, Marcela," don Marcos went on, "I understand what you're

saying, but the awful thing is that there's nothing I can do about it now. I can't even find out where they are."

"Oh, sir, don't let that trouble you," the sly Marcela retorted, "I know a man and, I even dare to hope, God willing, that he'll soon be my husband, who can tell your grace where to find them just as if he could see them with his own two eyes, for he knows how to conjure up devils and all kinds of marvelous things."

"Oh, Marcela!" exclaimed don Marcos, "How grateful I would be! How indebted I'd be if he'd tell me where they are! Please have pity on my misfortune and see if you can arrange it."

It's in the nature of an evil person who sees a man down to help him sink even lower, just as it's in the nature of good people to be credulous. And so don Marcos believed Marcela. She'd decided to deceive and bilk him as much as she could, so with this in mind, she replied that they should go right then. The house wasn't far. While the two were walking down the street together, don Marcos ran into a fellow servant from his master's house; he borrowed four reales from the servant to give to the astrologer, intending that sum not just as a down payment but as full payment for his services. They reached Marcela's house where she lived with the man she called a magician who happened to be her current lover. Don Marcos spoke with him and they agreed on a price of one hundred and fifty reales. The magician told don Marcos to come back in a week and he would conjure up a devil to reveal where those villains were with such exactitude that don Marcos would easily find them. He warned don Marcos not to pursue the matter if he didn't have a stout heart. If he didn't have the courage to see the devil in his true form, don Marcos needed to decide in what form he did want to see the devil appear.

So powerful was don Marcos's desire to find out about his money that looking at the devil seemed as easy as pie. So he said the devil should appear in the very form he appeared in hell for, though the magician might see him cry like a woman over the loss of his money, in all other things he was very manly. With these words, don Marcos gave him the four reales he'd just borrowed and said good-bye to him and Marcela. Then he sought refuge at a friend's house, if the wretched ever have friends. Here he bewailed his sad fate.

Let's leave don Marcos at this point and go back to the enchanter (as we shall call him). In order to accomplish what he had promised and work an outlandish trick on the miser, about whom he knew everything from Marcela, the enchanter did what I'm about to describe

to you. He got a cat and shut it up in a little room like a pantry. It had only one small window about the size of a sheet of paper and as high from the ground as the height of a man. The enchanter placed a strong cord net over the window. Then, with the "cat-hole" darkened, he went inside the pantry with the cat and beat it with a whip. When he got the cat frantically wild, he removed the shade from the cat-hole. The cat took off running and leapt up to the little window. Caught by the net, it was hurled back down. He did this over and over, until finally, without even being beaten, the cat learned to head straight for the window. When all this training was done, the enchanter advised the miser that everything was prepared for that night and, when the clock struck eleven, he would reveal to don Marcos everything he desired to know.

Much against his nature, our misguided friend had managed to borrow the one hundred fifty reales which he brought to the enchanter's house and placed in his hands, urging him to make the conjuration powerful. The latter, knowing the measure of don Marcos's courage and spirit, carefully seated him in a chair right beneath the pantry window from which he had now removed the netting. It was, as we mentioned, eleven, and the only light in the room came from a small lamp in a corner.

Inside the pantry, the magician had placed the cat all covered with firecrackers and a boy who, at a certain signal, was to light them and set the cat loose. Marcela left the room as she didn't have the courage to see the apparition. Then the crafty magician donned a heavy black cape and a matching hat. To make his trick more credible, he held in one hand a book in Gothic script on parchment which looked very old. Next he drew a circle on the floor and stepped inside it. Holding a wand in his other hand, he began to read, almost whispering, in a grave and ominous tone. Every now and then he would pronounce rare and outlandish words don Marcos had never heard before. Don Marcos's eyes were big as saucers (as the saying goes). At the slightest sound he would look all around to see if the devil had appeared to tell him everything he desired to know. Next the enchanter tossed sulphur, salt, and pepper into the fire in the brazier at his side, struck the floor with his wand, and said in a loud voice:

"Come, demon Calquimorro, come, you who watch over all travelers, you who know all destinations and hideouts! Here in the presence of don Marcos you will tell us where our quarries are going and how they can be found. Appear this instant or protect yourself from

my punishment! Are you being rebellious that you refuse to obey me? I shall press you until you do my bidding."

After this conjuration, he read again from the book. Then he renewed the incense, struck the floor with his wand, and refurbished his conjuration. By this time, don Marcos was about to choke to death. When the enchanter was ready for the devil to appear, he intoned:

"Oh, you who hold the keys to the gates of hell, command Cerberus to send Calquimorro, demon of the highways, to tell us where our travelers are. If you fail to do so this instant, I shall punish you cruelly!"

At this cue, the boy who was holding the cat in the pantry lit the firecrackers and uncovered the hole. Because the cat had been trained to head for the little window, naturally it sought to escape the same way without any regard for don Marcos who, of course, was sitting in the chair directly underneath the pantry window. All aflame, roaring and howling, racing and tearing about, on its way to freedom, the cat bounded through the opening and landed right on don Marcos's head, scorching his whiskers, his hair, and even his face. Don Marcos thought he'd seen not one devil but all the devils in hell. He shrieked and fell to the floor in a dead faint, without ever hearing the voice that said:

"You will find them in Granada."

The cat's howling, don Marcos's shriek, and the sight of a flaming cat streaking down the street brought people running, including the police. This crowd came to the door, burst in, and found Marcela and her lover desperately throwing water on don Marcos, in an effort to revive him, but he didn't move till the next morning. The constable made inquiries into the case. Even though Marcela and her lover explained the whole trick, he was not satisfied. Because don Marcos had no place to stay, the constable made the enchanter put the unconscious man in his own bed and two guards were stationed in the house with Marcela and the half-dead don Marcos. The magician and his helper, who was found in the pantry, were handcuffed and carried off to jail. The magician was charged with murdering a man in his own house. The next morning a report on the case was given to the justice of the peace. He ordered the two prisoners brought before him and sent for Marcela to find out whether the man had recovered or died.

By this time, don Marcos had, in fact, returned to his senses. Marcela described the whole trick to him and he realized he was the world's biggest fool. The constable brought them both to court. When

don Marcos was interrogated by the officials about the details of the case, he told the truth as best he knew it. He recounted the whole story of his marriage and how the girl Marcela had taken him to her house promising that the enchanter would tell him the whereabouts of the scoundrels who had run off with all his possessions. That's all he knew because, after the elaborate conjurations of the magician reading from the great book, such a terrible ugly demon had emerged from a black hole and come at him roaring horrifically, and his soul hadn't been strong enough to hear whatever it had said. It had rushed straight at him and scorched him, as they could see. He could remember nothing more after that because his heart had failed and he hadn't recovered his senses till that morning.

This account astounded the law officers. The enchanter disenchanted them by explaining how the whole trick worked, as we have already described. Marcela and the boy corroborated his explanation and the police brought in the dead cat from the street, where it had fallen, burned to a crisp. They also brought in two or three books from the enchanter's house and asked don Marcos if he recognized the book of conjurations. He picked one out and handed it to them. They opened it and saw that it was the popular novel Amadis of Gaul . Because the book was old and printed in Gothic script, it had passed for a book of spells. After they heard the whole case, they laughed so hard that the hall didn't become quiet for a long time. Don Marcos felt so ashamed that he wished a thousand times he could kill the enchanter and then himself. The judges warned him not to be so credulous, not to let himself be so easily fooled. Then the case was dismissed. Don Marcos felt so miserable that he didn't even look like the same man. He sighed, so deeply did he sigh that he seemed almost crazy. His grief was so profound that everyone who saw him felt sorry for him.

He returned to his master's house where he encountered a mailman looking for him to deliver a letter, for which he had to pay a real. He opened it and it read:

To Mister Miser Marcos:

Hail! Any man who doesn't eat and robs his body of its nourishment to save money, who marries for money without even ascertaining that his bride really has money, well deserves the punishment your grace has received, a punishment that has been storing up for you a long, long, time. Your grace, never eat except at others' expense, never pay your servants, scrimp on half a pound of beef, bread, two coppers for the lad who helps you, cleans for you,

and empties the battered chamber pot in which you do your duty. Save up another six thousand ducats and contact me immediately. Then, lovingly, I'll come back to you and be your wife, as such a parsimonious husband certainly deserves.
Doña Isidora the Vengeful

This letter put Marcos into such a fit that it brought on a high fever.^[*] [Everyone who saw him believed that his end had come. He was like that until eight that evening. Then he took his cape and left his friend's house, heading toward the famous Colegio de Santa Maria de Aragon. Because it was summer, the sun was still pursuing its course toward the Indian beaches. As the sun gradually withdrew its light from the earth, the moon, which was waxing, went filling the corners deprived of sunlight with her silvery rays. The despairing don Marcos was walking down the highway toward the new bridge when he ran into a man he recognized as Gamarra, the very one who had drawn up the contracts for that black marriage. Gamarra spoke first:

"What are you doing, don Marcos, in these parts at this hour?"

"What do you think a man as unfortunate as I am would do here," he answered, "except hang himself from one of these trees. That's how I'll end my misfortunes. Oh, Mr. Gamarra, what a disastrous marriage mine was! How I wish all the ill I've suffered would befall you and make you as miserable as I am! I give you my word, this place is perfect, and if I were wearing my sword, I'd take vengeance for the terrible deception your grace perpetrated on me in marrying me to that treacherous woman!"

"I heard about that," Gamarra replied, "about what happened to you and, I swear, your misfortune touched my soul! If this weren't such a bad time for me, I'd avenge your affront with my own hands and save you the trouble. But I'm suffering the greatest grief a man can suffer. I left home intending to hang myself. I decided to die at my own hand rather than on the public gallows."

"That same worthy intention, friend Gamarra," don Marcos said, "has brought me here. I feel so ashamed to face people that I no longer care about my life or my soul. I can't believe there's another more unfortunate than I, so you must tell me what's happened. Then together, as good friends, we can dispose our lives and our deaths."

"What more do you want to know?" Gamarra replied. "If I don't

The bracketed material that follows comes from the first Spanish edition (Zaragoza, 1637); it was omitted in all subsequent editions.

kill myself here and now, tomorrow I'll be hanged in Madrid's main square. This is how it came about: I work as a servant to the duke of Osuna and he has great confidence in me. He had so much confidence that he entrusted me with some jewels he intended to present to a lady. While I happened to be carrying them, I went to a gambling house and began to gamble. Things always go from bad to worse when you play with another person's money so, in short, I lost everything. When I realized I'd lost more than a thousand ducats, I almost went crazy and began to despair.

"A friend of mine, who's wardrober for the duke, asked me what was wrong and I told him my misfortune. Moved by my plight, he handed me the keys to the wardrobe and told me to go in and take whatever I wanted. He'd keep watch. I thanked him for the great favor and did just that. I took some silk tapestries, some gold, and a few other things to make up the price of my loss. As I was leaving, the chief steward came upon me and, seeing me so laden, he grabbed me. Realizing it was vital for me to get away, I fled and left him holding the goods, the keys, and my life in his hands. When I left home, they'd taken the wardrober prisoner. If they press him, he'll tell the truth, and I'll face the death penalty. Fearing that, I got this rope and came out here where a tree, and now you, will witness my unhappy end instead of all the eyes in Madrid. If you've come with the same intention, there are plenty of trees and ample rope for the two of us."

