I bowed, and was about to pass on, when he addressed me again.
‘What is your hurry, young sir? Step in and take a cup of wine with me; it is good.’
I was about to say him nay, when it came into my mind that I had nothing to do, and that perhaps I might learn something from this gossip.
‘The day is hot, senor, and I accept.’
He spoke no more, but rising, led me into a courtyard paved with marble in the centre of which was a basin of water, having vines trained around it. Here were chairs and a little table placed in the shade of the vines. When he had closed the door of the patio and we were seated, he rang a silver bell that stood upon the table, and a girl, young and fair, appeared from the house, dressed in a quaint Spanish dress.
‘Bring wine,’ said my host.
The wine was brought, white wine of Oporto such as I had never tasted before.
‘Your health, senor?’ And my host stopped, his glass in his hand, and looked at me inquiringly.
‘Diego d’Aila,’ I answered.
‘Humph,’ he said. ‘A Spanish name, or perhaps an imitation Spanish name, for I do not know it, and I have a good head for names.’
‘That is my name, to take or to leave, senor?’–And I looked at him in turn.
‘Andres de Fonseca,’ he replied bowing, ‘a physician of this city, well known enough, especially among the fair. Well, Senor Diego, I take your name, for names are nothing, and at times it is convenient to change them, which is nobody’s business except their owners’. I see that you are a stranger in this city–no need to look surprised, senor, one who is familiar with a town does not gaze and stare and ask the path of passers-by, nor does a native of Seville walk on the sunny side of the street in summer. And now, if you will not think me impertinent, I will ask you what can be the business of so healthy a young man with my rival yonder?’ And he nodded towards the house of the famous physician.
‘A man’s business, like his name, is his own affair, senor, I answered, setting my host down in my mind as one of those who disgrace our art by plying openly for patients that they may capture their fees. ‘Still, I will tell you. I am also a physician, though not yet fully qualified, and I seek a place where I may help some doctor of repute in his daily practice, and thus gain experience and my living with it.’
‘Ah is it so? Well, senor, then you will look in vain yonder,’ and again he nodded towards the physician’s house. ‘Such as he will take no apprentice without the fee be large indeed; it is not the custom of this city.’
‘Then I must seek a livelihood elsewhere, or otherwise.’
‘I did not say so. Now, senor, let us see what you know of medicine, and what is more important, of human nature, for of the first none of us can ever know much, but he who knows the latter will be a leader of men–or of women–who lead the men.’
And without more ado he put me many questions, each of them so shrewd and going so directly to the heart of the matter in hand, that I marvelled at his sagacity. Some of these questions were medical, dealing chiefly with the ailments of women, others were general and dealt more with their characters. At length he finished.
‘You will do, senor,’ he said; ‘you are a young man of parts and promise, though, as was to be expected from one of your years, you lack experience. There is stuff in you, senor, and you have a heart, which is a good thing, for the blunders of a man with a heart often carry him further than the cunning of the cynic; also you have a will and know how to direct it.’
I bowed, and did my best to hold back my satisfaction at his words from showing in my face.
‘Still,’ he went on, ‘all this would not cause me to submit to you the offer that I am about to make, for many a prettier fellow than yourself is after all unlucky, or a fool at the bottom, or bad tempered and destined to the dogs, as for aught I know you may be also. But I take my chance of that because you suit me in another way. Perhaps you may scarcely know it yourself, but you have beauty, senor, beauty of a very rare and singular type, which half the ladies of Seville will praise when they come to know you.’