The Council of Trent

Diego Hurtado De Mendoza (1503-1574)

Born of a noble family at Granada, Mendoza was primarily a man of action. We are told that he joined the army of Charles V in Italy where, “like Scipio, he devoted himself at once to literature and to war.” He was ambassador in several Italian cities and was present at the Council of Trent. Some years later, having incurred the King’s displeasure, he withdrew into retirement and wrote a history of the War Against the Moors.

He was extraordinarily active as editor of ancient works, patron of the arts, and student; but it is chiefly to his picaresque romance, Lazarillo de Tormes, that he owes his fame in the modern world. This is probably the first of the so-called Romances of Roguery. Like most of the works of this kind, it is composed of a series of more or less connected incidents, from which one chapter has been selected for inclusion in this collection. It is characterized by great vivacity and good humour.

The present version is reprinted from Thomas Roscoe’s Spanish Novelists, London, no date. The translation is by Thomas Roscoe. The title of the chapter is How Lazaro Served a Bulero, and What Took Place.

How Lazaro Served a Bulero

The fifth master that fortune threw in my way was a Bulero, or a dealer in papal indulgences one of the most impudent and barefaced, yet cleverest rogues, that I have ever seen, or ever shall see. He practised all manner of deceit, and resorted to the most subtle inventions to gain his end.

On his arrival at any place to present his credentials and open his traffic, the first thing he did was to send small presents of no great value to the clergy, by which means he would gain a civil reception and perhaps assistance in his negotiations. He made himself acquainted with the character of these persons; when to some he would say, that he never spoke in Latin, but always preferred a chaste and elegant diction in his native tongue.

To others again, he would talk Latin for two hours; at least so it would seem to those who heard him, although perhaps it was not half that time. When he found that no great success attended his usual endeavors, he would have recourse to artifice; but as a regular account of them would fill a volume, I will only recount one little maneuver, which will give you some idea of his genius and invention.

Diego Hurtado De Mendoza (1503-1574)

Born of a noble family at Granada, Mendoza was primarily a man of action. We are told that he joined the army of Charles V in Italy where, “like Scipio, he devoted himself at once to literature and to war.” He was ambassador in several Italian cities and was present at the Council of Trent. Some years later, having incurred the King’s displeasure, he withdrew into retirement and wrote a history of the War Against the Moors.

He was extraordinarily active as editor of ancient works, patron of the arts, and student; but it is chiefly to his picaresque romance, Lazarillo de Tormes, that he owes his fame in the modern world. This is probably the first of the so-called Romances of Roguery. Like most of the works of this kind, it is composed of a series of more or less connected incidents, from which one chapter has been selected for inclusion in this collection. It is characterized by great vivacity and good humour.

The present version is reprinted from Thomas Roscoe’s Spanish Novelists, London, no date. The translation is by Thomas Roscoe. The title of the chapter is How Lazaro Served a Bulero, and What Took Place.

How Lazaro Served a Bulero

The fifth master that fortune threw in my way was a Bulero, or a dealer in papal indulgences—one of the most impudent and barefaced, yet cleverest rogues, that I have ever seen, or ever shall see. He practised all manner of deceit, and resorted to the most subtle inventions to gain his end.

On his arrival at any place to present his credentials and open his traffic, the first thing he did was to send small presents of no great value to the clergy, by which means he would gain a civil reception and perhaps assistance in his negotiations. He made himself acquainted with the character of these persons; when to some he would say, that he never spoke in Latin, but always preferred a chaste and elegant diction in his native tongue.

To others again, he would talk Latin for two hours; at least so it would seem to those who heard him, although perhaps it was not half that time. When he found that no great success attended his usual endeavors, he would have recourse to artifice; but as a regular account of them would fill a volume, I will only recount one little maneuver, which will give you some idea of his genius and invention.

The recognized masterpieces of modern

Gustavo Adolfo Becquer (1836—1870)

A native of Seville, Becquer ran away from home while still a boy, and went to Madrid, where for many years he led a life of poverty. His entire life’ indeed was spent in executing what hack work he was able to get. He is known for his poems and fantastic tales, the latter written to a certain extent under the influence of the German Hoffmann. Maese Phez is a good specimen of his art both as a teller of tales and a poet of fantasy. It is one of the recognized masterpieces of modern Spanish fiction.

