Contents

Introduction

THE LIFE OF LAZARILLO OF TORMES

Prologue 

I Lazaro Tells about His Life and His Parents 

II How Lazaro Took up with a Priest and the Things That Happened

to Him with That Man 

III How Lazaro Took up with a Squire and What Happened to Him

Then 

IV How Lazaro Went to Work for a Friar of the Order of Mercy and

What Happened to Him 

V How Lazaro Went to Work for a Pardoner and the Things That

Happened to Him Then 

VI How Lazaro Went to Work for a Chaplain and What Happened to

Him Then 

VII How Lazaro Went to Work for a Constable and Then What

Happened to Him 

VIII In Which Lazaro Tells of the Friendship He Struck up in

Toledo with Some Germans and What Happened to Them

THE SECOND PART OF THE LIFE OF LAZARILLO OF TORMES

Letter of Dedication 

To The Reader

I Where Lazaro Tells about How He Left Toledo to Go to the War of

Algiers 

II How Lazaro Embarked at Cartagena 

III How Lazaro Escaped from the Sea 

IV How They Took Lazaro through Spain 

V How They Took Lazaro to the Capital 

VI How They Took Lazaro to Toledo 

VII What Happened to Lazaro on the Way to the Tagus River 

VIII How Lazaro Brought a Lawsuit against His Wife 

IX How Lazaro Became a Baggage Carrier 

X What Happened to Lazaro with an Old Bawd 

XI How Lazaro Left for His Homeland and What Happened to Him on

the Way 

XII What Happened to Lazaro in an Inn Three Miles outside of

Valladolid 

XIII How Lazaro Was a Squire for Seven Women at One Time 

XIV Where Lazaro Tells What Happened to Him at a Dinner 

XV How Lazaro Became a Hermit 

XVI How Lazaro Decided to Marry Again

Bibliography

INTRODUCTION

_Lazarillo of Tormes_ appeared in sixteenth-century Spain like a

breath of fresh air among hundreds of insipidly sentimental

novels of chivalry.  With so many works full of knights who were

manly and brave enough to fight any adversary, but prone to

become weak in the knees when they saw their fair lady nearby,

was it any wonder that Lazarillo, whose only goal was to fill a

realistically hungry stomach, should go straight to the hearts of

all Spain.  The little novel sold enough copies for three

different editions to be issued in 1554, and then was quickly

translated into several languages.  It initiated a new genre of

writing called the "picaresque."

It seems certain that other editions, or at least other

manuscripts, of _Lazarillo_ were circulating previously, but the

earliest we know of were the three published in 1554.  One of

these was printed at Burgos, another at Antwerp, and the third at

Alcala de Henares.  They all differ somewhat in language, but it

is the one from Alcala de Henares that departs most radically

from the other two.  It adds some episodes, not in the other

editions, which were probably written by a second author.

Because _Lazarillo_ was so critical of the clergy, it was put on

the Index Purgatorius in 1559 and further editions were

prohibited inside Spain.  Then, in 1573, an abridged version was

printed that omitted Chapters four and five, along with other

items displeasing to a watchful Inquisition; later additional

episodes were suppressed.  This mutilated version was reprinted

until the nineteenth century, when Spain finally allowed its

people to read the complete work once again.

The identity of the author of this novel has always been a

mystery.  A few names have been suggested over the years: Juan de

Ortega, a Jeronymite monk; Sebastian de Horozco, a dramatist and

collector of proverbs.  But probably the most widely accepted

theory was the attribution to Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, a famous

humanist.  Many early editions of _Lazarillo_ carried his name as

author, even though there has never been any real proof of his

authorship.  Some critics, following Americo Castro's lead, think

the author was a Jewish convert to Christianity because of

certain phrases which point in that direction.  And some think he

was a follower of Erasmus, despite the French critic Marcel

Bataillon's emphatic statements to the contrary.

One of the first relationships we become aware of as we read this

novel is the link of the name Lazaro (Lazarillo: little Lazaro)

with the biblical Lazarus: either the figure who died and was

brought back to life (John 16) or the beggar (Luke 16:20-31). 

This "historical" relationship is further compounded by the fact

that many episodes of the novel are versions of material

traditional in European folklore.  There is, for instance, a

thirteenth  century French theatrical farce, _Le garcon et

l'aveugle_, in which a servant plays tricks on a blind man.  And

the British Museum manuscript of the _Decretals_ of Gregory IX

contains an illustration of a boy drinking through a straw from a

blind man's bowl.  The episode in which Lazarillo thinks a corpse

is being brought to his house appears in the _Liber facetiarum et

similitudinum Ludovici de Pinedo, et amicorum_ and may be a

folktale.  And the story of the constable and the pardoner is to

be found in the fourth novel of _Il novellino_ by Masuccio

Salernitano, and may also be a folktale.

It has long been said that this novel is an accurate reflection

of society in sixteenth-century Spain.  And to some extent, this

does seem to be true.  The king of Spain, Charles I, became

involved in several foreign wars, and had gone deeply into debt

to German and Italian bankers in order to finance those wars. 

Soon the quantities of gold and silver coming from Spain's mines

in the New World were being sent directly to the foreign bankers. 

The effects of inflation were to be seen everywhere, as were

other social ills.  Beggars and beggars' guilds were numerous. 

Men of all classes were affixing titles to their names, and

refusing any work--especially any sort of manual labor--unless it

suited their new "rank."  The clergy was sadly in need of reform. 

And pardoners were--often unscrupulously--selling indulgences

that granted the forgiveness of sins in return for money to fight

the infidel in North Africa and the Mediterranean.  All these

things are to be found in _Lazarillo of Tormes_.

But is the book really an accurate reflection of all of Spanish

society?  If there were avaricious priests, and priests who had

mistresses, were there none with strong moral principles?  If

poverty was felt so keenly by Lazarillo and others, was there no

one who enjoyed a good meal?  As another writer has suggested,

the Spanish conquerors did not come to the New World on empty

stomachs, nor was the Spanish Armada ill supplied.  It is

obvious, then, that while _Lazarillo_ reflects Spanish society,

it mirrors only one segment of that society.  Its writer ignored

uncorrupted men of generosity and high moral principles who surely

existed alongside the others.  So just as the chivalresque novels

distorted reality upward, this novel distorts reality downward and

almost invariably gives us only the negative traits of society.

An important point is the unity, or nonunity, of the book. 

Earliest critics of Lazarillo of Tormes saw it as a loosely

formed novel of unconnected episodes whose only point of unity

happened to be the little rogue who told his life story, in which

he is seen as serving one master after another.  Later criticism

has changed that point of view, however, by pointing to such

unifying factors as wine, which is used as a recurring theme

throughout (Lazarillo steals it; it is used for washing his

wounds; he sells it).  Then there is the "initiation" in which

Lazarillo's head is slammed against a stone statue of a bull. 

Later the blind man smashes his own head against a stone post as

poetic justice is meted out.  Finally, Lazarillo's mother will

"lie at the side--or stay on the side of good people," and as the

novel ends Lazaro decides to do the same.

Claudio Guillen, a modern critic, has noted that time is also a

unifying factor in this novel.  Early incidents are told in

detail, and at moments of pain specific amounts of time are

measured ("I felt the pain from its horns for three days").  When

Lazarillo is taken in by the squire his hunger pangs become so

great that he begins to count the hours.  But as conditions

improve for Lazarillo's stomach, he gradually forgets about the

slow passage of time.  In fact, time now begins to race past:

four months with the pardoner, four years with the chaplain. 

This slow, then swift, passage of time is used by Guillen to

explain the extreme brevity of some later chapters of the novel. 

It is a mature Lazaro, he says, who is telling the story and

reflecting on his childhood.  And we are really seeing the memory

process of this older Lazaro who glosses over less important

parts of his life and dwells on the moments that matter.

Other critics have responded to the question of "finality" in the

work; that is, is Lazarillo an incomplete novel or not? 

Francisco Rico believes the novel is complete, and that there is

a "circular" structure to it all.  He notes that the novel is

addressed to a certain fictional character ("You": Vuestra

merced), and that Lazarillo intends to tell this character "all

the details of the matter," the "matter" apparently being the

questionable relations between the archpriest and Lazarillo's

wife.  So there is a continuity from the beginning of the work

through the details of Lazarillo's life, until the last chapter

("right up to now") where the "matter" itself, alluded to

previously in the Prologue, is finally given in some detail.

Another critic, Americo Castro, points out that _Lazarillo of

Tormes_ is different from other types of sixteenth century prose

fiction in at least one extremely important way that points

toward the modern novel.  The knights of chivalresque novels and

the shepherds who sighed and lamented their way through pastoral

novels were flat characters with no room to grow.  Not so

Lazarillo.  Every action, every twist of fortune makes an

impression on him, forms his way of looking at the world and

shapes his nature.  From an innocent little boy he becomes a

mischievous, then vengeful, blind man's boy.  He observes the

hypocrisy, avarice, false pride, materialism of his masters, and

when he marries the archpriest's mistress for what he can gain,

he applies all the lessons he has learned on the ladder to success--

to the "height of all good fortune."  Americo Castro also notes that

_Lazarillo of Tormes_ is a step toward the masterpiece of Cervantes,

_Don Quixote of La Mancha_.  As this critic said: "In addition to its

intrinsic merits, the _Lazarillo de Tormes_ is supremely important

viewed in its historic perspective.   In many ways it made possible

the _Quijote_.  Among other things, it offered in the intimate

opposition of the squire and his servant the first outline of

the duality-unity of Don Quijote and Sancho."

Style is another point of great importance to this novel,

particularly in the use of conceits.  Lazarillo's father, for

example, "suffered persecution for righteousness' sake," a clear

reference to the beatitudes.  But in this case "righteousness" is

the law who is punishing him for being the thief that he is. 

Throughout the novel we see similar plays on words: the master,

who "although he was _blind, enlightened_ me;" or the squire who

tried to coax certain young ladies one morning, and whose stomach

was _warm_, but when he discovered that his pocketbook was

_cold_, he suffered _hot-chills_.

It is not surprising that sequels promptly appeared, but the

writers of these unfortunately lacked the genius of the author of

the original _Lazarillo_.  An anonymous sequel appeared in 1555

with the title, _The Second Part of Lazarillo of Tormes, His

Fortunes and Misfortunes_.  Its beginning words are the same as

the final ones of the first _Lazarillo_, but there any similarity

ends.  In this novel Lazaro makes friends with some Germans and

his wife gives birth to a daughter.  Lazaro then enlists to go on

an expedition to fight the Turks, his ship sinks, and he is

miraculously changed into a fish.  He has many adventures in the

sea, and is finally caught up in the nets of some fishermen and

changes back into a man.  The novel is a fantasy, and may be

allegorical.  The beginning is its most realistic point, and the

first chapter of this novel became tacked onto the end of the

first _Lazarillo_.

No further sequels were printed until 1620 when Juan Cortes de

Tolosa's book, _Lazarillo de Manzanares_, was published.  This

novel imitates the first _Lazarillo_ in its initial episodes, but

is again far less successful than the original.

In the same year, 1620, Juan de Luna's _Second Part of the Life

of Lazarillo of Tormes_ was published in Paris.  (Another edition

was published simultaneously in Paris, but was marked as though

printed in Zaragoza to facilitate the book's sale in Spain.)

Little is definitely known about Luna.  We do know that he was

born in Spain--perhaps in Aragon.  He apparently fled to France

in 1612 as a political and religious refugee: in one of his books

he refers to himself as "a foreigner who has left behind his

homeland, his relatives, and his estate for a just and legitimate

cause."  It has been speculated that Luna may have been educated

for the priesthood but then grown dissatisfied and even

vehemently bitter toward the clergy.  The reason for his flight

to France has been interpreted as a flight from the Spanish

Inquisition.  In France, in Montauban, he began to study theology

to prepare himself for the Protestant ministry.  But soon

afterward he became a Spanish teacher in Paris, and in 1619

published a book of proverbs and phrases for Spanish students.