As he said these words, he drew the rope from his purse. Don Marcos thanked him for his generosity and asked him to make their nooses. He did this swiftly and with ease, placing them in two trees right next to each other.

The entire conversation had been overheard by a man who was relaxing under a tree, resting from having gone down to the river and back. While he could see don Marcos talking and hear the answers, he couldn't see the other man. This so upset him that he scarcely dared breathe. Then he saw that poor desperate man place the noose around his neck and leap from the branch where he'd climbed. At that very moment he heard a great roaring sound, which made him take off up the hill running faster than the eagle flies. He never stopped till he got to the mayor's house. Once in the mayor's presence, he described everything he'd witnessed: how a man had hanged himself and maybe another one, too, from what he'd heard them say, although he'd seen only one of the men.

He went on to recount the conversation. The other man was named

Gamarra, who said he was the duke of Osuna's servant, and the witness described how the wardrober had been taken prisoner. The mayor and all the men he could muster accompanied the witness back to the place. Because the moon was setting, they brought along lights. They found the wretched don Marcos hanging from a tree and discovered a noose hanging from the next one, but it was empty. Feeling great pity for his soul, they took don Marcos down and carried him back to the jail. There they left him and held the man who'd reported the case until morning.

They investigated to learn the identity of the dead man, which was easy because they found papers in his purse including doña Isidora's letter, and someone recognized him as a servant from his master's house. They went to the duke of Osuna's house to find out about the man named Gamarra, but they'd never heard of him. They found not a trace of any such man. None of his tale proved true: his being the duke's servant, losing the jewels, the jailing of the wardrober.

Based on the testimony of the man who'd heard the conversation and saw no one, they decided that the other man must have been the devil who'd come with those lies to drive don Marcos to despair and, it appeared, he had succeeded.

They gave full account to don Marcos's master, and he arranged the funeral. He got permission for him to be buried in holy ground, giving as excuse that his despair had driven him crazy. Such is the vanity of the world that it honors the body of a man even though the poor wretch's soul was probably burning in hell. His master also commanded that this story be written down, together with what happened to doña Isidora, and so it has come into my hands.]^[*] Within several days he died a totally miserable man.

In Barcelona, while doña Isidora was waiting for the boat to take the threesome to Naples, one night don Augustin and his darling Inez left her asleep and absconded with the six thousand ducats and everything else she possessed; they boarded the boat for Naples without her. Upon their arrival, he enlisted as a soldier and the beautiful Inez, now on her own, became a courtesan. That's how she supported her don Augustin with rich gifts and all kinds of finery.

Doña Isidora returned to Madrid. She gave up her wigs and her elegant costumes and now she begs alms. She herself told me this enchantment and I decided to write it down so that misers can see

The first edition variation ends here.

what a bad end this one had. Maybe they can learn a lesson from another's experience and not make the same mistakes.

Everyone had listened to don Alvaro's enchantment and heard about don Marcos's bad end with relish. As don Alonso was changing places with don Alvaro and preparing to tell his enchantment, don Juan signaled to the musicians, who sang the following ballad:

    Anton visits Menga
even in her house;
by my faith, if this offends Gila
there is good reason why.
He anticipates her complaints,
a very suspicious sign,
for the one who makes complaints
is trying to forestall them.
In feeling offended,
she has more than cause,
for such an affront kills;
and one will never see,
lads, a woman spurned
who is pleasant, but believe me
conversation and pleasure
are marks of true love.
Disregarding all the signals
means something, and now you see
that talking together today
is fruit of yesterday's effort.
Insincere in their courtesy,
men know all the ways
of belying their falsity
by using extreme courtesy.
There is no fear, only blunders,
but Menga seeks him out,
just the two alone, and she beautiful;
who knows if this is a blunder.
If forbidding him to see her
is to risk losing Anton, let me say
that such a finicky love
is close to collapse.
People call jealousy foolish,
surely they've never experienced it;
the jealous man errs only
in his scruples and suspicions.
Anton will enjoy these delights

only with Gila;
a shaky reputation strays
the scales from balance.
Oh, how well men know how
to offend with their excuses,
but, since love reveals all,
long live love, amen!

I wonder if don Juan, at the risk of Lisarda's annoyance but fearful of Lysis's indignation, sought in this second ballad to make up for his affront to Lysis in the previous one? As Lisarda had gloried in the first ballad she felt offended by this one. She showed her displeasure in a charming frown at don Juan which delighted the inconstant lover. If he hadn't been a flirt, he would have treated Lisarda's affection more gently and discreetly and not so insensitively. Don Juan took pride in being Lisarda's suitor and in rejecting Lysis.

Lysis, however, had grown tired of struggling with his deceptions and disappointments. She decided that as soon as all the parties were over, for she didn't want to spoil her friends' enjoyment of the celebrations, she'd tell don Juan not to come to her house any more, as his visits only added insult to injury. Besides, he spent most of his time at Lisarda's apartment, morning and evening, day and night. Furthermore, if don Diego wanted to become her husband, she would close her eyes to all other adventures.

Don Diego felt exactly the same way. He could hardly wait for the parties to end so he could begin to court Lysis. Don Juan (for very different reasons) was thinking the same thoughts. He felt aggrieved that his friend don Diego had set his sights on Lysis knowing that she had been the object of his attention, albeit now of his inattention. With all these different thoughts, the four preoccupied lovers turned their full attention to don Alonso, who began his enchantment like this:

"Illustrious audience, it usually happens that the most anxious, the most compulsive person falls exactly into the trap he fears most, as you shall see in my enchantment. A man shouldn't rely solely on his own judgment, let alone dare to test a woman. He should watch out for himself and take each woman for herself and accept her as she is. In the final analysis, an intelligent woman is no dish for a foolish man, nor is a foolish woman right for an intelligent man, and as proof of this, I shall tell my tale":

Forewarned but Not Forearmed

Don Fadrique was a son of the illustrious city of Granada, a marvelous wonder among all the splendors of Andalucia. It would not be proper to mention his name and lineage because of his many noble relatives who still live there today. We shall content ourselves with saying that his handsome appearance was matched by his nobility and wealth. Because of these superlative qualities, he enjoyed renown as the "rich and gallant don Fadrique" not only in his birthplace but everywhere he went. He was very young when his parents died; despite this loss, he conducted himself with such great moderation that people marveled at this degree of discretion in so tender a youth.

As if to prove the old saying that lads without love are like dancers without music or gamblers without money, one day he turned his attention toward an elegant, beautiful woman from the same city. Her name was Serafina and, although she was not as wealthy as don Fadrique, her beauty was indeed angelic. He fell passionately in love with her, but she disdainfully rejected him because she was already infatuated with another gentleman from their city. (It's truly a shame that a man of don Fadrique's qualities should fall in love with a woman who has already given herself to another.) Don Fadrique was not unaware of Serafina's other love but he believed he could overcome all obstacles with his wealth, especially as her suitor was not from one

of Granada's richest or noblest families. Don Fadrique felt sure that the moment he asked Serafina's parents for her hand in marriage, she would be his.

But that's not how Serafina felt. She thought that getting married required exchanging letters and flirting the way characters do in those romantic tales that thrill the heart and enchant the soul. And don Fadrique wanted to win Serafina's affection before asking her parents' consent. Since desire is the basis of love, he believed he could win her for himself because his own desire was so great in spite of the fact that he saw his rival favored. She seemed so modest and virtuous, it never occurred to him that her desire might have led her to exceed the bounds of propriety.

With high hopes, he began to pay court to Serafina and to her maids as well; she showed him more favor than previously because, although she loved don Vicente—that was his rival's name—she didn't want don Fadrique to spurn her. Because her maids encouraged his hopes, our lover thought he'd been right in thinking he could win out over her other suitor, and he was happy with this hope. One night when the maids had promised him to bring their lady out to her balcony, he sang this sonnet to the tones of his lute:

      Oh tyrant! Let me die for your eyes
and may your eyes enjoy their slaughter;
may you then console me with your eyes,
may your eyes cause me a thousand woes.

      Let me surrender my eyes to yours
as a prize, while they, instead of loving me
or cheering me in my sorrows,
turn all my flowers into thorns.

      May your eyes kill me with scorn,
cold harshness, rejection,
while my eyes die for yours.

      Alas, thankless one! In your eyes I see
as much ingratitude as beauty
aimed at the eyes that love your eyes.

Everyone who heard the song thanked don Fadrique and praised his music and the grace and ability with which he sang. But we cannot swear that Serafina was at her window. From that night on she denied don Fadrique even a glimpse of herself. Despite his insistent efforts,

he didn't set eyes on her for days, nor could he elicit any answer to the letters he sent. To his inquiries and pleading, her servants said only that Serafina had become terribly melancholy, that she didn't enjoy even an hour of peace. Don Fadrique suspected that the cause of her illness was that she had been disappointed in her hope of marrying don Vicente. Don Fadrique no longer saw him frequent her street the way he'd done in the past, so he concluded that don Vicente had desisted because of his own courtship. Confident that with his good looks and his wealth he could make up for her sorrows and her lost happiness, don Fadrique felt personally obliged to restore the pleasure he had caused his lady to lose: he asked her parents for her hand in marriage.

Her parents saw the heavens open, as the saying goes, and not only did they say yes, they expressed their infinite appreciation and even offered to be his slaves. They then informed their daughter of this arrangement and she, being discreet, led them to think that she was very pleased and willing to accede to their wishes when her health would permit. She asked them to put don Fadrique off for a while until she felt better, and then she would do as they commanded.

The lady's parents considered this answer sufficient and it satisfied don Fadrique. He did beg his future parents-in-law (which is how he now considered them) to pamper his future wife and take special care of her so she'd recover her health as soon as possible. To show the great love he felt for her, he would do his part by sending her presents and by spending time in her street even more assiduously than before. Despite the fact that his rival's recent neglect had somewhat calmed his fears, he did still feel jealous of don Vicente.

Occasionally Serafina would come to her window to encourage her lover's hopes with a glimpse of her beauty. Her lack of color and her mournful expression clearly revealed the illness that made her keep to her bed. Even though she was confined to bed, he would occasionally visit her because he already considered himself her husband. Of course her mother and her maids were always present to restrain any liberties he might have taken. Several months passed like this and finally don Fadrique began to despair because of Serafina's illness. He decided to marry her whether she was ill or well.

One night he was standing on the corner keeping watch over the walls that housed his beautiful mistress and pondering his suspicions as he had on so many other nights. Some time after two o'clock he saw the front door of her house open and out came a woman who,

in her figure and bearing, seemed to be Serafina. He was astounded. Half dead of jealousy, he moved closer until he recognized her clearly. Suspecting that she was going to a rendezvous with his rival, he followed her. He watched her enter a vacant lot where the house had fallen down and now wood was stacked. Because the outside walls had all fallen in and there weren't any gates or doors, it was used by those who wanted to hide some amorous mischief.

