FIRST NIGHT
FRAME STORY [=Span. text
packet pp. 154-159]
In the first part of my entertaining soiree [The Enchantments of Love], it was arranged that the
elegant Lisis would wed the gallant don Diego on New Year's Day, and he felt truly lucky to have
merited such good fortune because of the beautiful lady's many fine qualities. To celebrate the
occasion new, more lavish parties were planned. When things are not ordained by heaven, however,
people may propose but God disposes. If you look dispassionately at what is good for us, God
arranges things to suit His will rather than our own, even though we might wish the opposite.
So it happened that Lisis surrendered to a cruel depression and her heavenly eyes wept pearly
tears. The malaise might have been caused by some general disorder, by the sumptuous banquets, or
by Lisis's sorrow at seeing herself in the power of a new and different master. Or maybe she simply
wanted revenge for don Juan's rejection of her—he had fallen in love with her cousin Lisarda, who
stole from her the joy of being his. Now, almost in the power of an undesired lover, she may have
felt unhappy about a different master of her affection. The very next day after the soirees had
ended, the lovely Lisis awoke with a raging fever. It so exhausted and ravaged her that the doctors
feared for her life. Before attempting to treat her medically, they ordered as the most urgent course
of action that she take care of her soul, making confession and receiving the sacraments. Then with
their science they would try to cure the ills of her body. As a result of her illness, the parties had to
be canceled and all the happiness of the recent festivities turned into sorrow and weeping,
Her noble mother, her dear women friends, and especially don Diego were deeply upset by her
illness. And no wonder, because just as he saw himself on the verge of possessing his adored
beauty, he found himself fearful of losing her forever. Even the thankless don Juan felt bad about
being the cause of Lisis's illness, since it was the chilling of his affection for her that had caused the
lady's burning fever. He regretted that such a bright star might be lost to the world, so great were
Lisis's beauty, her discretion, and the many other sterling virtues with which she was endowed. He
was so smitten with Lisarda's beauty, however, that he quickly found relief for his sorrow in her
company. On the many occasions when he visited Lisis, he intended to regale her with caresses in
order to encourage her, but Lisarda never left her cousin's side and the moment her devoted lover
set eyes on her he forgot all about his good intention.
Lisis's illness grew worse. Everyone lost hope that she would recover her health and especially
Lisis herself who suffered the malady and knew its real cause. Sometimes she felt as if she was at
death's door. Every now and then she would feel a little relief, and then her sublime intelligence
began to forge a new purpose in her soul. She never let on to anyone, and saved the revelation of
her new desire until the right moment. As she began to feel better, she was pleasant with her family
and with don Diego but restrained in them any desire except that they should see her once again in
good health.
Lisis's illness lasted for over a year, with lapses and relapses. In all this time people's only
concern was for her to recover her health. Don Diego suffered the extremes of despair. He wanted
Lisis be his at any cost as he needed to feel sure of her, but whenever he mentioned this to her, her
mild annoyance and chaste resistance obliged him to beg her forgiveness for having suggested such
a thing.
During this time Lisis was given as a present an exquisite slave. On her face she wore a brand,
but the $ that marked her cheek did not diminish her beauty; on the contrary, it made it stand out
all the more. [Trans. note: In Spanish es (ess) + clavo (nail) = esclavo (slave); hence the
symbolization of the brand.] She was Moorish, named Zelima, and had a remarkable intelligence.
She possessed many talents such as reading, writing, embroidering, playing musical instruments,
and singing. Most notably, she composed superlative poetry, Lisis was given this rare gift by an
aunt, her mother's sister, who lived in the city of Valencia, You might think that her being Moorish
would detract in some way from her value, but she made up for it by declaring that she wanted to
become Christian,
This beautiful slave so delighted Lisis that in the enjoyment of her talents and charms Lisis
almost forgot about her illness. She developed such affection for Zelima that the two seemed more
like loving sisters than mistress and slave. Zelima knew well how to please Lisis and earn her
affection, and Lisis repaid Zelima by loving her so much that she couldn't bear to be apart from her.
Zelima entertained her mistress by showing off her talents, singing and playing, reciting poetry, and
telling stories about Algiers, where she was from. Often Lisis saw Zelima so carried away by her
entertainment, so transported, that involuntarily tears would fall from her heavenly eyes. Lisis,
thinking the tears were caused by memories of her homeland, would ask Zelima why she wept and
the discreet Zelima would reply:
"In all due time, my lady, you will hear and you will be amazed to know."
Lisis would importune no more. Lisis convalesced and Lisis got well and the sun of her beauty
gained new brilliance. The moment don Diego noticed that she'd returned to full health, he renewed
his courtship. He spoke to her mother, Laura, begging her to keep her word and give him Lisis as
his wife. The discreet lady communicated don Diego's proposal to her lovely daughter and this wise
lady answered as you would expect of an obedient daughter. She added that, since the festive days
of Mardi Gras were approaching, they should celebrate her wedding at that time. She would be
pleased to have more entertaining soirees like the previous ones. They should begin on Sunday and
on the last day before Lent she would wed. Her mother should grant permission for her to arrange it
thus. Lisis's mother was delighted that Lisis wished to have the parties and gave her permission to
organize everything,
This is how things were arranged: first, only ladies were to tell stories (this accorded with the
men's belief that women have always been storytellers); second, the stories they told should be true
cases, and they should be called "disenchantments" (in this I'm not sure she pleased the men; since
men are always trying to deceive women, they don't want women to be undeceived). Lisis's
intention in this was to defend women's good name (so denigrated and defamed by men's bad
opinion that there is scarcely anyone who speaks well of them). Because men preside over
everything, they never tell about the evil deeds they do, they tell only about the ones done to them.
If you think about it, men are really the ones at fault and women go along with them, thinking they
must be right. The fact is that there would be no bad women if there were no bad men. I'm not
talking about the people who are not bad. Just as I don't call the fickle, false, loose woman who has
lost her reputation a woman but instead a wild beast, I do not include in my admonishments the
sensitive, well-intentioned man who knows how to turn his vices into the virtue and nobility which
are his obligation, I am talking about the men who, forgetful of their obligations, behave differently
from the way they should. These aren't men but monsters. If all men are monsters, then I speak
about them all, cautioning them that the women I speak about in this book are not ordinary women,
women who make a profession of their womanhood and are really leeches, but rather the women
who do not deserve the misfortunes that befall them. Zelima had asked Lisis to grant her the
privilege of writing and singing all the poems for the festivities, which pleased Lisis because it
relieved her of that responsibility. Zelima also begged to be the first to tell a disenchantment,
Lisis agreed, realizing that this request was not without motive. She appointed Zelima for the first
night, followed by her cousin Lisarda, then Nise, and after her Filis. For the second night she put
her mother Laura first, with Matilde second, dona Luisa third, and fourth, dona Francisca. The
latter were two sisters, the first a widow and the second unmarried, who had recently moved into
the same apartment house; both were lovely and witty young women. For the third night she put
dona Estefania first. She was Lisis's cousin, a nun who had taken leave from her convent to
convalesce from a dangerous quartan fever. Now fully recovered, she was only waiting to celebrate
Lisis's wedding before going back to the convent. Lisis reserved for herself the last disenchantment,
and then her wedding would take place. With everything arranged, she invited all the ladies and
gentlemen from the first soirees, and many others came invited by word of mouth. Dispensation was
obtained from the papal nuncio for Lisis and don Diego to marry without the usual banns, either
from a desire for secrecy or for greater effect (these modern young people find traditional ways so
vexing and this was more the trend).
Arrangements were made for the musicians, and the halls were adorned with rich tapestries,
magnificent benches, unusual writing desks, splendid chairs, and taborets. Braziers were prepared
to provide varied lighting and delicate aromas, as were bright shining lanterns and numerous oil
lamps. Most importantly, extravagant and savory suppers were ordered, not overlooking our friend
chocolate (which like misfortune is found everywhere). When everything was perfect, the hall
looked like heaven, especially when all the hierarchies of angels came to take their places.
They all made way for the heavenly Lisis who was wearing black adorned with many gold
buttons. Even if the lady weren't the most beautiful of all, she surpassed them in elegance and
intelligence. All the guests took their places, including the thankless don Juan and the fortunate don
Diego. The men were feeling quite unhappy because they'd been denied the privilege of telling a
story and so expressing their thoughts. Perhaps the ones who write wanted a chance to avenge
themselves, as if that mattered a whit to me. Just because I'm intelligent doesn't mean that I, by
being smart, take away from the intelligence God gave them, as if my writing this were a challenge
rather than simple entertainment. The ladies, on the other hand, felt pleased that finally they had a
chance to receive satisfaction for all the affronts that are done them when men speak ill of them and
judge all women the same.
Zelima (having already instructed the musicians as to what they were to do, since she was
responsible for all the poetry) was sitting next to Lisis. She rose to her feet and after making a
courteous and humble bow went into the next room. The musicians started the party off with this
ballad:
Deceptive little shepherd,
you carried off all my joy
to the hills of Toledo
and left me only jealousy.
Master whose slave I am,
in you my captive desire
recognizes all power
by the configuration of the stars.
Deity at whose altars
my soul, humble victim,
is sacrificed in desire
and serves as both flame and incense.
What lucky maid entertains you,
missing from your proper place,
while you allow my eyes
to be bathed in tender tears?
If the harshness of separation
mattered to your heart,
then you would not have left me
nor would I suffer so.
If, when you said good-bye,
I hid the grief I felt,
it was not because I didn't feel it
but so you would leave happy.
With your confidence
and unaware of all my suffering,
you extend your absence,
thinking it does not pain me.
Come back and look at yourself
in the eyes you used to call mirrors,
and you will see them, for your sake,
turned into gushing fountains.
Come back and you will see
that I call hours everlasting centuries,
days, whole eternities,
such is the pain I feel.
Perhaps you will deprive the one
who detains you and makes you happy
apart from me, of all those favors
you have granted her behind my back.
Since you are happy apart from me,
I can call my pleasures taxes
because they're being taken from me
and you take them away so quickly.
Jealousy burns my soul!
Woe is me! Heaven help me!
Oh my eyes, pour forth your liquid,
for the fire rages out of control!
The fire in which I burn
is a fire of flaming pitch;
the more tears I shed
the fiercer bum the flames.
Some people say that jealousy
is like ice to love
but in me it is
all the flames of Etna.
Why do I wish for life?
Why do I seek repose?
Alas, shepherdesses of Toledo,
you are not angels but hell!
Look, Salicio is mine,
in him I live and for him I die,
and taking him away from me
tears my soul from its sad flesh.
Through violence you enjoy
the life that I possess,
because his favors
are the only thing I have.
Oh Lord! To whom do I make my
plaint?
To whom do I offer up my tears,
when my thankless Salicio is so far away?
I am sad, he is happy,
am jealous, he is enjoying other pleasures,
I am like the immortal Isolde
since this deadly poison does not end my
life.
The ballad seemed long to the listeners. They didn't know about Zelima's plan or that she'd
purposely arranged it that way so that she could do what we shall now describe. Besides, musicians
in books are more conscientious than the drawing-room musicians who abbreviate their ballads,
cutting out their heart and leaving them without head or feet.
