María de Zayas y Sotomayor: Fifth Story of Disillusion

María de Zayas y Sotomayor

Fifth Story of Disillusion

The story takes place in a city near to the great city of Seville, which I do not wish to name because today relatives of don Francisco are still living, he being an important and rich gentleman, married to a lady his equal in rank.

This man had a sister who was among the most beautiful women found in all of Andalusia, whose age was not yet eighteen. A gentleman of the same city asked for her hand, a man no less in quality, nor less wealthy; indeed I understand that he exceeded her in everything. It seemed to don Francisco, as was right, that such good fortune came only from heaven, and quite happy with it, he spoke to his wife about it and with doña Inés, his sister, who, since she had no other will but his, and in terms of obedience and reverential love she looked upon him as her father, accepted the marriage, perhaps not so much because of the man as to escape the harsh nature of her sister- in-law, who was as cruel as could be imagined.

So before two months had passed she found herself, having tried to escape one captivity, put into another martyrdom, although she had the sweetness of her husband’s caresses (for even in that, at the beginning, no one can outdo a man, but rather they make such an art of it that I am convinced that they spend all of those caresses the first year; and later, since they find themselves in short supply of pleasant treatments, they leave their wives to die of pure necessity and perhaps—and not perhaps—this is certainly the reason why they, being abhorred, begin to behave badly, which leads to the men losing their honor and the women their lives).

What does a husband expect, or a father, or a brother, and speaking more coarsely, a lover, from a lady, if she finds herself rejected and lacking what she needs, and beyond that, little attended to and little esteemed, but misfortune? Oh, God help me, and how confident men are today, for they do not fear the fact that what a desperate woman will do, the devil would not! They think that because they hover over and keep a close eye on them that they keep them out of trouble’s way, and they are fooling themselves.

Love them, caress them, and give them what they need, and do not hover over nor keep a close eye on them, for they will watch over and be vigilant of themselves, if not out of virtue then out of obligation. And God help me again and what a counterfeit coin moral willpower is now, for it neither endures nor is worth anything beyond the first day, and no one realizes its value!

Doña Inés did not suffer disgrace because of this, because her husband treated her with the esteem demanded by her worth and beauty; it was because of the latter that disgrace found her, because beauty always walks hand in hand with it. The lovely woman was enjoying a delightful and relaxed life, as would one who entered into such a prosperous estate with a husband of appealing appearance and better disposition, had it lasted. But when one is pursued by an adverse fate, no matter what one does, it cannot be shaken off. And it happened that, while she had been a maiden, she was never seen, owing to the terrible nature of her brother and sister- in-law.

But once married, either accompanied by her husband or with relatives and friends, she went out to the merriments, social visits, and festivities of the city. She was seen by all, some praising her loveliness and her husband’s good luck for deserving her, and others envying her and resenting not having chosen her for themselves, and others loving her illicitly and unchastely, believing that with their money and gallantries they would win her over to take pleasure in her.

One of these men was don Diego, a young, rich, and free in a libertine’s way, gentleman who, at the expense of his ample estate, had not only won himself the name and position of a gentleman, but never missed a chance to catch the most lovely herons in flight, even those that were soaring, as they flew about the city.

This man, recognizing such a dangerous opportunity, was astounded, and from being astounded fell in love, and must have done so in truth, at least for the moment (for there are men who fall in love in jest), since he displayed and gave people to know of his love with such insane desperation, in his continuous presence on her street, in churches, and in every place where he could follow her. He loved, in fact, without thinking, for he considered not at all the loss of honor to Inés in which such public gallantries would result. The innocent lady paid no attention to them; for one thing, because she thought that with her reserved behavior she could overcome any lascivious desire of anyone who saw her, and on the other, because on her street there lived individuals who were not only lovely, but most lovely, to whom she imagined don Diego’s attentions were directed. She loved only her husband, and with this carelessness she neither hid herself from view if she were on the balcony, nor did she fail to listen to the music and other attentions of don Diego, believing that they were meant for one of two ladies who lived below her house, young and beautiful women, but who lived freely.

Don Diego could sing and he had other talents, fostered by the idleness of young, rich men without parents who control them; and when the opportunity presented itself, he displayed them on doña Inés’s street. And she and her maids, and even her husband, would go out to hear them, as I have said, believing that they were meant for another person, for, had they imagined anything else, surely she would not have let herself be seen. In the end, in this good faith they all made a show of don Diego’s foolishness, who, wary, when doña Inés’s husband or his servants saw him, gave them to understand the same thing they thought was going on. And with this careless carefulness he sang this ballad* one night, seated at the door of the said ladies.

Like the mother who is missing

her young and beloved child,

so am I when I see you not,

most sweet lord of mine.

My eyes, in your absence,

are two swift rivers,

and my thoughts, without you,

a confused labyrinth.

Where are you, that I see you not,

tokens* of love that I esteem in my soul?

What east takes pleasure in those rays

or what fortunate Indians?

If in the arms of Aurora

the sun is happy and rich,

say: given that you are an aurora,

how is it you are not in mine?

You rise and you set without me,

I represent myself as a sad sunset,

I appear to be melancholy Norway,

a torment in which I die and live.

To love you is not blameworthy, no;

to adore you is not a pleasure;

if love gilds errors,

how gilded are mine!

May I not live if spite

over having loved you

has arrived at the loving frame

of my soul’s door.

Now that you hear me not,

my love speaks daringly,

and when I see you, I am silenced,

unable to tell you of my love.

I would that your eyes

knew from mine

what the tongue does not say,

for it lacks the spirit to speak.

And after you hide away,

I torment my senses

for having been so silent,

saying how much I esteem you.

But so that you not be unaware of it,

I eternalize myself as always yours;

my love will endure for centuries

since I was born to be yours.

Doña Inés and her husband praised the ballad because, since she did not understand that she was the cause of don Diego’s well-sung and wept over anguish, she did not feel offended, for had she so imagined, of course she would not have consented to it. Well, when the ill- requited gentleman saw himself worse off every day and realized that his pretension had not taken one step forward, he walked around confused and sad, not knowing how to reveal himself to the lady, fearing a harsh and cruel response from her indignation. Well, as I say, a woman was walking around who lived on the same street in a room in front of the lady’s house, a bit down the street, noticed don Diego’s suit with greater feeling than doña Inés, and then she discovered the situation and one day when she saw him pass, she called to him and, with affectionate talk, managed to have him reveal the cause of his sleepless nights.