The following year his continuation of Lazarillo was published,

along with a revised version of the original Lazarillo (revised

because its style did not suit his tastes). Next he appeared in

London, in 1622, attempting to have his sequel translated into

English.  His Spanish grammar was published there the following

year.  The last information we have of him is that he became a

Protestant minister in England, and for three years delivered

sermons to his fellow Spaniards each Sunday, in Mercer's Chapel,

Cheapside, London.

Although the details of Juan de Luna's life are rather sketchy, a

great deal more can be said about his novel.  His continuation of

Lazarillo was the only sequel to meet with any success.  The same

characters--Lazarillo, the archpriest, the squire, etc.--are

here, but their personalities are changed drastically.  The

squire is the one who is most noticeably different.  He is

no longer the sympathetic, poor, generous (when he has money)

figure of the first part.  Now he is a thief, a cowardly braggart,

a dandy, and Lazaro has nothing but scorn for him.  Lazaro himself

is now fully grown, and there is no room for his personality

to change as before.  Perhaps the only character who is

still the same is Lazaro's wife.

Other differences between the two novels are also evident.  In

the first _Lazarillo_ we see a central protagonist who serves a

different master or performs a different type of work in each

chapter.  But in Luna's sequel we do not have this same

structure.  In the first five chapters of Luna's book, for

example, Lazarillo's adventures flow as they do in traditional

novels: he goes to sea, the ship sinks, he is captured by

fishermen and put on exhibition as a fish, and finally he is

rescued. The following chapters, however, often divide his life

into segments as he goes from one position to another.

Another difference to be noted is that while the first Lazarillo

addresses a certain person ("You": Vuestra merced) who is not the

reader but an acquaintance of the archpriest, in the _Second

Part_ something quite different occurs.  Luna's Lazaro addresses

the "dear reader" but hardly with flattering terms: he humorously

suggests that we may all be cuckolds.  Then he ironically refuses

to tell us about--or even let us think about--certain promiscuous

details because they may offend our pure and pious ears.  The

framework of the first novel is apparently a device whose

purpose, like the "Arabic historian" and the "translators" of

_Don Quixote_, is to create an atmosphere of realism, while

Luna's "dear reader" is simply a device for humor.

Another important distinction to be made between the two books is

the extent of word-play used.  Almost one hundred years elapsed

between the times the two books were published, and literary

styles changed a great deal.  While the first _Lazarillo_ used

some conceits, as we have previously noted, Luna's book abounds

with them to the point where it becomes baroque.  About people

who are being flooded with water or are drowning, it is usually

said that they are overcome by trifling, but watery,

circumstances: "a drop in the ocean" (ahogar en tan poca agua). 

Lazarillo's child is "born with the odor of saintliness about

her" (una hija ingerta a canutillo); unfortunately this refers

less to her as holy than it does to the fact that her father is

really the archpriest.  The use of antithesis is also evident

throughout Luna's novel.  From the beginning in which he

dedicated his small work to a great princess, throughout the

length of the book, we find Lazaro esteemed by his friends and

feared by his enemies, begging from people who give money with

open hands while he does not take it with closed ones, and so on. 

Another trick in language is Luna's plays on sounds: such

combinations as sali--salte (left--leaped), comedia--comida

(rituals--victuals) are abundant.  Luna also uses obscene

conceits for a humorous purpose, mixing them with religious

allusions both for humor and to vent his own feelings of

hostility against the church.

Yet another important difference between the two novels lies in

Luna's emphasis on tying up loose ends.  We know that in the

first _Lazarillo_ the protagonist leaves the blind man for dead,

not knowing what happened to him, and we never do find out

whether he survived the blow or not.  Later the squire runs away

from Lazaro, and we never see him again either.  The author of

the first _Lazarillo_ gives us a series of vignettes in which the

psychological interplay of the characters is stressed.  The

characters fade out of Lazaro's life just as people fade in and

out of our own lives. Luna, however, was much more interested in

telling a good story--and one that has an ending.  So the squire

appears, and tells what happened to him after leaving Lazaro: a

complete story in itself.  He steals Lazaro's clothes and runs

off, and later we see him again--having got his just retribution

almost by pure chance.  The innkeeper's daughter runs off with

her priest, and both turn up several chapters later; their

account amounts to another short story.  The "innocent" girl and

the bawd disappear, then return to play a scene with Lazaro once

more, and finally they fade out, presumably to live by their wits

ever after.  Related to this stress on external action is the

importance Luna gives to descriptive rather than psychological

detail.  His minutely detailed descriptions of clothing are

especially noteworthy: the squire's "suit"; the gallant's

clothing as he emerges from the trunk; the costume worn by the

girl who became a gypsy.  These are descriptions we do not find

in the original _Lazarillo_ because the author of that work is

much more interested in internal motivations than external

description and action.

Let us move on to another point: the social satire in the two

novels.  We have seen the satire against the various classes, and

particularly against the church, in the first _Lazarillo_.  And

Luna's satire has the same targets.  The essential difference is

in the way the two authors handle their darts.  The first

_Lazarillo_ is fairly subtle in its attacks: men are avaricious,

materialistic unscrupulous infamous--and these vices are

sometimes only very loosely connected with the church.  But Luna

wants us to know definitely that the church is like this, so his

satire of the church is blunt and devastating.  The Inquisition,

he tells us plainly, is corrupt, brutal, and feared throughout

all of Spain.  Priests and friars are always anxious to accept a

free meal, they have mistresses, and they are less principled

than thieves.  Lawyers and the entire judicial system are

corrupt.  The Spaniards, Luna tells us from his position of exile

in Paris, are too proud to work, and they will become beggars

rather than perform any sort of-manual labor.  Lazaro himself is

held up to us as a "mirror of Spanish sobriety."  Apparently

Luna's anger about having to leave Spain had no opportunity to

mellow before he finished his novel.

Luna's _Second Part of Lazarillo of Tormes_ is not the "First

Part."  But even so, it has its merit.  Luna liked to tell

stories, and he was good at it.  Some scenes are witty and highly

entertaining.  When Lazaro meets his old friends, the bawd and

the "maiden," at an inn, the action is hardly dull.  The "quarter

of kid" becomes the center of attraction from the time it appears

on Lazaro's plate until he falls and ejects it from his throat,

and it is used skillfully and humorously to tell us a great deal

about each of the characters present.

Another scene worth calling to the reader's special attention is

the chapter in which a feast is held that erupts into a brawl,

after which the local constabulary arrives.  Luna's account is a

very close predecessor of the modern farce.  Many of the

elements seem to be present: a lack of reverence, a situation

used for comic effects, the chase through many rooms to find the

guests, the beatings that the constable's men are given by the

pursued, being "breaded" in flour, "fried" in oil, and left out

on the street where they run away, ashamed to be seen.  It is as

though we are catching a glimpse of the Keystone Cops,

seventeenth-century style.  And the variations from seventeenth

to twentieth century do not appear to amount to a great deal.

University of California at Los Angeles December 1972

ROBERT S.  RUDDER

Translator's Note

My translation of the first Lazarillo follows Foulche Delbosc's

edition, which attempts to restore the editio princeps but does

not include the interpolations of the Alcala de Henares edition. 

The translation of the first chapter of the anonymous sequel of

1555 follows at the end of the first part because it serves as a

bridge between the first novel and Luna's sequel.  For Juan de

Luna's sequel, the modern edition by Elmer Richard Sims, more

faithful to the manuscript than any other edition, has been

utilized.

A word of thanks is due to Professor Julio Rodriguez Puertolas,

whose own work was so often interrupted by questions from the

outer sanctum, and who nevertheless bore through it all with good

humor, and was very helpful in clearing up certain mysteries in

the text.

The seventy-three drawings [not included in this electronic text]

were prepared by Leonard Bramer, a Dutch painter who was born in

1596 and died in 1674.  Living most of his life in Delft, he is

best known for his drawings and for his illustrations of Ovid's

writings and of other works of literature.  The original drawings

are in the keeping of the Graphische Sammlung in Munich.

R.S.R.  

Prologue

I think it is good that such remarkable things as these, which

may never have been heard of or seen before, should come to the

attention of many people instead of being buried away in the tomb

of oblivion.  Because it might turn out that someone who reads

about them will like what he reads, and even people who only

glance lightly through this book may be entertained.

Pliny says along these lines that there is no book--no matter how

bad it is--that doesn't have something good in it.  And this is

all the more true since all tastes are not the same: what one man

won't even touch, another will be dying to get.  And so there are

things that some people don't care for, while others do.  The

point is that nothing should be destroyed or thrown away unless

it is really detestable; instead, it should be shown to

everybody, especially if it won't do any harm and they might get

some good out of it.

If this weren't so, there would be very few people who would

write for only one reader, because writing is hardly a simple

thing to do.  But since writers go ahead with it, they want to be

rewarded, not with money but with people seeing and reading their

works, and if there is something worthwhile in them, they would

like some praise.  Along these lines too, Cicero says: "Honor

promotes the arts."

Does anyone think that the first soldier to stand up and charge

the enemy hates life?  Of course not; a craving for glory is what

makes him expose himself to danger.  And the same is true in arts

and letters.  The young preacher gives a very good sermon and is

really interested in the improvement of people's souls, but ask

his grace if he minds when they tell him, "Oh, what an excellent

sermon you gave today, Reverend!"  And So-and-so was terrible in

jousting today, but when some rascal praised him for the way he

had handled his weapons, he gave him his armor.  What would he

have done if it had really been true?

And so everything goes: I confess that I'm no more saintly than

my neighbors, but I would not mind it at all if those people who

find some pleasure in this little trifle of mine (written in my

crude style) would get wrapped up in it and be entertained by

it, and if they could see that a man who has had so much bad luck

and so many misfortunes and troubles does exist.

Please take this poor effort from a person who would have liked

to make it richer if only his ability had been as great as his

desire.  And since you told me that you wanted me to write down

all the details of the matter, I have decided not to start out

in the middle but at the beginning.  That way you will have a

complete picture of me, and at the same time those people who

received a large inheritance will see how little they had to do

with it, since fortune favored them, and they will also see how

much more those people accomplished whose luck was going against

them, since they rowed hard and well and brought their ship

safely into port.

I.  Lazaro Tells about His Life and His Parents

You should know first of all that I'm called Lazaro of Tormes,

and that I'm the son of Tome Gonzales and Antona Perez, who were

born in Tejares, a village near Salamanca.  I was actually born

in the Tormes River, and that's how I got my name.  It happened

this way: My father (God rest his soul) was in charge of a mill

on the bank of that river, and he was the miller there for more

than fifteen years.  Well, one night while my mother was in the

mill, carrying me around in her belly, she went into labor and

gave birth to me right there.  So I can really say I was born in

the river.

Then when I was eight years old, they accused my father of

gutting the sacks that people were bringing to the mill.  They

took him to jail, and without a word of protest he went ahead and

confessed everything, and he suffered persecution for

righteousness' sake.  But I trust God that he's in heaven because

the Bible calls that kind of man blessed.  At that time they were

getting together an expedition to go fight the Moors, and my

father went with them.  They had exiled him because of the bad

luck that I've already told about, so he went along as a muleteer

for one of the men, and like a loyal servant, he ended his life

with his master.

My widowed mother, finding herself without a husband or anyone to

take care of her, decided to lie at the side--I mean, stay on the

side--of good men and be like them.  So she came to the city to live.

She rented a little house and began to cook for some students.