Serafina ducked into the dark space. Certain that don Vicente must be inside, don Fadrique became enraged to the point of violence: such behavior required a just and honorable vengeance. He circled around to the back and entered the lot. He saw that his lady had gone down into a little tumbledown room. There she struggled to stifle her moans and she cried out to God and all His saints to help her. These cries undeceived her lover with regard to any and all doubts he may have had: Serafina gave birth to a baby. As soon as she saw herself free of her burden, she gathered up her skirts and returned home, abandoning the little creature to its fate.

But heaven, much to the detriment of Serafina's good name and don Fadrique's love for her, had arranged it so that at least the child wouldn't die unbaptized. Don Fadrique went over to where the baby lay crying on the ground. He picked it up and wrapped it in his cape, all the while crossing himself. He now realized that this was the cause of Serafina's illness and that the father was don Vicente, who'd disappeared because of her pregnancy. He thanked God over and over for miraculously saving him from the misfortune of marrying Serafina. He carried the little creature to a midwife's house and asked her to take care of the baby and find a wet nurse for it as soon as possible, for it was very important that the baby live.

When don Fadrique and the midwife examined the baby carefully they saw that it was a beautiful little girl; she seemed more like an angel from heaven than a human baby. The midwife followed all his instructions. She found a nurse and the next day don Fadrique spoke with a relative of his and asked her to bring up Gracia—this was the name they gave the baby when she was baptized—in her own home.

For now we shall let her grow up and deal with her when the right time comes, as she's the most important person in this story. Let's return to Serafina who, within two weeks recovered entirely from her illness and, with all her former beauty restored, told her parents that whenever they liked they could celebrate her marriage to don Fadrique. In the meantime, he, having learned a frightening lesson from

this experience, went to the house of the relative who was caring for Gracia. He told her that, since he was young, he felt a great desire to visit other parts of Spain, travel that would take several years. Therefore he wanted to leave her the authority to administer his estate as she thought best. His only request was that she take good care of Gracia, treating her as if she were his own child, because she held a great secret. If God preserved her life until she was three, then he entreated her to place the child in a convent where she would grow up innocent of the ways of the world, for he had certain plans that he would reveal in due time.

After making these arrangements, don Fadrique packed all his belongings and had them taken to his aunt's house. He gathered up a large amount of money and many jewels and, accompanied by his servant, he set out on horseback for the rich, noble city of Seville. Before departing, he wrote a sonnet and sent it to Serafina.

Serafina received his letter, which read:

      If, when you could have made me your equal,
oh thankless one, you treated me coldly,
and tried, through harshness,
to show what little love you had for me;

      if, deceitfully you withheld from me
the sight of your glorious beauty
and on every occasion you showed me
the mountain of snow in your cold heart;

      now, when you have lost your power,
why do you seek a flame among the embers?
Let things be and have pity on my youth.

      You offer me the impossible: you are false.
You err in trying to revive the flame
because, to your misfortune, I have seen the light.

This mysterious message frightened Serafina terribly because she'd tried in vain to find out what had become of the baby she'd abandoned in the empty lot. Don Fadrique's sudden change of heart confirmed her myriad fears. His hasty departure also worried her parents, who feared it was based on something untoward. Given that Serafina felt an inclination to become a nun, they supported her in that desire and she entered a convent, still feeling very troubled and worried about what had taken place. She was haunted by the nightmare of the aban-

doned baby, for, if it had died or the dogs had eaten it, her conscience would have to bear that crime. These fears motivated her to try, through penitence and a devout life, not only to achieve forgiveness for her sin, but even to live the life of a saint, and that's how she came to be considered in Granada.

Don Fadrique went to Seville feeling so embittered by the lesson of Serafina that, because of her, he railed against all women without exception. His generalizations go entirely contrary to the real nature of women because there are a hundred good women for each bad one; not all women are bad, and it isn't right to confuse the good with the bad and blame them all. Nevertheless, he asserted that you can't trust women; above all you can't trust a clever woman because, if she's clever and intelligent, she'll become mischievous and wicked and use all her wiles to deceive men. A woman should tend to her sewing and her prayers, keep her house and care for her children; everything else is idle artifice that only brings about a woman's ruination more quickly.

Firm in these convictions, he came to Seville, as I said, and went to stay with a relative of his, a very prominent, wealthy, and important personage. He planned to stay several months to enjoy the many wonders for which this city is famous. One day when he was out walking down one of the main streets with his relative, he saw a lady in widow's weeds descend from a coach in front of a magnificent house. He thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Not only beautiful, she was also young and had an elegant figure. His relative informed him that she was wealthy and very noble; she was from one of the best and most illustrious families of Seville. Although don Fadrique had been badly burned by his experience with Serafina, it wasn't enough to keep him from being captivated by the beauty of doña Beatrice, as the beautiful widow was called.

When don Fadrique passed her on the street, there he left his heart. As he didn't want to lose it forever, he asked his companion to walk by the house one more time. At this, don Mateo (for this was his name) said:

"I think, don Fadrique, my friend, that you may not leave Seville so soon; you seem love-stricken. By my faith, the sight of that lady has affected you!"

"You're right," don Fadrique replied. "I'd spend my whole life here if I thought I could be hers."

"If that's your intention . . ," Mateo responded, "but let me warn

you, this lady's position, nobility, and virtue admit nothing but marriage, even if her suitor were the king himself. For four years she was married to a gentleman in every way her equal, and she's been widowed for two years. She's twenty-four. When she was a maiden, not a soul piqued her interest; after she married, nobody even caught a glimpse of her; as a widow, no one has captured her attention. She's had more suitors than hairs on her head, all wanting to win her love and marry her. But, if your love is as you say and you want me to recommend your many fine qualities to her, I will, and it may so happen that you'll be chosen, for you're not lacking in the qualities she might want in a husband. She's related to my wife, so I have occasion to visit her. Now I'm sure I'll be successful for, look, she's come out on her balcony. It's no small favor that she responds to your interest instead of shutting her door in our faces."

"Oh my friend!" exclaimed don Fadrique. "How can I, a stranger, dare to court a woman who has rejected so many gentlemen from Seville? But if I'm to die of love, it's better that I die from her scorn and rejection than without her even knowing of my love. Speak with her, friend, and tell her of my nobility, my wealth; tell her I'm dying of love for her."

The two continued down the street again and, as they passed her, they made a respectful bow. (Upon descending from the coach, the beautiful doña Beatrice had noticed the attention with which don Fadrique looked at her.) She knew the man accompanied by don Mateo was a stranger and he seemed very enamored. Quickly she removed her cloak and went to the window. She observed that while the two men talked they kept looking at her so, when they greeted her with such courtesy, she made a bow no less ceremonious.

They walked on by her house, delighted to have seen her so amenable. They agreed that don Mateo should speak with her the very next day to try to arrange their marriage. Don Fadrique was so in love that he wished he'd do it that very instant. The night didn't pass quickly enough for the enamored gentleman, and the next morning he pressed his friend to hurry and find out the life-or-death news that awaited him, which don Mateo did.

He spoke with doña Beatrice and praised her suitor's many fine qualities. The lady replied that she greatly appreciated the attention he accorded her as well as his friend's desire to honor her with the offer of his person in marriage, but, she said, the day she buried her husband she'd made a vow not to marry for at least three years to

show the respect that her love owed his memory. That's why she harshly dismissed everyone who approached her on this subject, she didn't want any commitments. But, if this gentleman wished to wait out the year that remained, she would give him her word that no one else would become her husband because, if she were to tell the truth, his unaffected appearance and all the qualities don Mateo described had pleased her greatly. She wanted someone just like him to become her master, a man without pretense, modest, and in no way pompous. Don Mateo went back to his friend very happy with this answer, thinking he hadn't negotiated badly.

With every passing hour, don Fadrique was falling more and more in love. Although the idea of having to wait such a long time disappointed his imagination, he decided to spend the whole year in Seville. He considered the lovely widow a worthy reward if he could indeed manage to win her. Since he had a lot of money, he fixed up an apartment in his relative's house and hired servants and began to live in gracious style in order to quicken his lady's interest. Occasionally, in don Mateo's company, he would visit her. She wouldn't grant him such favor otherwise. He tried to send gifts, but they weren't accepted; she wouldn't accept even a pin. The only favor she granted him was to appear on her balcony when informed he was in the street. She did this at her maids' request (the gentleman from Granada had won their loyalty because, what their mistress refused to accept, they accepted eagerly, and so aided him in his courtship). Her presence would light up the whole world with the splendor of her eyes. Sometimes in the evenings she would join her servants while they listened to don Fadrique sing, which, as I said, he did very well.

One night he serenaded her as usual but that evening doña Beatrice didn't come out onto her balcony. She was angry because she'd seen him speak to another lady in church. He sang the following ballad, which he himself had composed:

   Like the tall tower of Babel,
Nimrod's construction
which was meant to reach heaven
but instead tumbled into the abyss,
that's how my hopes appear:
I'd hoped their
yearnings would reach
the heaven of my love.
But, since their foundation
was rascally Cupid,

who doesn't deserve to be
worshipped as a god,
like a little child, in the end,
he changed his fickle nature
and became blind to the quality
of my undying love.
Oh, ill-fated love,
plummeting down like Phaeton,
how did you hope to drive
the chariot of the sun?
Hopes shattered and dashed,
withered like a flower,
happy times now transformed
into sorrowful times.
Bold imagination,
where did you think you'd go
if your wings were made of wax
and under the sign of Leo the lion?
Affection, you thought
you'd be given a helping hand;
but trusting in that,
your trust was in vain.
Today my sun has not appeared
on her eastern balcony;
she has shrouded behind clouds
the light of her perfection.
Love sells his pleasures dear
and, when he grants pleasures,
they bear a high price,
for they're only leased and then withdrawn,
which is a great misfortune.
Child god, blind as a lynx,
may you burn up in my fire:
but no, let love pardon my offense
as humbly I kiss your feet.

The favor don Fadrique received that night was hearing doña Beatrice tell her servants it was time to retire, thereby letting him know that she'd heard his song. This made him happier than if he ruled the universe.

Our lover spent over six months like this, without ever receiving permission from doña Beatrice to visit her alone. Her extreme modesty so inflamed him that he could scarcely rest. One night, when, as on every other night, he was in his lady's street, he noticed the door standing open. Hoping to look upon her beauty from closer up, he very cautiously ventured to enter her house. It worked out so well

that he got all the way to her apartment without being detected. From the doorway in the hall he could see her sitting on her bench surrounded by maids keeping her company. When she gave signs of wanting to prepare for bed, the servants asked her to sing a little, almost as if they were in a league with don Fadrique and knew he was watching. Doña Beatrice demurred saying she wasn't in the mood, she was feeling melancholy. One of the maids, who had more spirit than the others, got up and went into the next room to fetch a harp. She said:

"Heavens, my lady, if you're melancholy, this is the best relief. Sing just a little and you'll see how much better you feel; it will cheer you up."

As she said this she placed the harp before her mistress. To please her maids, doña Beatrice sang this song:

When the dawn shows
her happy smile,
when, cheerfully, she removes
the dark curtain
from her eastern balcony
so the day may enter,
when she looses her
beautiful rich tresses
and scatters pearls
across full bloomed carnations,
when the countryside
pours forth happiness,
jealous Marfisa laments
the absence of Albano.