At first don Diego denied his love, because he did not trust the woman, but she, because she was crafty—and it was probably not the first crafty thing she had done—she told him that he should not deny it to her. She said that she was moderately familiar with his anguish, and that if anyone in the world could fi nd him a remedy, she was the one, because her lady doña Inés showed her much favor, allowing her to enter her house and sharing all her most hidden secrets with her, because she had known her since before she was married, when she was in her brother’s house. Finally she painted it all so well and with such fi ne colors that don Diego almost wondered if she had been sent by the lady, who had noticed his amorous suit. And with this insane thought, the few times that this crafty torturer mulled it over, he openly confessed all of his desire, asking the woman to tell the lady of his love, offering her, were he to be admitted, great benefits. And to entice her even more, removing a chain that he was wearing, he gave it to her. He was rich and he desired to attain his objective, and so he stopped at nothing.

She accepted the chain and told him not to worry, and that he should not stay close by, for she would notify him when something had been negotiated, that she didn’t want anyone to see her talk to doña Inés to avoid their falling under suspicion.

Once don Diego had left, and the evil woman was very happy, she went to the house of some ladies of the night whom she knew and, selecting one from among them, the most lovely, and who in body and deportment was like doña Inés, took her to her house, explaining to her the deceit she wanted to carry out, and hiding her where she was seen by no one, she went into doña Inés’s house, saying to the servants that they should tell their lady that the neighbor woman from across the street wanted to speak to her. Hearing that, doña Inés told her servant to let her in.

And this woman, with the harangue and garrulousness necessary, of which she had no lack at all, after having kissed doña Inés’s hand, begged her to show her the mercy of loaning her the dress she was wearing for two days, and that she keep the chain as surety against its return (which was the same one that don Diego had given her), because her niece was getting married and needed a dress for the occasion. And she was not off the mark in asking for the one she was wearing, because, since it was the one doña Inés normally wore, which was of brown damask, don Diego could be carried away by her trick.

Doña Inés was affable, and since she knew the woman as a neighbor on her street, she responded that that dress was crumpled from constant wearing, and she would give her a better one.

“No, my lady,” said the deceitful woman, “this one suffices, for I do not wish it to be overly costly, for it would seem (which is true) that it is not hers, and poor people also have a reputation. And I want the guests at the wedding to think it is hers, and not borrowed.”

Doña Inés laughed, praising the woman’s thinking, and ordering that another one be brought, put it on, removing that one and giving it over to the woman, who took it most happily, leaving the chain as security, which doña Inés took as assurance, since she hardly knew the woman who was borrowing it, who left with it happier than one carrying a treasure. With this, she waited until don Diego came, who was not neglectful at all, and she, with a happy face, received him saying:

“This is what it means to know how to cut a deal, foolish little man. Were it not for me, you would have spent your entire life dumbfounded for nothing. I already spoke to your lady, and I leave her softer than a skein of weak silk. And so you see what you owe me and what you are obliged to do for me; tonight, at the hour of prayer, wait at the door of your house, for she and I will come to pay you a visit, for that is when her husband goes to gamble at a casino where he stays until ten o’clock. But she says that, given the decorum of a woman of her status and marriage, she does not want to be seen; that there be no servants, nor lights, but rather all very removed, or that there will be nothing. But I, who am very apprehensive at heart, will die if I am in the dark, and so you may provide a small lantern that gives light, and stand away from it during the time you would speak with her.”

She was doing all this so don Diego would recognize the dress and not the face, and be deceived. But the young enamored man was losing his mind, embracing the lying, deceitful go- between, offering her once more a sum of money, giving her all that he had with him. Finally, he went to await his good fortune, and she, once he had gone, clothed the young woman she had prepared in the dress of the hapless doña Inés, styling her hair and arranging her in the fashion of the lady. And she made her up such that, when seen in the dark, she looked exactly like doña Inés, very happy that the idea had come out so well that she herself, knowing the truth, was deceived.

A bit before nightfall they went to don Diego’s house, who was awaiting them at the door, the seconds seeming centuries to him. And he, upon seeing her and recognizing the dress, because he had seen doña Inés wearing it normally, since she was the same height as Inés and came as Inés and came tapada, her face hidden under a mantilla, and night was well upon them, he took the woman for Inés. And, crazy with delight, he received them and went into a low room, where there was no more light than that of a lantern in the antechamber, and from that room to an alcove that was in it; nothing more passed than the light that came through the door. The vile go-between stayed in the room outside, and don Diego, taking his pretend doña Inés by the hand, went to sit on a damask- covered bed that was in the alcove. A long time passed in which don Diego made much of his fortune in having deserved such favor, and the pretend doña Inés, well instructed in what to do, upon replying to him in that regard, extolled his having come and overcome the inconveniences of her honor, husband, and household, along with other things that were more pleasing to them, and there don Diego, completely blind to the trick, arrived at the height of her favors, whose desire and achievement had cost him so much sleep, after which he was much more enamored of doña Inés than before.

The woman who was pretending to be doña Inés was clever, and she played her part so well that she led don Diego to feel even more obliged, and so, loading her with valuable jewels, and the go- between with money, seeing that the time was right to continue with their invention, they took their leave, with the gallant man begging his beloved to see him soon, and she promising him that, without leaving his house, he wait for her every night from the hour agreed upon until ten o’clock, for were there a chance to get away, she would not miss it. He was left in the highest pleasure, and the women returned home happy and having taken full advantage of the reputation of the innocent and unaware doña Inés. In this way they visited him several times during the two weeks they had the dress, for with all that they knew, whether because God willed that a case such as this one be made known, or whether they feared that don Diego would realize in time that the woman he was enjoying was not really doña Inés, they did not take the precaution of making another dress like the one they were using as a disguise. And seeing that it was time to return it to its owner, the last night they saw don Diego they led him to believe that her husband had begun to retire early and that it was necessary to not see each other for a while because they believed that he was a bit suspicious and it was important to reassure him, but when the opportunity to see don Diego arose, they would not miss it.

