Carmen
* Good-day, comrade!
“The whole party was assembled in the _patio_, and in spite of the crowd
I could see nearly everything that went on through the lattice.* I
could hear the castanets and the tambourine, the laughter and applause.
Sometimes I caught a glimpse of her head as she bounded upward with her
tambourine. Then I could hear the officers saying many things to her
which brought the blood to my face. As to her answers, I knew nothing
of them. It was on that day, I think, that I began to love her in
earnest--for three or four times I was tempted to rush into the _patio_,
and drive my sword into the bodies of all the coxcombs who were making
love to her. My torture lasted a full hour; then the gipsies came out,
and the carriage took them away. As she passed me by, Carmen looked at
me with those eyes you know, and said to me very low, ‘Comrade, people
who are fond of good _fritata_ come to eat it at Lillas Pastia’s at
Triana!’
* In most of the houses in Seville there is an inner court
surrounded by an arched portico. This is used as a sitting-
room in summer. Over the court is stretched a piece of tent
cloth, which is watered during the day and removed at night.
The street door is almost always left open, and the passage
leading to the court (_zaguan_) is closed by an iron lattice
of very elegant workmanship.
“Then, light as a kid, she stepped into the carriage, the coachman
whipped up his mules, and the whole merry party departed, whither I know
not.
“You may fancy that the moment I was off guard I went to Triana; but
first of all I got myself shaved and brushed myself up as if I had been
going on parade. She was living with Lillas Pastia, an old fried-fish
seller, a gipsy, as black as a Moor, to whose house a great many
civilians resorted to eat _fritata_, especially, I think, because Carmen
had taken up her quarters there.
“‘Lillas,’ she said, as soon as she saw me. ‘I’m not going to work any
more to-day. To-morrow will be a day, too.* Come, fellow-countryman, let
us go for a walk!’
* _Manana sera otro dia._--A Spanish proverb.
“She pulled her mantilla across her nose, and there we were in the
street, without my knowing in the least whither I was bound.
“‘Senorita,’ said I, ‘I think I have to thank you for a present I
had while I was in prison. I’ve eaten the bread; the file will do for
sharpening my lance, and I keep it in remembrance of you. But as for the
money, here it is.’
“‘Why, he’s kept the money!’ she exclaimed, bursting out laughing.
‘But, after all, that’s all the better--for I’m decidedly hard up! What
matter! The dog that runs never starves!* Come, let’s spend it all! You
shall treat.’
* _Chuquel sos pirela, cocal terela_. “The dog that runs
finds a bone.”--Gipsy proverb.
“We had turned back toward Seville. At the entrance of the _Calle de
la Serpiente_ she bought a dozen oranges, which she made me put into my
handkerchief. A little farther on she bought a roll, a sausage, and
a bottle of manzanilla. Then, last of all, she turned into a
confectioner’s shop. There she threw the gold coin I had returned to
her on the counter, with another she had in her pocket, and some small
silver, and then she asked me for all the money I had. All I possessed
was one peseta and a few cuartos, which I handed over to her, very much
ashamed of not having more. I thought she would have carried away the
whole shop. She took everything that was best and dearest, _yemas_,*
_turon_,** preserved fruits--as long as the money lasted. And all these,
too, I had to carry in paper bags. Perhaps you know the _Calle del
Candilejo_, where there is a head of Don Pedro the Avenger.*** That head
ought to have given me pause. We stopped at an old house in that street.
She passed into the entry, and knocked at a door on the ground floor.
It was opened by a gipsy, a thorough-paced servant of the devil. Carmen
said a few words to her in Romany. At first the old hag grumbled. To
smooth her down Carmen gave her a couple of oranges and a handful of
sugar-plums, and let her have a taste of wine. Then she hung her cloak
on her back, and led her to the door, which she fastened with a wooden
bar. As soon as we were alone she began to laugh and caper like a
lunatic, singing out, ‘You are my _rom_, I’m your _romi_.’****
* Sugared yolks of eggs.
** A sort of nougat.
*** This king, Don Pedro, whom we call “the Cruel,” and whom
Queen Isabella, the Catholic, never called anything but “the
Avenger,” was fond of walking about the streets of Seville
at night in search of adventures, like the Caliph Haroun al
Raschid. One night, in a lonely street, he quarrelled with a
man who was singing a serenade. There was a fight, and the
king killed the amorous _caballero_. At the clashing of
their swords, an old woman put her head out of the window
and lighted up the scene with a tiny lamp (candilejo) which
she held in her hand. My readers must be informed that King
Don Pedro, though nimble and muscular, suffered from one
strange fault in his physical conformation. Whenever he
walked his knees cracked loudly. By this cracking the old
woman easily recognised him. The next day the _veintiquatro_
in charge came to make his report to the king. “Sir, a duel
was fought last night in such a street--one of the
combatants is dead.” “Have you found the murderer?” “Yes,
sir.” “Why has he not been punished already?” “Sir, I await
your orders!” “Carry out the law.” Now the king had just
published a decree that every duellist was to have his head
cut off, and that head was to be set up on the scene of the
fight. The _veintiquatro_ got out of the difficulty like a
clever man. He had the head sawed off a statue of the king,
and set that up in a niche in the middle of the street in
which the murder had taken place. The king and all the
Sevillians thought this a very good joke. The street took
its name from the lamp held by the old woman, the only
witness of the incident. The above is the popular tradition.