As the sound of the last lines was fading, Zelima emerged from the next room in such different
costume from the one she had been wearing that it amazed everyone. She wore a blouse of
transparent chambray, all lacy with the sleeves opening wide at the wrist. Her skirt was of gold
brocade with silver and blue flowers and ornaments so dazzling that they were almost blinding. It
was so short it scarcely reached the turn of her ankle. On her feet she wore sandals adorned with
elaborate silk ribbons and bows. Covering everything, she wore an overskirt of a very beautiful
filmy blue and silver fabric, and clasped at her shoulder was a mantle of the same material. The
garment had sleeves even wider than the sleeves of her blouse and revealed her nicely rounded
white arms bedecked with costly bracelets. Her beautiful long wavy hair was neither gold nor ebony
it was secured by a diamond clip that held a blue and silver veil to shroud her head. Her beauty and
grace, and the majesty of her light and stately step, bespoke a princess of Algiers, a queen of Fez or
Morocco, a sultana of Constantinople.
Ladies and gentlemen alike were thunderstruck. The beautiful Lisis, seeing Zelima in raiment
she'd never seen before, could not take in her slave's disguise. She simply sat in silence, amazed
(like everyone else) by such a divine creature. Zelima did look like a nymph or a goddess from
some ancient tale. As she moved toward the platform, she made the ladies feel envious of her
splendid beauty and held the gentlemen in her sway. There were more than a few gentlemen who,
regardless of the brand upon her face, wished to make her their wife, mistress of their persons and
all their possessions and, even so, felt unworthy of winning her. Zelima made a bow to her audience
and then to her mistress Lisis. She took a seat on two pillows positioned in the middle of the
platform, the special place appointed for the person who was to tell a disenchantment, and turning
to Lisis, she said:
"My lady, you have commanded me tonight to tell a disenchantment to caution ladies about men's
deceptions and their cunning, and also to defend women's good name in an age when it has fallen so
low that no one ever hears or speaks a good word about them; indeed, people take sport in speaking
ill of women. Without a single exception, there is no play staged or any book printed that is not a
total offense against women. While men may not be entirely to blame since they seek out bad
women for their pleasure and these can give only what they have, if men were to seek out good
women to admire and praise, they would find women honorable, wise, firm and true. But so bad are
the times in which we live and so unfortunate are we, that men treat honorable women even
worse. That's because the bad women take from men just what they want and, before men have
time to abuse them, they throw ash in their faces.
"To support this I could tell many disenchantments of age-old and modern misfortunes that men
have inflicted upon women. I wish, however, to pass over them in silence and tell you my own
misfortune, so that taking example from what has happened to me, there may not be so many who
remain uncautioned and go astray. Because my story is oppression itself, let me begin like this:
María de Zayas. Desengaños amorosos (The Disenchantments of Love)
SECOND NIGHT
FRAME STORY [=Span. text packet pp. 160-164]
As his chariot neared the western horizon on the final hour of his journey through the crystalline
spheres, the rubicund Apollo drew in his fiery steeds to make way for his mutable sister to visit the
earth. All the ladies and gentlemen who had been present at the wise Lisis's house the previous
evening to join in the celebration of her honest and entertaining soiree were again gathered in the
same hall. They showed no small favor by coming so early, because telling the truth and
disenchanting are not greatly applauded in this day and age; people prefer well-adorned flattery to
the naked truth, so there was good reason to appreciate the guests' interest. Besides, they were
intrigued by the novelty of the soiree as well; people love to try new things whether they're savory
or not.
That's why this evening there were even more people than the previous evening. Some came
attracted by the tale of the beautiful slave suddenly transformed into a lady and others by the beauty
of the many lovely guests. But most of all they came to enjoy the novelty, I don't know with what
relish, for they'd been warned that the disenchantresses, armed with all kinds of comparisons and
portentous examples, had declared war on men because men live exempt from the law; they don't
even acknowledge the laws that aren't to their liking. The guests doubted that the second group of
storytellers who were to disenchant the ladies about the deception in which they live could equal the
first, but they wanted to see how they made the effort.
I myself feel quite sure, however, that these storytellers, just like the first ones, were determined
to deal harshly with men's customs, not because they hate men but to try to correct them, so that if
one of the tales should affect a listener, someone might avoid having to pay as other women have
had to pay. It's not surprising, because there are deceptions that are so well seasoned that even if
you recognize them for what they are, they aren't distasteful. And sometimes I think that the more
women are undeceived, the more they're deceived. Besides, my disenchantments are intended for
men who deceive and for women who let themselves be deceived. While we may say they're for
everyone in general, really they're not, because women who aren't deceived don't need to be
disenchanted, nor are they meant for men who don't practice deception.
Who doesn't realize that there must be some people here tonight who aren't altogether wellintentioned? I can even hear them saying: "Who ever put these women up to such nonsense?
Reform men? How misguided! But let's listen to the silly things prattle, there'll be ways to get back
at them." And, since this isn't a party for 'paying the piper,' they've left their scripts folded up at
home with their pens all sharpened for revenge. But then, I imagine, the disenchantresses don't care,
for when one tells the truth one has nothing to fear. You can criticize whatever people say in poetry
or in prose, but there can be no error in the truth, as Christ Our Lord said: "When I tell you the truth
..."
What a challenge for the mind, and the person who understands how hard it is will appreciate it
while the one who doesn't is excused by his ignorance. This is what happened with the first part of
our soiree [The Enchantments of Love]. If a few people criticized it, a hundred applauded it.
Everyone rushed out to buy it and they're still buying it. It's already been through three printings,
two legitimate and one pirated. Well- intentioned readers are like bees who know how to make the
sweetest honey from odorless and tasteless wild flowers. Ill-intentioned readers are like the dungbeetle that turns fragrant flowers into excrement. Please believe that while women aren't Homers in
skirts and petticoats or Virgils wearing a chignon, at the very least they have the same soul, the
same abilities, and the same sense as men. I don't say knowledge, because while many could
compete with men on an equal footing, women lack the art which men acquire in their studies. What
women do they do from their nature, so of course it isn't as refined. But tonight there's no room for
bad intentions, and instead of seeking vengeance the men have surrendered, for here we're seeing
the power of truth.
The disenchantresses came out following Lisis, who was leading doña Isabel by the hand. Both
ladies were splendidly dressed, adorned and bedecked with so many jewels that each one looked
like a sun encircled by other suns. Doña Isabel in particular because she'd given up her Moorish
costume, it being no longer necessary, and her attire was so extravagant that you couldn't imagine
which was more radiant: her beautiful face or her rich jewels. On this night she'd donned all the
jewels she'd mentioned in her story, the jewels she'd saved to provide for her entry into the convent.
Doña Isabel made her way to where the musicians were sitting, while the others followed Lisis up
to the platform. Lisis's mother, the discreet Laura, being the first to tell a disenchantment, went to
the special seat. Everyone was dazzled by such elegance and beauty. The people who'd seen them
the previous night thought they'd armed themselves with even greater beauty and those who hadn't
seen them before thought that heaven and all its angels must have come down to earth and into that
hall. Realizing they couldn't be angry with goddesses, they excused any annoyance they may have
felt by saying:
"No matter what awful things you may say about us, we have to pardon you because we've been
so fortunate as to see your great beauty."
After the ladies had taken their seats and everyone else was settled, the beautiful doña Isabel sang
this ballad without accompaniment. It was written by my lady the countess of Lemos when she was
away from her husband, the illustrious count of Lemos; they are still alive today, and may they
enjoy many more years:
The beautiful eyes of Atandra,
clear, shining stars
whose radiance gives to the sun
the light by which we see,
from them love learned
to kill with black rays,
stealing from the golden darts
all their power and strength.
Shedding streams of pearly tears
which the smiling Manzanares
gathers up so that her nymphs
may ornament their white necks,
just when the beautiful dawn
slips from Tithonus's bed,
I saw her and love saw her
because of Filenus's absence.
The splendid and gallant
son of that sun, who, being
sun of this present century
passed on to become a sun in the heavens.
Abandoning purple and gold
for the dark, rough habit
of the patriarch Benedict
whose steps he traces,
in pursuit of that brilliance,
the wise lover followed after
for in the rays of such a sun,
his own brilliance will become eternal.
Looking at the dawn,
the dawn of our town says:
"May you, dawn, not enjoy your spouse
when I am left without my own.
Let the sad turtledove weep
the loss of her mate,
since I, without my beloved master,
in his absence must sutler alone.
Where are you going without your Atandra?
How could you tire of her so quickly?
I don't wonder, for you are a man;
no, I lie, you aren't a man,
you are divine! How foolish I am
to complain of an angel;
Love, do not punish me,
for you see how I repent,
Filenus, come back to my arms;
look at the sorrows I suffer,
leave that sun, for you are your own sun
in its own clear firmament.
If, like the moon, I receive
the beautiful rays of your radiance,
either give me your light again
or I shall persist in following you."
Thus she spoke and dawn drew a curtain
across Phoebus's clear face
because her shepherds entered
and she silenced her complaints.
The nymphs of the Manzanares,
who had been listening to her,
sang to her this song
to the tune of their harmonious lyres:
"Atandra, dry your eyes,
those dark suns
that reveal your sadness,
for now the heavens are weeping.
Your lover is a sun
and we see him coming,
for you are his orient
within your own orient.
If the heavenly extreme
of your great beauty
captivated his soul
and made his body prisoner,
don't judge his love
so small and brief
that he won't hasten his pace
and make the time seem short.
Do not cause your eyes,
his suns, such sorrow,
for there's enough sadness
when the heavens weep."
With sweet sad notes the song came to an end, filling with wonderment the guests who hadn't seen
the lovely doña Isabel's beauty and grace before. It left them enthralled and full of suspense, not
knowing how to react except to call her the tenth muse. If many had come simply intending to
gossip and criticize the soiree because of the ladies' boldness in daring to speak out against men,
they forgot all about their evil intentions when they heard the sweet harmonious voice and saw the
splendid vision of her beauty which made them pardon any offense they might have taken from the
disenchantments told by the other ladies. Laura noted how everyone had hushed in anticipation, and
she began like this:
"During the time I loved and was loved, I lived so sweetly deceived that I don't know whether my
husband's loving nature ever gave me cause to speak of disenchantment, and I'm not sure I can
disenchant anyone. What I know comes from knowledge and not from experience. I do believe,
however, that today there's a little of everything: men and women both are deceived and few, if any,
manage to become undeceived. Women complain about being deceived and so do men all because
they don't want to be undeceived. They so savor the pleasure of loving and being loved that even
though the truth is right before their eyes they pretend not to see it and act as if they don't know.
Now it's true that the ones who most wreathe themselves in deception are men because it doesn't
trouble them to be fickle. They get so carried away by this fault that they give reason to women to
complain and even to take vengeance. Women, however, usually take a subtle revenge when it
would be far better for them to take vengeance on men's lives rather than on their honor so that men
would receive the punishment their fickle nature merits and women would earn the name of valiant.
I can only imagine that the devil has proposed these kinds of vengeance specifically for women to
use. Foolish woman, when your lover or husband offends against you, why can't you understand
that if you behave the same way you offend only against yourself? This, I think, is what makes men
feel justified in speaking ill of women. You give your husband reason to kill you and your lover
reason to speak ill of your honor. Never be loose, but if once you are, kill the person who caused
you to do it, don't kill your honor.