They took their leave, leaving don Diego as sad as he was happy when he saw them the fi rst time. With this, the dress was returned to doña Inés, and the pretend lady and the go- between split the profi ts, very contented with the trick.

Don Diego, sad indeed, strolled* doña Inés’s street, and many times when he saw her, although he noticed the lady’s complete lack of attention to him, he took it as modesty and suffered his passion without daring to do anything but gaze upon her. Other times he spoke with the go-between who had been that of his glory, and she sometimes would say that he had no chance, since her husband was suspicious. Other times, she would say that the go- between would seek out the opportunity to see Inés.

Until one day, seeing that don Diego insisted and was asking her to take a letter to doña Inés, she told him not to bother because the lady, either out of fear of her husband or because she had repented of what she had done, did not allow her to speak to her about these things, and even went further by denying her entrance to her house, ordering the servants not to let her in. In this one can see how badly a lie is disguised as the truth, and if it happens it is but for a brief time.

With all this, the sad don Diego was such that it was a miracle he did not lose his mind, and in the midst of his anguish, to see if he could find some relief from it, he decided to talk to doña Inés and know from her herself the cause of this lack of love and sudden change. And so he spent day and night on her street until he had the opportunity to do so. One day when he saw her going to Mass without her husband (a great novelty because he always accompanied her), Diego followed her to the church and, kneeling next to her, said to her in as low a voice as possible, although with great excitement:

“Is it possible, my lady, that your love was so short-lived and my merits so small that scarcely was it born that it died? How can it be that my hospitality was of such little worth, and your will so changeable, that even though well received by my affections, it has not taken root to even keep in your memory how many times you called yourself mine and I offered myself as your slave? If women of standing repay favors this way, what can one expect from common women? If perchance this disdain is born of my having served and regaled you insufficiently, you are to blame, for the one who paid you small homage would have made you lord of much, had you not removed yourself so cruelly that even when I look at you, you do not deign to favor me with your lovely eyes, as if when I had you in my arms you did not swear a thousand times by them that you would not forget me.”

Doña Inés looked at him, astonished at what he was saying, and said:

“What are you saying, sir? Are you delirious, or do you think I am someone else? When was I in your arms, or did I swear not to forget you, or did I receive your hospitality or you show me affection? Because I cannot forget that which I do not ever remember, nor can I love nor abhor that which I never loved.”

“What? How is it,” replied don Diego, “that you still wish to deny that you have ever seen me or spoken to me? Say that you repent having gone to my house and do not deny it, because the dress you are wearing cannot deny it, for it was the same one you wore, nor will so-and-so deny it, your neighbor across the street, who went with you.”

Doña Inés was prudent and discreet, and when she heard about the dress and the woman, although distressed and half dead over such a serious affair, she realized what could have happened, and turning to don Diego, said to him:

“How long ago has it been since what you are talking about happened?”

“A little more than a month ago,” he replied.

With which doña Inés completely realized that the time her dress was loaned to the woman she had been deceived in some way. And to better determine what had happened she said:

“Now, sir, is not the time to speak any more about this. My husband has to leave for Seville tomorrow to collect some funds that have arrived from the Indies, so in the afternoon be on my street, where I will have you called, and we will speak at length about this you have told me. And say nothing about this to that woman, for it is very important to keep it from her.”

With this don Diego departed, as pleased for having negotiated so well as doña Inés was left sad and confused. Finally, her husband left the next day, as she said, and immediately doña Inés had the royal governor called or. And when he arrived, she put him in a place where he could hear what went on, telling him that it was in the interest of her honor that he be witness and judge of a very serious affair. And calling don Diego, who had not forgotten about it, she reasoned with him thus:

“Certainly, sir don Diego, you left me yesterday so confused that had God not permitted that my husband go away at this moment—at which I must ascertain the truth and remove you from your mistaken ideas and the error in which you are—I believe I would have gone insane or I would have killed myself. And thus I beseech you to tell me completely and slowly what you said to me yesterday in church.”

Don Diego was astounded at what she was saying and told her everything that had happened with that woman, the times she had been in his house, the words she had told him, the jewels he had given her. To which doña Inés, amazed, answered him and recounted how during that time her dress had been in the power of that woman and how she had left a chain in surety, with her maids avowing the truth of what she said, and how she had never left her house, nor had her husband ever gone to a casino, but rather retired at day’s end. And that she neither knew such a woman except only to see her at the door of her house, nor had she spoken with her, nor gone into any place with her in her life. With which don Diego was left wide-eyed, like one who has seen visions, and ashamed at the joke played on him, and even more enamored of doña Inés than before.

At this the royal governor emerged, and they went together to the go-between’s house, who confessed the truth about everything immediately, handing over some of the jewels and the chain that had been her portion of the profits, which were returned to don Diego. The go-between won two hundred lashes for the trick as a defamer of women of class and honor, and was also exiled from the city for six years, the case not being made public to protect the reputation of doña Inés, with which the lady was somewhat satisfied. Don Diego was more lost than before, returning once again to his pretensions, strolling Inés’s street, and [playing] music, and with more confidence, for it seemed to him that now there was less work to do; since the lady knew of his love, he was not hopeless about the conquest, for he had accomplished most of it. And what probably encouraged him was not believing that it had not been doña Inés whom he had enjoyed, for although the truth was ascertained by the most veracious witnesses and the very go-between confessed it, all in all he must have understood that it had been a fraud and that, because doña Inés was sorry about what she had done, she had denied it, and the woman, out of fear, had taken the punishment.

With this idea he courted her even more daringly, following her if she went out, speaking to her if he had the opportunity. With which doña Inés, disgusted, neither left the house nor even went to Mass, nor let herself be seen by the daring young man, who, because her husband was away, took more liberties than necessary, so that the pursued lady did not even consent to opening the door to keep his insolence from entering her house. But finally desperate and resolved to avenge herself for this sonnet that he sang one night on her street, what will be told below took place:

Beloved lord, if in my soul

some part has remained free,

today once again I prostrate it to your dominion,

surrendered to your beauty and your charm.

Fortunate am I, from that sweet day

on which I was honored with so many favors,

instants I find, to my eyes, are the hours

during which I enjoyed your company.

