THIRD NIGHT

The ladies and gentlemen had had their appetites whetted by the savory entertainments of the first two nights so, scarcely had the afternoon of the third soiree begun when guests started gathering in beautiful Lysis's house. She greeted them with her accustomed courtesy. On this occasion, she'd dressed in black, sprinkled with countless diamond buttons; among so many twinkling stars, she looked like the sun, so radiant was her beauty. While the guests exchanged greetings and chatted pleasantly, the afternoon passed quickly. As night began to fall, it came time to start the entertainment, so Lysis signaled the musicians who, accompanying her divine voice, sang this sonnet in honor of our King Philip IV:

      Sun who draws from the heavenly sun
courage, greatness, light, and radiance;
pearl who drew his being from the love
between the sun Philip and mother-of-pearl Margaret;

      phoenix who revives in our Spain
greater glories to make Spain greater,
garden filled with regal purple blooms
to set off your royal fleur-de-lis;

      Jupiter who reigns over the holy choir,
who bathes in sweet harmony as if in light,
being the sweet musician to his nymphs;

      and, if sight does not deceive truth,
a youthful Cupid with his golden darts
is Philip, our sun, and King of Spain.

Disappointed in love by don Juan and grateful to don Diego, the lovely Lysis had deliberately changed the style of her song to avoid the theme of love and jealousy and so discourage the rivalry between the two men. Lysis had made don Juan promise that they'd be friends because she loved don Diego, and they both were feigning courtesy toward each other.

It was Nise's turn to tell the fifth enchantment on this third night, so she occupied the special seat and began like this:

"No one can ignore the power of love, especially when it overwhelms noble hearts. Love is like the sun; it has a powerful effect wherever it goes. You will see this clearly in my enchantment, which starts like this":

The Power of Love

Naples, a famous city in Italy, is renowned for its wealth, noble citizens, splendid buildings, pleasant location, and great beauty. It is crowned with many gardens and adorned with crystalline fountains, lovely ladies and elegant gentlemen. Laura was born there, a rare miracle of nature, and so exquisite that, among the most beautiful and elegant ladies of the city, she was considered a heavenly wonder. Experts in the city had made a list of the eleven most beautiful women and selected from the eleven three, and Laura was one of the eleven and also one of the three. She was her parents' third child, following two brothers who were as virtuous and noble as she was beautiful. Her mother died giving birth to her, leaving her father as tutor and comfort to the three lovely children who, although motherless, had their father's wise concern to make up for this lack.

Their father, don Antonio was his name, was of the Garrafa family, closely related to the duke and duchess of Nochera. He was lord of Piedrablanca, an estate located four miles from Naples, although he maintained his house and center of activity in town.

Don Alejandro, don Carlos, and Laura were brought up with all the care and attention that their noble position required. Their father made every effort to see that they were worthy of their nobility and wealth, training the children in the manners and exercises appropriate to a lovely lady and fine gentlemen. The beautiful Laura lived with the modesty and decorum befitting such a rich and important young

lady. She was the apple of her father's eye, her brothers' delight, and the splendor of the city.

The one who most doted on Laura was don Carlos, the younger of the two brothers. He loved her so dearly that he outdid himself to please her. This was not surprising given Laura's grace, beauty, charm, discretion, and above all her modesty, which charmed not only her relatives but even those people who had only casual contact with her.

Her modesty needed no mother, for not only did her father and brothers keep vigilant watch over her beauty, her own chaste and pure thinking carefully governed her behavior. When she reached the age of discretion, she could no longer deny her company to the prominent ladies who were her relatives. For this, her great beauty would have to pay its price to misfortune.

It was the custom in Naples for maidens to attend parties and soirees given in the viceroy's palace and in other private homes of the nobility. This practice isn't considered proper in other parts of Italy; indeed, in many places maidens aren't even permitted to go to mass, a custom imposed by long tradition despite the efforts of ecclesiastical and lay authorities to change it.

At last, endowed with her beauty and her modesty, Laura went forth to see and to be seen, although, if she'd remembered the goddess Diana, she wouldn't have trusted in her modesty. Her splendid eyes were mortal basilisks to men's souls, her grace, a monster to endanger their lives, her wealth and noble condition, bait to the desires of a thousand gallant youths of the city, all of whom hoped to enjoy her great beauty in marriage.

Among the many suitors who served Laura, the most notable was don Diego Pinatelo. He was a discreet gentleman of the noble house of the dukes of Monteleon, rich and so enviable in all his qualities that it wasn't surprising that, self-confidently, he felt sure he could win the beautiful Laura. He was certain that her family would want to have such a noble husband for their daughter because, among all the suitors for her lovely hand, don Diego was clearly superior. The moment he saw Laura, her beauty caused him to surrender his heart to her so passionately that he might have died, if it had been time for him to give up his life. (So powerful, sometimes, is the effect of beholding beauty.) He first saw her at a party given by one of the city's princes. Don Diego set eyes upon her and fell head over heels in love. His love was so intense at that moment that he felt as if he'd loved her forever, and he wanted to let her know this.

Another custom in Naples was that at parties there was a master of ceremonies who would lead the ladies out to dance and give them to a gentleman chosen by him. Don Diego took advantage of this custom; undoubtedly money was exchanged, and scarcely had he warmed the master's hands when he found in his own hands those of the beautiful Laura, just in time to dance a galliard. This arrangement did him little good, however, because his passion, inflamed by her icy aloofness, led him to blurt: "My lady, I adore you." Instantly, the beautiful lady excused herself, feigning some indisposition. She left him and returned to her seat. This made don Diego very sad, and everyone who was watching the dance wondered what had happened. Throughout the rest of the party, don Diego suffered deep remorse and despaired. He did not merit a single glance from Laura, not because the beautiful lady wasn't attracted by don Diego's appearance, but because she felt constrained to uphold her modesty as she always had.

Night came and the party ended, which was sad for don Diego because Laura went home and he likewise had to go home. He went to bed (a common recourse for the sorrowful, who consult their pillows as if pillows could offer comfort). He tossed and turned and complained bitterly about his misfortune—if indeed it was a misfortune to have seen the beauty who was driving him crazy. If Laura had heard his complaints on this occasion, she might have felt more kindly disposed toward him than she had shown herself that afternoon.

"Alas!" the wounded youth lamented. "My heavenly Laura, how cruelly you reacted to those ill-fated words I uttered! If only you could know that my soul is more yours than the one you bear within you. There can be no offense against your honor or your family for, clearly, if I intend to employ my soul in your service, I'll make you my wife and in no way will your good name suffer. Is it possible, beloved mistress mine, that one so beautiful can have a heart so cruel it won't let you understand that now I've seen you, I'm not the same person I was before? I've lost my heart and I feel empty. Everything I am I've surrendered to your beauty. If I offend you in doing this, blame your beauty, for once human eyes behold it, they must desire it. There can be no other choice but to love you. Nothing seems more rational than for me to call myself your slave.

"Poor me! But I complain without cause. Since Laura's careful about her modesty and decorum, she was obliged to treat me harshly. It would have been improper for her to accept my love the very mo-

ment it commenced. Scarcely had my desire been born when I declared it to her. I'm rich; in nobility, my parents are in no way inferior to hers, so why should I despair? If I formally ask for her hand in marriage, why should her father refuse to give her to me? Take courage, cowardly heart, just because you love, you shouldn't fear. My misfortune can't be so great that I won't obtain what I desire so much."

Don Diego spent the night thinking these thoughts, sometimes heartened by his hopes, sometimes discouraged by his fears, as is natural in lovers. Meanwhile, the beautiful Laura had been profoundly affected by the sight of the handsome don Diego. In her memory, she kept hearing him say, "I adore you." Thoughtfully, as if loving were a crime, she pondered her freedom and the risks to her reputation; she decided to love him. Then guiltily, she chastised herself, thinking that if she accepted his love she was endangering her reputation. But if she rejected him, she was threatened by the same danger. Laura was the most confused woman on the face of the earth, sometimes encouraging her desires and sometimes struggling to repress them. These thoughts and worries caused her to avoid pleasurable activities. She wouldn't even talk with the people in her household. Then she began to seek occasion to see the cause of her passion.

The days slipped by and don Diego could do nothing but complain about his beloved mistress's disdain, for, even though she was in love, she granted him no favors. She only permitted him an occasional glimpse of her, and this she did so casually and nonchalantly that he never had a chance to tell her of his suffering. Although her own feelings might have led her to allow his courtship, the care with which she disguised her emotions was such that she hid the secret of her love even from her closest and most affectionate maids. Of course her sadness made her father and brothers suspicious and quite apprehensive. Don Carlos, in particular, noted her melancholy. Since he loved her most tenderly and trusted in their close relationship, he kept asking her what was causing her unhappiness. Noting that don Diego kept passing by their house, he came close to suspecting the source of her sorrow. But Laura blamed her poor health and managed to satisfy any doubts he might have had through her modesty and discretion. Even so, her family did not neglect keeping careful watch over her honor.

On one of the many nights don Diego spent outside Laura's house waiting for dawn to arrive, he brought a servant with him to play music and serve as his spokesman, since he had no other way to express his love to her. This servant had one of the sweetest voices in that

city so famous for its fine voices. He was to sing a ballad that don Diego had composed for this occasion about the love and fears he felt. He was jealous of a rich, noble gentleman, a good friend of Laura's brothers, who came to their house with frequency. Don Diego feared that her inattention to him might be caused by her love for this rival—a good example of how jealousy colors even innocent situations. On that night, the musician sang this ballad:

Oh, aspiring love,
if the mistress you have chosen,
already obliged, recognizes another
more fortunate master,
why do you wander lost,
following in her footsteps,
noting all her actions,
seeking to gaze upon her?
What good does it do
for you to ask favor from heaven,
the impossible from love,
change from time?
Why do you call on jealousy
when you know that
in the impossible love
jealousy favors the beloved?
If you desire to see your beloved
far away, you are foolish,
for it makes no sense to punish yourself
simply because you wish to punish her.
If you ask discord
to wound her breast,
clearly you will see pleasure
turn into grief.
If you tell your eyes
to state their feeling,
you see that they accomplish little
no matter how tenderly they look.
If the one who could bring you
remedy for your ills,
one who is a faithful friend,
always gracious,
is also a prisoner
to that proud angel,
how can he help you
in your amorous enterprise?
If only in your love
you were to receive a reward,

if your mistress were to say
I feel sorry for you.
You look at your mistress
and see her unloving,
but even this disappointment
cannot change your desire.
You are like Tantalus
who sees the fleeting crystal
that he can never taste
reaching almost to his lips.
If only you could merit
for your great feeling
some feigned deception,
for I fear you'll die;
your sorrows must be like
the suffering of purgatory;
but I see your pain so hopeless
that it equals the torments of hell.
But you've made your choice
and death is the only remedy
for it would be a cowardly act for you
to turn your back and flee.

Sitting behind the window blind, Laura had been listening to the song from the very beginning. She decided she had to defend her reputation, because the false suspicions expressed in don Diego's verses impugned her honor. And so, what love couldn't accomplish, her fear of losing her good name did. Her shame battled with her love and finally she made up her mind to defend herself. Seeing don Diego nearby, she opened the window and softly, so no one could hear, she whispered to him:

"My lord, don Diego, it would be a miracle if, being in love, you didn't feel jealousy. There has never been a love without jealousy, or jealousy without love, but the jealousy you feel is so unfounded that I feel obliged to speak with you, something I never intended to do. I'm deeply troubled to hear my reputation sullied by the words of your song and the music of the lute, and, worst of all, in the mouth of a musician who, because he's a servant, must be an enemy. I haven't scorned you for any other suitor; indeed, if anyone in the world merits my affection, it's you and you'll be the one to win me, if you're willing to take the risk. May your love pardon my daring and boldness in acting like this and in telling you that, from this day forward, you may consider yourself mine, just as I'll consider myself fortunate to think that I'm yours. Please believe that I'd never have spoken thus if

the night, with her dark mantle, didn't cloak my shame and the color that rushes to my face while I voice this truth. It was born the first day I saw you and has remained locked up inside me ever since. You're the only one who knows this. It would grieve me sorely if anyone were witness to my confession, except you who obliges me to confess."

