Carmen (15 page)

“Between yes and no we make no difference when it suits our convenience to confound them; we always pride ourselves more on being martyrs than confessors. For us the beasts of burden are reared in the fields, and pockets are filled in the cities. No eagle or other bird of prey pounces more swiftly on its quarry than we upon opportunities that offer us booty. And finally, we possess many qualities which promise us a happy end; for we sing in prison, are silent on the rack, work by day, and by night we thieve, or rather we take means to teach all men that they should exempt themselves from the trouble of seeing where they put their property. We are not distressed by the fear of
losing our honour, or kept awake by ambition to increase it. We attach ourselves to no parties; we do not rise by day-light to attend levees and present memorials, or to swell the trains of magnates, or to solicit favours. Our gilded roofs and sumptuous palaces are these portable huts; our Flemish pictures and landscapes are those which nature presents to our eyes at every step in the rugged cliffs and snowy peaks, the spreading meads and leafy groves. We are rustic astronomers, for as we sleep almost always under the open sky, we can tell every hour by day or night. We see how Aurora extinguishes and sweeps away the stars from heaven, and how she comes forth with her companion the dawn, enlivening the air, refreshing the water, and moistening the earth; and after her appears the sun gilding the heights, as the poet sings, and making the mountains smile. We are not afraid of being left chilly by his absence, when his rays fall aslant upon us, or of being roasted when they blaze down upon us perpendicularly. We turn the same countenance to sun and frost, to dearth and plenty. In conclusion, we are people who live by our industry and our wits, without troubling ourselves with the old adage, ‘The church, the sea, or the king’s household.’ We have all we want, for we are content with what we have.

“All these things have I told you, generous youth, that you may not be ignorant of the life to which you are come, and the manners and customs you will have to profess, which I have here sketched for you in the rough. Many other particulars, no less worthy of consideration, you will discover for yourself in process of time.”

Here the eloquent old gitano closed his discourse, and the novice replied, that he congratulated himself much on having been made acquainted with such laudable statutes; that he desired to make profession of an order so based on reason and politic principles; that his only regret was that he had not sooner come to the knowledge of so pleasant a life; and that from that moment he renounced his knighthood, and the vain glory of his illustrious lineage, and placed them beneath the yoke, or beneath the laws under which they lived, forasmuch as they so magnificently recompensed the desire he had to serve them, in bestowing upon him the divine Preciosa, for whom he would surrender many crowns and wide empires, or desire them only for her sake.

Preciosa spoke next: “Whereas these señores, our lawgivers,” she said, “have determined, according to their laws that I should be yours, and as such have given me up to you, I have decreed, in accordance with the law of my own will, which is the strongest of all, that I will not be so except upon the conditions heretofore concerted between us two. You must live two years in our company before you enjoy mine, so that you may neither repent through fickleness, nor I be deceived through precipitation. Conditions supersede laws; those which I have prescribed you know; if you choose to keep them, I may be yours, and you mine; if not, the mule is not dead, your clothes are whole, and not a doit of your money is spent. Your absence from home has not yet extended to the length of a day; what remains you may employ in considering what best suits you. These señores may give up my body
to you, but not my soul, which is free, was born free, and shall remain free. If you remain, I shall esteem you much; if you depart, I shall do so no less; for I hold that amorous impulses run with a loose rein, until they are brought to a halt by reason or disenchantment. I would not have you be towards me like the sportsman, who when he has bagged a hare thinks no more of it, but runs after another. The eyes are sometimes deceived; at first sight tinsel looks like gold; but they soon recognise the difference between the genuine and the false metal. This beauty of mine, which you say I possess, and which you exalt above the sun, and declare more precious than gold, how do I know but that at a nearer view it will appear to you a shadow, and when tested will seem but base metal? I give you two years to weigh and ponder well what will be right to choose or reject. Before you buy a jewel, which you can only get rid of by death, you ought to take much time to examine it, and ascertain its faults or its merits. I do not assent to the barbarous licence which these kinsmen of mine have assumed, to forsake their wives or chastise them when the humour takes them; and as I do not intend to do anything which calls for punishment, I will not take for my mate one who will abandon me at his own caprice.”

“You are right, Preciosa,” said Andrew; “and so if you would have me quiet your fears and abate your doubts, by swearing not to depart a jot from the conditions you prescribe, choose what form of oath I shall take, or what other assurance I shall give you, and I will do exactly as you desire.”

“The oaths and promises which the captive makes to obtain his
liberty are seldom fulfilled when he is free,” returned Preciosa; “and it is just the same, I fancy, with the lover, who to obtain his desire will promise the wings of Mercury, and the thunderbolts of Jove; and indeed a certain poet promised myself no less, and swore it by the Stygian lake. I want no oaths or promises, Señor Andrew, but to leave everything to the result of this novitiate. It will be my business to take care of myself, if at any time you should think of offending me.”

