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Title: The history and adventures of the renowned Don Quixote
Author: Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
Illustrator: Thomas Stothard
Translator: T. Smollett
Release date: October 20, 2025 [eBook #77095]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Harrison & Co, 1782
Credits: Tim Lindell, David King, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net. (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HISTORY AND ADVENTURES OF THE RENOWNED DON QUIXOTE ***
The History and Adventures of the Renowned Don Quixote
[Illustration: Don Quixote and Sancho Panza on the road.]
THE HISTORY AND ADVENTURES OF THE RENOWNED DON QUIXOTE
TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH
OF
MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA.
TO WHICH IS PREFIXED,
SOME ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR’S LIFE,
BY DR. SMOLLETT.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
LONDON:
Printed for HARRISON and Co. No. 18, Paternoster Row.
M DCC XCII.
TO
HIS EXCELLENCY
DON RICARDO WALL,
PRINCIPAL SECRETARY OF STATE TO HIS MOST CATHOLICK MAJESTY,
LIEUTENANT GENERAL OF THE ARMIES OF SPAIN,
COMMENDARY OF PENAUZENDE IN THE ORDER OF SAINT JAGO, &C.
AND HERETOFORE
AMBASSADOR AND PLENIPOTENTIARY AT THE COURT OF GREAT BRITAIN.
SIR,
The permission I obtained to inscribe the following Translation of DON
QUIXOTE to your Excellency, while you resided in this Capital, affords
me a double pleasure; as it not only gives me an opportunity of
expressing that profound respect and veneration with which I contemplate
your Excellency’s character; but also implies your approbation, which
cannot fail to influence the publick in behalf of the performance.
I have the honour to be,
Sir,
Your Excellency’s most obedient,
Humble Servant,
T. SMOLLETT.
LONDON, Feb. 7, 1755.
CONTENTS
The Life of Cervantes ... v
Translator’s Note ... xvii
Preface ... xix
Volume I ... 25
Book I ... 25
Chapter I ... 25
Chapter II ... 29
Chapter III ... 32
Chapter IV ... 36
Chapter V ... 40
Chapter VI ... 42
Chapter VII ... 46
Chapter VIII ... 49
Book II ... 54
Chapter I ... 54
Chapter II ... 57
Chapter III ... 60
Chapter IV ... 64
Chapter V ... 67
Book III ... 77
Chapter I ... 77
Chapter II ... 81
Chapter III ... 85
Chapter IV ... 90
Chapter V ... 95
Chapter VI ... 99
Chapter VII ... 106
Chapter VIII ... 113
Chapter IX ... 119
Chapter X ... 125
Chapter XI ... 130
Chapter XII ... 139
Chapter XIII ... 143
Volume II ... 153
Book IV ... 153
Chapter I ... 153
Chapter II ... 161
Chapter III ... 167
Chapter IV ... 173
Chapter V ... 178
Chapter VI ... 182
Chapter VII ... 192
Chapter VIII ... 203
Chapter IX ... 207
Chapter X ... 212
Chapter XI ... 218
Chapter XII ... 220
Chapter XIII ... 225
Chapter XIV ... 232
Chapter XV ... 242
Chapter XVI ... 246
Chapter XVII ... 251
Chapter XVIII ... 256
Chapter XIX ... 260
Chapter XX ... 265
Chapter XXI ... 270
Chapter XXII ... 274
Chapter XXIII ... 278
Chapter XXIV ... 282
Chapter XXV ... 285
Volume III ... 293
Preface ... 293
Approbation ... 296
Book I ... 299
Chapter I ... 299
Chapter II ... 305
Chapter III ... 308
Chapter IV ... 312
Chapter V ... 315
Chapter VI ... 318
Chapter VII ... 321
Chapter VIII ... 325
Chapter IX ... 329
Chapter X ... 331
Chapter XI ... 336
Chapter XII .. 339
Chapter XIII ... 342
Chapter XIV ... 346
Chapter XV ... 351
Chapter XVI ... 353
Chapter XVII ... 358
Book II ... 364
Chapter I ... 364
Chapter II ... 368
Chapter III ... 372
Chapter IV ... 377
Chapter V ... 380
Chapter VI ... 385
Chapter VII ... 390
Chapter VIII ... 394
Chapter IX ... 401
Chapter X ... 406
Chapter XI ... 409
Chapter XII ... 412
Chapter XIII ... 416
Chapter XIV ... 418
Chapter XV ... 423
Book III ... 431
Chapter I ... 431
Chapter II ... 435
Chapter III ... 439
Chapter IV ... 443
Chapter V ... 446
Volume IV ... 447
Book III ... 447
Chapter VI ... 447
Chapter VII ... 450
Chapter VIII ... 452
Chapter IX ... 455
Chapter X ... 461
Chapter XI ... 464
Chapter XII ... 467
Chapter XIII ... 472
Chapter XIV ... 475
Chapter XV ... 477
Chapter XVI ... 482
Chapter XVII ... 487
Chapter XVIII ... 493
Chapter XIX ... 498
Chapter XX ... 502
Book IV ... 507
Chapter I ... 507
Chapter II ... 510
Chapter III ... 514
Chapter IV ... 519
Chapter V ... 521
Chapter VI ... 523
Chapter VII ... 530
Chapter VIII ... 534
Chapter IX ... 542
Chapter X ... 543
Chapter XI ... 550
Chapter XII ... 556
Chapter XIII ... 558
Chapter XIV ... 561
Chapter XV ... 564
Chapter XVI ... 567
Chapter XVII ... 570
Chapter XVIII ... 572
Chapter XIX ... 576
Chapter XX ... 580
Chapter XXI ... 582
Chapter XXII ... 585
PLATES
Plate III, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza on the road. ... i
Plate XII, Don Quixote Defends His Armour. ... 34
Plate I, Sancho Being Tossed. ... 89
Plate VIII, Don Quixote Valiantly Charging the Herd of Sheep. ...
93
Plate XI, Sancho’s Ass Stolen As They Sleep. ... 120
Plate XIV, The Tattered Gentleman Tells His Tale. ... 126
Plate IX, Don Quixote Displays the Bason. ... 257
Plate II, Don Quixote Worships His Lady. ... 334
Plate XIII, Don Quixote Braves the Lions. ... 360
Plate IV, Don Quixote Meets the Soldiers. ... 406
Plate VII, Sancho Panza and the Duchess and Her Ladies. ... 431
Plate VI, Governor Sancho Panza and the Woman. ... 474
Plate V, Don Quixote and the Shepherdesses. ... 527
Plate XVI, Don Quixote Attempts to Scourge Sancho Panza. ... 535
Plate X, Don Quixote Dancing. ... 546
Plate XV, Don Quixote on His Death-Bed. ... 585
THE LIFE OF CERVANTES.
Miguel De Cervantes Saavedra was at once the glory and reproach of
Spain; for, if his admirable genius and heroick spirit conduced to the
honour of his country, the distress and obscurity which attended his old
age, as effectually redounded to her disgrace. Had he lived amidst
Gothick darkness and barbarity, where no records were used, and letters
altogether unknown, we might have expected to derive from tradition a
number of particulars relating to the family and fortune of a man so
remarkably admired even in his own time. But one would imagine pains had
been taken to throw a veil of oblivion over the personal concerns of
this excellent author. No enquiry hath as yet been able to ascertain the
place of his nativity; and, although in his works he has declared
himself a gentleman by birth, no house has hitherto laid claim to such
an illustrious descendant.
One author says he was born at Esquivias[1]; but offers no argument in
support of his assertion: and probably the conjecture was founded upon
the encomiums which Cervantes himself bestows on that place, to which he
gives the epithet of renowned, in his preface to Persiles and
Sigismunda. Others affirm he first drew breath in Lucena, grounding
their opinion upon a vague tradition which there prevails; and a third
set take it for granted that he was a native of Seville, because there
are families in that city known by the names of Cervantes and
Saavedra[2]; and our author mentions his having, in his early youth,
seen plays acted by Lope Rueda, who was a Sevilian. These, indeed, are
presumptions that deserve some regard, though far from implying certain
information, they scarce even amount to probable conjecture; nay, these
very circumstances seem to disprove the supposition; for, had he been
actually descended from those families, they would in all likelihood
have preserved some memorials of his birth, which Don Nicholas Antonio
would have recorded, in speaking of his fellow-citizen. All these
pretensions are now generally set aside in favour of Madrid, which
claims the honour of having produced Cervantes, and builds her title on
an expression in his Voyage to Parnassus[3], which, in my opinion, is
altogether equivocal and inconclusive.
In the midst of such undecided contention, if I may be allowed to hazard
a conjecture, I would suppose that there was something mysterious in his
extraction, which he had no inclination to explain, and that his family
had domestick reasons for maintaining the like reserve. Without
admitting some such motive, we can hardly account for his silence on a
subject that would have afforded him an opportunity to indulge that
self-respect which he so honestly displays in the course of his
writings. Unless we conclude that he was instigated to renounce all
connection with his kindred and allies, by some contemptuous slight,
mortifying repulse, or real injury he had sustained; a supposition
which, I own, is not at all improbable, considering the jealous
sensibility of the Spaniards in general, and the warmth of resentment
peculiar to our author, which glows through his productions,
unrestrained by all the fears of poverty, and all the maxims of old age
and experience.
Whatever may have been the place of his nativity, we gather from the
preface to his novels, that he was born in the year 1549: and his
writings declare that his education was by no means neglected; for, over
and above a natural fund of humour and invention, he appears to have
possessed a valuable stock of acquired knowledge; we find him intimately
acquainted with the Latin classicks, well read in the history of
nations, versed in the philosophy, rhetorick, and divinity of the
schools, tinctured with astrology and geography, conversant with the
best Italian authors, and perfectly master of his own Castilian
language. His genius, which was too delicate and volatile to engage in
the severer studies, directed his attention to the productions of taste
and polite literature; which, while they amused his fancy, enlarged,
augmented, and improved his ideas, and taught him to set proper bounds
to the excursions of his imagination.
Thus qualified, he could not fail to make pertinent observations in his
commerce with mankind: the peculiarities of character could not escape
his penetration; whatever he saw became familiar to his judgment and
understanding; and every scene he exhibits is a just well-drawn
characteristick picture of human life.
How he exercised these talents in his youth, and in what manner the
first years of his manhood were employed, we are not able to explain,
because history and tradition are altogether silent on the subject;
unless we admit the authority of one author[4], who says he was
secretary to the Duke of Alva, without alledging any one fact or
argument in support of his assertion. Had he actually enjoyed a post of
such importance, we should not, in all probability, have wanted
materials to supply this chasm in his life; nor should we find him
afterwards in the station of a common soldier.
Others imagine that he served as a volunteer in Flanders, where he was
raised to the rank of ensign in the company commanded by Don Diego de
Urbina; grounding this belief on the supposition that the history of the
captive related in the first part of Don Quixote, is a literal detail of
his own adventures. But this notion is rejected by those who consider
that Cervantes would hardly have contented himself with the humble
appellation of Soldier, which, in speaking of himself, he constantly
assumes, had he ever appeared in any superior station of a military
character. In a word, we have very little information touching the
transactions of his life, but what he himself is pleased to give through
the course of his writings; and from this we learn, that he was
chamberlain to Cardinal Aquaviva in Rome, and followed the profession of
a soldier for some years, in the army commanded by Marco Antonio
Colona[5]; who was, by Pope Pius V. appointed general of the
ecclesiastical forces employed against the Turks, and received the
consecrated standard from the hands of his holiness, in the church of
St. Peter.
Under this celebrated captain, Cervantes embarked in the Christian fleet
commanded by Don John of Austria, who obtained over the Turks the
glorious victory of Lepanto, where our author lost his left hand by the
shot of an arquebus. This mutilation, which redounded so much to his
honour, he has taken care to record on divers occasions: and, indeed, it
is very natural to suppose his imagination would dwell upon such an
adventure, as the favourite incident of his life. I wish he had told us
what recompence he received for his services, and what consolation he
enjoyed for the loss of his limb; which must have effectually
disqualified him for the office of a common soldier, and reduced him to
the necessity of exercising some other employment.
Perhaps it was at this period he entered into the service of Cardinal
Aquaviva, to whose protection he was entitled by his gallantry and
misfortune; and now, in all likelihood, he had leisure and opportunity
to prosecute his favourite studies, to cultivate the muse, and render
himself conspicuous by the productions of his genius; which was known
and admired by several authors of distinction, even before his
captivity; for Louis Galvez De Montalvo, in his poem prefixed to
Galatea, says, “The world lamented his misfortune in tears, and the muse
expressed a widow’s grief at his absence.” I will even venture to
suppose, that, in this interval, his situation was such as enabled him
to raise an independent fortune; for we find him afterwards relieving
the wants of his fellow-captives in Barbary, with such liberality as
denoted the affluence of his own circumstances; and, in his Voyage to
Parnassus, which was published in his old age, Apollo upbraids him with
want of œconomy; and reminds him of his having once made his own
fortune, which in the sequel he squandered away.
I make no doubt but this was the most fortunate period of Saavedra’s
life; during which, he reformed and improved the Spanish theatre, and
ushered into the world a number of dramatick performances, which were
acted with universal applause. He tells us that he had seen plays acted
by the great Lope De Rueda[6], who was a native of Seville, and
originally a gold-beater. When this genius first appeared, the Spanish
drama was in its infancy: one large sack or bag contained all the
furniture and dress of the theatre, consisting of four sheep skin
jackets with the wool on, trimmed with gilt leather; four beards and
perriwigs, and the same number of pastoral crooks. The piece was no
other than a dialogue or eclogue between two or three swains and a
shepherdess, seasoned with comick interludes, or rather low buffoonery,
exhibited in the characters of a black-moor, a bravo, a fool, and a
Biscayan. The stage itself was composed of a few boards, raised about
three feet from the ground, upon four benches or forms. There was no
other scenery than a blanket or horse-cloth stretched across, behind
which the musicians sung old ballads, unaccompanied by any sort of
instrument. Lope de Rueda not only composed theatrical pieces, but also
acted in every character with great reputation; in which he was
succeeded by Naharro, a Toledan, who improved and augmented the
decorations; brought the musick from behind the blanket, and placed it
forwards to the audience; deprived the actors of their counterfeit
beards, without which no man’s part had been hitherto performed;
invented machines, clouds, thunder, and lightning; and introduced
challenges and combats with incredible success. But still the drama was
rude, unpolished, and irregular; and the fable, though divided into five
acts, was almost altogether destitute of manners, propriety, and
invention.
From this uncultivated state of ignorance and barbarity, Cervantes
raised the Spanish theatre to dignity and esteem, by enriching his
dramatick productions with moral sentiments, regularity of plan, and
propriety of character; together with the graces of poetry, and the
beauties of imagination. He published thirty pieces, which were
represented at Madrid with universal applause; so that he may be justly
deemed the patriarch of the Spanish drama; and, in this particular,
revered above Lope de Vega himself, who did not appear until he had left
off writing for the stage.
In the year 1574, he was unfortunately taken by a Barbary corsair, and
conveyed to Algiers, where he was sold to a Moor, and remained a slave
for the space of five years and a half: during which, he exhibited
repeated proofs of the most enterprizing genius and heroick generosity.
Though we know not on what occasion he fell into the hands of the
Barbarians, he himself gives us to understand, in the story of the
Captive, that he resided at Algiers in the reign of Hassan Aga, a
ruffian renegado, whose cruelty he describes in these terms. ‘He was
every day hanging one, impaling another, maiming a third, upon such
slight occasions, frequently without any cause assigned, that the Turks
themselves owned he acted thus out of mere wantonness and barbarity, as
being naturally of a savage disposition, and an inveterate enemy to the
whole human race. The person who used the greatest freedom with him, was
one Saavedra, a Spanish soldier; who, though he did many things which
those people will not soon forget, in attempting to regain his liberty,
he never gave him one blow, nor ordered him once to be chastised, nor
even chid him with one hasty word; and yet the least of all his pranks
was sufficient, as we thought, to bring him to the stake; nay, he
himself was more than once afraid of being impaled alive. If time would
permit, I could here recount some of that soldier’s actions, which
perhaps might entertain and surprize you more than the relation of my
own story.’
Thus Cervantes ascertains the time of his own slavery, delineates with
great exactness the character of that inhuman tyrant, who is recorded in
history as a monster of cruelty and avarice; and proves to
demonstration, that his own story was quite different from that which
the Captive related of himself. Saavedra’s adventures at Algiers were
truly surprizing; and though we cannot favour the publick with a
substantial detail of every incident, we have found means to learn such
particulars of his conduct, as cannot fail to reflect an additional
lustre on a character which has been long the object of admiration.