She washed clothes for some stableboys who served the Commander

of La Magdalena, too, so a lot of the time she was around the stables.

She and a dark man--one of those men who took care of the animals--

got to know each other.  Sometimes he would come to our house and

wouldn't leave till the next morning; and other times he would come

to our door in the daytime pretending that he wanted to buy eggs,

and then he would come inside.

When he first began to come I didn't like him, he scared me

because of the color of his skin and the way he looked.  But when

I saw that with him around there the food got better, I began to

like him quite a lot.  He always brought bread and pieces of meat,

and in the winter he brought in firewood so we could keep warm.

So with his visits and the relationship going right along, it

happened that my mother gave me a pretty little black baby, and I

used to bounce it on my knee and help keep it warm.

I remember one time when my black stepfather was playing with the

little fellow, the child noticed that my mother and I were white

but that my stepfather wasn't and he got scared.  He ran to my

mother and pointed his finger at him and said, "Mama, it's the

bogeyman!"  And my stepfather laughed: "You little son-of-a-bitch!"

Even though I was still a young boy, I thought about the word my

little brother had used, and I said to myself:  How many people

there must be in the world who run away from others when they

don't see themselves.

As luck would have it, talk about Zaide (that was my stepfather's

name) reached the ears of the foreman, and when a search was made

they found out that he'd been stealing about half of the barley

that was supposed to be given to the animals.  He'd pretended

that the bran, wool, currycombs, aprons, and the horse covers and

blankets had been lost; and when there was nothing else left to

steal, he took the shoes right off the horses' hooves.  And he

was using all this to buy things for my mother so that she could

bring up my little brother.

Why should we be surprised at priests when they steal from the

poor or at friars when they take things from their monasteries to

give to their lady followers, or for other things, when we see

how love can make a poor slave do what he did?

And they found him guilty of everything I've said and more

because they asked me questions and threatened me too, and I

answered them like a child.  I was so frightened that I told them

everything I knew--even about some horseshoes my mother

had made me sell to a blacksmith.

They beat and tarred my poor stepfather, and they gave my mother

a stiff sentence besides the usual hundred lashes: they said that

she couldn't go into the house of the Commander (the one I mentioned)

and that she couldn't take poor Zaide into her own house.

So that matters wouldn't get any worse, the poor woman went ahead

and carried out the sentence.  And to avoid any danger and get

away from wagging tongues, she went to work as a servant for the

people who were living at the Solano Inn then.  And there, while

putting up with all kinds of indignities, she managed to raise my

little brother until he knew how to walk.  And she even raised me

to be a good little boy who would take wine and candles to the

guests and do whatever else they told me.

About this time a blind man came by and stayed at the inn.  He

thought I would be a good guide for him, so he asked my mother if

I could serve him, and she said I could.  She told him what a

good man my father had been and how he'd died in the battle of

Gelves for the holy faith.  She said she trusted God that I

wouldn't turn out any worse a man than my father, and she begged

him to be good to me and look after me, since I would be an

orphan now.  He told her he would and said that I wouldn't be a

servant to him, but a son.  And so I began to serve and guide my

new old master.

After he had been in Salamanca a few days, my master wasn't happy

with the amount of money he was taking in, and he decided to go

somewhere else.  So when we were ready to leave, I went to see my

mother.  And with both of us crying she gave me her blessing and

said, "Son, I know that I'll never see you again.  Try to be

good, and may God be your guide.  I've raised you and given you

to a good master; take good care of yourself."

And then I went back out to my master who was waiting for me.

We left Salamanca and we came to a bridge; and at the edge of

this bridge there's a stone statue of an animal that looks

something like a bull.  The blind man told me to go up next to

the animal, and when I was there he said, "Lazaro, put your ear

up next to this bull and you'll hear a great sound inside of it."

I put my ear next to it very simply, thinking he was telling the

truth.  And when he felt my head near the statue, he doubled up

his fist and knocked my head into that devil of a bull so hard

that I felt the pain from its horns for three days.  And he said

to me, "You fool, now learn that a blind man's servant has to be

one step ahead of the devil."  And he laughed out loud at his joke.

It seemed to me that at that very instant I woke up from my

childlike simplicity and I said to myself, "He's right.  I've got

to open my eyes and be on my guard.  I'm alone now, and I've got

to think about taking care of myself."

We started on our way again, and in just a few days he taught me

the slang thieves use.  When he saw what a quick mind I had he

was really happy, and he said, "I can't give you any gold or

silver, but I can give you plenty of hints on how to stay

alive."  And that's exactly what he did; after God, it was this

fellow who gave me life and who, although he was blind,

enlightened me and showed me how to live.

I like to tell you these silly things to show what virtue there

is in men being able to raise themselves up from the depths, and

what a vice it is for them to let themselves slip down from

high stations.

Well, getting back to my dear blind man and telling about his

ways, you should know that from the time God created the world

there's no one He made smarter or sharper than that man.  At his

job he was sly as a fox.  He knew over a hundred prayers by

heart.  He would use a low tone, calm and very sonorous, that

would make the church where he was praying echo.  And whenever he

prayed, he would put on a humble and pious expression--something

he did very well.  And he wouldn't make faces or grimaces with

his mouth or eyes the way others do.

Besides this he had thousands of other ways of getting money.  He

told everyone that he knew prayers for lots of different things:

for women who couldn't have children or who were in labor; for

those women who weren't happy in their marriage--so that their

husbands would love them more.  He would give predictions to

expectant mothers about whether they would have a boy or a girl. 

And as far as medicine was concerned, he said that Galen never

knew the half of what he did about toothaches, fainting spells,

and female illnesses.  In fact, there was no one who would tell

him they were sick that he couldn't immediately say to them: "Do

this, and then is; take this herb, or take that root."

And so everyone came to him--especially women--and they believed

everything he told them.  He got a lot out of them with these ways

I've been telling about; in fact, he earned more in a month than

a hundred ordinary blind men earn in a year.

But I want you to know, too, that even with all he got and all

that he had, I've never seen a more greedy, miserly man.  He was

starving me to death.  He didn't even give me enough to keep me

alive!  I'm telling the truth: If I hadn't known how to help

myself with my wily ways and some pretty clever tricks, I would

have died of hunger lots of times.  But with all his know-how and

carefulness I outwitted him, so that I always--or usually--really

got the better of him.  The way I did this was I played some

devilish tricks on him, and I'll tell about some of them, even

though I didn't come out on top every time.

He carried the bread and all the other things in a cloth bag, and

he kept the neck of it closed with an iron ring that had a

padlock and key.  And when he put things in or took them out, he

did it so carefully and counted everything so well that no one

in the world could have gotten a crumb from him.  So I'd take

what little he gave me, and in less than two mouthfuls it would

be gone.

After he had closed the lock and forgotten about it, thinking

that I was busy with other things, I would begin to bleed the

miserly bag dry.  There was a little seam on the side of the bag

that I'd rip open and sew up again.  And I would take out bread--

not little crumbs, either, but big hunks--and I'd get bacon and

sausage too.  And so I was always looking for the right time to

score, not on a ball field, but on the food in that blasted bag

that the tyrant of a blind man kept away from me.

And then, every time I had a chance I'd steal half copper coins. 

And when someone gave him a copper to say a prayer for them--and

since he couldn't see--they'd no sooner have offered it than I

would pop it into my mouth and have a half-copper ready.  And as

soon as he stuck out his hand, there was my coin reduced to half

price.  Then the old blind man would start growling at me.  As

soon as he felt it and realized that it wasn't a whole copper

he'd say, "How the devil is it that now that you're with me they

never give me anything but half coppers, when they almost always

used to give me a copper or a two-copper piece?  I'd swear that

this is all your fault."

He used to cut his prayers short, too; he wouldn't even get

halfway through them.  He told me to pull on the end of his cloak

whenever the person who asked for the prayer had gone.  So that's

what I did.  Then he'd begin to call out again with his cry, "Who

would like to have me say a prayer for him?" in his usual way.

And he always put a little jug of wine next to him when we ate. 

I would grab it quickly and give it a couple of quiet kisses

before I put it back in its place.  But that didn't go on for

very long: he could tell by the number of nips he took that some

was missing.  So to keep his wine safe he never let the jug out

of reach; he'd always hold on to the handle.  But not even a

magnet could attract the way I could with a long rye straw that I

had made for that very purpose.  And I'd stick it in the mouth of

the jug and suck until--good-bye, wine!  But the old traitor was

so wary that I think he must have sensed me, because from then on

he stopped that and put the jug between his legs.  And even then

he kept his hand over the top to make sure.

But I got so used to drinking wine that I was dying for it.  And

when I saw that my straw trick wouldn't work, I decided to make a

spout by carving a little hole in the bottom of the jug and then

sealing it off neatly with a little thin strip of wax.  When it

was mealtime, I'd pretend I was cold and get in between the legs

of the miserable blind man to warm up by the little fire we had. 

And the heat of it would melt the wax, since it was such a tiny

piece.  Then the wine would begin to trickle from the spout into

my mouth, and I got into a position so that I wouldn't miss a

blasted drop.  When the poor fellow went to drink he wouldn't

find a thing.  He'd draw back, astonished, then he'd curse and

damn the jar and the wine, not knowing what could have happened.

"You can't say that I drank it, Sir," I said, "since you never

let it out of your hand."

But he kept turning the jug around and feeling it, until he

finally discovered the hole and saw through my trick.  But he

pretended that he hadn't found out.

Then one day I was tippling on my jug as usual, without realizing

what was in store for me or even that the blind man had found me

out.  I was sitting the same as always, taking in those sweet

sips, my face turned toward the sky and my eyes slightly closed

so I could really savor the delicious liquor.  The dirty blind

man saw that now was the time to take out his revenge on me, and

he raised that sweet and bitter jug with both his hands and

smashed it down on my mouth with all his might.  As I say, he

used all his strength, and poor Lazaro hadn't been expecting

anything like this; in fact, I was drowsy and happy as always. 

So it seemed like the sky and everything in it had really fallen

down on top of me.  The little tap sent me reeling and knocked me

unconscious, and that enormous jug was so huge that pieces of it

stuck in my face, cutting me in several places and knocking out

my teeth, so that I don't have them to this very day.

From that minute I began to hate that old blind man.

Because, even though he took care of me and treated me all right

and fixed me up, I saw that he had really enjoyed his dirty

trick.  He used wine to wash the places where the pieces of the

jug had cut me, and he smiled and said, "How about that, Lazaro? 

The very thing that hurt you is helping to cure you."  And he

made other witty remarks that I didn't particularly care for.

When I had about recovered from the beating and the black and

blue marks were nearly gone, I realized that with a few more

blows like that the blind man would have gotten rid of me.  So I

decided to be rid of him.  But I didn't run away right then; I

waited until I could do it in a safer and better way.  And

although I wanted to be kind and forgive the blind man for

hitting me with the jug, I couldn't because of the harsh

treatment he gave me from then on.  Without any reason he would

hit me on the head and yank on my hair.  And if anyone asked him

why he beat me so much, he would tell them about the incident

with the jug: "Do you think this boy of mine is just some

innocent little fellow?  Well, listen and see if you think the

devil himself would try anything like this."

After they'd heard about it, they would cross themselves and say,

"Well--who would ever think that such a little boy would do

anything like that!"

Then they'd laugh at the prank and tell him, "Go on, beat him. 

God will give you your reward."

And this advice he followed to the letter.  

So, for revenge, I'd lead him down all the worst roads on purpose

to see if he wouldn't get hurt somehow.  If there were rocks, I'd

take him right over them; if there was mud, I'd lead him through

the deepest part.  Because even though I didn't keep dry myself,

I would have given an eye if I could have hurt two eyes of that

man who didn't even have one.  Because of this, he was always

beating me with the end of his cane so that my head was full of

bumps, and with him always pulling on my hair a lot of it was

gone.  I told him I wasn't doing it on purpose and that I just

couldn't find any better roads, but that didn't do any good.  The

old traitor saw through everything and was so wary that he

wouldn't believe me any more.

