The Adventures of Gil Blas of Santillane - Alain René le Sage (best fiction books of all time .txt) 📗
- Author: Alain René le Sage
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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
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