"Men prize their fickleness so it follows that to live up to their reputation they have to seek out
common women. I think they do it on purpose just so they can drop them. Of course they find such
women everywhere because clearly these women can pursue no other profession and they prefer
gadding about to spinning. Who can doubt that at each step such women give men a chance to vary
their diet? I blame them all and I excuse them all. What there's no excuse for is for men to speak
licentiously of women; their crimes are sufficient without men blabbing about them all over town.
What's worse is that they become careless and treat all women alike without considering how they
also impugn themselves, for we can find few men who have no wife, no woman relative or
acquaintance whose decorum they should protect.
"One shouldn't speak well of that which is evil or ill of that which is good. For that reason,
courtesy is the best way: speak well of all women, of some because they're good and of others not to
be discourteous. Who can doubt, gendemen, that there are women who are very virtuous, very
sheltered, very honorable? You may ask: where are they? And you'll be right, because if you don't
look for them you won't find them. Such women don't let themselves be easily found, so men talk
about the loose women who are easy to find and then they even tell everything they do with them.
Instead of disenchanting, then, I'd like to give advice and request that even if some women are bad
don't revile them, for maybe that way you'll help make them good.
"In truth, beautiful ladies, it would be a fine thing if there were no noble men, no wise, sensitive,
or virtuous men, but indeed there are a few. Not all men are deceivers, not all speak out against
women. Of those who do, however, I think it's worse for them to speak ill than to do ill; for there
are some things it's better to do than to talk about. By honoring and praising women, men restore
their good name. It's just as easy to do one thing as the other and to do otherwise is contemptible.
Ladies should be sensible and modest; if they are they won't need disenchantments, for the one
who's never deceived never needs to be undeceived. After all, trips to the river, the park, the theater
aren't everyday events and one can ruin a lot of cloaks and silk is expensive. Let there be free trade
and you'll see how women make men good. As for cruelty, there's no doubt that it dwells in the
hearts of men, that's why they're so hard-hearted. This soiree began with the charge to prove this
and to warn women so they can take example and learn fear knowing that all blame falls upon them.
This you will see in the disenchantment I shall now tell."
FIFTH DISENCHANTMENT [= Span. text pp. 164-178]
Innocence Punished
In a city near the great Seville that I choose not to name because many close relatives of our
characters still live there, there lived a rich and powerful gentleman named don Francisco, married
to a lady his equal in every way. He had one sister not yet eighteen who was one of the most
beautiful women in Andalucia. A gentleman not inferior in quality or in wealth—indeed, I
understand that he was superior in every way—asked for her hand in marriage, Don Francisco
thought, as was natural, that such good fortune could only come from heaven and, very pleased with
the proposal, he informed his wife and his sister doña Inés. She felt the same respect and obedience
toward don Francisco as toward a father and had no will but his, so she agreed to the marriage,
perhaps not so much for his sake as to escape the harsh temper of her sister-in-law, who was more
cruel than you can imagine.
Before two months had passed, doña Inés found herself freed from her previous captivity and
settled into martyrdom, although she did enjoy her husband's sweet caresses. At first men are quite
devoted, indeed they're so eager that I think they exhaust all their energies during the first year and
then when they find themselves depleted they leave their poor wives to die from pure want of
affection. Perhaps, no, no perhaps about it, most certainly this is why women, suddenly neglected,
fall into evil ways, and then men lose their honor, women their lives.
What does a husband, a brother, a father, or even a suitor expect of a woman who finds herself
neglected and lacking the affection she requires, no longer fondled or even esteemed? What else but
misfortune? Heaven help me! How overconfident men are these days, since it never occurs to them
that a desperate woman might do things even the devil wouldn't do. They think that by keeping
women cloistered and by guarding them closely they keep them from mischief and are free of any
other responsibility, but they're wrong. Let men love women and caress them and give them what
they need instead of cloistering and guarding them and women will take care of themselves and
protect their honor, if not out of virtue out of duty. Heavens above! What a false coin is the passion
that disappears so quickly that it has value only on the first day and after that it has no worth at all!
This, however, is not how misfortune came to doña Inés. Her husband prized her as her worth and
beauty merited; it was this latter that caused her misfortune, because misfortune always walks with
beauty. With her handsome and good-tempered husband the lovely lady enjoyed a pleasant life of
ease like a person who has entered a park full of flowers, if only it had lasted! When misfortune
pursues a person, however, no matter what one does, one cannot escape it. It so happened that when
doña Inés was single no one ever set eyes upon her because of the terrible severity of her brother
and sister-in-law. Now that she was married she would go out for some diversion to make visits or
attend parties in the city, always accompanied by her husband or by friends and relatives. She was
seen by everyone. Some praised her beauty and the good fortune of her husband in winning her.
Others were envious and lamented not having chosen her for themselves. Some loved her secretly
and with evil intentions, for they thought that with money and gallantry they might win her over to
do their will.
One of the latter was don Diego, a gentleman young, rich, and free. Because of his immense
wealth he had achieved the name and status of gentleman, but this title didn't prevent him from
seducing the most beautiful women in the city. When he saw doiia Inés's perilous beauty he was
awe-stricken, and his awe turned into love. For the time being, it must have been true love—there
are some men who fall into "false" love. He fell in love madly, desperately, which he tried to reveal
and communicate by being continuously in her street, at her church, wherever he could follow her.
In short, he loved injudiciously in that he paid no heed to the possible harm to doña Inés's honor that
might result from such public courtship.
The innocent lady never noticed his courtship; first because she believed that her purity would
prevail over any lascivious desires on the part of those who saw her; and second because there were
several women who were not merely beautiful but exceptionally so, who lived on the same street
and she imagined that don Diego's attentions were directed to them. As she loved only her husband
she was careless and did not conceal herself from don Diego's view if she happened to be on her
balcony, nor did she ignore his serenades and other gallantries, as she believed they were intended
for one of the two beautiful, single, and somewhat free young ladies who lived down the street.
Don Diego would sing and display the other talents that leisure permits wealthy young men who
have no parents to govern them. Whenever he could, he would appear and show them off in doña
Inés's street. She and her maids and her husband would go out to listen, thinking, as I've said, that
they were intended for someone else. Had doña Inés thought otherwise she would never have
allowed herself to be seen. At any rate, with this good faith, they all made fun of don Diego's follies.
When doña Inés's husband or servants were watching, craftily, he would act so as to encourage
them in their mistaken belief. With this problem resolved, he felt free one night to sing this ballad,
sitting in front of the two young ladies' door:
Like the mother who's lost
her darling little child,
that's how I feel without you,
sweetest mistress mine.
My eyes, in your absence,
are two overflowing rivers
and my thoughts, without you,
are a twisted labyrinth.
Where are you that I cannot see you,
delight of all my soul?
What orient enjoys those rays,
or what fortunate East Indies?
If in the arms of dawn
the sun feels happy and rich;
then tell me, since you are dawn,
why aren't you in my arms?
You rise and set without me;
I am a sorrowing sunset,
just like darkest Norway
I live and die in torment.
It is no fault to love you;
it is no crime to worship you;
if love gilds every error
how brilliant all mine are!
Let me cease living when the sorrow
of having loved you
reaches the loving threshold
of the gates to my soul!
Now that you're not listening to me
my love speaks boldly,
but when I see you, I fall silent,
unable to tell you of my love.
I would that your eyes
could know from mine
all that my tongue cannot say
since it lacks power to speak.
Whenever you hide yourself
I torment all my senses
for having held silent
for not telling how I prize you.
So that you remain not unaware:
I shall be eternally yours,
for centuries my love will endure,
as I was born to be yours.
Not realizing that she was the cause of don Diego's well-sung and deeply felt sorrows, doña Inés
and her husband praised the song. She didn't know to feel aggrieved; if she had, you can be sure she
would never have permitted it. The poor unrequited lover saw his plight get worse with each
passing day; he was making no progress in his courtship. He felt confused and melancholy, not
knowing how to reveal his love to his lady, fearing her harsh indignation and cruel response.
Now, a woman who lived in an apartment across the street from doña Inés had taken note of don
Diego's plight with greater sympathy than doña Inés. Well did she understand the game. Things
were going along as I've described when one day, seeing him pass by, she called out to him. With
honeyed words she tried to get him to tell her his troubles. At first don Diego denied that he was in
love because he didn't trust the woman. She, however, was astute and this wasn't the first time she'd
undertaken such an enterprise. She told him not to deny it, that she understood his sorrow. If anyone
in the world could help him, it was she, because her mistress doña Inés was very kind to her, letting
her come into her house and confiding in her her deepest secrets. They had known each other since
before doña Inés's marriage when she still lived with her brother,
In short, the woman described their friendship so well, with such fine color and detail, that don
Diego began to think she'd been prompted by doña Inés herself, who had finally recognized his
love. With this mad notion and with a few more turns of the rope by the hangman, don Diego finally
confessed Hat out the extent of his passion and begged her to make his love known to the lady. If he
should be accepted, he promised her great rewards. To further entice her, he removed the rich chain
he was wearing and gave it to her. He was wealthy, he wanted to achieve his goal and would stop at
nothing. The woman accepted the chain and told him not to worry; he should go take a walk, and
she'd let him know when she had everything arranged. To avoid any suspicion, she didn't want
anyone to see them talking together. After don Diego left, the evil woman felt very pleased and
went directly to the house of some "ladies of the night" she knew. From among them she selected
the one who was the prettiest and most like doña Inés in figure and bearing and took her to her
home. She hid the harlot where she would be seen by no one and told her about the trick she
intended to play. She then went over to doña Inés's house and asked the maids to tell their mistress
that a neighbor from across the street wanted to speak with her. Upon receiving the message doña
Inés invited her in.
The woman kissed her hand, and with all the right words and the insolence that strumpets did not
lack, she begged doña Inés to lend her the very dress she was wearing for just a couple of days. She
needed the dress because her niece was getting married. Doña Inés could keep as pawn the very
chain don Diego had given her. The woman was right on track to request the umber damask dress
doña Inés was wearing, for it was the one she wore daily and it would more readily convince don
Diego. Because doña Inés recognized the woman as a neighbor from across the street, she was
polite and replied that the dress was very worn from constant use so she would give her a different
dress, a better one.
"Oh, no, my lady!" exclaimed the wily woman, "this dress is just right. I don't want anything very
costly for then it would seem as if it weren't my niece's (as happened to be the case), and we poor
people also have our reputations to consider. I want all the guests at the wedding to think the dress
is hers and not borrowed."
Doña Inés laughed and praised the woman's cleverness. She had another dress brought which she
put on after removing the first one. She handed it to her neighbor, who accepted it with great
delight. She left the chain in pawn and doña Inés accepted it as surety, for she scarcely knew the
woman. The neighbor carried off the dress, as happy as if she were bearing a treasure. Then she
waited for don Diego to return. He was most punctual. Grinning, she greeted him with these words:
"This is the way to do busInéss, you foolish man. If it weren't for me you could have spent the rest
of your life just swallowing saliva. I spoke with your lady and left her softer than a skein of loose
silk. Now you can see how much you owe me, how great your debt to me is, for tonight just at the
Angelus you must wait by the door to your house and your lady and I will come to pay you a call.
That's when her husband goes to his club to play cards and he'll stay until ten. She insists that to
protect her decorum as a noble and as a married woman, no one see her, so make sure there are no
servants and no light, unless it's far removed, or better none at all. But I'm faint-hearted and I'd die
in the dark so maybe you should prepare a small lantern and place it well away from the place
where you'll speak with her."