Oh, if the pretending of the enchantments

were true, enchantments that, early in our relationship,

gave such force to the deceits,

already my intentions would be realized

were I but able to deserve from the gods

the enchantment to enjoy you long years.

Doña Inés was so annoyed that don Diego was not yet convinced of the trick the deceitful woman had played on him, to the detriment of her honor, that she immediately ordered a maidservant sent to him to say that since his daring behavior had passed to the level of shamelessness, that he go with God, without walking about being scandalous nor acting insane in public, and promised him, by who she was, to have him killed.

The ill-advised youth was so sorry at this that, desperate with mortal nausea, he went home where he spent many days in bed with a dangerous illness, accompanied by such a cruel attack of melancholy that it seemed his life would end. And seeing himself dying of grief, having heard it said that there was a Moor1 in the city, a great enchanter and necromancer, he had him found and brought to him, to oblige doña Inés to love him by means of magic spells and witchcraft.

Once the Moor was found and brought, he enclosed himself with him, explaining his amorous suit that was as unfortunate as it was daring, asking him for a remedy for her lack of response and the disdain with which he was treated by his lady, who was as lovely as she was ungrateful. The Muslim necromancer promised that within three days he would give him what was necessary for the very same lady to come under his power, as he did; for since they are alien to our Catholic faith, it is not difficult for them, with writs that they arrange with the devil, even in things of greater import.

So that once the three days had passed, he came to him bearing an image of the very body and face of doña Inés, which by means of his arts he had copied from her realistically, as if he had had her present before him. At the top of the figure’s hair was a candle, of the size and proportion of a quarter pound of green wax. Doña Inés’s figure was naked, with her hands placed over her heart, which was showing, stuck through by a large golden needle, like an arrow, because in the place of a head it had a sort of feather of the same metal, and it looked as if the lady wished to remove it with her hands, which were reaching for it.

The Moor told him that when he was alone he should place that figure on a desk and light the candle that was on the figure’s head and that without fail the lady would come immediately and that she would stay the length of time he wanted, as long as he did not tell her to leave. And when he sent her away, he was not to blow out the candle, for when the lady reached her own house it would extinguish itself; for if he were to put it out before it did so, the lady’s life would be at risk. And likewise he was not to be afraid that the candle would burn up, though it were to burn an entire year, because it was made by means of such an art that it would last for eternity, as long as on the night of the Baptist no one threw it into a fire that was burning well.

For don Diego, although not altogether convinced that what the Moor was assuring him would be true, was delighted if not for the hopes he had, then to see his natural enemy in the candle’s figure with such perfection and lifelike colors that, had it not been the eighteen inches tall that it was and were it the height of a woman, I believe that he would have forgotten the original doña Inés, in imitation of the one man who fell in love with a painting and another, with a tree.

He paid the Moor handsomely for his work and, having taken leave of him, waited for the night as if awaiting his very life, and the whole time that Inés’s arrival was pending, while people were retiring, as was his widowed sister who lived in his house and attended to him, seemed to him an eternity: such was the desire he had to test the spell.

Well, once people had retired into their houses, he got undressed to go to bed and, leaving the door into the room only drawn shut, as the Moor had advised him, because the doors to the street were never locked as there were other residents in the building, he lit the candle and, placing it on the desk, went to bed, contemplating the beauty of the lovely portrait it illuminated. As soon as the candle began to burn, the unaware doña Inés, who was already abed and her household retired, because her husband had not yet returned from Seville, since some lawsuits against his funds had been fi led, deprived of her judgment by the force of the spell and of the candle that was burning, and in the end, forced by some diabolic spirit that governed the whole thing, arose from her bed, and putting on some shoes that she had at the bedside and a petticoat that was draped over a stool with her clothes, she took the key that she kept at the head of her bed and, going out, opened the door to her room and drew it closed as she left, and turning the key incompletely. She went out onto the street and into don Diego’s house, for although she did not know who was guiding her, she knew enough to take the key with her, and since she found the door open, she entered in and, without saying a word nor looking at anything, got into the bed where don Diego was, who, upon seeing such a wondrous thing, was beside himself. But getting up and closing the door, he returned to the bed saying:

“When, lovely lady of mine, did I deserve such favor? Now I declare all my pains to have been worthwhile. Tell me, for God’s sake, if I am asleep and am dreaming this wonder, or if I am so fortunate that, awake in control of my senses, I have you in my arms!”

To this and many other things that don Diego said to her, doña Inés responded not a word, with which, when her lover somewhat sorrowfully realized that it seemed to him that doña Inés was out of her senses with the damned spell and that she had no power of speech, he took those things, although they were favors, as dead ones, clearly recognizing that were the lady in possession of her senses, she would not have granted them, which was the truth, and that she would sooner pass through the door of death.

He thus took full enjoyment of the time and the opportunity, remitting his words to deeds; he had her like this for most of the night, until seeing that it was time, he arose and, opening the door, said to her:

“My lady, it is already time for you to leave.”

And when he said this, the lady got up and, putting on her petticoat and shoes, without saying a word to him, went out the door and returned home. And when she arrived there she opened the door, and closing it behind her, without having been heard by anyone, either because they were overcome by sleep or because everyone was under the power of the spell, she got into her bed. And as soon as she was in it, the candle that was burning in don Diego’s house went out as if someone had blown it out, leaving don Diego so much more astounded that he was constantly crossing himself, although he did it many times, and if the unpleasantness of seeing that the entire business was violent had not tempered his feeling, he would have gone insane with joy. Let him remain there thus as long as that lasts, and let us away to doña Inés, who felt, when she was in her bed and the candle went out, upon recovering her lost senses, as if she were awakening from a deep sleep. But upon remembering what had transpired, she believed that everything that had happened to her had been while sleeping; quite afflicted over such brazen dreams, she reprehended herself saying:

“What is this, wretched me? For when have I let my imagination run so wild that it represents things so unlike me, or what illicit thoughts have I had with this man so that from them have arisen such enormous and immodest effects? Woe is me! What is this, or what means do I have to forget such things?”