We are informed by a respectable historian[7], who was his fellow-slave,
and an eye-witness of the transaction, that Don Miguel de Cervantes, a
gallant, enterprizing, Spanish cavalier, who, though he never wanted
money, could not obtain his release without paying an exorbitant ransom,
contrived a scheme for setting himself free, together with fourteen
unhappy gentlemen of his own country, who were all in the like
circumstances of thraldom under different patrons. His first step was to
redeem one Viana, a bold Mayorcan mariner, in whom he could confide, and
with whom he sent letters to the governor of that island, desiring, in
the name of himself and the other gentlemen captives, that he would send
over a brigantine under the direction of Viana, who had undertaken, at
an appointed time, to touch upon a certain part of the coast, where he
should find them ready to embark. In consequence of this agreement, they
withdrew themselves from their respective masters, and privately
repaired to a garden near the sea-side, belonging to a renegado Greek,
whose name was Al-Caid Hassan; where they were concealed in a cave, and
carefully screened from the knowledge of the owner, by his gardener, who
was a Christian captive. Viana punctually performed his promise, and
returned in a vessel, with which he was supplied by the governor of
Mayorca; but some Moors chancing to pass just as he anchored at the
appointed place, the coast was instantly alarmed, and he found himself
obliged to relinquish the enterprize. Meanwhile, the captives being
ignorant of this accident, remained in the cavern, which they never
quitted except in the night, and were maintained by the liberality of
Cervantes, for the space of seven months; during which the necessaries
of life were brought to them by a Spanish slave, known by the
appellation of El Dorador, or the Gilder. No wonder that their hope and
patience began to fail, and their constitutions to be affected by the
dampness of the place, and the grief of their disappointment, which Don
Miguel endeavoured to alleviate by the exercise of his reason,
good-humour, and humanity; till at last their purveyor turned traitor;
and, allured by the hope of receiving a considerable reward, discovered
the whole affair to Hassan Basha. This tyrant, transported with joy at
the information, immediately ordered the guardian Basha, with a body of
armed men, to follow the perfidious wretch, who conducted them to the
cave, where they seized those unhappy fugitives, together with their
faithful gardener, and forthwith carried the whole number to the publick
bagnio, except Cervantes, touching whose person they had received
particular directions from Hassan, who knew his character, and had been
long desirous of possessing such a notable slave. At present, however,
his intention was to persuade Don Miguel to accuse Oliver, one of the
fathers of the redemption then at Algiers, as an accomplice in the
scheme they had projected, that he might, on this pretence, extort from
the friar, by way of composition, the greatest part of the money which
had been collected for the ransom of Christian slaves. Accordingly, he
endeavoured to inveigle Saavedra with artful promises, and to intimidate
him with dreadful threats and imprecations, into the confession or
impeachment on which he wanted to lay hold: but that generous Spaniard,
with a resolution peculiar to himself, rejected all his offers, and
despising the terrors of his menaces, persisted in affirming that he had
no associate in the plan of their escape, which was purely the result of
his own reflection.
After having in vain tampered with his integrity, in repeated trials
that lasted for several days, he restored him and his companions to
their respective patrons, notwithstanding the remonstrances of Al Caid
Hassan, owner of the garden in which they had been apprehended; who,
probably with a view to manifest his own innocence, strenuously exhorted
the Basha to inflict the most exemplary punishment on the offenders, and
actually put his own gardener to death. Cervantes had so often
signalized his genius, courage, and activity, that Hassan resolved to
make him his own, and purchased him from his master for five hundred
ducats; then he was heard to say, ‘While I hold that maimed Spaniard in
safe custody, my vessels, slaves, and even my whole city, are secure.’
For he had not only concerted a number of schemes for the deliverance of
his fellow-captives, but his designs had even aspired to the conquest of
Algiers, and he was at four different times on the point of being
impaled, hooked, or burned alive. Any single attempt of that kind would
have been deemed a capital offence, under the mildest government that
ever subsisted among the Moors; but there was something in the character
or personal deportment of Cervantes, which commanded respect from
barbarity itself: for we find that Hassan Basha treated him with
incredible lenity, and his redemption was afterwards effected by the
intercession of a trinitarian father, for a thousand ducats[8].
From this account of his behaviour in Barbary, it appears that he acted
a far more important part than that of a poor mutilated soldier: he is
dignified with the appellation of Don Miguel De Cervantes, and
represented as a cavalier whose affluent fortune enabled him to gratify
the benevolence and liberality of his disposition. We must therefore
take it for granted, that he acquired this wealth after the battle of
Lepanto, where he surely would not have fought as a private soldier,
could he have commanded either money or interest to procure a more
conspicuous station in the service. Be that as it will, his conduct at
Algiers reflects honour upon his country; and while we applaud him as an
author, we ought to revere him as a man; nor will his modesty be less
the object of our admiration, if we consider that he has, upon this
occasion, neglected the fairest opportunity a man could possibly enjoy,
of displaying his own character to the greatest advantage, and indulging
that self complacency which is so natural to the human heart.
As he returned to his own country with those principles by which he had
been distinguished in his exile, and an heart entendered and exercised
in sympathizing with his fellow-creatures in distress; we may suppose he
could not advert to the lessons of Oeconomy, which a warm imagination
seldom or never retains; but that his heart glowed with all the
enthusiasm of friendship, and that his bounty extended to every object
of compassion which fell within his view.
Notwithstanding all the shafts of ridicule which he hath so successfully
levelled against the absurdities of the Spanish romance, we can plainly
perceive from his own writings, that he himself had a turn for chivalry:
his life was a chain of extraordinary adventures, his temper was
altogether heroick, and his actions were, without doubt, influenced by
the most romantick notions of honour.
Spain has produced a greater number of these characters than we meet
with upon record in any other nation; and whether such singularity be
the effect of natural or moral causes, or of both combined, I shall not
pretend to determine. Let us only affirm, that this disposition is not
confined to any particular people or period of time: even in our own
country, and in these degenerate days, we sometimes find individuals
whom nature seems to have intended for members of those ideal societies
which never did, and perhaps never can exist, but in imagination; and
who remind us of the characters described by Homer and Plutarch, as
patriots sacrificing their lives for their country, and heroes
encountering danger, not with indifference and contempt, but with all
the rapture and impetuosity of a passionate admirer.
If we consider Cervantes as a man inspired by such sentiments, and
actuated by such motives; and at the same time, from his known
sensibility and natural complexion, suppose him to have been addicted to
pleasure and the amusements of gallantry; we cannot be surprized to find
his finances in a little time exhausted, and the face of his affairs
totally reversed. It was probably in the decline of his fortune, that he
resolved to re-appear in the character of an author, and stand candidate
for the publick favour, which would be a certain resource in the day of
trouble: he therefore composed his Galatea, in six books, which was
published in the year 1584, dedicated to Ascanio Colonna, at that time
abbot of St. Sophia, and afterwards cardinal of the holy cross of
Jerusalem.
The rich vein of invention, the tenderness of passion, the delicacy of
sentiment, the power and purity of diction, displayed in this
performance, are celebrated by Don Louis De Vargas Manrique, in a
commendatory sonnet, which is a very elegant and honourable testimony of
our author’s success. Nevertheless, the production has been censured for
the irregularity of its stile, the incorrectness of its versification,
and the multiplicity of its incidents, which incumber and perplex the
principal narration; and, over and above these objections, the design is
not brought to a conclusion, so that the plan appears meagre and
defective. He himself pleads guilty to some part of the charge, in the
sentence pronounced by the curate, in the first part of Don Quixote;
who, when the barber takes up the Galatea of Miguel De Cervantes, ‘That
same Cervantes,’ says he, ‘has been an intimate friend of mine these
many years; and is to my certain knowledge, more conversant with
misfortunes than with poetry. There is a good vein of invention in his
book, which proposes something, though it concludes nothing. We must
wait for the second part which he promises; and then, perhaps, his
amendment may deserve a full pardon, which is now denied.’
Whether the success of Galatea encouraged our author to oblige the world
with some of those theatrical pieces, which we have already mentioned as
the first regular productions of the Spanish drama, or the whole number
of these was written and acted before his captivity, I have not been
able to determine; but, in all probability, his first essays of that
kind were exhibited in the interval between the battle of Lepanto and
the commencement of his slavery, and the rest published after his
redemption.
Unless we suppose him to have been employed at Madrid in this manner for
his subsistence, we must pass over two and twenty years, which afford us
no particular information touching the life of Saavedra; though, in that
period, he married Donna Cataline De Salazar, dissipated the remains of
his fortune, experienced the ingratitude of those he had befriended in
his prosperity, and after having sustained a series of mortifications
and distress, was committed to prison in consequence of the debts he had
contracted.
In this dismal situation, he composed that performance which is the
delight and admiration of all Europe; I mean, the first part of Don
Quixote, which he wrote with a view to ridicule and discredit those
absurd romances, filled with the most nauseous improbability and
unnatural extravagance, which had debauched the taste of mankind, and
were indeed a disgrace to common sense and reason. Not that Cervantes
had any intention to combat the spirit of knight-errantry, so prevalent
among the Spaniards; on the contrary, I am persuaded he would have been
the first man in the nation to stand up for the honour and defence of
chivalry; which, when restrained within due bounds, was an excellent
institution, that inspired the most heroick sentiments of courage and
patriotism, and on many occasions conduced to the peace and safety of
the commonwealth. In the character of Don Quixote, he exhibits a good
understanding perverted by reading romantick stories, which had no
foundation in nature or in fact. His intellects are not supposed to have
been damaged by the perusal of authentick histories, which recount the
exploits of knights and heroes who really existed; but his madness seems
to have flowed from his credulity, and a certain wildness of
imagination, which was captivated by the marvellous representation of
dwarfs, giants, necromancers, and other preternatural extravagance. From
these legends he formed his whole plan of conduct; and, though nothing
can be more ridiculous than the terms upon which he is described to have
commenced knight-errant, at a time when the regulations of society had
rendered the profession unnecessary, and indeed illegal; the criterion
of his frenzy consists in that strange faculty of mistaking and
confounding the most familiar objects with the fantastical illusions
which those romances had engendered in his fancy. So that our author did
not enter the lists against the memory of the real substantial chivalry,
which he held in veneration; but with design to expel an hideous phantom
that possessed the brains of the people, waging perpetual war with true
genius and invention.
The success of this undertaking must have exceeded his most sanguine
hopes. Don Quixote no sooner made his appearance, than the old romances
vanished like mist before the sun. The ridicule was so striking, that
even the warmest admirers of Amadis and his posterity seemed to awake
from a dream, and reflected with amazement upon their former
infatuation. Every dispassionate reader was charmed with the humorous
characters of the knight and squire, who straight became the favourites
of his fancy; he was delighted with the variety of entertaining
incidents, and considered the author’s good sense and purity of stile
with admiration and applause.
He informs us, by the mouth of the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, that even
before the publication of the second part, twelve thousand copies of the
first were already in print, besides a new impression then working off
at Antwerp. ‘The very children,’ says he, ‘handle it, boys read it, men
understand, and old people applaud the performance. It is no sooner laid
down by one, than another takes it up, some struggling, and some
entreating for a sight of it; in fine, this history is the most
delightful and least prejudicial entertainment that ever was seen; for,
in the whole book, there is not the least shadow of a dishonourable
word, nor one thought unworthy of a good catholick.’
Nor was this applause confined to the kingdoms and territories of Spain.
The fame of Don Quixote diffused itself through all the civilized
countries of Europe; and the work was so much admired in France, that
some gentlemen who attended the French ambassador to Madrid, in a
conversation with the licentiate Marques Torres, chaplain to the
archbishop of Toledo, expressed their surprize that Cervantes was not
maintained from the publick treasury, as the honour and pride of the
Spanish nation. Nay, this work, which was first published at Madrid in
the year 1605, had the good fortune to extort the approbation of royalty
itself: Philip III. standing in a balcony of his palace, and surveying
the adjacent country, perceived a student on the bank of the Manzanares,
reading a book, and every now and then striking his forehead and
bursting out into loud fits of laughter. His majesty having observed his
emotions for some time, ‘That student,’ said he, ‘is either mad, or
reading Don Quixote.’ Some of the courtiers in attendance, had the
curiosity to go out and enquire, and actually found the scholar engaged
in the adventures of our Manchegan.
As the book was dedicated to the Duke de Bejar, we may naturally suppose
that nobleman, either by his purse or interest, obtained the author’s
discharge from prison; for he congratulates himself upon the protection
of such a patron, in certain verses prefixed to the book, and supposed
to be written by Urganda the unknown. He afterwards attracted the notice
of the Count De Lemos, who seems to have been his chief and favourite
benefactor; and even enjoyed a small share of the countenance of the
cardinal archbishop of Toledo: so that we cannot, with any probability,
espouse the opinion of those who believe his Don Quixote was intended as
a satire upon the administration of that nobleman. Nor is there the
least plausible reason for thinking his aim was to ridicule the conduct
of Charles V. whose name he never mentions without expressions of the
utmost reverence and regard. Indeed, his own indigence was a more severe
satire than any thing he could have invented against the ministry of
Philip III. for, though their protection kept him from starving, it did
not exempt him from the difficulties and mortifications of want; and no
man of taste and humanity can reflect upon his character and
circumstances, without being shocked at the barbarous indifference of
his patrons. What he obtained was not the offering of liberality and
taste, but the scanted alms of compassion: he was not respected as a
genius, but relieved as a beggar.
One would hardly imagine that an author could languish in the shade of
poverty and contempt, while his works afforded entertainment and delight
to whole nations, and even sovereigns were found in the number of his
admirers; but Cervantes had the misfortune to write in the reign of a
prince whose disposition was sordid, and whose talents, naturally mean,
had received no manner of cultivation; so that his head was altogether
untinctured with science, and his heart an utter stranger to the virtues
of beneficence. Nor did the liberal arts derive the least encouragement
from his ministry, which was ever weak and wavering. The Duke De Lerma
seems to have been a proud, irresolute, shallow-brained politician,
whose whole attention was employed in preserving the good graces of his
master; though, notwithstanding all his efforts, he still fluctuated
between favour and disgrace, and at last was fain to shelter himself
under the hat of a cardinal. As for the Count de Lemos, who had some
share in the administration, he affected to patronize men of genius,
though he had hardly penetration enough to distinguish merit; and the
little taste he possessed was so much warped by vanity and self-conceit,
that there was no other avenue to his friendship but the road of
adulation and panegyrick: we need not, therefore, wonder that his bounty
was so sparingly bestowed upon Cervantes, whose conscious worth and
spirit would not suffer him to practise such servility of prostration.
Rather than stoop so far beneath the dignity of his own character, he
resolved to endure the severest stings of fortune; and, for a series of
years, wrestled with inconceivable vexation and distress. Even in this
low situation, he was not exempted from the ill offices of those who
envied his talents and his fame. The bad writers vilified his genius,
and censured his morals; they construed Don Quixote into an impertinent
libel, and endeavoured to depreciate his Exemplary Novels, which were
published at Madrid, in the year 1613. This performance is such as might
be expected from the invention and elegance of Cervantes, and was
accordingly approved by the best judges of his time. Indeed, it must
have been a great consolation to him, in the midst of his misfortunes,
to see himself celebrated by the choicest wits of Spain; and, among the
rest, by the renowned Lope De Vega, prince of the Spanish theatre, who,
both during the life and after the death of our author, mentioned him in
the most respectful terms of admiration[9].
But, of all the insults to which he was exposed from the malevolence of
mankind, nothing provoked him so much, as the outrage he sustained, from
the insolence and knavery of an author, who, while he was preparing the
second part of Don Quixote for the press, in the year 1614, published a
performance, intitled, The Second Volume of the sage Hidalgo Don Quixote
De La Mancha, containing his third sally. Composed by the licentiate
Alonzo Fernandez De Avellaneda, a native of Tordesillas; dedicated to
the alcalde, regidors, and gentlemen, of the noble town of Argamasilla,
the happy country of Don Quixote De La Mancha. This impostor, not
contented with having robbed Cervantes of his plan, and, as some people
believe, of a good part of his copy, attacked him personally, in his
preface, in the most virulent manner; accusing him of envy, malice,
peevishness, and rancour; reproaching him with his poverty, and taxing
him with having abused his cotemporary writers, particularly Lope De
Vega, under the shadow of whose reputation this spurious writer takes
shelter, pretending to have been lashed, together with that great
genius, in some of our author’s critical reflections.