The woman had planned all this so don Diego could recognize and be deceived by the dress but
not the face. The enamored youth went wild with joy and hugged the false and crafty go-between.
He gave her every cent he had with him and offered her even greater sums. Finally he went home to
await his great good fortune. After he'd gone, the woman dressed the girl in the unfortunate doña
Inés's dress, arranged her hair like doña Inés's, and taught her how to walk like the lady. She did
such a good job that in the dark she seemed to be doña Inés herself. The woman felt immensely
pleased with her contrivance, for even knowing the truth she herself could have been fooled by it.
Shortly before nightfall the two women went to don Diego's house. He was waiting for them at the
door, each second seeming like a century. The moment he saw the woman he recognized the dress,
as it was the one doña Inés wore every day. Also there was the similarity in their bearing. As night
was falling and the woman was veiled, he believed it was doña Inés herself. Crazy with joy, he
greeted them and led them into an apartment where the only light came from a little lamp in the
antechamber so the only illumination in the apartment and in its small bedroom was that which
came in through the door. The vile matchmaker waited in the antechamber. Don Diego took his
feigned doña Inés by the hand and led her to take a seat on the damask bed that was in the bedroom.
Don Diego spent a long while expressing his joy at having merited such great favor. The disguised
doña Inés, well instructed in how to comport herself, answered him appropriately. She exaggerated
the risks she took in coming, in overcoming the obstacles of her honor, her household, and her
husband. They exchanged other pleasantries as well. Don Diego, absolutely blind to the deception,
finally achieved the culmination of those favors which had cost him such effort and will. In this
accomplishment, he fell more in love with his doña Inés than ever.
The woman who played the part of doña Inés was clever and she played the role so well that she
placed don Diego under even greater obligation. When it came time for the two women to leave,
just as they had planned don Diego lavished his beloved doña Inés with valuable jewels and the
matchmaker with money. They said good-bye and the suitor begged his lady to visit him again
soon. She promised she would, and told him to wait for her each night at the appointed hour and not
to leave his house until ten. If she could come she wouldn't miss the chance. He was overjoyed and
the two women returned home well pleased and well rewarded, all at the expense of the innocent
and unknowing doña Inés's good name.
During the two weeks they kept the dress the two women visited don Diego several times in this
fashion. At the end of this period, perhaps fearful that God would make the truth known or perhaps
that don Diego would in time realize that it wasn't the real doña Inés he was enjoying, whatever the
reason, they didn't get another dress like the one they were using for a disguise and now they knew
it was time to return it to its rightful owner. On the last night they met with don Diego they told him
that doña Inés's husband had taken to coming home early so they'd have to be extremely careful for
awhile because he seemed to be preoccupied. They assured don Diego that if there were any
occasion to slip out they wouldn't miss it. They said good-bye, leaving don Diego as sad now as
he'd been overjoyed the first time they came. The dress was returned to doña Inés and the false lady
and the go-between split their gains, well pleased with the success of their trick.
Very unhappy, don Diego kept watch in doña Inés's street. Every time he saw her he noticed her
inattention, but he attributed it to her modesty. He endured his passion without daring to do more
than gaze at his beloved. On occasion he would speak with the go-between and ask what had
happened to all his glory and she would tell him that there was no way because doña Inés's husband
had become wary. Sometimes she'd swear to him that doña Inés was trying to find a way to visit
him. Finally, one day don Diego became importunate and demanded that she take a letter to doña
Inés. She told him not to waste his time because the lady would no longer permit her to mention the
affair to her, either out of fear of her husband or because she'd had a change of heart. Doña Inés had
even denied her entrance into the house and ordered the maids not to let her in. In this you can see
how hard it is to make a lie pass for truth, and when it does it's not for long.
This news so upset don Diego that it was a miracle he didn't go crazy. In the depths of his sorrow
and in an effort to find some relief, he made up his mind to speak with doña Inés herself to find out
from her why the sudden change of heart. Having come to that decision, he spent day and night in
her street waiting for the chance to speak with her. One day he saw her leave for mass
unaccompanied by her husband (a very rare occurrence, as he always went with her). Don Diego
followed her into the church and knelt down by her side. As softly as he could, given the great
turmoil he felt, he said to her:
"Is it possible, my lady, that your love was so brief, my merits so small, that your love died just as
it was born? How can it be that my attentions are worth so little and your love so inconstant that
even though it seemed to match my affection it did not take root enough for you to remember the
times you said you were mine and I promised to be your slave? If ladies of quality show such bad
faith what can one expect of ordinary women? If your disdain comes from my failure to serve you
and please you, you're to blame for this because the little I did for you would have become much
more if you hadn't cut me off so cruelly. Even now as I'm looking at you, you don't deign to favor
me with a glance from your beautiful eyes. Yet when I held you in my arms you swore by them a
thousand times that you would never forget me."
Shocked by these words, doña Inés did look at him, and she exclaimed:
"What are you saying, sir? Either you are delirious or else you mistake me for another! When was
I in your arms? When did I swear never to forget you? When did I accept your gifts? When did you
make love to me? I can hardly forget what never happened, nor can I love or hate what I never
loved!"
"What?" exclaimed don Diego. "Do you mean to deny that you visited me and talked with me?
Tell me you repent of having come to my house but don't deny it because you can't deny the dress
you were wearing, which was the same dress you have on now. Nor can you deny that so-and-so,
your neighbor across the street, came with you."
Doña Inés was both intelligent and sharp. The moment she heard him mention the dress and the
neighbor, she understood what must have happened. Terribly upset, feeling half dead because of the
seriousness of the situation, she turned to don Diego and asked:
"When did all this happen?"
"A little over a month ago," he replied.
With that, doña Inés realized that the whole time her dress had been on loan to that woman, she'd
been double-crossing her. To make sure, she said:
"This, sir, is not the time to discuss this matter. My husband is to leave tomorrow for Seville to
collect some money that has arrived from the Indies. Tomorrow afternoon, then, come to my street
and I shall have someone fetch you so we can discuss this matter at greater length. Please say
nothing about this to that woman, for it's important to keep our conversation from her."
Don Diego went off quite pleased with the arrangement they'd made, while doña Inés felt sad and
confused. The next day her husband departed as she'd said, and doña Inés sent for the mayor. He
came and she told him that it was important to her honor for him to act as witness and judge of a
very serious case, and she placed him where he could hear everything. Then she sent for don Diego,
who hadn't failed to appear. She said these words to him:
"Indeed, sir don Diego, you left me yesterday in a state of great confusion. If God hadn't permitted
my husband's absence at this time so that I could find out the truth and deliver you from the error
and deception that you believe, I think I would have lost my mind or even killed myself. Now, I beg
you to explain to me carefully and completely what you were referring to in church yesterday."
Surprised at her words, don Diego recounted everything that had happened with the other woman,
describing the times she'd come to his house, the words she'd spoken, and the jewels he'd given her.
Astonished, doña Inés answered explaining how during this time her dress had been on loan to the
neighbor and how she'd left doña Inés a chain as surety, as her maids could attest. Furthermore,
doña Inés had never left the house nor did her husband ever frequent any club; indeed, he always
went to bed with the birds. As a matter of fact, she didn't even know that woman, she'd only
recognized her from seeing her in the street. Doña Inés had never spoken with her or gone into her
house. As if he were having a hallucination, Don Diego felt stunned and ashamed of the trick that
had been played on him. He also felt more in love with doña Inés than ever.
At this point the mayor emerged and the two men went together to the house of the vile gobetween. She immediately confessed the whole truth. She gave them some of the jewels that were
her share from the partition and she returned the chain to don Diego. Her trick earned her two
hundred lashes for maligning an honorable, noble lady and she was exiled from the city for six
years. Thus doña Inés was partially satisfied, and no more was said about the case, to protect her
reputation.
Don Diego, being more madly in love than ever, recommenced his courtship, his promenades and
serenades, with more confidence than before. He believed his task would be easier now that doña
Inés knew how much he loved her. He did not despair of conquest, for the hardest part was done
and what most encouraged him was his refusal to believe that doña Inés wasn't the woman he'd
enjoyed. Even though the truth had been demonstrated and with reliable witnesses, he thought it
was all a fraud; what had happened was that doña Inés denied everything because she had changed
her mind, and out of fear the go-between had confessed and been punished.
With this conviction don Diego became bolder in his courtship. He would follow doña Inés
whenever she went out. He addressed her every time he found an occasion. Doña Inés, filled with
loathing, couldn't go to mass or even let the presumptuous youth set eyes upon her. Because of her
husband's prolonged absence, he kept taking ever greater liberties. The persecuted lady wouldn't
allow the front door to be opened for fear that in his boldness he might burst into her house. Finally
the lady despaired, and as a result of this sonnet, which don Diego sang one night in her street, she
made up her mind to take revenge. You shall hear what happened afterward.
Beloved mistress, if in my soul
any part has remained free,
today, anew, I place it at your command
and surrender it to your beauty and your sway.
Fortunate am I ever since that sweet day
when I was honored with such favor,
now my eyes see as instants
the hours I enjoyed your company,
If only the figments of magic spells
were real! For in the beginning
they made the deception seem so real;
then my goals would be achieved
if I could merit from the gods,
my darling, enjoying you for many years.
Doña Inés was deeply upset to see that don Diego had not accepted the truth about the trick that
deceitful woman had perpetrated at the expense of her honor. Instantly, she sent word to him
through a maid that because his daring had become outrageous he'd better go away before he caused
further scandal or public disgrace. If he didn't, she swore by her good name she would have him
killed.
The ill-advised youth took her words to heart and in despair he went home suffering a mortal
illness that kept him in bed for many days. Combined with his cruel melancholy, this dangerous
illness came close to killing him. When he realized he was dying of depressed spirits, suddenly he
remembered hearing about a great Moorish necromancer and magician who lived in that city. Don
Diego managed to locate the Moor and sent for him to have him make doña Inés love him through
witchcraft and magical spells.
The moment the Moor was found and brought to don Diego, he closeted himself with him and
gave him a lengthy account of his audacious but ill-fated love. He begged the Moor for a remedy for
his lady's disaffection and scorn toward him, so beautiful and so thankless was she. The Muslim
necromancer promised him that within three days he would bring that lady into don Diego's power,
which, in fact, he did. These things aren't hard for people who aren't Catholic and who, in difficult
cases, don't hesitate to press the devil into service. Three days later the Moor appeared bearing an
image identical to dona Ines in face and in figure. Through his magical arts he'd copied her exactly,
as if she had modeled for it. This statue of dona Ines was nude. Her hands were placed over her
heart, which was exposed and stuck through with a large gold pin that looked like an arrow because
in place of a head it had feathers made of gold. The way her hands were enclosing it, it looked as if
the lady were trying to pull it out. At the top of her toque there was a green wax candle.
The Moor instructed don Diego, as soon as he was alone, to place the statue on a sideboard and
light the candle set into the head. The moment it was lighted, without fail the lady would come to
him and she would stay for as long as he wanted, until he told her to leave. After he sent her away
he shouldn't blow out the candle for as soon as she got home it would go out by itself. For him to
blow it out before it extinguished itself would gravely endanger her life. He should never fear that
the candle would bum out, not even if it burned for a whole year, because it had been formed by
magical art and would last forever, unless he cast it into a bonfire on Midsummer Night.
