As I promised to further the exploits of Don Quixote and the humours of Sancho Panza in the time allotted by God, following printing of Novelas Exemplares in 1613, so did I enumerate thirteen exemplary novels of which only twelve have appeared in print. As you shall see, the following story of my friends, M. Cavity and Henrietta (names that are not of the Spanish people), relates to my search for truth and provide the discourse necessary to make a dose of bitters more palatable. With this journey into fiction that is often more truthful than truth itself, I offer the last of my Novelas Exemplares. Some may have guessed that there is common ground between those who go under the names of Avellaneda, Cervantes and Mahtrow. And what of the playwright Lope De Vega? Are they of one, the reader must decide. Vale.
The worn and battered soldier sat on the stone at the edge of the road, too tired and weary to go on even to the protective shelter and warmth of the weathered stable just under the corpse of trees. The house if the jumble of stones may once have been called a house had long since been diminished perhaps by the ravages of time but more than likely by the cleansing of homes by fire as the simple folk sought freedom from the plague. The stable survived, not so much because it was of stronger materials but that was the final refuge of the family or owner before they had also become victims. Now the stable and the displaced stones stood as crude testimony to the passage of an evil for which there had been no cleansing action other than death to purge the disease from the people.
He checked his meager pack and found that there still remained a hard crust and remains of a sausage that had settled to the bottom. Perhaps he could strike a fire and warm his bones in the shelter. At least it was worth the effort as the chill of the evening was quickly settling in this vale as the sun fell behind the mountain. First he gathered his stick which was not much more than a twisted root that had a convenient hand hold. He reflected that the springiness of the dried citrus replaced that which had once been in his own feet and legs. Standing, he kicked one shoe against the other to redistribute the dirt that had found its way into the cavities and crevices, then with great effort he moved toward the shelter.
Alonzo was not the first, nor would he be the last to find protection from the elements in this stone and mud encased warren. It appeared that the servants of man had had better accommodations than the previous owner, perhaps because they had more value than a child, woman or servant. Under any light, the stone walls would appear cold and inhospitable but today just protection from the wind was a blessing. He noted that the last traveler had had a small fire in the corner where a chink in the stone wall provided a natural draw for smoke. Thoughtfully, he, or she as it might have been, had snuffed the fire with sand from one of the stalls, saving the dry wood for the next guest. At first those who had stayed here had picked wood from the scrap of a fence, then, had worked their way through timbers of the structure until there was little free wood available. Lacking any tool other than a knife or perhaps a sword, they like the soldier had to make the best of a bad circumstance. After all this time, some straw remained in the far corner. As if it was placed off limits to burning as it could provide some small degree of comfort to weary bones, the straw was shaped into a small pile, again left for the future resident.
Cautiously, he selected a few twigs and leaves from the scrubby plant that grew just outside what must have been a pig sty as the plant had more life to it than any of those surrounding, suggesting that there was a bit more fertility there than was to be found in the rocky barren soil. Adding these to a twist of straw and dry blackened wood he now had the elements for his fire. But first he carefully took his sword and with a precise strike that perhaps in another time would have been the death of an opponent, cleaved a bit of the burnt wood from the log exposing a fresh surface. He repeated the task until he had not only shavings from the log but his gatherings as well. Now he was prepared to take advantage of the glint from his stone and the magic of chemistry which he carefully kept in a small leather in his knapsack.
As a soldier he had once been entrusted with a fine musket but with the injuries from another's sword, he had fallen and it was lost. Perhaps it had saved his life, for when his opponent saw the prize, interest in killing was lost and gaining this treasure seized the moment. That unknown soldier simply took the weapon and retreated from the fray, leaving Alonzo for dead or dying. The firearm probably was used by the enemy to dispatch Alonzo's comrades, but that was in the past now. All that remained from the King's issue was the gunpowder and lead spheres which he kept in his sack. The balls were of no use to him but perhaps in another time they would have value and could be traded; the Arabs and Jews always could find a market for the most unlikely of merchandise.
But now it was the gunpowder that he sought. Loosening the drawstring, he held the pouch open and taking a pinch between his thumb and forefinger, he held it free of the bag, then in a well practiced motion, grasping the drawstring in his teeth, he pinched the top of the bag closed, and then deftly dropped it back into the knapsack. To the carefully assembled pile of kindling, the pinch of gunpowder was added.