In spite of the disguise he assumed, Cervantes discovered him to be an
Arragonian; and in all probability knew his real name, which, however,
he did not think proper to transmit to posterity; and his silence in
this particular was the result either of discretion, or contempt. If he
was a person of consequence, as some people suppose, it was undoubtedly
prudent in Cervantes to pretend ignorance of his true name and quality;
because, under the shadow of that pretence, he could the more securely
chastise him for his dullness, scurrility, and presumption: but if he
knew him to be a man of no character or estimation in life, he ought to
have deemed him altogether unworthy of his resentment; for his
production was such as could not possibly prejudice our author’s
interest or reputation. It is altogether void of invention and
propriety; the characters of Don Quixote and Sancho are flattened into
the most insipid absurdity; the adventures are unentertaining and
improbable; and the stile barbarous, swoln, and pedantick.
Howsoever Saavedra’s fortune might have been affected by this fraudulent
anticipation, I am persuaded, from the consideration of his magnanimity,
that he would have looked upon the attempt with silent disdain, had the
fictitious Avellaneda abstained from personal abuse; but finding himself
so injuriously upbraided with crimes which his soul abhorred, he gave a
loose to his indignation and ridicule, which appear through the preface
and second part of Don Quixote, in a variety of animadversions equally
witty and severe. Indeed, the genuine continuation, which was published
in the year 1615, convinced the world that no other person could
compleat the plan of the original projector. It was received with
universal joy and approbation; and in a very little time translated into
the languages of Italy, France, England, and other countries, where,
though the knight appeared to disadvantage, he was treated as a noble
stranger of superlative merit and distinction.
In the year after the publication of his novels, Cervantes ushered into
the world a poem called, A Voyage to Parnassus, dedicated to Don Rodrigo
De Tapia, knight of St. Jago. This performance is an ironical satire on
the Spanish poets of his time, written in imitation of Cæsar Caporali,
who lashed his cotemporaries of Italy under the same title; though
Saavedra seems to have had also another scope, namely, to complain of
the little regard that was paid to his own age and talents. Those who
will not allow this piece to be an excellent poem, cannot help owning
that it abounds with wit and manly satire; and that nothing could be a
more keen reproach upon the taste and patronage of the times, than the
dialogue that passes between him and Apollo; to whom, after having made
a bold, yet just recapitulation of his own success in writing, he
pathetically complains, that he was denied a seat among his brethren;
and takes occasion to observe, that rewards were not bestowed according
to merit, but in consequence of interest and favour.
He has, upon other occasions, made severe remarks upon the scarcity of
patrons among the nobility of Spain, and even aimed the shafts of his
satire at the throne itself. In his dedication of the second part of Don
Quixote, to the Count De Lemos, he proceeds in this ironical strain:
‘But no person expresses a greater desire of seeing my Don Quixote, than
the mighty Emperor of China, who, about a month ago, sent me a letter by
an express, desiring, or rather beseeching, me to supply him with a copy
of that performance, as he intended to build and endow a college for
teaching the Spanish language from my book, and was resolved to make me
rector or principal teacher. I asked if his majesty had sent me any
thing towards defraying the charges; and, when he answered in the
negative, “Why, then, friend,” said I, “you may return to China as soon
as you please; for my own part, I am not in a state of health to
undertake such a long journey: besides, I am not only weak in body, but
still weaker in purse, and so I am the emperor’s most humble servant.”
In short, emperor for emperor, and monarch for monarch, to take one with
the other, and set the hare’s head against the goose giblets, there is
the noble Count De Lemos, at Naples, who, without any rectorships,
supports, protects, and favours me, to my heart’s content.’
This facetious paragraph certainly alludes to some unsubstantial promise
he had received from the court. At the same time I cannot help
observing, that his gratitude and acknowledgment to the Count De Lemos,
seem to have greatly exceeded the obligation; for, at this very time,
while he is extolling his generosity, he gives us to understand that his
circumstances were extremely indigent.
At the very time of this dedication, the poverty of Cervantes had
increased to such a degree of distress, that he was fain to sell eight
plays, and as many interludes, to Juan Villaroel, because he had neither
means nor credit for printing them at his own expence. These theatrical
pieces, which were published at Madrid in the year 1615, though counted
inferior to many productions of Lope De Vega, have nevertheless merit
enough to persuade the discerning reader that they would have succeeded
in the representation; but he was no favourite with the players, who
have always arrogated to themselves the prerogative of judging and
rejecting the productions of the drama; and, as they forbore to offer,
he disdained to solicit their acceptance. The truth is, he considered
actors as the servants of the publick, who, though entitled to a certain
degree of favour and encouragement for the entertainment they afforded,
ought ever to demean themselves with modesty and respect for their
benefactors; and he had often professed himself an enemy to the
self-sufficiency, insolence, and outrageous behaviour of the king’s
company; some of whom had been guilty of the most flagrant crimes, and
even committed murder with impunity.
It is sometimes in the power of the most inconsiderable wretch to
mortify a character of the highest dignity. Cervantes, notwithstanding
his contempt of such petty criticks, could not help feeling the
petulance of a puny player, who presumed to depreciate the talents of
this venerable father of the stage. ‘Some years ago[10],’ says he, ‘I
had recourse again to my old amusement; and, on the supposition that the
times were not altered since my name was in some estimation, I composed
a few pieces for the stage; but found no birds in last year’s nests: my
meaning is, I could find no player who would ask for my performances,
though the whole company knew they were finished; so that I threw them
aside, and condemned them to perpetual silence. About this time, a
certain bookseller told me he would have purchased my plays, had he not
been prevented by an actor, who said, that from my prose much might be
expected, but nothing from my verse. I confess, I was not a little
chagrined at hearing this declaration; and said to myself, “Either I am
quite altered, or the times are greatly improved, contrary to common
observation, by which the past is always preferred to the present.” I
revised my comedies, together with some interludes which had lain some
time in a corner, and I did not think them so wretched, but that they
might appeal from the muddy brain of this player, to the clearer
perception of other actors less scrupulous and more judicious. Being
quite out of humour, I parted with the copy to a bookseller, who offered
me a tolerable price: I took his money, without giving myself any
farther trouble about the actors, and he printed them as you see. I
could wish they were the best in the world; or, at least, possessed of
some merit. Gentle reader, thou wilt soon see how they are, and if thou
canst find any thing to thy liking, and afterwards should happen to meet
with my back-biting actor, desire him, from me, to take care and mend
himself; for I offend no man: as for the plays, thou mayest tell him,
they contain no glaring nonsense, no palpable absurdities.’
The source of this indifference towards Cervantes, we can easily
explain, by observing that Lope De Vega had, by this time, engrossed the
theatre, and the favour of the publick, to such a degree, as ensured
success to all his performances; so that the players would not run any
risk of miscarriage, in exhibiting the productions of an old neglected
veteran, who had neither inclination nor ability to support his
theatrical pieces by dint of interest and cabal. Far from being able to
raise factions in his favour, he could hardly subsist in the most
parsimonious manner, and in all probability would have actually starved,
had not the charity of the Count De Lemos enabled him barely to breathe.
The last work he finished was a novel, intitled, The Troubles of
Persiles and Sigismunda; which, however, he did not live to see in
print. This child of his old age he mentions in the warmest terms of
paternal affection[11], preferring it to all the rest of his
productions; a compliment which every author pays to the youngest
offspring of his genius; for, whatever sentence the world may pronounce,
every man thinks he daily improves in experience and understanding; and
that in refusing the pre-eminence to his last effort, he would fairly
own the decay and degeneracy of his own talents.
We must not, however, impute the encomiums which Cervantes bestows upon
his last performance to this fond partiality alone; because the book has
indubitable merit; and, as he himself says, may presume to vie with the
celebrated romance of Heliodorus[12], in elegance of diction,
entertaining incidents, and fecundity of invention. Before this novel
saw the light, our author was seized with a dropsy, which gradually
conveyed him to his grave; and nothing could give a more advantageous
idea of his character, than the fortitude and good-humour which he
appears to have maintained to the last moment of his life, overwhelmed
as he was with misery, old age, and an incurable distemper. The preface
and dedication of his Persiles and Sigismunda contain a journal of his
last stage, by which we are enabled to guess at the precise time of his
decease. ‘Loving reader,’ said he, ‘as two of my friends and myself were
coming from the famous town of Esquivias—famous, I say, on a thousand
accounts; first, for its illustrious families, and secondly, for its
more illustrious wines, &c.—I heard somebody galloping after us, with
intent, as I imagined, to join our company; and, indeed, he soon
justified my conjecture, by calling out to us to ride more softly. We
accordingly waited for this stranger; who riding up to us upon a she
ass, appeared to be a grey student; for he was cloathed in grey, with
country buskins, such as peasants wear to defend their legs in
harvest-time, round-toed shoes, a sword provided, as it happened, with a
tolerable chape, a starched band, and an even number of three-thread
bredes; for the truth is, he had but two; and as his band would every
now and then shift to one side, he took incredible pains to adjust it
again. “Gentlemen,” said he, “you are going, belike, to solicit some
post or pension at court: his eminence of Toledo must be there, to be
sure, or the king at least, by your making such haste. In good faith I
could hardly overtake you, though my ass hath been more than once
applauded for a tolerable ambler.” To this address one of my companions
replied, “We are obliged to set on at a good rate, to keep up with that
there mettlesome nag, belonging to Signior Miguel De Cervantes.” Scarce
had the student heard my name, when springing from the back of his ass,
whilst his pannel fell one way, and his wallet another, he ran towards
me, and taking hold of my stirrup, “Aye, aye,” cried he, “this is the
sound cripple! the renowned, the merry writer; in a word, the darling of
the muses!” In order to make some return to these high compliments, I
threw my arms about his neck, so as that he lost his band by the
eagerness of my embraces; and told him that he was mistaken, like many
of my well-wishers. “I am, indeed, Cervantes,” said I; “but not the
darling of the muses, or in any shape deserving of those encomiums you
have bestowed: be pleased, therefore, good Signior, to remount your
beast and let us travel together like friends the rest of the way.” The
courteous student took my advice; and, as we jogged on softly together,
the conversation happening to turn on the subject of my illness, the
stranger soon pronounced my doom, by assuring me that my distemper was a
dropsy, which all the water of the ocean, although it were not salt,
would never be able to quench. “Therefore, Signior Cervantes,” added the
student, “you must totally abstain from drink; but do not forget to eat
heartily: and this regimen will effect your recovery without
physick.”—“I have received the same advice from other people,” answered
I, “but I cannot help drinking, as if I had been born to do nothing else
but drink. My life is drawing to a period; and, by the daily journal of
my pulse, which I find will have finished its course by next Sunday at
farthest, I shall also have finished my career; so that you come in the
very nick of time to be acquainted with me, though I shall have no
opportunity of shewing how much I am obliged to you for your good will.”
By this time we had reached the Toledo Bridge; where, finding we must
part, I embraced my student once more, and he having returned the
compliment with great cordiality, spurred up his beast, and left me as
ill-disposed on my horse as he was ill-mounted on his ass; although my
pen itched to be writing some humourous description of his equipage:
but, adieu my merry friends all; for I am going to die, and I hope to
meet you again in the other world, as happy as heart can wish.’
After this adventure, which he so pleasantly relates, (nay, even in his
last moments) he dictated a most affectionate dedication to his patron,
the Count De Lemos, who was at that time president of the Supreme
Council in Italy. He begins facetiously with a quotation from an old
ballad; then proceeds to tell his excellency, that he had received
extreme unction, and was on the brink of eternity; yet he wished he
could live to see the count’s return, and even to finish the Weeks of
the Garden, and the second part of Galatea, in which he had made some
progress.
This dedication was dated April 19, 1617; and, in all probability, the
author died the very next day, as the ceremony of the unction is never
performed until the patient is supposed to be in extremity: certain it
is, he did not long survive this period; for, in September, a licence
was granted to Donna Catalina De Salazar, widow of Miguel De Cervantes
Saavedra, to print the Troubles of Persiles and Sigismunda, a northern
history; which was accordingly published at Madrid, and afterwards
translated into Italian.
Thus have I collected and related all the material circumstances
mentioned by history and tradition, concerning the life of Cervantes;
which I shall conclude with the portrait of his person, drawn by his own
pen, in the preface to his novels. His visage was sharp and aquiline,
his hair of a chesnut colour, his forehead smooth and high, his nose
hookish or hawkish, his eyes brisk and chearful, his mouth little, his
beard originally of a golden hue, his upper-lip furnished with large
mustachios, his complexion fair, his stature of the middling size; and
he tells us, moreover, that he was thick in the shoulders, and not very
light of foot.
In a word, Cervantes, whether considered as a writer or a man, will be
found worthy of universal approbation and esteem; and we cannot help
applauding that fortitude and courage, which no difficulty could
disturb, and no danger dismay; while we admire that delightful stream of
humour and invention, which flowed so plenteous and so pure, surmounting
all the mounds of malice and adversity.
Footnote 1:
Thomas Tamayo De Vargas.
Footnote 2:
Don Nicholas Antonio.
Footnote 3:
He describes his departure from Madrid in these words: ‘Out of my
country and myself I go!’
Footnote 4:
Nicholas Antonio, biblioth. Hisp.
Footnote 5:
His dedication of Galatea.
Footnote 6:
In the preface to his plays.
Footnote 7:
F. Diego Da Haedo.
Footnote 8:
To this adventure he doubtless alludes, in the story of the Captive;
who says, that when he and his fellow-slaves were deliberating about
ransoming one of their number, who should go to Valencia and Mayorca,
and procure a vessel with which he might return and fetch off the
rest, the renegado who was of their council opposed the scheme,
observing, that those who are once delivered seldom think of
performing the promises they have made in captivity: as a confirmation
of the truth of what he alledged, he briefly recounted a case which
had lately happened to some Christian gentlemen, attended with the
strangest circumstances ever known, even in those parts, where the
most uncommon and surprizing events occur almost every day.
Footnote 9:
Laurèl de Apollo Selva 8.
Footnote 10:
In his preface to his plays.
Footnote 11:
Preface to his novels. Dedication of the last part of Don Quixote.
Footnote 12:
The Loves of Theagenes and Chariclea.
Translator’s Note
The translator’s aim, in this undertaking, was to maintain that
ludicrous solemnity and self-importance by which the inimitable
Cervantes has distinguished the character of Don Quixote, without
raising him to the insipid rank of a dry philosopher, or debasing him to
the melancholy circumstances and unentertaining caprice of an ordinary
madman; and to preserve the native humour of Sancho Panza from
degenerating into mere proverbial phlegm, or affected buffoonery.
He has endeavoured to retain the spirit and ideas, without servilely
adhering to the literal expression of the original; from which, however,
he has not so far deviated, as to destroy that formality of idiom, so
peculiar to the Spaniards, and so essential to the character of the
work.
The satire and propriety of many allusions, which had been lost in the
change of custom and lapse of time, are restored in explanatory notes;
and the whole is conducted with that care and circumspection, which
ought to be exerted by every author, who, in attempting to improve upon
a task already performed, subjects himself to the most invidious
comparison.
PREFACE TO THE READER.
Idle reader, without an oath thou mayest believe, that I wish this book,
as the child of my understanding, were the most beautiful, sprightly,
and discreet production, that ever was conceived. But it was not in my
power to contravene the order of nature: in consequence of which, every
creature procreates its own resemblance. What, therefore, could be
engendered in my barren, ill-cultivated genius, but a dry, meagre
offspring, wayward, capricious, and full of whimsical notions peculiar
to my own imagination, as if produced in a prison, which is the seat of
inconvenience, and the habitation of every dismal sound[13]. Quiet
solitude, pleasant fields, serene weather, purling streams, and
tranquillity of mind, contribute so much to the fecundity even of the
most barren genius, that it will bring forth productions so fair as to
awaken the admiration and delight of mankind.