Overcome by his emotion, the enamored don Diego, the happiest man on earth, was struggling to respond and thank the beautiful Laura, when she heard the doors of her house open and saw two swordsmen assault him so suddenly that, had he not been prepared and his servant not been standing by with drawn sword, he might never have gotten to pursue his amorous desires any further.

Laura saw the attack and recognized her two brothers. Fearing they might catch her, she closed the window as quietly as she could, ran to her room, and quickly went to bed, not to seek repose but rather to dissemble for, with her beloved in such danger, she would certainly find no rest.

When don Alejandro and don Carlos heard the music, they had leapt from their beds and, as I've described, run out with their swords drawn. Although their swordsmanship was not necessarily better than that of don Diego and his servant, it was luckier. During the struggle, don Diego was wounded and had to withdraw. He complained of his misfortune, but it might be more appropriate to call it good fortune because, when his parents learned the cause of the fight, they saw how their son would profit from such a noble marriage. Knowing that this was his desire, they sought intermediaries to present their petition to Laura's father. When Laura feared that the whole episode of the duel might cause eternal discord, she suddenly found herself wed to don Diego, much to everyone's delight. Their marriage brought such joy to the two lovers that it would be foolish to try to describe it in this brief account.

Who, recalling don Diego's love, his tears, his complaints, the burning desire in his heart, can hear about this marvelously happy outcome and not consider Laura terribly fortunate? Who can doubt that everyone who has amorous hopes will say: how I wish I were so fortunate and my troubles could have such a happy conclusion as those of this noble lady? Particularly those ladies who think only of their own desires. Similarly, who can look at don Diego enjoying in Laura the epitome of beauty, lavish wealth, the culmination of discretion, and a prodigy of love and not exclaim that heaven has never created a more fortunate man? Given their correspondence in all these fine

qualities, one would think at the very least that this love would be eternal. And it might have been, if Laura hadn't been unfortunate because of her beauty; if don Diego had not been mutable like all men—if his love hadn't been a prelude to neglect, if his nobility hadn't previously restrained his appetites. Laura's wealth didn't protect her from unhappiness, nor did her beauty from scorn, her discretion from neglect, her love from thanklessness. In this day and age, all these virtues are greatly prized but little valued.

What was lacking for Laura to be happy? Nothing. She trusted in love and believed that its power could overcome the greatest impossibility; but even though she was more beautiful than Venus, don Diego began to scorn her. Is it too much to ask that a man be faithful, particularly when he enjoys possession?

It happened that before don Diego fell in love with Laura, he had fixed his attentions on Nise, an attractive woman from Naples who, while not the "crème de la crème," was certainly not from the dregs of society. Her appearance, her qualities, and her estate were not so deficient that she didn't entertain high aspirations. She wanted to be don Diego's wife, as her noble condition might warrant, and so she had already granted him all the favors he'd sought and all she had to offer. During the early days and months of his marriage he had neglected Nise. She set out to discover the cause of his neglect and it didn't take her long, for there's always someone who'll tell. Since don Diego had never intended to be her husband, and the wedding had been public, he hadn't given a thought to Nise. She was terribly distressed by don Diego's marriage but, after all, she was a woman in love and always forgiving of offenses, even at the expense of her own reputation. Nise remained committed to don Diego; she thought she couldn't live without him. If she couldn't be his wife, at least she could continue to enjoy him as his mistress. To accomplish her goal, she barraged him with letters, she pressed him with tears and, finally, through her insistent pleading, she managed to get don Diego to come back to her house.

This was Laura's undoing. With all her art, Nise knew how to enamor don Diego all over again and now, because Laura was his, she seemed boring. Laura began to feel rejected because of don Diego's neglect, and she grew irksome with her jealous outbursts. Don Diego the solicitous, don Diego the persistent, don Diego the lover, don Diego who, at the beginning of their marriage, had said he was the happiest man in the world, not only denied that he'd ever been like

that, he even denied to himself any acknowledgment of his obligations. Men who spurn their wives so flagrantly give wings to offense; when a man's immorality becomes flamboyant, he comes perilously close to losing his honor. Don Diego started by being inattentive, by missing bed and board. He refused to acknowledge the sorrow he was causing his wife, for it's far easier to deny one's actions than to face up to them. He disdained her favors and, in his speech, he showed contempt for her. When a man behaves so badly, what can he expect? I don't know if I ought to say that he should anticipate some offense to his honor.

Laura noted the changes in her husband's behavior, and she began to express grief, first with tears and then with words, in an effort to deal with his scorn. When a woman shows how much she's affected by her husband's errors, she's lost. When Laura felt it necessary to express her unhappiness, she gave further cause to don Diego, not just to abuse her verbally but even to lay hands upon her, heedless of the infamy of such an act. Indeed, so greatly had he come to hate and loath her that he came home only occasionally to keep up appearances. Having to face Laura was worse than death to don Diego.

Laura tried to find out the cause of these changes in behavior, and she soon learned the whole story. Servants don't have to be tortured to tell all about the failings of their masters, and they don't restrict themselves to telling only true things, they also know how to make up the most elaborate lies. Servants have been called "prose poets" because of their talent for invention, a weakness common in those who cannot help themselves. The only good it did Laura to learn the cause of her misfortunes was to make her feel her sorrows more deeply. Her situation looked hopeless to her. When the will falters there can be no hope, that's why the proverb says, "Will once twisted can never be straightened." If the remedy doesn't come from the source of the injury, no matter what the illness, there can be no cure. That's why, generally, those who are lovesick seldom want to get well.

What Laura gained from finding out the truth about don Diego's licentious behavior was to cause him to become even more shameless, pursuing his desire with greater abandon. When his vice becomes public, the vicious man knows no restraint.

One day Laura saw Nise in church. With tears in her eyes, she begged Nise to give up her claims on don Diego. Laura told her that the only thing she was accomplishing was destroying her own honor and making Laura's life a living hell. Nise had reached the point of

no longer caring about her reputation, so she didn't fear falling any lower than she already had. She replied to Laura so sharply and rudely that what Laura had thought would be the solution to her sorrow left her feeling even more hopeless, and it left Nise even more determined to pursue her love at all costs. She lost all respect for God and for the rules of society. If previously she'd pursued don Diego quietly and modestly by sending him letters, gifts, and other little things, now, shamelessly, she and her servants openly came looking for him. This license increased Laura's torment and passion, for she saw even less possibility of solution than at first. She lived the most desolate life you can imagine, absolutely without hope. No wonder! She suffered from a jealousy worse than any ravaging illness.

Laura's father and brothers noticed her unhappiness, her strained appearance, and the loss of her beauty. (Naturally she hid her sorrow from them as best she could, fearing some tragic outcome.) Finally, however, they became aware of what was going on and of the evil life don Diego was leading, and they had many arguments and ugly disagreements with him about it, which ultimately turned into open enmity.

The sad and beautiful Laura spent some time in this torment. With each day that passed, her husband's liberties increased and her patience diminished. But you can't cry over your misfortunes all the time. One night she was up late, unable to sleep because of don Diego's tardiness and her constant worries; she was sure he was in Nise's arms. She decided to ease her sorrows by singing. (Some say this eases them, but I think it makes them worse.) She took up her harp, which Italian women play very well and, sometimes singing, sometimes bursting into tears, she sang this ballad, disguising don Diego's name as Albano:

Why, tyrant Albano,
if you worship Nise
and offer all the attentions
of your love to her beauty;
why, if your heart
is prisoner to her eyes,
and to your eyes her face
is such a beautiful image;
why if you entangle your love
in the prison of her hair
and she, so responsive to you,
rewards you with her love;

why, if from her mouth,
jewelbox full of lovely pearls,
you hear love's sweet sayings,
which greatly increase your joy,
why do you repay my constancy
with disloyalty and deception
when, because I love you,
I suffer such great torment?
And if truly you give
your heart to your Nise,
why don't you give me cruel death,
since you scorn me so?
Once you feigned for me
a loving tenderness;
why didn't you at least
let me live in ignorance?
But you have used your desire,
your will, and your power,
thankless lover, all to adore her,
and never even told me.
Can't you see it isn't right,
or just, or proper
to awaken one who sleeps,
especially one who loves,
just to make her sorrow?
Woe is me, so unfortunate!
What means do I have
to make this soul of mine
come home to its body?
Tyrant, give me back my soul;
but no, don't return it to me,
it's better for the body
to die for the sake of the soul.
Alas! if in your heart
Nise's soul dwells,
even though the soul is immortal,
the body still must surely die.
Heaven, pity me, for I am dying;
jealousy torments me
like ice that burns my soul,
like fire that chills my heart.
A thousand curses,
tyrannical Albano, on the one
who lets her soul get caught
in the prison of love.
Oh my eyes, let us weep
as many tender tears

as all the waters that the ocean deep
casts upon the sands.
And to the tune of jealousy,
instrument of my complaint,
while we weep, let us sing
sad mournful songs of love.
Listen carefully,
lofty, snowy, peaks,
and let your clear echoes
serve as my response.
Listen lovely little birds,
and with melodious tongue
you shall sing my jealousy
with your sweet voices.
My Albano adores Nise
and leaves me to my sorrows;
I suffer true passion.
I suffer real pain.
He lovingly celebrates
her heavenly beauty
and praises to the skies
letters written by her hand.
Ariadne, what say you
who weep and lament
the inconstancy of your lover,
his abuse, and his absence?
And you, afflicted Prometheus,
although you feel your flesh
ravaged by the eagle
and chained to the Caucasus,
you suffer, yes, but you do not feel
as much pain as I experience,
or any fears as great.
Unhappy Ixion,
you don't feel the wracking pain
of the wheel; what you feel
are all my torments.
Tantalus reaching for the water,
always unable to touch it,
never managing to taste it,
watching it retreat as you approach,
your grief is slight,
no matter how it's described,
for there is no greater pain
than that produced by jealousy.
Ungrateful wretch, may it please heaven
for you likewise to suffer jealousy,

and rage as I am raging,
and suffer as I am suffering.
And may that enemy of mine
cause you such jealousy
that, like Midas and all his gold,
you will be rich in sorrows!

Who wouldn't be deeply touched by Laura's complaints, sung sweetly and with such great feeling? Anyone but don Diego, who was proud of his infidelity. The moment Laura reached this part of her song, her faithless husband entered and heard her words. He well understood their meaning and reacted angrily to what should have affected him differently. What he should have prized and valued filled him with rage. He began to insult Laura and said such terrible, awful things that she burst into tears. Crystal torrents poured down her heavenly cheeks (scattering pearls the dawn might have used to decorate her May flowers and lovely spring meadows). At last, Laura said to him:

"What are you doing, you thankless wretch? How can you so abuse the freedom you enjoy with all your evil ways, with no respect for heaven and no fear of hell. What you ought to praise angers you. You should be ashamed that the whole world knows and the entire city is talking about your vicious excesses. It seems as if you were deliberately stirring my passion and driving me to offend against your honor. If it troubles you that I complain about your behavior, then remove the cause of my complaints or else end my weary life. I'm fed up with your sinful wrongdoing. Is this the way you treat my love? Is this the way you appreciate my affection? Is this the way you reward my suffering? Well, it's a wonder I haven't taken the cause of all my misfortune and torn her to shreds with my bare hands!

"Poor me, to be so unfortunate! No, I'm wrong to say 'poor me.' It would be more fitting to say 'poor you' because, with your vices, you're arousing heaven's wrath, which will surely descend upon you and open wide your way to hell. God will tire of putting up with you, the world is tired of having you around; and the one you idolize will surely give you your due reward. May all women who let themselves be deceived by men's promises learn a lesson from me. May women know that if all men are like you, then women are bound to expect? instead of live. What can any husband who behaves like you expect? Only that his wife, beyond caring about honor, may destroy his honor for him. Not that I'll do that, no matter what cause you give me in

your behavior, because I am who I am, and also because, to my misfortune, the great love I have for you would never let me dishonor you. But I fear that your evil ways will inspire other men, vicious like yourself, to try to take up where you leave off. I fear that the gossips and scandalmongers will imagine my dishonor and spread rumors. What man can look at a woman like me married to a husband like you, who wouldn't be as determined to win me as you are neglectful of me?"

