Read Online The Dialogue of the Dogs by Miguel de Cervantes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Miguel de Cervantes
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ill-informed judge, well, the whole world now knows the life I lead in penitence—not for some witchcraft I didn’t do, but for the many sins I’ve admitted.
“So, you base drummer, get out of my hospital, or I swear by all that’s holy, I’ll get you out.” And with this, she began to scream so many insults at my master that she reduced him to terrified confusion. The upshot was, no way would she let the show go on. All this fuss didn’t weigh on my master for long, because he got to keep the money, and merely postponed the show he’d missed there for another day and another hospital.
The people left cursing the old woman, calling her not just a witch but a sorceress, and not just old but hairy, too. Despite all this, we stayed in the hospital that night, and when the old woman found me alone on the grounds she asked, “Is it you, Montiel? Is it you, perchance, my boy?” I lifted my head and looked up at her for a long time. When she saw this, she bent down to me with tears in her eyes and threw her arms around my neck. She would’ve kissed me on the lips if I’d let her, but that was disgusting, and I wouldn’t stand for it.
Scipio
: I agree completely. Who wants to kiss an old crone, or be kissed by one?
Berganza
: And now what I want to tell you is something I should’ve told you at the start of my story, so we wouldn’t have wasted so much time talking about how we can talk. Get a load of what this old woman said to me:
“Montiel my boy, come along behind me, so you’ll recognize my room. Arrange to come back tonight, and we can be alone there. I’ll leave the door open. You should realize that I have many things to tell you about your life that will do you good.”
I bowed my head as a token of obedience, which, as she told me afterward, did the trick of persuading her that I was the dog Montiel she was looking for. Dazed and confused, I waited for nightfall in hopes that it would clear up the mystery, or the miracle, of what the old woman had told me. Since I’d heard her called a witch, I expected amazing things from the very sight and sound of her.
I finally arrived at her room, which was dark, narrow and low, lit only by the dim glow of an earthenware lamp. The old woman trimmed the wick and sat down on a small trunk. Pulling me toward her without a word, she hugged me again, and again I had to take care that she didn’t kiss me. The first thing she said to me was,
“I had hoped that, before these eyes of mine closed on the world for the last time, heaven might vouchsafe me one more look at you, my boy. Now that I’ve seen you, let death deliver me from this tiresome life. You must understand, child, that in this village there once lived the most famous witch the world has ever known. They called her Camacha de Montilla, and she was so unique in her black arts that all the Circes, Ericthos, and Medeas that I hear the history books are full of—even they couldn’t touch her. She’d freeze the clouds whenever she felt like it, covering the face of the sun with them, and she could calm the most turbid sky with just a look. She’d whisk men in an instant to distant lands, and she’d miraculously repair young ladies who had proven careless in protecting their virtue. She chaperoned widows, so as to safeguard at least the illusion of their bereavement. She annulledand arranged marriages as she pleased. In December she had fresh roses in her garden, and she reaped wheat in January. Making watercress grow in a cistern was hardly the greatest of her exploits, nor was making an image of the living or the dead appear, on request, in a mirror, or on the fingernail of a child.
“She was famous for turning men into animals, in particular for keeping a sacristan for six years in the form of a mule. Really and truly, how she did it I’ve never been able to grasp. They say of those old mages that they turned men into beasts, but the wisest say it was nothing of the kind, that with their great
“So, you base drummer, get out of my hospital, or I swear by all that’s holy, I’ll get you out.” And with this, she began to scream so many insults at my master that she reduced him to terrified confusion. The upshot was, no way would she let the show go on. All this fuss didn’t weigh on my master for long, because he got to keep the money, and merely postponed the show he’d missed there for another day and another hospital.
The people left cursing the old woman, calling her not just a witch but a sorceress, and not just old but hairy, too. Despite all this, we stayed in the hospital that night, and when the old woman found me alone on the grounds she asked, “Is it you, Montiel? Is it you, perchance, my boy?” I lifted my head and looked up at her for a long time. When she saw this, she bent down to me with tears in her eyes and threw her arms around my neck. She would’ve kissed me on the lips if I’d let her, but that was disgusting, and I wouldn’t stand for it.
Scipio
: I agree completely. Who wants to kiss an old crone, or be kissed by one?
Berganza
: And now what I want to tell you is something I should’ve told you at the start of my story, so we wouldn’t have wasted so much time talking about how we can talk. Get a load of what this old woman said to me:
“Montiel my boy, come along behind me, so you’ll recognize my room. Arrange to come back tonight, and we can be alone there. I’ll leave the door open. You should realize that I have many things to tell you about your life that will do you good.”
I bowed my head as a token of obedience, which, as she told me afterward, did the trick of persuading her that I was the dog Montiel she was looking for. Dazed and confused, I waited for nightfall in hopes that it would clear up the mystery, or the miracle, of what the old woman had told me. Since I’d heard her called a witch, I expected amazing things from the very sight and sound of her.
I finally arrived at her room, which was dark, narrow and low, lit only by the dim glow of an earthenware lamp. The old woman trimmed the wick and sat down on a small trunk. Pulling me toward her without a word, she hugged me again, and again I had to take care that she didn’t kiss me. The first thing she said to me was,
“I had hoped that, before these eyes of mine closed on the world for the last time, heaven might vouchsafe me one more look at you, my boy. Now that I’ve seen you, let death deliver me from this tiresome life. You must understand, child, that in this village there once lived the most famous witch the world has ever known. They called her Camacha de Montilla, and she was so unique in her black arts that all the Circes, Ericthos, and Medeas that I hear the history books are full of—even they couldn’t touch her. She’d freeze the clouds whenever she felt like it, covering the face of the sun with them, and she could calm the most turbid sky with just a look. She’d whisk men in an instant to distant lands, and she’d miraculously repair young ladies who had proven careless in protecting their virtue. She chaperoned widows, so as to safeguard at least the illusion of their bereavement. She annulledand arranged marriages as she pleased. In December she had fresh roses in her garden, and she reaped wheat in January. Making watercress grow in a cistern was hardly the greatest of her exploits, nor was making an image of the living or the dead appear, on request, in a mirror, or on the fingernail of a child.
“She was famous for turning men into animals, in particular for keeping a sacristan for six years in the form of a mule. Really and truly, how she did it I’ve never been able to grasp. They say of those old mages that they turned men into beasts, but the wisest say it was nothing of the kind, that with their great
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