Much practiced in the art of fire making, it took only a single strike on the stone to raise a spark which ignited a grain of powder. The conflagration quickly spread and the first tiny glow then became a blaze as the fire moved within the twist of straw. The bed of twigs and leaves nurtured it to a small sustaining burn that a first kissed the older wood and finally brought life of its own from the dried wood. Soon the light of the fire chased the shadows from the stable and for the first time he was able to see more of what would be his lodging for the night. It appeared that no one had passed this way for weeks or perhaps months, as the footprints in the loose dirt were beginning to lose their edges. This would be a comfortable and secure lodging for the night.
Water, if he had some water perhaps he could boil beans and rice and make a bit of a stew with the remaining sausage. With this in mind he retraced his steps to the rubble of the house, seeking out what surely must have been a well. At this point he had not an idea of how he would gain access to the water which surely was deep within the earth, but why not look, he would not be discouraged if unlucky and the joy of fresh water was worth the effort, although walking was difficult. His experienced eye knew where the family would have placed the well. Far enough from the stable to disallow intrusion from waste and yet close enough to permit easy watering of the stock. A ring of stones gave hope that below lay water. Taking a small stone in hand, he dropped it and waited for the plunk that would reveal the presence of water and the distance to it as well. To his surprise, the water could be no more than ten feet below the surface. So close yet so far away. He returned to the stable.
>From the knapsack, he withdrew the skin with his remaining ration of wine. Then the hammered tin pot, his single cup and crude wooden ladle emerged. At the bottom, after removing his dwindling ration of beans and rice which were held in dirty cloth bags, was the small coil of rope. The rope, no greater in diameter than his small finger was of leather, platted not twisted, and on the end was a simple brass loop. With the exception of his sword, this perhaps was his most prized possession and all that remained of his adventures serving the King.
Perhaps there was length enough, he would soon see. With the pot in hand, he returned to the well and carefully tying the bail so that it would not be lost, he cautiously lowered the pot into the darkness. An arm's length, another and yet another. His ear had deceived him. The water was further below. Now he had reached the last of his rope. Leaning over into the darkness, he advanced the last of his thong. Then he realized, the pot was afloat on the water which was not that far below at all. He retrieved the pot, noting the wet bottom. On the side next to where the bail was attached to the pot, he placed a small stone, now he slipped the rope to the far side of the bail so that the pot would be suspended at an angle. He lowered the pot once again into the well, and was satisfied that it submerged into the pool and when he pulled it upward, it had a heft greater than the pot alone.
Pleased with himself he took the pot in hand and tasted the water. It was good. For the first time in weeks, he placed his face into the cool liquid and let it flow down the front of his shirt that soaked up the prize. Raising the pot overhead, he let the cool cascade through his hair down to his worn shoes. Again and again he repeated this simple task until he was quite wet and only then began to note the cold. Finally filling the pot with the last draw from the well he returned to the stable which now was beginning to take on a warm glow from the fire.
Entering, he felt eyes were on him. Perhaps he was not alone. He looked to his sword that he had carelessly left by the fire. If others were there he was at their mercy. But not a sound. It's the ghost of times past he thought and with a shrug regained his place in front of the fire. What to do first prepare the meal or remove his soaked clothes. His stomach provided the answer.
Carefully he measured beans and rice and a bit of barley that also seemed to have been in the bottom of the bag. A cup of water was set aside and into the quart or so of water he added his simple ingredients, the last being a pinch of salt. Placed over the fire, this would soon be a feast the likes of which he had not tasted since he left the hospital of the Resurrection which stands just beyond the Puerta del Campo, in Valladolid.
Now he removed his clothes and standing bare before the fire, how badly nature had treated this once proud soldier was revealed. The massive scar that began at his shoulder and passed almost to his waist traced the path that a blade's tip had come so close to eviscerating him. A half inch closer and life would have been over. Instead it had left an angry welt that although slow to heal had indeed knitted and was a badge of courage. On his left arm another harsh mark gave evidence that it had been used to shield a blow which was death intended. That strike had robbed him of some of the usefulness of that good arm, rendering it incapable of the once great strength that his arms had held. This was the body of a young-old man. The ravages of battle had perhaps done less to his body than to his spirit. He was more stooped than would have been his father or grandfather if they were alive.