These were such strong words that don Diego opened up the eyes of his heart as well as the eyes of his face, and he saw that Laura was right. But his heart was so filled with Nise that it remained empty of any sense of obligation. Overcome by an infernal rage, he rushed over to her and struck her so violently that the white pearls of her teeth, bathed in the blood shed by his angry hand, looked instead like red coral. Not satisfied with this, he drew his dagger, ready to free her from the yoke as burdensome to him as it was to her. The maids, who'd been trying to separate him from his wife, screamed even more loudly at the sight of the dagger and cried out to Laura's father and brothers.

Furiously they dashed into the room. When don Carlos saw don Diego's frenzy and Laura bathed in the blood that was still gushing from her mouth, he thought her husband had stabbed her. With a sense of dreadful grief, don Carlos attacked don Diego. He wrenched the dagger away from him and was about to thrust it through his heart, when the brazen don Diego, seeing himself in such imminent danger, embraced don Carlos. Laura threw her arms around don Carlos and begged him to come to his senses, saying:

"Oh, dear brother, with his life goes the life of your unfortunate sister!"

Don Carlos checked himself, and his father intervened between the two men and calmed things down. They all returned to their separate rooms. Don Antonio was afraid that it would be his downfall if there were scenes like that every day. He decided he couldn't bear to see with his own eyes the mistreatment of his beloved daughter Laura. The next day, he gathered up his entire household and both his sons and they went to Piedrablanca, abandoning the poor Laura to her unhappy fate. She was so sad and disconsolate to see them go that she wished she could die.

Laura had heard that there were women in the region who, through sorcery, could make the unloving love. Finding her love more despised

with each passing day, she decided to remedy her problem by this means, a mistake often made by passionate people. She arranged to have a sorceress brought to her. In Naples sorceresses enjoy such freedom to exercise their superstitions and schemes that they work their spells publicly. They do strange and amazing things that appear so true you almost have to believe in their powers. The viceroy and the clergy are concerned about this problem, as there's no restriction by the Inquisition or other punishment sufficient to frighten them, for in Italy the usual penalty is a small fine.

The intermediary whom Laura had charged with bringing the sorceress to her didn't tarry. The two were probably friends, for they all know one another. The woman came, and Laura sought to curry her favor with gifts (which is what these women really want). Encouraged by the sorceress's promises, Laura told her about her misfortunes and aroused her sympathy by her many tears. She used these words to make her request:

"My friend, if you can make my husband despise his mistress Nise and love me again as he did at the beginning of our marriage when he was more faithful and I happier, you will find in my satisfaction and gratitude how much I value your services. I'll give you half of all I possess. If this isn't enough, set your fee in terms of my need, state your own price and, if what I possess isn't enough, I'll sell my body to meet it."

The woman assured Laura of her qualifications and told her of the miracles she'd performed in similar cases. She made Laura feel that her request was so feasible that Laura believed success was a sure thing. The woman said she needed certain objects that Laura should obtain and bring to her in a little pouch: hairs from the head and beard and the teeth of a hanged man. With these tokens and a few other things, she would make don Diego change character so dramatically it would astound Laura. As for pay, she wanted only what the results were worth.

"Furthermore, my lady," the false sorceress went on, "all the beauty and all the wealth in the world aren't enough to make one happy without the help of spells such as mine. Why, if you only knew how many women enjoy peace with their husbands because of me, your fears would be allayed and you'd feel assured of your good fortune."

Laura felt very confused when she realized that the woman was asking her to obtain such difficult things. She had no idea how she could get hold of the hair and teeth of a hanged man. She gave the

woman a hundred gold escudos and, since money accomplishes miracles, she told her to find someone to obtain them for her.

The crafty sorceress (who wanted to prolong the cure in order to bleed the lady's purse and cover up her machinations) replied that she didn't know anyone she could trust and, besides, the power lay in the fact that Laura herself obtained those objects and gave them into her hands. Having said this, the sorceress departed, leaving Laura as sad and troubled as you can imagine.

Laura kept wondering how she could get the things the woman asked for, but every thought that occurred to her presented a thousand difficulties. Her only remedy was to shed torrents of tears from her beautiful eyes, because she couldn't think of a soul she could trust. Laura thought it was beneath the dignity of a woman like herself to stoop to such base activities. She was afraid of her servants' lack of discretion, and above all she feared that don Diego might find out. These thoughts only made her weep more and, wringing her hands, she said to herself:

"Unlucky Laura! How could you ever have expected to be lucky? Even when you were born, you cost your mother her life. Why not sacrifice your life to death! Oh Love, mortal enemy of mankind, how much evil you've brought to the world, especially to women who are weak in every way and so susceptible to deception. It seems as if you direct your full power and all your hostility against us women. I don't know why heaven made me beautiful, noble, and rich, if these qualities can't prevent misfortune. The many gifts nature and wealth have bestowed upon me have been powerless against the unlucky star under which I was born. If I am truly unlucky, what can life have in store for me?

"This wretched life is more sorrow than joy. To whom can I tell my sorrows? Who will help me? Who will listen to my complaints and be moved? Who will see my tears and dry them for me? No one. My father and my brothers abandoned me and left me helpless to avoid knowing about my plight. Even heaven, which comforts the afflicted, is deaf to my pleas. Alas, don Diego, who would ever have thought . . . ? But I should've thought, I should've known, for after all, you're a man, and men's deceptions exceed even the exploits of the devil himself. Men do greater evil than all the minions of hell. Where can a true man be found? In what man, especially when he knows he's loved, does love last more than a day? It's as if the more

a man knows he's loved, the more he scorns and abuses. Cursed be the woman who believes in men! In the end, she'll find her love rewarded just as I have. Seeing so many painful examples of the way men behave, what woman can be so foolish as to want to get married. And the very woman who thinks she's most likely to find happiness will be the one to fail most dismally.

"How can I have so little valor, such effeminate courage? How can I be such a coward that I don't strike dead the enemy of all my peace and the ingrate who treats me so harshly? But alas! I love him. I'm afraid to make him angry; I'm afraid I might lose him! Why, vain legislators of the world, do you tie our hands so that we cannot take vengeance. Because of your mistaken ideas about us, you render us powerless and deny us access to pen and sword. Isn't our soul the same as a man's soul? If the soul is what gives courage to the body, why are we so cowardly? If you men knew that we were brave and strong, I'm sure you wouldn't deceive us the way you do. By keeping us subject from the moment we're born, you weaken our strength with fears about honor and our minds with exaggerated emphasis on modesty and shame. For a sword, you give us the distaff, instead of books, a sewing cushion. Woe is me! What good do all these thoughts do? They don't solve my hopeless problem. What I must think about is how to get that sorceress the things she's asked for."

As Laura said this, she set her mind to thinking about what she might do. Again she began to lament. Anyone who heard Laura's laments would say that the power of love had reached its limit, but there were greater trials ahead. Night came, and it was the darkest and the most shadowy night of the winter (to show how night felt about her plan). She didn't take into account any risk or possible consequences of her acts should don Diego come home and find her absent from their house. She instructed her servants, if her husband did by chance return, to tell him she'd gone to visit one of her many women friends in Naples.

Laura put on one of her maid's cloaks, took a little lantern and, accompanied only by her vast fears, she set out down the street with greater courage than her few years warranted. She went to get what she hoped would solve all her problems. Just thinking about where she went fills me with horror. Oh, don Diego, cause of so much evil, why doesn't God take you to account for all your wickedness? You have driven your wife beyond fear of the dreadful place where she

will go, disregarding the suspicions she might arouse in her maids and risking the loss of her honor and her life if she's discovered! If only you thought about it, you'd see how much you owe her!

About a mile from the city of Naples, there's a holy image of Our Lady of Arca much venerated in the whole kingdom. The image is in a chapel just a stone's throw from the main highway that goes to Piedrablanca. The chapel is about fifty feet long and the same across; its door faces the road. In the front of the chapel, there's an altar with the holy image painted on the wall behind it. The ceiling is about nine feet high, and the floor is a pit sunk about twenty feet deep. Surrounding this great pit there's just a ledge about eighteen inches wide along which you can walk around the chapel. At about the height of a man, and sometimes even lower, there are iron hooks in the wall. After criminals sentenced to death have been publicly hanged, their corpses are brought here and hung from these hooks. As the bodies decompose, their bones fall into the pit, which, being holy ground, serves as their tomb. A few days before, six highway bandits had been hanged.

This is the dreadful place where Laura went. With the incredible courage her love inspired in her, she entered. Ignoring the great danger, she was mindful only of her terrible need. She felt less afraid of the people she was going to do business with than of falling into the abyss. If that happened, no one would ever know what had become of her. What incredible heart in such a frail, weak woman! She got to the chapel about ten and stayed until one. Who knows if it was God's will or her own limitation, but she wasn't able to accomplish her mission in spite of the fact that she could easily reach the faces of the dead men. I shall now tell you how that came about.

I've already described how Laura's father and her brothers, to keep from seeing her mistreated and to avoid the risk of open warfare with their brother-in-law, had retreated to Piedrablanca. There they lived, if not forgetful of her, at least removed from the sight of her sorry plight. The night when Laura went to the chapel, don Carlos was fast asleep in his bed. Suddenly he awoke with a start and cried out so loudly that it almost seemed as if he might die. His cry upset the whole household. Confused and worried, his father and all the servants rushed to his room. Showing their grief in tears, they asked him what had caused his outcry, but it was a mystery even to the one who'd suffered it. After don Carlos recovered his composure, he said in a loud voice, "My sister is in danger!" He jumped up, threw on his

clothes, and ordered his horse to be saddled. He leapt on the horse and, without waiting for a servant to accompany him, he took the road to Naples at full gallop. He rode so fast that by one o'clock he'd gotten to the chapel. At that point the horse stopped sharply and stood stock still, as if it were a statue made of bronze or stone.

Don Carlos tried to proceed but, no matter how he tried, he couldn't make the horse budget. He couldn't get him to move either forward or backward. Each time he spurred him on, the horse would utter a frightful snort. When don Carlos couldn't solve this mystery, he remembered that the chapel was nearby. He turned to look at it and saw the light from the lantern his sister was carrying. He thought some sorceress must have detained him there. To make sure, he decided to see if the horse would move toward the chapel; the moment he turned the rein, without any other urging, the horse did his master's will. With sword in hand, he rode up to the door. (The moment whoever was inside heard him, the mysterious person snuffed out the light and huddled close to the wall.) Don Carlos called out:

"Whoever you are there, come out immediately! If you don't, I swear by the king's life, that I won't leave this spot until I see who you are by the light of the sun and find out what you're doing in this place."

Laura recognized her brother's voice. Hoping he'd go away, she disguised her voice as best she could and replied:

"I'm a poor unfortunate woman come to this place for a certain purpose. It's none of your business who I am. Please, for the love of God, go away! And rest assured, kind sir, that if you insist on waiting until daylight, I shall throw myself down into the pit, even though that would cost me my life and my soul."

Laura couldn't disguise her voice well enough, and her brother hadn't forgotten her as completely as she thought. He gasped and cried out loudly, saying:

"Oh, sister, how dreadful for you to be here! Not in vain did my heart warn me of your peril. Come out of there!"

Realizing that her brother had recognized her, Laura used the utmost care she could muster to keep from falling into the pit. Hugging the wall and probably also clinging to the bodies of the dead men, slowly she managed to make her way out. When she reached her grief-stricken brother she threw herself in his arms. (Who can doubt that don Carlos, loving her as much as he did, felt heartsick as he embraced her?) Together they moved away from that dread spot, and then he

listened to Laura briefly relate what had brought her there. She learned how her brother had chanced to come there at that very moment. He considered the rescue miraculous, as did Laura, despite the fact that she was feeling very ashamed of what she'd done. Don Carlos decided to take her back to Piedrablanca on his horse.

