Episode 6

Sir, I drink no wine.”

“It is water,” he answered me. “Thou mayst drink well enough.”

Then I took the jug and drank, though not much, for thirst was not my affliction. Thus we remained until nightfall, talking of things he asked me, to which I answered as best I knew. At that time he brought me into the chamber where was the jug from which we had drunk, and said unto me:

“Boy, stand there and observe how we make this bed, that thou mayst know how to make it henceforth.”

I placed myself at one side and he at the other, and we made that miserable bed, wherein there was not much to do: for it consisted of a hurdle of canes laid upon two benches, over which were spread the bedclothes which, from not being very often washed, looked not like a mattress, though it served for one, with far less wool than was needful. That we spread out, striving to soften it, which was an impossible task, for of a hard thing one can hardly make a soft. The devil of a pallet had not a cursed thing inside it, so that when laid upon the hurdle all the canes showed through and looked for all the world like the ribs of an exceedingly lean pig; and over that starving mattress a coverlet of the same sort, the color whereof I could never determine. The bed being made and night having fallen, he said to me:

“Lázaro, it is already late, and from here to the market square is a great distance. Moreover, in this city there go about many thieves who snatch cloaks by night. Let us pass the night as best we can, and tomorrow, when day comes, God will provide; for I, being alone, am unprovided with provisions, but have eaten these past days abroad; yet now we must order matters otherwise.”

“Sir, as for me,” said I, “let your honor take no thought, for I know how to pass one night, and even more if need be, without eating.”

“Thou wilt live longer and healthier,” he answered me, “for, as we said today, there is no such thing in all the world to live long as to eat little.”

“If it is by that road,” said I unto myself, “I shall never die: for I have ever kept that rule by compulsion, and I even expect in my misfortune to keep it all my life.”

And he lay down upon the bed, making a pillow of his hose and doublet, and bade me lie at his feet, which I did; but a curse upon the sleep I slept! For the hard canes and my protruding bones ceased not all night long from quarreling and galling each other, since what with my troubles, sickness, and famine, methinks there was not a single pound of flesh upon my body; and moreover, having eaten almost nothing that day, I was raging with hunger, which has no friendship with slumber. A thousand times did I curse myself—God forgive me!—and my wretched fortune through most of the night; and what was worse, not daring to toss about lest I should awake him, I prayed God many a time for death.

When morning came we arose, and he began to brush and shake his hose, doublet, coat, and cloak—while I served him as a brush—and dressed himself very leisurely and at his ease. I poured water for his hands, he combed his hair and fastened his sword to his baldric; and as he put it on, he said unto me:

“Oh, if thou knewest, boy, what a blade this is! There is not a mark of gold in the world for which I would part with it. Indeed, not one of all that Antonio ever made succeeded in giving the steel so keen an edge as this one hath.”

And drawing it from the scabbard, he felt it with his fingers, saying:

“Seest thou it here? I engage to slice through a fleece of wool with it.”

And I said unto myself:

“And I with my teeth, though they are not of steel, through a four-pound loaf of bread.”

He sheathed it again and girded it on, with a string of large beads hanging from his baldric; and with a measured pace and erect body, making with it and with his head very graceful gestures, casting the fold of his cloak over his shoulder and sometimes under his arm, and resting his right hand upon his hip, he went forth by the door, saying:

“Lázaro, look to the house while I go to hear mass; make the bed, fetch a pitcher of water from the river, which is close below here, and lock the door with the key lest anything be stolen from us, and place the key here upon the doorpost, so that if I come back meanwhile I may enter.”

And he walked up the street with so genteel a countenance and bearing that whoever knew him not would have taken him for a very near kinsman of the Count of Arcos, or at least his chamberlain who gave him his clothes.

“Blessed be Thou, O Lord,” was I left saying, “who sendest the affliction and providest the remedy! Who would meet that master of mine and not believe, from the contented air he carries, that he had supped well last night and slept in a good bed, and even now in the morning would not count him as having made an excellent breakfast? Great secrets are those, O Lord, which Thou workest, and which the common folk know not! Who would not be deceived by that gallant carriage and decent cloak and coat? And who would think that that gentleman passed all yesterday without eating, save for that crust of bread which his servant Lázaro carried for a day and a night in the chest of his bosom, where it could pick up little cleanliness, and that today, washing his hands and face, for want of a towel he had to make shift with the skirt of his coat? Surely no one would suspect it! O Lord, and how many such as he must Thou have scattered throughout the world, who suffer for that wretched thing they call honor what they would never endure for Thee!”