So that you can see how smart this shrewd blind man was, I'll

tell you about one of the many times when I was with him that he

really seemed to show a lot of perception.  When we left Salamanca,

his plan was to go to Toledo because the people were supposed to be

richer there, although not very free with their money.  But he pinned

his hopes on this saying:  "You'll get more water from a narrow

flowing stream than you will from a deep dry well."  And we'd pass

through the best places as we went along.  Where we were welcomed

and were able to get something, we stayed; where this didn't happen,

we'd move on after a few days.

And it happened that as we were coming to a place called Almorox

when they were gathering the grapes, a grape picker gave him a

bunch as alms.  And since the baskets are usually handled pretty

roughly and the grapes were very ripe at the time, the bunch

started to fall apart in his hand.  If we had thrown it in the

sack, it and everything it touched would have spoiled.  He

decided that we'd have a picnic so that it wouldn't go to waste--

and he did it to please me, too, since he'd kicked and beat me

quite a bit that day.  So we sat down on a low wall, and he said:

"Now I want to be generous with you: we'll share this bunch of

grapes, and you can eat as many as I do.  We'll divide it like

this: you take one, then I'll take one.  But you have to promise

me that you won't take more than one at a time.  I'll do the same

until we finish, and that way there won't be any cheating."

The agreement was made, and we began.  But on his second turn,

the traitor changed his mind and began to take two at a time,

evidently thinking that I was doing the same.  But when I saw

that he had broken our agreement, I wasn't satisfied with going

at his rate of speed.  Instead, I went even further: I took two

at a time, or three at a time--in fact, I ate them as fast as I

could.  And when there weren't any grapes left, he just sat there

for a while with the stem in his hand, and then he shook his head

and said, "Lazaro, you tricked me.  I'll swear to God that you

ate these grapes three at a time."

"No, I didn't," I said.  "But why do you think so?"

That wise old blind man answered, "Do you know how I see that you

ate them three at a time?  Because I was eating them two at a

time, and you didn't say a word."

I laughed to myself, and even though I was only a boy, I was very

much aware of the sharpness of that blind man.

But, so that I won't talk too much, I won't tell about a lot of

humorous and interesting things that happened to me with my first

master.  I just want to tell about how we separated, and be done

with him.  

We were in Escalona, a town owned by the duke of that name, at an

inn, and the blind man gave me a piece of sausage to roast for

him.  When the sausage had been basted and he had sopped up and

eaten the drippings with a piece of bread, he took a coin out of

his purse and told me to go get him some wine from the tavern. 

Then the devil put an idea in my head, just like they say he does

to thieves.  It so happened that near the fire there was a little

turnip, kind of long and beat up; it had probably been thrown

there because it wasn't good enough for stew.

At that moment he and I were there all alone, and when I whiffed

the delicious odor of the sausage, I suddenly got a huge appetite--

and I knew that all I would get of it would be the smell.  But the

thought of eating that sausage made me lose all my fear: I didn't

think for a minute what would happen to me.  So while the blind man

was getting the money out of his purse, I took the sausage off the

spit and quickly put the turnip on.  Then the blind man gave me the

money for the wine and took hold of the spit, turning it over the fire,

trying to cook the very thing that hadn't been cooked before because

it was so bad.

I went for the wine, and on the way I downed the sausage.  When I

came back I found that sinner of a blind man holding the turnip

between two slices of bread.  He didn't know what it was yet,

because he hadn't felt of it.  But when he took the bread and

bit into it, thinking he would get part of the sausage too, he

was suddenly stopped cold by the taste of the cold turnip.  He

got mad then, and said, "What is this, Lazarillo?"

"You mean, 'Lacerated,'" I said.  "Are you trying to pin

something on me?  Didn't I just come back from getting the wine? 

Someone must have been here and played a joke on you."

"Oh, no," he said.  "I haven't let the spit out of my hand.  No

one could have done that."

I kept swearing that I hadn't done any switching around.  But it

didn't do me any good--I couldn't hide anything from the

sharpness of that miserable blind man.  He got up and grabbed me

by the head and got close so he could smell me.  And he must

have smelled my breath like a good hound.  Really being anxious

to find out if he was right, he held on tight and opened my mouth

wider than he should have.  Then, not very wisely, he stuck in

his nose.  And it was long and sharp.  And his anger had made it

swell a bit, so that the point of it hit me in the throat.  So

with all this and my being really frightened, along with the fact

that the black sausage hadn't had time to settle in my stomach,

and especially with the sudden poking in of his very large nose,

half choking me--all these things went together and made the

crime and the snack show themselves, and the owner got back what

belonged to him.  What happened was that before the blind man

could take his beak out of my mouth, my stomach got so upset that

it hit his nose with what I had stolen.  So his nose and the

black, half-chewed sausage both left my mouth at the same time.

Oh, Almighty God!  I was wishing I'd been buried at that very

moment, because I was already dead.  The perverse blind man was

so mad that if people hadn't come at the noise, I think he would

have killed me.  They pulled me out of his hands, and he was left

with what few hairs had still been in my head.  My face was all

scratched up, and my neck and throat were clawed.  But my throat

really deserved its rough treatment because it was only on

account of what it had done that I'd been beaten.  Then that

rotten blind man told everyone there about the things I'd done,

and he told them over and over about the jug and the grapes and

this last incident.

They laughed so hard that all the people who were going by in the

street came in to see the fun.  But the blind man told them about

my tricks with such wit and cleverness that, even though I was

hurt and crying, I felt that it would have been wrong for me not

to laugh too.

And while this was going on I suddenly remembered that I'd been

negligent and cowardly, and I began to swear at myself: I should

have bitten off his nose.  I'd had the opportunity to do it; in

fact, half of the work had already been done for me.  If only I'd

clamped down with my teeth, I'd have had it trapped.  Even though

it belonged to that skunk, my stomach would probably have held it

better than it held the sausage; and since there wouldn't have

been any evidence, I could have denied the crime.  I wish to God

I'd have done it.  It wouldn't have been a bad idea at all!

The lady running the inn and the others there made us stop our

fighting, and they washed my face and throat with the wine I'd

brought for him to drink.  Then the dirty blind man made up jokes

about it, saying things like: "The truth of the matter is I use

more wine washing this boy in one year than I drink in two." 

And: "At least, Lazaro, you owe more to wine than you do to your

father--he only gave you life once, but wine has brought you to

life a thousand times."

Then he told about all the times he'd beaten me and scratched my

face and then doctored me up with wine.

"I tell you," he said, "if there's one man in the world who will

be blessed by wine, it's you."

And the people who were washing me laughed out loud, while I was

swearing.

But the blind man's prophecy wasn't wrong, and since then I've

often thought about that man who must have had a gift for telling

the future.  And I feel sorry about the bad things I did to him,

although I really paid him back, since what he told me that day

happened just like he said it would, as you'll see later on.

Because of this and the dirty tricks the blind man played on me,

I decided to leave him for good.  And since I had thought about

it and really had my mind set on it, this last trick of his only

made me more determined.  So the next day we went into town to

beg.  It had rained quite a bit the night before, and since it

was still raining that day, he went around praying under the

arcades in the town so we wouldn't get wet.  But with night

coming on and there still being no let up, the blind man said to

me, "Lazaro, this rain isn't going to stop, and the later it gets

the harder it's coming down.  Let's go inside the inn before

there's a real downpour."

To get there we had to cross over a ditch that was full of water

from the rain.  And I said to him; "Sir, the water's too wide to

cross here, but if you'd like, I see an easier place to get

across, and we won't get wet either.  It's very narrow there, and

if we jump we'll keep our feet dry."

That seemed like a good idea to him, and he said, "You're pretty

clever.  That's why I like you so much.  Take me to the place

where the ditch is narrow.  It's winter now, and I don't care for

water any time, and especially not when I get my feet wet."

Seeing that the time was ripe, I led him under the arcades, to a

spot right in front of a sort of pillar or stone post that was in

the plaza--one of those that hold up the overhanging arches of

the houses.  And I said to him, "Sir, this is the narrowest

place along the whole ditch."

It was really raining hard and the poor man was getting wet. 

This, along with the fact that we were in a hurry to get out of

the water that was pouring down on us--and especially because

God clouded his mind so I could get revenge--made him believe me,

and he said, "Point me in the right direction, and you jump over

the water."

I put him right in front of the pillar.  Then I jumped and got

behind the post like someone waiting for a bull to charge, and I

said to him, "Come on, jump as far as you can so you'll miss the

water."

As soon as I'd said that, the poor blind man charged like an old

goat.  First he took one step back to get a running start, and

then he hurled himself forward with all his might.  His head hit

the post with a hollow sound like a pumpkin.  Then he fell over

backward, half dead, with his head split open.

"What?  You mean to say you smelled the sausage but not the post? 

Smell it, smell it!"  I said, and I left him in the hands of all

the people who had run to help him.

I reached the village gate on the run, and before night fell I

made it to Torrijos.  I didn't know what God had done with him,

and I never made any attempt to find out.

II.  How Lazaro Took up with a Priest and the Things That

Happened to Him with That Man

I didn't feel very safe in that town, so the next day I went to a

place named Maqueda.  There I met up with a priest (it must have

been because of all my sins).  I started to beg from him, and he

asked me if I knew how to assist at mass.  I told him I did, and

it was the truth: even though that sinner of a blind man beat me,

he'd taught me all kinds of good things, too, and this was one of

them.  So the priest took me in, and I was out of the frying pan

and into the fire.  Because even though the blind man was the

very picture of greed, as I've said, he was an Alexander the

Great compared to this fellow.  I won't say any more, except that

all the miserliness in the world was in this man.  I don't know

if he'd been born that way, or if it came along with his priest's

frock.

He had an old chest that he kept locked, and he kept the key tied

to his cassock with a leather cord.  When the holy bread was

brought from church, he'd throw it in the chest and lock it up

again.  And there wasn't a thing to eat in the whole place, the

way there is in most houses: a bit of bacon hanging from the

chimney, some cheese lying on the table or in the cupboard, a

basket with some slices of bread left over from dinner.  It

seemed to me that even if I hadn't eaten any of it, I would have

felt a lot better just being able to look at it.  

The only thing around was a string of onions, and that was kept

locked in a room upstairs.  I was rationed out one onion every

four days.  And if anyone else was around when I asked him for

the key to get it, he'd reach into his breast pocket and untie

the key with great airs, and he'd hand it to me and say, "Here. 

Take it, but bring it back as soon as you're through, and don't

stuff yourself."  And this as if all the oranges in Valencia were

up there, while there really wasn't a damned thing, as I said,

besides the onions hanging from a nail.  And he had those counted

so well that if I (being the sinner that I am) had taken even one

extra onion, I would really have been in for it.

So there I was, dying of hunger.  But if he wasn't very

charitable to me, he was to himself.  A good five coppers' worth

of meat was his usual fare for supper.  I have to admit that he

did give me some of the soup, but as for the meat--I didn't even

get a whiff of it.  All I got was a little bread: that blasted

man wouldn't give me half of what I really needed!  And on

Saturdays everyone around here eats head of mutton, and he sent

me for one that cost six coppers.  He cooked it and ate the eyes,

the tongue, the neck, the brains and the meat in the jaws.  Then

he gave me the chewed-over bones; he put them on a plate and

said, "Here, eat this and be happy.  It's a meal fit for a king. 

In fact, you're living better than the Pope."

"May God grant you this kind of life," I said under my breath.