When happily dawn readies
the lavish chariot
for Phoebus, who comes
from the Indian shore,
when among clear
crystalline springs
that murmur of deception
and distill pearly drops,
when to the gurgling of the spring,
the nymphs sing, then
jealous Marfisa laments
the absence of Albano.

When among carnations
dawn paints her eyes
with their clear dewdrops

of silvery decoration,
when with resonant lyres
the birds sing
their welcome to Phoebus
at the splendid sight of him,
when across the mountains
a thousand delights are seen,
jealous Marfisa laments
the absence of Albano.

That lass used to be
the marvel of the village,
death to all eyes,
and a living death,
fierce basilisk,
cause of misfortune
because her scorn
was like poison.
They said her charm
was like salt; now
jealous Marfisa laments
the absence of Albano.

Her pride surrendered
to the attractions
of an ungrateful peasant lad
who, far away, thinks not of her.
When he happily
turns to a new mistress,
and defends her beauty.
and praises her splendor,
and conquers her beauty,
and aspires to glory,
jealous Marfisa laments
the absence of Albano.

When she ended, doña Beatrice set aside the harp and asked her maids to help her undress for bed. (Her voice, the sweetness and charm of the music had bewitched don Fadrique.) The poem apparently meant nothing personal because often a poet writes what he wants to please the musician. Still absorbed, he stayed there in the darkness. When he realized that Beatrice had retired, he went downstairs to leave the house, but he couldn't. The coachman, who had a little room next to the front door, had locked up and retired when he saw that no one else would be entering or leaving that night.

Don Fadrique was quite upset but there was nothing he could do so he sat down on a bench to wait for morning. Of course he could have called to have them open for him, but he didn't want to give cause for the servants to gossip or risk any danger to doña Beatrice's honor. So he concealed himself there in the entrance to wait until the coachman opened in the morning.

He must have been there about two hours when he heard the door to his lady's room open. From where he was sitting, he could see the stairs and the hall, so he tried to focus on where the sound had come from. He saw doña Beatrice emerge from her room, very surprising since he assumed she was sound asleep. Over her nightgown she was wearing a petticoat of red silk embroidered with silver trimming that sparkled like stars. The only other garment she had on was a mantilla of the same silk lined in blue plush, thrown on with such negligence that you could see the whiteness of her nightgown and its silvery handwork—an art for which Seville was famous. Her golden hair was caught in a blue and silver silk net, although a few loose strands curled down to frame the beauty of her face. Around her throat, she wore two heavy strings of pearls, matched by the pearls she wore on both slender wrists. Their whiteness was visible because the sleeves of her gown were open like the sleeves of a monk's robe.

The gentlemen from Granada didn't miss a single detail because, in one of her white, white hands, doña Beatrice was carrying a wax candle set in a silver candlestick. By the light of the candle, he could contemplate her angelic face. He would have considered himself most fortunate if he were the person she was coming out to meet. In her other hand, she carried a silver salver with several dishes of conserves, some biscuits, and a small carafe of wine, covered by a white napkin whose rich embroidery and lace made a lovely sight.

"Heavens above!" don Fadrique exclaimed to himself, watching her emerge from her room and descend the stairs. "I wonder who the fortunate soul is who'll be served by such a beautiful butler. I'd give everything I possess to be that person!"

He thought this just as she reached the bottom of the stairs. He realized that she was heading straight for him, so he slipped back toward the stables and went inside, hoping to hide more safely. When he saw doña Beatrice heading for the same place, he hid behind one of the coach horses. The lady entered that filthy place so unsuitable to her beauty. Without even glancing toward don Fadrique, crouched behind the horse, she approached a little room at the back of the

stable. Don Fadrique thought some sick servant must have inspired her piety and charity in performing this act, although it was really more appropriate for one of her maids than for their mistress. Attributing it to her devout humility and religiosity, he wanted to see where it would end, so he came out from behind the horse and found a place from which he could observe what went on in the little room that was scarcely large enough for a bed.

Great was don Fadrique's forbearance on this occasion. As soon as he drew close and beheld what was taking place in that room, he found his lady in such a terrible situation that I don't know how he endured it! Inside the little room I've described, lying in the bed, was a negro so black that his face seemed made of black silk. Although he looked to be about twenty-eight or thirty, his aspect was hideous, abominable. Don Fadrique thought the devil himself couldn't have looked more awful, though it's hard to tell whether this was true or simply the result of don Fadrique's sense of outrage. The negro's arched chest gave him a grotesque appearance, and his emaciated face indicated that he would die before long.

As doña Beatrice entered, she placed the candle and the other things on a little table beside the bed. She sat down on the edge of the bed and began to smooth the covers. Her great beauty made her look like an angel ministering to a fierce devil. She placed one of her exquisite hands on his forehead and began to speak in a tender, mournful tone:

"How are you feeling, Antonio? My love, won't you speak to me? Listen, open your eyes, look, your Beatrice is here. Come, dear, have a taste of these conserves. Take heart if you love me, and do as I say, or do you want me to join you in death as I have loved you in life? Don't you hear, my darling? Won't you answer or even look at me?"

While she said these words, she shed pearly tears. She leaned her lovely face close to the devilish black face. Don Fadrique, who was watching all this, felt closer to death than the negro. He didn't know what to say or do. Several times he almost revealed his presence, but then, when he thought about it, he realized the best thing was just to get out of it all. While he was vacillating, the negro opened his eyes and looked up at his mistress. With both hands he pushed away that face so close to his own and said in a weak voice:

"What do you want of me, madam? Leave me alone, for the love of God! How can you pursue me even as I lie dying? Isn't it enough that your lasciviousness has brought me to this end? Even now you want me to satisfy your vicious appetites when I am breathing my

last? Get yourself a husband, madam, marry, and leave me in peace. I never want to see you again! I won't touch the food you bring me; I want only to die, that's all I'm good for now."

When he finished speaking, he turned his back to her, refusing to respond no matter how lovingly and tenderly she addressed him. Maybe he'd already died or maybe he just refused to heed her tears and her pleading. Doña Beatrice finally tired of trying and returned to her room, the saddest, most tearful woman in the world.

Don Fadrique waited until the front door was opened and, the moment he saw it clear, he fled from that house. He felt confusion and disgust to the same degree as previously he had felt delight and glory. The moment he got home, he went straight to bed without saying a word to his friend. Later that afternoon he went out to survey the virtuous widow's street to see if anything was happening. He got there just in time to see them bring the negro out for burial.

He went back home, always keeping this terrible secret to himself. For three or four days he walked her street, no longer inspired by his love, but simply trying to learn more about what he still couldn't believe despite the fact that he'd seen it with his own eyes. He never did catch sight of doña Beatrice; she remained withdrawn and grief-stricken over the death of her black lover.

Then one day after dinner while he was chatting with his friend, one of doña Beatrice's maids entered. Very happy to see him, she courteously placed a letter in his hands. It read:

Where there is love, there is little need for intermediaries. I am grateful for your attentions and satisfied with your love, so I've decided not to wait out the rest of the year to grant you the well-earned possession of my person and my property. We can celebrate our marriage whenever it pleases you, under any conditions you determine. Your worthiness and my love for you have brought me to this decision. May God keep you.
Doña Beatrice

Don Fadrique read the letter over three or four times and still he couldn't believe it. In his mind, he kept going over and over that dreadful scene. Deep down he felt amazed by what had happened to him. Twice he'd been on the verge of falling into grievous error, and twice heaven had revealed momentous secrets to him just in the nick of time. He understood clearly that doña Beatrice's new determination had been caused by the loss of her black lover. He made up his mind to do the honorable thing. Telling the maid to wait, he went into the next room, called in his friend, and said succinctly:

"My friend, it's important to my life and to my honor that I leave Seville within the hour. No one shall accompany me except the servant I brought with me from Granada. After my departure, you are to sell the clothing I leave here and with the money you get from the sale, you can pay the other servants. The why and wherefore I cannot tell you because others' reputations and honor are at stake. When I settle down, I'll write to you. This is very serious, so don't ask anything or even comment. While I write a letter, please have two mules prepared for me and, beyond that, don't try to learn more for the present."

He then wrote a letter to doña Beatrice and gave it to the maid to take to her mistress. The mules were brought around and he left Seville, headed for Madrid, repeating his former diatribes against clever women who, trusting in their ingenuity, seek to deceive men.

Let's leave him for a while and return to doña Beatrice. She received the letter, opened it, and read as follows:

The love that I felt for your grace was not simply desire to possess your beauty. I also valued your good name and your honor, as demonstrated by my attentions and courtesies to you. I, my lady, am somewhat scrupulous, and take it as a matter of conscience that only yesterday you were widowed and today you wish to remarry. Your grace should mourn at least one year for your ill-fated negro. In time your grace's proposal will be answered. May heaven protect and console you.

This letter almost made doña Beatrice go crazy but, seeing that don Fadrique had already left town, she soon said yes to another gentleman who had proposed to her, in that way making up for the loss of her late lover.

Journeying with forced marches (as the saying goes), don Fadrique soon arrived in Madrid and went to stay in the house of one of his uncles who owned property in the Carmen district. This uncle was a wealthy gentleman whose only son, don Juan, was his heir. Don Juan was a handsome, elegant youth, intelligent, high-spirited, and very charming. His father had betrothed him to a wealthy cousin but the marriage was to be delayed until she came of age, since at the time she was only ten.

Within a few days, don Fadrique and this youth came to treat each other like brothers. The two became such good friends that their closeness went way beyond mere family affection. Don Fadrique noticed that don Juan seemed exceedingly melancholy. In an effort to find out why, he stated that true friends don't keep secrets from each other

and, to encourage don Juan further, don Fadrique told him about his own life and his strange experiences, but without mentioning any names. Then he begged don Juan to tell him what was causing his sadness, so unusual given his basically happy nature. This was exactly what don Juan had wanted don Fadrique to ask. He knew he'd feel his sorrow less if he could share it with his friend, and he replied:

"Friend don Fadrique, I dearly love a woman here in this city. When her parents died, they left her a lot of money and the obligation to marry her cousin who is away in the Indies. Our chaste love hasn't gone beyond simple conversation but we hope to enjoy love's reward when her betrothed returns. Right now neither her situation nor my own permits us to enjoy greater amorous indulgence. We are both betrothed and cannot risk our honor. Although I don't enjoy possession of my own betrothed, she serves as a chain that keeps me from being free.

"To describe this lady's beauty to you would be like reducing beauty itself to a cipher. Her intelligence is so keen that no one betters her in humanistic learning. Doña Ana, for this is her name, is the wonder of this age. She and her cousin, doña Violante, are the sibyls of Spain: both are beautiful, witty, both are musicians and poets. In conclusion, these two women possess the sum of all the beauty and intelligence scattered among all other women in the world.