The present version is reprinted from Modem Ghosts, translated by Rollo Ogden. Copyright, 1890, by Harper & Bros., by whose permission it is here used.

Maese Pfirez, the Organist

Do you see that man with the scarlet cloak, and the white plume in his hat, and the gold-embroidered vest? I mean the otie just getting out of his litter and going to greet that lady the one coming along after those four pages who are carrying torches? Well, that is the Marquis of Mascoso, lover of the widow, the Countess of Villa- pineda.

They say that before he began paying court to her he had sought the hand of a very wealthy man’s daughter, but the girl’s father, who they say is a trifle close-fisted—but hush! Speaking of the devil do you see that man closely wrapped in his cloak coming on foot under the arch of San Felipe? Well, he is the father in question. Everybody in Seville knows him on account of his immense fortune.

“Look at that group of stately men! They are the twenty-four knights. Aha! there’s that Heming, too. They say that the gentlemen of the green cross have not challenged him yet, thanks to his influence with the great ones at Madrid. All he comes to church for is to hear the music.

“Alas! neighbor, that looks bad. I fear there’s going to be a scuffle. I shall take refuge in the church, for, according to my guess, there will be more blows than Paternosters. Look, look! the Duke of Alcala’s people are coming round the corner of Saint Peter’s Square, and I think I see the Duke of Medinasidonia’s men in Duenas Alley. Didn’t I tell you? There! The blows are beginning. Neighbor, neighbor, this way before they close the doors!

Wicked sinners of sojers kem to these part

Samuel Lover (1797 – 1868)

Samuel Lover was born in Dublin of an English Protestant family. He studied painting at an early age, and though he continued to practise that art, he soon discovered his talent for writing. Many of his most delightful sketches of Irish life appeared in various Dublin periodicals in the early thirties. In 1832 he published his Legends and Stories of Ireland, in which The White Trout is found. The best known of his novels is Handy Andy.

The White Trout is reprinted from Yeats’ Irish Fairy and Folk Tales; New York, no date.

The White Trout

There was wanst upon a time, long ago, a beautiful lady that lived in a castle upon the lake beyant, and they say she was promised to a king’s son, and they wor to be married, when all of a sudden he was murthered, the crathur (Lord help us), and threwn into the lake above, and so, of course, he couldn’t keep his promise to the fairy lady and more’s the pity.

Well; the story goes that she went out iv her mind, bekase av loosin’ the king’s son for she was tendher-hearted, God help her, like the rest iv us! and pined away after him, until at last, no one about seen her, good or bad; and the story wint that the fairies took her away.

Well, sir, in coorse o’ time, the White Throut, God bless it, was seen in the sthrame beyant, and sure_the people didn’t know what to think av the crathur, seein’ as how a white throut was never heard av afor, nor since; and years upon years the throut was there, just where you seen it this blessed minit, longer nor I can tell aye throth, and beyant the memory o’- th’ ouldest in the village.

At last the people began to think it must be a fairy; for what else could it be? and no hurt nor harm was iver put an the white throut, until some wicked sinners of sojers kem to these parts, and laughed at all the people, and gibed and jeered them for thinkin’ o’ the likes; and one o’ them in partic’lar (bad luck to him; God forgi’ me for saying it!) swore he’d catch the throut and ate it for his dinner the blackguard !

Well, what would you think o’ the villainy of the sojer? Sure enough he cotch the throut, and away wid him home, and puts an the fryin’- pan, and into it he pitches the purty little thing. The throut squeeled all as one as a Christian crathur, and, my dear, you’d think the sojer id split his sides laughin’ for he was a harden’d villain; and when he thought one side was done, he turns it over to fry the other; and, what would you think, but the divil a taste of a burn was an it at all at all; and sure the sojer thought it was a quare throut that could not be briled. “But,” says he, “I’ll give it another turn by and by,” little thinkin’ what was in store for him, the haythen.

