Reading books romantic stories you will plunge into the world of feelings and love. Most of the time the story ends happily. Very interesting and informative to read books historical romance novels to feel the atmosphere of that time.Carmen by Prosper Mérimée (best book club books TXT) 📖
- Author: Prosper Mérimée
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“One day the jailer came in, and gave me an Alcala roll.*
Seville, where the most delicious rolls are made. They are
said to owe their quality to the water of the place, and
great quantities of them are brought to Seville every day.
“‘Look here,’ said he, ‘this is what your cousin has sent you.’
“I took the loaf, very much astonished, for I had no cousin in Seville. It may be a mistake, thought I, as I looked at the roll, but it was so appetizing and smelt so good, that I made up my mind to eat it, without troubling my head as to whence it came, or for whom it was really intended.
“When I tried to cut it, my knife struck on something hard. I looked, and found a little English file, which had been slipped into the dough before the roll had been baked. The roll also contained a gold piece of two piastres. Then I had no further doubt—it was a present from Carmen. To people of her blood, liberty is everything, and they would set a town on fire to save themselves one day in prison. The girl was artful, indeed, and armed with that roll, I might have snapped my fingers at the jailers. In one hour, with that little file, I could have sawn through the thickest bar, and with the gold coin I could have exchanged my soldier’s cloak for civilian garb at the nearest shop. You may fancy that a man who has often taken the eaglets out of their nests in our cliff would have found no difficulty in getting down to the street out of a window less than thirty feet above it. But I didn’t choose to escape. I still had a soldier’s code of honour, and desertion appeared to me in the light of a heinous crime. Yet this proof of remembrance touched me. When a man is in prison he likes to think he has a friend outside who takes an interest in him. The gold coin did rather offend me; I should have very much liked to return it; but where was I to find my creditor? That did not seem a very easy task.
“After the ceremony of my degradation I had fancied my sufferings were over, but I had another humiliation before me. That came when I left prison, and was told off for duty, and put on sentry, as a private soldier. You can not conceive what a proud man endures at such a moment. I believe I would have just as soon been shot dead—then I should have marched alone at the head of my platoon, at all events; I should have felt I was somebody, with the eyes of others fixed upon me.
“I was posted as sentry on the door of the colonel’s house. The colonel was a young man, rich, good-natured, fond of amusing himself. All the young officers were there, and many civilians as well, besides ladies—actresses, as it was said. For my part, it seemed to me as if the whole town had agreed to meet at that door, in order to stare at me. Then up drove the colonel’s carriage, with his valet on the box. And who should I see get out of it, but the gipsy girl! She was dressed up, this time, to the eyes, togged out in golden ribbons—a spangled gown, blue shoes, all spangled too, flowers and gold lace all over her. In her hand she carried a tambourine. With her there were two other gipsy women, one young and one old. They always have one old woman who goes with them, and then an old man with a guitar, a gipsy too, to play alone, and also for their dances. You must know these gipsy girls are often sent for to private houses, to dance their special dance, the Romalis, and often, too, for quite other purposes.
“Carmen recognised me, and we exchanged glances. I don’t know why, but at that moment I should have liked to have been a hundred feet beneath the ground.
“‘Agur laguna,’ * said she. ‘Oficial mio! You keep guard like a recruit,’ and before I could find a word in answer, she was inside the house.
“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!’
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!’
“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.’
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.‘****
** 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
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