Near dawn they reached Piedrablanca. After Laura's father heard the whole story, he, the two brothers, and Laura got into a coach and drove to Naples. They went straight to the palace of the viceroy, who at that time happened to be don Pedro Fernandez de Castro, count of Lemos. He was a very noble, wise, and devout prince whose rare virtues and outstanding qualities should be written on bronze plaques and on the tongue of fame rather than just on paper. Don Antonio (as I was saying) placed himself at the feet of this eminent person. He knelt down and told the viceroy that, in order to relate a most portentous event that had occurred, it was necessary for his son-in-law, don Diego Pinatelo, to be present, because the matter concerned his authority and his domestic relations.

His excellency, well aware of don Antonio's valor and nobility, immediately sent the captain of the guard to fetch don Diego. He was found in a state of despair and the entire household in turmoil. The menservants had fled, terrified of his rage, and the maids had been locked up. What caused the uproar was that he had come home late the night before and found Laura gone. Thinking that his noble wife had deserted him or run away intending to destroy his honor, he'd tried to set the house on fire. He raged like a lion.

When don Diego was informed that the viceroy required his presence, he accompanied the escort, furious and glowering. He entered the hall and was stunned to see his father-in-law, his brothers-in-law, and his wife. He was even more astonished to hear his wife, in his presence, tell the viceroy exactly what we have written here. Laura ended her story and added that she was disillusioned with the world and with men and didn't want to have to struggle any longer. When she thought about what she'd done and the awful place where she'd gone, she was horrified. For this reason, she wanted to enter a convent, the only real sanctuary for the relief of the misery to which women are subjected.

When don Diego heard Laura say this, it touched his heart to realize he'd caused so much pain. Being a well-intentioned man, he prized Laura at this moment more than ever and feared she might really do as she wished. He understood how aggrieved she was and realized he could win no concessions from her, so he tried to use the

viceroy as intermediary. He begged the noble gentleman to intercede and ask Laura to come back to him. He promised to mend his way now that he knew the power of her love. To assure Laura of his own love, he would place Nise, the cause of so much misfortune, in his excellency's hands so he could put her in a convent. Separated from Nise forever and eternally grateful to Laura for the power of her love, he would adore his true wife and serve her always.

The viceroy approved of don Diego's plan, as did don Antonio and his sons. But it was impossible for Laura to accept his offer. She was too afraid because of the past. Ever more resolute in her determination, she told don Diego he was wasting his time. She wanted to give to God, who was infinitely more appreciative, all the love she'd previously devoted to her thankless husband.

That very day Laura entered the rich, noble, and holy convent of the Immaculate Conception. Not even the viceroy himself could make Laura reveal the identity of the woman who'd asked for those outrageous objects in order to have her punished.

In despair, don Diego went home. He gathered up all the jewels and money he could find and, without saying good-bye to anyone, departed the city. A few months later it was learned that while serving in the army of his majesty Philip III, king of Spain, in the war with the duke of Savoy, he was blown up by a mine. Laura, now entirely free, took the habit and soon thereafter made her vows. She lives a devout life in the convent. She still regrets her daring deed and, every time she recalls that awful place where she went, she trembles. I heard this tale from her own lips, and I tell it as a true story so that everyone will know the great power of love and the marvelous enchantment of its power.

Everyone had listened with amazement to the discreet enchantment narrated by the beautiful Nise. Some praised the power of Laura's love, others her intelligence, and everyone praised her courage. They all agreed that not one among them would dare to visit such a dread place as she had. This gave Nise the opportunity to reaffirm that every word she'd spoken was true.

Lysis noted that the lovely Phyllis was preparing to tell her tale so, accompanied by the musicians, she sang this burlesque madrigal:

     Let us understand one another,
sister flea: who has given you
such a tyrannical nature,

such courage and valor,
that you attack everyone?
Why are you the one who forgives no one?

     And such a tiny little thing
to bite more than one poet, what a coup!
You bite people of all classes,
as a beautiful woman might confess,
that what she denied to others
the flea has thoroughly enjoyed.

     When I consider your progeny
and ponder your humble lineage,
I'm amazed at your power
and so I'd call you a scandal-monger,
born, perhaps, in a stable, still
you bite and martyrize the whole world.

     Tailor of human flesh
who makes everyone nervous,
worrying morning, noon, and night
about where you may be wandering;
you and Love are the appellate judges
of all mortal beings.

     Oh, haughty commissioner!
Oh, harsh justice!
Oh, vengeful mayor!
Oh, heartless and designing bailiff!
Oh, tricky notary,
life and death are in your hands!

     Please be grateful for my friendship,
for sometimes I let you bite me;
so let's be friends, and you go bite
the judges with all your might,
and may they give the prize to me
for I've already tasted it.

The prettily sung lyrics gave much pleasure to the audience, who recognized that they'd been composed for some contest. They all thanked the heavenly Lysis, most of all don Diego. With each word the lovely lady sang, he became more passionately enamored, which made don Juan terribly jealous, although he gave a different reason for his dispute with don Diego, suggesting that it was because don Diego feared his pen more than his sword. The truth was that he

loved Lisarda, still, he didn't dislike Lysis, and he didn't want to lose the affection of either woman. Such fickle men belong in solitary confinement.

While the illustrious audience was congratulating Lysis and singing her praise, Nise and Phyllis changed places. They all turned their attention to Phyllis, and she began:

"Since the lovely Nise has told all about the power of love in her enchantment, to continue in her style, I'd like to tell about the power of virtue in mine, about how a woman is disenchanted by the experiences of another woman and ultimately is rewarded. I tell this story so men will realize that there are virtuous women and that it's wrong for the name of good women to be tarnished by the deeds of bad women: all women should not be tarred with the same brush. Without departing one whit from the truth, my story goes like this":

Disillusionment in Love and Virtue Rewarded

The imperial city of Toledo, ancient seat of monarchs and crown city of their kingdom, glories in its delightful setting, its beautiful construction, its noble gentlemen and splendid ladies. Their heavenly faces compete with their elegant wit as they join in amorous battle, the effects of which can be seen in the hearts of all who celebrate and delight in love. If each lovely lady is herself a sibyl, all of them together form a veritable squadron of angels. In these splendors and in many other wonders, this illustrious city is one of Spain's glories and nature's greatest miracles. More than any other place, it deserves the name of being the eighth wonder of the world.

Here, not many years ago, lived a gentleman we shall call don Fernando. He was born of noble, fairly well-to-do parents, and he seemed so gallant, high-spirited, and brave that, if he hadn't tarnished his natural graces by being more inclined toward mischief and vice than toward virtue, he might have been the pride and glory of his birthplace. (Oh, woe betide those men who don't do good as they were brought up to do!) From don Fernando's tenderest youth, his parents tried to rear him and teach him the manners required by his noble birth so that he would carry on the family tradition inherited from his ancestors. But such virtuous customs were too weighty for don Fernando. He invariably obeyed his mischievous inclinations; indeed he never even tried to resist them. As a result, he took little

advantage of his good upbringing. Suddenly, at the very worst time, his father died and his mother was unable to give don Fernando the kind of attention he needed, either because she couldn't control him or because she had no other son and was afraid to lose his affection.

Thereafter don Fernando devoted himself even more wholeheartedly to his vices and mischief: he dueled, he gambled, and he womanized so wantonly that he never missed any incident that took place in the city. He was involved in every scrape and caused so much mischief that he prided himself on being the cock of the walk. Don Fernando had scarcely reached manhood when he became the abomination of men. He seemed to have been brought up purposefully to ruin and destroy the good name as well as the inheritance of his ancestors. There was no trouble from which he was absent, no disturbance of which he was not a part, and getting out of all these scrapes cost him a lot. His excesses were so notorious that he was watched, especially by the police, with whom he was constantly having brushes. These skirmishes consumed a fair part of his inheritance, which concerned him more than a little because it hadn't been very abundant to begin with.

In the midst of all these diversions and excesses, love struck our gentleman in the form of the beauty, grace, and discretion of a lady who lived in Toledo, fairly wealthy herself and incomparably beautiful, whom we shall call doña Juana. Her parents had both passed away, leaving her all alone. They had been strangers in the city and so she had no relatives there. Doña Juana was twenty, a dangerous age for a woman's virtue because at this time beauty, vanity, and folly are governed by the will, and a woman tends not to heed reason or judgment and, instead, lets herself be carried away by lascivious desires.

Doña Juana let herself be courted and served by several young gentlemen, thinking that in this way she could arrange her own marriage. Don Fernando took a fancy to our lady (quite unprecedented, given his nature). He courted her favor with letters, music, gifts, all the weapons men use to conquer the frail resistance of women. Doña Juana looked favorably on don Fernando and felt pleased to see herself courted by such a gallant and noble gentleman. She believed that, if she could oblige him to become her husband, she would be exceedingly fortunate. Although not unaware of his reckless excesses, she said, as do others (but they're wrong), that they were just boyish pranks, sowing wild oats. In the long run, however, you can expect little of the man who lacks principles in the beginning.

Don Fernando, being astute, knew that doña Juana would never surrender herself to him except in marriage, so he pretended to want just that. That is what he told everyone who might repeat it to her, especially her maids, whenever he spoke with them. The lady was equally clever and, knowing that there's no better bait for a man's affections than aloofness, in order to sharpen his desire, she played hard to get, enamoring him more and more with her coy disdain. Her distance really did affect don Fernando, perhaps because in the beginning he was only fooling around and now he really loved her, or maybe because he was determined to conquer her. Given his conviction that his good looks could conquer any beauty, he was afraid he might lose status unless he succeeded in vanquishing her disdain. So he set out to overcome her distance with his many charms. The crueler she was, the more loving he seemed, the more disdainful she was, the humbler he acted, the colder she was, the more lovesick he appeared to be.

One summer night, as on many other nights, love brought him to her street with some friends. As the saying goes, where the soul dwells, there you'll find the body. He came prepared with musical instruments for entertainment. He asked his friends to accompany him, and they all joined in and sang:

Of the two pains that love
can bring to an unhappy man,
worse than being forgotten
is being scorned;
for one can forget his oblivion
and love again another day,
but the one who's been scorned,
whenever he remembers
it will be to feel scorn again,
rather than to love well.

Oblivion is the lack of
insistent memory,
it's bad fortune
but not bad intention;
against all natural law,
one blinded by passion
who scorns in this situation
not only doesn't love
but actually desires evil;
worse than oblivion is disdain.

And so, to make my point, if scorn
is an offense, one understands
that the thankless lover
who scorns aggrieves;
and if someone wants to love
who has been scorned,
let him enter the game,
but if I'm to be mistreated,
rather than being scorned,
I prefer to sink into oblivion.

I confess that the one who scorns
holds a certain kind of memory,
but if that seems like glory,
it's more like hell to me,
because when you consider it well,
such a person only desires
to see himself happy and avenged;
and if this is the way it is,
then just because of the danger
it's better to be forgotten.

Don Fernando made no mistake in singing these verses, albeit unintentionally, because until this time he'd been unable to ascertain the lady's will, to tell whether she was inclined to love him or to scorn him. He didn't know whether his charms had found room in her heart for, although he was reckless, he could boast of many charms. But doña Juana had already decided to favor him. She had, until that moment, remained hidden to listen to his music. Now she allowed herself to be seen and even requested that he play more music because it pleased her greatly. Happier for this favor than he'd ever felt before, don Fernando took heart and sang this ballad unaccompanied:

Melancholy suspicion,
torment of my memory,
delight of my soul,
and eternal flame of my pleasure,
death of my hopes,
fear of my desiring,
tomb of my glory,
prison of my thoughts,
tears in my sad eyes,
and sighs in my breast,
if you are not love, you must be jealousy.

Fears of my misfortune
born before their time,
know, to my sorrow,
my mistress's disdain.
From her, with tender tears,
signs of my true affection,
sure indications of my love,
I humbly beg her remedy.
To see if my request
finds mercy in her heart,
the heaven of all my glory,
I seek glory in her heaven.
Who are you? But I suspect
if you are not love, you must be jealousy.