A man who is so unfortunate as to have an ugly child, destitute of every
grace and favourable endowment, may be so hood-winked by paternal
tenderness, that he cannot perceive his defects; but, on the contrary,
looks upon every blemish as a beauty, and recounts to his friends every
instance of his folly as a sample of his wit: but I, who, though
seemingly the parent, am no other than the step-father of Don Quixote,
will not sail with the stream of custom; nor, like some others,
supplicate thee, gentle reader, with the tears in my eyes, to pardon or
conceal the faults which thou mayest spy in this production. Thou art
neither its father nor kinsman; hast thy own soul in thy own body, and a
will as free as the finest; thou art in thy own house, of which I hold
thee as absolute master as the king of his revenue; and thou knowest the
common saying, ‘Under my cloak the king is a joke.’ These considerations
free and exempt thee from all manner of restraint and obligation; so
that thou mayest fully and frankly declare thy opinion of this history,
without fear of calumny for thy censure, and without hope of recompence
for thy approbation.
I wished only to present thee with the performance, clean, neat, and
naked, without the ornament of a preface, and unincumbered with an
innumerable catalogue of such sonnets, epigrams, and commendatory
verses, as are generally prefixed to the productions of the present age;
for I can assure thee, that although the composition of the book hath
cost me some trouble, I have found more difficulty in writing this
preface, which is now under thy inspection: divers and sundry times did
I seize the pen, and as often laid it aside, for want of knowing what to
say; and during this uneasy state of suspence, while I was one day
ruminating on the subject, with the paper before me, the quill behind my
ear, my elbow fixed on the table, and my cheek leaning on my hand; a
friend of mine, who possesses a great fund of humour and an excellent
understanding, suddenly entered the apartment, and finding me in this
musing posture, asked the cause of my being so contemplative. As I had
no occasion to conceal the nature of my perplexity, I told him I was
studying a Preface for the History of Don Quixote; a talk which I found
so difficult, that I was resolved to desist, and even suppress the
adventures of such a noble cavalier: for you may easily suppose how much
I must be confounded at the animadversions of that ancient law-giver the
vulgar, when it shall see me, after so many years that I have slept in
silence and oblivion, produce, in my old age, a performance as dry as a
rush, barren of invention, meagre in stile, beggarly in conceit, and
utterly destitute of wit and erudition; without quotations in the
margin, or annotations at the end, as we see in other books, let them be
never so fabulous and profane; indeed, they are generally so stuffed
with apothegms from Aristotle, Plato, and the whole body of
philosophers, that they excite the admiration of the readers, who look
upon such authors as men of unbounded knowledge, eloquence, and
erudition. When they bring a citation from the Holy Scripture, one would
take them for so many Saint Thomas’s, and other doctors of the church;
herein observing such ingenious decorum, that in one line they will
represent a frantick lover, and in the very next begin with a godly
sermon, from which the Christian readers, and even the hearers, receive
much comfort and edification. Now, my book must appear without all these
advantages; for I can neither quote in the margin, nor note in the end:
nor do I know what authors I have imitated, that I may, like the rest of
my brethren, prefix them to the work in alphabetical order, beginning
with Aristotle, and ending in Xenophon, Zoilus, or Zeuxis, though one
was a back biter, and the other a painter. My history must likewise be
published without poems at the beginning, at least without sonnets
written by dukes, marquisses, counts, bishops, ladies, and celebrated
poets: although, should I make the demand, I know two or three
good-natured friends, who would oblige me with such verses as should not
be equalled by the most famous poetry in Spain.
‘In a word, my good friend,’ said I, ‘Signior Don Quixote shall be
buried in the archives of La Mancha, until Heaven shall provide some
person to adorn him with those decorations he seems to want; for I find
myself altogether unequal to the task, through insufficiency and want of
learning; and because I am naturally too bashful and indolent to go in
quest of authors to say what I myself can say as well without their
assistance. Hence arose my thoughtfulness and meditation, which you will
not wonder at, now that you have heard the cause.’ My friend having
listened attentively to my remonstrances, slapped his forehead with the
palm of his hand; and, bursting into a loud laugh, ‘’Fore God! brother,’
said he, ‘I am now undeceived of an error, in which I have lived during
the whole term of our acquaintance; for I always looked upon you as a
person of prudence and discretion; but now, I see, you are as far from
that character as heaven is distant from the earth. What! is it possible
that such a trifling inconvenience, so easily remedied, should have
power to mortify and perplex a genius like yours, brought to such
maturity, and so well calculated to demolish and surmount much greater
difficulties? In good faith, this does not proceed from want of ability,
but from excessive indolence, that impedes the exercise of reason. If
you would be convinced of the truth of what I alledge, give me the
hearing, and, in the twinkling of an eye, all your difficulties shall
vanish, and a remedy be prescribed for all those defects which, you say,
perplex your understanding, and deter you from ushering to the light
your history of the renowned Don Quixote, the luminary and sole mirror
of knight-errantry.’ Hearing this declaration, I desired he would tell
me in what manner he proposed to fill up the vacuity of my apprehension,
to diffuse light, and reduce to order the chaos of my confusion; and he
replied, ‘Your first objection, namely, the want of sonnets, epigrams,
and commendatory verses from persons of rank and gravity, may be
obviated, by your taking the trouble to compose them yourself, and then
you may christen them by any name you shall think proper to chuse,
fathering them upon Prestor John of the Indies, or the Emperor of
Trebisond; who, I am well informed, were very famous poets: and even
should this intelligence be untrue, and a few pedants and batchelors of
arts should backbite and grumble at your conduct, you need not value
them three farthings; for although they convict you of a lye, they
cannot cut off the hand that wrote it[14].
‘With regard to the practice of quoting in the margin, such books and
authors as have furnished you with sentences and sayings for the
embellishment of your history, you have nothing to do, but to season the
work with some Latin maxims, which your own memory will suggest, or a
little industry in searching easily obtain: for example, in treating of
freedom and captivity, you may say, _Non bene pro toto libertas venditur
auro_; and quote Horace, or whom you please, in the margin. If the power
of death happens to be your subject, you have at hand, _Pallida mors
æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas regumque turres_. And expatiating
upon that love and friendship which God commands us to entertain even
for our enemies, you may have recourse to the Holy Scripture, though you
should have never so little curiosity, and say, in the very words of God
himself, _Ego autem dico vobis, diligite inimicos vestros_. In
explaining the nature of malevolence, you may again extract from the
Gospel, _De corde exeunt cogitationes malæ_. And the instability of
friends may be aptly illustrated by this distich of Cato, _Donec eris
felix, multos numerabis amicos; tempora si fuerint nubila, solus eris_.
By these, and other such scraps of Latin, you may pass for an able
grammarian; a character of no small honour and advantage in these days.
And as to the annotations at the end of the book, you may safely furnish
them in this manner: when you chance to write about giants, be sure to
mention Goliah; and this name alone, which costs you nothing, will
afford a grand annotation, couched in these words, “The giant Golias, or
Goliat, was a Philistine, whom the shepherd David slew with a stone from
a sling, in the valley of Terebinthus, as it is written in such a
chapter of the book of Kings.”
‘If you have a mind to display your erudition and knowledge of
cosmography, take an opportunity to introduce the River Tagus into your
history, and this will supply you with another famous annotation, thus
expressed. “The River Tagus, so called from a king of Spain, takes its
rise in such a place, and is lost in the sea, after having kissed the
walls of the famous city of Lisbon; and is said to have golden sands,
&c.” If you treat of robbers, I will relate the story of Cacus, which I
have by rote. If of harlots, the Bishop of Mondoneda will lend you a
Lamia, a Lais, and a Flora; and such a note will greatly redound to your
credit. When you write of cruelty, Ovid will surrender his Medea. When
you mention wizzards and inchanters, you will find a Calypso in Homer,
and a Circe in Virgil. If you have occasion to speak of valiant
captains, Julius Cæsar stands ready drawn in his own Commentaries; and
from Plutarch you may extract a thousand Alexanders. If your theme be
love, and you have but two ounces of the Tuscan tongue, you will light
upon Leon Hebreo, who will fill up the measure of your desire: and if
you do not chuse to travel into foreign countries, you have at home
Fonseca’s Treatise on the Love of God, in which all that you, or the
most ingenious critick can desire, is fully decyphered and discussed. In
a word, there is nothing more to be done, than to procure a number of
these names, and hint at their particular stories in your text; and to
leave me the talk of making annotations and quotations, with which I
will engage, on pain of death, to fill up all the margins, besides four
whole sheets at the end of the book. Let us now proceed to the citation
of authors, so frequent in other books, and so little used in your
performance; the remedy is obvious and easy; take the trouble to find a
book that quotes the whole tribe alphabetically, as you observed, from
Alpha to Omega, and transfer them into your book; and though the
absurdity should appear never so glaring, as there is no necessity for
using such names, it will signify nothing. Nay, perhaps, some reader
will be weak enough to believe you have actually availed yourself of all
those authors, in the simple and sincere history you have composed; and,
if such a large catalogue of writers should answer no other purpose, it
may serve at first sight to give some authority to the production: nor
will any person take the trouble to examine, whether you have or have
not followed those originals, because he can reap no benefit from his
labour. But, if I am not mistaken, your book needs none of those
embellishments in which you say it is defective: for it is one continued
satire upon books of chivalry; a subject which Aristotle never
investigated, St. Basil never mentioned, and Cicero never explained. The
punctuality of truth, and the observations of astrology, fall not within
the fabulous relation of our adventures; to the description of which,
neither the proportions of geometry, nor the confirmation of rhetorical
arguments, are of the least importance: nor hath it any connection with
preaching, or mingling divine truths with human imagination; a mixture
which no Christian’s fancy should conceive. It only seeks to avail
itself of imitation; and the more perfect this is, the more entertaining
the book will be: new, as your sole aim in writing, is to invalidate the
authority, and ridicule the absurdity, of those books of chivalry, which
have, as it were, fascinated the eyes and judgment of the world, and in
particular of the vulgar, you have no occasion to go a begging maxims
from philosophers, exhortations from Holy Writ, fables from poets,
speeches from orators, or miracles from saints; your business is, with
plain, significant, well-chosen, and elegant words, to render your
periods sonorous, and your stile entertaining; to give spirit and
expression to all your descriptions, and communicate your ideas without
obscurity and confusion. You must endeavour to write in such a manner as
to convert melancholy into mirth, increase good-humour, entertain the
ignorant, excite the admiration of the learned, escape the contempt of
gravity, and attract applause from persons of ingenuity and taste.
Finally, let your aim be levelled against that ill-founded bulwark of
idle books of chivalry, abhorred by many, but applauded by more; which
if you can batter down, you will have atchieved no inconsiderable
exploit.’
I listened to my friend’s advice in profound silence, and his remarks
made such impression upon my mind, that I admitted them without
hesitation or dispute; and resolved that they should appear instead of a
Preface. Thou wilt, therefore, gentle reader, perceive his discretion,
and my good luck in finding such a counsellor in such an emergency; nor
wilt thou be sorry to receive, thus genuine and undisguised, the History
of the renowned Don Quixote de La Mancha, who, in the opinion of all the
people that live in the district of Montiel, was the most virtuous and
valiant knight who had appeared for many years in that neighbourhood. I
shall not pretend to enhance the merit of having introduced thee to such
a famous and honourable cavalier; but I expect thanks for having made
thee acquainted with Sancho Panza, in whom I think are united all the
squirish graces which we find scattered through the whole tribe of vain
books written on the subject of chivalry. So, praying God will give thee
health, without forgetting such an humble creature as me, I bid thee
heartily farewel.
Footnote 13:
This is a strong presumption that the first part of Don Quixote was
actually written in a gaol.
Footnote 14:
Alluding to the loss of his hand in the battle of Lepanto.
VOLUME THE FIRST.
PART I.
BOOK I.
CHAP. I.
OF THE QUALITY AND AMUSEMENTS
OF THE RENOWNED DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA.
In a certain corner of La Mancha, the name of which I do not chuse to
remember, there lately lived one of those country gentlemen, who adorn
their halls with a rusty lance and worm-eaten target, and ride forth on
the skeleton of a horse, to course with a sort of a starved greyhound.
Three-fourths of his income were scarce sufficient to afford a dish of
hodgepodge, in which the mutton bore no proportion to the beef[15], for
dinner; a plate of salmagundy, commonly at supper[16]; gripes and
grumblings on Saturdays[17], lentils on Fridays, and the addition of a
pigeon or some such thing on the Lord’s day. The remaining part of his
revenue was consumed in the purchase of a fine black suit, with velvet
breeches, and slippers of the same, for holidays; and a coat of
home-spun, which he wore in honour of his country during the rest of the
week.
He maintained a female housekeeper turned of forty, a niece of about
half that age, and a trusty young fellow, fit for field and market, who
could turn his hand to any thing, either to saddle the horse or handle
the hough[18].
Our squire, who bordered upon fifty, was of a tough constitution,
extremely meagre, and hard featured, an early riser, and in point of
exercise, another Nimrod[19]. He is said to have gone by the name of
Quixada, or Quesada, (for in this particular the authors who mention
that circumstance disagree) though, from the most probable conjectures,
we may conclude that he was called by the significant name of
Quixada[20]; but this is of small importance to the history, in the
course of which it will be sufficient if we swerve not a tittle from the
truth.
Be it known, therefore, that this said honest gentleman, at his leisure
hours, which engrossed the greatest part of the year, addicted himself
to the reading of books of chivalry, which he perused with such rapture
and application, that he not only forgot the pleasures of the chace, but
also utterly neglected the management of his estate: nay, to such a pass
did his curiosity and madness in this particular drive him, that he sold
many good acres of Terra Firma, to purchase books of knight-errantry,
with which he furnished his library to the utmost of his power; but none
of them pleased him so much as those that were written by the famous
Feliciano De Silva, whom he admired as the pearl of all authors, for the
brilliancy of his prose, and the beautiful perplexity of his expression.
How was he transported, when he read those amorous complaints, and
doughty challenges, that so often occur in his works!
‘The reason of the unreasonable usage my reason has met with, so
unreasons my reason, that I have reason to complain of your beauty!’ And
how did he enjoy the following flower of composition! ‘The high heaven
of your divinity, which with stars divinely fortifies your beauty, and
renders you meritorious of that merit, which by your highness is
merited.’
The poor gentleman lost his senses in poring over, and attempting to
discover the meaning of these and other such rhapsodies, which Aristotle
himself would not be able to unravel, were he to rise from the dead for
that purpose only. He could not comprehend the probability of those
direful wounds, given and received by Don Bellianis, whose face and
whose carcase must have remained quite covered with marks and scars,
even allowing him to have been cured by the most expert surgeons of the
age in which he lived.
He, notwithstanding, bestowed great commendations on the author, who
concludes his book, with the promise of finishing that interminable
adventure; and was more than once inclined to seize the quill, with a
view of performing what was left undone; nay, he would have actually
accomplished the affair, and published it accordingly, had not
reflections of greater moment employed his imagination, and diverted him
from the execution of that design.
Divers and obstinate were the disputes he maintained against the parson
of the parish, (a man of some learning, who had taken his degrees at
Siguenza[21],) on that puzzling question, whether Palmerin of England,
or Amadis De Gaul, was the most illustrious knight-errant: but master
Nicholas, who acted as barber to the village, affirmed, that none of
them equalled the knight of the sun, or indeed could be compared to him
in any degree, except Don Galaor, brother of Amadis De Gaul; for his
disposition was adapted to all emergencies; he was neither such a
precise, nor such a puling coxcomb, as his brother; and in point of
valour, his equal at least.
So eager and entangled was our hidalgo[22], in this kind of history,
that he would often read from morning to night, and from night to
morning again, without interruption; till at last the moisture of his
brain being quite exhausted with indefatigable watching and study, he
fairly lost his wits; all that he had read of quarrels, inchantments,
battles, challenges, wounds, tortures, amorous complaints, and other
improbable conceits, took full possession of his fancy; and he believed
all those romantick exploits so implicitly, that, in his opinion, the
Holy Scripture was not more true. He observed that Cid Ruydias was an
excellent knight; but not equal to the lord of the flaming-sword, who
with one back-stroke had cut two fierce and monstrous giants through the
middle. He had still a better opinion of Bernardo Del Carpio; who, at
the battle of Roncevalles, put the inchanted Orlando to death[23], by
the same means that Hercules used when he strangled the earth born
Anteus. Neither was he silent in the praise of Morgante; who, though of
that gigantick race which is noted for insolence and incivility, was
perfectly affable and well-bred. But his chief favourite was Reynaldo of
Montalban, whom he hugely admired for his prowess, in sallying from his
castle to rob travellers; and, above all things, for his dexterity in
stealing that idol of the impostor Mahomet, which, according to the
history, was of solid gold. For an opportunity of pummelling the traitor
Galalon[24], he would willingly have given his house-keeper, body and
soul; nay, and his niece into the bargain. In short, his understanding
being quite perverted, he was seized with the strangest whim that ever
entered the brain of a madman: this was no other than a full persuasion,
that it was highly expedient and necessary, not only for his own honour,
but also for the good of the publick, that he should profess
knight-errantry, and ride through the world in arms, to seek adventures,
and conform in all points to the practice of those itinerant heroes
whose exploits he had read; redressing all manner of grievances, and
courting all occasions of exposing himself to such dangers, as in the
event would entitle him to everlasting renown. This poor lunatick looked
upon himself already as good as seated, by his own single valour, on the
throne of Trebisond; and, intoxicated with these agreeable vapours of
his unaccountable folly, resolved to put his design in practice
forthwith.