Those miserable shoes. Whoever designed such, should have been made to wear them forever. While they protected the feet from contact with the ground they took their revenge by grinding against the ankles and any exposed flesh. God provides callouses to ward off the offense but the trade is not always good.
The only garment within his bag of tricks was an overly long shirt that could provide some degree of modesty. Now it provided both a towel for drying and finally a covering.
Finished in covering himself, the soldier took up his sword and determined to find the prying eyes that he was sure to be on his back. Several stalls suggested that this stable had been the property of more than just simple folk. Probably a root cellar would be somewhere within, as well, as perhaps a place for storing farm implements. And who knows what else might be buried. He was reminded of a story told him by the village priest when he was chosen to follow the Kings sword.
"As two soldiers traveled to Salamanca, they found themselves not unlike himself, both tired and thirsty. They stopped by a spring by the side of the road to refresh themselves. When they were prepared to leave this pleasant spot, they spied a stone on which there appeared to be an inscription. It read at least in part, " Aqui esta encerada el alma del licenciado Pedro Garcias." or Here lies interred the soul of the licentiate Peter Garcias.
One soldier took fun from such a claim. How could a man's soul be interred in a rock, indeed. Who could have been so foolish as to write such an inscription. Such an epitaph is the work of a simpleton or worse. With that he gained his feet and continued the path to Salamanca.
The other soldier thought, there is some mystery here. Perhaps underneath the stone, and not the stone itself is the solution. Then taking his knife in hand began to loosen the dirt from the edges of the stone. It being a rather large stone, this required more than simple effort but finally he succeeded in gaining a hand-hold to the edge of the stone and with a heave raised it on edge.
What pleasure, for beneath the stone was an oiled leather purse preserving the contents. Inside the purse was a great treasure, at least to this simple soldier. It contained a hundred ducats and a paper on which was written in Latin. "Whoever thou art who hast wit enough to discover the meaning of the inscription, I appoint thee my heir, in the hope thou wilt make a better use of my fortune than I have done!"
Taking the pouch with coins to his chest, he replace the stone to its resting place and continued on his way, not to Salamanca as he had at first intended but to the coast where he would place the man's soul to good use.
The Priest had cautioned the soldier, take heed, "If you be like the first, you will continue on your way not being aware of the moral contained within your adventures. But, if you like the second soldier take time to smell the roses, pay attention to that about you, read with attention. You will be rewarded as promised by Horace." "
Alonzo saw that others before him had salvaged all that was of value from this simple stable. And he reflected, they perhaps had discovered Garcia's treasures. At least not tonight for him. And he returned to the fire.
Taking his wooden spoon he removed a bit of beans from the pot and found them to be near ready. Now for the finally addition. The Sausage. Taking his knife, he shaved pieces carefully into the bubbling stew. Should he add all, letting tomorrow take care of itself or should he retain a bit for the future. Tomorrow is another day and I shall feast like a king tonight he decided as the final slice fell from his blade. The sausage did its job and what had been simply a mix of dried fruits of the soil became transfixed to yield a fragrance that had not many times filled this stable.
Ah, if I had a table and chairs, I could invite guest to dine with me and we could spend the night talking of pleasures of the mind and of the flesh. Having said this aloud, he was startled to hear a rustling in an area of the stable that he had not searched. Again he drew his blade, placing his back to the fire, but quickly remembering his soldier training, stepped to the side so that any intruder would be blinded by the light and he would be concealed by the dark shadows.
There he stood and waited for the attack which he was sure was to come. His eyes searched the darkness. And, finally he saw movement. The intruder was cleaver, keeping to the shadows and close to the floor to escape detection, but our soldier was ready. He caught the glint of an eye and then another farther away. Lord, protect me, there are more than one, was his simple prayer. So quiet did the opponents move that only the occasional glint from an eye or was it reflection from a drawn sword gave evidence of their presence.
The soldier could wait no longer. He refused to cower in the darkness but instead chose to stand like a man and defend his position. He stood straight and tall and stepped back in front of his caldron, challenging the unknown to fight him as he was prepared. He spoke, "Who goes there, are you friend or foe? Would you taste my stew or my blade? The choice is yours."