Hear my tender sighs,
oh, image I idolize,
as, weeping, I bewail
your neglect and my sorrow.
Mistress mine, I am
Tantalus to your favors;
when I try to taste
your delicious crystal chalice,
it slips away from my thirsting lips;
Sisyphus am I, carrying on my shoulders
the weight of my glory
and, when I reach the summit,
together we fall into the depths.
Who are you? But I suspect
if you are not love, you must be jealousy.

Alas! How many times I've tried
to suppress the illness I suffer;
how many times my boldness
overcomes my fears.
And how many times I have seen
my hopes flee from disappointment
but then, unheeded, they
go back where they came from.
And how many times, when I saw Cupid
fanning the flame
did I with reason
interrupt his chaotic plan.
Who are you? But I suspect
if you are not love, you must be jealousy.

So, indeed, I lost myself
to those bewitching eyes

that have snuffed out more lives
than the heavens have stars.
I feel like Etna erupting,
Mongibelo afire,
and the flames that burn me
are themselves inflamed by ice.
Sweet liberty lost,
it is right that we should cry;
you for my hopeless love
and I for your eternal captivity.
Who are you? But I suspect
if you are not love, you must be jealousy.

Because of the favors doña Juana granted him that night, don Fernando departed happier than you can imagine. Considering the scorn she had previously shown toward him and, since these were the first favors he'd received, he thought he'd done quite well. Continuing his courtship and his love, increasing his gifts, and exaggerating his courtesies, he gradually won the affections of the lady. Now she was hopelessly in love, and don Fernando became the one who let himself be loved and served (this is the nature of men who are loved and the fate of women who surrender). Even though don Fernando did love doña Juana, he was no longer beside himself with passion. His love certainly wasn't enough to make him give up any of his other pastimes for doña Juana (as is typical of the false lover). It's well known that those who enjoy possession are the very ones who know best how to deceive and least how to love truly, for the unhappy lover is never fickle while the successful lover seldom stays true.

Ultimately don Fernando won his desire and doña Juana surrendered herself to him. No wonder, when he placed her under obligation by promising to marry her, which is the prize men offer in order to sugarcoat the bitter pill of their deception. Don Fernando's mother was still alive, and this was the excuse he offered for not marrying doña Juana immediately. He said he was afraid his marriage would upset her so much that it might cause her death, so they'd have to keep their love secret until the right time. Doña Juana believed him and swallowed happily all the excuses he made. She believed that the most important thing, winning his affection, had been accomplished. She put aside all her fears because fortune seemed to favor her and, besides, she could no longer live without her lover, which was probably the real reason.

Their secret affair went on for six months, and don Fernando gave

her everything she needed. He supported her household as if she were his wife because that was the agreement they had. During this time, doña Juana came to love him more and more passionately while don Fernando loved her as her possessor. But then the possession began to bore him.

Doña Juana had a friend who, although she'd passed her forty-eighth birthday, was still attractive and elegant. She hadn't lost a bit of the vibrant beauty she enjoyed in her youth. Her appeal was enhanced by the great wealth she possessed and had increased in Rome and in the other countries where she'd traveled. Everywhere she went, she had become known as a powerful witch, but not everybody knew it because she never exercised her powers on behalf of others, only for herself. Certainly doña Juana didn't know this, although she did have her doubts about Lucrecia—this was the good woman's name. Lucrecia was a native of Rome but as clever and Spanish as if she'd been born and brought up in Old Castile.

Because of her friendship with doña Juana, she came often to her house. You may well imagine that she fell in love with don Fernando, knowing how affection develops from frequent contact. Love is an enemy as unavoidable as it is powerful, for I agree with those who say that affection and disaffection are not within our power to control. Now this was not Lucrecia's first experience of this kind, and she wanted her beloved to know of her love, so she began to visit doña Juana more frequently and to look very lovingly at don Fernando.

At first don Fernando didn't catch on because he thought Lucrecia was beyond the age of flirtation and love affairs. She, now passionately in love, took note of doña Juana's great love and don Fernando's little love. Although doña Juana didn't suspect her friend's treachery, she did represent an impediment to the achievement of Lucrecia's desire because she was so in love she couldn't bear to be separated from her lover. Lucrecia decided to write him a letter, which she carried with her to have ready. She waited for the right time, place, and situation and, at the first opportunity, she gave it to him. It read as follows:

Don Fernando, knowing that doña Juana is to become your wife, it would be foolish on my part to try to separate you from her love. But I see in your behavior and in the other entertainments which engage you that your affection for her does not go beyond simple enjoyment of her beauty. For this reason, I've decided to reveal my feelings to you. I've loved you from the moment I

first saw you. A love as determined as mine cannot be expressed less candidly; I possess great wealth with which to regale you; my wealth and my person are yours to command. You are all I want, all I care about. May God keep you.
Lucrecia

Don Fernando was by nature fickle—men like him require constant change for stimulation; when they tire of enjoying one beauty, they desire another, and sometimes even an ugly woman will appeal to them. At any rate, either because of his nature, his desire to have money to spend and to gamble with, or most probably because Lucrecia's magical spells and arts were beginning to control his will, he read her letter and accepted her offer. That very day he went to her house. Of course he didn't fail to show up at doña Juana's as well. He did his visits to Lucrecia, who was now trying to break up his relationship with doña Juana and put an end to his visits to her.

Doña Juana noticed her lover's absences. She also detected changes in Lucrecia's behavior, noting in particular the fact that her friend didn't visit as regularly. Doña Juana began to suspect what was actually going on. To find out the cause for these changes for sure, she began to follow don Fernando. She soon discovered the whole situation and learned that Lucrecia had given him power over her estate. He could spend her money as he liked and even exhaust her fortune. Doña Juana began to argue with her ungrateful lover over his new affair, but that only made her less attractive and less loveable. Don Fernando had no intention of giving up his pleasure, and our poor lady had no recourse but to suffer her anguish. Realizing that her anger only drove him farther away, she decided to dissemble, hoping to win him back through her love, since she couldn't live without don Fernando and his neglect was driving her crazy.

Lucrecia began to use her powers to their fullest. When our poor gentleman was at doña Juana's house, Lucrecia would draw him instantly to her own house in whatever state her magic happened to catch him, whether he was dressed or not.

Doña Juana watched all this happening and noticed that don Fernando came irregularly and infrequently to her house. Usually he would visit her upon leaving his mother's (she, naturally, was troubled to see her son so preoccupied). All of a sudden some stronger attraction would draw him away from doña Juana. There were still a few burning embers among the ashes of his love for her, but they could not withstand Lucrecia's spells and charms. He would stand

hesitating in the street unable to decide where to go, torn between love and bewitchment. In the end Lucrecia—or more precisely, the devil, who was very much on her side—would win out.

Finally, realizing that her beauty alone was not enough and that she was losing ground, doña Juana decided to fight fire with fire. She made inquiries about who could help her in this kind of situation. A friend told her about a student who lived in the famous and noble city of Alcala. The friend said that the student was so gifted in these matters that, just by listening to her tale, he could guarantee results. Because using an intermediary would delay the resolution of her problem, doña Juana decided to be her own messenger. Pretending to have made a vow, she asked don Fernando's permission, which wasn't very hard to obtain, to make a pilgrimage to the tomb of the glorious Saint James. She hired a coach and set out in search of what she hoped would be her salvation, carrying a letter of introduction from the friend who'd told her about the student.

When she got to the student's house in Alcala, he welcomed her courteously. She placed in his hands the sum of twenty escudos and the letter of introduction. The troubled lady described her misfortune and begged him to help her. The student replied that, before he could accept the money, it was necessary to find out whether don Fernando would, in fact, marry her. When she learned his intention, then she could reward the student for what he'd actually done. To accomplish this, he gave her two rings with green stones. He instructed her to return to Toledo and to keep the rings in safekeeping and not even to try them on until don Fernando came to see her.

When she saw him actually enter, she was to place the rings on the fingers of her right hand with the stones turned in toward her palms. Holding don Fernando's two hands in hers, she was to bring up the subject of their marriage and pay close attention to the answers he gave. Within the week, the student would come to her house and advise her as to how to proceed, just as if he'd taken the matter up with God Himself, who's the only one who really knows the future. The student warned her to take the rings off immediately and to guard them with her life because they were priceless to him. After receiving this advice, doña Juana gave him directions to her house and repeated her name so that he'd have no trouble finding her in Toledo. She returned home the happiest person in the world.

The moment she got back, she let don Fernando know of her arrival. He received this news with more regret than enthusiasm, al-

though his obligation to her made him act pleased. To avoid giving her cause for complaint, he went immediately to see her. Doña Juana saw her chance. The instant don Fernando entered, she put on the rings the way the student had instructed and took don Fernando's hands in hers. With myriad caresses, she began to ask when the day would come when they would be united before the eyes of God. Given the open way they were living in sin together, they really should take God's displeasure into account. Whey, when she thought about their not being married, she feared losing God's grace, and this fear ruined her happiness and made her mortally sad.

Don Fernando responded to her pleas more tenderly than usual. The explanation for this was that Lucrecia thought doña Juana was away. Unaware that she'd come home, she was not pressing don Fernando with her magical spells. Don Fernando replied that if he didn't think it would upset his mother, he would make her his wife that very night; but time would accomplish what now seemed impossible to her. His answer and the fact that he spent the whole night with her, made doña Juana think that fortune was on her side and that don Fernando was as good as wed to her.

Doña Juana removed the rings and gave them to the maid to put away. The maid thought they were so shiny and pretty that she put them on her own hands. Then she wore them when she went to draw water from the well and when she washed the dishes. The next day she wore the pretty rings down to the river where the maids were washing clothes to show them off. She wore them not only on this one day but every day until the student came to Toledo. She took them off only to go into the presence of her mistress because, of course, she didn't want doña Juana to see her wearing them.

As they had agreed, the student came to Toledo and doña Juana greeted him as if he were an oracle. She gave him gifts and rewarded him. Then doña Juana returned his rings to him and described how don Fernando had responded. The student, grateful for her many kindnesses, told her that he would study the whole matter with careful attention and let her know what the situation promised and what measures she should take to bring about a happy conclusion. He then departed.

But the wretch had gotten scarcely a league outside of Toledo when the devils who dwelt in the rings appeared before him. They knocked him from his mule and beat him up. They battered him until they almost killed him. As they fled, they shrieked:

"Fool! Traitor! You gave us to a woman who entrusted us to a maid who wore us down to the river, to the plaza, everywhere she went. She wore us on her hands while she scrubbed floors and lugged water. You're to blame and you're the one who must pay! And what answer do you intend to give that woman? Do you think her lover will marry her? No indeed, because living in sin together the way they are, they're already burning in hell's fire, and that's just where they'll go when they die! Neither you nor she can make her wish come true."

Having shrieked these words, the devils left the poor student for dead. He was in such bad shape that he was a pitiful sight to see. He had bruises all over his whole body.

The next morning, some bread-sellers on their way to Toledo found him on the verge of death. Moved by compassion, they placed him on a mule and brought him into the city. They placed him in the plaza to see if anyone recognized him, because the poor fellow was unable to say who he was or where to take him.

It so happened that doña Juana's maid went out to buy food just then, and she was among the many who flocked to see the battered student. She recognized him immediately. With this news, she ran to her mistress. The moment doña Juana heard it, she grabbed her cloak and rushed to the plaza where she found the poor student. She had him brought to her house to be taken care of. She put him in her own bed and called in her doctors to cure him. So, thanks to doña Juana, God's will was done; the student regained consciousness and, under her good care, he gradually recovered his health.

During his recovery, he told doña Juana the cause of his misfortune, repeating the statements the demons had made about her affair. His report that she was "already burning in hell's fire" right here in this world caused such terror in the lady that it was enough to disillusion her with her love. Disenchanted, she realized the danger she was in and decided to remedy it by taking an altogether different tack.

Eventually the student recovered completely from his illness. Before he departed for home, doña Juana asked him, since his knowledge was great, to help her in her new plan. The grateful young man promised to do everything that was within his power.