Don Diego couldn't feel sure that what the Moor said was true, but he felt very happy with the
high hopes he had. Also he could look at the very image of his natural enemy, so perfect and with
such natural colors that if it had been life size instead of only half a yard high he might have
forgotten the original dona Ines, like other lovers who've fallen in love with a painting or a tree.
Don Diego paid the Moor handsomely for his work and he left. Don Diego waited for nightfall and
her coming as if he were waiting for life itself. The time it took for his household and his widowed
sister, who lived in the same apartment to take care of him, to go to bed seemed like eternity to him,
so anxious was he to try out the spell. After everyone retired for the night, he undressed and got
ready for bed. He left the door ajar as the Moor had instructed him. The main door of the building
was never locked because of the other residents. Then he placed the statue on the sideboard and
lighted the candle. He went to bed to contemplate the beauty of the lovely image it illuminated.
When the candle began to burn the unknowing dona Ines was already in bed and her servants and
household had all retired. Her husband hadn't yet returned from Seville due to some lawsuits that
had come up over the money he expected to collect. The power of the spell and the candle put her
out of her right mind. Driven by some diabolic spirit that controlled her behavior, she rose from her
bed and put on the shoes that were there and a petticoat that lay with her clothes on a stool. She took
the key she kept under her pillow and set out, opening the apartment door and closing it after her,
unlocking the front door and entering the street. She made her way to don Diego's house; she had no
idea what was guiding her but it knew where to take her. Finding don Diego's door ajar, she entered.
Without saying a word or noticing a thing she crawled into bed beside don Diego. When he saw this
marvelous event he was beside himself. He got up to close the door and returned to bed saying:
"How, my beautiful lady, did I merit such favor? Now I consider all my efforts well rewarded.
Tell me, for the love of God, whether I'm asleep and dreaming this marvel or am I so fortunate as to
be awake and in my right mind as I hold you in my arms?"
Dona Ines replied not a word to these questions or to anything else don Diego said. When the
lover noted her unresponsiveness he became sad because the cursed spell seemed to have rendered
dona Ines as if unconscious and without the ability to speak. He enjoyed her favors, yes, but they
were empty favors. He realized that in her right mind the lady would never have granted them to
him, and that was true, she would rather have died. Be that as it may, he decided to make the best of
the occasion and the time by turning words into action. He lay with her for the most part of the
night. When he saw it was time for her to leave he got up and opened the door, saying to her:
"My lady, it's time for you to go."
The moment he said these words she got up, put on her petticoat and her shoes and without
uttering a word departed. Upon arriving home she opened the door and locked it behind her and
went back to bed, all without being heard by anyone, either because they were overcome by sleep or
else it was part of the spell. The instant she got into her bed the candle burning in don Diego's house
went out as if someone had snuffed it out with one breath. This surprised him greatly, and he
crossed himself a thousand times. Although he realized that what he was doing was a violation,
instead of repenting he went mad with joy. Let us leave him in his happInéss as long as it lasts and
go back to doña Inés. The moment she got into bed and the candle went out she came to her senses.
She felt as if she were awakening from a deep sleep. Recalling what had happened to her she
thought it had all been a dream and became very upset at such an immodest dream. She reproved
herself, saying:
"Oh, unfortunate woman! What is happening? Since when have I let my imagination run away
and bring such unthinkable things to mind? How can I have entertained such dreadful thoughts
about that man that such enormous and unchaste effects have been born from them? Woe is me!
What can I do? How can I forget them, stop them?"
She spent that night and the next day in a turmoil and weeping inconsolably. Late in the afternoon
she went out on her balcony hoping to distract her tangled memory. Just at that moment, don Diego,
still not believing that what had happened was really true, came down her street to see if he could
catch a glimpse of her. As I said, she was out on the balcony. When he saw how melancholy she
was and how her color was gone he knew what had brought about these changes and believed in the
truth of what had taken place. The instant doña Inés saw him she left the balcony and angrily
slammed the window shut. Don Diego understood that doña Inés must have returned home still
senseless and that her melancholy probably resulted from her dreamlike memories of what had
happened with him. When he saw the anger with which she stormed from the balcony you can
believe that he muttered:
"Lock up your house securely, my lady, but tonight I shall make you seek me out."
Don Diego spent more than a month this way bringing his lady to his house to give him pleasure
every night. It surprised and depressed the poor doña Inés that she couldn't get rid of her unchaste
dreams, as she thought they were, in spite of her constant prayers to God and her frequent visits to
her confessor. He consoled her as much as he could. She wished her husband would come home;
she hoped he might remedy her melancholy. Just as she made up her mind either to send for him or
persuade him to let her join him, you will hear what happened.
It was one of the hottest nights of the summer, calm, peaceful, with a beautiful full moon. Don
Diego lighted his enchanted candle. Doña Inés had already gone to bed because it was late, despite
the fact that she'd been putting off going to bed to avoid the malignant dreams, as she thought them
to be when in fact they were the literal truth. Exhausted from lack of sleep, she drowsed. Then the
spell began to take effect. Terrified, she roused and went to get her petticoat. She couldn't find it,
however, because the maids had taken her clothes out to be cleaned. Just like that, wearing only her
nightgown, she went out into the street and headed for don Diego's house.
On the way she ran into the mayor who was making his rounds with other officers of the peace.
With them was her brother don Francisco, who liked to accompany the mayor because they were
good friends. When they saw a woman in her nightgown flit by they called out to her to stop. She
made no sound and kept on going as if impelled by an evil spirit and so fast that they had to run
after her. They only caught up with doña Inés as she entered don Diego's house. She headed straight
for the bed where don Diego lay waiting. Her pursuers headed for the statue on the sideboard with
the candle burning in its head. At once don Diego comprehended his misfortune, the end of
everything. He feared that if they extinguished the candle doña Inés would suffer the same fate.
Leaping from the bed he shouted at them not to put out the candle for it would kill the lady. Turning
to her, he said:
"Go, my lady, go with God. The spell is over. You and I now face the punishment for our sin. I'm
sorry for you who are innocent and will suffer."
He said this because he'd seen her brother beside the mayor. The instant don Diego uttered these
words doña Inés got up and just as she'd come she departed. As she was leaving everyone including
her brother recognized her. It took all the mayor's authority to prevent him from wreaking the
vengeance he believed the two deserved. The mayor ordered half the peace officers to follow doña
Inés and report on how her enchantment ended. They were to stay with her until they received
further orders except for one who was to return and make a full report to him. Shortly thereafter the
candle suddenly went out. The mayor said to don Diego:
"Sir, you should have learned your lesson from the first trick you pulled and not tried your luck
again!"
They waited for the report from the men who had accompanied doña Inés as to how she had
gotten home, pushed open the door which was ajar, and gone inside with all of them on her heels.
She locked the door and went in to bed and lay down. When the candle went out she awoke from
the spell. Seeing herself surrounded by all those men, she screamed. She recognized them as peace
officers and asked them what they were doing in her house and how had they managed to enter
since she alone had the key.
"Alas, unfortunate lady!" one of them exclaimed. "You must indeed have been senseless if you
ask this!"
Just then her maids rushed in, terribly upset by their mistress's scream and more so by the sight of
all those strangers in her bedroom. The man who'd addressed doña Inés went on describing to her
what had happened from the moment they'd first seen her in the street up to the present. He added
that her brother had witnessed everything. When the sad and unfortunate lady heard this it was a
miracle she didn't die. In despair she began to say and do wild things; she wept and tore out her hair
by the fistful.
The officers sent a complete report to the mayor and asked him what they should do to keep the
lady from committing some desperate act. The mayor had just taken don Diego's confession, Don
Diego told the whole truth and swore to doña Inés's innocence. She came, as they themselves had
seen, bereff of all sense and judgment because of the power of the spell. This appeared to mollify
her brother's rage, although in his heart he harbored very different feelings.
The mayor had don Diego taken into custody and sent to jail. They picked up the enchanted statue
and carried it to doña Inés's house where they found her as has been described. No one could
console her, not even her maids. Had she been left alone surely she would have taken her own life.
She was now dressed and lying on a couch, sobbing and fainting by turns. The moment she saw the
mayor and her brother she cast herself at their feet and begged them to kill her because she was evil
and had stained her honor, albeit unknowingly. Deep down, don Francisco was seething with venom
and cruelty, but on the outside he appeared to show pity. He raised her up and embraced her, which
everyone considered truly noble. The mayor said to her:
"Calm yourself, my lady. Your sin does not merit the punishment you ask for. Since you actually
had no part in it, it's not really a sin."
After the unfortunate lady calmed down a bit, the mayor had someone go out and light the candle
without her knowledge. The instant this was done she stood up and went directly to where the
candle was burning. When they told her it was time for her to go she returned to her couch. The
candle went out and she returned to her senses as if waking from a deep sleep. They repeated this
many times, moving the candle from one place to another. They even took it back to don Diego's
house and relighted it. Immediately dona Ines went there dressed just as she was. When they
addressed her she did not reply.
Having tested and proven the spell, they reassured dona Ines and tried to soothe her brother, who
was more distraught than she was although for the time being he dissimulated. Indeed, he was the
one who tried the hardest to exonerate his sister. The mayor left two guards, not as jailers—she
didn't deserve that—but simply to protect her. At last, everyone went home, still marveling at such
an extraordinary event. Crazed with grief, don Francisco returned home and told his wife what had
happened. She, being the sister-in-law, said that dona Ines must have feigned her bewitchment to
exculpate herself. Her husband, thinking the same thing, agreed. He immediately sent a messenger
to Seville with a letter for his brother-in-law telling him to drop everything and come home right
away, stating that it was a matter of honor for both of them. He urged him to come in secret; no one
should know of his return, particularly not his own household, until don Francisco had spoken with
him.
The next morning the mayor conducted a search for the Moor who had made the spell, but he had
vanished. The case became known throughout the city. When the Inquisition investigated, it
requested the prisoner and he was handed over and placed in its prison. At the trial, everything was
substantiated and documented and the case went before the Supreme Tribunal. Don Diego was
never seen again. It was no small mercy that he met his punishment in secret, for otherwise he
would have died at the hands of dona Ines's husband and her brother, given that the crime he'd
committed deserved no lesser punishment,
The letter arrived in Seville and reached the hands of don Alonso, When he read the instructions it
contained, he felt confused and worried about dona Ines's possible impropriety. He set out and after
a hard journey reached his brother-in-law's house so secretly that no one detected his arrival. After
he heard the whole series of events, the three of them discussed their different ideas about how to
kill the innocent and unfortunate doña Inés. Even if she'd been guilty of voluntary error, she was
already suffering more than enough for any sin without considering that it had been proven that she
wasn't responsible for those acts. What surprises me most is the cruelty of the treacherous sister-inlaw, who, being a woman, should have taken pity on her.
Finally the three agreed upon a plan. Hiding his malign intentions don Alonso returned home and
reassured his wife with kind words and caresses, soothing her and leading her to believe that he
accepted the truth and was persuaded of her innocence. The case had become so public there was no
way to keep the story from him. Deeply ashamed of her misfortune, she scarcely dared look at him.
She did, however, try to control her emotions and her tears, and she began to recover from her loss.