Silence, but a ghost rubbed against his bare leg. He looked down and there somehow, had become two scrawny cats, one black, the other black with a white face. The black marked his left leg with her scent as cats do. Although he had not accepted them, he was chosen to be their friend. How strange the ways of cats.
This then was his adversary. Two thin cats who had eaten perhaps less than he in the past weeks. He was good to his word. They would be invited to share his feast.
The soldier looked to the cup and offered the white-faced one a sip of cold water. This perhaps was the first water the cat had drank in more time than could be counted and he accepted it with the grace known only to a cat. The black one came forward and drank her share as well. The water would be for the cats, tonight our soldier would have a bit of wine from his skin. On a flat faced stone, beans, rice, barley, meat and liquid were placed for the guest who hungrily attacked the offering before the soldier could fill his own cup. Once again he replenished the cats table and once again. Finally having satiated his own thirst and appetite, he took from the knapsack a final treasure, a bit of twisted leaf that might have been a cigar in times past. Taking an ember from the fire, he lay it against the edge and with a slow curl of smoke emerging, the soldier took a deep draw from his smoke. Then, he crushed the glowing end between his thumb and forefinger killing any spark of like. Having done this, he returned the cigar to his mouth and puffed, drawing the last bit of fragrance from the now dead twist of tobacco. Finished, he returned the cigar to its place of respect in his knapsack.
He spoke to the cats. If only you could talk we would share pleasant memories and talk of great adventures, but alas you are only cats of the stable. Simple in purpose, to serve man in keeping rodents at bay, you do our bidding only when it serves your own goals in life. How I wish that I had been born a cat rather than man. And with that, having removed the wrinkles from his stomach and filled his lungs with the delicacy of the new world, the poor soldier of (mis)fortune stretched himself on his bed of straw and fell fast asleep.
When the moon was well overhead, he thought he heard voices but put it to his weakened state and the agonies of his body and perhaps his now swollen stomach so unaccustomed to such a meal. He listened and this is what he heard and the images his imagination provided..
"M. Cavity and duenna Henrietta, were on the roof gathering the last of the evening breeze before they would take to the field for their nocturnal hunt. As always, Mac groomed his whiskers, brushing them in perfect alignment and making sure that there was no vestige of the banquet that had been spread before them by their girl servant and her boy in training, remained. Henri seldom complained but this dinner had stretched her patience. An uninvited (at least by her) guest had just bellied up to the bar and with no manners whatsoever, to her place. Can you imagine. When the nina had brushed against the visitor he had the nerve to make a hissing sound at her as though she were the intruder and not he.
Henri - How can you expect these incompetent servants to learn to set a proper table if guest arrive unannounced, secure the most favored place for themselves and then criticize the hired help. When will it end? I'm reminded of the tale of De Vega concerning the gardener's dog, El Perro del hortelano. Diana, the Countess of Belfour, wanted her cake and to eat it too. Just like the gardener's dog, having set her sights on Teodoro, who had no voice in the matter as he was her servant, and must do her bidding, she refused others access to this morsel. No, she wanted it all, but still refused to consume or be consumed by it. Isn't that just what Senior Didelphis would expect as well. Old Did lacked couth. How else to say it.
I remember well the first time he joined us for dinner. The table had been spread with pork, chicken, fish and other morsels as the kitchen help had decided to clean the larder and start afresh. An enormous paella had been prepared, the fragrances of garlic and other seasonings had announced to the gathering crowd that this was to be the night of nights. And who should show up but Old Did. While others at least made an effort to wash their face and hands in preparation for the feast, Did made no effort at all. In fact some said that his breath was awful as though he had been at a carrion feast, probably with a bunch of those birds who were known to eat most anything.
Prince Charlie, who was like a son to me, had been given the place of honour for the evening meal as he had defended our humble abode against a number of intruders who in the morning had had the audacity to trespass. They said they were looking for a lost calf, but more likely, they were going to find a calf before it was lost and invite it to dinner. Again, I am reminded of the story related by the writer, oh, what was his name. Help me Mac, your memory is much better than mine.
MC - You of course mean Saavedra when he wrote of the "Dialogue between Scipio and Berganza, Dogs of the Hospital of the Resurrection in the city of Valladolid", sometimes referred to as the Dogs of Mahudes, but I prefer simply, Dialog between two dogs.