"Well, someone told doña Ana that I was courting a woman named Nise, all because last Sunday I was seen talking with her in the Church of San Gines, which is Nise's church. Yesterday, very jealous, doña Ana told me to go away and never darken her door again. Besides that, because she knows I burn up with jealousy every time she mentions her betrothed—despite my hope that he will serve as intermediary to my success—she told me that she adores him alone and that she lovingly longs for his arrival. I can't bear the thought of anyone but myself enjoying possession of her beauty. I wrote her a letter on the subject of jealousy and she's sent me an answer that I'll show you. Given her talent for poetry, as for everything else, it's in ballad form." He took out doña Ana's letter and handed it to don Fadrique, who read:

Your mad behavior, Lisardo,
is such that my grief
forces me to blame you
while I suffer all the pain.
I don't want to count or make

a list of your thankless deeds,
because ingrates leave only
zeros, never pluses.
Lust alone prevails,
Lisardo, and my fears are just,
for you count on my loyalty
while denying your own.
I don't want to remind you
of all my many sorrows,
since you never gave me a receipt
for my priceless gift to you.
Sighs yearn to join the air,
for air is what they are,
and don't trouble to count
how many thousand sighs there are.
Tears yearn to join the sea,
sorrow yearns to join my complaints,
as my affection years for your icy disdain
hoping that your scorn will lose its force.
To say, Lisardo, that I
indulge my passion
to while away your absence,
is a chimera of your imagination.
If I wanted to be entertained,
the village has shepherds
and, while I do not show them favor,
they celebrate and sing my humble charms.
I could choose from them
one who would delight me
with his entertaining love
and make me extremely happy.
Yet you, Lisardo, although you enjoy
favors that others desire,
you do not value those favors,
indeed you even scorn them.
Lisardo, I believe
that a woman of my charms
grants you favors and rewards,
with merely a gentle glance.
But since you have always been
ungrateful for my affection,
you do not prize my love
or reward me with your own.
You don't even know what love is,
this I know for certain,
before you even start to love
already you seek to end it.

In harmony with my nature
I favor you; do not ask
more of me, it is enough that
your charm marks the limit of my pleasure.
Do you fear that the shepherd
who is to be my master will return?
If you spurn my favors,
Lisardo, why do you complain?
You ask for health and when I
give you medicine, you despair;
love is like being bled
without having your veins cut open.
The truth is, Lisardo,
another beauty has conquered you
so now you find my love a bother;
I understand, I am not stupid.
Lisardo, may heaven curse
one who makes his beloved jealous
by using the charms of another;
may the same fate befall him!
The musician sings in the street,
the poet makes his verses,
the lady falls in love
and ignores the one who courts her.
I know your tricks
I know your deceptions,
since I praised Nise to you
how much you love her now!
Ungrateful Lisardo, may you enjoy
her beauty a thousand years;
may as many favors delight you
as the sorrows that are killing me.
Drink in her sweet deception,
leave me my bitter beverage.
I intend to hang my chains
in the temple of my faith;
from there I will be watching you
the way a person watches a gambler
play the card on which he bets
truth against falsehood.
I do not complain about your offense,
Lisardo, because my complaints
would not make you love me again,
you would only make me pay for them.
I understand your attraction,
for her coal black hair
is ebony on which is etched

her beauty and your affection,
her black eyes, stars
in whose mischievous pupils
your war will find peace,
your storm, calm weather.
You wear her color, black,
and you appear more elegant
than when you're wearing mine,
which it pleases you to spurn.
To find solace for your sorrows
you could become a regular worshipper
in the glorious church of San Gines
where your Nise always goes.
With this song, I ask Love
to lament your faithlessness.
May God keep you. From my house.
From one who desires your happiness.

"You don't have a lot to fear from this enemy," don Fadrique said as he finished reading. "From what this poem says, she's more impassioned than angry. The woman writes well and if she's as beautiful as you say, you're foolish not to persevere until you reap the fruit of your love."

"The poem," don Juan replied, "is just a speck, a scratch, a nothing, compared to her great beauty and intelligence; she has often been called the Spanish sibyl."

"By God, cousin," don Fadrique said, "I fear women who know so much, more than I fear death itself. I'd like to find a woman who's as ignorant of the ways of the world as this one is wise in them. If I ever do find such a woman, as God lives, I shall devote myself to serving and loving her. But nowadays women are all so sharp you can hardly keep up with them. They all know how to love and how to deceive, but clever women have taught me such a lesson that I want to win only an ignorant one."

"You can't really mean that!" don Juan exclaimed. "I can't imagine any man wanting a foolish woman to talk with for fifteen minutes let alone to love! Why, the most famous philosophers in the world say that knowledge is food for the soul; then, so long as eyes feed on white skin, graceful hands, lovely eyes, a striking figure, in short, on beauty that's worthy of being loved in a woman, it's not right that the soul's desire should be denied or should have to feed itself only on nonsensical boring dullness! Since the soul is pure, we should not nourish it with unrefined food."

"Let's not discuss this anymore," don Fadrique replied. "There's a lot to be said on the subject, but I know what's best for me in this regard. Let's answer doña Ana's letter, though the best answer would be to visit her, for nothing is as effective and moving as the lover in person. Besides, I'm curious to see if her cousin interests me; maybe I can have some fun with her while I'm here in Madrid."

"Let's go," don Juan said. "To tell you the truth, that's exactly what I was wanting to do. But let me warn you: doña Violante is not dumb! If clever women displease you, you don't have to come with me."

"I'll manage," don Fadrique replied.

With this understanding, they went to visit the two beautiful cousins and were received with real pleasure. Although doña Ana still acted jealous and haughty, don Juan didn't have to do much to temper her resentment.

When don Fadrique saw doña Violante, he thought she was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen, even in comparison with Serafina and doña Beatrice. She was having her portrait painted (quite a fad here in Madrid), and for that reason, she was elegantly attired. It seemed, however, as if she'd dressed with such extravagance and elegance especially to conquer don Fadrique. She was wearing a full black skirt covered with sequins and gold buttons, a belt and a necklace glittering with diamonds and circling her brow a band of rubies. After much courtly praise, don Fadrique, inspired by the muses, took up a guitar and sang this ballad, which he improvised to suit the occasion:^[*]

Shepherdess whose beauty
delights, enamors, slays,
you are a wonder from heaven,
the glory of our village.
What paintbrush exists,
even if it's guided and governed
by the great Apelles himself,
that can capture your beauty?
What rays, even those the sun
sends forth from his crown,
can equal the splendor
of your lovely chestnut tresses?
What can match the radiance
I see in your bright stars,

In this ballad, Violante is compared with Campaspe, Alexander the Great's mistress, whose famous portrait was painted by the artist Apelles.

a light more brilliant
than the diamond's glitter?
What lilies compare with your white brow?
What Cupid's bows with your fine eyebrows?
What darts with your lashes?
What arrows with your eyes?
What alexandrine roses
match your cheeks?
All these are inferior to your beauty,
vanquished by your carmine.
Shepherdess, what rubies match
the color of your mouth?
Without any doubt,
the rubies in your hair seem false
when compared with your lovely lips.
Your words are carnations,
your white teeth pearls
with which the dawn, weeping,
bedecks her meadows.
Your lovely neck a column
of crystal which holds up
the heavenly home of Love,
where Cupid dwells.
What snow matches your hands
on whose snowy peaks
the bold who seek
adventure lose their way?
Of everything your dress reveals,
beautiful shepherdess,
I'd like to sing fullest praise,
but my tongue dares not.
Just like a second Campaspe,
you exhibit such heavenly graces,
poor Apelles simply gazes at you
without hope of capturing them!
Shepherdess, tell Apelles,
whose brushes seek
to bring your beauty
from heaven down to earth
that both he and I fall short;
both brush and pen remain
unable to capture an image
that can match the model.
Since the world no longer
possesses the mold
in which wise Nature formed you,
there will never be

another equal to you.
Diamonds, gold, crystal,
bright sun, roses, lilies,
heavens, stars, rubies,
carnations, jasmine, pearls,
everything, in your presence,
loses its beauty and its value.
What brush, what pen,
can do justice to such beauty?

Both doña Ana and her cousin praised don Fadrique's verses and his voice. Doña Violante in particular began to look favorably on this gentleman from Granada because of his lavish praise of her. From that afternoon on, Cupid's game was on the table. In this instance don Fadrique didn't hold true to his determination to spurn clever women and fear sharp ones. He fell head over heels in love. The next day, before he and don Juan set out to visit the beautiful cousins, don Fadrique sent this sonnet to doña Ana:^[*]

      You are a string on love's instrument,
beautiful, heavenly first string, and love so esteems
your sweet tone that now it raises you
from first to third and changes key.

      Discreet was all thought of love,
and through your value love's tone gains courage,
for being first, love wants to impress
its sovereign tone on your being.

      The third string often shifts to first
but, being first, for it to become third
is heavenly, wonderful, strange, miraculous.

      And so I say that if Orpheus
had used you to make his divine music
he would have filled with love all he lulled to sleep.

But why, my pen,
do you sing of love for this
beautiful first string
when love already possesses her?

This sonnet is based on a conceit impossible to translate into English. The central metaphor derives from musical imagery punning on the word prima , first string of an instrument and also cousin, and on tercera , the third string and also matchmaker or go-between. There is also punning on cuerda , meaning cord, string, wise.

What I beg of you,
being the third string,
please tell your lovely first string
to love me.

Doña Ana's answer to don Fadrique was that in this regard she wouldn't have to do much for doña Violante was very impressed with him. This news made him feel so proud and happy that he forgot all about his experiences with Serafina and Beatrice and the lessons he'd learned. Don Fadrique and doña Violante spent many days courting in the same formal manner, their love never venturing to other kinds of amorous experimentation. They enjoyed only that intercourse that held no risk to their honor, and this restraint so impassioned don Fadrique that he soon came to the point of wanting to marry doña Violante. She, however, never mentioned such a thing, for she truly abhorred the thought of marriage, afraid of losing the freedom she enjoyed.

One day while the two cousins were dressing to go visit "their" lovely cousins, they received a message from the ladies saying that doña Ana's betrothed had arrived so secretly that they'd had no word of his arrival. This suddenness frightened them both; doña Ana feared her fiance had come secretly either because he felt suspicious or else because he had some fearsome design. Anyhow, for them all to be safe, they'd have to be very careful. She begged don Juan to arm himself with patience, as the two women themselves were doing. Not only should he and don Fadrique not visit them, they shouldn't even walk down their street until they received further instruction.

This was a terrible blow to don Juan and don Fadrique but, despite their great distress, they had to bear it. They felt even worse four days later when they found out that doña Ana had gotten married. Furthermore, her new lord and master, being over forty and experienced in the ways of the world, was a jealous man. He had imposed harsh rules to protect the honor of the house. It would be impossible for the gallant lovers to see the lovely cousins even at their window, nor could don Juan and don Fadrique send any word, not even to inquire about the ladies' health—in the case of doña Ana because of her new husband's protectiveness and in doña Violante's for reasons we shall soon find out.

Don Juan and don Fadrique spent a whole month in despair, waiting for some news, impatient, anxious, unhappy. It appeared that the two lovely cousins felt no concern about their sorrow. At last they

decided, regardless of the risk, to walk down the street where their ladies lived, on the off chance that they might see one of the ladies or at least one of the maids from the house. One day the two men strolled down the street and again the next day and both times they saw doña Ana's husband enter the house accompanied by his brother, a handsome young student. It was impossible for them to glimpse the ladies or anything else that resembled a woman: some male servants, yes, but they didn't know them so they didn't dare speak to them.