“Be it so,” said Andrew. “One request I have to make of these señores and comrades mine, and that is that they will not force me to steal anything for a month or so; for it strikes me that it will take a great many lessons to make me a thief.”

“Never fear, my son,” said the old gipsy; “for we will instruct you in such a manner that you will turn out an eagle in our craft; and when you have learned it, you will like it so much, that you will be ready to eat your hand, it will so itch after it. Yes, it is fine fun to go out empty-handed in the morning, and to return loaded at night to the rancho.”

“I have seen some return with a whipping,” said Andrew.

“One cannot catch trouts dry shod,” the old man replied: “all things in this life have their perils: the acts of the thief are liable to the galleys, whipping, and the scragging-post; but it is not because one ship encounters a storm, or springs a leak, that others should cease to sail the seas. It would be a fine thing if there were to be no soldiers, because war consumes men and horses. Besides, a whipping by the hand of justice is for us a badge of honour, which becomes us better worn on the shoulders than on the breast. The main point is to avoid
having to dance upon nothing in our young days and for our first offences; but as for having our shoulders dusted, or thrashing the water in a galley, we don’t mind that a nutshell. For the present, Andrew, my son, keep snug in the nest under the shelter of our wings; in due time, we will take you out to fly, and that where you will not return without a prey; and the short and the long of it is, that by and by you will lick your fingers after every theft.”

—
From “The Gypsy Girl,” one of
Miguel de Cervantes’s
Novelas Ejemplares
or
Exemplary Novels,
a series of short stories and novellas written between 1590 and 1612 and published together in Madrid in 1613. Cervantes had a family connection to the Gypsies; his first cousin Martina was the granddaughter of a Roma, a scandalous ancestry that was hushed up with sumptuous gifts and large sums of money from which the whole Cervantes family benefited. But at a certain point, the patrimony was disputed, the payments stopped, and years of litigation ensued, leaving the family penniless. Like
Carmen,
“The Gypsy Girl” was the inspiration for an opera
, The Bohemian Girl
(1843), which was one of the most successful English operas of the time
.

The gypsies in a roaring throng

Through Bessarabia do stream

And for tonight the river’s banks

Are home to all their tattered tents.

A joy, their freedom, sleeping there,

In peaceful dreams beneath the sky,

They lay among the wheels of carts

That sit half-hidden under rugs;

The campfire burns; the family

Will cook a meal; the stallions graze

The perfect plain; behind the tents

A bear, their pet, is sound asleep.

Amid the steppes there’s naught but life:

The worried family will be

By morning ready for a trek,

With women’s songs and children’s cries,

The rolling anvil’s endless clang.

But now, behold! upon their camp

A sleepy silence will descend,

The quiet steppe bears but two sounds:

The howl of dogs, and horses’ neighs.

The campfires now are all put out,

And all is peace. A gleaming moon

In oneness with the vaulting sky

Spreads quiet light upon the camp.

Inside his tent, one old man stirs;

He sits before the glowing coals

And warms himself by dying heat

While gazing off into the fields

The night has draped in swirling fog.

His daughter, just a girl, has gone

To stroll in the deserted field.

And used to freely frolicking,

She will return; but now it’s night.

From distant clouds the moon will rise.

Zemfira has not yet come back,

The poor man’s supper growing cold.

But here she comes, and keeping pace

A young man rushes up the steppe;

The gypsy knows him not at all.

“Oh father,” says the dear young girl,

“I’ve brought a guest; on empty land

I found him and invited him

To spend the night within our camp.

He wants to live as gypsies do!

The law pursues him endlessly,

But I will be his friend for life.

His name is Aleko and he

Will stay forever at my side.”

This pleases me. Till morning stay

Beneath our tent’s cool canopy,

And if you wake and would remain

Still longer, we will welcome you.

My bread, my roof are yours to share.

Be one of us, live by our code

Of wand’ring want and wild will!

Tomorrow, at the break of day,

You’ll ride off in our cart with us;

Take any trade that pleases you:

You’ll be an ironsmith, or bard,

Or take a dancing bear to towns.

Then I will stay.

He’ll be my man,

And who could ever make us part?

The old man sits in springtime sun

To warm the blood old age has cooled;

His daughter croons beside the crib

A song that turns Aleko white.

Be silent now! This tires me!

I do not like such savage songs.

You do not like? What do I care?!

It’s only for myself I sing!

Zemfira! Silence! That’s enough!

So then, you understand my song?

Zemfira!

Shout, if shout you must!