Several days passed and then one day her crafty husband amiably told her how he and her brother
had made up their minds to move their families and households into Seville. First, to get away from
all the people who knew about her misfortune and pointed their fingers at them. Second, to be able
to take care of his lawsuits, which had become very complicated. Doña Inés replied that she had no
other pleasure but his. They began to make arrangements to carry out this plan, selling all their
estates and possessions in that place as if they never intended to return there. Then with great
excitement they all departed. Doña Inés was the happiest of all to escape from the affront of such a
scandal.
When they got to Seville they took a house that suited their needs. There were no neighbors. Then
they dismissed all the maids and servants they'd brought with them so they could accomplish
without witnesses the cruelty I shall now describe.
In a little room in the highest part of the house where not even servants would ever have occasion
to go, in the chimney space which was there or which they made—no one knows, because the
husband, brother, and sister-in-law were the only witnesses—they sealed in the poor unfortunate
doña Inés, using plaster, rubble, and other materials they'd had brought up. They left her only
enough space to stand upright, and if she tried to sit she couldn't, except maybe to crouch a little.
They walled her in leaving only a tiny hole the size of half a sheet of paper through which she could
breathe and they could pass her meager rations so she wouldn't die too quickly. Her tears and
protests had no effect. When they finished they locked the room and the cruel, evil sister-in- law
kept the key. She herself took up food and water, so even after they hired new maids and servants
no one knew the secret of the locked room.
Doña Inés spent six years there. During this time the heavenly Father permitted her to remain
alive even in such torment, perhaps because of her own merit or else to punish the authors of her
suffering. You can imagine what it was like. I've described the way she had to stand in the waste
and excrement from her body, which served as bed for her body and platform for her feet. She wept
all the time. She begged God to relieve her of her terrible martyrdom. In all this long time her eyes
never saw the light nor did her weary body ever lie down. Removed from all human company,
deprived of hearing mass and receiving the holy sacraments, she suffered more than anyone ever
martyred by tyrant. Not one of her three executioners took pity on her or felt sorry for her. Indeed,
each time the treacherous sister-in-law brought up her food she would heap upon her a thousand
insults and obscenities.
Finally the Lord tired of tolerating such a crime, perhaps to keep her from dying of despair, and
He granted that this sad woman be rescued from her mean prison. It so happened that adjacent to
this house was another illustrious house owned by a very important gentleman. This man's wife had
a maid who had married years before. Now the maid was a widow and needy. Because this woman
had served her well and now in her poverty couldn't afford rent, her former mistress charitably let
her use the two attic rooms adjoining the wall in which the poor doña Inés was sandwiched. These
rooms had never been inhabited before, having been used to store barley. The good widow moved
in and placed her bed right against the wall where doña Inés was imprisoned.
Doña Inés was, as usual, lamenting her misfortune and crying out to God to succor her. In the still
of the night the widow, in bed, kept hearing the moaning and lamentation. At first she thought it
was a troubled soul from the other world. Because she was alone she felt a fear so great that she
scarcely dared to stay there. Her fear drove her to ask her sister to let her ten-year-old daughter
come and keep her company. Comforted by the presence of a companion, she began to spend more
time in her room and to pay more attention. In all the moaning, she heard how doña Inés called out
to God and to Our Lady the Blessed Virgin, She thought it must be some ill person whose pain
caused her to complain like that. One night when she was listening more attentively with her ear
pressed against the wall, she managed to make out the words that were being uttered:
"How long, oh merciful and almighty God, must I endure this weary life? When, oh Lord, will
you let angry death strike me the cruel blow? How long will those cruel and bloody executioners of
my innocence enjoy the power to treat me like this? Lord, how can you let them usurp your justice,
punishing me so cruelly when you, Lord, will not punish them? When you send punishment, it's
only for the guilty and even then it's tempered with mercy. But these tyrants punish me for
something I did not do as you well know. I had no part in the sin for which I suffer such cruel
torture. My greatest torment, the thing I regret most, is that I can neither live nor die as a Christian.
It's been so long since I've heard mass, since I've confessed my sins, since I've received your Sacred
Body. In what Moorish kingdom would a captive be treated as I'm treated here? Woe is me! I don't
want to get out in order to live but only to die a Christian death as a Catholic. I so despise life that I
eat the mean rations they bring me only to keep from dying of despair, not for the sake of living."
Doña Inés ended these utterances with such painful weeping that the woman who was listening
was moved to pity. Raising her voice so as to be heard, she called out:
"Woman or whoever you are, what's wrong with you? Why do you lament so grievously? Tell me,
for the love of God and if I can get you out of there I shall, even at the risk of my life."
"Who are you," asked doña Inés, "whom God has permitted to take pity on me?"
"I'm a neighbor on the other side," the woman responded, "and I haven't lived here very long. In
this brief time you've caused me great fear, as great as is now my compassion. Now, tell me, what
can I do? Hide nothing from me and I shall go to every length to deliver you from your misery."
"If that's so, my lady," doña Inés said, "and if you're not on the side of my cruel executioners. . .
But I can't speak now, I'm afraid they might hear me. I'm just a sad and unfortunate woman. The
cruelty of my husband, my brother, and my sister-in-law has placed me in such a narrow prison that
I cannot move or stretch my weary body. So tight is the place I'm in that I can only stand or crouch
a little. There's no respite from the pain and misery I suffer. The most horrible thing is the darkness
in which I live. It hasn't been a short time, either. Although I don't know when it's day or night,
Saturday or Sunday, Easter or New Year's, I do know it's been an eternity of time. If I suffered this
for some guilt I might console myself. But the Lord knows I'm not guilty. I don't fear death, rather I
desire it, but my greatest fear is losing my soul. Many times I've been tempted to use my hands as a
rope with which to strangle myself about the throat in order to end my life. Then I realize the devil
is tempting me and I pray to God to free me from him."
"What did you do that they treat you like this?" asked the woman.
"I've told you," doña Inés replied, "that I'm not guilty. It's a long story that can't be told now. What
you must do if you wish to help me is go to the archbishop or the mayor. Tell what I've told you and
ask them to come get me out of here before I die, if only so I can perform my Christian duties. I
assure you that my weary body is in such bad shape that I doubt I shall live much longer. I beg you,
for God's sake, to do this right away, as it's a matter of saving my soul."
"It's late now," the woman said, "so have patience and ofter up your suffering to God. I promise
you as soon as day comes I'll do as you ask."
"May God reward you!" doña Inés responded. "I'll follow your advice. Rest now and I'll try to do
the same if I can, hoping you'll be able to rescue me."
"You can count on it, with God's help," the good woman replied.
The two women fell silent. When morning came the widow went down to her mistress and told
her what had happened. Her mistress was shocked and grieved. She would have preferred to wait
until night so she could go up and speak with doña Inés herself but she feared the harm that might
befall that poor woman if she should die in that state, so she did not delay. Immediately she called
for her carriage and she herself accompanied the widow on her mission to the archbishop, believing
that the authority of her presence would make the story more credible. When they told the
archbishop all that's been related here, he was appalled. He informed the mayor, and together, with
many officers of the peace both secular and religious, they went to the house where don Alonso and
don Francisco lived. They surrounded it to prevent their escape. Then they entered and arrested the
two men and don Francisco's wife, as well as all the maids and servants, and took their confessions.
Of course the servants could say nothing because they knew nothing. At first the treacherous
husband, brother, and cruel sister-in-law denied everything. They soon realized it wouldn't work,
however, because the archbishop and the mayor were too well informed, and so they confessed the
truth. The sister-in- law handed over the key and they went upstairs to the place where the poor
doña Inés was. When she heard the troop of people she imagined who it must be and called out.
They tore down the wall and finally brought her out.
What a pitiful sight! When she was walled up, she was not quite twenty-four. With the six years
she'd spent there, it made her thirty. The flower of her youth!
First of all, although her eyes looked clear, she was blind, either from the absolute darkness (it's
well known that people deprived of light for a long time go blind), or from the constant weeping.
Whatever the cause, she had lost her sight. Her splendid hair which when she entered was like
threads of spun gold was now white as snow and tangled and seething with lice. Since her hair was
never combed they had multiplied in such number that her head effervesced with them. Her color
was the color of death. Her body was so consumed and emaciated that you could count her bones as
if the skin that covered them were a silken shroud. From her eyes down to her chin were two
furrows worn deep by her tears, as if a heavy cord had been impressed there. Her clothing had
disintegrated so you could see most of her body through the tatters. Her feet and legs had no
covering because her body wastes, which she couldn't dispose of, had consumed the flesh of her
legs up to her thighs which were covered with sores and worms that swarmed in that gross place.
What more can one say except that the sight filled everyone with pity. They wept as if she were
their own daughter.
The moment they took her out she asked, if the archbishop were present, to be taken to him. They
covered up the indecency of her nakedness with a cloak and carried her in their arms to place her
before him. Lying on the floor, she kissed his feet and asked for his blessing. Then in brief
sentences she told her whole unfortunate story. It so enraged the mayor that on the spot he ordered
the three prisoners thrown in jail, chained, manacled, and separated so they couldn't see each other.
He condemned the sister-in-law's cruelty more harshly than the others', to which she replied that she
simply did what her husband commanded,
The lady who had reported the matter and the good widow who had discovered it were present
throughout. They had the intervening wall torn down so they wouldn't have to carry doña Inés out
into the street and they took her into their house. The noble lady had a lavish bed prepared and laid
doña Inés in it. She called in doctors and surgeons to treat her. They tried to make her take some
nourishment because she was so emaciated they were afraid she might die, but doña Inés refused to
eat a thing until she could receive divine nourishment for her soul, making confession and receiving
the sacrament, which was quickly brought,
With the excellent care the lady provided, doña Inés finally recovered, except for her vision—
there was no way to restore that to her. The mayor pressed charges against the prisoners and after
the investigation was completed he sentenced all three to death; being noble, they were executed on
the gallows. Their crime was so heinous that all their wealth couldn't buy them a pardon. When
doña Inés regained her health and her beauty, except for her sight, she was placed in a convent with
two maids to assure her comfort. There she was supported by the immense fortune she'd inherited
from her husband and her brother. She still lives there today leading the life of a saint. A person
who saw her when they removed her from the wall and then later has assured me that she's one of
the most beautiful women in the entire kingdom of Andalucia because although she's blind her eyes
are clear and as beautiful as they used to be and you can't tell that she has no sight.
This story is as true as truth itself. I've told you that the person who recounted it to me was an
eyewitness. See now if it serves as a good disenchantment for women: if this is what happens to the
innocent, what can the guilty expect? Regarding cruelty to unfortunate women, one can't trust in
brothers or in husbands for they are, after all, men. As King Alfonso the Wise said, man's heart is a
deep and trackless jungle where cruelty, a wild and savage beast, has its home and its hearth. The
events in this story took place some twenty years ago and doña Inés is still alive today, as are others
who took part in it and who knew her. God saw fit to make her suffer and to protect her life so that
she should not die of despair and so that the ravening wolf of her brother, the cruel basilisk of her
husband, and the fierce lioness of her sister-in-law should bring about their own punishment. ***
The ladies and gentlemen were wishing that the discreet Laura would bring her disenchantment to
an end. The prodigious trials of the beautiful but unfortunate doña Inés filled them with great pity
and compassion and they'd wept oceans of tears just hearing about them. They didn't consider the
husband's cruelty to be as great as the brother's, because he wasn't of the same blood. And even if
doña Inés had willfully committed the error which brought that punishment down upon her the most
she deserved was a quick death, as is meted out to women who sin knowingly, but certainly not
such a long-drawn-out torture as they arranged for her. The one they blamed most was the sister-inlaw, because she, being a woman, should have been merciful, particularly when it had been proven
that the diabolic spell had deprived doña Inés of all consciousness when she'd fallen into error. The
first person to break the silence was doña Estefania. Uttering a deep sigh, she said:
"Alas, my heavenly Bridegroom! If every time we offend against you you punished us like that,
what would become of us? But I'm foolish to compare you, merciful Lord, with earthly husbands.