 

The fairy lady and more’s the pity

Samuel Lover (1797—1868)

Samuel Lover was born in Dublin of an English Protestant family. He studied painting at an early age, and though he continued to practise that art, he soon discovered his talent for writing. Many of his most delightful sketches of Irish life appeared in various Dublin periodicals in the early thirties. In 1832 he published his Legends and Stories of Ireland, in which The White Trout is found. The best known of his novels is Handy Andy.

The White Trout is reprinted from Yeats’ Irish Fairy and Folk Tales; New York, no date.

The White Trout

There was wanst upon a time, long ago, a beautiful lady that lived in a castle upon the lake beyant, and they say she was promised to a king’s son, and they wor to be married, when all of a sudden he was murthered, the crathur (Lord help us), and threwn into the lake above, and so, of course, he couldn’t keep his promise to the fairy lady and more’s the pity.

Well; the story goes that she went out iv her mind, bekase av loosin’ the king’s son for she was tendher-hearted, God help her, like the rest iv us! and pined away after him, until at last, no one about seen her, good or bad; and the story wint that the fairies took her away.

Well, sir, in coorse o’ time, the White Throut, God bless it, was seen in the sthrame beyant, and sure_the people didn’t know what to think av the crathur, seein’ as how a white throut was never heard av afor, nor since; and years upon years the throut was there, just where you seen it this blessed minit, longer nor I can tell—aye throth, and beyant the memory o’- th’ ouldest in the village.

At last the people began to think it must be a fairy; for what else could it be?and no hurt nor harm was iver put an the white throut, until some wicked sinners of sojers kem to these parts, and laughed at all the people, and gibed and jeered them for thinkin’ o’ the likes; and one o’ them in partic’lar (bad luck to him; God forgi’ me for saying it!) swore he’d catch the throut and ate it for his dinner the blackguard !

Well, what would you think o’ the villainy of the sojer? Sure enough he cotch the throut, and away wid him home, and puts an the fryin’- pan, and into it he pitches the purty little thing. The throut squeeled all as one as a Christian crathur, and, my dear, you’d think the sojer id split his sides laughin’ for he was a harden’d villain; and when he thought one side was done, he turns it over to fry the other; and, what would you think, but the divil a taste of a burn was an it at all at all; and sure the sojer thought it was a quare throut that could not be briled. “But,” says he, “I’ll give it another turn by and by,” little thinkin’ what was in store for him, the haythen.

 

Book of memorandums

The cavalier went away very well contented; and the professor then called the members who were absent, and placing himself in the center, drew out his book of memorandums, and gave it to Rinconete to read aloud. The first part of the book was an account of the heavy business which had been paid for by their different employers, such as assassinations, slashing in the face with a poniard, maiming, etc. It began thus:

“Memorandum of the serious business for the week.

“First, The merchant of the crossway to receive fourteen cuts across the face value fifty crowns thirty received on account; to be executed by Chiquiznaque.” “That is all for this week in that line,” said Monipodio; “go on a few a leaves further, and see what is to be done under the article of cudgeling.” Rinconete soon found the place, and found written: “Memorandum for cudgeling.”

“First, The master of the Clover-flower eating-house a dozen stripes of the very best quality, at the rate of one crown each—time allowed, six days; to be executed by Maniferro.” “You may soon rub that out,” said Maniferro, “for this is the last night.” “Is there any more, my boy?” asked Monipodio. “Yes, sir,” said Rinconete, “there is one more. The hunchbacked tailor, commonly called the Goldfinch, six stripes of the best quality, by order of the lady who left the necklace—to be executed by Desmochado (the cropper).”