In the first place he cleaned an old suit of armour, which had belonged
to some of his ancestors, and which he found in his garret, where it had
lain for several ages, quite covered over with mouldiness and rust; but
having scoured and put it to rights, as well as he could, he perceived,
that instead of a compleat helmet, there was only a simple head-piece
without a beaver. This unlucky defect, however, his industry supplied by
a vizor, which he made of paste-board, and fixed so artificially to the
morrion, that it looked like an entire helmet. True it is, that in order
to try if it was strong enough to risk his jaws in, he unsheathed his
sword, and bestowed upon it two hearty strokes, the first of which in a
twinkling undid his whole week’s labour. He did not at all approve of
the facility with which he hewed it in pieces; and therefore, to secure
himself from any such danger for the future, went to work anew. He faced
it with a plate of iron, in such a manner as that he remained satisfied
of its strength without putting it to a second trial, and looked upon it
as a most finished piece of armour.
He next visited his horse, which (though he had more corners than a
rial[25], being as lean as Gonela’s, that _tantum pellis et ossa fuit_)
nevertheless, in his eye, appeared infinitely preferable to Alexander’s
Bucephalus, or the Cid’s Babieca. Four days he consumed in inventing a
name for this remarkable steed; suggesting to himself what an
impropriety it would be if an horse of his qualities, belonging to such
a renowned knight, should go without some sounding and significant
appellation: he therefore resolved to accommodate him with one that
should not only declare his past, but also his present capacity; for he
thought it but reasonable, that since his master had altered his
condition, he should also change his horse’s name, and invest him with
some sublime and sonorous epithet, suitable to the new order and
employment he professed. Accordingly, after having chosen, rejected,
amended, tortured, and revolved, a world of names in his imagination, he
fixed upon Rozinante[26], an appellation, in his opinion, lofty,
sonorous, and expressive, not only of his former, but likewise of his
present situation, which entitled him to the preference over all other
horses under the sun. Having thus denominated his horse, so much to his
own satisfaction, he was desirous of doing himself the like justice; and
after eight days study, actually assumed the title of Don Quixote: from
whence, as hath been observed, the authors of this authentick history
concluded, that his former name must have been Quixada, and not Quesada,
as others are pleased to affirm. But recollecting that the valiant
Amadis, not satisfied with that simple appellation, added to it that of
his country; and in order to dignify the place of his nativity, called
himself Amadis De Gaul. He resolved, like a worthy knight, to follow
such an illustrious example, and assume the name of Don Quixote de La
Mancha, which, in his opinion, fully expressed his generation, and at
the same time reflected infinite honour on his fortunate country.
Accordingly, his armour being scowered, his beaver fitted to his
head-piece, his steed accommodated with a name, and his own dignified
with these additions, he reflected, that nothing else was wanting but a
lady to inspire him with love; for a knight-errant without a mistress,
would be like a tree destitute of leaves and fruit, or a body without a
soul. ‘If,’ said he, ‘for my sins, or rather for my honour, I should
engage with some giant, an adventure common in knight-errantry, and
overthrow him in the field, by cleaving him in twain, or, in short,
disarm and subdue him; will it not be highly proper that I should have a
mistress, to whom I may send my conquered foe; who, coming into the
presence of the charming fair, will fall upon his knees, and say, in an
humble and submissive tone; “Incomparable princess, I am the giant
Carculiambro, lord of the island Malindrania, who being vanquished in
single combat by the invincible knight Don Quixote de La Mancha, am
commanded by him to present myself before your beauty, that I may be
disposed of, according to the pleasure of your highness?”’ How did the
heart of our worthy knight dance with joy when he uttered this address;
and still more, when he found a lady worthy of his affection! This, they
say, was an hale, buxom, country wench, called Aldonza Lorenço, who
lived in the neighbourhood, and with whom he had formerly been in love;
though, by all accounts, she never knew, nor gave herself the least
concern about the matter. Her he looked upon as one qualified, in all
respects, to be the queen of his inclinations; and putting his invention
again to the rack for a name that should bear some affinity with her
own, and at the same time become a princess or lady of quality, he
determined to call her Dulcinea del Toboso, she being a native of that
place; a name, in his opinion, musical, romantick, and expressive, like
the rest which he had appropriated to himself and his concerns.
Footnote 15:
Mutton in Spain is counted greatly preferable to beef.
Footnote 16:
_Salpicon_, which is the word in the original, is no other than cold
beef sliced, and eaten with oil, vinegar, and pepper.
Footnote 17:
Gripes and grumblings, in Spanish _duelos y quebrantos_; the true
meaning of which the former translators have been at great pains to
investigate, as the importance of the subject (no doubt) required. But
their labours have, unhappily, ended in nothing else but conjectures,
which, for the entertainment and instruction of our readers, we beg
leave to repeat. One interprets the phrase into collops and eggs;
‘Being,’ saith he, ‘a very sorry dish.’ In this decision, however, he
is contradicted by another commentator, who affirms, ‘It is a mess too
good to mortify withal:’ neither can this virtuoso agree with a late
editor, who translates the passage in question into an amlet; but
takes occasion to fall out with Boyer for his description of that
dish, which he most sagaciously understands to be a ‘bacon froize,’ or
‘rather fryze, from its being fried, from frit in French;’ and
concludes with this judicious query, ‘After all these learned
disquisitions, who knows but the author means a dish of nichils?’ If
this was his meaning, indeed, surely we may venture to conclude, that
fasting was very expensive in La Mancha; for the author mentions the
_duelos y quebrantos_ among those articles that confirmed
three-fourths of the knight’s income.
Having considered this momentous affair with all the deliberation it
deserves, we in our turn present the reader with cucumbers, greens, or
pease-porridge, as the fruit of our industrious researches; being
thereunto determined by the literal signification of the text, which
is not ‘grumblings and groanings,’ as the last-mentioned ingenious
annotator seems to think, but rather pains and breakings; and
evidently points at such eatables as generate and expel wind;
qualities (as every body knows) eminently inherent in those vegetables
we have mentioned as our hero’s Saturday’s repast.
Footnote 18:
_Podadera_, literally signifies a pruning-hook.
Footnote 19:
In the original, a lover of hunting.
Footnote 20:
_Quixadas_, signifies jaws, of which our knight had an extraordinary
provision.
Footnote 21:
Siguenza, a town situated on the banks of the Henares, in New Castile,
in which there is a small university.
Footnote 22:
Hidalgo has much the same application in Spain as squire in England;
though it literally signifies the son of something, in
contradistinction to those who are the sons of nothing.
Footnote 23:
Orlando, the supposed nephew of Charlemagne, and poetical hero of
Boiardo and Ariosto, is said to have been invulnerable in all parts of
his body, except the soles of his feet, which he therefore took care
to secure with double plates of armour.
Footnote 24:
Galalon is said to have betrayed Charlemagne’s army at Roncevalles,
where it was roughly handled by the Moors, in his retreat from Spain.
Footnote 25:
This is a joke upon the knight’s steed, which was so meagre, that his
bones stuck out like the corners of a Spanish rial, a coin of very
irregular shape, not unlike the figure in geometry called a trapezium.
Footnote 26:
Rozinante, implies that which was formerly an ordinary horse, though
the _ante_ seems to have been intended by the knight as a badge of
distinction, by which he was ranked before all other horses.
CHAP. II.
OF THE SAGE DON QUIXOTE’S FIRST SALLY FROM HIS OWN HABITATION.
These preparations being made, he could no longer resist the desire of
executing his design; reflecting with impatience on the injury his delay
occasioned in the world, where there was abundance of grievances to be
redressed, wrongs to be rectified, errors to be amended, abuses to be
reformed, and doubts to be removed; he therefore, without communicating
his intention to any body, or being seen by a living soul, one morning
before day, in the scorching month of July, put on his armour, mounted
Rozinante, buckled his ill-contrived helmet, braced his target, seized
his lance, and through the back door of his yard sallied into the fields
in a rapture of joy, occasioned by this easy and successful beginning of
his admirable undertaking: but scarce was he clear of the village, when
he was assaulted by such a terrible objection, as had well-nigh induced
our hero to abandon his enterprize directly; for he recollected that he
had never been knighted; and therefore, according to the laws of
chivalry, he neither could nor ought to enter the lists with any
antagonist of that degree; nay, even granting he had received that mark
of distinction, it was his duty to wear white armour, like a new knight,
without any device on his shield, until such time as his valour should
entitle him to that honour[27].
These cogitations made him waver a little in his plan; but his madness
prevailing over every other consideration, suggested that he might be
dubbed by the first person he should meet, after the example of many
others who had fallen upon the same expedient; as he had read in those
mischievous books which had disordered his imagination[28]. With respect
to the white armour, he proposed, with the first opportunity, to scower
his own, until it should be fairer than ermine: and having satisfied his
conscience in this manner, he pursued his design, without following any
other road than that which his horse was pleased to chuse; being
persuaded that, in so doing, he manifested the true spirit of adventure.
Thus proceeded our flaming adventurer, while he uttered the following
soliloquy.
‘Doubtless, in future ages, when the true history of my famed exploits
shall come to light, the sage author, when he recounts my first and
early sally, will express himself in this manner: “Scarce had ruddy
Phœbus, o’er this wide and spacious earth, displayed the golden threads
of his refulgent hair; and scarce the little painted warblers with their
forky tongues, in soft, mellifluous harmony, had hailed the approach of
rosy-winged Aurora, who stealing from her jealous husband’s couch,
through the balconies and aërial gates of Mancha’s bright horizon, stood
confessed to wondering mortals; when lo! the illustrious knight Don
Quixote de La Mancha, up-springing from the lazy down, bestrode famed
Rozinante his unrivalled steed! and through Monteil’s ancient,
well-known field,” which was really the case, “pursued his way.”’ Then
he added, ‘O fortunate age! O happy times! in which shall be made
publick my incomparable atchievements, worthy to be engraved in brass,
on marble sculptured, and in painting shewn, as great examples to
futurity! And O! thou sage enchanter, whosoever thou may’st be, doomed
to record the wondrous story, forget not, I beseech thee, my trusty
Rozinante, the firm companion of my various fate!’ Then making a sudden
transition, he exclaimed, as if he had been actually in love, ‘O
Dulcinea! sovereign princess of this captive heart, what dire affliction
hast thou made me suffer, thus banished from thy presence with reproach,
and fettered by thy rigorous command, not to appear again before thy
beauteous face! Deign, princess, to remember this thy faithful slave,
who now endures such misery for love of thee!’ These, and other such
rhapsodies, he strung together; imitating, as much as in him lay, the
stile of those ridiculous books which he had read; and jogging along, in
spite of the sun, which beamed upon him so intensely hot, that surely
his brains, if any had remained, would have been fried in his skull:
that whole day did he travel without encountering any thing worth
mentioning; a circumstance that grieved him sorely, for he had expected
to find some object on which he could try the prowess of his valiant
arm[29].
Some authors say, his first adventure was that of the pass of Lapice;
but others affirm, that the windmills had the maidenhead of his valour:
all that I can aver of the matter, in consequence of what I found
recorded in the annals of La Mancha, is, that having travelled the whole
day, his horse and he, about twilight, found themselves excessively
wearied, and half dead with hunger; and that looking around for some
castle or sheep-cote, in which he might allay the cravings of nature, by
repose and refreshment; he descried, not far from the road, an inn,
which he looked upon as the star that would guide him to the porch, if
not the palace, of his redemption: in this hope, he put spurs to his
horse, and just in the twilight reached the gate, where at that time
there happened to be two ladies of the game; who, being on their journey
to Seville, with the carriers, had chanced to take up their night’s
lodging in this place.
As our hero’s imagination converted whatsoever he saw, heard, or
considered, into something of which he had read in books of chivalry; he
no sooner perceived the inn, than his fancy represented it as a stately
castle, with its four towers and pinnacles of shining silver,
accommodated with a draw-bridge, deep moat, and all other conveniences
that are described as belonging to buildings of that kind.
When he was within a small distance of this inn, which to him seemed a
castle, he drew bridle, and stopped Rozinante, in hope that some dwarf
would appear upon the battlements, and signify his arrival by sound of
trumpet: but as this ceremony was not performed so soon as he expected,
and his steed expressed great eagerness to be in the stable, he rode up
to the gate, and observing the battered wenches before-mentioned,
mistook them for two beautiful maidens, or agreeable ladies, enjoying
the cool breeze at the castle gate. At that instant, a swine-herd, who,
in a field hard by, was tending a drove of hogs, (with leave be it
spoken) chanced to blow his horn, in order to collect his scattered
subjects: immediately the knight’s expectation was fulfilled, and
concluding that now the dwarf had given the signal of his approach, he
rode towards the inn with infinite satisfaction. The ladies no sooner
perceived such a strange figure, armed with lance and target, than they
were seized with consternation, and ran affrighted to the gate; but Don
Quixote, guessing their terror by their flight, lifted up his
paste-board vizor, and discovering his meagre lanthorn-jaws besmeared
with dust, addressed them thus, with gentle voice and courteous
demeanor: ‘Fly me not, ladies; nor dread the least affront; for it
belongs not to the order of knighthood, which I profess, to injure any
mortal, much less such high-born damsels as your appearance declares you
to be.’
The wenches, who stared at him with all their curiosity, in order to
discover his face, which the sorry beaver concealed, hearing themselves
stiled HIGH-BORN DAMSELS, an epithet so foreign to their profession,
could contain themselves no longer, but burst out into such a fit of
laughter, that Don Quixote, being offended, rebuked them in these words:
‘Nothing is more commendable in beautiful women than modesty; and
nothing more ridiculous than laughter proceeding from a slight cause:
but this I mention not as a reproach, by which I may incur your
indignation; on the contrary, my intention is only to do you service.’
This address, which was wholly unintelligible to the ladies, together
with the ludicrous appearance of him who pronounced it, increased their
mirth; which kindled the knight’s anger, and he began to wax wroth; when
luckily the landlord interposed. This inn-keeper, who, by reason of his
unwieldy belly, was of a pacifick disposition, no sooner beheld the
preposterous figure of our hero, equipped with such ill-suited
accoutrements as his bridle, lance, target, and corslet composed, than
he was seized with an inclination to join the nymphs in their
unseasonable merriment; but being justly afraid of incensing the owner
of such unaccountable furniture, he resolved to behave civilly, and
accordingly accosted him in these words: ‘Sir knight, if your worship
wants lodging, you may be accommodated in this inn with every thing in
great abundance, except a bed; for at present we have not one
unengaged.’ Don Quixote perceiving the humility of the governor of the
castle, for such he supposed the landlord to be, answered, ‘For me,
Signior Castellano, any thing will suffice; my dress is armour, battles
my repose, &c.’ Mine host imagining that he called him Castellano[30],
because he looked like a hypocritical rogue; though indeed, he was an
Andalusian, born on the coast of St. Lucar, as great a thief as Cacus,
and more mischievous than a collegian or a page, replied with a sneer,
‘If that be the case, I suppose your worship’s couch is no other than
the flinty rock, and your sleep perpetual waking; so that you may alight
with the comfortable assurance, that you will find, in this mansion,
continual opportunities of defying sleep, not only for one night, but
for a whole year, if you please to try the experiment.’ With these
words, he laid hold of the stirrup of Don Quixote; who, dismounting with
infinite pain and difficulty, occasioned by his having travelled all day
long without any refreshment, bade the landlord take special care of his
steed; for, he observed, a better piece of horse-flesh had never broke
bread.
