Pablo de Segovia, the Spanish Sharper by Francisco de Quevedo (e book reading free TXT) 📕

for it, because there is scarce a scoundrel now but usurps it.” Though the poor gentleman’s misfortunes were intermixed with something that was comical, I could not but pity him, asked his name, whither he was going, and what to do? He answered with all his father’s names, Don Toribio Rodriguez Vallejo Gomez de Ampuero y Jordan. Never did I hear such an empty sounding jingling name, or so like the clattering of a bell, as beginning in “Don” and ending in “dan.” He added, he was going to Madrid, because a threadbare elder brother, as he was, soon grew tainted and mouldy in a country town, and had no way to subsist; and therefore he was going to the common refuge of distressed persons, where there is room for all, and open house kept for wandering spongers: “And I never want five or six crowns in my pocket,” said he, “as soon as I am there, nor a good bed, meat, and drink, and sometimes a forbidden pleasure; for a good wit at Court is like the philosopher’s stone, which converts all it touches into gold.” This to me was the most welcome news I had ever heard; and therefore, as it were to divert the tediousness of our journey, I desired him to inform me how, and by whom, he, and others in his condition, could live at Court; for to me it appeared a very difficult matter, because everyone there seemed so far from being contented with his own, that he aimed at what belonged to others. “There are many of all sorts,” replied my spark, “but flattery is like a master-key, which introduces a man wheresoever he pleases, in such great places; and that you may not think strange of what I say, do but listen to my adventures and contrivances, and you will be convinced of the truth of it.” XIII

In which the gentleman pursues his journey, and his promised tale of his life and condition.

“The first thing you are to observe is, that at Court there are always the wisest and the weakest, the richest and the poorest, and the extremes of all other sorts. There the virtuous are concealed, and the wicked not taken notice of; and there live a sort of people like myself, who are not known to have any estates, real or personal, nor does it appear whence they came, or how they live. Among ourselves we are distinguished by several names, some are called ‘gentlemen-mumpers,’ others ‘sharpers,’ others ‘pinchguts,’ others ‘barebones,’ and others ‘commoners’; but in general we live by our wits. For the most part, we cheat our guts of their due, for it is a very dangerous and troublesome thing to live upon others. We are scarecrows at all good tables, the terror of cook-shops, and always unbidden and unwelcome guests, living like chameleons by the air, and so contented. When we happen to dine upon a leek, we strut and look as big as if stuffed with capon. Whosoever comes to visit us, never fails to find mutton and fowl bones, and parings of fruit about the house, and the doors strewed with feathers and young coney skins; all which we pick up over night, about the streets, to credit us the next day. As soon as the friend comes in, we fall into a passion, and cry, ‘It is a strange thing that I can never make this maid sweep the room in time. Good sir, excuse me, for I have had some friends at dinner, and these servants never mind their business,’ etc. Such as do not know us believe it, and think we have had an entertainment. Next, as for dining at other men’s houses, whensoever we have spoke but three words with a man, we take care to know where he lives, thither we are sure to make just at eating-time, when we know he is at table; we tell him his conversation has so charmed us, that we are not able to keep away, for he is the most taking person in the world. If he asks whether we have dined, and they have not yet begun, we answer in the negative. If they invite us, we never stay to be asked twice, because those ceremonies have often made us go with hungry bellies. If they have begun to eat, we say we have dined, and then, though the master of the house carves up his fowl, or any joint of meat never so dexterously, that we may have the opportunity of chopping up a mouthful or two, we cry, ‘By your leave, sir, pray let me have the honour of being your carver, for I remember (naming some duke or earl that is dead, God rest his soul), used to take more delight in seeing me carve than in eating.’ This said, we lay hold of the knife, cut out curious bits, and say, ‘How deliciously it smells! It would be an affront to the cook not to taste it; what a delicate hand she has at seasoning!’ With this we fall on, and down goes half the meat in the dish for a taste. If there be bacon, we call it our delight; if mutton, the only thing we love; if but a turnip, an excellent morsel; and so everything that comes in our way is ever the thing that we most admire. If all this fails, we are sure of the alms of some monastery, which we do not receive in public among the beggars, but privately, endeavouring to persuade the friars that we rather take it out of devotion than for want.

“It is pleasant enough to see one of us in a gaming-house, how diligently he attends, snuffs the candles, reaches the pots, fetches cards, applauds all the winner says, and all this for a poor real or two he gives him. We carry in our mind the whole inventory of our