After I had been with him for three weeks, I got so skinny that

my legs wouldn't hold me up out of sheer hunger.  I saw that I

was heading right straight for the grave if God and my wits

didn't come to my rescue.  But there was no way I could trick him

because there wasn't a thing I could steal.  And even if there

had been something, I couldn't blind him the way I did the other

one (may he rest in peace if that blow on the head finished him

off).  Because even though the other fellow was smart, without

that valuable fifth sense he couldn't tell what I was doing.  But

this new guy--there isn't anyone whose sight was as good as

his was.

When we were passing around the offering plate, not a penny fell

into the basket that he didn't have it spotted.  He kept one eye

on the people and the other on my hands.  His eyes danced in

their sockets like quicksilver.  Every cent that was put in was

ticked off in his mind.  And as soon as the offering was over, he

would take the plate away from me and put it on the altar.

I wasn't able to get a penny away from him all the time I lived

with him--or, to be more precise, all the time I died with him.

He never sent me to the tavern for even a drop of wine: what little

he brought back from the offering and put in the chest he rationed

out so that it lasted him a whole week.  And to cover up his terrible

stinginess, he would say to me, "Look, son, we priests have to be

very moderate in our eating and drinking, and that's why I don't

indulge the way other people do."  But that old miser was really

lying, because when we prayed at meetings or at funerals and

other people were paying for the food, he ate like a wolf and

drank more than any old, thirsty quack doctor.

Speaking of funerals, God forgive me but I was never an enemy of

mankind except during them.  This was because we really ate well

and I was able to gorge myself.  I used to hope and pray that God

would kill off someone every day.  We'd give the sacraments to

the sick people, and the priest would ask everyone there to pray. 

And I was certainly not the last to begin--especially at extreme

unction.  With all my heart and soul I prayed to God--not that

His will be done, as they say, but that He take the person from

this world.

And when one of them escaped (God forgive me), I damned him to

hell a thousand times.  But when one died, I blessed him just as

much.  Because in all the time that I was there--which must have

been nearly six months--only twenty people died.  And

I really think that I killed them; I mean, they died at my

request.  Because I think that the Lord must have seen my own

endless and awful dying, and He was glad to kill them so that I

could live.  But at that time I couldn't find any relief for my

misery.  If I came to life on the days that we buried someone, I

really felt the pangs of hunger when there wasn't any funeral. 

Because I would get used to filling myself up, and then I would

have to go back to my usual hunger again.  So I couldn't think

of any way out except to die: I wanted death for myself sometimes

just as much as for the others.  But I never saw it, even though

it was always inside of me.

Lots of times I thought about running away from that penny-

pinching master, but I didn't for two reasons.  First, I didn't

trust my legs: lack of food had made them so skinny that I was

afraid they wouldn't hold me up.  Second, I thought a while, and

I said: "I've had two masters: the first one nearly starved me to

death, and when I left him I met up with this one; and he gives

me so little to eat that I've already got one foot in the grave. 

Well, if I leave this one and find a master who is one step

lower, how could it possibly end except with my death?"  So I

didn't dare to move an inch.  I really thought that each step

would just get worse.  And if I were to go down one more step,

Lazaro wouldn't make another peep and no one would ever hear of

him again.  

So there I was, in a terrible state (and God help any true

Christian who finds himself in those circumstances), not knowing

what to do and seeing that I was going from bad to worse.  Then

one day when that miserable, tightfisted master of mine had gone

out, a tinker came to my door.  I think he must have been an

angel in disguise, sent down by the hand of God.  He asked me if

there was anything I wanted fixed.  "You could fix me up, and you

wouldn't be doing half bad," I said softly but not so he could

hear me.  But there wasn't enough time so I could waste it on

witty sayings and, inspired by the Holy Spirit, I said to him,

"Sir, I've lost the key to this chest, and I'm afraid my master

will beat me.  Please look and see if one of those keys you have

will fit.  I'll pay you for it."

The angelic tinker began to try out the keys on his chain, one

after the other, and I was helping him with my feeble prayers. 

Then, when I least expected it, I saw the face of God, as they

say, formed by the loaves of bread inside that chest.  When it

was all the way open I said to him, "I don't have any money to

give you for the key, but take your payment from what's in

there."

He took the loaf of bread that looked best to him, and he gave me

the key and went away happy, leaving me even happier.  But I

didn't touch a thing right then so that the loss wouldn't be

noticeable.  And, too, when I saw that I was the Lord of all

that, I didn't think my hunger would dare come near me.  Then my

miserly old master came back, and--thank God--he didn't notice

the missing loaf of bread that the angel had carried off.

The next day, when he left the house, I opened my breadly

paradise and sank my hands and teeth into a loaf, and in a flash

I made it invisible.  And, of course, I didn't forget to lock up

the chest again.  Then I began to sweep the house very happily,

thinking that from now on my sad life would change.  And so that

day and the next I was happy.  But it wasn't meant for that peace

to last very long because on the third day real tertian fever struck.

It happened that I suddenly saw that man who was starving me to

death standing over our chest, moving the loaves of bread from

one side to the other, counting and recounting them.  I pretended

not to notice, and silently I was praying, hoping, and begging,

"Saint John, blind him!"  After he had stood there quite a while,

counting the days and the loaves on his fingers, he said, "If I

weren't so careful about keeping this chest closed, I'd swear

that someone had taken some of the loaves of bread.  But from now

on, just to close the door on all suspicion, I'm going to keep

close track of them.  There are nine and a half in there now."

"May God send you nine pieces of bad news, too," I said under my

breath.  It seemed to me that what he said went into my heart

like a hunter's arrow, and my stomach began to rumble when it saw

that it would be going back to its old diet.  Then he left the

house.  To console myself I opened the chest, and when I saw the

bread I began to worship it--but I was afraid to "take any in

remembrance of Him."  Then I counted the loaves to see if the old

miser had made a mistake, but he had counted them much better

than I'd have liked.  The best I could do was to kiss them over

and over, and as delicately as I could, I peeled a little off the

half-loaf on the side where it was already cut.  And so I got

through that day but not as happily as the one before.

But my hunger kept growing, mainly because my stomach had gotten

used to more bread during those previous two or three days.  I

was dying a slow death, and finally I got to the point that when

I was alone the only thing I did was open and close the chest and

look at the face of God inside (or at least that's how children

put it).  But God Himself--who aids the afflicted--seeing me in

such straits, put a little thought into my head that would help

me.  Thinking to myself, I said: This chest is big and old, and

it's got some holes in it, although they're small.  But he might

be led to believe that mice are getting into it and are eating

the bread.  It wouldn't do to take out a whole loaf: he'd notice

that it was missing right away, since he hardly gives me any food

at all to live on.  But he'll believe this all right.

And I began to break off crumbs over some cheap tablecloths he

had there.  I would pick up one loaf and put another one down, so

that I broke a few little pieces off of three or four of them. 

Then I ate those up just as if they were bonbons, and I felt a

little better.  But when he came home to eat and opened the

chest, he saw the mess.  And he really thought that mice had done

the damage because I'd done my job to perfection, and it looked

just like the work of mice.  He looked the chest over from top to

bottom, and he saw the holes where he suspected they'd gotten in. 

Then he called me over and said, "Lazaro, look!  Look at what a

terrible thing happened to our bread this evening!"

And I put on a very astonished face and asked him what it could

have been.

"What else," he said, "but mice?  They get into everything."

We began to eat, and--thank God--I came out all right in this,

too.  I got more bread than the miserable little bit he usually

gave me because he sliced off the parts he thought the mice had

chewed on, and said, "Eat this.  The mouse is a very clean

animal."

So that day, with the extra that I got by the work of my hands--or

of my fingernails, to be exact--we finished our meal, although I

never really got started.

And then I got another shock: I saw him walking around carefully,

pulling nails out of the walls and looking for little pieces of

wood.  And he used these to board up all the holes in the old

chest.

"Oh, Lord!" I said then.  "What a life full of misery, trials,

and bad luck we're born into!  How short the pleasures of this

hard life of ours are!  Here I was, thinking that this pitiful

little cure of mine would get me through this miserable

situation, and I was happy, thinking I was doing pretty well. 

Then along came my bad luck and woke up this miser of a master of

mine and made him even more careful than usual (and misers are

hardly ever not careful).  Now, by closing up the holes in the

chest, he's closing the door to my happiness, too, and opening

the one to my troubles."

That's what I kept sighing while my conscientious carpenter

finished up his job with nails and little boards, and said, "Now,

my dear treacherous mice, you'd better think about changing your

ways.  You won't get anywhere in this house."

As soon as he left, I went to see his work.  And I found that he

didn't leave a hole where even a mosquito could get into the

sorry old chest.  I opened it up with my useless key, without a

hope of getting anything.  And there I saw the two or three

loaves that I'd started to eat and that my master thought the

mice had chewed on, and I still got a little bit off of them by

touching them very lightly like an expert swordsman.

Since necessity is the father of invention and I always had so

much of it, day and night I kept thinking about how I was going

to keep myself alive.  And I think that hunger lit up my path to

these black solutions: they say that hunger sharpens your wits

and that stuffing yourself dulls them, and that's just the way it

worked with me.

Well, while I was lying awake one night thinking about this--how

I could manage to start using the chest again--I saw that my

master was asleep: it was obvious from the

snoring and loud wheezing he always made while he slept.  I got

up very, very quietly, and since during the day I had planned out

what I would do and had left an old knife lying where I'd find

it, I went over to the sorry-looking chest, and in the place

where it looked most defenseless, I attacked it with the knife,

using it like a boring tool.

It was really an old chest, and it had been around for so many

years that it didn't have any strength or backbone left.  It was

so soft and worm-eaten that it gave in to me right away and let

me put a good-sized hole in its side so I could relieve my own

suffering.  When I finished this, I opened the slashed-up chest

very quietly, and feeling around and finding the cut-up loaf, I

did the usual thing--what you've seen before.

Feeling a little better after that, I closed it up again and went

back to my straw mat.  I rested there and even slept a while. 

But I didn't sleep very well, and I thought it was because I

hadn't eaten enough.  And that's what it must have been because

at that time all the troubles of the King of France wouldn't have

been able to keep me awake.  The next day my master saw the

damage that had been done to the bread along with the hole I'd

made, and he began to swear at the mice and say, "How can this

be?  I've never even seen a mouse in this house until now!"

And I really think he must have been telling the truth.  If there

was one house in the whole country that by rights should have

been free of mice, it was that one, because they don't usually

stay where there's nothing to eat.  He began to look around on

the walls of the house again for nails and pieces of wood to keep

them out.  Then when night came and he was asleep, there I was on

my feet with my knife in hand, and all the holes he plugged up

during the day I unplugged at night.

That's how things went, me following him so quickly that this

must be where the saying comes from: "Where one door is closed,

another opens."  Well, we seemed to be doing Penelope's work on

the cloth because whatever he wove during the day I took apart at

night.  And after just a few days and nights we had the poor

pantry box in such a shape that, if you really wanted to call it

by its proper name, you'd have to call it an old piece of armor

instead of a chest because of all the nails and tacks in it.

When he saw that his efforts weren't doing any good, he said,

"This chest is so beat up and the wood in it is so old and thin

that it wouldn't be able to stand up against any mouse.  And it's

getting in such bad shape that if we put up with it any longer

it won't keep anything secure.  The worst part of it is that even

though it doesn't keep things very safe, if I got rid of it I

really wouldn't be able to get along without it, and I'd just end

up having to pay three or four pieces of silver to get another

one.  The best thing that I can think of, since what I've tried

so far hasn't done any good, is to set a trap inside the chest

for those blasted mice."