The innkeeper, though with all his penetration he could not discern any
qualities in Rozinante sufficient to justify one half of what was said
in his praise, led him civilly into the stable; and having done the
honours of the place, returned to receive the commands of his other
guest, whom he found in the hands of the high born damsels; who having
by this time reconciled themselves to him, were busied in taking off his
armour: they had already disincumbered him of his back and
breast-plates, but could fall upon no method of disengaging his head and
neck from his ill-contrived helmet and gorget, which were fast tied with
green ribbands, the Gordian knots of which no human hands could loose;
and he would by no means allow them to be cut; so that he remained all
night armed from the throat upwards, and afforded as odd and comical a
spectacle as ever was seen[31]. While these kind harridans, whom he
supposed to be the constable’s lady and daughter, were employed in this
hospitable office, he said to them with a smile of inconceivable
pleasure, ‘Never was knight so honoured by the service of ladies as Don
Quixote, when he first ushered himself into the world; ladies ministered
unto him, and princesses took charge of his Rozinante. O Rozinante! (for
that, fair ladies, is the name of my steed, and Don Quixote de La Mancha
the appellation of his master) not that I intended to have disclosed
myself until the deeds atchieved in your service should have made me
known; but, in order to accommodate my present situation to that
venerable romance of Sir Lancelot, I am obliged to discover my name a
little prematurely; yet the time will come, when your highness shall
command, and I will obey, and the valour of this arm testify the desire
I feel of being your slave.’
The charmers, whom nature never desired to expose to such extraordinary
compliments, answered not a syllable, but asked if he chose to have any
thing for supper. To which kind question Don Quixote replied, that from
the information of his bowels, he believed nothing eatable could come
amiss. As it was unluckily a meagre day, the inn afforded no other fare
than some bundles of that fish which is called abadexo in Castile,
baccalao in Andalusia, curadillo in some parts of Spain, and truchuela
in others: so that they inquired if his worship could eat truchuela; for
there was no other fish to be had. ‘A number of troutlings,’ answered
the knight, ‘will please me as much as one trout; for, in my opinion,
eight single rials are equivalent to one piece of eight; besides, those
troutlings may be as much preferable to trouts, as veal is to beef, or
lamb to mutton[32]: be that as it will, let the fish be immediately
produced; for the toil and burden of arms are not to be borne without
satisfying the cravings of the stomach.’ A table being therefore covered
at the inn-door, for the benefit of the cool air, mine host brought out
a cut of baccalao, wretchedly watered, and villainously cooked, with a
loaf as black and greasy as his guest’s own armour: but his manner of
eating afforded infinite subject for mirth; for, his head being inclosed
in his helmet, and the beaver lifted up, his own hands could be of no
service in reaching the food to his mouth; and therefore one of the
ladies undertook to perform that office: but they found it impossible to
convey drink in the same manner; and our hero must have made an
uncomfortable meal, if the landlord had not bored a cane, and putting
one end of it in his mouth, poured some wine into the other; an
operation he endured with patience, rather than suffer the ribbands of
his helmet to be destroyed.
While they were thus employed, a sow-gelder happened to arrive at the
inn, and winding three or four blasts with his horn, confirmed Don
Quixote in his opinion, that he sat in some stately castle, entertained
with musick during his repast, which, consisting of delicate troutling
and bread of the finest flour, was served up, not by a brace of harlots
and a thievish innkeeper, but by the fair hands of two beautiful ladies,
and the courteous governor of the place. This conceit justified his
undertaking and rendered him very happy in the success of his first
sally: but he was mortified when he recollected that he was not as yet
knighted; because he thought he could not lawfully atchieve any
adventure without having been first invested with that honourable order.
Footnote 27:
According to the ancient rules of chivalry, no man was entitled to the
rank and degree of knighthood, until he had been in actual battle, and
taken a prisoner with his own hand.
Footnote 28:
It was common for one knight to dub another. Francis I. King of
France, was knighted, at his own desire, by the Chevalier Bayard, who
was looked upon as the flower of chivalry.
Footnote 29:
He might have imitated the young knight described in Perce Forest, who
having been dubbed by King Alexander, rode into a wood, and attacked
the trees with such fury and address, that the king and his whole
court were convinced of his prowess and dexterity.
Footnote 30:
_Sano de Castella_, signifies a crafty knave.
Footnote 31:
This circumstance of the ladies disarming the knight, is exactly
conformable to the practice of chivalry; though his refusing to lay
aside his helmet is no great argument of his courtesy or attachment to
the laws and customs of his profession; for, among knights, it was
looked upon as an indispensible mark of respect, to appear without the
helmet in church, and in presence of ladies, or respectable
personages; and, indeed, in those iron times, this was considered as a
necessary mark and proof of peaceable intention: hence we derive the
custom of uncovering the head in salutation.
Footnote 32:
In the original, or kid to he-goat.
CHAP. III.
THE DIVERTING EXPEDIENT DON QUIXOTE FALLS UPON
IN ORDER TO BE KNIGHTED.
Harassed by this reflection, he abridged his sorry meal, and called for
the landlord; with whom having shut himself up in the stable, he fell
upon his knees, and addressed the supposed constable in these words:
‘Never will I rise from this suppliant posture, thrice valiant knight,
until your courtesy shall grant the boon I mean to beg; a boon, that
will not only redound to your particular praise, but also to the
inestimable benefit of mankind in general[33].’ The innkeeper hearing
such discourse proceed from the mouth of his guest, who kneeled before
him, was astonished; and gazed at our hero, without knowing what to say
or do: at length, however, he intreated him to rise; but this request
was absolutely refused, until he assured him that his boon should be
granted. ‘Signior,’ said Don Quixote, ‘I could expect no less from the
courtesy of your magnificence; I will now therefore tell you, that the
boon which I have begged, and obtained from your generosity, is, that
you will, to-morrow morning, vouchsafe to confer upon me the honour of
knighthood. This night will I watch my arms in the chapel of your
castle; that the morning, as I said, may fulfil my eager desire, and
enable me, as I ought, to traverse the four corners of the world, in
search of adventures for the relief of the distressed, according to the
duty and office of chivalry, and of those knight-errants, in imitation
of whom my genius is strongly addicted to such atchievements.’
The landlord, who, as we have already observed, was a sort of a wag, and
had, from the beginning, suspected that his lodger’s brain was none of
the soundest, having heard him to an end, no longer entertained any
doubts about the matter; and, in order to regale himself and the rest of
his guests with a dish of mirth, resolved to humour him in his
extravagance. With this view, he told him, that nothing could be more
just and reasonable than his request, his conceptions being extremely
well-suited, and natural to such a peerless knight as his commanding
presence and gallant demeanour demonstrated him to be; that he himself
had, in his youth, exercised the honourable profession of errantry,
strolling from place to place in quest of adventures, in the course of
which he did not fail to visit the suburbs of Malaga, the isles of
Riaran, the booths of Seville, the market-place of Segovia, the
olive-gardens of Valencia, the little tower of Grenada, the bay of St.
Lucar, the spout of Cordova[34], the publick houses of Toledo, and many
other places, in which he had exercised the dexterity of his hands as
well as the lightness of his heels, doing infinite mischief; courting
widows without number, debauching damsels, ruining heirs, and, in short,
making himself known at the bar of every tribunal in Spain: that, at
length, he had retired to the castle, where he lived on his own means,
together with those of other people; accommodating knights-errant of
every quality and degree, solely on account of the affection he bore to
them, and to the coin which they parted with in return for his
hospitality. He, moreover, informed him, that there was no chapel in the
castle at present, where he could watch his armour, it having been
demolished in order to be rebuilt; but that, in case of necessity, as he
very well knew, he might chuse any other place; that the court-yard of
the castle would very well serve the purpose; where, when the knight
should have watched all night, he, the host, would in the morning, with
God’s permission, perform all the other ceremonies required, and create
him not only a knight, but such an one as should not have his fellow in
the whole universe.
He then asked, if he carried any money about with him: and the knight
replied, that he had not a sous; for he had never read in the history of
knights-errant, that they had ever troubled themselves with any such
incumbrance. The innkeeper assured him, that his was very much mistaken,
for that though no such circumstance was to be found in those histories,
the authors having thought it superfluous to mention things that were so
plainly necessary as money and clean shirts, it was not to be supposed
that their heroes travelled without supplies of both; he might therefore
take it for granted and uncontrovertible, that all those knights, whose
actions are so voluminously recorded, never rode without their purses
well lined in cases of emergency[35]; not forgetting to carry a stock of
linen, with a small box of ointment to cure the wounds they might
receive in the course of their adventures; for it was not to be
imagined, that any other relief was to be had every time they should
have occasion to fight, and be wounded in fields and desarts; unless
they were befriended by some sage inchanter, who would assist them, by
transporting through the air, in a cloud, some damsel, or dwarf, with a
cordial of such virtue, that one drop of it would instantly cure them of
their bruises and wounds, and make them as sound as if no such mischance
had happened: but the knights of former ages, who had no such assistance
to depend upon, laid it down as a constant maxim, to order their squires
to provide themselves with money and other necessaries, such as ointment
and lint for immediate application: and, when the knight happened to be
without a squire, which was very seldom the case, he himself kept them
in very small bags, that hung, scarce perceptible, at his horse’s rump,
as if it were a treasure of much greater importance. Though, indeed,
except upon such an occasion, that of carrying bags was not much for the
honour of knight-errantry; for which reason, he advised Don Quixote, and
now that he was on the brink of being his godson, he might command him,
never thenceforward to travel without money, and those other
indispensible necessaries, with which he should provide himself as soon
as possible; and then he would, when he least thought of it, find his
account in having made such provision.
The knight promised to follow his advice with all deference and
punctuality; and thereupon received orders to watch his armour in a
large court on one side of the inn; where, having gathered the several
pieces on a heap, he placed them in a cistern that belonged to the well;
then bracing on his target, and grasping his lance, he walked with
courteous demeanour backward and forward before the cistern; beginning
this knightly exercise as soon as it was dark[36]. The roguish landlord
having informed every lodger in his house of our hero’s frenzy, the
watching of his armour, and his expectation of being dubbed a knight;
they were astonished at such a peculiar strain of madness, and going out
to observe him at a distance, beheld him with silent gesture sometimes
stalking along, sometimes leaning on his spear, with his eyes fixed upon
his armour, for a considerable space of time. Though it was now night,
the moon shone with such splendour, as might even vie with the source
from which she derived her brightness; so that every motion of our
noviciate was distinctly perceived by all present. At this instant, a
carrier, who lodged in the inn, took it in his head to water his mules;
and it being necessary for this purpose to clear the cistern, he went to
lift off Don Quixote’s armour; when a loud voice accosted him in these
words: ‘O thou! whosoever thou art, bold and insolent knight! who
presumest to touch the armour of the most valiant errant that ever
girded himself with cold iron, consider what thou art about to attempt,
and touch it not, unless thou art desirous of yielding thy life as the
price of thy temerity.’
The carrier, far from regarding these threats, which, had he regarded
his own carcase, he would not have despised, laid hold on the sacred
deposit, and threw it piece-meal into the yard with all his might. Don
Quixote no sooner beheld this profanation, than lifting up his eyes to
Heaven, and addressing himself, in all likelihood, to his Mistress
Dulcinea, he said, ‘Grant me thy assistance, dear lady of my heart! in
this insult offered to thy lowly vassal, and let me not be deprived of
thy favourable protection in this my first perilous atchievement.’
Having uttered this and some other ejaculation, he quitted his target,
and raising his lance with both hands, bestowed it with such good-will
upon the carrier’s head, that he fell prostrate on the ground, so
effectually mauled, that had the blow been repeated, there would have
been no occasion to call a surgeon. This exploit being performed, he
replaced his armour, and returned to his walk, which he continued with
his former composure.
[Illustration: Don Quixote Defends His Armour.]
It was not long before another carrier, not knowing what had happened to
his companion, who still lay without sense or motion, arrived, with the
same intention of watering his mules, and went straight up to the
cistern, in order to remove the armour; when Don Quixote, without
speaking a syllable, or asking leave of any living soul, once more
quitted his target, and lifting up his lance, made another experiment of
its hardness upon the pate of the second carrier, which failed in the
application, giving way in four different places. At the noise of this
encounter, every body in the house, innkeeper, and all, came running to
the field; at sight of whom Don Quixote, snatching up his target, and
drawing his sword, pronounced aloud, ‘O lady, of transcendent beauty!
the force and vigour of my enfeebled heart; now, if ever, is the time
for thee to turn thy princely eyes on this thy caitif knight, who is on
the eve of so mighty an adventure.’ So saying, he seemed to have
acquired such courage, that had he been assaulted by all the carriers in
the universe, he would not have retreated one step.
The companions of the wounded, seeing how their friends had been
handled, began at a distance to discharge a shower of stones upon the
knight; who, as well as he could, sheltered himself under his shield,
not daring to leave the cistern, lest some mischance should happen to
his armour. The innkeeper called aloud, entreating them to leave off;
for, as he had told them before, the man being mad, would be acquitted
on account of his lunacy, even though he should put every soul of them
to death. At the same time, Don Quixote, in a voice louder still,
upbraided them as cowardly traitors, and called the constable of the
castle a worthless and base-born knight, for allowing his guest to be
treated in such an inhospitable manner; swearing, that if he had
received the honour of knighthood, he would make him repent his
discourteous behaviour. ‘But as for you,’ said he, ‘ye vile,
ill-mannered scum, ye are beneath my notice. Discharge, approach, come
forward, and annoy me as much as you can, you shall soon see what reward
you will receive for your insolent extravagance.’ These words, delivered
in a bold and resolute tone, struck terror into the hearts of the
assailants; who, partly for this menace, and partly on account of the
landlord’s persuasion, gave over their attack; while he, on his side,
allowed the wounded to retire, and returned to his watch, with his
former ease and tranquillity.
These pranks of the knight were not at all to the liking of the
landlord, who resolved to abridge the ceremony, and bestow this unlucky
order of knighthood immediately, before any other mischief should
happen. Approaching him, therefore, he disclaimed the insolence with
which his guest had been treated by those saucy plebeians, without his
knowledge or consent; and observed that they had been justly chastised
for their impudence: that, as he had told him before, there was no
chapel in the castle, nor indeed, for what was to be done, was it at all
necessary; nothing of the ceremony now remaining unperformed, except the
cuff on the neck, and the thwack on the shoulders, as they are
prescribed in the ceremonial of the order; and that this part might be
executed in the middle of a field: he assured him also, that he had
punctually complied with every thing that regarded the watching of his
armour, which might have been finished in two hours, though he had
already remained double the time on that duty. Don Quixote believing
every syllable that he spoke, said, he was ready to obey him in all
things, and besought him to conclude the matter as soon as possible:
for, in case he should be attacked again, after having been knighted, he
would not leave a soul alive in the castle, except those whom he should
spare at his request.
The constable, alarmed at this declaration, immediately brought out his
day-book, in which he kept an account of the barley and straw that was
expended for the use of the carriers, and attended by a boy with a
candle’s end in his hand, together with the two ladies before mentioned,
came to the place where Don Quixote stood; then ordering him to kneel
before him, mumbled in his manual, as if he had been putting up some
very devout petition; in the midst of which he lifted up his hand, and
gave him a hearty thump on the neck; then, with the flat of his own
sword, bestowed an handsome application across his shoulders, muttering
all the time between his teeth, as if he had been employed in some
fervent ejaculation[37]. This article being fulfilled, he commanded one
of the ladies to gird on his sword, an office she performed with great
dexterity and discretion, of which there was no small need to restrain
her laughter at each particular of this strange ceremony: but the
effects they had already seen of the knight’s disposition, kept their
mirth effectually under the rein.
When this good lady had girded on his sword, ‘Heaven preserve your
worship! adventurous knight,’ said she, ‘and make you fortunate in all
your encounters.’ Don Quixote then begged to know her name, that he
might thenceforward understand to whom he was obliged for the favour he
had received at her hands, and to whom he might ascribe some part of the
honour he should acquire by the valour of his invincible arm. She
answered with great humility, that her name was Tobosa, daughter of an
honest butcher in Toledo, who lived in one of the stalls of Sancho
Minaya: that she should always be at his service, and acknowledge him
for her lord and master. The knight professed himself extremely obliged
to her for her love; and begged she would, for the future, dignify her
name by calling herself Donna Tobosa. This request she promised
faithfully to comply with; and a dialogue of the same kind passed
between him and the other lady who buckled on his spur: when he asked
her name, she told him it was Mollinera; and that her father was an
honourable miller of Antequera. Don Quixote entreated her also to
ennoble her name with the same title of Donna, loaded her with thanks,
and made a tender of his service. These hitherto unseen ceremonies being
dispatched, as it were with post-haste, Don Quixote, impatient to see
himself on horseback, in quest of adventures, saddled and mounted
Rozinante forthwith, and embracing his host, uttered such a strange
rhapsody of thanks for his having dubbed him knight, that it is
impossible to rehearse the compliment. The landlord, in order to get rid
of him the sooner, answered in terms no less eloquent, though something
more laconick, and let him march off in a happy hour, without demanding
one farthing for his lodging.
