The Adventures of Gil Blas of Santillane by Alain René le Sage (ebook reader ink .TXT) 📖

>village on this side of Segovia.

 

I resolved on accompanying this barber home, and going to Segovia

for the chance of a cast to Madrid. We began entertaining one

another with indifferent subjects as we went along. The young

fellow was perfectly good-humoured, with a ready wit. After an

hour’s conversation, he asked me if I was hungry. I referred him

to the first house of call for my answer. To stop dilapidations

till we get there, said he, we may renew our term by a little

breakfast from my wallet. When I am on a journey I am always my

own caterer. None of your woollen drapery, nor linen drapery, nor

any of your frippery or trumpery. I hate ostentation. My wallet

contains nothing but a little exercise for my grinders, my

razors, and a wash-ball. I extolled his discretion, and agreed

with all my heart to the bargain he proposed. My appetite was

keen and sharp set for a comfortable meal; after what he had

said, I could expect no less. We drew aside a little from the

high road, and sat down upon the grass. There my little

journeyman barber laid out his provisions, consisting of five or

six onions, with some scraps of bread and cheese; but the best

lot in the auction was a little leathern bottle, full, as he

said, of choice, delicate wine. Though the solids were not very

relishing, the calls of hunger did not allow either of us to be

dainty; and we emptied the bottle too, containing about two pints

of a wine one could not recommend without some remorse of

conscience. We then rose from table and set out again on the

tramp in high glee. The barber, who had heard some little

snatches of my story from Fabricio, entreated me to furnish him

with the whole from the best authority. It was impossible to

refuse so munificent a host; I therefore gave him the

satisfaction he required. In my turn I called on him, as an

acknowledgement of my frankness, to communicate the leading

circumstances of his terrestrial peregrinations. Oh! as for my

adventures, exclaimed he, they are scarcely worth re cording, a

mere catalogue of common occurrences. Nevertheless, since we have

nothing else to do, I will run over the narrative, such as it is.

At the same time he entered on the recital nearly in the

following terms.

 

CH. VII. — The journeyman barber’s story.

 

I TAKE up my tale from the origin of things. My grandfather,

Ferdinand Perez de la Fuenta, barber-general to the village of

Olm�do for fifty years, died, leaving four sons. The eldest,

Nicholas, succeeded to the shop, and lathered himself into the

good graces of the customers. Bertrand, the next, having taken a

fancy to trade, set up for a mercer; and Thomas, who was the

third, turned schoolmaster. As for the fourth, by name Pedro,

feeling within himself the high destinies of learning, he sold a

dirty acre or two which fell to his share, and went to settle at

Madrid, where he hoped one day to distinguish himself by his

genius and erudition. The other three brothers would not part;

they fixed their quarters at Olm�do, marrying peasants’

daughters, who brought their husbands very little dowry, except

an annual present of a chopping young rustic. They had a most

public-spirited emulation in child-bearing. My mother, the

barber’s wife, favoured the world with a contribution of six

within the first five years of her marriage. I was among the

number. My father initiated me betimes in the mysteries of

shaving; and when he saw me grown up to the age of fifteen, laid

this wallet across my shoulders, presented me with a long sword,

and said — Go, Diego, you are now qualified to gain your own

livelihood; go and travel about. You want a little acquaintance

with the world to give you a polish, and improve you in your art.

Off with you! and do not return to Olm�do till you have made the

tour of Spain, nor let me hear of you till that is accomplished.

Finishing with this injunction, he embraced me with fatherly

affection, and shoved me out of doors by the shoulders.

 

Such were the parting benedictions of my sire. As for my mother,

who had more the touch of nature in her manners, she seemed to

feel somewhat at my departure. She dropped a few tears, and even

slipped a ducat by stealth into my hand.. Thus was I sent from

Olm�do into the wide world, and took the road of Segovia. I did

not go two hundred yards without stopping to examine my bag. I

had a mind to view its contents, and to know the precise amount

of my possessions. There I found a case with two razors, which

must have travelled post over the chins of ten generations, by

the evidence of their wear and tear, with a strap to set them,

and a bit of soap. In addition to this, a coarse shirt quite new,

a pair of my father’s shoes quite old, and what rejoiced me more

than all the rest, a rouleau of twenty rials in a linen bag.

Behold the sum total of my personals. You may conclude master

Nicholas, the barber, to have reckoned a good deal on my

ingenuity, by his turning me adrift with so slender a provision.

Yet a ducat and twenty rials, by way of fortune, was enough to

turn the head of a young man unaccustomed to money concerns. I

fancied my stock of cash inexhaustible; and pursued my journey in

the sun shine of brilliant anticipation, looking from time to

time at the hilt of my rapier, while the blade was striking

against the calf of my leg at every step, or tripping up my

heels.