Then he asked someone to lend him a mousetrap, and with the

cheese rinds that he begged from the neighbors, the trap was kept

set and ready inside the chest.  And that really turned out to be

a help to me.  Even though I didn't require any frills for

eating, I was still glad to get the cheese rinds that I took out

of the mousetrap, and even at that I didn't stop the mouse from

raiding the bread.

When he found that mice had been into the bread and eaten the

cheese, but that not one of them had been caught, he swore a blue

streak and asked his neighbors, "How could a mouse take cheese

out of a trap, eat it, leave the trap sprung, and still not get

caught?"  The neighbors agreed that it couldn't be a mouse that

was causing the trouble because it would have had to have gotten

caught sooner or later.  So one neighbor said to him, "I remember

that there used to be a snake around your house--that must be who

the culprit is.  It only stands to reason: it's so long it can

get the food, and even though the trap is sprung on it, it's not

completely inside, so it can get out again."

Everyone agreed with what he'd said, and that really upset my

master.  From then on he didn't sleep so soundly.  Whenever he

heard even a worm moving around in the wood at night, he thought

it was the snake gnawing on the chest.  Then he would be up on

his feet, and he'd grab a club that he kept by the head of the

bed ever since they'd mentioned a snake to him, and he would

really lay into that poor old chest, hoping to scare the snake

away.  He woke up the neighbors with all the noise he made, and

he wouldn't let me sleep at all.  He came up to my straw mat and

turned it over and me with it, thinking that the snake had headed

for me and gotten into the straw or inside my coat.  Because they

told him that at night these creatures look for some place that's

warm and even get into babies' cribs and bite them.  Most of the

time I pretended to be asleep, and in the morning he would ask

me, "Didn't you feel anything last night, son?  I was right

behind the snake, and I think it got into your bed: they're very

cold-blooded creatures, and they try to find a place that's

warm."

"I hope to God it doesn't bite me," I said.  "I'm really scared

of it."

He went around all excited and not able to sleep, so that--on my

word of honor--the snake (a male one, of course) didn't dare go

out chewing at night, or even go near the chest.  But in the

daytime, while he was at church or in town, I did my looting. 

And when he saw the damage and that he wasn't able to do anything

about it, he wandered around at night--as I've said--like a

spook.

I was afraid that in his wanderings he might stumble onto my key

that I kept under the straw.  So it seemed to me that the safest

thing was to put it in my mouth at night.  Because since I'd been

with the blind man my mouth had gotten round like a purse, and I

could hold twenty or thirty coppers in it--all in half-copper

coins--and eat at the same time.  If I hadn't been able to do that

I couldn't have gotten hold of even a copper that the blasted

blind man wouldn't have found: he was always searching every

patch and seam on my clothes.  Well, as I say, I put the key in

my mouth every night, and I went to sleep without being afraid

that the zombie master of mine would stumble onto it.  But when

trouble is going to strike, you can't do a thing to stop it.

The fates--or to be more exact, my sins--had it in store for me

that one night while I was sleeping my mouth must have been open,

and the key shifted so that the air I breathed out while I was

asleep went through the hollow part of the key.  It was tubular,

and (unfortunately for me) it whistled so loud that my master

heard it and got excited.  He must have thought it was the snake

hissing, and I guess it really sounded like one.

He got up very quietly with his club in hand, and by feeling his

way toward the sound he came up to me very softly so the snake

wouldn't hear him.  And when he found himself so close, he

thought that it had come over to where I was lying, looking for a

warm place, and had slipped into the straw.  So, lifting the club

up high, and thinking that he had the snake trapped down there

and that he would hit it so hard that he'd kill it, he swung down

on me with such a mighty blow that he knocked me unconscious and

left my head bashed in.

Then he saw that he'd hit me (I must have really cried out when

the blow leveled me), and--as he later told me--he reached over

and shouted at me, calling my name and trying to revive me.  But

when his hands touched me and he felt all the blood, he realized

what he'd done, and he went off to get a light right away.  When

he came back with it he found me moaning with the key still in my

mouth: I had never let loose of it, and it was still sticking half

out--just like it must have been when I was whistling through it.

The snake killer was terrified, wondering what it could be.  He

took it all the way out of my mouth and looked at it.  Then he

realized what it was because its ridges matched his key exactly. 

He went to try it out, and he solved the crime.  Then that cruel

hunter must have said: "I've found the mouse and the snake that

were fighting me and eating me out of house and home."

I can't say for sure what happened during the next three days

because I spent them inside the belly of the whale.  But what

I've just told I heard about from my master when I came to; he

was telling what had happened in detail to everyone who came by.

At the end of three days, when I was back in my senses, I found myself

stretched out on my straw bed with my head all bandaged up and full

of oils and salves.  And I got scared and said, "What is this?"

The cruel priest answered, "It seems that I caught the mice and

snakes that were ruining me."

I looked myself over, and when I saw how badly beaten up I was, I

guessed what had happened.

Then an old lady who was a healer came in, along with the

neighbors.  And they began to take the wrappings off my head and

treat the wound.  When they saw that I was conscious again, they

were very happy, and they said, 'Well, he's got his senses back. 

God willing, it won't be too serious."

Then they began to talk again about what had happened to me and

to laugh.  While I--sinner that I am--I was crying.  Anyway, they

fed me, and I was famished, but they really didn't give me

enough.  Yet, little by little, I recovered, and two weeks later

I was able to get up, out of any danger (but not out of my state

of hunger) and nearly cured.

The next day when I'd gotten up, my master took me by the hand

and led me out the door, and when I was in the street he said to

me: "Lazaro, from now on you're on your own--I don't want you. 

Go get yourself another master, and God be with you.  I don't

want such a diligent servant here with me.  You could only have

become this way from being a blind man's guide."

Then he crossed himself as if I had the devil in me and went back

into his house and closed the door.

III.  How Lazaro Took up with a Squire and What Happened to Him Then

So I had to push on ahead, as weak as I was.  And little by

little, with the help of some good people, I ended up in this

great city of Toledo.  And here, by the grace of God, my wounds

healed in about two weeks.  People were always giving me things

while I was hurt, but when I was well again, they told me, "You--

you're nothing but a lazy, no-good sponger.  Go on--go find

yourself a good master you can work for."

"And where will I meet up with one of those," I said to myself,

"unless God makes him from scratch, the way he created the world?"

While I was going along begging from door to door (without much

success, since charity seemed to have gone up to heaven), God had

me run into a squire who was walking down the street.  He was

well dressed, his hair was combed, and he walked and looked like

a real gentleman.  I looked at him, and he looked at me, and he

said, "Boy, are you looking for a master?"

And I said, "Yes, sir."

"Well, come with me," he said.  "God has been good to you, making

you run into me.  You must have been doing some good praying

today."

So I went with him.  And I thanked God that he asked me to go

along because--with his nice-looking clothes and the way he

looked--I thought he was just what I needed.

It was morning when I found my third master.  And I followed him

through most of the city.  We went through squares where they

were selling bread and different things.  And I was hoping and

praying that he would load me up with some of the food they were

selling because it was just the right time for shopping.  But

very quickly, without stopping, we went right past those places. 

Maybe he doesn't like what he sees here, I thought, and he wants

to buy his groceries somewhere else.

So we kept on walking until it was eleven o'clock.  Then he went

into the cathedral, and I was right behind him.  I saw him listen

to mass and go through the other holy ceremonies very devoutly,

until it was over and the people had gone.  Then we came out of

the church.

We began to go down a street at a good clip.  And I was the

happiest fellow in the world, since we hadn't stopped to buy any

food.  I really thought my new master was one of those people who

do all their shopping at once, and that our meal would be there,

ready and waiting for us, just the way I wanted--and, in fact, the

way I needed.

At that minute the clock struck one--an hour past noon--and we came

to a house where my master stopped, and so did I.  And pulling

his cape to the left, he took a key out of his sleeve and opened

the door, and we both went into the house.  The entrance was dark

and gloomy: it looked like it would make anyone who went in

afraid.  But inside there was a little patio and some fairly nice

rooms.

Once we were in, he took off his cape: he asked me if my hands

were clean, and then we shook it out and folded it.  And blowing

the dust very carefully off a stone bench that was there, he put

the cape down on top of it.  And when that was done, he sat down

next to it and asked me a lot of questions about where I was from

and how I'd happened to come to that city.

I talked about myself longer than I wanted to because I thought

it was more a time to have the table set and the stew dished up

than to tell him about all that.  Still, I satisfied him about

myself, lying as well as I could.  I told him all my good points

but kept quiet about the rest, since I didn't think that was the

time for them.  When that was over, he just sat there for a

while.  I began to realize that that was a bad sign, since it was

almost two o'clock and I hadn't seen him show any more desire to

eat than a dead man.

Then I began to think about his keeping the door locked, and the

fact that I hadn't heard any other sign of life in the whole

house.  The only thing I'd seen were walls: not a chair, not a

meat-cutting board, a stool, a table, or even a chest like the

one I'd had before.  And I began to wonder if that house was

under a spell.  While I was thinking about this, he said to me,

"Boy, have you eaten?"

"No, sir," I said.  "It wasn't even eight o'clock when I met you."

"Well, even though it was still morning, I'd already had

breakfast.  And when I eat like that, I want you to know that I'm

satisfied until nighttime.  So you'll just have to get along as

well as you can: we'll have supper later."

You can see how, when I heard this, I nearly dropped in my

tracks--not so much from hunger but because fate seemed to be

going completely against me.  Then all my troubles passed before

my eyes again, and I began to cry over my hardships once more.  I

remembered my reasoning when I was thinking about leaving the

priest: I figured that even though he was mean and stingy, it

might turn out that I would meet up with someone worse.  So there

I was, moping over the hard life I'd had and over my death that

was getting nearer and nearer.

And yet, keeping back my emotions as well as I could, I said to

him, "Sir, I am only a boy, and thank God I'm not too concerned

about eating.  I can tell you that I was the lightest eater of

all my friends, and all the masters I've ever had have praised

that about me right up to now."

"That really is a virtue," he said, "and it makes me appreciate

you even more.  Because only pigs stuff themselves: gentlemen eat

moderately.''

I get the picture!  I thought to myself.  Well, damn all the

health and virtue that these masters I run into find in staying

hungry.

I went over next to the door and took out of my shirt some pieces

of bread that I still had from begging.  When he saw this, he

said to me, "Come here, boy.  What are you eating?"

I went over to him and showed him the bread.  There were three

pieces, and he took one--the biggest and best one.  Then he said,

"Well, well, this does look like good bread."

"It is!" I said.  "But tell me, sir, do you really think so now?"

"Yes, I do," he said.  "Where did you get it?  I wonder if the

baker had clean hands?"

"I can't tell you that," I said, but it certainly doesn't taste bad."

"Let's see if you're right," said my poor master.

And he put it in his mouth and began to gobble it down as

ferociously as I was doing with mine.

"Bless me, this bread is absolutely delicious," he said.

When I saw what tree he was barking up, I began to eat faster. 

Because I realized that if he finished before I did, he would be

nice enough to help me with what was left.  So we finished almost

at the same time.  And he began to brush off a few crumbs--very

tiny ones--that were left on his shirt.  Then he went into a

little room nearby and brought out a chipped-up jug--not a very

new one--and after he had drunk, he offered it to me.  But, so I

would look like a teetotaler, I said, "Sir, I don't drink wine."

"It's water," he said.  "You can drink that."

Then I took the jug, and I drank.  But not much, because being

thirsty wasn't exactly my trouble.  So that's how we spent the

day until nighttime: him asking me questions and me answering as

best I could.  Then he took me to the room where the jug that

we'd drunk from was, and he said to me, "Boy, get over there, and

I'll show you how this bed is made up so that you'll be able to

do it from now on."