Footnote 33:
This request was a little premature, inasmuch as the practice of
chivalry did not authorize the suppliant to ask a boon of his
godfather, until he was dubbed, and then he had a right to demand it.
Footnote 34:
Literally, the colt of Cordova, because the water gushes out of a
fountain resembling an horse’s mouth. These are places of resort
frequented by thieves and sharpers.
Footnote 35:
Here the landlord was more selfish than observant of the customs of
chivalry; for knights were actually exempted from all expence
whatever; except when damages were awarded against them in a court of
justice; and in that case they paid for their rank. This they looked
upon as a mark of their pre-eminence; in consequence of which, at the
siege of Dun le Roy, in the year 1411, each knight was ordered to
carry eight fascines, while the squire was quit for half the number.
Footnote 36:
This custom of watching armour in church or chapel, was a religious
duty imposed upon knights, who used to consume the whole night in
prayer to some saint, whom they chose as their patron; and this
exercise of devotion was performed on the night preceding the said
saint’s day. The same ceremony was observed by those who were
sentenced to the combat-proof.
Footnote 37:
The slap on the shoulders, and the box on the ear being bestowed, the
godfather pronounced, ‘In the name of God, St. Michael, and St.
George, I dub thee knight: be worthy, bold, and loyal.’
CHAP. IV.
OF WHAT BEFEL OUR KNIGHT, WHEN HE SALLIED FROM THE INN.
It was early in the morning when Don Quixote sallied from the inn, so
well satisfied, so sprightly, and so glad to see himself invested with
the order of knighthood, that the very girths of his horse vibrated with
joy: but, remembering his landlord’s advice, with regard to the
necessaries he ought to carry along with him, in particular the money
and clean shirts, he resolved to return to his own house, and furnish
himself not only with these, but also with a squire. For this office he
fixed, in his own mind, upon a poor ploughman who lived in his
neighbourhood, maintaining a family of children by his labour; a person
in all respects qualified for the lower services of chivalry. With this
view he steered his course homeward: and Rozinante, as if he had guessed
the knight’s intention, began to move with such alacrity and nimbleness,
that his hoofs scarce seemed to touch the ground.
He had not travelled far, when from the thickest part of a wood that
grew on his right-hand, his ear was saluted with shrill repeated cries,
which seemed to issue from the mouth of some creature in grievous
distress. No sooner did our hero hear this lamentation, than he
exclaimed, ‘Heaven be praised for the favour with which it now indulges
me, in giving me an opportunity so soon of fulfilling the duties of my
profession, and reaping the fruit of my laudable intention! These cries
doubtless proceed from some miserable male or female, who stands in need
of my immediate aid and protection.’ Then turning Rozinante, he rode
towards the place whence the complaint seemed to come; and having
entered the wood a few paces, he found a mare tied to one oak, and a lad
about fifteen, naked from the waist upwards, made fast to another. This
was he who screamed so piteously, and indeed not without reason; for a
sturdy peasant was employed in making applications to his carcase with a
leathern strap, accompanying each stripe with a word of reproof and
advice. Above all things, laying upon him strong injunctions, to use his
tongue less, and his eyes more: the young fellow replied, with great
fervency, ‘I will never do so again, master, so help me God! I won’t do
so any more; but for the future take more care, and use more dispatch.’
Don Quixote observing what passed, pronounced aloud with great
indignation: ‘Discourteous knight, it ill becomes thee to attack one who
cannot defend himself: mount thy steed, couch thy lance,’ (for there was
actually a lance leaning against the tree to which the mare was tied)
‘and I will make thee sensible of the cowardice of the action in which
thou art now engaged.’ The peasant seeing this strange figure, buckled
in armour, and brandishing a lance over his head, was mortally afraid,
and with great humility replied, ‘Sir knight, this lad whom I am
chastising, is my own servant hired to keep a flock of sheep, which feed
in these fields; but he is so negligent, that every day I lose one of
the number, and because I punish him for his carelessness, or knavery,
he says that I scourge him out of avarice, rather than pay him his
wages; though, upon my conscience, and as I shall answer to God, he
tells a lye.’—‘How! a lye, before me, base caitif!’ cried Don Quixote;
‘by the sun that enlightens this globe, I have a good mind to thrust
this lance through thy body! Pay the young man his wages straight,
without reply; or, by the Power that rules us, I will finish and
annihilate thee in an instant! unbind him therefore without hesitation.’
The countryman hung his head, and without speaking a syllable, untied
his man; who, being asked by the knight how much money was due to him,
said his master owed him for three quarters, at the rate of six rials a
month. His deliverer having cast it up, found that the whole amounted to
sixty-three rials, and ordered the peasant to disburse them instantly,
unless he had a mind to perish under his hands. The affrighted farmer
affirmed, by the grievous situation in which he was, and the oath he had
already taken, though, by the bye, he had taken no oath at all, that the
sum did not amount to so much; for that he was to discount and allow for
three pair of shoes he had received, and a rial for two bleedings while
he was sick. ‘Granting that to be true,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘the shoes
and the bleeding shall stand for the stripes you have given him without
cause; for, if he has wore out the leather of the shoes that you paid
for, you have made as free with the leather of his carcase; and if the
barber let out his blood when he was sick, you have blooded him when he
was well; he therefore stands acquitted of these debts.’—‘The
misfortune, Sir knight,’ said the peasant, ‘is this; I have not coin
about me: but if Andrew will go home to my house, I will pay him
honestly in ready-money.’—‘Go with you!’ cried the lad; ‘the devil fetch
me if I do! No, no, master, I must not think of that; were I to go home
with him alone, he would flay me like another Saint Bartholomew.’—‘He
won’t do so,’ replied the knight, ‘but shew more regard to my commands;
and if he will swear to me by the laws of that order of knighthood which
he has received, that he will pay you your wages, I will set him free,
and warrant the payment.’—‘Lord, how your worship talks!’ said the boy;
‘this master of mine is no gentleman, nor has he received any order of
knighthood, but is known by the name of rich John Haldudo, and lives in
the neighbourhood of Quintanar.’—‘No matter,’ replied Don Quixote,
‘there may be knights among the Haldudos, especially as every one is the
son of his own works.’—‘True,’ said Andrew; ‘but what works is my master
the son of, since he refuses to pay me for my labour, and the sweat of
my brows?’—‘I don’t refuse; honest Andrew,’ answered the peasant; ‘thou
wilt do me a pleasure in going home with me; and I swear by all the
honours of knighthood in the universe, that I will pay thee thy wages,
as I said before, in ready-money; nay, you shall have it perfumed into
the bargain.’—‘Thank you for your perfumes!’ said the knight; ‘pay him
in lawful coin, and I shall be satisfied: and be sure you fulfil the
oath you have taken; for, by the same obligation, I swear, that in case
you fail, I will return to chastise you, and ferret you out, even though
you should be more concealed than a lizard. If you would understand who
it is that lays such commands upon you, that you may find yourself under
a necessity of performing them with reverence and awe, know that I am
the valiant Don Quixote de La Mancha, the redresser of wrongs, and
scourge of injustice: so farewel. Remember, not to belye your promise
and oath, on pain of the penalty prescribed.’ With these words, he
clapped spurs to Rozinante, and was out of sight in a moment.
The countryman followed him with his eyes, till he saw him quite clear
of the wood; then turning to Andrew, said, ‘Come hither, child, I must
pay what I owe you, according to the order of that redresser of
wrongs.’—‘And adad,’ said Andrew, ‘you had best not neglect the orders
of that worthy knight, who (blessings on his heart!) is equally valiant
and upright; for odds bobs, if you do not pay me, he will return and be
as good as his word.’—‘In faith, I am of the same opinion,’ replied the
peasant; ‘but, out of my infinite regard for you, I am desirous of
encreasing the debt, that the payment may be doubled.’ So saying, he
laid hold of his arm, and tying him again to the tree, flogged him so
severely, that he had like to have died on the spot. ‘Now is the time,
Mr. Andrew,’ said the executioner, ‘to call upon the redresser of
grievances, who will find it difficult to redress this, which by the bye
I am loth to finish, being very much inclined to justify your fear of
being flayed alive.’ At length, however, he unbound and left him at
liberty to find out his judge, who was to execute the sentence he had
pronounced. Andrew sneaked off, not extremely well satisfied: on the
contrary, vowing to go in quest of the valiant Don Quixote de La Mancha,
and inform him punctually of every thing that had happened, an account
which would certainly induce him to pay the countryman sevenfold.
In spite of this consolation, however, he departed blubbering with pain,
while his master remained weeping with laughter. And thus was the
grievance redressed by the valiant Don Quixote, who, transported with
the success, and the happy and sublime beginning which he imagined his
chivalry had been favoured with, jogged on towards his own village, with
infinite self satisfaction, pronouncing with a low voice, ‘O Dulcinea
del Toboso, fairest among the fair! well may’st thou be counted the most
fortunate beauty upon earth, seeing it is thy fate to keep in subjection
and wholly resigned to thy will and pleasure, such a daring and renowned
knight as Don Quixote de La Mancha now is, and always will remain. He
who, as all the world knows, but yesterday received the honour of
knighthood, and has this day redressed the greatest wrong and grievance
that ever injustice hatched, and cruelty committed! To-day he wrested
the lash from the hand of the merciless enemy, who so unjustly scourged
the body of that tender infant!’ Having uttered this exclamation, he
found himself in a road that divided into four paths, and straight his
imagination suggested those cross-ways that were wont to perplex
knights-errant in their choice; in imitation of whom, he paused a
little, and after mature deliberation, threw the reins on Rozinante’s
neck, leaving the decision to him, who following his first intention,
took the path that led directly to his own stable.
Having travelled about two miles farther, Don Quixote descried a number
of people, who, as was afterwards known, were six merchants of Toledo,
going to buy silks at Mercia, and who travelled with umbrellas, attended
by four servants on horseback, and three mule-drivers on foot. Don
Quixote no sooner perceived them at a distance, than he imagined them to
be some new adventure; and, in order to imitate, as much as in him lay,
those scenes he had read in his books of chivalry, he thought this was
an occasion expressly ordained for him to execute his purposed
atchievement.
He therefore, with gallant and resolute deportment, seated himself
firmly in his stirrups, grasped his lance, braced on his target, and
posting himself in the middle of the road, waited the arrival of those
knights-errant, for such he judged them to be. When they were near
enough to hear him, he pronounced in a loud and arrogant tone: ‘Let the
whole universe cease to move, if the whole universe refuses to confess,
that there is not in the whole universe a more beautiful damsel than the
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the high and mighty Empress of La Mancha.’
The merchants hearing this declaration, and seeing the strange figure
from which it proceeded, were alarmed at both, and halting immediately,
at a distance reconnoitred the madness of the author. Curious, however,
to know the meaning of that confession which he exacted, one of them,
who was a sort of a wag, though at the same time a man of prudence and
discretion, accosted him thus: ‘Sir Knight, as we have not the honour to
know who this worthy lady is, be so good as to produce her; and if we
find her so beautiful as you proclaim her to be, we will gladly, and
without any sort of reward, confess the truth, according to your
desire.’—‘If I produce her,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘what is the mighty
merit of your confessing such a notorious truth? The importance of my
demand consists in your believing, acknowledging, affirming upon oath,
and defending her beauty, before you have seen it. And this ye shall do,
ye insolent and uncivil race, or engage with me in battle forthwith.
Come on then, one by one, according to the laws of chivalry, or all
together, as the treacherous custom is among such wretches as you; here
I expect you with full hope and confidence in the justice of my
cause.’—‘Sir knight,’ replied the merchant, ‘I humbly beg, in the name
of all these princes here present, that your worship will not oblige us
to burden our consciences, by giving testimony to a thing that we have
neither seen nor heard, especially as it tends to the prejudice of the
queens and princesses of Alcarria and Estremadura; but, if your worship
will be pleased to shew us any sort of a picture of this lady, though it
be no bigger than a grain of wheat, so as we can judge the clue by the
thread, we will be satisfied with this sample, and you shall be obeyed
to your heart’s content; for I believe we are already so prepossessed in
her favour, that though the portrait should represent her squinting with
one eye, and distilling vermilion and brimstone with the other, we will,
notwithstanding, in compliance to your worship, say what you desire in
her favour.’—‘Her eyes, infamous wretch!’ replied Don Quixote, in a
rage, ‘distil not such productions, but teem with amber and rich
perfume; neither is there any defect in her sight, or in her body, which
is more straight than a Guadarrama spindle; but you shall suffer for the
licentious blasphemy you have uttered against the unparalleled beauty of
my sovereign mistress.’ So saying, he couched his lance, and attacked
the spokesman with such rage and fury, that had not Rozinante luckily
stumbled and fallen in the midst of his career, the merchant would have
had no cause to rejoice in his rashness; but when the unhappy steed fell
to the ground, the rider was thrown over his head, and pitched at a good
distance upon the field, where he found all his endeavours to get up
again ineffectual, so much was he encumbered with his lance, target,
helmet, and spurs, together with the weight of his ancient armour.
While he thus struggled, but in vain, to rise, he bellowed forth, ‘Fly
not, ye cowardly crew; tarry a little, ye base caitiffs: not through any
fault of my own, but of my horse, am I thus discomfited.’ One of the
mule-drivers, who seems not to have been of a very milky disposition,
could not bear this arrogant language of the poor overthrown knight,
without making a reply upon his ribs. Going up to him, therefore, he
laid hold on his lance, and breaking it, began to thresh him so
severely, that, in spite of the resistance of his armour, he was almost
beaten into mummy; and though the fellow’s master called to him to
forbear, he was so incensed, that he could not leave off the game, until
he had exhausted the whole of his choler. Gathering the other pieces of
the lance, he reduced them all to shivers, one after another, on the
miserable carcase of the Don, who, notwithstanding this storm of blows
which descended on him, never closed his mouth, but continued
threatening heaven and earth, and those banditti, for such he took the
merchants to be.
The driver was tired at length of his exercise, and his masters pursued
their journey, carrying with them sufficient food for conversation about
this poor battered knight; who no sooner found himself alone, than he
made another effort to rise; but if he found this design impracticable
when he was safe and sound, much less could he accomplish it now that he
was disabled, and as it were wrought into a paste. He did not, however,
look upon himself as unhappy, because this misfortune was in his opinion
peculiar to knights-errant; and, that he was not able to rise on account
of the innumerable bruises he had received, he ascribed entirely to the
fault of his horse.
CHAP. V.
IN WHICH THE STORY OF OUR KNIGHT’S MISFORTUNE IS CONTINUED.
Finding it therefore impossible to move, he was fain to have recourse to
his usual remedy, which was to amuse his imagination with some passages
of the books he had read; and his madness immediately recalled to his
memory that of Valdovinos and the Marquis of Mantua, when Carloto left
him wounded on the mountain; a piece of history that every body knows,
that every young man is acquainted with, and which is celebrated, nay
more, believed, by old age itself, though it be as apocryphal as the
miracles of Mahomet: nevertheless, it occurred to him as an occasion
expressly adapted to his present situation. Therefore, with marks of
extreme affliction, he began to roll about upon the ground, and with a
languid voice, exclaim, in the words of the wounded knight of the wood—
‘Where art thou, lady of my heart,
‘Regardless of my misery?
‘Thou little know’st thy lover’s smart,
‘Or faithless art and false pardie!’
In this manner he went on repeating the romance until he came to these
lines:
‘O noble prince of Mantuan plains.
‘My carnal kinsman, and my lord!’
Before he could repeat the whole couplet, a peasant who was a neighbour
of his own, and lived in the same village, chanced to pass, in his way
from the mill where he had been with a load of wheat. This honest
countryman seeing a man lying stretched upon the ground, came up, and
asked him who he was, and the reason of his lamenting so piteously. Don
Quixote doubtless believed that this was his uncle the Marquis of
Mantua, and made no other reply but the continuation of his romance, in
which he gave an account of his own misfortune, occasioned by the amour
betwixt his wife and the emperor’s son, exactly as it is related in the
book. The peasant, astonished at such a rhapsody, took off his beaver,
which had been beaten to pieces by the mule-driver, and wiping his face,
which was covered with dust, immediately knew the unfortunate knight.
