The Eaten Pancake
Leno. Ah, Troico, are you there?
Troico. Yes, my good fellow, do you see I am?
Leno. It would be better if I did not see it.
Troico. Why so, Leno?
Leno. Why, then you would not know a piece of ill-luck that has just happened.
Troico. What ill-luck?
Leno. What day is it to-day?
Troico. Thursday.
Leno. Thursday? How soon will Friday come, then?
Troico. Friday will come to-morrow.
Leno. Well, tha something;—but tell me, are there not other days of ill-luck as well as Fridays?
Troico. Why do you ask?
Leno. Because there may be unlucky pancakes, if there are unlucky Thursdays.
Troico. I suppose so.
Leno. Now, stop there;—suppose one of yours had been eaten of a Thursday, on whom would the ill-luck have fallen—on the pancake, or on you?
Troico. On me, of course.
Leno. Then, my good Troico, comfort yourself, and begin to suffer and be patient; for men, as the saying is, are born to misfortunes, and these are matters, in fine, that come from God; and in the order of time you must die yourself, and, as the saying is, your last hour will then be come and arrived. Take it, then, patiently, and remember that we are here to-morrow and gone to-day.
Troico. For heaven’s sake, Leno, is anybody in the family dead? Or else why do you console me so?
Leno. Would to heaven that were all, Troico!
Troico. Then what is it? Can’t you tell me without so many circumlocutions? What is all this preamble about?
Leno. When my poor mother died, he that brought me the news, before he told me of it, dragged me round through more turn-abouts than there are windings in the rivers Pisuerga and Zapardiel.
Troico. But I have got no mother, and never knew one. I don’t know what you mean.
Leno. Then smell this napkin.
Troico. Very well, I have smelt it.
Leno. What does it smell of?
Troico. Something like butter.
Leno. Then you may surely say, “Here Troy was.”
Troico. What do you mean, Leno?
Leno. For you it was given to me; for you Donna Timbria sent it, all stuck over with nuts;—but, as I have (and Heaven and everybody else knows it) a sort of natural relationship for whatever is good, my eyes watched and followed her just as a hawk follows chickens.
Troico. Followed whom, villain? Timbria?
Leno. Heaven forbid! But how nicely she sent it, all made up with butter and sugar!
Troico. And what was that?
Leno. The pancake, to be sure,—don’t you understand?
Troico. And who sent a pancake to me?
Leno. Why, Donna Timbria.
Troico. Then what became of it?
Leno. It was consumed.
Troico. How?
Leno. By looking at it?
Troico. Who looked at it?
Leno. I, by ill-luck.
Troico. In what fashion?
Leno. Why, I sat down by the wayside.
Troico. Well, what next?
Leno. I took it in my hand.
Troico. And then?
Leno. Then I tried how it tasted; and what between taking and leaving all around the edges of it, when I tried to think what had become of it, I found I had no sort of recollection.
Troico. The upshot is that you ate it?
Leno. It is not impossible.
Troico. I’ faith you are a trusty fellow!
Leno. Indeed! do you think so? Hereafter, if I bring two, I will eat them both, and so be better yet.
Troico. The business goes on well, truly!
Leno. And well advised, and at small cost, and to my content. But now, go to; suppose we have a little jest with Timbria.
Troico. Of what sort?
Leno. Suppose you make her believe you ate the pancake yourself, and, when she thinks it is true, you and I can laugh at the trick till you split your sides. Can you ask for anything funnier?
Troico. You counsel well, indeed.
Leno. Well, Heaven bless the men that listen to reason! But tell me, Troico, do you think you can carry out the jest with a grave face?
Troico. I? What have I to laugh about?
Leno. Why, don’t you think it is a laughing matter to make her believe you ate it, when all the time it was your own good Leno that did it?
Troico. Wisely said! But now hold your tongue, and go about your business!
Lope de Rueda. “Timbria” (fl. 1565). Trans. Ticknor.