Now the truth is that when don Fernando had fallen in love with doña Juana and she, overwhelmed by this good fortune, had given him possession of her person, she was also loved and courted by a gentleman from Genoa, the son of a very wealthy man attending the

Spanish court. Through his business dealings in Italy, the father had earned a great fortune and a title of nobility for his sons. This son was the second son; he had one older brother and two sisters, one married and the other a nun, both of whom lived in Toledo. This young man, whose name was Octavio, spent all the time he could in Toledo with his sisters just to glimpse doña Juana. His father approved of his spending so much time there because of the pleasure his visits afforded his sisters. Early on, before don Fernando had begun to pay doña Juana court, she had favored Octavio. Then she captured don Fernando's attention. Octavio found out that don Fernando was the reason why his lady no longer looked on him with favor, so he decided to get rid of don Fernando. One night when don Fernando and his friends were in doña Juana's street, Octavio and his friends attacked them and the fight resulted in cruel wounds; several young men were injured on both sides, and neither side won. Octavio then challenged don Fernando to a duel, but by this time don Fernando was already enjoying doña Juana's favors, having promised to marry her, as I've said before.

When the lady heard about the duel she became afraid of losing don Fernando, so she wrote Octavio a letter telling him, among other discreet and moving things, that the greatest thing he could do to show his love for her was to protect the life of her betrothed even more than her own, that he should realize her life was sustained by her love for her betrothed. The love-stricken Octavio went into such a passion that he was ill for many days. To comply with doña Juana's pleasure and her command, he wrote her a letter filled with tenderness and laments. He even swore to protect don Fernando's life, as she would see in his deeds. That very afternoon, dressed for the road, the most gallant gentleman in the world (and, had not doña Juana's fancy been so taken by don Fernando, she would have felt attracted to Octavio), seeing her on her balcony, said to her with tears in his eyes:

"My ungrateful beauty, basilisk of my life, farewell forever."

With these words, Octavio forever left his sister's house in Toledo, his parents' home, and Spain. He went to Genoa where he rested several days before entering the army to serve the king in Naples.

Doña Juana believed the words the student had repeated to her. She thought that if only Octavio would return to Spain, he would make her a better husband than don Fernando. She explained this background to the student. She tried to put him in her debt with gifts

and to encourage him by promises of other gifts, such as a hundred escudos for a new suit. Then she asked him to use all of his powers and arts to make Octavio come back.

The student, who'd learned his lesson from recent experience, replied that in this matter he could only tell her what she needed to do in order to obtain her heart's desire. Within the month he planned to come back to Toledo and, depending on her success, she could pay him then. He gave her a note and told her to lock herself in her room every night and do precisely as the note instructed. Because the note's words were scandalous and it's not necessary for us to know them, they won't be repeated here. Certainly doña Juana never uttered them to a soul except her confessor. The student, well rewarded and quite pleased with his ingenuity, returned to Alcala, leaving the lady fully advised as to what she should do.

Not wanting to waste a minute, doña Juana began that very night to exercise the spell. After three nights, the words the audacious student had written on the paper took effect or, more likely, God took advantage of this situation to regain doña Juana for Himself, using the devil and his wiles as a means to her conversion.

On the third night, doña Juana was performing her conjuration with all the concentration her desire could muster, when she heard a sound at the door. Suddenly she felt an icy draft on her face and was afraid to be alone. She looked over to where the sound had come from and saw Octavio passing through the locked door, dragging heavy chains and surrounded by fiery flames. Uttering terrifying moans, he moved toward her. In a frightful voice he said:

"What do you want of me, doña Juana, what do you want? Wasn't it enough for you to torment me during my lifetime? Must you also torment me in my death? Give up this evil life you lead. Fear God and fear the account you must give of all your sinful pleasures. Rest assured that even though the devil is the father of all lies and deceits, God may allow him to utter truths for the benefit and usefulness of men, to warn them of their perdition, as He has done with you. Through the voice of the student, He has warned you of your danger. Be fearful, for He has told you that you are burning in hell's fire, and give Him thanks because, sorrowful for your perdition, He has given you warning. You know that your sins cause Him to bleed and die on the cross, suffering great pain and injury.

"Take care of your soul, that's what you must do. Once it's lost, there is no greater loss, nor is there any way to make up for its loss.

Now leave me alone, for I suffer the greatest pain a miserable soul can imagine while I wait for God to have mercy on my torment. I want you to know that a year after I left this city, I met my death as I was leaving a gaming house, and God willed that my torment should not be eternal. Don't think I've come to tell you this because of the power of your conjurations, but because of God's great providence and mercy. He commanded me to give you this warning and to tell you that, if you don't take care of your soul, woe be unto you!"

As soon as Octavio uttered these words, he began to sigh and moan again. Dragging his chains behind him, he left the room. In his presence, doña Juana had listened to him bravely but, after he left, she was filled with fear and sorrow, not so much from having seen Octavio (a woman in love will brave anything) but from having heard his terrifying words. She understood them to be warnings from heaven, and she wondered if she might be close to death since such strange things were happening to her. So deeply did she feel this fear that she called out to her servants and fell to the floor, overcome by a cruel swoon. Her cry brought not only the servants but also the neighbors rushing into the room. Immediately they began to apply various remedies. Doña Juana would return to her senses only to faint again, over and over. This is how she spent the night, sometimes conscious, sometimes unconscious. The people who were attending her didn't dare leave her for fear she might die. They were also anxious to know what had brought on such a sudden illness. Sorrowing to see her so close to death, they kept asking her to tell them the cause, but all she would say was for them not to leave her alone because death was near. She kept begging them to call a confessor to give her the last sacraments.

In this confusion day came, and doña Juana showed no signs of improvement. By sheer force, they managed to undress her and put her to bed. When the lady saw it was day, she sent for don Fernando. He came and was amazed and saddened by her illness. He sat on her bed and asked her how she was feeling and what had happened. The beautiful doña Juana (shedding oceans of tears from her eyes) told him the story of the student and all about Octavio's apparition. She didn't omit a single detail and ended her story with these words:

"I, don Fernando, have only one soul. If it is lost, I have nothing else to lose. I have now received more than one warning from heaven, and it would be stupid for me to ignore these warnings until it's too late. I am aware of how faint your love for me is, and I know that you'll never marry me; you promised to marry me only to have your

way with me. For two years now you've been deceiving me with your promises, and tomorrow will be no different from today. I've decided to end my days as a nun and, given the miracles that have happened to me, I don't expect to live much longer. Do not think I have chosen this path because I've been cheated of being your wife; I promise you that, even if you now were to try to marry me with all your heart and your mother's blessing, I wouldn't accept. The moment Octavio told me to watch out for my soul, I made up my mind to become Christ's bride and not yours, and this I have vowed.

"I need you to help me, to honor your obligation to me because of my love for you, which has not been small, considering the things I've done. You know that my estate is so limited that I don't have enough money for the dowry or for the other things I need to enter the convent of the Immaculate Conception, which is the convent where I choose to withdraw from all the trials and tribulations of this world. I need you to make up the difference and to negotiate my admission. As a woman disenchanted with the world, I beg you to watch out for yourself. Remember that one who suffers no trial or punishment in the pursuance of his vices has no sure salvation. What is sure is that God leaves us all free to go to hell."

Doña Juana fell silent, leaving her listeners astounded. Don Fernando felt as happy as if she'd given him a new lease on life, such was the power that Lucrecia had over him. He embraced doña Juana and praised her decision. Promising to help her in every way, he went to arrange her admission into the convent. They settled on a dowry of a thousand ducats, which don Fernando generously gave. He paid all the other expenses to outfit her properly and give the appropriate tips. The thousand ducats that doña Juana had inherited were to provide income for her expenses and to pay off the maids, to whom she gave her dresses, other clothes, and household goods. Within the week, she found herself wearing a nun's habit and happier than she'd ever been in all her life. She felt she'd found a refuge where she could seek salvation. By so narrowly escaping from the jaws of hell, she felt like she was in heaven.

Don Fernando thought it was incredible luck that he was free of the burden of his obligation to her because, if doña Juana hadn't miraculously withdrawn from the world, he would've had to marry her, a notion that had depressed him greatly, given his little love for her. He had, after all, been the one who had aroused her passion and

won her through his deception. This is what often happens when love rules: men promise things they later deny when their desire has been satisfied and their passion has waned.

Now that don Fernando was free of doña Juana, he went more assiduously to Lucrecia's house. Seeing no obstacle to his devotion for her, she ceased using the full power of her spells, in the belief that she'd done enough already to keep him totally bound to her. This freedom gave don Fernando time to go to gaming houses where he gambled and squandered his own inheritance and Lucrecia's fortune as well. Neither source was sufficient to quench his insatiable thirst. He began to take loans, arranging the repayment for when he should inherit his full estate. In a very short time, he found that he had many ducats of debt. But he felt sure that, with his mother's death, he could fix everything and, given her age, he didn't think she'd last much longer.

His mother had known about his affair with doña Juana and, when she learned he was free of her, she thought he'd settle down. Now that don Fernando was not so bound by Lucrecia's spells, since she thought she had no rival to fear, don Fernando and his mother developed a plan. His mother wanted don Fernando to marry one of the most beautiful women then living in Toledo, whose virtue equaled her beauty. This lady, whose name was doña Clara, was the daughter of a merchant who'd made a great fortune through business not just in Spain but in Italy and in the Indies. Doña Clara was the merchant's only child, so all of his money was to go to her. There was, however, more falsehood than truth in the rumors of his wealth because the merchant had, in fact, gone bankrupt and was cleverly hiding his losses until he could marry off his daughter as her position merited.

Don Fernando's mother, as I said, set her sights on this lady. The eldest son and heir of a titled noble had also set his sights on her. He had no intention of marrying her even though he had fallen head over heels for her beauty. She granted him such small favors that even in Toledo she never gained a reputation for being either flirtatious or cruel. She permitted him to frequent her street, to serenade her, praising and celebrating her beauty, but never did she allow him any other liberty. The marquis (we shall call him by this title) tried in vain to overcome her distance, but doña Clara prized her virtue more than all his money could buy. Don Fernando's mother selected noble and clever intermediaries to arrange the marriage and, such was her good

fortune, she had no trouble obtaining the lady's father's permission. Doña Clara understood the true intentions of the marquis and didn't trust him, so she promptly agreed to the proposed marriage. All the necessary arrangements were made, and she was wed to don Fernando. Her father gave her six thousand ducats as a present, explaining that the rest was tied up but, since she was his only child, she would ultimately inherit everything.

This is how the lamb fell into the wolf's power, we might say. Don Fernando was pleased to pay off his most pressing debts with this sum. Two months after doña Clara's marriage, her father realized that it was impossible for him to keep his promise and give as much money for the dowry as he'd promised. He gathered up all the money he had left after the six thousand ducats he'd given her and quietly left Toledo. He went to Seville where he took a boat to the Indies. This left his daughter with a thousand troubles because don Fernando had only married her for her money, and the six thousand ducats had already been spent on lavish clothes, things for the house, and paying off his debts. Within two days of learning she was penniless, he demonstrated his lack of love for her by turning the small attentions he had previously observed into open distaste and even hatred. The poor lady paid dearly for her father's deception, even though don Fernando's mother tried to shield and defend her because of her innocence and virtue.

Lucrecia learned of don Fernando's marriage when it was too late; it had already taken place. To avenge herself, she invoked her diabolical arts and drove him to his sickbed. She tormented him so he could scarcely move; all he could do was moan. For the six months the illness lasted, no one could discover what was causing it. The constant medications the doctors gave him only served to deplete his already meager estate. At last the sorceress realized that keeping Fernando ill contributed more to losing him than to avenging herself, so she ceased tormenting him and he began to get better. Lucrecia changed her treacherous intent, however, causing him to hate his wife. As a result, once he recovered he went back to his old ways and spent most of his time in Lucrecia's company.

The marquis, devastated by doña Clara's marriage, also paid for his sorrow with his health. He recovered from his illness but not from his love. He began to serve and court doña Clara anew, but she refused him any favor. She wouldn't even let him set eyes on her. Her distance only increased his passion.

