The Three-Cornered Hat

by Pedro Antonio de Alarcon

  The truth was not that Tio Lucas’s love was less strong than Frasquita’s. It was rather that he had more trust in her faithfulness than she had in his. Moreover, he excelled her in penetration, and knew exactly how far her love for him extended and how much she respected herself. He was, to sum up, a complete man – a man of Shakespearean stamp, of few but intense passions, incapable of doubt, a man whose faith was all or nothing, who either loved or hated to the death, and admitted no comparative degree between total felicity and the utter wreck of happiness. He was, in short, an Othello in homespun, and we meet him now playing his part in what could prove the first act of a tragedy.

  Here the reader may ask: “How come these notes of gloom in so cheerful an overture – these fateful lightnings in so cloudless an atmosphere? Why these premonitions of high drama in such a setting?”

  Reader, you shall soon learn.

  8

  The Man in the Three-Cornered Hat

  It was two o’clock on an October afternoon.

  The Cathedral bell was ringing Vespers – a fact that proclaimed that the midday meal was over for all the leading citizens of Seville.

  The Canons were on their way to the Choir and the laity had settled down in their bedrooms for the siesta, particularly those who, like the city officials, for instance, holding office of responsibility, had spent the whole morning at work.

  So it was a matter for some comment that at that hour, surely a most unsuitable one for an outing in the country particularly as it was still exceedingly hot, there should set out from the City, on foot and with only one Alguacil in attendance, the Lord Governor of Seville himself. He was a personage easily distinguishable at any time of day or night by the vast span of his three-cornered hat, the gaudiness of his crimson cape, and the peculiar blend of grotesqueness and elegance in his appearance.

  Of the cape and the three-cornered hat many still living today could speak, if they would, from first-hand knowledge. I among them, like everyone born in Seville during the last years of Fernando VII’s reign, well remembered seeing them, the only decoration traceable on any of the tumbledown walls, hanging by a nail in the ruined tower of his Lordship’s former house, the place then having become a playground for his grandchildren. There they hung, those picturesque relics, the black hat on top and the red cape below, a sort of ghostly memento of absolutism, a representation in cloth of the Corregidor or posthumous caricature of his reign done in charcoal and red ochre such as we youthful champions of the 1837 Constitution often drew on those very walls. Yes, there they hung, scaring the birds as once they had scared men, and to this day it makes me a little uneasy to think I should ever have joined in the jeering as the relics went their way through the historic city at carnival time, hoisted high on a chimney sweep’s broom or ludicrously perched on the head and shoulders of some waggish popular hero who in this way drew fresh roars of mirth from the rabble… Poor emblem of old authority! To such a level we sank you, we who now would only too gladly summon you back to life!

  We have spoken of the grotesque element in the elegance of his Lordship the Corregidor. This lay, it is said, in his being round-backed, even more round-backed than Lucas… almost, in a word, a hunchback. He was of less than medium stature, of poor physique and unhealthy appearance, with bow legs and a peculiar gait, or rather a way of swaying back and forth and from side to side which can only be described by saying, fantastic as it sounds, that he seemed lame in both feet. Nevertheless, his features were fine-cut, though he was rather sunken in the cheeks from total lack of teeth. His complexion was olive-brown, like that of most of Castille’s children, and he had large, murky eyes in which flashes of choler, cruelty, and self-indulgence would spark momentarily. He had a slender foxy face which bore no stamp of any admirable quality but rather of a spiteful cunning that would stop at nothing, and a self-satisfied air in which the aristocrat and the libertine each showed himself and which hinted that in his far-away youth he had had his way with women in spite of his lame feet and his round back.

  Don Eugenio de Zuniga y Ponce de Leon had been born in Madrid of an illustrious family. At this time he was entering his fifty-fifth year and his fourth as Governor, or Corregidor, of the City, where he had married, shortly after his arrival there, the illustrious lady you shall hear more of in due course.

  Don Eugenio’s stockings, which, apart from his shoes, were the only part of his dress which his very long cape allowed to be seen, were white, and his shoes black with gold buckles. But when the heat in the open countryside obliged him to throw aside his outer covering it could be seen that he wore a fine cambric neck cloth, an undercoat of dove-coloured serge overworked with a pattern of green sprigs and bordered with braid, knee breeches of black silk, an ample frockcoat of the same material as the undercoat, a rapier with a steel pommel, a tasselled cane, and a pair of gloves or gauntlets, which he was never known to put on, but brandished as a king does his sceptre.

  The Alguacil, or Constable, who strode twenty paces behind his Lordship, was known as Weasel and certainly lived up to the nickname. Lean, and extraordinarily lithe, with eyes that seemed to be everywhere as he walked along, he had a long, scraggy neck, small, unprepossessing features, and two bony hands like the stocks of whips. He not only had the ferret-like look of the born smeller-out of felons, but seemed in his very person to embody the rope that was to bind them and the instrument of their punishment.

  The first Corregidor to set eyes on him had instantly pronounced him his trusted Alguacil. And Alguacil he had been to no fewer than four successive Corregidors.

