The Adventures of Gil Blas of Santillane, Alain René le Sage [most read books .txt] 📗
- Author: Alain René le Sage
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practice. It fills me with horror to think what a dead weight
chemistry may one day be to medicine, just as adulterated coin
operates on national credit. Far be that evil day from this
generation.
Just at this climax of our discourse, in came an old female
servant, with a salver for the doctor, on which was a little
light roll and a glass with two decanters, the one filled with
water and the other with wine. After he had eaten a slice, he
washed it down with a diluted beverage, two parts water to one of
wine; but this temperate use of the good creature did not at all
save him from the acrimony of my ridicule. So so, good master
doctor, said I, you are fairly caught in the fact. You a wine-bibber! you, who have entered the lists like a knight-errant
against that unauthenticated fermentation? you, who reached your
grand climacteric on the strength of the pure element? How long
have you been so at odds with yourself? Your time of life can be
no excuse for the alteration; since, in one passage of your
writings, you define old age to be a natural consumption, which
withers and attenuates the system; and as an inference from that
position, you reprobate the ignorance of those writers who
dignify wine with the appellation of old men’s milk. What can you
say, therefore, in your own defence?
You belabour me most unjustly, answered the old physician. If I
drank neat wine, you would have a right to treat me as a deserter
from my own standard; but your eyes may convince you that my wine
is well mixed. Another heresy, my dear apostle of the wells and
fountains! replied I. Recollect how you rated the canon S�dillo
for drinking wine, though plentifully dashed with the salubrious
fluid. Own modestly and candidly that your theory was unfounded
and fanciful, and that wine is not a poisonous liquor, as you
have so falsely and scandalously libelled it in your works, any
further than, like any other of nature’s bounties, it may be
abused to excess.
This lecture sat rather uneasily on our doctor’s feelings, as a
candidate for consistency. He could not deny his inveteracy
against the use of wine in all his publications; but pride and
vanity not allowing him to acknowledge the justice of my attack
on his apostasy, he was left without a word to say for himself.
Not wishing to push my sarcasm beyond the bounds of good humour,
I changed the subject; and after a few minutes’ longer stay, took
my leave, gravely exhorting him to maintain his ground against
the new practitioners. Courage, Signor Sangrado! said I: never be
weary of setting your wits against kermes; and deafen the health-dispensing tribe with your thunders against the use of bleeding
in the feet. If, spite of all your zeal and affection for medical
orthodoxy, this empiric generation should succeed in supplanting
true and legitimate practice, it will be at least your
consolation to have exhausted your best endeavours in the support
of truth and reason.
As my secretary and myself were walking to the inn, making our
observations in high glee on the doctor’s entertaining and
original character, n man from fifty five to sixty years of age
happened to pass near us in the street, walking with his eyes
fixed on the ground, and a large rosary in his hand. I conned
over the distinctive cut of his appearance most cunningly, and
was rewarded in the recognition of Signor Manuel Ordonnez, that
faithful trustee for the affairs of the hospital, of whom so
honourable mention is made in the first volume of these true and
instructive memoirs. Accosting him with the most profound and
unquestionable tokens of respect, I paid my compliments in due
form and order to the venerable and trustworthy Signor Manuel
Ordonnez, the man of all the world in whose hands the interests
of the poor and needy are most safely and beneficially placed. At
these words he looked me steadfastly in the face, and answered
that my features were not altogether strange to him, but that he
could not recollect where he had seen me. I used to go backwards
and forwards to your house, replied I, when one of my friends, by
name Fabricio Nunez, was in your service. Ah! I recollect the
circumstance at once, rejoined the worthy director with a cunning
leer, and have good reason to do so; for you were a brace of
pleasant lads, and were by no means backward in the little scape-grace tricks of youth and inexperience. Well! and what is become
of poor Fabricio? Whenever he comes across my thoughts, I cannot
help feeling a little uneasy about his temporal and eternal
welfare.
It was to relieve your mind upon that subject, said I to Signor
Manuel, that I have taken the liberty of stopping you in the
street. Fabricio is settled at Madrid, where he employs himself
in publishing miscellanies and collections. What do you mean by
miscellanies and collections? replied he. I mean, resumed I, that
he writes in verse and prose, from epic poems and the highest
branches of philosophy, down to plays, novels, epigrams, and
riddles. In short, he is a lad of universal genius, and most
exemplary benevolence; sometimes modestly taking to himself the
credit of his own compositions, and sometimes lending out his
talents to the literary ambition of those noblemen who write for
their own amusement, but wish their names to be concealed, except
from a chosen circle. By traffic like this he sits at the very
first tables. But how does he sit at his own? said the director:
upon what terms does he live with his baker? Not quite so
confidentially as with people of fashion, answered I; for between
ourselves, I take him to be quite as much out at elbows as ever
Job was. More bonds and judgments against him than ever Job had,
take my word for it! replied Ordonnez. Let him lick the spittle
of his titled friends and patrons till his stomach heaves at the
nauseating saliva; his printed dedications and his oral flattery,
in spite of all the cringing and all the toad-eating, which
constitute the stockin-trade of his profession, with all the
profits of his works, whether by subscription or ordinary
publication, will not bring grist enough to his mill, to keep
hunger from the door. Mind if what I say does not turn out to be
true! He will come to the dogs at last.
