Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXI, No. 5, November 1842

Pan. Make room, ye vagabonds and gipsy thieves! Make room for the Alcalde of Pardillo! P. Cres. Keep silence all! I have an edict here From our most gracious lord, the King of Spain, Which I shall publish in the market-place. Open your ears and listen! (Enter Padre Cura at the door of his cottage.) Padre Cura, Good day! and pray you hear this paper read. P. Cura. Good day, and God be with you! What is this? P. Crespo. An act of banishment against the gipsies! (Agitation and murmurs in the crowd.) Pancho. Silence! P. Crespo. (reads.) “I hereby order and command, That the Egyptian and Chaldean strangers, Known by the name of gipsies, shall henceforth Be banished from our realm, as vagabonds And beggars; and if after seventy days Any be found within our kingdom’s bounds, They shall receive a hundred lashes each; The second time, shall have their ears cut off; The third, be slaves for life to him who takes them; Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I the King.” Vile miscreants and creatures unbaptized! You hear the law! Obey and disappear! Pancho. And if in seventy days you are not gone, Dead or alive I make you all my slaves. (The gipsies go out in confusion, showing signs of fear and discontent. Pancho follows.) P. Cura. A righteous law! A very righteous law! Pray you sit down. P. Crespo. I thank you heartily.

(They seat themselves on a bench at the Padre Cura’s door. Sound of guitars and voices heard at a distance, approaching during the dialogue which follows.)

A very righteous judgment, as you say. Now tell me, Padre Cura—you know all things— How came these gipsies into Spain? P. Cura. Why, look you, They came with Hercules from Palestine, And hence are thieves and vagrants, Sir Alcalde, As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus. And, look you, as Fray Jayme Bleda says, There are a hundred marks to prove a Moor Is not a Christian, so ’tis with the gipsies. They never marry, never go to mass, Never baptize their children, nor keep Lent, Nor see the inside of a church—nor—nor— P. Crespo. Good reasons, good, substantial reasons all! No matter for the other ninety-five. They should be burnt, I see it plain enough, They should be burnt. (Enter Victorian and Hypolito playing.) P. Cura. And pray, whom have we here? P. Crespo. More vagrants! By Saint Lazarus, more vagrants! Hyp. Good evening, gentlemen. Is this El Pardillo? P. Cura. Yes, El Pardillo, and good evening to you. Hyp. We seek the Padre Cura of the village; And judging from your dress and reverend mien You must be he. P. Cura. I am. Pray what’s your pleasure? Hyp. We are poor students, traveling in vacation. You know this mark? (Touching the wooden spoon in his hat-band.) P. Crespo. (aside.) Soup-eaters! by the mass! The very worst of vagrants, worse than gipsies, But there’s no law against them. Sir, your servant. [_Exit._ P. Cura. (jovially.) Aye, know it, and have worn it. Hyp. Padre Cura, From the first moment I beheld your face, I said within myself, This is the man! There is a certain something in your looks, A certain scholar-like and studious something— You understand—which cannot be mistaken; Which marks you as a very learned man, In fine, as one of us. Vic. (aside.) What impudence! Hyp. As we approached, I said to my companion, That is the Padre Cura; mark my words! Meaning your grace. The other man, said I, Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench, Must be the sacristan. P. Cura. Ah! said you so? Ha! ha! ’Twas Pedro Crespo, the alcalde! Hyp. Indeed! why, you astonish me! His air Was not so full of dignity and grace As an alcalde’s should be. P. Cura. That is true. He’s out of humor with some vagrant gipsies, That have their camp here in the neighborhood. There’s nothing so undignified as anger. Hyp. The Padre Cura will excuse our boldness, If from his well-known hospitality We crave a lodging for the night. P. Cura. I pray you! You do me honor! I am but too happy To have such guests beneath my humble roof. It is not often that I have occasion To speak with scholars; and Emollit mores, Nec sinit esse feros, Cicero says. Hyp. ’Tis Ovid, is it not? P. Cura. No, Cicero. Hyp. Your grace is right. You are the better scholar. Now what a dunce was I to say ’twas Ovid. But hang me if it is not! (Aside.) P. Cura. Pass this way. He was a very great man, was Cicero! Pray you, go in, go in! no ceremony. [_Exeunt._