With this, crying and greatly disconsolate, she spent the night and day, and in the afternoon she went to a balcony to distract her entangled memory, at the time when don Diego, still disbelieving of what had happened, passed along her street to see if he would see her. And this was the moment when, as I said, she was at the window, and when the gallant saw her ashen color and sadness, realizing the reason for this problem, he was persuaded to believe what had happened. But doña Inés, the moment she saw him, moving herself away from the window, closed it in a rage, in which don Diego recognized that doña Inés had gone home deprived of all her senses, and that her sadness derived perhaps, as with dreams, from the fact that she remembered what had happened with him. Even so, seeing the rancor with which she had closed the window, one could believe that he said to her:

“Go ahead and close up, lady, for when night falls I will oblige you to seek me out.”

Thus don Diego spent more than one month, bringing his lady to his house whatever night pleased him, with which the poor woman was so sad and almost astonished to see that she could not rid herself of such brazen dreams, for that is what she believed they were, not even by commending herself, as she did, to God, nor by consulting her confessor, who consoled her as much as he could. And she wanted her husband to return to see if with him she could remedy her sadness, and when she was determined to either send for him or persuade him to let her go to him, what you will now hear befell her.

And it was that one night which, being one of the hot nights of summer, very serene and agreeable with a beautiful, clear moon, don Diego lit his enchanted candle. And doña Inés, who was already abed, for it was late, although she was holding off from falling asleep so as not to surrender to what she thought were malignant dreams, which was nothing but the pure truth, weary of staying awake, fell asleep. And when the spell was working in her, she awoke terrified and arose, going to find her petticoat, and not finding it, since the maids had taken her clothes to wash them, in her nightgown as she was, she went out onto the street. And as she was going to don Diego’s house, there arrived with the royal governor, who was walking his rounds with all his officials and with him don Francisco, her brother, who, having run into him, was pleased to join him because they were friends. And as soon as they saw that woman in her nightclothes, walking at such a rapid pace, they called to her to stop, but she remained silent and continued walking with all diligence, as someone drawn along by a malignant spirit, so much so that she obliged them to hasten their pace to manage to catch up with her. But when they did so was when doña Inés was already in don Diego’s room, and as some and then others came in, she went to the bed in which don Diego was, and they went to the figure that was on the table with the candle lit on its head. And when don Diego saw the disaster and misfortune, fearful lest they snuff out the candle and doña Inés run the same risk, he leapt from the bed and screamed at them not to put the candle out, because that woman would die, and turning to her said:

“Go with God, madam, for this spell has come to its end, and you and I to punishment for our offense. I am sorry for you, for you will suffer innocent.”

And he said this because he had seen her brother next to the royal governor. When he said this, doña Inés arose, and as she had come, she went out again, with everyone having recognized her as she left, and also her brother, so that all of the royal governor’s authority and presence was necessary to keep him from taking just revenge on her and don Diego.

The royal governor ordered that half of his officials go with doña Inés and see what came of her bewitchment and not leave her until he ordered otherwise, but instead have one of them come to tell him everything that happened. And seeing that shortly thereafter the candle suddenly went out, he said to the unfortunate don Diego:

“Ah, sir, you should have learned from the last trick not to get yourself into such a costly situation!”

With this they awaited the news of those who had gone with doña Inés, who, as soon as she arrived at her house and opened the door, which was only drawn closed, and went in with everyone with her, closed it behind her and went to her bed and got in it. And since at this moment the candle went out, she awoke from the bewitchment and, screaming loudly when she saw that she was surrounded by those men, whom she recognized as ministers of justice, asked them what they were looking for in her house, or where they had gotten in, since she had the key.

“Oh, unfortunate lady,” said one of them, “and it must be that you were senseless, since you ask that!”

At this, and with doña Inés’s scream, the maids had come in, all upset, as much from having heard their lady yell as from seeing so many people there. Then the one who had begun proceeded, and told doña Inés all that had happened since they had found her until that moment, and how her brother had been there for it all, which, being heard by the sad and grieved lady, it was a miracle she did not lose her life. Finally, so that she not despair, judging by the things she was saying and the beautiful tears she was shedding, pulling her hair out in clumps, they sent to advise the royal governor of it all, telling him to give whatever orders were appropriate. He, having taken don Diego’s confession and Diego having told the truth in the matter, declared how doña Inés was innocent, since, as they had seen, she had come deprived of her understanding and senses under the power of the spell, with which her brother appeared to control his wrath, although thoughts quite otherwise remained with him.

With this the royal governor ordered that don Diego be put in jail as a precaution and, taking the enchanted figure, went to doña Inés’s house, where they found her in the anguish described, with neither her maids nor anyone else able to console her, for had she been alone she would have killed herself. By then she was dressed and had thrown herself on such a state, falling into one faint after another, one anguish after another, and when she saw the royal governor and her brother, she threw herself at his feet begging him to kill her, since she had been evil, for although without realizing it, she had stained his honor. Don Francisco, appearing to be merciful, although within he was exuding poison and cruelty, raised her up and embraced her, which everyone thought nobly done, and the royal governor said to her:

“Rest assured, madam, for your offense does not deserve the penalty for which you ask, since it is not one, given that you had nothing to do with it.”

When the unlucky lady had calmed down a bit, the royal governor ordered that his assistants go out and light the candle without her knowing it. And scarcely was it done when she arose and went to where the burning candle was, and upon being told that it was time for her to leave, she returned to her place and the candle went out and she came to herself as if wakening from a dream. They did this many times, moving the candle to different places, until they returned with it to don Diego’s house and lit it there, immediately after which doña Inés went there from wherever she was, and although they spoke to her, she did not respond.

With which, the case being ascertained, reassuring her and continuing to placate her brother, who was more out of his mind than she but pretended otherwise for the time being, and instead it was him who most forgave her, the royal governor left her with two guards, more for protection than as imprisonment, since she did not deserve the latter; each one went home, amazed at what had happened. Don Francisco went to his house, crazy with grief, telling his wife what was going on; and she, after all a sister- in-law, said that doña Inés was probably pretending to be bewitched in order to avoid blame. Her husband, who had thought the same thing, agreed with her, and right there he sent a servant to Seville with a letter for his brother-in-law, telling him to drop all his business and come immediately for a matter of import regarding their common honor, and that he do this so secretly that no one know of his arrival, not even at his house, until he had seen him.