Nothing more likely! replied I; for he cohabits with the muses
already; and many a plain man has found, to his cost, that there
is no keeping company with the sisters, without being worried by
their bullying brethren. My friend Fabricio would have done much
better by remaining quietly with your lordship; he would now have
been lying on a bed of roses, and everything he had touched would
have turned to gold. He would at least have been in a very snug
berth, said Manuel. He was a great favourite of mine; and I
meant, by a regular gradation from subaltern to principal
situations, to have established him in ease and affluence on the
basis of public charity; but the foolish fellow took it into his
head to set up for a wit. He wrote a play, and brought it out at
the theatre in this town: the piece went off tolerably well, and
nothing thenceforth would serve his turn but commencing author by
profession. Lope de Vega, in his estimation, was but a type of
him: preferring, therefore, the intoxicating vapour of public
applause to the plain roast and boiled of this substantial
ordinary, he came to me for his discharge. It was to no purpose
for me to argue the point, or to prove to him what a silly cur he
was, to drop the bone and run after the shadow: the mad blockhead
was so suffocated by the smother of authorship, that the
instinctive dread of fire could not rouse his alacrity to escape
burning. In short, he was miserably unconscious of his own
interest, as his successor can testify: for he, possessing
practical good sense, though without half Fabricio’s quickness
and versatility, makes it his whole study and delight to go
through his business in a workmanlike manner, and to fall in with
all my little ways. In return for such good conduct, I pushed him
forward in a manner corresponding with his deserts; and he unites
in his own person, even at this time of day, two offices in the
hospital, the least lucrative of which would be more than
sufficient to place any honest man at his ease, though encumbered
with a yearly teeming wife.
CH. II. — Gil Blas continues his journey, and arrives in safety
at Oviedo. The condition of his family. His father’s death, and
its consequences.
FROM Valladolid we got to Oviedo in four days, without any
untoward accident on the road, in spite of the proverb, which
says, that robbers lay their ears to the ground, when pilgrims
are going with rich offerings, and traders are riding with fat
purses. It would have been a feasible, as well as a tempting
speculation. Two tenants of a subterraneous abode might have
presented an aspect to have frightened our doubloons into a
surrender; for courage was not one of the qualities I had imbibed
at court; and Bertrand, my mule-driver, seemed not to be of a
temper to get his brains blown out in defending a purse into
which he had no free ingress. Scipio was the only one of the
party who was anything of a bully.
It was night when we came into town. Our lodgings were at an inn
near my uncle, Gil Perez, the canon. I was very desirous of
ascertaining the circumstances of my parents before my first
interview with them; and, in order to gain that information, it
was impossible to make my inquiries in a better channel than
through my landlord and landlady, into the lines of whose faces
you could not look without being satisfied that they knew every
tittle of their neighbours’ concerns. As it turned out, the
landlord kenned me after a diligent perusal of my features, and
cried out: By Saint Anthony of Padua! this is the son of the
honest usher, Blas of Santillane. Ay, indeed! said the hostess;
and so it is: without a single muscle altered! just for all the
world that same little stripling Gil Blas, of whom we used to say
that he was as saucy as he was high. It brings old times to my
memory! when he used to come hither with his bottle under his
arm, to fetch wine for his uncle’s supper.
Madam, said I, you have a most inveterate memory; but for
goodness’ sake change the subject, and tell me the modern news of
my family. My father and mother are doubtless in no very enviable
situation. In good truth, you may say that, answered the
landlady: you may rack your brains as long as you like, but you
will never think of anything half so miserable as what they are
suffering at this present moment. Gil Perez, good soul! is
defunct all down one side by a stroke of the palsy, and the other
half of him is little better than a corpse; we cannot expect him
to last long: then your father, who went to live with his
reverence a little while ago, is troubled with an inflammation of
the lungs, and is standing, as a body may say, quavery-mavery
between life and death; while your mother, who is not over and
above hale and hearty herself, is obliged to nurse them both.
On this intelligence, which made
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