I've never been sorry for a moment that I consecrated myself to be your bride and even less so
today. I shall never regret it and if I should ever offend against you, I know that with my first tear
you'll forgive me and take me back with open arms."
Turning to the ladies, she addressed them:
"In truth, ladies, I do not understand how you can give yourselves to the enemy under the name of
husband, to one who takes offense not only at your behavior but also at your thoughts, whom you
can never please no matter whether you're good or bad. Why do you entrust yourselves to them and
trust in their dissembling corruption when if, by chance, you are caught in some ofiense against
them, you can be sure they won't rest until they've had their revenge? Simply from this
disenchantment told by my aunt Laura you should all be thoroughly disenchanted, not to mention
the other conclusions we've drawn during this soiree. The gentlemen should see how wrong they are
to blame everything on women, accusing them of every crime, weakness, cruelty, and abuse,
because women are not always guilty.
"The fact is that for the most part, the higher a woman's status the more helpless and unfortunate
she is. Not only do women suffer the fates we've seen in these disenchantments, they also suffer
from the bad public attitude toward ordinary women. It's even a kind of passion or obsession in the
geniuses who write books and invent plays to follow the popular misconception that, as a rule, casts
all blame for all misdeeds on women. There is, however, just as much to blame men for, and if men
wrote about how men really are they would have saved these ladies the trouble they've taken to
vindicate women's honor and come to their defense because there's no one else who does defend
women. They've had to research the most extreme cases to prove that not all women are evil nor are
all men good."
"You're right," don Juan responded. "It does seem true that we've all taken up the vice of not
speaking kindly about women just like the vice of tobacco used by noble and commoner alike.
Some users speak ill of others who use it as they clutch their own tobacco pouches tighter than a
rosary or a prayer book. It's as if because it's in a gilded box or a silver one or a crystal one it ceases
to be tobacco. If you ask them why they use it, they say: 'Because it's the fashion.' Blaming women
for everything is the same kind of thing. Given the right situation, ask the most impassioned man
why he speaks ill of women when woman is the most delightful flower garden of all that nature
created and he'll reply: 'Because its the fashion.'"
They all laughed at the comparison don Juan made between the use of tobacco and speaking iH of
women. But when you think about it he spoke wisely, because if the vice of tobacco is the nastiest
of vices, it's well compared to the most abominable vice there can be which is the failure to value,
honor, and praise women, the good ones because they are good and the bad ones for the sake of the
good ones.
The beautiful doña Isabel noted that the lovely Matilde was preparing to move to the
disenchantment seat so she signaled the musicians to sing this ballad:
"When Atandra looks at you
don't you, ungrateful lover, look at
the deception in her eyes
because you kill me with jealousy.
Don't push her in her freedom
for if she sees reproach in your eyes
she will find in your license
an example for her own.
Don't demean your own worth
with such gross thoughts,
or it will be cause for me
to repent of my employ.
She has a lover, let her enjoy him,
and if he doesn't please her,
she should have noticed whether she was right
or wrong
when she picked him.
May you be obliged not te accept
her mad frivolity
by the tears of my eyes,
by the torments of my soul.
For if I try to bear
the sorrows I am suffering,
if that is possible for my courage,
it is not so for my suffering.
What good, Salicio,
are all the cares with which I wake
and spend the long nights sleepless
and all the days without rest,
if you take pleasure in killing me
by giving that tyrant the reward
that has cost me so much pain,
that has cost me so much sleep.
Today when she left your shelter,
that tyrant of my delights,
her smiling face revealed
how happy she is to enjoy them.
If you saw that they were mine
you wouldn't give them away so quickly;
you committed a crime
because you sold what wasn't yours.
If she saw you ill-tempered,
if she saw you severe,
boldly, she would not offer you
evidence that I offend you."
Thus sang a married woman
alone with her instrument,
seeing in Salicio and Atandra
proof of all her jealousy.
(beginning of the frame tale transition between 1st and 2nd nights)
SIXTH DISENCHANTMENT [= Span text packet pp. 179-184]
When the music ended, the lovely Matilde was already prepared to relate her disenchantment,
although she felt doubtful that it would be as brilliant as the ones already told. She was so lovely and
spirited, however, that her charm alone served to disenchant all who gazed upon her, for truly there
was no one worthy of her. Even if her disenchantment were not one of the most notable, her grace
would more than make up for it. When she saw that everyone was hushing in anticipation, she spoke:
"Indeed, beautiful ladies and well-intentioned gentlemen, as I was getting ready to occupy this
seat, I left a post-horse waiting at the door and I have my spurs on, for disenchanting means telling
the truth and, in these times, one who plans to tell the truth has to be ready to leave this world. If the
people who hear the truth are going to exile us, we'd do better to leave on our own, as it's best to
control oneself rather than letting oneself be controlled by others. That's why the pagans used to kill
themselves, considering life less important than suffering affront or defeat at the hands of the enemy.
Since they didn't understand the immortality of the soul, they believed that dying at their own hand
rather than at the enemy's was an honorable victory. And that's exactly why today men speak ill of
women, because women show them up, if not in their words, in their deeds. I'm talking about the
women who intend to deceive and undeceive. Men have always been the authors of deception,
scriptures and history tell us that. Although I could cite some examples, I won't because I wish to
earn the title of disenchantress, not scholar. Men have usurped this latter title from us by feminizing
us more than nature did. While nature gave us tender hearts and little strength, at least she infused ...
[siguen los últimos 5 cuentos del sarao en la segunda y una tercera noche. Al terminar el décimo y último
relato, el de Lisis, volvemos al marco general del sarao a que invitó sus amigos, y con ello se finaliza la
novela.]
[final del relato de Lisis: ]
. . . strength and recover completely he made all the necessary arrangements. It became necessary for
him to give account of the case to His Majesty, who mercifully granted a pardon for Florentina's guilt
in the matter. At last she achieved her desire and became a nun in one of the most sumptuous
convents in Lisbon, Her punishment was her deep grief and the pain from the wounds don Dionis had
inflicted. Her great wealth from all her estates provided her with dowry. Today she still lives a saintly
and devout life. She writes to don Gaspar, never forgetting her gratitude to him. She sends him many
gifts in acknowledgment of the debt she feels. He returned with His Majesty to Madrid and got
married in Toledo, where he still lives today. It was from him that I heard this disenchantment that
you've just heard.
The moment Lisis ended her disenchantment, the lovely dona Isabel, aware of her intention because
Lisis had told her earlier what she planned, wanted to let her rest before she made her closing
comments, thus putting an end to this last entertaining soiree. Dona Isabel left her harp, picked up a
guitar, and sang the following song unaccompanied:
"In the meadow amidst rustic thorns
my salty tears are bom
that are the fruit of my soul
caused by melancholy absence;
I go out to weep over a cruel lover
and try to forget my tragic love,
for if it had been happy
I would sing a merry song.
As in a fantastic vision
that my eyes never beheld,
through his harmonious voice
he gained entrance to my soul.
Only through soft tones
does my love enjoy its marriage,
despite his mournful neglect
that pushes my life to its end.
What sorrowful tones
those elm trees hear,
for pain, with no harsh guilt
causes my soul its misfortune.
Idon'tsinglikeawarbler
or even like a goldfinch,
rather I lament like the dove
left alone in the wilderness.
Since my love was platonic
while in him the fire burned,
with fine desire he sought to be
not thunder but lightning.
I love only the idea
since he repaid me with preambles
and cruelly has forgotten me
and my pure, magnanimous love.
Alas, meadows and dry grasses,
wilderness and chill icicles!
Hear in harmonious melancholy
all my languid sighs.
With my tender tears
your crystalline streams
become flooded torrents
to engorge the Spanish seas.
And if of my harsh death
you see the pale flickering
while my weary life
gives up its vital labor,
tell it to the sweet songbird
for the uncaring birds
sing in a mechanical way
with their unheard songs.
Being an illustrious hero,
with such sparkling valor,
he deceives by being illustrious,
feigning angelic fire.
What can you expect from the ordinary
except misfortune and disaster,
just look at unhappy Prometheus
bound to the Caucasian rock.
With sweet and practiced style
and using historical phrasing
he sets out bait for the doves
who live with such free spirit,
what miracle then when they hear him
for them to flee their wilderness?
What miracle for her, burning up,
to feel as confused as the gadfly?
If he sees her benevolent,
then it's wild and harsh indeed
for him, Hying swiftly,
to leave her in bitter misfortune.
For even if he loved
his beautiful warbler, it's barbaric,
this love being so chaste
to be repaid so tyrannically.
Over a long period of time
not a single trace of his love
or of his deadly memory
has been seen in my abode.
If he loved with understanding
he would not mind being Tantalus
nor would he forget so quickly
such sweet and tender dialogue."
This is what the dove sang
with rough and mournful song,
sitting in a funereal cypress
that stood in the lonely wilderness.
"Beautiful ladies, noble and discreet gentlemen," the wise Lisis said when dona Isabel had ended
her song, "I think the defense of women has been thoroughly aired, which is what I proposed to do
during this second celebration of my honest and entertaining soirees. Still, I must confess that there
are many women who, through their mistakes and vices, give motive to men for their widespread
lack of regard for women. Even so, it isn't right for men when they talk together, to measure all
women by the same stick. In a machine as wide and vast as is this world, there must be a mixture
of good women and bad just as there are men both good and bad. If there weren't, we'd have to
deny glory to all the saints who've passed through this life and are now in Heaven with God, and
deny virtue to the myriads who have cherished virtue. It's not right for men to expand their
disregard for women and apply it to all women without exception as if it were the original sin. As
has been said many times throughout these tales, the bad ones aren't women, they can't all be bad,
for that would mean that God had created woman without a soul to win a place in Heaven but
instead a flesh-eating monster.
"Now I know that some will ask: 'Which ones are good, for today even in the highest classes we
find deception and fraud?' I shall answer this by saying that these are rather wild beasts than
ordinary women because they neglect their obligations and give cause for disrespect. Although their
bad star inclines them toward mischief, they might have some excuse if they practiced discretion;
that is, if vice does affect the highest, which I cannot believe. I think instead that there are ordinary
women who think they can win a man's esteem by passing themselves off as noble (trusting in a
cloak). Afterward they revert to their true nature, like the actress who plays a lady in a play.
Because men are prejudiced against women, instantly they believe any weakness in them and to
support their negative opinion, they say that even the most responsible women fail in their
responsibilities. This is a good example of some men's malice; I won't say all, even though they've
joined ranks in being talebearers. Just because the latest fad is speaking ill of women, that's no
excuse. What really surprises me is that noble men, honorable and virtuous men, let themselves be
swept away by common parlance so that the nobility with which heaven endowed them and
whatever virtues they may enjoy and all the science they're always studying cease to govern them.