The next day, the royal governor went to find the Moor who had cast the spell, but he never appeared. News of the case spread through the city, and once the Inquisition found out about it, it demanded the prisoner, who was handed over with the evidence substantiated and put in order, for once he was carried off to the jail of the Holy Office, and from there to the Suprema, he was never seen again. And they showed not a little mercy by punishing him in secret, since in the end he would have died at the hands of Inés’s husband and brother, given that the crime he had committed deserved nothing less.

The message arrived in Seville and was delivered to don Alonso who, upon seeing what he was asked to do, quite confused and fearful that the problem was doña Inés’s weakness, set off, and after long travels arrived at his brother- in-law’s house so secretly that no one knew of his arrival. And once he knew about how the entire thing had come about, the three of them had different ideas about what kind of death they would exact from the innocent and hapless doña Inés, who even had she been willfully guilty, the agony she felt for her crime would have sufficed, even more so since she had not committed it, as was proven. And the one whose cruelty strikes me the most is the traitorous sister- in-law, who, at least as a woman, could have shown her more mercy.

The method being finally agreed upon, don Alonso, hiding his injurious intention, went home, and with caresses and praises assured her, doing so such that the saddened doña Inés, quieter now upon seeing that her husband had believed the truth and was assured of her innocence—for to have hidden it from him was impossible given how public the case was—recovered from her loss. And although, ashamed of her misfortune, she barely dared to look at him, her distress and tears were lessened. Some days passed in this fashion when one day, very affably, the wary husband said to her that her brother and he were decided and resolved to go to live with their households and families in Seville, for one thing to get away from the eyes of those who had found out about that misfortune, who pointed them out in public, and for another to be present for his lawsuits, which had become bogged down. To which doña Inés said that she had no other pleasure than his. And once the decision had been carried out, selling all the possessions and estate they had there, like people who planned never to return to the city, they left quite happily and doña Inés the happiest of all, because she was living with the affront of such a scandalous event.

Once they arrived in Seville they took a house that was convenient, with no neighbors except each other, and then they dismissed all the servants they had brought, so as to commit without witnesses the cruelty I am about to relate.

In a room, the most remote of the entire house, in which, even if they had servants, no one would have the means nor occasion to go in it, in the space of the chimney that was there, or made by them because for this there were no other laborers than the brother, husband, and sister-in-law, having brought plaster and rubble and other things they needed, they put the poor and hapless doña Inés in it, leaving her no more space than that sufficient to stand up in, because if she wanted to sit down, she could not, except, as the common people say, squatting. And they walled it up, leaving her only a very small window as big as half a sheet of paper, through which she could breathe and they could give her miserable food, so that she might not die quickly, unmoved by her tears or protests. Having done this, they closed up the room, and the evil and cruel sister- in-law had the key, and she herself would go to give food and a jar of water to her, so that although afterward they hired male and female servants, no one knew the secret of that closed-up room.

Doña Inés spent six years here, for the divine majesty permitted the conservation of her life in so much torment either to punish those who punished her, or for her own merit, enduring what one can imagine, since I have described the manner in which she was, and that the squalor and filth that her body exuded served her as a bed and dais for her feet, always crying and asking God to lighten such a pitiful martyrdom, without ever seeing the light throughout all of those years, nor reclining her sorrowful body, away and removed from people, tyrannically denied the divine sacraments and kept from hearing Mass. She suffered more than those martyred by the tyrants, with not one of her three executioners taking pity on her, nor did they feel sorry for her; rather the traitorous sister- in-law spit a thousand insults and affronts at her every time she brought her food, until Our Lord, weary of enduring such crimes, allowed this miserable woman to be removed from such a lamentable life, if only so that she not die of desperation, as to die of desperation and commit suicide were all one and the same, and mortal sin.

And it so happened that next to this house in which she was, there was another important house that belonged to a gentleman of great rank. The wife of this gentleman I mention had had a maid whose marriage she had arranged years before, who was widowed, and since she was needy, the lady, out of charity and since the woman had served her, so that in her poverty she would not have to pay for housing, gave her two rooms that shared a wall with the confinement in which the afflicted doña Inés was, which had never been inhabited by anyone because they had served for nothing but to store barley. When the good widow had moved into them, she arranged her bed in this part of which I speak, where doña Inés was, of whom, because she was always lamenting her misfortune and calling to God to help her, the other woman, who was in her bed, since in the calm of the night everything was quiet, heard the “Ohs” and sighs, and at the beginning likely thought it was some soul from beyond the grave. And she was so afraid, since she was alone, that she scarcely dared to stay there; so much so that she was obliged to ask a sister of hers to give her, to be with her, a young girl about ten years old, her sister’s daughter, in whose company she stayed there with more courage.

And when she paid more attention, and saw that between doña Inés’s moaning were calls to God and the Virgin Mary, Our Lady, she decided that it must be someone ill, suffering pain that obliged her to complain in that fashion. And one night when she was more attentive, with her ear to the wall, she could ascertain that the person on the other side was speaking thus:

“How long, powerful and merciful God, must this life of sorrows endure? When, Lord, will you permit angry death to deliver me the blow of its cruel scythe, and how long will the power of my cruel and bloodthirsty executioners of my innocence endure? How is it, Lord, that you permit them to usurp your justice, punishing with their cruelty that which you, Lord, will not punish? For when you send punishment, it is to the guilty and even then it is with mercy; but these tyrants punish in me that which I did not do, as you well know, for I had no part in the error for which I am suffering such cruel torments, and the greatest of them all, and the one I most regret, is not being able to live and die as a Christian, for it has been so long since I have heard Mass or confessed my sins, or received your most holy body. In what land of Moors could I be held captive where they would treat me as I am being treated? Alas for me! for I desire to be removed from here not to live but rather to die as a Catholic and a Christian, for life is so abhorrent to me that the pitiful sustenance they give me is not to live but not to die in desperation.”

She finished this reasoning with such grievous weeping that the woman listening to her, moved to compassion, raised her voice to be heard and said to her:

“Woman, or whoever you are, what is the matter or whence these pained laments? Tell me, in God’s name, and if I am able to remove you from where you are, I will do so, even if it would venture and risk my life.”