 

In the evening I reached the village of Ataquin�s with a very

catholic stomach. I put up at the inn; and, as if I meant to

spend freely, asked, in a lofty tone, what there was for supper.

The landlord examined my pretensions with his eye, and finding

according to what cloth my coat was cut, said with true

publican’s civility — Yes, yes, my worthy master, you shall have

no reason to complain; we will treat you like a lord. With this

assurance, he showed me into a little room, whither he brought

me, a quarter of an hour afterwards, a ragout made of a great he

cat, on which I feasted with as famous an appetite as if it had

been hare or rabbit. This excellent dish was washed down by so

choice a wine, that the king had no better in his cellars. I

found out, however, that it was pricked; but that was no

hindrance to my doing it as much honour as the he cat. The last

article in this entertainment for a lord was a bed better adapted

to drive sleep away than to invite it. Figure it to yourself

about the width of a coffin, and so short that I could not

stretch my legs, though none of the longest. Besides, there was

neither mattress nor feather bed, but merely a little straw sewed

up in a sheet folded double, which was laid down clean for every

hundredth traveller, and served the other ninety-nine, one after

another, without washing. Nevertheless, in such a bed, with a

stomach distended to a surfeit by fricasseed cat, and then raked

by sour wine, thanks to youth and a good constitution, I slept

soundly, and passed the night without being disturbed.

 

On the following day when I had breakfasted, and paid the

reckoning as I had been treated, like a lord, I made but one

stage to Segovia. On my arrival, I had the good fortune to find a

shop, where they took me in for my board and lodging; but I staid

there only six months; a journeyman barber, with whom I got

acquainted, was going to Madrid, and drew me in to set off with

him. I had no difficulty in procuring a situation on the same

footing as at Segovia. I got into a shop of the very best custom.

It is true, it was near the church of the Holy Cross, and that

the neighbourhood of the Prince’s Theatre brought a great deal of

business. My master, two stirring fellows, and myself, could

scarcely lather the chins of the people who came to be shaved.

They were of all trades and conditions; among the rest, players

and authors. One day, two persons of the last description

happened to meet. They began conversing about the poets and

pieces in vogue, when one of them mentioned my uncle’s name: a

circumstance which drew my attention more particularly to their

discourse. Don Juan de Zavaleta, said one, will never do any good

as an author. A man of a cold genius, without a spark of fancy!

he has written himself down at a terrible rate by his last

publication. And Louis Velez de Guevara, said the other, what has

he done? A fine work to bring before the public! Was there ever

anything so wretched? They mentioned I know not how many poets

besides, whose names I have forgotten: I only recollect that they

said no good of them. As for my uncle, they made a more

honourable mention of him, agreeing that he was a personage of

merit, Yes, said one, Don Pedro de la Fuenta is an excellent

author; there is a sly humour in his compositions, blended with

solid sense, which communicates an attic poignancy to their

general effect. I am not surprised at his popularity both in

court and city, nor at the pensions settled on him by the great.

For many years past, said the other, he has enjoyed a very large

income. He lives at the Duke de Medina Coeli’s table, and has an

apartment in his house, so that he is at no expense: he must be

very well in the world.

 

I lost not a syllable of what these poets were saying about my

uncle. We had learnt in the family, that he made a noise in

Madrid by his works; some travellers, passing through Olm�do, had

told us so; but as he took no notice of us, and seemed to have

weaned himself from all natural ties, we on our side lived in a

state of perfect indifference about him. Yet nature will prevail:

as soon as I had heard that he was in a fair way, and had learned

where he lived, I was tempted to go and call upon him. One thing

staggered me a little; the literati had styled him Don Pedro.

This don was an awkward circumstance: I had my doubts whether he

might not be some other poet of the name, and not my uncle. Yet

that apprehension did not damp my ardour. I thought he might have

been ennobled for his wit, and determined to pay him a visit. For

this purpose, with my master’s leave, I tricked myself out one

morning as well as I could, and sallied from our shop, a little

proud of being nephew to a man who had gained so high a character

by his genius. Barbers are not the most diffident people in the

world. I began to conceive no mean opinion of myself; and riding

the high horse with all the arrogance of greatness, inquired my

way to the Duke de Medina Coeli’s palace. I rang at the gate, and

said, I wanted to speak with Signor Don Pedro de la Fuenta. The

porter pointed with his finger to a narrow staircase at the fag

end of the court, and answered — Go up there, then knock at the

first door on your right. I did as he directed me; and knocked at

a door. It was opened by a young