  This Weasel was forty-eight years old, and he too wore a three-cornered hat, but one much smaller than his master’s. That, I repeat, was of quite remarkable size. He wore a cape, stockings, and suit all of black, carried a stick without a tassel, and a spit-like instrument that served as a sword. With such dress and insignia the swarthy scarecrow seemed the very shadow of his fine-feathered master.

  9

  Get Along, Neddy!

  Everywhere that the great man and his single retainer passed the peasant stopped his work to sweep his cap down to his knees – more from fear than respect, be it said – and, that done, said to his neighbour in an undertone, “He’s off early today, our Lord Corregidor, to see Señora Frasquita!”

  “Right early – and he goes in private!” And indeed never before had they seen his Lordship make that excursion except in company.

  “Hey, Manuel! Why is his Lordship going all in private to see the Navarrese today?” asked one village woman whose husband was leading her along mounted on their ass’s crupper. And she tickled the nape of his neck roguishly.

  “Don’t talk scandal, woman!” the good man replied. “Señora Frasquita would never…”

  “Oh, I’m sure of that, but our Corregidor – he certainly would. Make love to her, I mean. I’ve heard say that, of all the folk who have their fun at the mill, the only one with any real mischief in him is that – that petticoat-chaser from Madrid!”

  “Petticoat-chaser! Now why do you call him that?” The question was pressed with evident interest.

  “I don’t speak from my own knowledge. Oh, he’d take good care, for all that he’s Corregidor, not to whisper sweet nothings in my ear!” The speaker happened to be ill-favoured in the extreme.

  “Here now, lass, enough of that! I don’t believe for a moment Tio Lucas is the man to wink at goings-on like that.”

  “That’s as maybe. All the same, it’s pretty clear that he does wink at it,” the wife persisted with an obstinate pout.

  “Lucas is a proper man,” retorted the husband, “and there’s some things a proper man won’t bear with!”

  “Oh, very well then – you’re right! There’s an end of it. But if I were Señora Frasquita…”

  “Get along with you, lass!” the husband cried out – to the donkey this time, deliberately changing the subject. And the little animal broke
into a trot and the rest of the dialogue was lost to hearing.

  10

  From the Trellis

  While sallies of this sort passed between the country couples who bowed his Excellency on his way, Señora Frasquita was carefully watering and sweeping the little stone-flagged yard which served as a forecourt to the mill. She set out half-a-dozen chairs in a row under the shadiest part of the vine-trellis. It happened that Lucas had climbed up into this very place and was now cutting off the finest clusters of grapes and arranging them to the best advantage in a wicker basket.

  “I tell you, Frasquita,” the Miller’s voice came floating down from the topmost branches, “his Lordship is fairly sick with love for you.”

  “So I told you myself long ago!” Frasquita retorted. “Much good may it do him! Have a care now, Lucas! Have a care! You’ll fall!”

  “Not I! Never fear – I’ve a firm hold. Yes indeed, that gentleman has taken a great fancy to you!”

  “Stale news, I tell you! I know well enough those who fancy me – yes, and those who don’t! If only I knew why you don’t!”

  “Because you’re so ill-favoured!”

  “That I may be, but I could still come and push you down from up there!”

  “More likely be eaten alive for your pains.”

  “Delightful! And when my fancy men came and saw us they’d say we were like a couple of monkeys!”

  “They’d be right too! For you are – a right sweet little monkey. But me a monkey? I look more like a cowled monk with this hump of mine.”

  “Which I adore!”

  “You will like the Corregidor’s much more then – it’s bigger than mine!”

  “Shame on you, Señor Don Lucas! Don’t be so jealous!”

  “Me jealous? Of that old humbug? Not a bit. I’m delighted to know he’s so smitten with you!”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because the sin always carries its own penance with it. You need not love him in return, and yet I should be the real Governor of the city all the time!”

  “There’s vanity! But suppose in the end I did come to love him? Stranger things have happened!”

  “That wouldn’t worry me overmuch.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you wouldn’t be yourself then, and not being yourself – or rather the image of you I have in my mind – I shouldn’t care a hang if devils from hell ran away with you.”

  “No, but truly – what would you do if I were to love him?”

  “What would I do? Blessed if I know. As I should then be a different man and not the one I am now I just can’t imagine how I should feel.”

  “Why would you be a different man?”

  Determined to make him answer, Frasquita stopped her brooming and planted her hands on her hips to stare straight up at him.

  Tio Lucas scratched his head as if to dig out some deep-lying notion from inside it; when at length he spoke it was in a graver tone and looking a shade paler than usual.

  “I should be a different man because I am at this moment one who believes in you as I believe in my own self, who has no other life than that belief. And therefore – therefore if I lost my belief in you, I should either die or be changed into another man altogether. I should live – exist – in a totally different way. It would be like coming into the world for the first time. Therefore I do not know what I should do to you. Perhaps I should laugh and turn my back on you. Perhaps I should ignore you. Perhaps – but this is a fine game indeed making oneself miserable for nothing! What does it matter to us if all the Corregidors in the world are in love with you? Are you not my own Frasquita?”