Scene III.—_A room in the Padre Cura’s house. Enter the Padre and Hypolito._

P. Cura. So then, Señor, you come from Alcalá. I’m glad to hear it. It was there I studied. Hyp. And left behind an honored name, no doubt. How may I call your grace? P. Cura. Gerónimo De Santillana; at your honor’s service. Hyp. Descended from the Marquis Santillana? From the distinguished poet? P. Cura. From the marquis, Not from the poet. Hyp. Why, they were the same. Let me embrace you! O some lucky star Has brought me hither! Yet once more—once more. (Embraces him violently.) Your name is ever green in Alcalá, And our professor, when we are unruly, Will shake his hoary head, and say; Alas! It was not so in Santillana’s time! P. Cura. I did not think my name remember’d there. Hyp. More than remember’d; it is idolized. P. Cura. Of what professor speak you? Hyp. Timoneda. P. Cura. I don’t remember any Timoneda. Hyp. A grave and sombre man, whose beetling brow O’erhangs the rushing current of his speech As rocks o’er rivers hang. Have you forgotten? P. Cura. Indeed, I have. O those were pleasant days, Those college days! I ne’er shall see the like! I had not buried then so many hopes! I had not buried then so many friends! I’ve turn’d my back on what was then before me; And the bright faces of my young companions Are wrinkled like mine own, or are no more. Do you remember Cueva? Hyp. Cueva? Cueva? P. Cura. Fool that I am! He was before your time. You are mere boys, and I am an old man. Hyp. I should not like to try my strength with you. P. Cura. Well, well. But I forget; you must be hungry. Martina! ho! Martina! ’Tis my niece; A daughter of my sister. What! Martina! (Enter Martina.) Hyp. You may be proud of such a niece as that. I wish I had a niece. Emollit mores! (Aside.) He was a very great man, was Cicero! Your servant, fair Martina. Mar. Servant, sir. P. Cura. This gentleman is hungry. See thou to it. Let us have supper. Mar. ’Twill be ready soon. P. Cura. And bring a bottle of my Val-de-Peñas Out of the cellar. Stay; I’ll go myself. Pray you, Señor, excuse me. [_Exit._ Hyp. (beckoning off.) Hist! Martina! One word with you. Bless me! what handsome eyes! To-day there have been gipsies in the village. Is it not so? Mar. There have been gipsies here. Hyp. Yes, and they told your fortune. Mar. (embarrassed.) Told my fortune? Hyp. Yes, yes; I know they did. Give me your hand. I’ll tell you what they said. They said—they said, The shepherd boy that loved you was a clown, And him you should not marry. Was it not? Mar. (surprised.) How know you that? Hyp. O I know more than that. What a soft little hand! And then they said A cavalier from court, handsome and tall, And rich, should come one day to marry you. And you should be a lady. Was it not? Mar. (withdrawing her hand.) How know you that? Hyp. O I know more than that. He has arrived, the handsome cavalier. (Tries to kiss her. She runs off.) (Enter Victorian, with a letter.) Vic. The muleteer has come. Hyp. So soon? Vic. I found him Sitting at supper by the tavern door, And from a pitcher, that he held aloft His whole arm’s length, drinking the blood-red wine. Hyp. What news from court? Vic. He brought this letter only. (Reads.) O cursed perfidy! Why did I let That lying tongue deceive me! Preciosa, Sweet Preciosa! how art thou avenged? Hyp. What news is this, that makes thy cheek turn pale, And thy hand tremble? Vic. O, most infamous! The Count of Lara is a damnéd villain! Hyp. That is no news, forsooth. Vic. He strove in vain To steal from me the jewel of my soul, The love of Preciosa. Not succeeding, He swore to be revenged; and set on foot A plot to ruin her, which has succeeded. She has been hissed and hooted from the stage, Her reputation stained by slanderous lies Too foul to speak of; and once more a beggar She roams a wanderer over God’s green earth, Housing with gipsies! Hyp. To renew again The Age of Gold, and make the shepherd swains Desperate with love, like Gaspar Gil’s Diana. Redit et Virgo! Vic. Dear Hypolito, How have I wronged that meek, confiding heart! I will go seek for her; and with my tears Wash out the wrong I’ve done her! Hyp. O beware! Act not that folly o’er again. Vic. Aye, folly, Delusion, madness, call it what thou wilt, I will confess my weakness—I still love her! Still fondly love her! (Enter the Padre Cura.) Hyp. Tell us, Padre Cura, Who are these gipsies in the neighborhood? P. Cura. Beltran Cruzado and his crew. Vic. Kind Heaven, I thank thee! She is found again! is found! Hyp. And have they with them a pale, beautiful girl Called Preciosa? P. Cura. Aye, a pretty girl. The gentleman seems moved. Hyp. Yes, moved with hunger; He is half famished with this long day’s journey. P. Cura. Then, pray you, come this way. The supper waits. [_Exeunt._

Scene IV.—_A post-house on the road to Segovia, not far from the village of El Pardillo. Enter Chispa cracking a whip, and singing the Cachucha._

Chis. Halloo! the post-house! Let us have horses! and quickly. Alas, poor Chispa! what a dog’s life dost thou lead! I thought when I left my old master Victorian, the student, to serve my new master Don Carlos, the gentleman, that I too should lead the life of a gentleman; should go to bed early, and get up late. But in running away from the thunder I have run into the lightning. Here I am in hot chase after my old master and his gipsy girl. And a good beginning of the week it is, as he said who was hanged on Monday morning.

(Enter Don Carlos.)

Don C. Are not the horses ready yet?

Chis. I should think not, for the hostler seems to be asleep. Ho! within there! Horses! horses! horses!

(He knocks at the gate with his whip, and enter Mosquito, putting on his jacket.)

Mos. Pray have a little patience. I’m not a musket.

Chis. I’m glad to see you come on dancing, padre! Pray, what’s the news?

Mos. You cannot have fresh horses; because there are none.

Chis. Cachiporra! Throw that bone to another dog. Do I look like your aunt?

Mos. No; she has a beard.

Chis. Go to! go to!

Mos. Are you from Madrid?

Chis. Yes; and going to Estramadura. Get us horses.

Mos. What’s the news at court?

Chis. Why, the latest news is that I am going to set up a coach, and, as you see, I have already bought the whip. (Strikes him round the legs.)

Mos. Oh! oh! you hurt me!

Don C. Enough of this folly. Let us have horses. (Gives money to Mosquito.) It is almost dark; and we are in haste. But tell me, has a band of gipsies passed this way of late?

Mos. Yes; and they are still in the neighborhood.

Don C. And where?

Mos. Across the fields yonder, in the woods near El Pardillo. [_Exit._

Don C. Now this is lucky. We’ll turn aside and visit the gipsy camp.

Chis. Are you not afraid of the evil eye? Have you a stag’s horn with you?