“I can’t think how it is that Desmochado has not completed that order,” said Monipodio. “The time has been up these two days.” “I met him yesterday,” said Maniferro, “and he told me the hunchback had been ill and was confined to his house.” “Ah! I thought so,” returned the master; “for I always esteemed Desmochado a good artist and punctual in his obligations. There is no more, boy; pass on to common assaults.” Rinconete found in another page as follows:

“Well, with this promise,” said the cavalier, “take this chain for the twenty ducats owing, and forty on account of the business you have in hand. It is worth a thousand reals; but I shall require no change, as I think I shall have occasion shortly to send you to another friend of mine on the same errand.” He then took a handsome gold chain from his neck, which was received with the utmost politeness by Monipodio, and Chiquiznaque promised on that very night to wait on the merchant.

 

Chiquiznaque promised

“Well, with this promise,” said the cavalier, “take this chain for the twenty ducats owing, and forty on account of the business you have in hand. It is worth a thousand reals; but I shall require no change, as I think I shall have occasion shortly to send you to another friend of mine on the same errand.” He then took a handsome gold chain from his neck, which was received with the utmost politeness by Monipodio, and Chiquiznaque promised on that very night to wait on the merchant.

Book of memorandums

The cavalier went away very well contented; and the professor then called the members who were absent, and placing himself in the center, drew out his book of memorandums, and gave it to Rinconete to read aloud. The first part of the book was an account of the heavy business which had been paid for by their different employers, such as assassinations, slashing in the face with a poniard, maiming, etc. It began thus:

“Memorandum of the serious business for the week.

“First, The merchant of the crossway to receive fourteen cuts across the face—value fifty crowns—thirty received on account; to be executed by Chiquiznaque.” “That is all for this week in that line,” said Monipodio; “go on a few a leaves further, and see what is to be done under the article of cudgeling.” Rinconete soon found the place, and found written: “Memorandum for cudgeling.”

“First, The master of the Clover-flower eating-house a dozen stripes of the very best quality, at the rate of one crown each—time allowed, six days; to be executed by Maniferro.” “You may soon rub that out,” said Maniferro, “for this is the last night.” “Is there any more, my boy?” asked Monipodio. “Yes, sir,” said Rinconete, “there is one more. The hunchbacked tailor, commonly called the Goldfinch, six stripes of the best quality, by order of the lady who left the necklace—to be executed by Desmochado (the cropper).”

“I can’t think how it is that Desmochado has not completed that order,” said Monipodio. “The time has been up these two days.” “I met him yesterday,” said Maniferro, “and he told me the hunchback had been ill and was confined to his house.” “Ah! I thought so,” returned the master; “for I always esteemed Desmochado a good artist and punctual in his obligations. There is no more, boy; pass on to common assaults.” Rinconete found in another page as follows:

An arrangement from which the poor

They are equally cautious not to burden the mind with too much study, finding the truth of the Scripture observation, that it is indeed “a weariness to the flesh”; besides the holy dread they entertain, as in the case of Lucifer, of its producing pride, and thus incurring the risk of a fall from their state of monastic innocence and simplicity.

But to return to our devout inspector of the property of rich widows. It is certain that he followed so closely in pursuit of the lady in question, and made so much noise in his poor wooden clogs, that for peace’ sake she was soon compelled to add her name to those of the third order, an arrangement from which the poor brethren drew a regular supply of alms, besides warm jackets and richly worked tunics. But, not content with this, and imagining nothing done while anything remained to do, he placed monks round her all day long, to remind her of the superior efficacy of endowing a whole chapel, if she really consulted the benefit of her soul.

Good brethren imagined

The lady, however, having four sons, at first thought it rather hard to rob them of their substance in favor of the monks, and being, like some of her sex, by no means liberally inclined, she tried to amuse them for some time with fair words, though resolved in her own mind to stick fast to her property. Just about the period that the good brethren imagined they had brought her over to their purpose and succeeded in obtaining the mention of their new chapel in her will, it happened that she was taken suddenly ill, and, in spite of all medical assistance, died.

Before breathing her last, she sent in haste for the superior of San Nazaro to receive her dying confessions, who, imagining he was now about to reap the harvest of his toils in laying such long siege to the widow’s purse, very frankly told her how necessary it was, after having made confession, to show a little more charity towards her own soul while it remained yet in her power, and not to rely upon her sons offering up any sort of compensation for her sins in the way of alms and masses after her decease. It was his duty to remind her of the fate of her friend Donna Leonora Caccia, the wife of Messer Cervagio, doctor of laws, who, at the time he spoke, was suffering in purgatory through the wicked neglect of her sons, who had never burnt a single taper since the day of her funeral.