  “Of course, booby, of course I am your Frasquita. And you are my Lucas, uglier than sin itself, but the cleverest of the clever, with more real goodness in you than a loaf of bread! And loved! – ah, how much loved! When you come down from that trellis you will see! You’d best watch out – I’ll pinch and I’ll slap – you’ll have more nips than you’ve hairs on your head! Hallo! What’s this I see? Here comes my Lord Corregidor – quite unattended… So early too! Something’s afoot!… It looks as if you were right, Lucas.”

  “Mind, now – don’t tell him I’m up here in the vine. The man brings an avowal for you in private, and thinks to steal a march on your humble servant while I’m sleeping out my siesta. It’ll be fun hearing him pour out his emotion! Not for worlds would I miss this little confession.” And he deftly handed down the basket to her.

  “Don’t be so naughty!” she said with a fresh burst of laughter. “The wicked old Madrileno! Who’d have thought a Corregidor would make a set at little me! But he’s coming now – quiet! Oh, look! Weasel was walking behind him, but now he’s gone to sit down in the ravine in the shade. What a pantomime! This is going to be more fun than you think!”

  And she broke out singing – it was the tune of a local fandango for by now she was as much at home with the Andalusian dances as with those of her native province.

  11

  The Bombardment of Pamplona

  “God keep you, frasquita!” breathed the Corregidor when, walking on tiptoe, he appeared suddenly under the shady roof of the trellis.

  “Why, welcome, my Lord Corregidor!” she replied in the most natural tone, curtseying again and again. “Your Lordship here at such an hour! And in this heat too! Come, let your Lordship be seated. Here is a nice cool spot. Why didn’t your Lordship wait for the other gentlemen? All the chairs are already set out. This evening we are expecting my Lord Bishop in person. He promised my Lucas to come and try the first grapes from the vine. But how is your Lordship? And how is your lady wife?”

  The Corregidor’s senses swam. The complete privacy in which this interview with Frasquita was taking place made it seem like a dream. Something told him to beware lest unwarily he should fall into some hidden trap.

  All he said for answer was: “Oh, it isn’t all that early… It’s half-past three…”

  At that moment the parrot began screeching.

  “It’s a quarter past two!” Frasquita exclaimed, looking him full in the face. He fell silent like a criminal caught red-handed and unable to say a word for himself.

  After a while he asked: “Lucas, is he asleep?”

  It should be said that the Corregidor, like all people without teeth, had a loose and sibilant way of pronouncing words as if he were biting his lips.

  “Of course!” replied Frasquita. “At this time of day he always has a nap wherever he happens to be when the fit takes him – yes, if it were on the edge of a precipice!”

  “Well then, let him sleep on!” cried the Corregidor whose face had turned a shade or two paler. “And you, my dear Frasquita, listen to me. Hark now – come here! Sit down here – by my side! I have many things to say to you, m’dear.”

  “I am sitting down,” Frasquita replied, clutching a low chair and planting it in front of the Corregidor and very close to his. Once seated, Frasquita threw one leg across the other, leant forwards, propped an elbow on the knee that was uppermost, and cradled her lovely, blooming face in one hand. In this posture, her head tilted slightly, a smile on her lips, all five dimples in play, and her serene eyes fixed on the Corregidor, she waited for him to speak. An observer might have been reminded of the city of Pamplona awaiting the bombardment.

  The poor man made to speak, then stopped short, open-mouthed, spellbound by her supreme loveliness, her dazzling charm, and he told himself that this truly wonderful woman, with her alabaster colouring, her gorgeous figure, her radiantly smiling mouth, and her blue unfathomable eyes, could well have been a creation of Rubens.

  “Frasquita!” after a long moment he murmured weakly, all the while showing on his withered features, where beads of sweat formed and dropped onto his hunched shoulders, an intense agony. “…Frasquita!”

  “You repeat my name,” Frasquita said. “What is it?”
>
  “The favour you are asking…” began the old man in a tone of infinite tenderness.

  “The favour I am asking,” said Frasquita, “your Lordship already knows well what it is. It is that you nominate as Secretary to the City Corporation a nephew of mine in Estella… who can then leave that backwater where he has to do without so many of the good things he ought to have…”

  “I told you, Frasquita, that is impossible. The present Secretary—”

  “—is a thief, a drunkard, and a fool!”

  “I know… but he has good backing among the Life Aldermen and I cannot nominate anyone else without the approval of the Corporation. If I do, I run the risk…”

  “Risk! Risk! What risk would we not run for your Lordship? – all of us in this house down to the very cats!”

  “Do you really think so much of me?” said his Lordship, broken-voiced.

  “No, indeed, sir. Thinking anything of your Lordship is a waste of time.”

  “Woman, don’t lordship me! Speak to me as an equal – as you would like. Tell me what you wish of me. Do!”

  “Am I not telling you what I wish?”

  “But…”

  “No buts now! Bear in mind what a fine worthy young man my nephew is!”

  “Well, you dearest Frasquita, are certainly a fine worthy woman!”