I went down to one end, and he went over to the other, and we

made up the blasted bed.  There really wasn't much to do: it just

had a bamboo frame sitting on some benches, and on top of that

there was a filthy mattress with the bedclothes stretched over

it.  And since it hadn't been washed very often, it really didn't

look much like a mattress.  But that's what it was used for,

though there was a lot less stuffing than it needed.  We

stretched it out and tried to soften it up.  But that was

impossible because you can't make a really hard object soft.  And

that blessed packsaddle had hardly a damned thing inside of it. 

When it was put on the frame, every strut showed through,

and it looked just like the rib cage of a real skinny pig.

And on top of that starving pad he put a cover of the same stamp:

I never could decide what color it was.  With the bed made and

night on us, he said to me, "Lazaro, it's late now, and it's a

long way from here to the square.  And besides, there are a lot

of thieves who go around stealing at night in this city.  Let's

get along as well as we can, and tomorrow, when it's daytime, God

will be good to us.  I've been living alone, and so I haven't

stocked up any groceries: instead, I've been eating out.  But

from now on we'll do things differently."

"Sir," I said, "don't worry about me.  I can spend one night--or

more, if I have to--without eating."

"You'll live longer and you'll be healthier too," he answered. 

"Because as we were saying today, there's nothing in the world

like eating moderately to live a long life."

If that's the way things are, I thought to myself, I never will

die.  Because I've always been forced to keep that rule, and with

my luck I'll probably keep it all my life.

And he lay down on the bed, using his pants and jacket as a

pillow.  He told me to stretch out at his feet, so I did.  But I

didn't get a damned bit of sleep!  The frame struts and my

protruding bones didn't stop squabbling and fighting all night

long.  With all the pains, hunger, and trouble I'd been through,

I don't think there was a pound of flesh left on my body.  And

since I'd hardly had a bite to eat that day, I was groveling in

hunger--and hunger and sleep don't exactly make good bedfellows. 

So I cursed myself (God forgive me!) and my bad luck over and

over, nearly all night long.  And what was worse, I didn't dare

to turn over because I might wake him up.  So I just kept asking

God for death.

When morning came we got up, and he began to shake out and clean

his pants and jacket and his coat and cape (while I stood around

like an idle servant!).  And he took his own good time about

getting dressed.  I brought some water for him to wash his hands,

and then he combed his hair and put his sword in the belt, and

while he was doing that, he said: "If you only knew what a prize

this is, boy!  I wouldn't sell it for any amount of money in the

world.  And I'll have you know that of all the swords the famous

Toledan swordmaker Antonio made, there isn't one that he put as

sharp an edge on as this one has."

And he pulled it out of the sheath and felt it with his fingers

and said, "Look here.  I'll bet I could slice a ball of wool with

it."  And I thought to myself: And with my teeth--even though

they're not made of steel--I could slice a four-pound loaf of bread.

He put it back in the sheath and strapped it on, and then he hung

a string of large beads from the sword belt.  And he walked

slowly, holding his body straight and swaying gracefully as he

walked.  And every so often he would put the tail of the cape

over his shoulder or under his arm.  And with his right hand on

his side, he went out the door, saying, "Lazaro, while I go to

mass, you watch the house.  Make the bed and fill the pitcher up

with water from the river just down below us.  Be sure to lock

the door so that nothing will get stolen, and put the key on the

hinge here so that if I come back while you're gone I can get in."

Then he went up the street with such a stately expression and

manner that anyone who didn't know him would think he was a close

relative to the Count of Arcos, or at least his valet.

I stood there, thinking: "Bless You, Lord--You give us sickness

and You cure us too!  My master looks so content that anyone who

saw him would think he'd eaten a huge supper last night and slept

in a nice bed.  And even though it's early in the morning, they'd

think he'd had a good breakfast.  Your ways are mighty

mysterious, Lord, and people don't understand them!  With that

refined way he acts and that nice-looking cape and coat he'd fool

anyone.  And who would believe that that gracious man got by all

day yesterday on a piece of bread that his servant Lazaro had

carried all day and night inside his shirt for safekeeping--not

really the most sanitary place in the world--and that today when

he washed his hands and face, he dried them on his shirttail

because we didn't have any towels?  Nobody would suspect it, of

course.  Oh Lord, how many of these people do You have scattered

around the world who suffer for the filth that they call honor

what they would never suffer for You!"

So I stood at the door, thinking about these things and looking

until my master had disappeared down the long, narrow street. 

Then I went back into the house, and in a second I walked through

the whole place, both upstairs and down, without stopping or

finding anything to stop for.  I made up that blasted hard bed

and took the jug down to the river.  And I saw my master in a

garden, trying hard to coax two veiled women--they looked like

the kind that are always hanging around that place.  In fact, a

lot of them go there in the summer to take the early morning air. 

And they go down to those cool riverbanks to eat breakfast--

without even bringing any food along; they're sure someone will

give them some, since the men around there have got them in the

habit of doing that.

As I say, there he was with them just like the troubador Macias,

telling them more sweet words than Ovid ever wrote.  And when

they saw that he was pretty well softened up, they weren't ashamed

to ask him for some breakfast, promising the usual payment.

But his pocketbook was as cold as his stomach was warm, and he

began to have such hot chills that the color drained from his

face, and he started to trip over his tongue and make up some

lame excuses.

They must have been pretty experienced women because they caught

on to his illness right away and left him there for what he was.

I'd been eating some cabbage stalks, and that was my breakfast. 

And since I was a new servant, I went back home very diligently

without my master seeing me.  I decided I'd sweep out a little

there, since that's what the place really needed, but I couldn't

find anything to sweep with.  Then I began to think about what I

should do, and I decided to wait until noon for my master because

if he came he might bring something to eat; but that turned out

to be a waste of time.

When I saw that it was getting to be two o'clock and he still

hadn't come, I began to be attacked by hunger.  So I locked the

door and put the key where he told me to, and then I went back to

my old trade.  With a low, sickly voice, my hands crossed over my

chest, and with my eyes looking up to heaven and God's name on my

tongue, I began to beg for bread at the doors of the biggest

houses I saw.  But I'd been doing this almost from the cradle--I

mean I learned it from that great teacher, the blind man, and I

turned out to be a pretty good student--so even though this town

had never been very charitable, and it had been a pretty lean

year besides, I handled myself so well that before the clock

struck four I had that many pounds of bread stored away in my

stomach and at least two more in my sleeves and inside my shirt.

I went back to the house, and on my way through the meat market I

begged from one of the women there, and she gave me a piece of

cow's hoof along with some cooked tripe.

When I got home my good master was there, his cape folded and

lying on the stone bench, and he was walking around in the patio. 

I went inside, and he came over to me.  I thought he was going to

scold me for being late, but God had something better in store. 

He asked me where I'd been, and I told him, "Sir, I was here

until two o'clock, and when I saw that you weren't coming, I went

to the city and put myself in the hands of the good people there,

and they gave me what you see here."

I showed him the bread and the tripe that I was carrying in my

shirttail, and his face lit up, and he said: 'Well, I held up

dinner for you, but when I saw that you weren't going to come, I

went ahead and ate.  But what you've done there is all right

because it's better to beg in God's name than it is to steal. 

That's my opinion, so help me.  The only thing I ask is that you

don't tell anyone that you're living with me because it will hurt

my honor.  But I think it would stay a secret anyway, since

hardly anyone in this town knows me.  I wish I'd never come

here!"

"Don't worry about that, sir," I said.  "No one would give a damn

about asking me that, and I wouldn't tell them even if they did."

"Well then, eat, you poor sinner.  If it's God's will, we'll soon

see ourselves out of these straits.  But I want you to know that

ever since I came to this house nothing has gone right for me. 

There must be an evil spell on it.  You know there are some

unlucky houses that are cursed, and the bad luck rubs off on the

people who live in them.  I don't doubt for a minute that this is

one of them, but I tell you that after this month is over, I

wouldn't live here even if they gave the place to me."

I sat down at the end of the stone bench, and I kept quiet about

my snack so that he wouldn't take me for a glutton.  So, for

supper I began to eat my tripe and bread, while I was watching my

poor master out of the corner of my eye.  And he kept staring at

my shirttail that I was using for a plate.  I hope God takes as

much pity on me as I felt for him.  I knew just what he was

feeling, since the same thing had happened to me lots of times--

and, in fact, it was still happening to me.  I thought about

asking him to join me, but since he told me that he'd already

eaten I was afraid he wouldn't accept the invitation.  The fact

is, I was hoping that the sinner would help himself to the food I

had gone to the trouble of getting and that he'd eat the way he

did the day before so he could get out of his own troubles.  This

was really a better time for it, since there was more food and I

wasn't as hungry.

God decided to grant my wish--and his, too, I guess.  Because he

was still walking around, but when I began to eat, he came over

to me and said, "I tell you, Lazaro, I've never seen anyone eat

with as much gusto as you put into it.  Anyone watching you would

get hungry on the spot, even if he hadn't been before."

The marvelous appetite you have, I thought to myself, makes you

think mine is beautiful.

Still, I decided to help him, since he had opened up a way for me

himself.  So I said to him, "Sir, a man can do a good job if he

has good tools.  This bread is absolutely delicious, and the

cow's hoof is so well cooked and seasoned that no one could

possibly resist its taste."

"Is it cow's hoof?"

"Yes, sir."

"I tell you, there's no better dish in the world.  I don't even

like pheasant as much."

"Well, dig in, sir, and you'll see how good it really is."

I put the cow's hooves into his, along with three or four of the

whiter pieces of bread.  And he sat down beside me and began to

eat like a man who was really hungry.  He chewed the meat off of

every little bone better than any hound of his would have done.

"With garlic sauce," he said, "this is an exceptional dish."

"You don't need any sauce with your appetite," I said under my breath.

"By God, that tasted so good you'd think I hadn't had a bite to

eat all day."

That's true as sure as I was born, I said to myself.

He asked me for the water jug, and when I gave it to him it was

as full as when I'd first brought it in.  Since there was no

water gone from it, there was a sure sign that my master hadn't

been overeating that day.  We drank and went to sleep, very

content, like we'd done the night before.

Well, to make a long story short, that's the way we spent the

next nine or ten days: that sinner would go out in the morning

with his satisfied, leisurely pace, to dawdle around the streets

while I was out hoofing it for him.

I used to think lots of times about my catastrophe:  having

escaped from those terrible masters I'd had and looking for

someone better, I ran into a man who not only couldn't support me

but who I had to support.  Still, I really liked him because I

saw that he didn't have anything and he couldn't do more than he

was already doing.  I felt more sorry for him than angry.  And

lots of times, just so I could bring back something for him to

eat, I didn't eat anything myself.

I did this because one morning the pitiful fellow got up in his

shirt and went to the top floor of the house to take care of a

certain necessity.  And to satisfy my curiosity I unfolded the

jacket and pants he'd left at the head of the bed.  And I found

an old, crumpled-up little purse of satiny velvet that didn't

have a damned cent in it, and there wasn't any sign that it had

had one for a long time.

"This man," I said, "is poor.  And no one can give what he

doesn't have.  But both the stingy blind man and that blasted

miser of a priest did all right in God's name--one of them with a

quick tongue and the other one with his hand-kissing.  And

they were starving me to death.  So it's only right that I should

hate them and feel sorry for this man."

As God is my witness, even today when I run into someone like

him, with that pompous way of walking of his, I feel sorry for

them because I think that they may be suffering what I saw this

one go through.  But even with all his poverty, I'd still be glad

to serve him more than the others because of the things I've just

mentioned.  There was only one little thing that I didn't like

about him: I wished that he wouldn't act so superior; if only

he'd let his vanity come down a little to be in line with his

growing necessity.  But it seems to me that that's a rule his

kind always keeps: even if they don't have a red cent to their

name, they have to keep up the masquerade.  God help them or

that's the way they'll go to their graves.