Being so studious, men should learn from their science that there are in the present and have been
in the past many women who are good, virtuous, devout, learned, honorable, valiant, loyal, and true.
"I confess that in some ways men are right. There are in this day and age more loose and vicious
women than there have ever before been, but that doesn't mean that there aren't more good women
than bad. To support the truth of this more strongly, men can't deny to me that in antiquity there
were many famous women. That would be to deny the innumerable saints celebrated by the church,
all the martyrs, all the virgins, all the widows and all the chaste who have suffered and died at the
cruel hands of men. If this were not so, then these disenchantresses wouldn't have had material for
their disenchantments, and all have been as true as truth itselfl so true that they owe little to
invention. As for embellishment, they have needed none.
"What law human or divine enables you, noble gendemen, to so hurl yourselves against women
that you can hardly find a single man to defend them, that you see so many men persecute them? I'd
like to ask you if this is the way you comply with your obligation to your nobility? When you pin
the insignias of nobility to your chest, what do you swear? Is it right for you not to uphold the oath?
I think you seek and desire nobility only as adornment, like silk stockings and curly locks. Where
do you think the lack of courage you all exhibit nowadays comes from? That lets you tolerate the
enemy within Spanish borders, and while our king is doing battle you sit in the park and stroll along
the river all dolled up in feminine frippery? The few men who do accompany the king long only for
the Heshpots of Egypt. It comes from your low regard for women.
"I swear if you did love and cherish women as was the way in former times, you'd volunteer not
just to go to war and fight but to die, exposing your throat to the knife to keep them from falling
into the hands of the enemy. This is the way it was in earlier days, particularly under King
Fernando the Catholic. Then it wasn't necessary to conscript men, forcing them into service almost
with their hands tied, the way it is today (causing our Catholic king unhappiness and great
misfortune). Men used to offer up their possessions and their lives, the father to defend his
daughter, the brother to defend his sister, the husband to defend his wife, the suitor to defend his
lady. They did so to keep their women from being captured, taken prisoner or, worst of all, being
dishonored. I feel sure this is what will come to pass if you men don't gather the courage to defend
women.
"Because you seem to consider women as the tawdriest and least valuable jewel among all your
possessions, you care nothing about the fact that they may be enslaved and sent off to other
countries. I swear, if common men could see your courage in defending us, they would all follow
after you and do the same. If you think that in going away to fight, you will be aggrieved or
dishonored in your absence, then all of you go follow your king and defend us, and we, being left
alone, will be like Moses who by praying will enable Joshua to conquer.
"How can you sit back and see us almost in the power of the enemy? From where the enemy is to
where we are, the only defense is your heroic heart and your brave arm! Aren't you ashamed to be
here at court, donning your gala outfits and curling your hair, strolling through parks and
gallivanting in carriages instead of defending us? On top of that, you ruin our good name and our
honor by telling tales about your love affairs, which I think are more malicious fiction than fact!
You boast of exploits impossible even with a common whore, simply to prove your prejudiced ideas
which are the product of the idleness you spend offending against God and against your nobility. So
this is Spanish valor! How can the Castilian spirit tolerate this! Some clever writer has said that the
French have stolen Spanish courage and you have stolen French fashion.
"Respect and honor women and you will see how your lost valor returns. If you think women
don't deserve this kindness, you're wrong. If two women offend against you with bad treatment,
there are infinite numbers of women who will treat you right. If through one good woman, many
bad ones merit pardon, let the many good ones that fill the world earn pardon for the few bad ones.
You will find them if you visit the sanctuaries in Madrid and everywhere else, for you'll find good
women taking the sacraments every day, unlike the kind who seek you out in parks and along the
riverside. There have been and are many good women, gentlemen. For the love of God, give up
your unworthy opinions and don't get swept away by tale-telling vulgarity!
"Even if there were no other good woman than our saintly and serene queen, dona Isabel de
Borbon (whom God has taken from us, to Spain's great loss, because the world was unworthy of
her), for her sake alone women deserve a good name, the bad ones being redeemed by it and the
good ones acquiring glorious praise. You must give women their due; I assure you that if ordinary
men who now speak ill of women knew that noblemen were defending them, then at least out of
fear they would treat women well. But they watch you listen with pleasure to their opprobrium and
so, like gamblers, they pile license upon license, scurrility upon scurrility, malice upon malice.
"I say that the man who speaks ill of women is not a gendeman; he's not noble; he's not honorable.
Even if a woman is bad, she is redeemed by the virtue of the good woman. As a challenge, I'll assert
that the man who speaks ill of women does not uphold his obligation. I've taken up the pen, set
aside for so many years, in their defense and so shall I take up the sword for the same purpose, for
affronts make one strong who was before weak. I do this not for my own sake, because it doesn't
affect me directly; you know me only by my writing and not by sight. I do this for all women
because of the sorrow and the pain their bad name produces in me.
"You, beautiful ladies of all ranks and stations, what greater disenchantment do you want than the
slandering of your name on every man's tongue? When will you undeceive yourselves and
recognize that men seek only to topple your honor and destroy you and then exaggerate about what
they've done with you? From all you've seen and heard, how can you fail to realize that for men,
love lasts only as long as their appetite? When that ends, love ends. See this in the man who most
swears that he loves a woman; let him catch her in a trifle and see if he'll pardon her the way God
pardons us, because He loves us so much He will pardon the many offenses we do against Him.
"Do you expect to be more fortunate than the women in these disenchantments we've been telling?
This is your greatest deception, because every day, as surely the world draws to its end, things go
from bad to worse. Why are you willing, for the sake of such fickle mutability as a man's love, to
risk your good name and even your life at the cruel hands of a man? The greatest misfortune is for
the blameless to die and the guilty to live. Well, that won't happen to me. I won't be lacking in
judgment like other women.
"And so, don Diego," the wise Lisis went on, turning toward the man who expected her to
become his wife, "be advised that it wouldn't be right for me to deceive myself when I am trying to
undeceive. Not because there is any deception in my becoming your wife but because it isn't right
for me to trust in my good fortune. I feel no more loyal than the beautiful dona Isabel whose many
trials did her no good, as she told us in her own disenchantment. That's when all my fears began.
"I think about Camila, whose virtue did not suffice to save her from misfortune; on the contrary,
because she said nothing to her husband, she was judged guilty and lost her life. Roseleta, who did
tell her husband, couldn't avert her punishment. Elena suffered in innocence and died a tortured
death. It did not excuse dona Ines to be deprived of her reason by the magician's spells and
bewitchments, nor was Laurela exonerated for being raped by a traitor. Her virtue and her purity did
not help dona Blanca, nor did dona Mencia's blameless love. Dona Ana's innocence, having never
erred, did not keep her from losing her life only because she was poor. Beatriz required all the
favor of the Mother of God to save her life, persecuted by so many trials, and not all of us merit
this. It did dona Magdalena no good to be chaste and virtuous to free herself from the treachery of
an infamous maid, from whom no one ir the world is safe.
"If we're good, servants give false testimony, and if we're bad, they publicize our sins. Servants
are domestic animals and privileged enemies whom we spoil and on whom we spend our patience
and our wealth. In the end, they're like the lion that turns against his keeper and kills him if he is
negligent in feeding and pampering him. That's the way in the long run servants kill their masters,
telling all they know about them and even telling things they don't know, tirelessly gossiping about
their lives and habits. The bad thing is we can't get along without them, either because of our vanity
or our sense of honor.
"Well, if one weary little life has so many enemies, the worst of whom is a husband, then why
should I enter the fray in which so many have been vanquished and will keep on being vanquished
as long as the world lasts, when I am no braver or more fortunate? Your merits are such that you
will find a wife who's more courageous and less disenchanted. While I may not be disenchanted
from personal experience, I am from knowledge.
"As in any game, the one who knows who his partners are plays best. I've learned not only from
these disenchantments but from the example all married women give. Some lament that their
husbands gamble, others that they keep mistresses, many that their husbands don't take care of their
honor and, to keep from buying their wife a new dress, they let somebody else do so. Then, after
feigning ignorance, suddenly they open their eyes and kill the wife when they'd do better to kill the
man for, after all, it was the man who caused the offense in the first place, as I see happening in
Madrid. Even since the first day of this soiree, which was the [Sunday] before Lent of this year,
1646, there have been many scandalous affairs, I am such a coward that, like a person who's
committed some crime, I shall take refuge in sanctuary. I plan to retire to a convent, from where, as
from behind a safety barricade, I intend to observe what happens to everybody else. With my
beloved dona Isabel, whom I intend to accompany as long as I live, I'm going to save myself from
the deceptions of men.
"You, beautiful ladies, if you're not disenchanted by what's been written, let my example
disenchant you. I beg you men, by way of farewell, to change your thinking and your language with
regard to women. If my written defense doesn't suffice, then we'll all have to take up arms to defend
ourselves against your evil intentions, to defend ourselves against our enemy. We have no worse
enemy than men, for they cause us greater injury than any invading soldier,"
Having uttered these words, the discreet Lisis rose to her feet. She took the beautiful dona Isabel
by one hand and her cousin dona Estefania by the other and the three made a courtly bow. Without
waiting for a response, the three went into the next room. This confounded her mother, who had no
idea of her intentions, it drove don Diego to despair, and everyone else was amazed by Lisis's
decision.
Unhappy and feeling mortally injured, don Diego left the hall without saying good-bye to anyone.
They say that he went to serve the king in the Catalan Revolt, where he died because he exposed
himself to the greatest perils.
When everyone else said farewell to Laura, they congratulated her on her daughter's divine
intelligence and went on their way. Some spread the stunning news, others spread stories, a lot
spread gossip about the soirees, for at court there are a great number of ignorant vermin whose
greatest delight is to speak ill of others' works when most likely they can't even understand them.
The next day, Lisis, dona Isabel, and dona Estefania went off to the convent with great pleasure.
Dona Isabel took the habit but Lisis remained secular. As soon as Laura put all her affairs in order,
which would provide all the income they needed, she joined them so as not to be separated from
her darling Lisis, Dona Isabel wrote the news to her mother and the moment she learned where her
daughter was she likewise came to join them and donned the nun's habit. From her, it was learned
that don Felipe had died in the wars.
A few months later, Lisarda married a very wealthy foreign gentleman, which made don Juan
unhappy. He had to confess, however, since he'd been disloyal to Lisis, that Lisarda had paid him
back. He fell mortally ill and suffered an attack of madness that ended his life.
I have reached the end of my entertaining soiree. To conclude, I beg the ladies to mend their
forward ways if they wish to be respected by men, and I beg the gentlemen to act like gentlemen
by honoring women as is proper for them. Otherwise, they should consider themselves under
challenge because they fail to keep the laws of chivalry when they fail to defend women. Farewell.
Now, illustrious Fabio, to comply with your request that I not give a tragic end to this story, the
beautiful Lisis lives in the cloister, still fearful that some deception might disenchant her, because
she did not learn directly from her own misfortune. This end is not tragic but rather the happiest
one you can imagine for, although courted and desired by many, she did not subject herself to
anyone. If you still wish to see her, seek her with chaste intent and you will find her at your service,
with loyal and honorable good will as she has promised. As always, your humble servant as befits
your merits, and even in acknowledging that, no woman excels her.