Preface (written a little time before the author’s death) to the “Labours of Persiles and Sigismunda.” Miguel Cervantes (1547-1616). Trans. Roscoe.
THE LOVERS’ RUSE.
Theodora. Show more of gentleness and modesty;
Of gentleness in walking quietly,
Of modesty in looking only down
Upon the earth you tread.
Belisa. ’Tis what I do.
Theodora. What? When yoe looking straight towards that man?
Belisa. Did you not bid me look upon the earth?
And what is he but just a bit of it?
Theodora. I said the earth whereon you tread, my niece.
Belisa. But that whereon I tread is hidden quite
With my own petticoat and walking-dress.
Theodora. Words such as these become no well-bred maid.
But by your mother’s blessèd memory,
I’ll put an end to all your pretty tricks;—
What? You look back at him again?
Belisa. Who? I?
“BELISA: ‘WHY, SURE YOU THINK IT WISE AND WARY TO NOTICE WELL THE PLACE I STUMBLED AT.’”
Theodora. Yes, you; and make him secret signs besides.
Belisa. Not I. ’Tis only that you troubled me
With teasing questions and perverse replies,
So that I stumbled and looked round to see
Who would prevent my fall.
Riselo (to Lisardo). She falls again.
Be quick and help her.
Lisardo (to Belisa). Pardon me lady,
And forgive my glove.
Theodora. Who ever saw the like?
Belisa. Thank you, sir; you saved me from a fall.
Lisardo. An angel, lady, might have fallen so;
Or stars that shine with Heaven’s own blessèd light.
Theodora. I, too, can fall; but this is but a trick.
Good gentleman, farewell to you!
Lisardo. Madam,
Your servants. (Heaven save us from such spleen!)
Theodora. A pretty fall you made of it, and now I hope
You’ll be content, since they assisted you.
Belisa. And you no less content, since now you have
The means to tease me for a week to come.
Theodora. But why again do you turn back your head?
Belisa. Why, sure you think it wise and wary
To notice well the place I stumbled at,
Lest I should stumble there when next I pass,
Theodora. Go to! Come home! come home!
Belisa. Now we shall have
A pretty scolding cook’d up out of this.
“El Azero de Madrid.” Lope de Vega (1562-1635).
Trans. Ticknor.
AUNTS.
That young creature whom you see there,” said the God of Love, as he led me on, “is the chief captain of my war, the one that has brought most men under my banners. The elderly person that is leading her along by the hand is her aunt.”
“Her aunt, did you say?” I replied; “her aunt? Then there is an end of all my love for her. That word ‘aunt’is a counter-poison that has disinfected me entirely, and quite healed the wound your well-planted arrow was beginning to make in my heart. For, however much a man may be in love, there can be no doubt an aunt will always be enough to purge him clean of it. Inquisitive, suspicious, envious,—one or the other she cannot fail to be,—and if the niece have the luck to escape, the lover never has; for if she is envious, she wants him for herself; and if she is only suspicious, she still spoils all comfort, so disconcerting every little project, and so disturbing every little nice plan, as to render pleasure itself unsavoury.”