Henri - But of course, now it becomes clear to me. Berg, which is short for Berganza, was telling Scip, short for Scipio although it makes not a hair of difference, of his adventures. And old Saavedra was giving them voice so that he could record their thoughts and impose some moral judgement to the stories.
In that particular tale, Berg was serving in the position as sheepdog and doing well in it as the story goes. While he was in attendance, the wolves stayed away from his herd probably because of his commanding presence. He served well and had become accustomed to an afternoon nap or a rest under the trees when one of the goatherders cried out, "Wolf" and pointed the way that Berg was to go in pursuit of the animal. Tearing through the brambles and thickets he caught not a sight, sound or smell of the predator and finally giving up, returned to the camp. Lo, there in the mid of the camp lay one of the most choice of his keep. Dead and much of the body had been dismembered leaving only a shadow of that once beautiful creature. Berg held his head in shame and took the abuse heaped upon him by the herders. He had failed! That evening he was given the thinnest of broth and bread for his supper.
Things went well for him the next few weeks and he had returned to his leisure when once again the cry, "Wolf" was sounded. Again he rushed forth, searched high and low, finding nothing, he returned to the camp and once again saw the carnage that had been wrought on one of the fattest of the sheep. As before, he suffered the outrage of the herders and was castigated to the point of making him wonder if this was the job in life to which God had intended for him to serve. He stayed.
A third time, the cry wolf was sounded but Berg this time decided to take a different tact. He rushed from the camp but then circled and returned. Just in time to see the slaughter of another lamb. But, by the goat-herders themselves. It had all been a ruse to get him from the camp so that they could have their way with the sheep. Berg determined to quit that service. That ended the story but not before Cervantes had imposed a bit of moralizing, putting into the dog's mouth ideas about how many more die who are trustful than those who are wary.
But I digress. Charlie serves his master well and protects those who are unable to provide protection for themselves. That is the good and proper way that a working relationship must be designed if all are to benefit.
Well Charlie, although he believes himself to be a one of us because he has always been in close company and adapted many of our ways, had the favored place at the table. But who should shoulder him aside, but Old Did. Always one of good manners, Charlie simply took the next position and what could have been a barroom brawl turned out alright. There is never a shortage of food in the house and all had their fill. Without a kind word or a thank-you, Old Did just passed some gas and wandered off.
MC - You could say, after dark, all cats are grey, even if they turn out to be a dog or a possum of the new world.
Henri - Enough on the play of animals, tonight I will instruct you in the ways of preparing the fruit of the hen. The egg could well be the best example of alpha - omega. And while the rooster claims title for accomplishment, the hen does the labor, it is the woman preparing the egg that brings it to perfection. Nowhere is this better illustrated than in Diego Velazques graphic of an old woman cooking.
MC - I know the work well, let me explain his style.
Henri - No, it is not style that is important it is the chemistry of the subject to make it an adventure of gastronomy. Diego shows the perfect treatment of the egg, skimming on a thin pool of olive oil, or pork fat as I prefer. Note how carefully she lifts a bit of hot oil with her wooden spoon and flicks it in moderation about the edges of the egg. The water of the egg explodes in a release of steam giving a fine lacy frill. And, note also, she is wearing a long sleeve, a precaution against the flying grease. This putilla method requires a bed of hot coals and oil or grease that is free of debris which may have come from the use of the same vessel for cooking bacon. While the picture suggest that additional oil might be added to cool the pan's contents, I much prefer the alternative method of adding another egg so that the result is the same. In controlling the heat in this manner, the lacy frill becomes slightly brown and the yoke of the egg which remains liquid in the core and yet is firm as is the white.
By spooning the hot grease over the raised yoke covered by only a thin film of white the yoke is cooked on all sides, from the outside approaching the center. You may prefer to call this, sunny side up but regardless it is far preferred to what may be called over-easy, and hard frying an egg to yield a product that is shunned by anyone who worships this fruit of the hen.
MC - But what of the method using water and vinegar. I believe the method is termed, "poached."
Henri - Stuff and nonsense, friend MacCavity. The alchemist long ago discovered the secret of making sugar of lead, the reaction between vinegar and the cooking container if it contains lead. Poison, Poison, Poison! It has the taste of honey but in short order causes madness and death. No kitchen would permit such to occur and beheading is too quick an application of justice to those who practice this evil art.