Then don Fernando's mother died, and doña Clara lost her shield and her defense. Don Fernando likewise lost the restraint that had kept him from treating his wife as harshly as he would from now on. He spent whole days and nights without ever going home or seeing her. This treatment upset doña Clara so deeply that she knew no comfort, particularly when she learned the cause of her husband's crazy behavior.

The marquis was not unaware of doña Clara's suffering. Her face, her whole mien, revealed her deep sorrow, but her virtue and discretion were such that he could make no contact with her. He couldn't get her to accept a letter or even a jewel, despite the greatness of her need. Because of don Fernando's constant gambling and his incredible debts, their money had run out. There was nothing left and doña Clara was forced now to sell her dresses and her jewels in order to support the two little girls that the four years of her marriage to don Fernando had brought. She had to pay a maid to do the heavy work because don Fernando never came home any more. Despite these hardships, she would not give in to the marquis's pleading, nor could her friends or the maid get her to accept the gifts he tried to send through them. Whenever they broached this subject, she would say that the woman who takes soon must give.

At this point, the relationship between don Fernando and Lucrecia became public knowledge. The police began to follow don Fernando and set out to get Lucrecia. Someone warned Lucrecia in time, which gave her no choice but to flee from Toledo. Hastily she gathered up her household, which now included don Fernando, and they moved to Seville where they lived together as man and wife. He had long since forgotten all about his true wife and their daughters.

This new trial grieved doña Clara greatly. It was a miracle it didn't kill her. It seemed as if God were keeping her for even greater tests of her virtue. For over a year and a half she received not a word from or about don Fernando. She suffered such hardship that she could no longer afford the maid. She took to wearing humble clothing and worked day and night to support herself and her little girls. She kept her own house, and she herself collected and delivered embroidery for a shop, a job that is more available in the city of Toledo than anywhere else. One night when she was up late trying to finish some embroidery that she had to deliver the next morning, she sang to herself. She sang this ballad to express her love, sorrow, grief, and loneliness, and to keep herself awake:

Fugitive little bird
flying through the air,
inconstant to my attentions,
ungrateful for my love,
if you were infatuated
with a woman of your nature
such a sweet prison
would never tire you.
I never pretended not to know:
from knowing how to love
I came to know your love
to be half-hearted at the most.
One who loves is never deceived
even though he lets himself be deceived;
for Love, in his own court,
makes public disclosures.
What can the loving person do
when he knows he's been given
surreptitious poison
but drink it down in silence?
I let my fears be lulled
although I knew my weakness,
all the while you dissembled
until you tired of the deception.
I see you so distant,
cold, and faithless;
even when I call you back
you refuse to pay me heed.
Listen, my free little bird,
listen to my loving words
calling to you in sad tones,
hear my words.
Fickle little bird,
come back! Where are you going?
Come back to the cage in my heart,
have pity on my sorrows.
When you see me captive
you seek your freedom;
repay prison with prison,
then will you be complete.
As a wise man once said,
let love repay love;
and if your heart fails in that,
it is as hard as stone.
Because of you, my eyes
are an ocean of tears;
here you will find sweet drink

never failing.
My heart for your nourishment,
my freedom for your prison,
these arms your bonds,
while all this awaits you,
you flee without heeding my plaints.
God will that wherever you go
you are treated as you treat me,
never finding love!
I, lamenting my deception,
would end my life,
sensing in your madness
my death and your freedom."
This was said to a little bird
as he flew from his prison
by a heart sore wounded
but loyally devoted.
At the end of these sad plaints,
my heart, an instrument untuned,
sang to the free little bird
fleeing fugitive:
"Free little bird, you are the loser,
for the prize you leave behind
you will never find again."

The room where doña Clara was working was on the ground floor, and it had a grated window opening onto the street. Outside, don Sancho had been listening. This is the name of the marquis, her suitor, or lover if you can call a man a lover who has so little hope of ever being accepted. In a lovesick heart, love increases when it hears the laments of the beloved, so, when don Sancho heard doña Clara's sad plaints, her woes touched him to the depths of his soul. He knocked at the window. The noise frightened doña Clara, and she asked who it was.

"It is I, beautiful Clara, who else could it be?" don Sancho replied. "Please listen a moment. Who could it be except the man who worships your beauty and considers even your disdain a personal favor that gives hope to his life?"

"I don't know how you can hope, don Sancho," doña Clara said, opening the window, "or what might make you feel any hope. Ever since my marriage, I have never encouraged your friendship or acknowledged it in any way that might let you feel encouraged, in spite of the intermediaries you send with gifts and letters. If you're counting on the courtesy with which I allowed you to serve me before I mar-

ried, be aware that that was merely a maiden's way; I didn't love but let myself be loved, careful never to compromise my honor. Now I have a husband. Rightly or wrongly, heaven gave him to me, and so long as heaven doesn't take him away, I shall keep my faith with him as I have vowed.

"Because this is how things are, if you truly love me, the greatest proof you can give of your love would be to cease giving motive to what the neighbors might think of a powerful and gallant man like you besieging the doors of a young woman whose husband is absent. This is especially important because the whole city of Toledo knows my great need, and they might easily think that through it you have bought my honor."

"Your need is what I want to remedy, beautiful Clara," don Sancho said. "My only interest is to relieve your troubles. Please be so kind as to accept a thousand escudos. You need to me no other favor, for I give you my word, being the gentleman I am, that I shall never approach you again."

"There are no debts, don Sancho," doña Clara replied, "more easily repaid than those of affection, an example of which is your generosity. But I cannot trust myself, nor can I obligate myself for what I cannot repay. I have a husband. He will look out for me and for his daughters. If he doesn't, still I must believe that he will, and he cannot expect otherwise of me until the day he dies."

With these words, she shut the window. Her response left don Sancho so deeply in love that he could no more desist from his love than she could demean her virtue.

Don Fernando had left Toledo a year and a half before. No one knew his whereabouts until one day some gentlemen who'd been in Seville on business returned to Toledo. They told doña Clara they'd seen don Fernando in that city. This was such momentous news for doña Clara that there's no way to describe her reaction. From that moment on, she was determined to find him and try to make him come back home. First she needed to find somewhere to leave her daughters while she was away on this trip.

Doña Juana, now a nun leading a saintly life in her convent, with a comfortable income and the happiest person in the world, was not unaware of this turn of events. She thanked God that she hadn't been don Fernando's unfortunate victim. Somehow she learned of doña Clara's decision and her need to find a place to leave the girls who, by this time, were four and five years old. Doña Juana sent for doña

Clara and explained to her who she was, in case she didn't already know. Doña Juana described all the favors heaven had bestowed upon her by bringing her to her present situation. She went on to say how sorry she felt for all of doña Clara's tribulations, how much she admired her virtue and patience in bearing them. Doña Juana also informed doña Clara that she'd learned that doña Clara wanted to go to Seville and was looking for someone to care for her daughters. She asked doña Clara to bring the girls to her and she would keep them, not just while doña Clara was away, but always, as if they were her own and, when they grew up, she'd give them a dowry so they could join her in the religious life. Doña Clara should believe that she did this out of compassion and not because of the love she'd once felt for their father.

Doña Clara thanked doña Juana for her generous offer, which she accepted immediately. Not wishing to delay her departure a minute longer, she gathered up the few possessions she had left, including her bed, and took them and her daughters to doña Juana, who had obtained the archbishop's permission to take them under her care. The gatekeeper let them in. Doña Juana embraced doña Clara tightly and, her eyes brimming with tears, she placed in doña Clara's hands a purse containing four hundred silver reales. That very afternoon, upon saying good-bye, doña Clara set out for Seville in a cart, leaving doña Juana delighted with her new daughters.

Doña Clara got to Seville but, as she was on what you might call a wild goose chase, she had no idea where to find don Fernando. The city was huge and had so many inhabitants that she spent three months there without finding a shred of information about him. She had paid some bills in Toledo, which left her only a hundred reales, and now her money ran out. On the verge of starving to death, she despaired of finding any solution to her problems. Going back to Toledo wouldn't change anything, so she decided to stay in Seville until she succeeded in finding don Fernando. To keep body and soul together, she looked for a house where she could get a job as a maid. She approached various people, especially in church, and one lady said she knew a place where she might do very well serving as a companion to a lady now quite elderly. This lady might not want to hire her, however, because of the fact that doña Clara was very beautiful and the lady had a young husband.

Doña Clara (modestly and feeling ashamed) asked her for the address so she could try her luck. The lady gave it to her with a message

for the mistress of the house who was her friend. Doña Clara went to the house, which was right by the main church. She entered and noted that it was beautifully furnished (a clear sign that the owners were rich). The door was standing open so she walked into the main parlor without knocking. Seated on a very rich couch she saw Lucrecia, her husband's mistress. Doña Clara recognized her instantly from having seen her once in Toledo. Next to her sat don Fernando, informally dressed because of the summer heat. He was strumming a guitar and singing a ballad. In order not to interrupt, doña Clara waited to give her message, astonished at the sight she was seeing and particularly amazed that they didn't notice her.

Now over the eastern balcony
dawn begins to unfurl
and spill her copious light
across the flowering fields.
Now she captures
the lovely flowers
edged with dew;
enviously the springs
spill forth their crystal drops.
Now she calls her beloved brother
from lighting the Indies
in his golden coach, everywhere
sowing lilies and carnations.
Now the peaks of mountain ranges
stand silhouetted
by the heavenly music
of all the little birds.
Now the skies see themselves
reflected in the running rivers
as their clear crystal turns
to deep turquoise blue.
Now winter has become summer
and autumn spring;
the valleys lovely havens
and the meadows paradise,
because the heavenly feet
of Anarda tread their freshness;
Anarda, sweet prison of many hearts,
basilisk of the village.
A gallant shepherd
follows in her footsteps;
since he resembles Narcissus in beauty,
let him be called Narcissus.

He is the one who made Venus,
forgetful of her beloved Adonis,
descend from her heavenly couch
so she could gaze on him.
The one for whom beautiful Salmacis
in the loving company of nymphs
decided to become
an eternal hermaphrodite.
Foiling the fears
of her suspicious husband,
Anarda left her village
to meet with her Narcissus.
She comes to a clear spring
surrounded by myrtles and willows;
pleasantly they meet,
happily in love.
Tenderly they sit
by that divine tree,
triumph of the lord of Delos,
cruel punishment to his Daphne.
In this delightful place,
thirsting for each other's favors,
they drink in the nectar of their breaths
through the fine coral shells of their lips.
The child, son of Venus,
closed the gates to the meadow,
for only Cupid can enclose
a meadow within his gates.
Everything else that happened
only the tall trees saw,
turning their leaves into eyes
and their buds into ears.

The moment don Fernando ended his song, Lucrecia asked doña Clara what she was seeking. Doña Clara replied that her friend, the lady doña Lorenza, had sent her to see if she was suitable to be the maid Lucrecia was needing. Lucrecia commanded her to sit facing don Fernando. He looked straight at her but did not recognize her. It was as if he'd never before in his life laid eyes on her. This astounded doña Clara. To herself she gave thanks to God for having found for her what she had been unable to find on her own. She felt truly sorry to see him so estranged, so different but, being sensitive, she recognized that what produced this effect was the bewitchment of that Circe who sat before her.

Lucrecia, pleased with doña Clara's appearance and modesty, asked her where she was from.

"I'm from Toledo," doña Clara responded.

"Whatever brought you to this city?" Lucrecia asked.

"Madam," doña Clara said, "although I'm from Toledo, I didn't live there, but in Madrid. I came with a couple who were on their way to the Indies. Just at the time of departure, I fell ill and had to stay here, much to their disappointment. They left and my illness lasted for three months. I spent every cent I had. Seeing no other alternative, today I asked the lady doña Lorenza, whom I chanced to see at church, if she needed a companion, as is the custom in this city, and she sent me here. So if your grace has not yet found someone to serve her, rest assured that I know how to please because I'm an honorable and noble woman who once had her own house and lived in ease."

Impressed with such intelligence and virtue, Lucrecia was so pleased and delighted with Clara (she used her very own name) that neither one had any difficulty in coming to an agreement; they didn't even haggle. Clara stayed at the house, on one hand happy that she'd found what she was looking for and on the other troubled to see don Fernando so changed that he didn't recognize her. Furthermore, right before her eyes, he caressed and fondled a woman who in her age and in her appearance was not worthy of him. Arming herself with patience until the right moment should come, Clara made up her mind to bear everything she might have to witness.