Zuniga tells the story somewhat differently. However that
may be, a street called _Calle del Candilejo_ still exists
in Seville, and in that street there is a bust which is said
to be a portrait of Don Pedro. This bust, unfortunately, is
a modern production. During the seventeenth century the old
one had become very much defaced, and the municipality had
it replaced by that now to be seen.
**** _Rom_, husband. _Romi_, wife.
“There I stood in the middle of the room, laden with all her purchases,
and not knowing where I was to put them down. She tumbled them all onto
the floor, and threw her arms round my neck, saying:
“‘I pay my debts, I pay my debts! That’s the law of the _Cales_.’*
* _Calo_, feminine _calli_, plural _cales_. Literally
“black,” the name the gipsies apply to themselves in their
own language.
“Ah, sir, that day! that day! When I think of it I forget what to-morrow
must bring me!”
For a moment the bandit held his peace, then, when he had relighted his
cigar, he began afresh.
“We spent the whole day together, eating, drinking, and so forth. When
she had stuffed herself with sugar-plums, like any child of six years
old, she thrust them by handfuls into the old woman’s water-jar.
‘That’ll make sherbet for her,’ she said. She smashed the _yemas_ by
throwing them against the walls. ‘They’ll keep the flies from bothering
us.’ There was no prank or wild frolic she didn’t indulge in. I told her
I should have liked to see her dance, only there were no castanets to
be had. Instantly she seized the old woman’s only earthenware plate,
smashed it up, and there she was dancing the _Romalis_, and making the
bits of broken crockery rattle as well as if they had been ebony and
ivory castanets. That girl was good company, I can tell you! Evening
fell, and I heard the drums beating tattoo.
“‘I must get back to quarters for roll-call,’ I said.
“‘To quarters!’ she answered, with a look of scorn. ‘Are you a negro
slave, to let yourself be driven with a ramrod like that! You are as
silly as a canary bird. Your dress suits your nature.* Pshaw! you’ve no
more heart than a chicken.’
* Spanish dragoons wear a yellow uniform.
“I stayed on, making up my mind to the inevitable guard-room. The next
morning the first suggestion of parting came from her.
“‘Hark ye, Joseito,’ she said. ‘Have I paid you? By our law, I owed you
nothing, because you’re a _payllo_. But you’re a good-looking fellow,
and I took a fancy to you. Now we’re quits. Good-day!’
“I asked her when I should see her again.
“‘When you’re less of a simpleton,’ she retorted, with a laugh. Then, in
a more serious tone, ‘Do you know, my son, I really believe I love you a
little; but that can’t last! The dog and the wolf can’t agree for long.
Perhaps if you turned gipsy, I might care to be your _romi_. But that’s
all nonsense, such things aren’t possible. Pshaw! my boy. Believe me,
you’re well out of it. You’ve come across the devil--he isn’t always
black--and you’ve not had your neck wrung. I wear a woollen suit, but
I’m no sheep.* Go and burn a candle to your _majari_,** she deserves
it well. Come, good-by once more. Don’t think any more about _La
Carmencita_, or she’ll end by making you marry a widow with wooden
legs.’***
* _Me dicas vriarda de jorpoy, bus ne sino braco_.--A gipsy
proverb.
** The Saint, the Holy Virgin.
*** The gallows, which is the widow of the last man hanged
upon it.
“As she spoke, she drew back the bar that closed the door, and once we
were out in the street she wrapped her mantilla about her, and turned on
her heel.
“She spoke the truth. I should have done far better never to think of
her again. But after that day in the _Calle del Candilejo_ I couldn’t
think of anything else. All day long I used to walk about, hoping I
might meet her. I sought news of her from the old hag, and from the
fried-fish seller. They both told me she had gone away to _Laloro_,
which is their name for Portugal. They probably said it by Carmen’s
orders, but I soon found out they were lying. Some weeks after my day
in the _Calle del Candilejo_ I was on duty at one of the town gates. A
little way from the gate there was a breach in the wall. The masons were
working at it in the daytime, and at night a sentinel was posted on it,
to prevent smugglers from getting in. All through one day I saw Lillas
Pastia going backward and forward near the guard-room, and talking to
some of my comrades. They all knew him well, and his fried-fish and
fritters even better. He came up to me, and asked if I had any news of
Carmen.
“‘No,’ said I.
“‘Well,’ said he, ‘you’ll soon hear of her, old fellow.’
“He was not mistaken. That night I was posted to guard the breach in
the wall. As soon as the sergeant had disappeared I saw a woman coming
toward me. My heart told me it was Carmen. Still I shouted:
“‘Keep off! Nobody can pass here!’
“‘Now, don’t be spiteful,’ she said, making herself known to me.
“‘What! you here, Carmen?’
“‘Yes, _mi payllo_. Let us say few words, but wise ones. Would you
like to earn a douro? Some people will be coming with bundles. Let them
alone.’
“‘No,’ said I, ‘I must not allow them through. These are my orders.’
“‘Orders! orders! You didn’t think about orders in the _Calle del
Candilejo_!’
“‘Ah!’ I cried, quite maddened by the very thought of that night. ‘It
was well worth while to forget my orders for that! But I won’t have any
smuggler’s money!’
“‘Well, if you won’t have money, shall we go and dine together at old
Dorotea’s?’