Well, while I was there, getting along the way I said, my bad

luck (which never got tired of haunting me) decided that that

hard, foul way of life shouldn't last.  The way it happened was

that, since there had been a crop failure there that year, the

town council decided to make all the beggars who came from other

towns get out of the city.  And they announced that from then on

if they found one of them there, he'd be whipped.  So the law

went into effect, and four days after the announcement was given

I saw a procession of beggars being led through the streets and

whipped.  And I got so scared that I didn't dare go out begging

any more.

It's not hard to imagine the dieting that went on in my house and

the sadness and silence of the people living there.  It was so

bad that for two or three days at a time we wouldn't have a bite

to eat or even say one word to each other.  I knew some ladies

who lived next door to us; they spun cotton and made hats, and

they kept me alive.  From what little they brought in they always

gave me something, and I just about managed to get by.

But I didn't feel as sorry for myself as I did for my poor

master: he didn't have a damned bite to eat in a week.  At least,

we didn't have anything to eat at the house.  When he went out I

don't know how he got along, where he went or what he ate.  And

if you could only have seen him coming down the street at noon,

holding himself straight, and skinnier than a full-blooded

greyhound!  And because of his damn what-do-you-call it--honor--

he would take a toothpick (and there weren't very many of those

in the house either) and go out the door, picking at what didn't

have anything between them and still grumbling about the cursed

place.  He'd say, "Look how bad things are.  And it's this

blasted house that's causing it all.  Look how gloomy and dark

and dismal it is.  As long as we stay here, we're going to

suffer.  I wish the month were over so we could get out of here."

Well, while we were in this terrible, hungry state, one day--I

don't know by what stroke of luck or good fortune--a silver piece

found its way into the poor hands of my master.  And he brought it

home with him, looking as proud as if he had all the money in Venice,

and smiling very happily, he gave it to me and said: "Take this, Lazaro.

God is beginning to be good to us.  Go down to the square and buy bread

and wine and meat.  Let's shoot the works!  And also--this should make

you happy--I want you to know that I've rented another house, so we'll

only stay in this unlucky place until the end of the month.  Damn the

place and damn the person who put the first tile on its roof--

I should never have rented it.  I swear to God that as long as

I've lived here I haven't had a drop of wine or a bite of meat,

and I haven't gotten any rest.  And it's all because of the way

this place looks--so dark and gloomy!  Go on now, and come back

as quick as you can: we'll eat like kings today."

I took my silver coin and my jug, and hurrying along, I went up

the street, heading for the square, very content and happy.  But

what's the use if my bad luck has it planned for me that I can't

enjoy anything without trouble coming along with it?  And that's

the way this thing went.  I was going up the street, thinking

about how I would spend the money in the best way possible and

get the most out of it.  And I was thanking God with all my heart

for letting my master have some money, when suddenly I came upon

a corpse that a bunch of clergy and other people were carrying

down the street on a litter.

I squeezed up next to the wall to let them by, and after the body

had gone past there came right behind the litter a woman who must

have been the dead man's wife, all dressed up in mourning (and a

lot of other women with her).  And she came along, crying loudly

and saying, "My husband and lord, where are they taking you? 

It's to that poor, unhappy house, that dark and gloomy house,

that house where they never eat or drink!"

And when I heard that, I felt like I had fallen through the

ground, and I said, "Oh--no!  They're taking this dead man to my

house."

I turned around and squeezed through the crowd and ran back down

the street as fast as I could toward my house.  And when I got

inside I closed the door right behind me and called out for my

master to come and help me.  And I grabbed hold of him and begged

him to help me block the door.  He was a little stunned, thinking

it might be something else, and he asked me, "What is it, boy? 

Why are you shouting?  What's the matter?  Why did you slam the

door so hard?"

"Oh, sir," I said, "help me!  They're bringing a dead man here."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I stumbled into him just up the way from here, and his wife was

coming along saying, 'My husband and lord, where are they taking

you?  To the dark and gloomy house, the poor, unhappy house, the

house where they never eat or drink!' Oh, sir, they're bringing

him here."

And I tell you that when my master heard that, even though he

didn't have any reason for being very cheerful, he laughed so

hard that for a long time he couldn't even talk.  In the meantime

I had the bolt snapped shut on the door and my shoulder against

it to hold them all back.  The people passed by with their

corpse, and I was still afraid that they were going to stick him

in our house.  And when he'd had his bellyful of laughter (more

than of food) my good master said to me: "It's true, Lazaro, that

taking the words of the widow at face value, you had every reason

to think what you did.  But since it was God's will to do

something else and they've gone by, go on and open the door and

go get us something to eat."

"Sir, wait until they've gone down the street," I said.

Finally my master came up to the door that led to the street and

opened it, reassuring me--and I really needed that because I was

so upset and afraid.  So I started up the street again.

But even though we ate well that day, I didn't enjoy it a damn

bit.  In fact, I didn't get my color back for three days.  And my

master would grin every time he thought about what I'd done.

So that's what happened to me during those days with my third

poor master, this squire, and all the time I was wishing I knew

how he'd come to this place and why he was staying here.  Because

from the very first day that I started serving him, I realized he

was a stranger here: he hardly knew anyone, and he didn't

associate with very many of the people around here.

Finally my wish came true, and I found out what I wanted to know. 

One day after we'd eaten fairly well and he was pretty content,

he told me about himself.  He said he was from Old Castile.  And

he said the only reason he'd left there was because he didn't

want to take his hat off to a neighbor of his who was a high-

class gentleman.

"Sir," I said, "if he was the kind of man you say he was and his

status was higher than yours, it was only right for you to take

your hat off first--after all, you say that

he took off his hat, too."

"That is the kind of man he was: his status was higher and he did

take his hat off to me.  But considering all the time I took mine

off first, it wouldn't have been asking too much for him to be

civil and make the first move once in a while."

"It seems to me, sir," I told him, "that I wouldn't even think

about that--especially with people who are my superiors and are

better off than I am."

"You're just a boy," he answered, "and you don't understand

honor.  That is the most important thing to any self-respecting

gentleman these days.  Well, I want you to know that I'm a

squire--as you can see.  But I swear to God that if I meet a

count on the street and he doesn't take his hat all the way off

his head for me, the next time I see him coming, I'll duck right

into a house and pretend that I have some business or other to do

there.  Or I'll go up another street, if there is one, before he

gets up to me--just so I won't have to take off my hat to him. 

Because a gentleman doesn't owe anything to anyone except

God or the King.  And it isn't right, if he's a man of honor,

for him to let his self-respect fall even for a minute.

"I remember one day when I put a craftsman from my town in his

place, and I felt like strangling him, too, because every time I

ran into him he would say, 'God keep you, friend.' 'You little

peasant,' I said to him, 'How dare you address me with "God keep

you" as if I were just anybody?  Where were you brought up?' And

from that day on, whenever he saw me, he took off his hat and

spoke to me the way he was supposed to."

"But isn't that a good way for one man to greet another: to say

'God keep you'?"

"Damn it!" he said.  "That's what they say to the lower classes. 

But to people who are higher up, like me, they're only supposed

to say, 'I hope you are well today, sir.' Or, at least, 'I hope

you feel well today' if the person talking to me is a gentleman. 

So I didn't want to put up with that man from my town who was

filling me up to here with his 'God keep you.' And I wouldn't put

up with him either.  In fact, I won't stand for anyone--including

the King himself--to say to me 'God keep you, friend.'"

"Well, I'll be.  .  .  ," I said.  "That's why God doesn't help

you out.  You won't let anyone ask Him to."

"Especially," he said, "because I'm not so poor.  In fact, where

I'm from I have a huge estate (it's fifty miles from where I was

born, right along Costanilla, the main street of Valladolid). 

And if the houses on it were still standing and kept up, it

would be worth more than six thousand pieces of silver--just to

give you an idea of how big and grand it would be.  And I have a

pigeon house that would produce more than two hundred pigeons a

year if it hadn't fallen down.  And there are some other things I

won't mention, but I left them all because of my honor.

"And I came to this city, thinking I'd find a good position.  But

it hasn't turned out the way I thought it would.  I meet lots of

canons and other officials of the church, but those people are so

tight with their money that no one could possibly get them to

change their ways.  Lesser men want me, too, but working for them

is a lot of trouble.  They want you to change from a man into a

jack-of-all-trades, and if you won't, they give you the sack. 

And, generally, the paydays are few and far between; most of the

time your only sure way of being paid is when they feed you. 

And when they want to have a clear conscience and really pay you

for the sweat of your brow, your payoff comes from their clothes

closet with a sweaty old jacket or a ragged cape or coat.  And

even when a man has a position with someone of the nobility, he

still has his troubles.

"I ask you: aren't I clever enough to serve one of them and make

him happy?  Lord, if I ran into one, I really think I'd be his

favorite--and I could do lots of things for him.  Why, I could

lie to him just as well as anyone else could.  And I could

flatter him like nothing he'd ever seen before.  And I'd laugh at

his stories and jokes even if they weren't exactly the funniest

things in the world.  I'd never tell him anything disturbing even

if he would be better off knowing it.  I would be very

conscientious in everything about him, both in word and in deed. 

And I wouldn't kill myself to do things he wouldn't see. 

Whenever he was around to hear me, I would always scold the

servants so he'd think I was very concerned about him.  And if he

were scolding one of his servants, I'd step in with some pointed

remarks about the culprit that would make the nobleman even

madder, while I was appearing to take the servant's side.  I

would praise the things he liked, but I'd mock and slander the

people of the house and even the ones who didn't live there.  I

would go prying and try to find out about other people's lives so

I could tell him about them.

"And I'd do all sorts of other things like this that go on in

palaces these days and that people in that sort of a position

like.  They don't want to see good men in their homes.  In fact,

they think they're useless, and actually, they hate them.  They

say they're stupid people you can't deal with and that a nobleman

can't confide in them.  And smart people these days act with the

nobility, as I say, just the way I would.  But with my bad luck,

I haven't met one of them."

And so my master complained about his unhappy life, too, telling

me how admirable he was.

Well, about this time, a man and an old woman came in the door. 

The man wanted the rent money for the house, and the old lady had

rented him the bed and wanted the money for that.  They figured

up the amount, and for two months' rent they wanted what he

couldn't have made in a year.  I think it was about twelve or

thirteen pieces of silver.  And he answered them very courteously:

he said that he would go out to the square to change a doubloon

and that they should come back that afternoon.  But when he left,

he never came back.  

So they returned in the afternoon, but it was too late.  I told

them that he still hadn't come back.  And when night came and he

didn't, I was afraid to stay in the house alone.  So I went to

the women next door and told them what had happened, and I slept

at their place.

The next morning, the creditors returned.  But no one was home,

so they came to the door of the place I was staying at now and

asked about their neighbor.  And the women told them, "Here is

his servant and the door key."

Then they asked me about him, and I told them I didn't know where

he was and that he hadn't come back home after going to get the

change.  And I said that I thought he'd given both them and me

the slip.

When they heard that, they went to get a constable and a notary. 

And then they came back with them and took the key and called me

and some witnesses over.  And they opened the door and went

inside to take my master's property until he paid what he owed

them.  They walked through the entire house and found it empty,

just as I've said.  And they asked me, "What's become of your

master's things--his chests and drapes and furniture?"

"I don't know anything about that," I answered.

"It's obvious," they said, "that last night they must have had it

all taken out and carted somewhere else.  Constable, arrest this

boy.  He knows where it is."

Then the constable came over and grabbed me by the collar of my

jacket, and he said, "Boy, you're under arrest unless you tell us

what's happened to your master's things."

I'd never seen myself in such a fix (I had, of course, been held