“Who are you,” replied doña Inés, “whom God has permitted to feel sorry for me?”

“I,” replied the other woman, “am a neighbor on this other side, who has lived here but a short time, and during this short time you have greatly frightened me, as much as you now move me to pity. And so tell me what I can do, and hide nothing from me, for I will not refuse any act to get you out of what you are suffering.”

“Given that it is the case, my lady,” replied doña Inés, “that you are not on the side of my cruel executioners, I can tell you nothing more for now, for I fear they might be listening, except that I am a miserable and unfortunate woman whom the cruelty of a brother, husband, and sister- in-law has put in such misfortune that I have no place to be able to extend my wretched body. So narrow is the space in which I am that, unless I am standing or badly seated, there is no way to rest without other pains and misfortunes I am suffering, for were there nothing worse than the darkness in which I am cast, that would suffice, and this has lasted for not one day nor two, because although here I know not when it is day or night, nor Sunday nor Saturday, nor Easter, nor what year, I know well that it has been an eternity. And were I suffering this out of guilt, I would be consoled. But God knows that I am not guilty, and what I fear is not death, which I in fact desire. To lose my soul is my greatest fear, because many times the idea has come to me to make a noose with my own hands to end it all, but then I realize it is the devil, and I beg help from God to be free of him.”

“What did you do that made them do this to you?” said the woman.

“As I have told you,” said doña Inés, “I am not guilty. But these are long stories and cannot be told. Now what you must do, if you wish to do a good deed on my behalf, is go to the archbishop or the royal governor and tell him what I have told you, and ask them to get me out of here before I die, even if only to accomplish the work of a Christian, for I assure you that my wretched body is in such a condition that I do not think I will live long, and I ask you in the name of God to go now, for it matters much to my soul.”

“Now it is night,” said the woman. “Be patient and offer your suffering up to God, for I promise you that as soon as it is day I will do what you ask.”

“May God repay you,” replied doña Inés, “as will I, and rest now, for I will contrive to do the same, with the hopes you have given to be my consolation.”

“After God, believe it so,” responded the good woman.

And with this they fell silent. When morning came, the widow went down to her lady and told her everything that had happened, which astounded and pained the lady, and although she wanted to wait until night to speak to doña Inés herself, out of fear of the harm that would arise should that poor woman die as she was, she did not postpone it, but instead ordered that her carriage be brought.

And so that the case might acquire greater import with her presence, she went with the widow to the archbishop, relating to him everything that has been told here, and he, astounded, advised the royal governor of all that has been told in this part, and together with all their ministers, both secular and ecclesiastic, they went to the house of don Francisco and don Alonso.

And surrounding it on all sides so that they might not escape, they went in and arrested the two said men and don Francisco’s wife, without sparing the servants, and when their confessions were taken, the latter were unable to say anything because they knew nothing about any of it, but the traitorous brother and husband and the cruel sister-in-law denied it at first, but when they realized it was useless, because the archbishop and royal governor were well informed, they confessed the truth. The sister- in-law presented the key, and they went up to where the hapless doña Inés was, who, when she heard a large group of people coming, imagined what it must be, and began to call out. Finally, knocking down the wall, they got her out.

Pity now comes into play, for when they closed her in there she was no older than twenty- four, and with the six she had been there, was thirty, which was the flower of her life.

In the first place, although her eyes were bright, she was blind, either from the darkness (for it is a known fact that if a person goes a great amount of time without seeing light that person will go blind); either because of that or from crying, she was sightless. Her lovely hair, which had been strands of gold when she went in there, was white as snow itself, entangled and full of crawling creatures, which had reproduced so much since her hair had not been combed that her head was boiling with them. Her color was that of death, so thin and consumed that her bones stood out, as if her skin were of a thin gauze. From her eyes to her chin were two hollows carved by tears, deep enough to bury a thick cord; her clothing had turned to ashes so that most of her body was visible; her feet and legs bared, which from her body’s excrement, since she had no place else to go, had not only consumed but eaten her flesh itself down to the muscles with wounds and worms, of which the putrid place was full. There is nothing else to say except that it moved everyone to such pity that they cried as if she had been the daughter of each one there.

As soon as they had her out, she asked that, if the lord archbishop were there, they take her to him, which they did, having covered her with a cape due to the indecency created by her nakedness. Finally, they carried her in their arms to him, and she, having thrown herself to the floor, kissed his feet and requested his blessing, relating succinctly the entirety of her unfortunate story, which roused the royal governor to such indignation that he ordered all three put in jail with fetters and chains, so that they could not see each other, casting greater aspersion on the sister- in-law than on the others for having been so cruel, to which she responded saying that she was doing what her husband ordered her to do.

The lady who sounded the alarm about the situation, together with the good duenna who had discovered it, who were present for it all, breaking down the wall where doña Inés was so as not to bring her in by way of the street, carried her to their house, and the noble lady, having arranged an elegant bed, put doña Inés in it, calling doctors and surgeons to cure her, making her eat something, because such was her weakness that they feared she would die. But doña Inés refused everything until she had given her soul divine sustenance, confessing and receiving the Holy Sacrament, which was immediately brought to her.

In the end, the lady took such good care of her that she recovered; only her sight was impossible to restore. The royal governor presided over the trial of the accused and, with everything revealed, condemned all three to death, which was carried out on a scaffold since they were nobles and gentry, without their money accomplishing anything to obtain pardon, since the crime was of such magnitude. They put doña Inés, healthy and restored to her former beauty, although blind, in a convent with two serving women to attend to her care, with funds from the substantial estate of her brother and husband, where she lives today the life of a saint, with someone who saw her removed from the wall as well as afterward having affirmed that she is among the most beautiful women in the kingdom of Andalusia because, although blind, since her eyes are as bright and lovely as before, one cannot tell that she cannot see.

This entire case is as true as truth itself, for as I have said, someone who was present at the whole thing told me about it. Tell me now if it serves well to disillusion the ladies, for if this is what happens to innocent women, what can the guilty ones expect? And as regards cruelty toward unfortunate women, there can be no trusting brothers or husbands, for they are all men.

And as King Alfonso the Wise said, the heart of man is a dense forest in which no one can find a path, where cruelty, a fierce and untamable beast, has its lair and habitat.