Lucrecia gave her new maid the keys to everything and charged her with attending to the master and supervising the two slaves. She was only barred from entering one room up in an attic, because Lucrecia reserved this room for her own use. She kept the key and no other person ever went with her when she so cautiously entered that room. Although Clara tried to see what was inside, she couldn't. She suspected that this was Lucrecia's office for the sorcery by which she kept don Fernando so blind that he knew nothing, that he cared for nothing but loving and caressing his Lucrecia. He made such a good husband to Lucrecia that Clara would have been happy with half of those attentions.

More than a year passed with the three living together in this fashion, and Clara's masters became quite fond of her. In each regular mail Clara sent a letter to doña Juana describing the events in her life, and doña Juana would answer with encouraging advice so she

wouldn't weaken in her resolution or give up until she had solved her problem.

Then one day Lucrecia took to her bed with a serious illness. Don Fernando became so upset that he almost went crazy. Lucrecia couldn't get out of bed, her fever was so high. After being bedridden for three or four days, she called Clara and spoke these words with genuine tenderness:

"Friend Clara, you've been with me for a year, and I've treated you more as a daughter than as a maid. If I survive this illness, I shall treat you even better in the future and, if I die, I'll leave you enough to get along on comfortably. I know you're grateful, but I remind you of these obligations so that you'll keep the secret that I'm about to tell you. Here, my child, take this key and go up to the attic to the room you already know about. Go inside and you'll find a large old chest. Inside it is a rooster. Feed him. Right there in the same room you'll find the grain. And, daughter, under no circumstances should you remove the blinders he's wearing. This matter is as dear to me as my life. If I should die of this illness, I beg of you, before your master or anyone else should find the rooster, dig a hole out in the corral and bury him just the way he is, wearing his blinders and the chain that ties him to the chest, and bury the sack of grain with him. This is the favor you must do for me."

Clara listened attentively to her mistress's words and instantly in her imagination a thousand thoughts began to whirl around, all leading to the same conclusion. To keep Lucrecia from suspecting any malice in her silence, she replied quickly, thanking her for the favor she showed by entrusting such an important and weighty secret to her. Clara promised to do to the letter exactly what she'd been instructed. She took the key and went to see the rooster with the blinders.

She climbed up to the attic. She entered the room and approached the chest, thinking seriously about what she was doing and about the reputation Lucrecia had had in Toledo. Covered with a cold sweat, she felt such great fear that she was about to turn back. But taking as much heart as she could muster and recovering the courage she had momentarily lost, at last she opened the chest. The moment she lifted the lid, she saw a rooster with a neck-ring chaining him to the chest. He was wearing little manacles on his feet and blinders over his eyes just like the ones that are put on horses to keep them from seeing.

So astonished and absorbed by this sight was Clara that she was

unaware of what she was doing. She was both laughing hilariously and crossing herself at the same time. She suspected that most probably the rooster was the charm that bewitched her husband, rendering him so blind that he didn't even recognize her, his true wife. Since women desire what's forbidden, she felt a great temptation to remove the blinders. No sooner thought than done! After she took off the blinders, she fed the rooster and then shut everything up as it had been before and returned to her mistress, who was waiting for her. The instant Lucrecia saw her she said:

"My friend, did you feed the rooster? You didn't take off his blinders, did you?"

"No madam," Clara replied. "Why should I do anything contrary to your orders?" She added that Lucrecia should realize that Clara served her with great pleasure and cheerfully did as ordered.

When dinnertime came, don Fernando returned home. He asked Lucrecia how she was feeling and sat down at the table next to the bed where the slaves served him dinner. Clara was in the kitchen supervising everything and sending the plates to the table. When dinner was over, she went up to her masters' room. The instant don Fernando set his eyes on her, he recognized her. With great astonishment, like a man seeing a fantastic vision, he exclaimed:

"Doña Clara, what are you doing here? How did you get here? Who told you where I was? What kind of dress is that you're wearing? Where are my daughters? I must be dreaming! You're the wife I left in Toledo, helpless and penniless! What an unchristian and dastardly deed! Answer me! Don't keep me in suspense! I'm overwhelmed to see a sight I never expected to see again!"

Doña Clara replied:

"Well, husband, this is a fine time for you to show concern. I've been in this house for a year, serving you like a wretched slave, all because of the tricks of this Circe here, and now you ask me what I'm doing here!"

"You traitor!" Lucrecia shrieked at this moment. "You took the blinders off the rooster! But don't think you'll ever get don Fernando back! Your clever trick won't do you any good!"

She leapt suddenly from the bed with more energy than seemed possible, seeing her lying there so ill and weak. She ran to her desk and took out the wax figure of a man. Then she took a huge pin from the desk and jabbed it through the head so violently that it penetrated down into the body. She rushed to the fireplace and hurled it into

the flames. She dashed back to the desk, grabbed a knife and, with the greatest cruelty you can imagine, she plunged it into her heart and fell dead beside the desk.

Lucrecia did all this so quickly that neither don Fernando, doña Clara, or the slaves could do anything to stop her. They were all in a state of shock.

They screamed and cried out, which attracted many people. Several police officers entered with the other people, and they held don Fernando and the other members of the household for questioning. First they took the confessions of the slaves, who recounted what they had witnessed. Next they heard the truth from don Fernando. He explained how Lucrecia had been his mistress and told the police everything that had happened between the two lovers from the first day they met until the present.

When doña Clara's turn came to make a statement, she said she wouldn't make a declaration except in the presence of the mayor. She also said that, rather than her going to his presence, in this case it was important to her honor for him to come to that house.

The police went to report the case to the mayor and informed him of her request. As soon as he heard the police report, he came immediately, accompanied by all the noblest gentlemen of Seville, who had heard about the strange case. In the presence of all those people, doña Clara told them who she was and what had happened, without omitting a single detail. Then she had the chest containing the rooster brought down from the attic. She herself opened it with the key hidden under the pillow on Lucrecia's bed. Everyone stared at the rooster with his manacles, his chain, and the blinders that doña Clara had removed and dropped beside him.

Astonished, the mayor picked up the blinders and put them on the rooster. Instantly don Fernando reverted to the way he'd been before. He didn't recognize doña Clara at all, it was as if he'd never seen her before in his life. When he beheld Lucrecia lying on the floor with the knife through her heart and bathed in her own blood, he rushed over and took her in his arms. He caressed her and uttered a thousand laments and demanded punishment for the one who had committed such a foul crime.

Then the mayor removed the blinders from the rooster. Don Fernando instantly recovered his right mind. Three or four times he performed this test, and every time was just the same. The mayor was finally convinced and acknowledged that everything they'd said must

be true. He ordered everyone to leave the house and locked the doors. He had every desk and closet and even the most remote nooks and corners searched. In Lucrecia's desk, the police found a thousand charms and articles she used to make herself appear beautiful and attractive to don Fernando. These strange objects filled them with fear and wonderment. Satisfied at last with the truth, the police set don Fernando and doña Clara free. They kept the slaves in jail until they were sure that they'd had no part in the sorcery. The court confiscated the house for the Crown. Every item they found, including the rooster and the body of the wretched Lucrecia, was burned in the public plaza. Her soul was already burning in hell in payment for her sins, her wicked life, and her foul death.

The moment the charms were burned, don Fernando took sick. Gradually his health deteriorated and his life was consumed. Doña Clara sold the dress and other little items she'd acquired in Lucrecia's house. With this money and the salary the court had ordered her paid for her service in that house, she and don Fernando, now extremely ill, were able to board a coach for Toledo. They thought, and the doctors concurred, that don Fernando might recover his health there, because it was his birthplace and the air was more salubrious. But it was hopeless. As soon as they arrived in Toledo, he took to his bed and slowly began to die, suffering greatly.

If it hadn't been for doña Juana, who sent them food from her convent, they wouldn't have had a bite to eat. Don Fernando lasted for two months. During this time, he came to realize how much he owed to doña Clara. He loved her so deeply that he couldn't bear to be parted from her for a minute. Finally the hour of his death arrived. He received the sacraments with great sorrow and contrition for his many sins and gave up his soul to his creator. The doctors found that he'd suffered from no physical illness but had been consumed and killed by Lucrecia's spells.

Doña Clara felt his loss so greatly that there was no solace for her, and she almost followed him in death. Even though she'd only enjoyed his love while he was ill and they were so needy, she had hoped don Fernando would live many years, especially when she saw how deeply he loved her during the last few days of his life.

At this point doña Clara found herself without a cent to bury don Fernando. Her only succor was God. She didn't dare make this request to doña Juana. Doña Juana had already done more than enough by keeping and supporting her daughters for so long. She decided to sell

her poor bed, which left her no place to sleep. But God had not forgotten doña Clara's virtue or overlooked her great suffering. It so happened that just at this time don Sancho came back to the city. Ever since doña Clara had left Toledo, he'd lived in retirement (on the estate that he inherited upon his father's death. He'd chosen not to marry although he had ample opportunity to do so, being who he was). In letters from a servant who'd married in Toledo, don Sancho had kept up with what was going on in the city.

Yearning to see the beloved mistress of his heart, his true love and not just a passing fancy, he entered the city on the same day that doña Clara found herself in such a bind. When don Sancho learned what her situation was, the enamored youth couldn't bear it. He went to the lady's house to give his condolences. He himself arranged don Fernando's funeral to be as grand as possible. Don Sancho accompanied the body to the cemetery, just as if it were his father's funeral, accompanied by all the gentlemen in Toledo, who had paid no attention to don Fernando during his last days because of his poverty.

After the burial, he and the whole illustrious company returned to doña Clara's humble house. There, in the presence of so many noblemen, he said these words:

"Beautiful Clara, in burying the body of your late husband, I have done only what charity requires. You and the entire city well understand the will with which I have done this. My love comes from my heart alone, as you've never shown me more favor than your chaste respect. I have felt like this since before you had a husband. After you married, I was not even favored with a glimpse of you, in spite of my many efforts. All were fruitless thanks to your great virtue, and I love you all the more for it. I now have no father to obstruct my desire, nor do you have any reason not to be mine. It's proper for you to repay my love and the debt you owe my constancy by saying the simple yes that I beg of you and which I myself say first to you.

"I'm not alone in my high regard for you. All men in the world are indebted to women like you, who, by their great virtue, earn the love of those who had simply desired them. Please do not postpone my glory or deprive yourself of the reward you deserve. Your daughters will find a good father in me, and you will have a slave who forever adores your beauty."

The only answer doña Clara could give don Sancho was to throw herself at his feet, telling him that she was his slave and he should accept her as such.

Everyone who'd come to give their condolences, instead, gave their congratulations. The normal church procedures were followed, with the banns and everything else. In the meantime, doña Clara stayed with the mayor, who was a relative of don Sancho's. Don Sancho obtained the king's blessing for their marriage and, after the proper time, they were wed. It seemed as if at last heaven were on their side and trying to reward doña Clara's virtue.

After the wedding, don Sancho dowered doña Clara's daughters, who had decided to stay in the convent with doña Juana and become nuns. Doña Juana's wise decision inspired this enchantment and gave it the first part of its title, "disillusionment in love," for it isn't easy for one who loves to accept the truth.

Doña Clara lived many years with her don Sancho. They had beautiful children who inherited their father's estates. Because of her virtue, doña Clara was loved and appreciated beyond all imagining, for this is how heaven "rewards virtue."

Phyllis ended her enchantment late. The ladies and gentlemen praised it at length. They commented on doña Juana's wise awakening, on the astonishing part about the diabolical rings and Octavio's apparition, on doña Clara's virtue and constancy, on don Fernando's blindness and Lucrecia's willfulness, and especially on the funny part about the rooster with his little blinders. When supper was served, however, they didn't linger in leaving their places and getting to the table. They dined with great delight. Everyone felt good because Lisarda and Lysis prudently had asked don Juan and don Diego to promise to be friends. And this is how the third night ended.