Anxiety kept the two men up late each night and woke them early in the morning. Luck had it that very early one Sunday morning they saw one of doña Violante's maids leave on her way to mass. Don Juan approached to speak to her. Fearfully she looked all around. Then she told the two lovers how jealous her new master was and described how circumspectly they lived. She took the letter don Juan had written previously in case he should find just such a chance to deliver it and she told them to return the next day. She'd try to bring a reply. Then she rushed off to take the letter to her mistress. It read:

I don't feel jealous because jealousy solves nothing. I could even bear jealousy if you felt any affection for me. What most saddens me is that you've forgotten me. If you still feel the least spark of our former flame, please have pity on my love, be kind to me in this cruel situation.

After the ladies read the letter, doña Ana gave a reply to the same maid who, when she saw the gentlemen in the street below, threw it to them from the window. Doña Ana's letter read:

The master is a jealous man and newly wed so he hasn't had time for second thoughts or to grow inattentive. Within the next week, however, he has to go to Valladolid to see some relatives, and then I shall make my excuses properly and pay my debts to you.

Don Juan and don Fadrique kissed this letter over and over, considering it a kind of happy prophecy that inspired a thousand fantasies and conjectures. This euphoria lasted for several days. But when they didn't receive further instructions as the letter had promised, and there was no change in the habits of the ladies' house—it remained impossible to glimpse them either in the street or at a window—the two men fell into the same despair they had felt before they received the letter. They haunted the street at all hours of the day and spent many a night from sunset to sunup in front of the house.

One day when don Juan chanced to go hear mass at the Church

of the Carmen he saw his beloved doña Ana enter (a sight he considered nothing less than miraculous). He watched her enter a side chapel to hear mass. In spite of the fact that she was accompanied by a footman, he followed her and knelt down at her side. There were lengthy complaints and brief excuses. Doña Ana explained that her husband, although he'd said he was going to Valladolid, hadn't gone. Given the nature of their meeting place, she saw no way to talk more with him unless he could come to her house that very night. She herself would open the door for him. But he had to bring his cousin with him so don Fadrique could take doña Ana's place in bed with her husband. What made the whole thing possible was the fact that she was furious with her husband, so furious she hadn't spoken to him for days. Her anger was that great and, besides, he slept so soundly that she was certain he'd never notice the substitution. While her cousin doña Violante might have taken doña Ana's place, she couldn't because she was ill. If don Juan didn't obey these instructions, then there was no way to satisfy his desires.

This plan confounded don Juan. On one hand, he knew don Fadrique would never go along with his part, and on the other, he saw the chance he'd be losing. Mulling over these thoughts, he went home and, after much urging and pleading by don Fadrique, don Juan finally told him everything doña Ana had said. Don Fadrique asked don Juan if he was crazy. He couldn't believe don Juan would repeat such nonsense if he were in his right mind. Then don Fadrique cracked a thousand jokes and began to rave about the great favor doña Ana did him in fixing him up with such a lovely bed partner.

The two spent several hours arguing back and forth, one begging, the other refusing. Finally don Juan reached his limit and drew his sword, intending to kill himself. Very unwillingly, don Fadrique gave in and agreed to take doña Ana's place in bed with her husband.

Don Juan and don Fadrique went to doña Ana's house. The lady had been worried but, when they arrived together, she understood that, in coming along, don Fadrique had agreed to the plan. Doña Ana let them in and led them to a room right next to her bedroom. She commanded don Fadrique to undress. All in the dark, he obeyed. He was in a terrible temper. Then she led him, barefoot and wearing only his shirt, into the adjoining room. She stood him next to the bed and whispered to him to get in. There she left him and happily went off with her lover to another room.

Let's leave don Juan and doña Ana and return to don Fadrique.

As soon as he found himself in bed next to the man whose honor he was offending by substituting for his wife so she could dally with a lover, he began to think about what might happen to him, what such audacity might cost. He remained so wide awake and fearful that he would have given everything he owned not to be in such a dreadful situation. The offended husband sighed in his sleep. Then he turned toward his supposed wife and threw an arm around don Fadrique's neck, acting as if he wanted to make love. Even though the husband did all this in his sleep and didn't persist, don Fadrique felt very threatened. As gently as he could, he took the sleeping man's arm and removed it from around his neck and huddled over in a corner of the bed. He upbraided himself for having gotten into this mess simply to satisfy the whim of the two crazy lovers.

Don Fadrique had just survived the first test when the deceived husband stretched out his feet and rubbed them against those of his terrified bedmate. Don Fadrique thought each one of these contacts was almost like dying. To be brief, the two spent all night long like this, with one trying to snuggle up and the other trying to slither away. When light began to show under the crack in the door, don Fadrique became more fearful than before, realizing that all he'd suffered would be in vain if it grew light and the deceived husband awoke and saw his bed partner before doña Ana rescued him. Don Fadrique felt sure he wouldn't get out of this bind alive. He got up as quietly as he could and groped his way to the door. Just as he was about to open it, doña Ana appeared. When she saw him, she said in a loud voice:

"Where are you going in such a hurry, don Fadrique?"

"Oh, my lady!" he exclaimed in a whisper. "Knowing the danger I'm in, how can you be so reckless? For God's sake, let me get out of here! If your master wakes up, we'll lose everything!"

"What do you mean, get out of here?" The clever lady asked in a loud voice so she'd be heard. "By heaven! I want my husband to see who he slept with last night so he'll know what his jealousy and his passion have caused."

Then, without don Fadrique's being able to stop her, because the room was small and he was dumfounded, she reached over and jerked open the window. With the curtains pulled back and standing by the bed, she said:

"Look, my lord husband, look who you slept with last night!"

Don Fadrique looked down at the figure in the bed and instead of Ana's bearded husband, who had, in fact, departed six days before, he saw the exquisite doña Violante. The lovely woman looked like dawn when she draws back the curtains of the night and sallies forth to scatter her pearls across the flowering meadows. This trick of the two lovely cousins so mortified don Fadrique that he couldn't utter a word. He couldn't think of a thing to say, and doña Ana and doña Violante celebrated their success with gales of laughter. Doña Violante described in detail how she had tormented him all night long.

The gentleman from Granada soon recovered from his embarrassment and doña Ana arranged it so he could savor the fruit of all the flowers whose seeds he had sown. He enjoyed many delightful pleasures with his lady, not only while doña Ana's husband was absent, and he was delayed by lawsuits, but even after his return. Don Fadrique bribed one of her maids to let him in so he could spend most nights in doña Violante's company, to don Juan's great envy, since he couldn't be with his doña Ana and begrudged his cousin's good fortune.

Don Fadrique enjoyed his affair with his lady for several months, giving more and more indications of his growing love, more than you might expect. Compelled by this love, a thousand times he decided to make her his wife if ever she showed any desire to marry. But each time he brought up the subject of her changing her status, she cut him off with a thousand persuasive pretexts.

Then, just when don Fadrique was feeling most confident and least apprehensive about her love, doña Violante's interest began to wane. She began avoiding him as much as she could. Out of jealousy, he blamed some new infatuation and his complaints became increasingly boring and bothersome. Despairing because of his fall from favor just when he thought he'd reached the peak, he bribed the servant with gifts and promises of great rewards and found out what he didn't really want to know. The treacherous maid told don Fadrique to feign illness that night and to tell doña Violante he was sick in bed so she wouldn't prepare for his visit as she usually did. He should come to the house and she'd leave the door open so he could let himself in and see what he might see.

This was simple because, ever since her cousin's marriage, doña Violante had lived in an apartment separated from the rest of the house where she could stay out of doña Ana and her new husband's

affairs. Doña Violante couldn't stand doña Ana's husband and, besides, she was used to having her freedom and didn't want anyone keeping watch over her. There was a door connecting their two apartments and often doña Violante would eat with doña Ana and her husband because he was charmed by doña Violante's conversation.

Doña Violante believed in don Fadrique's feigned illness and it suited her well that she wouldn't have to bother to entertain him as usual. She decided to retire early.

Now the thing is that doña Ana's husband's brother usually spent most of his time with the three of them and he had taken a great liking to doña Violante. She, already obligated by don Fadrique's attentions, hadn't acceded to his desires. Now, either tired of don Fadrique or pleased by her new lover's gifts and jewels, she put behind her any sense of obligation to her former lover. Her new dalliance inspired her to deprive don Fadrique of his possession altogether by no longer submitting to his love and desires. So, on this night when she thought she was safe because of don Fadrique's indisposition, she sent a message to her new lover. He notified his brother that he planned to stay home that evening and wouldn't be spending it with him and doña Ana. Immediately he came to visit doña Violante to take advantage of this great opportunity.

Don Fadrique arrived and found the front door unlocked. His heart wouldn't let him wait. Hearing voices, he rushed to the door of doña Violante's apartment. He burst into her room and found his lady already in bed and the young student undressing, preparing to join her.

At this moment, don Fadrique's wrath could not have been rational; he rushed in determined to tear his rival to shreds with his bare hands rather than dirty his sword on such a young boy. When the callow lover saw a man burst in furiously and he was naked and without a sword, he leaned over and picked up a shoe that was on the floor and held it in his hand as if it were a pistol. He told don Fadrique that, if he didn't stand back, he'd shoot. The youth then darted out the door and down into the street, leaving don Fadrique shaken by the suddenness of his charge.

Doña Violante was firmly resolved to divest herself of don Fadrique's attentions. She looked at him standing there, frozen, staring at the door through which his rival had just disappeared. She began

to roar with laughter, finding the trick with the shoe particularly hilarious.

The gentleman from Granada felt more humiliated by her laughter than by anything else. His rage exploded; he rushed over to doña Violante and struck her in the face, bathing it in blood. Furious, she told him to get out, she'd call her brother-in-law, she'd make don Fadrique pay dearly. Heedless of her threats, his rage increased. He grabbed her by the hair and beat her until she was forced to scream. Her screams brought doña Ana and her husband to the connecting door.

Don Fadrique was afraid of being caught, especially if the police should come, because they could charge him with anything. He fled from the premises and went back to don Juan's house. He told don Juan what had taken place and immediately set about arranging his departure. He knew that the duke of Osuna was about to become the new viceroy of Sicily and hoped to join him for the passage over. Within four days, don Fadrique set out, leaving don Juan very dejected about what had happened and grieved to lose such a good friend.

Although don Fadrique left Spain intending to go to Sicily, he ended up in Naples, and the beauty of the city held him quite some time. He had a variety of adventures, all of which confirmed his belief that women exercise their intelligence with great cleverness to destroy men's good name and honor. (Keep on believing that, don Fadrique, some day you'll learn just the opposite.)

In Naples he had a mistress who, every time her husband came home, made him pretend he was a hutch backed up against the wall. From Naples, he went to Rome where he had an affair with a woman who one night, for his sake, murdered her own husband, stuffed him in a sack, carried him on her back down to the river, and dumped him in.