Twenty years have passed since this event took place, and doña Inés is living today as are many of those who saw it happen and were present at the case; for God wanted to give her suffering and save her life that she not die of desperation, and that such a rabid, insane man as her brother, such a cruel basilisk as her husband, and such a harsh lioness as her sister-in-law might bring about their own punishment.

The ladies and gentlemen wanted the discreet Laura to finish her tale of undeceiving, so pained and moved by the prodigious events that had happened to doña Inés, as lovely as she was hapless, that all of them, from the hearing of it, were shedding rivers of tears from merely listening, and they did not deliberate so much the husband’s cruelty as the brother’s, since he did not seem to be a person of her own blood by permitting such a thing to happen. For even if doña Inés, out of malice, had committed the error that obliged him to carry out such punishment, she deserved no more than a quick death—as has been the way that other women who have sinned out of malice have died—and not to be given so many and such prolonged deaths as they did. And the one they blamed most was the sister-in-law, since she, as a woman, could have been more merciful, being sure, as had been proven, that she had fallen into the error she did when deprived of her senses by the demonized spell. And the first to break the silence was doña Estefanía, who said with a piteous sigh:

“Oh, my divine husband! And if you, all the times that we offend you, were to chastise us like this, what would become of us? But I am a fool for comparing you, merciful God, to the husbands of the world. I never repented of being your wife for as long as I have been, and today I do so less nor will I do so ever, for although I might offend you, at the smallest tear you will pardon me and receive me with open arms.”

And turning to the ladies, she said to them:

“Certainly, ladies, I do not know how you have the courage to surrender yourselves to an enemy under the name of husband, for not only is he offended by what you do, but by what you think, for neither doing good nor evil do you manage to please them, and perhaps they have compassion for you when you are party to some offense against them. Why do you trust them and put your faith in their hidden wickedness, for until they achieve their revenge, and it is assured, they do not rest? With only this tale of disillusion that Laura, my aunt, has told, you are left well disillusioned, and convinced by the opinion sustained at this soiree, and the gentlemen can also realize how deceived they are in blaming women for everything, accumulating upon them all transgressions, weaknesses, cruelties, and evil treatments, for they are not always guilty.

“And the fact is that, for the most part, women of privileged quality are the most disgraced and helpless, not only because of what we have seen in the misfortunes described in the tales of disillusion that have been told, but also because men include them in the opinion they have about common women. And that is a type of passion, or a theme of divine wits who write books and works for the theater, that affects all by following the opinion of the common mob, which generally blames everything bad that happens on women. For there is as much for which to blame men, and in writing about one or the other, they could have saved these ladies the work of defending women’s honor by defending them themselves, seeing that there is no one who does defend them, to work out the most obscure cases to prove that evil women are not all women, nor are all men good.”

“What is certain,” replied don Juan, “is that it truly seems that all of us have given in to the vice of not speaking well of women, just like snuffing tobacco, which illustrious people do as do the plebeians. And speaking evil of other people who snuff, they have their snuff box closer at hand and more cared for than their rosary and books of hours, as if, because it is kept in golden, silver, or glass boxes, it is any less just tobacco, and if asked why they snuff it, they say ‘Because that is what is done.’ It is the same thing to blame ladies for everything, for if one thinks about it, let someone ask the most impassioned man why he speaks badly of women, they being the most pleasant orchard of all that nature created; he will respond ‘Because that is what is done.’ ”

Everyone laughed at don Juan’s comparison of tobacco with speaking badly of women. And if one considers it well, he spoke the truth, because if the vice of tobacco is the most ordinary of all there are, he compared it well to the most abominable vice there can be, which is not esteeming, praising, and honoring ladies; the good ones for being good, and the bad ones for the sake of the good ones.

Then, when the lovely doña Isabel saw that pretty Matilde was preparing herself to occupy the seat of the one to disillusion, she signaled to the musicians to sing this ballad:

“Whenever Atandra should look at you,

do not look, ungrateful lord,

at the deceptions of her eyes,

because you kill me with jealousy.

Encourage not her familiarities,

for if she sees a frown in your eyes,

her own eyes, inconstant

will find in yours a lesson.

Do not cheapen your worth

with such common thoughts,

for it will be the reason why I

regret my devotion.

She has a lord; let her find pleasure in him;

if she is unhappy therein,

let her insanity or her good decision

remind her that she chose him.

May the tears of my eyes

oblige you not to admit

her immodest flirtations,

the torments of my soul.

For if I attempt to endure

the anguish that I bear,

if it is possible for my valor

it is not so for my suffering.

What good, Salicio, do the

sufferings bring me with which

I remain awake for long nights

and for days without repose,

if you are pleased to kill me,

giving the prize to that tyrant

who costs me such grief,

who costs me so much sleep?

Today, upon leaving your lodgings,

the tyrant of my favors

showed with her smiling face

how very happy she is to have them.

If you saw that they are mine,

you would not give them to her so quickly;

you committed fraud of property

because you sold what is not yours.

Were she to find you sharp,

were she to see that you are severe,

she would not offer you, too boldly,

the signs at which I take offense from you.”

A married woman sang this

alone with her instrument,

seeing in Salicio and Atandra,

her jealousy confirmed.

-------

1: Zayas writes “agareno,” for which there is no adjective in English. Covarrubias, whose 1611 dictionary was published simultaneously with the 1609–expulsion of the moriscos from Castile, cross-references agareno to sarracenos (Saracens), saying that Moors are called this “because they claim to descend from Sarah, wife of the patriarch Abraham; what is surer is that they are descendants of her servant Agar... Joseph Scaliger... says that there are two principal names among the Arabs: ‘agarenos’ and Saracens; the agarenos take the name of Agar, mother of Ishmael, from whom they descend; Saracens are called in Arabic essarak, which means robbers or high[1]waymen; these are nomads, with no fixed residence.” In the supplement he left in manuscript at his death, he added the entry “Agar. It comes from the verb... which means to travel to a foreign country, and from which the name Agar was formed, according to Father Fray Pedro de Palencia. The Agarenos take their name from this, or from Agara, a town of Arabia.”

The night of Saint John, 23 June, is the summer solstice, when fires were (and are) lit, which presumably have magic powers.