Thus was I standing at the door, watching and considering these things and many others, until my master disappeared at the end of the long, narrow street; and when I saw him vanish, I turned back into the house, and in the space of a credo ran through it all, above and below, without halting or finding anything to halt at. I made the miserable hard bed, took the pitcher, and betook myself to the river, where in a garden I saw my master in eager courtship with two veiled women—to all appearance of those who are not lacking in that city, but many of whom are wont on summer mornings to go out to the cool river banks to take the air and breakfast without carrying any food, trusting that someone will not fail to give it to them, according as the gentlemen of the town have accustomed them.

And as I say, he was between them like a gallant, whispering to them more sweet nothings than Ovid ever wrote. But when they perceived that he was thoroughly softened, they made no shame of asking him for breakfast with the customary reward. He, finding himself as cold in purse as he was warm in heart, was seized with such a chill that the color fled from his face, and he began to stammer in his speech and to make lame excuses. They, who must have been well versed in the trade, perceiving his malady, left him for what he was.

I, who was eating certain cabbage stalks wherewith I had broken my fast, with great diligence, like a new servant, without being seen by my master, returned to the house, where I thought to sweep some part, which was sorely needed; but I found nothing to do it with. I set myself to consider what I should do, and it seemed best to wait for my master until midday, to see whether he came and by chance brought something for us to eat; but my expectation was in vain.

When I saw it was two o’clock and he came not, and hunger was pressing hard upon me, I locked the door, put the key where he had commanded, and returned to my craft. With a low, faint voice, my hands folded in my bosom, God before mine eyes and His name upon my tongue, I began to beg for bread from door to door, among the largest houses I could find. And since I had imbibed this trade with my mother’s milk—that is to say, had learned it from that great master, the blind man—I proved so apt a disciple that, though there was no charity in that town and the year was not abundant, I managed so well that before the clock struck four I had as many pounds of bread stowed away in my belly, and more than two pounds more in my sleeves and bosom. I returned to our lodging, and passing by the tripe market, I begged of one of those women, and she gave me a piece of cow’s heel with a few boiled chitterlings.

When I reached home, my good master was already there, his cloak folded and laid upon the stone bench, while he paced about the courtyard. As I entered, he came toward me. I thought he was about to chide me for my delay, but God ordered it better. He asked me whence I came. I said to him:

“Sir, I stayed here until the clock struck two; and seeing that your honor came not, I went about the city to commend myself to good folk, and they have given me this which you see.”

I showed him the bread and the chitterlings which I carried in the skirt of my coat, whereat he assumed a cheerful countenance and said:

“Well, I waited for thee to dine, and seeing that thou camest not, I dined. But thou dost like an honest lad in this: for it is better to beg for God’s sake than to steal; and so may He help me as I approve of it. Only I charge thee that they know not that thou livest with me, for the sake of my honor; though I well believe it will be kept secret, seeing how little I am known in this town. Would to God I had never come to it!”

“Take no care for that, sir,” said I; “for devil a person asks me any such account, nor have I any need to give it.”

“Eat then, poor lad; for if it please God, we shall soon see ourselves out of want. Though I tell thee that since I entered this house, nothing hath gone well with me. It must be built upon ill ground: for there are unlucky houses that bring misfortune upon those who dwell in them. This must without doubt be one of them; but I promise thee, when the month is out, I will not stay in it though they should give it to me for mine own.”

I sat down at the end of the stone bench, and so that he might not take me for a glutton, I kept silence about my afternoon feast; and I began to sup, biting into my chitterlings and bread, while stealthily I watched my unfortunate master, who never took his eyes from my lap, which at that season served for a platter. May God have as much pity on me as I had on him, for I felt what he was feeling, having passed through it many a time and passing through it daily. I considered whether it would be well to invite him; but since he had told me he had dined, I feared he would not accept my invitation. In short, I desired that the poor sinner should help his misery out of mine, and break his fast as he had done the day before, seeing there was better occasion, the food being better and my hunger less.

God willed to fulfill my desire, and methinks his own as well: for as I began to eat and he was pacing to and fro, he came near me and said:

“I tell thee, Lázaro, that thou hast the pleasantest grace in eating that ever in my life I saw in any man; and no one can watch thee eat without having an appetite, even though he had none before.”

“The right good one thou hast,” said I to myself, “makes mine appear handsome to thee.”

Yet it seemed to me best to help him, since he helped himself and opened the way for me, and I said to him:

“Sir, good tools make a good workman. This bread is right savory, and this cow’s heel so well boiled and seasoned that there is no one whom its flavor would not invite.”

“Is it cow’s heel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I tell thee that is the choicest morsel in the world: there is no pheasant that tastes so good to me.”

“Taste it then, sir, and see how good it is.”

I placed the heel in his fingers, with three or four slices of the whitest bread; and he sat down beside me and began to eat like one who had good longing for it, gnawing every small bone better than any greyhound of his could have done.

“With garlic sauce,” said he, “this would be a singular delicacy.”