He spent many years involved in these and numerous other affairs. After sixteen years away from home, weary of traveling and short of money—indeed he hardly had enough left to get home—he decided to return. He landed in Barcelona and rested for several days. Carefully he checked his purse and then bought a mule to take him to Granada. The next morning he set out alone, for he didn't have enough money left to hire a servant.

Don Fadrique traveled slightly over four leagues, intending to eat

and rest further down the road. It was around nine in the morning when he passed through a beautiful place that belonged to a duke of Catalonia and his beautiful wife from Valencia, who had retired to live on their lands to save money. The beautiful duchess happened to be out on her balcony just as don Fadrique was passing. She noticed the traveler hastening by and was struck by his jauntiness, so she sent a servant after him to tell him she desired to speak with him.

As soon as this message was given to don Fadrique, he turned back to see what the beautiful duchess wanted of him. He'd always prided himself on being considerate and particularly with ladies. Impressed by the duchess' beauty and elegance, he greeted her with great courtesy. She invited him to take a seat and, very charmingly, inquired where he was from and why he was traveling with such haste. She emphasized the pleasure it would give her to know his answer because, the moment she'd set eyes on him, she'd felt inclined to love him. That's why she decided to invite him to be her guest while the duke was away hunting.

Don Fadrique, who wasn't at all shy, thanked her for the favor she showed him and told her who he was and about the experiences he'd had in Granada, Seville, Naples, Rome, and everywhere else he'd been. He ended his tale saying he'd run out of money and was tired of traveling so he was returning home with the intention of getting married, if he could find a wife to suit his taste.

"What kind of woman would she be," the duchess asked, "the woman who would suit your taste?"

"My lady, as I've told you, I'm noble," don Fadrique replied. "I have more money than I need to last me the rest of my life, so it doesn't matter to me if the woman who is to be mine isn't wealthy so long as she's beautiful and well born. What most pleases me in a woman is virtue. That's all I require, for earthly goods God gives and God takes away."

"Then," the duchess said, "if you found a woman noble, beautiful, virtuous, and discreet, would you immediately place your neck in the delightful yoke of matrimony?"

"I promise you, my lady," don Fadrique responded, "I have been so chastened by the cleverness of discreet women that I would far prefer to be conquered by a mindless woman, even if she's ugly, as long as she has the other qualities you describe. If a woman must be knowledgeable, all she needs to know is how to love her husband,

how to rear his children, and how to care for his honor, without any other pretensions."

"And how," the duchess asked, "will she know how to be honorable if she doesn't even know what honor means? Don't you know that a simpleton commits sins without even knowing it? An intelligent woman knows how to take care of herself. Your decision shows bad judgment, for a wise woman is something never to be forgotten. Some day you will remember my words.

"But, to change the subject, I am so attracted by your looks and your wit that I shall do something for you I never thought I'd do."

Then she invited don Fadrique to be her guest at dinner and she took him into her bedchamber to dine more intimately. This surprised him; indeed none of his other experiences astonished him as greatly. They dined and entertained each other and had a delightful time together enjoying the warm afternoon and the solitude. Don Fadrique was enchanted by the duchess' beauty and charm and wished he could stay forever, if he could've done so without scandal.

Night was beginning to spread her mantle across the countryside when a maid entered saying that the duke had arrived, and so quietly that no one had seen him until he was inside the house. By now he'd be climbing the stairs. The duchess had no choice but to open a gilded cupboard where water was stored right in her own room. Quickly she put don Fadrique inside and locked the cupboard with the key. Then she reclined on her bed.

The duke, a man somewhat past fifty, came in. When he saw her stretched out on the bed looking as beautiful as a rosebud on a rosebush, he greeted her lovingly and asked her why she was in bed. The beautiful lady replied that the only reason was that she'd wanted to spend the hot siesta time resting quietly, and then she'd felt too lazy to dress so she hadn't bothered to get up.

The duke told the duchess that he'd come back with a tremendous appetite, so they ordered their supper brought up to her room and they dined with leisurely pleasure. Afterwards, the astute duchess decided to play a joke on her lover locked up in the cabinet, so she asked the duke to play a game naming all the things he could think of that were made of iron. He accepted the wager. After much haggling, they each bet a hundred escudos on whether he could guess the word she had in mind. He took up a pen and began to write a list of everything that's made of iron. The duchess's luck in pulling off her trick was so

good that the duke never thought of keys. The duchess noted his oversight and even though she urged him to keep trying to think of other things, he said he couldn't. In this she saw her wish fulfilled. She placed her hand over the paper and said:

"Now, my lord, while you try to think of other things made of iron, I'll tell you a story, the cleverest one you've ever heard. Today, when I was standing on my balcony, a stranger passed by and he was the handsomest man I'd ever laid my eyes on. He was in a great hurry, and that made me want to speak with him and find out why he was in such a hurry. I sent for him and when he came back, I asked him who he was. He told me he was from Granada and that he'd left his birthplace for the following reason . . ." She proceeded to recount to her husband word for word what don Fadrique had told her about his experiences. "The stranger ended his tale saying that he was on his way home to get married, if only he could find a mindless woman, since he'd been so chastened by clever women. I tried to persuade him he was wrong, but he argued in favor of his convictions. Heavens, my lord, he dined with me and spent the siesta with me and then, when the maid told me you'd arrived, I put him in that cupboard there where the distilled water is kept."

The duke got very upset and immediately began to demand the keys. The duchess burst into laughter and said:

"Calm down, my lord, calm down. Keys are what's made of iron that you overlooked! You can't really believe that a man exists to whom such things have happened, or that a woman would be so foolish as to tell her husband such a thing if it were true! Why, if it were true, she'd never mention it. The story was to help you remember keys. And now, my lord, since you've lost your wager, hand over the money you owe me. I plan to spend it on a fancy dress so that what has cost you such fright will be a suitable reward for my cleverness."

"By heaven!" the duke exclaimed. "You're the very devil! What a way to remind me of my oversight! I give in!"

Turning to his treasurer, who was present with the other servants, he ordered him to give the duchess the hundred escudos immediately. Then the duke went out to receive several of his vassals who'd come to visit and ask how he'd fared on the hunt.

The duchess let don Fadrique out of his hiding place, still trembling from her crazy audacity. She gave him the hundred escudos she'd won and another hundred of her own. She also presented him with a chain

and her miniature, which were worth more than three hundred escudos. She embraced him and asked him to write her, and then had him taken out through the back door. As soon as don Fadrique found himself on the road, he crossed himself repeatedly because of his narrow escape.

He didn't want to stay the night in that area so he traveled the two leagues to the place where he would've eaten lunch if what we've narrated hadn't occurred. While he rode down the road, he kept marveling at the duchess's astuteness and temerity and at the duke's kindliness and good nature. He thought to himself:

"I certainly was right that cleverness in women leads to their ruination. If the duchess didn't trust in her wit, she never would've dared offend against her husband, let alone tell him about it. I intend to avoid that kind of thing if I can, either by not marrying or by finding a woman so simple and innocent that she'll know nothing of love and scorn, a woman who doesn't know the meaning of cleverness or deception."

These thoughts entertained him all the way to Madrid, where he visited his cousin don Juan. His father had died and don Juan had come into his inheritance and married his cousin. Don Fadrique learned from him that doña Violante had gotten married and that doña Ana had gone to the Indies with her husband.

From Madrid don Fadrique set out for Granada, where he was received like a favorite son of the city. He went to his aunt's house and she welcomed him with a thousand kind words. He learned everything that had happened during his absence: Serafina had become a nun, was leading a penitent life, and everyone considered her a saint; don Vicente, feeling guilty for having abandoned her after she'd entrusted her honor to him, had died of remorse at seeing her a nun. Don Vicente had tried to take her out of the convent to marry her, but Serafina was determined never to marry. Five days after his fruitless attempt to marry Serafina had failed and helped along by a sudden fever, he paid for his ingratitude with his life. Don Fadrique learned that doña Gracia, the little baby he'd had left in his aunt's custody and who was now sixteen, had lived in the convent since she was four.

The very next day he accompanied his aunt to visit doña Gracia. In her beauty, in her innocence and simplicity, he saw the image of an angel. She looked like a lovely statue, but a statue without a soul, which was surprising, given that she'd been brought up by nuns and they're not stupid. As don Fadrique talked with her, he found in her

conversation and ignorance precisely the woman he was looking for. He felt very attracted to the beautiful Gracia and his love was increased by the fact that she looked just like her mother, Serafina.

Don Fadrique told his aunt the whole story. When she learned that Gracia wasn't his daughter as she'd thought all along, she approved of his choice for a wife. Gracia accepted this good fortune placidly, like one who knows neither pleasure or displeasure, good or evil. She was naturally stupid, the only flaw in her beauty, although it was precisely the flaw her husband required.

Don Fadrique arranged the wedding, bought finery and jewels for his bride, and set up the house he'd inherited from his parents to be their home. He wanted his wife to live in her own house and not with his aunt, for he didn't want her primitive intelligence to develop. Given his obsessive belief that intelligence leads women to fall into a thousand errors, he hired all her maids with great care, selecting the least cunning and the most ignorant. I may have stated otherwise at the beginning of this story, but now I realize that he wasn't a wise man. I can't understand how a discreet man can desire his opposite. But perhaps his fears about his honor explain his error; perhaps, in order to protect his honor, he felt compelled to deny his pleasure.

The day of the wedding arrived and Gracia left the convent. Her beauty amazed all eyes, her innocence all sense. The wedding was celebrated with a banquet and party attended by all the principal citizens of Granada, as befitted the groom's nobility. The day passed by more quickly than the bride would've liked because she didn't ever want to take off all her finery and jewels. At last don Fadrique bade farewell to the guests, and the members of his family left him alone with Gracia. Determined to test his wife's ignorance, he took her into the bedroom and sat down on the bed. She had on her small clothes, as the saying goes, wearing only her bodice and pettiskirt and divested of her jewels. Fadrique asked Gracia to listen carefully to what he had to say, which was this or something equally foolish:

"My lady, you are now my wife, for which I give thanks to heaven! So long as we live, you must do what I'm about to tell you, and you must always perform this duty faithfully to keep from displeasing me and offending against God."

Gracia humbly replied that she would gladly do as he said.

"Do you know," don Fadrique asked, "what married life is?"

"No, my lord, I have no idea," Gracia said. "But you explain it to me and I'll learn it like the Hail Mary."

Don Fadrique was delighted with her simplicity. He showed her some golden armor and then put it on over her bodice: the breastplate and the backpiece, the gorget and the armplates, without omitting the gauntlets. He gave her a lance and told her that married life meant that, while he slept, she was to keep watch over him, pacing back and forth around the room.

Dressed in her golden armor, Gracia was a sight to see, so fetching and lovely was she! Whatever she didn't possess in the way of intelligence she made up for in her striking appearance; with the helmet pressed down over her curly locks and the sword in its sheath, she was the very image of Pallas Athena.

After the lovely lady was fully armed as I've described, don Fadrique commanded her to keep watch while he slept. Happily he went to bed and slept peacefully until five o'clock. He got up and, after he dressed, he took Gracia gently in his arms and very tenderly undressed her and put her to bed, telling her to rest and sleep. He ordered the servants not to wake her until eleven. He went off to hear mass and tend his business affairs, which were many, since he'd bought himself a position on the city council. More than a week went by with this routine, and don Fadrique never led Gracia to think married life might be any different. She was so innocent that she believed this was what all married women did.