That he followed so closely in pursuit of the lady

They are equally cautious not to burden the mind with too much study, finding the truth of the Scripture observation, that it is indeed “a weariness to the flesh”; besides the holy dread they entertain, as in the case of Lucifer, of its producing pride, and thus incurring the risk of a fall from their state of monastic innocence and simplicity.

But to return to our devout inspector of the property of rich widows. It is certain that he followed so closely in pursuit of the lady in question, and made so much noise in his poor wooden clogs, that for peace’ sake she was soon compelled to add her name to those of the third order, an arrangement from which the poor brethren drew a regular supply of alms, besides warm jackets and richly worked tunics. But, not content with this, and imagining nothing done while anything remained to do, he placed monks round her all day long, to remind her of the superior efficacy of endowing a whole chapel, if she really consulted the benefit of her soul.

Good brethren imagined

The lady, however, having four sons, at first thought it rather hard to rob them of their substance in favor of the monks, and being, like some of her sex, by no means liberally inclined, she tried to amuse them for some time with fair words, though resolved in her own mind to stick fast to her property. Just about the period that the good brethren imagined they had brought her over to their purpose and succeeded in obtaining the mention of their new chapel in her will, it happened that she was taken suddenly ill, and, in spite of all medical assistance, died.

Before breathing her last, she sent in haste for the superior of San Nazaro to receive her dying confessions, who, imagining he was now about to reap the harvest of his toils in laying such long siege to the widow’s purse, very frankly told her how necessary it was, after having made confession, to show a little more charity towards her own soul while it remained yet in her power, and not to rely upon her sons offering up any sort of compensation for her sins in the way of alms and masses after her decease. It was his duty to remind her of the fate of her friend Donna Leonora Caccia, the wife of Messer Cervagio, doctor of laws, who, at the time he spoke, was suffering in purgatory through the wicked neglect of her sons, who had never burnt a single taper since the day of her funeral.

Before breathing her last

They are equally cautious not to burden the mind with too much study, finding the truth of the Scripture observation, that it is indeed “a weariness to the flesh”; besides the holy dread they entertain, as in the case of Lucifer, of its producing pride, and thus incurring the risk of a fall from their state of monastic innocence and simplicity.

But to return to our devout inspector of the property of rich widows. It is certain that he followed so closely in pursuit of the lady in question, and made so much noise in his poor wooden clogs, that for peace’ sake she was soon compelled to add her name to those of the third order, an arrangement from which the poor brethren drew a regular supply of alms, besides warm jackets and richly worked tunics. But, not content with this, and imagining nothing done while anything remained to do, he placed monks round her all day long, to remind her of the superior efficacy of endowing a whole chapel, if she really consulted the benefit of her soul.

Good brethren imagined

The lady, however, having four sons, at first thought it rather hard to rob them of their substance in favor of the monks, and being, like some of her sex, by no means liberally inclined, she tried to amuse them for some time with fair words, though resolved in her own mind to stick fast to her property. Just about the period that the good brethren imagined they had brought her over to their purpose and succeeded in obtaining the mention of their new chapel in her will, it happened that she was taken suddenly ill, and, in spite of all medical assistance, died.

Before breathing her last, she sent in haste for the superior of San Nazaro to receive her dying confessions, who, imagining he was now about to reap the harvest of his toils in laying such long siege to the widow’s purse, very frankly told her how necessary it was, after having made confession, to show a little more charity towards her own soul while it remained yet in her power, and not to rely upon her sons offering up any sort of compensation for her sins in the way of alms and masses after her decease. It was his duty to remind her of the fate of her friend Donna Leonora Caccia, the wife of Messer Cervagio, doctor of laws, who, at the time he spoke, was suffering in purgatory through the wicked neglect of her sons, who had never burnt a single taper since the day of her funeral.