These polished personages may be called Senor Justo’s family, but it was occasionally increased by various others; none of whom, however, can I heave-to to describe at present.
The day after my arrival, the operation of covering dollar boxes with wet hides had been going on in the dinner saloon the whole forenoon, which drove me forth to look about me; but I returned about half-past two, this being the hour of dinner, and found all the family, excepting mine hostess, assembled, and my appearance was the signal for dinner being ordered in. I may mention here, that this worthy family were all firmly impressed with the idea, that an Englishman was an ostrich, possessing a stomach capable of holding and digesting four times as much as any other person; and under this belief they were so outrageously kind, that I was often literally stuffed to suffocation when I first came amongst them; and when at length I resolutely refused to be immolated after this fashion, they swore I was sick, or did not like my food, which was next door to insulting them. El Senor Justo’s fat dumpling of a brother thought medical advice ought to be taken, for when he was in Lima several seamen belonging to an English whaler had died, and he had remarked, the twaddling body, that they had invariably lost their appetites previous to their dissolution.
But to return. Dinner being ordered, was promptly placed on the table, and mine host insisted on planting me at the foot thereof, while he sat on my left hand; so the party sat down; but the chair opposite, that ought to have been filled by Madama herself, was still vacant.
“Adonde esta su ama,” quoth Don Hombrecillo to one of the black waiting wenches. The girl said she did not know, but she would go and see. It is necessary to mention here that the worthy Senor’s counting-house was in a back building, separated from the house that fronted the street by a narrow court, and in a small closet off this counting-house, my quatre had been rigged the previous night, and there had my luggage been deposited. Amongst other articles in my commissariat, there was a basket with half-a-dozen of champagne, and some hock, and a bottle of brandy, that I had placed under Peter Mangrove’s care to comfort us in the wilderness. We all lay back in our chairs to wait for the lady of the house, but neither did she nor Tomassa, the name of the handmaiden who had been despatched in search of her, seem inclined to make their appearance. Don Hombrecillo became impatient.
“Josefa,”—to another of the servants—“run and desire your mistress to come here immediately.” Away she flew, but neither did this second pigeon return. Mine host now lost his temper entirely, and spluttered out, as loud as he could roar, “Somos comiendo, Panchita, somos comiendo;” and forthwith, as if in spite, he began to fork up his food, until he had nearly choked himself. Presently a short startled scream was heard from the counting-house, then a low suppressed laugh, then a loud shout, a long uproarious peal of laughter, and the two black servants came thundering across the wooden gangway or drawbridge, that connected the room where we sat with the outhouse, driven onwards by their mistress herself. They flew across the end of the dining room into the small balcony fronting the lane and began without ceremony to shout across the narrow street to a Carmelite priest, who was in a gallery of the opposite monastery, “that their mistress was possessed.”
Presently in danced our landlady, in propria persona, jumping and screaming and laughing, and snapping her fingers, and spinning round like a Turkish dervish, “mira el fandango, mira el fandangodexa me baylar, dexa me baylar—See my fandango, see my fandangolet me dance let me dance—ha, ha, ha.”
“Panchita,” screamed Justo, in extreme wrath, “tu es loco, you are mad sit down, por amor de Dios—seas decente—be decent.”
She continued gamboling about, “loven soy y virgin—I am young and a virgin—y tu Viejo diablo que queres tu,—and you, old devil, what do you want, eh?—Una virgin por Dios soy—I am young,” and seizing a boiled fowl from the dish, she let fly at her husband’s head, but missed him, fortunately; whereupon she made a regular grab at him with her paw, but he slid under the table, in all haste, roaring out,—“Ave Maria, que es esso—manda por el Padre—Send for the priest, y trae una puerco, en donde echar el demonio, manda, manda—send for a priest, and a pig, into which the demon may be cast,—send—” “Dexa me, dexa me baylar” continued the old dame—“tu no vale, Bobo viejo, you are of no use, you old blockhead—you are a forked radish, and not a man—let me catch you, let me catch you,” and here she made a second attempt, and got hold of his queue, by which she forcibly dragged him from beneath the table, until fortunately, the ribbon that tied it slid off in her hand, and the little Senor instantly ran back to this burrow, with the speed of a rabbit, while his wife sung out, “tu gastas calzones, eh? para que, damelos damelos, yo los quitare?” and if she had caught the worthy man, I believe she would really have shaken him out of his garments, peeled him on the spot, and appropriated them to herself as her threat ran. “I am a cat, a dog, and the devilhoo—hoo—hoo—let me catch you, you miserable wretch, you forked radish, and if I don’t peel off your breeches,—I shall wear them, I shall wear them,—Ave Maria.” Here she threw herself into a chair, being completely blown; but after a gasp or two, she started to her legs again, dancing and singing and snapping her fingers, as if she had held castanets between them, “Venga—Venga—dexa me baylar Dankee, Dankee la—Dankee, Dankee la—mi guitarra—mi guitarra Dankee, Dankee la—ha, ha, ha,”—and away she trundled down stairs again, where she met the priest who had been sent for, in the lower hall, who happened to be very handsome young man. Seeing the state she was in, and utterly unable to account for it, he bobbed, as she threw herself on him, eluded her embraces, and then bolted up stairs, followed by Mrs Potiphart at full speed.—“Padre, father,” cried she, “stop till I peel that forked radish there, and I will give you his breeches—Dankee, Dankee.” All this while, Don Hombrecillo was squeaking out from his lair, at the top of his pipe—“Padre, padre, trae el puerco, venga el puerco—echar el demonio—echar el demonio bring the pig, the pig, and cast out the devil.”—“Mi guitarra, canta, canta y bayle, viejo diablito, canta o yo te matarras—Bring my guitar, dance, dance and sing, you little old devil you, or I’ll murder you, dankee, dankee.”
In fine, I was at length obliged to lend a hand, and she was bodily laid hold of, and put to bed, where she soon fell into a sound sleep, and next morning awoke in her sound senses, totally unconscious of all that had passed, excepting that she remembered having taken a glass of the Englishman’s small beer.
Now the secret was out. The worthy woman, like most South American Spaniards, was distractedly fond of cervesa blanca, or small beer, and seeing the champagne bottles with their wired corks (beer requiring to be so secured in hot climates,) in my basket, she could not resist making free with a bottle, and, as I charitably concluded, small beer being a rarity in those countries, she did not find out the difference until it was made evident by the issue; however, I have it from authority, that she never afterwards ventured on any thing weaker than brandy, and from that hour, utterly eschewed that most dangerous liquor, cervesa blanca.