MC - So there we have it, Diego Velazques deserves to be right along side our author in recognition of the culture of our dear country.
Henri - Yes, but before we go, let us consider that noble product of a vigorous stirring of the egg with water and addition of bacon, cheese, mushrooms, peppers, tomatoes or other tidbits. Call it an omelet if you like. Even when the omelet fails to have the structure of an encrusted brown covering and is much disturbed, that is scrambled, it still retains its mouth watering appeal. Leave it to the French to detract from this noble fare by putting sugar, spices and the like in the mix. For shame!
MC - But there is more to recording history than the simple stroke of a pen or daub of a brush. To be credible an author or artist, writer or poet, newspaper scribe, publisher, printer or orator must abide by a few simple rules. How many fail the simple test. First accuracy is paramount. But to be accurate one must be observant and listen carefully to what others may provide. Be careful. Double check all that is given up as fact. Remember to be balanced as all stories or paintings have several faces to be revealed. Then having gathered the facts as you know them, relate them in word and deed so that the audience can be made to understand the answers to all the important questions.
Never believe what Sir G.... tells you about Donna ..... without independent confirmation. Maintain an attitude of healthy skepticism even if the story is from your sainted mother. And when one tells you a secret, question why you should be so fortunate to share this bit of private knowledge. Perhaps not all is as it appears.
All's fair in love and war as Pancho is fond of saying and the same applies to those who are recorders of history. Is it history as it happened or as some would colour it to appear? Current day historians are more interested in selling books, gaining favor from politicians and the public than in recording. When they delve into the past, they have a jaded eye and don't distance themselves from their own biases. The do not dispossess themselves from their own innermost feelings and so taint the very water on which they attempt to walk".
Alonzo found the need to empty a bladder now full from the liquid of the evening and arose from his makeshift bed. The two cats who had been his guest were gone, perhaps on their hunt. Or, perhaps to some other area of the stable. Or perhaps they had existed only in his mind. The fire which he had carefully banked still yielded up a warmth to this simple barn and he poked at the embers.
I thought, how great it is to be alive. To share with others regardless of their station in life. I will not be the "Fool that sat beneath an olive tree who said what a great dream had I, and then fall asleep." A withered left hand and damage arm have I, but I can and will write. At the crack of dawn, I will go home to La Mancha. There is where my heart is and I shall continue my studies and writing. Thank's be to God.
"I have no more to say, so pray God to keep you, and give me patience to bear all the ill that will be spoken of me by more than one subtle and starched critic. Vale"
S. J. Mahtrow
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Editors note:
In much of the writing of the period, use of the material of others was not considered plagiarism but instead permitted usage to blend the old with the new. Some may find within this brief story a tale not unlike that related by Le Sage in his "introduction" in the Adventures of Gil Blas, or "the Gardener's Dog" of Lope de Vega or "the Dogs of Mahudes" by Cervantes or find mention of S. Blas in Rinconete and Cortadillo by the same author. Even a bit of "Kismet" is to be found.
Modern review of the art of Deigo Velazques appeared in an article in The Wall Street Journal, July 27, 1995 brings focus to the art of cooking eggs as depicted in "Old Woman Cooking", painted in 1618.
A commentary on the poisonous nature of lead recently appeared in Today's Chemist at Work, October, 2000. Unfortunately the writer directed attention to lead as the poison and not the acetate salt which surely is sweet and termed "sugar of lead" by alchemist. More recent, is the indication that Beethoven may have been poisoned by lead which somehow must have been ingested, but how is unknown. It remains to be seen if lead represents the dangers that have been attributed to it. Certainly unleaded gas which existed prior to the 1990's distributed a fairly large amount to the environment in which man exist and to no great effect on his mental or physical state. Some would say that the genius of Beethoven denies the relationships currently drawn between mental damage and lead ingestion. Current philosophy is that lead in any amount is a poison and children are being irreversibly damaged by it. While this may be rational reasoning, it is not a substitute for good science.
Many of the contributions of the New World were known during the time of Cervantes. Not the least of which was tobacco. As strange new animals from the discovery were brought to Spain and Portugal it is not unlikely that the American Opossum might have found its way as well. A more accommodating animal cannot be found. Like the buzzard, crow and pig, the possum is one of nature's indigenous garbage disposal systems.
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