Then it happened that some problems arose with city affairs and the council ordered don Fadrique to depart by the next stage to go speak with the king. Because of the urgency of the case and because they knew he had many friends at court, having spent so much time in Madrid, they didn't observe the usual courtesy toward newlyweds in this instance. The suddenness of this development left him time only to rush home, pack for the journey, and tell his new wife to be sure to keep up her married duties while he was gone just as she'd done before, for it was a great sin to breach them in any way. Gracia promised to do her duty regularly and devoutly, so don Fadrique departed quite happily. But, of course, one intends to go to court for a short time and ends up staying for a long time. That's what happened with don Fadrique. His stay lasted not days but months; his case dragged on for over six months. Gracia faithfully performed her marital duty.

One day a gentleman from Cordoba came to Granada to file a lawsuit before the chancellery. He was in no way stupid or unattractive. When he was idle, he would stroll through the streets of the city. One day, he saw doña Gracia out on her balcony where she spent her afternoons embroidering. The sight of her captivated him. He was stricken by the vision of her beauty and, suffice it to say, he began to frequent her street. The lady, being ignorant of all these things and knowing nothing about the laws of love and courtship, neither accepted nor rejected his attentions. Her lack of response saddened the gentleman from Cordoba.

One of doña Gracia's neighbors was observing this course of events, and she realized that the gentleman had fallen in love with the young bride. One day she called out to him and, discovering the truth of her supposition, promised to intercede with doña Gracia for him. There's always some abyss for virtue to fall into. The neighbor went to see doña Gracia. Extravagantly she praised the young bride's beauty, which marked the first step leading to doña Gracia's downfall. Then the neighbor told her how the gentleman who spent so much time in her street loved her greatly and desired to serve her.

"I truly appreciate that," the lady replied. "But I already have a lot of servants and, until one of them leaves, I shan't be able to satisfy his wish although, if he likes, I can write my husband to see if he might hire him just to please me."

"Oh, no, my lady," the crafty matchmaker exclaimed, beginning to realize how ignorant the young bride was. "This gentleman is very rich and noble; he has great estates. He doesn't want you to hire him as a servant, he wants to serve you with all his wealth, to send you some gift or jewel, if you'd like."

"Oh, my friend," doña Gracia replied. "I already have so much jewelry I don't even know where to put it all."

"Well, if that's the way it is," the matchmaker said, "and you don't want him to send you anything, then at least give him permission to visit you, which he greatly desires."

"Of course! Let him come!" the foolish lady said. "What prevents him from coming to visit me?"

"My lady," the neighbor answered, "don't you understand that the servants, if they see him come openly during the daytime, might think ill of it?"

"Well, then, here," doña Gracia said, "this key opens the back door entering from the garden and, indeed, I think it opens every door in

the house because it's a master key. Give it to him and tell him to come tonight and climb the circular staircase that comes right up to the room where I sleep."

The woman could hardly believe such ignorance, but she didn't want to probe further. She took the key and went to get the reward for her work, which was a heavy gold chain. That night don Alvaro—this was his name—came through the garden as he'd been instructed, climbed the stairs, and was about to enter the room, when he saw doña Gracia in her elaborate armor holding aloft her lance. She looked like an Amazon. The light was dim and, since don Alvaro couldn't begin to imagine, let alone believe, the truth of what he was seeing, he thought he'd been betrayed. As quickly as he could, he turned tail and fled and the next minute he was in the street.

The following morning he described this scene to the matchmaker and immediately she went to see doña Gracia. The moment she entered, doña Gracia inquired about the gentleman. He must have been terribly ill since he hadn't come as he'd been instructed.

"Oh, my lady," she said, "of course he came. But he said he found a man in armor, carrying a lance and marching around the room."

"Good heavens!" doña Gracia answered, laughing merrily, "doesn't he know I was just doing my married duty? That gentleman must not be married if he thought I was a man! Tell him it's me and not to be afraid."

The matchmaker took this explanation to don Alvaro. That night he went again to visit his lady and, when he found her in her armor, he asked her to explain. Laughing, she said:

"Well, how else should I lead a married life if not like this?"

"What do you mean, married life, my lady?" don Alvaro asked. "You've been deceived; this isn't what married life is."

"Well, my lord," said doña Gracia, "this is how my husband taught me, and he says it's a terrible sin to violate it. But if you know an easier way, in truth I'd love to know what it is and learn how to do it, for this life I lead is very tiresome."

When the cavalier youth heard this naive request, he himself undressed her and took her to bed and enjoyed everything that her foolish husband had postponed in his desire to test his wife's ignorance. All the time don Fadrique was at court, don Alvaro and doña Gracia lived a true married life. At last don Fadrique finished his business and wrote that he was coming home. Don Alvaro finished up his business and returned to Cordoba.

Don Fadrique arrived home and was greeted by his wife with much pleasure for, just as she had no intelligence, she had no sense either. They dined together and, because don Fadrique was tired from his journey, he went right to bed. He assumed that doña Gracia would put on her armor as he'd commanded. When he saw her come out naked and get into bed with him, he was astounded at this novelty, and asked:

"Well, my lady, how is it that you don't perform your married duty as I taught you?"

"My, my, sir," she said, "what do you mean married duty and all that nonsense! I learned a much better way with my other husband who took me to bed with him and caressed me more than you do."

"You mean," don Fadrique asked, "you've had another husband?"

"Yes, my lord," doña Gracia answered. "After you life, another handsome, charming husband came along and told me he'd show me a different married life, better than yours."

She told him everything that had happened with the gentleman from Cordoba. But she couldn't understand what had become of him. After she'd received don Fadrique's letter with news of his return, she hadn't seen him again. In despair, the foolish don Fadrique asked her what the man's name was and where he was from. But doña Gracia answered that she didn't know, she never called him anything but husband.

Don Fadrique understood that in trying to prevent his dishonor, he had purposely married a fool who had not only offended against his honor but who even told him all about it. He realized the error in his thinking and recalled the duchess' words: discreet women know how to keep the laws of honor and, if ever they break them, they know how to keep their error secret.

For the rest of his life, don Fadrique praised discreet women who are virtuous, saying that they are priceless beyond all thought and, if they're not virtuous, at least they know how to behave prudently and modestly.

Realizing that nothing could be done about what had happened because it was his fault, don Fadrique covered up his misfortune. If discreet women sometimes fail in the test, what could be expect of a foolish woman? Trying not to let his wife out of his sight so she wouldn't offend against him again, he lived for several more years. When he died, since they had no children, he left all his wealth to doña Gracia, with the provision that she become a nun in the same

convent as Serafina. He wrote a letter to Serafina explaining that this was her long-lost daughter. he also wrote his cousin don Juan in Madrid telling this story just as it is set down here.

In the end, no matter how don Fadrique tried to prevent the catastrophe he'd been forewarned about, in spite of all the lands he'd visited and all the adventures he'd had, he fell into the very situation he feared, and it was a foolish woman who ruined his honor.

Doña Gracia became a nun in the same convent with her mother, and the two were happy to know each other. Because doña Gracia was foolish, she readily found happiness and spent the huge fortune at her disposal in building a grand convent where she spent her days pleasantly.

I now take pleasure in ending this enchantment by warning all the ignorant people who condemn discretion in women: there can be no virtue where intelligence is lacking. Furthermore, if a woman is going to be bad, it doesn't matter whether she's foolish or not, but a good woman, if she's discreet, will know how to take care of herself. Be warned, you who would put a woman to the test, of the risk you take.

As don Alonso was reaching the final words of his delightful and entertaining enchantment his audience was caught up and absorbed by his words. They were roused from their rapture by the sound of many well-tuned instruments that began to play dance music in the adjoining room. Everyone turned to see who was making such sweet music. Twelve handsome lads dressed as shepherds and wearing purple satin caps trimmed with silver, each one bearing a lighted torch, tripped into the hall. After they did the stately dance all around the room, they separated into two columns. The most elegant and spritely lad began to dance alone with his torch held high. He danced all around the room and then approached the beautiful Lisarda. Making a deep bow, he invited her to dance. The lady stepped out and together they danced. He returned her to her place and next, as is the custom in the torch dance, the charming lad invited the discreet Matilda, and after her, Nise. He selected don Juan to be her partner. Leaving the torch in Lisarda's hands, the two couples together performed a slow and stately dance. When the two ladies returned to their seats, Lisarda danced, inviting first don Miguel, then don Lope, and finally don Diego. While don Diego danced with Lisarda, he urged her to in-

clude her cousin in the dance. Lisarda, thinking this was a good idea, approached the couch where Lysis was reclining. With a lovely curtsey and very formal words, Lisarda begged Lysis to honor the party by dancing for them, now that her quartan fever had tempered itself. In fact it hadn't troubled her greatly since the first day of the celebration.

Lysis accepted, thinking more to please don Diego than her cousin. She danced so divinely that she delighted everyone and above all don Diego. While the two danced, he expressed his love and, as he returned her to her place, she thanked him and granted him permission to make arrangements for their marriage with her mother and the rest of her family.

While don Diego's servants were preparing for their comic skit, all the ladies and gentlemen danced. Before the skit began they had to move some of the chairs to make room, and it happened that don Juan and don Diego sat next to each other. Don Juan, acting aggrieved, said to don Diego:

"I see that Lysis looks on you with favor. It troubles me because I've been her suitor, yet at the same time it suits me just as well because it will stop her from pestering me with her complaints. You, however, should have informed me of your intention, for it's better to have me for a friend than an enemy."

"That's true," don Diego replied, somewhat irritated. "It's terrible to have a poet as an enemy, for no sword can wound as deeply as the pen. I wish to serve Lysis, that's obvious. It's no crime for me not to ask your permission because Lysis is her own mistress and not yours, and I'm content with my mistress's permission for me to court her. Lisarda is your mistress; you content yourself with her and don't try to entertain two mistresses at the same time, one to praise and the other to put down. Lysis has given me permission to discuss our marriage with her mother and, if you consider that an affront, I stand ready to give you satisfaction at the time and place you determine."

"Fine," don Juan retorted. "I am satisfied, not about Lysis's decision to marry you, even though I don't want her for myself, but that you're willing to settle our difference. I want you to know, I'm a poet accomplished with the pen and a gentleman practiced with the sword."

"So be it," don Diego replied, "but we shouldn't spoil the ladies' pleasure in these celebrations, which are to last three more days. Let's wait until the parties end; then we can take care of this any way you please."

"I'm satisfied," don Juan responded, and the two men turned to watch the end of the skit.

Lysis had heard their conversation and, while she felt like interrupting, she let it pass, since don Diego and don Juan had set their duel for after the parties, leaving her time to change their minds.

When the skit concluded, it was time for supper. The guests went to the tables where they satisfied their hunger with the tasty dishes, their eyes with the ladies' beauty, and their minds with the witty conversation, commenting on don Alvaro's enchantment, "forewarned but not forearmed." Finally all the guests went home and so ended the second night.