‘Signior Quixada,’ said he, (for so he was called before he had lost his
senses, and was transformed from a sober country gentleman into a
knight-errant) ‘who has left your worship in such a woeful condition?’
But he, without minding the question that was put to him, proceeded, as
before, with his romance; which the honest man perceiving, went to work,
and took off his back and breast-plates, to see if he had received any
wound, but he could perceive neither blood nor scar upon his body. He
then raised him upon his legs, and with infinite difficulty mounted him
upon his own beast, which appeared to him a safer carriage than the
knight’s steed.
Having gathered up his armour, even to the splinters of the lance, he
tied them upon Rozinante, and taking hold of the reins, together with
the halter of his own ass, jogged on towards the village, not a little
concerned to hear the mad exclamations of Don Quixote, who did not find
himself extremely easy; for he was so battered and bruised, that he
could not sit upright upon the beast, but from time to time vented such
dismal groans, as obliged the peasant to ask again what was the matter
with him. Indeed, one would have thought, that the devil had assisted
his memory in supplying him with tales accommodated to the circumstances
of his own situation; for at that instant, forgetting Valdovinos, he
recollected the story of Abindar-raez the Moor, whom Rodrigo de Narvaez,
governor of Antequera, took prisoner, and carried into captivity to the
place of his residence; so that when the countryman repeated his desire
of knowing where he had been, and what was the matter with him, he
answered to the purpose, nay, indeed, in the very words, used by the
captive Abencerraje to the said Rodrigo de Narvaez, as may be seen in
the Diana of George Monte-major, which he had read, and so well-adapted
for his purpose, that the countryman hearing such a composition of
folly, wished them both at the devil.
It was then he discovered that his neighbour was mad; and therefore made
all the haste he could to the village, that he might be the sooner rid
of his uneasiness at the unaccountable harangue of Don Quixote; who had
no sooner finished this exclamation, than he accosted his conductor in
these words—‘Know, then, valiant Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, that this same
beautiful Xarifa, whom I have mentioned, is no other than the fair
Dulcinea del Toboso, for whom I have performed, undertake, and will
atchieve, the most renowned exploits, that ever were, are, or will be
seen on earth.’ To this address the countryman replied with great
simplicity—‘How your worship talks! As I am a sinner, I am neither Don
Rodrigo de Narvaez, nor the Marquis of Mantua, but Pedro Alonzo, your
neighbour; nor is your worship either Valdovinos, or Abindar-raez, but
the worthy gentleman Signior Quixada.’—‘I know very well who I am,’
replied Don Quixote; ‘and that it is possible for me to be not only
those whom I have mentioned, but also the whole Twelve Peers of France,
and even the Nine Worthies, seeing that my atchievements will excel not
only those of each of them singly, but even the exploits of them all
joined together.’
Discoursing in this manner, they arrived at the village about twilight;
but the peasant staid till it was quite dark, that the poor rib-roasted
knight might not be seen in such a woeful condition. Then he conducted
Don Quixote to his own house, which was all in confusion. When he
arrived, the curate and the barber of the village, two of his best
friends and companions, were present, and his housekeeper was just
saying with a woeful countenance, ‘Mr. Licentiate Pero Perez,’ that was
the curate’s name, ‘some misfortune must certainly have happened to my
master; for six days, both he and his horse, together with the target,
lance, and armour, have been missing[38]: as I am a sinner, it is just
come into my head, and it is certainly as true as that every one is born
to die, those hellish books of knight-errantry, which he used to read
with so much pleasure, have turned his brain; for now I remember to have
heard him say to himself more than once, that he longed to be a
knight-errant, and stroll about in quest of adventures. May the devil
and Barrabas lay hold of such legends, which have perverted one of the
soundest understandings in all La Mancha!’
To this remark the niece assented, saying—‘Moreover, you must know, Mr.
Nicolas,’ this was the name of the barber, ‘my uncle would frequently,
after having been reading in these profane books of misadventures, for
two whole days and nights together, start up, throw the book upon the
ground, and drawing his sword, fence with the walls till he was quite
fatigued, then affirm that he had killed four giants as big as steeples,
and swear that the sweat of his brows, occasioned by this violent
exercise, was the blood of the wounds he had received in battle; then he
would drink of a large pitcher of cold water, and remain quiet and
refreshed, saying, that the water was a most precious beverage, with
which he was supplied by the sage Isquife, a mighty inchanter and friend
of his; but I take the whole blame to myself, for not having informed
your worship of my dear uncle’s extravagancies, that some remedy might
have been applied before they had proceeded to such excess; and that you
might have burnt all those excommunicated books, which deserve the fire
as much as if they were crammed with heresy.’
‘I am of the same opinion,’ said the curate; ‘and assure you, before
another day shall pass, they shall undergo a severe trial, and be
condemned to the flames, that they may not induce other readers to
follow the same path which I am afraid my good friend has taken.’ Every
syllable of this conversation was overheard by Don Quixote and his
guide, which last had now no longer any doubt about his neighbour’s
infirmity, and therefore pronounced with a loud voice—‘Open your gates
to the valiant Valdovinos, and the great Marquis of Mantua, who comes
home wounded from the field together with the Moor Abindar-raez, who
drags in captivity the valiant Rodrigo de Narvaez, governor of
Antequera.’
Alarmed at these words, they came all to the door, and perceiving who it
was, the barber and curate went to receive their friend, and the women
ran to embrace their master and kinsman; who, though he had not as yet
alighted, for indeed it was not in his power, proclaimed aloud—‘Let the
whole world take notice, that the wounds I have received were owing to
the fault of my horse alone; carry me therefore to bed, and send if
possible for the sage Urganda[39], to search and cure them.’—‘See now,
in an evil hour,’ cried the housekeeper, hearing these words, ‘if I did
not truly foretel of what leg my master was lame!—Your worship shall
understand, in good time, that without the assistance of that same
Urganda, we know how to cure the hurts you have received; and cursed, I
say, nay a hundred and a hundred times cursed, be those books of
chivalry, which have so disordered your honour’s brain!’ Having carried
him to his bed, they began to search for his wounds, but could find
none; and he told them that his whole body was one continued bruise,
occasioned by the fall of his horse Rozinante, during his engagement
with ten of the most insolent and outrageous giants that ever appeared
upon the face of the earth. ‘Ah, ha!’ cried the curate, ‘have we got
giants too in the dance! Now, by the faith of my function, I will reduce
them all to ashes before to-morrow night!’
A thousand questions did they ask of the knight, who made no other
answer, but desired them to bring him some food, and leave him to his
repose, which indeed was what he had most occasion for. They complied
with his request, and the curate informed himself at large of the manner
in which he had been found by the countryman, who gave him full
satisfaction in that particular, and repeated all the nonsense he had
uttered when he first found him, as well as what he afterwards spoke in
their way home. This information confirmed the licentiate in his
resolution, which was executed next day, when he brought his friend
master Nicolas the barber along with him to Don Quixote’s house.
Footnote 38:
The author seems to have committed a small oversight in this
paragraph; for the knight had not been gone above two days and one
night, which he spent in watching his armour.
Footnote 39:
The name of a good-natured inchantress in Amadis de Gaul. During the
age of knight-errantry, it was usual for ladies to study the art of
surgery, in order to dress the wounds of those knights who were their
servants. One of the heroines of Perce Forest says to Norgal, ‘Fair
nephew, methinks your arm is not at ease.’—‘In faith, dear lady,’
answered Norgal, ‘you are in the right; and I beseech you to take it
under your care.’ Then she called her daughter Helen, who entertained
her cousin with good cheer, and afterwards reduced his arm which was
dislocated.
CHAP. VI.
OF THE DIVERTING AND MINUTE SCRUTINY PERFORMED BY THE CURATE AND THE
BARBER, IN THE LIBRARY OF OUR SAGACIOUS HERO.
While the knight was asleep, his friends came and demanded of his niece
the key of the closet in which those books, the authors of his
misfortune, were kept; and she delivering it with great chearfulness,
they went into it in a body, housekeeper and all, and found upwards of a
hundred volumes, great and small, extremely well bound; which were no
sooner perceived by the governante, than she ran out with great
eagerness, and immediately returned with a porringer of holy water, and
a sprig of hyssop, saying—‘Here, Master Licentiate, pray take and
sprinkle the closet, lest some one of the many inchanters contained in
these books should exercise his art upon us, as a punishment for our
burning and banishing them from the face of the earth.’
The licentiate, smiling at the old housekeeper’s simplicity, desired the
barber to hand him the books one by one, that he might see of what
subjects they treated, because they might possibly find some that did
not deserve to be purged by fire. ‘There is not one of them,’ replied
the niece, ‘which deserves the least mercy, for they are all full of
mischief and deceit. You had better, therefore, throw them out of the
window into the court-yard, and there set fire to them in a heap: or let
them be carried into the back-yard, where the bonfire may be made, and
the smoke will offend nobody.’ The housekeeper assented to this
proposal, so eager were they both to destroy those innocents; but the
curate would by no means encourage such barbarity, without reading
first, if possible, the title-pages.
The first that Master Nicolas delivered into his hand, were the four
volumes of Amadis de Gaul. ‘There is,’ said the good man, ‘something
mysterious in this circumstance; for, as I have heard, that was the
first book of chivalry printed in Spain, from which all the rest have
derived their origin and plan; and therefore, in my opinion, we ought to
condemn him to the fire, without hesitation, as the law-giver of such a
pernicious sect.’—‘By no means,’ cried the barber; ‘for I have also
heard, that this is the best book of the kind that was ever composed;
and therefore ought to be pardoned, as an original and model in its
way.’—‘Right,’ said the curate; ‘and for that reason he shall be spared
for the present. Let us see that author who stands next to him.’—‘This,’
says the barber, ‘contains the atchievements of Esplandian, the lawful
son of Amadis de Gaul.’—‘Truly, then,’ said the curate, ‘the virtues of
the father shall not avail the son. Here, Mrs Housekeeper, open that
window, and toss him into the yard, where he shall serve as a foundation
for the bonfire we intend to make.’
This talk the housekeeper performed with infinite satisfaction; and the
worthy Esplandian took his flight into the yard, to wait in patience for
the fire with which he was threatened. ‘Proceed,’ cried the curate.
‘This that comes next,’ said the barber, ‘is Amadis of Greece; and I
believe all the authors on this shelf are of the same family.’—‘To the
yard, then, with all of them,’ replied the curate; ‘for rather than not
burn Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the shepherd Darinel with his eclogues,
together with the unintelligible and bedevilled discourses of his
author; I would even consume the father who begat me, should he appear
in the figure of a knight-errant.’—‘I am of your opinion,’ said the
barber. ‘And I,’ cried the niece. ‘Since that is the case,’ said the
housekeeper, ‘to the yard with them immediately.’ Accordingly, they
delivered a number into her hands; and she, out of tenderness for the
stair-case, sent them all out of the window.
‘Who may that tun-like author be?’ said the curate. ‘This here,’
answered the barber, ‘is Don Olivante de Laura.’—‘The very same,’
replied the curate, ‘who composed the Garden of Flowers; and truly it is
hard to determine, which of his two books is the most true, or rather
which of them is least false: all that I know is, that he shall go to
the pile for his arrogance and folly.’—‘He that follows,’ says the
barber, ‘is Florismarte of Hircania.’—‘What, Signior Florismarte?’
replied the curate: ‘in faith, then he must prepare for his fate;
notwithstanding his surprizing birth, and mighty adventures, and the
unparalleled stiffness and sterility of his stile.—Down with him,
Mistress Housekeeper! and take this other along with you also.’—‘With
all my heart, dear Sir!’ replied the governante; who executed his
commands with vast alacrity.
‘He that comes next,’ said the barber, ‘is the knight Platir.’—‘That is
an old book,’ said the clergyman; ‘but as I can find nothing in him that
deserves the least regard, he must e’en keep the rest company.’ He was
accordingly doomed to the flames, without farther question. The next
book they opened was intituled, The Knight of the Cross; which the
curate having read, ‘The ignorance of this author,’ said he, ‘might be
pardoned, on account of his holy title; but according to the proverb,
“The devil skulks behind the cross;” and therefore let him descend into
the fire.’ Master Nicolas taking up another book, found it was the
Mirror of Chivalry. ‘Oh, ho!’ cried the curate, ‘I have the honour to
know his worship. Away with Signior Rinaldo de Mont-alban, with his
friends and companions, who were greater thieves than Cacus; not
forgetting the Twelve Peers, together with Turpin, their candid
historian. Though, truly, in my opinion, their punishment ought not to
exceed perpetual banishment, because they contain some part of the
invention of the renowned Matteo Boyardo, on which was weaved the
ingenious web of the Christian poet Ludovico Ariosto; to whom, should I
find him here speaking in any other language than his own, I would pay
no regard; but, if he talks in his own idiom, I will place him on my
head, in token of respect.’—‘I have got him at home,’ said the barber,
‘in Italian, but I don’t understand that language.’—‘Nor is it necessary
you should,’ replied the curate: ‘and here let us pray Heaven to forgive
the captain, who has impoverished him so much, by translating him into
Spanish, and making him a Castilian. And, indeed, the same thing will
happen to all those who pretend to translate books of poetry into a
foreign language; for, in spite of all their care and ability, they will
find it impossible to give the translation the same energy which is
found in the original. In short, I sentence this book, and all those
which we shall find treating of French matters, to be thrown and
deposited in a dry well, until we can determine at more leisure what
fate they must undergo, except Bernardo del Carpio, and another called
Roncesvalles, which if they fall into my hands, shall pass into those of
the housekeeper, and thence into the fire, without any mitigation.’
This was approved of as an equitable decision, and accordingly confirmed
by the barber, who knew the curate to be such a good Christian, and so
much a friend to truth, that he would not be guilty of an equivocation
for the whole universe. The next volume he opened was Palmerin D’Oliva;
and hard by him stood another, called Palmerin of England; which was no
sooner perceived by the licentiate, than he cried, ‘Let that Oliva be
hewn in pieces, and burned; so as not so much as a cinder of him shall
remain; but let the English Palmerin be defended, and preferred as an
inestimable jewel, and such another casket be made for him as that which
Alexander found among the spoils of Darius, and destined as a case for
the works of Homer. That book, neighbour, is venerable for two reasons,
first, because it is in itself excellent; and, secondly, because it is
said to have been composed by an ingenious king of Portugal. All the
adventures of the castle of Miraguarda are incomparable, and contrived
with infinite art; the language perspicuous and elegant, and the
characters supported with great propriety of sentiment and decorum. I
propose, Mr. Nicolas, saving your better judgment, to exempt this book
and Amadis de Gaul from the flames, and let all the rest perish without
farther enquiry.’
‘Pardon me, neighbour,’ replied the barber, ‘I have here got in my hand
the renowned Don Bellianis.’—‘Even he,’ answered the priest, ‘with the
second, third, and fourth parts, stands very much in need of a little
rhubarb to purge his excessive choler, and ought to be pruned of that
whole Castle of Fame, and other more important impertinences. For which
reason, let the sentence be changed into transportation; and, according
as he reforms he shall be treated with lenity and justice. In the mean
time, friend Nicolas, keep him safe in your house, out of the reach of
every reader.’—‘With all my soul!’ answered the barber; and without
giving themselves the trouble of reading any more titles, they ordered
the housekeeper to dismiss all the large books into the yard.
This direction was not given to a person who was either doating or deaf,
but to one who was much more inclined to perform that office than to
compose the largest and finest web that ever was seen. Taking up,
therefore, seven or eight at a time, she heaved them out of the window,
with incredible dispatch. While she was thus endeavouring to lift a good
many together, one of them chanced to fall at the feet of the barber,
who being seized with an inclination of knowing the contents, found upon
examination, that it was called the History of the famous Knight Tirante
the White. ‘Heaven be praised!’ cried the curate, aloud, ‘that we have
discovered Tirante the White in this place: pray give it me, neighbour;
for in this book I reckon I have found a treasure of satisfaction, and a
rich mine of amusement. Here is the famous Godamercy[40], of Mont-alban,
and his brother Thomas of Mont-alban, and the knight Fonseca, as also an
account of the battle fought between Alano and the valiant Detriante,
together with the Witticisms of the Young Lady, Joy of my Life, with the
amorous stratagems of the Widow Quiet, and her highness the Empress who
was enamoured of her Squire Hippolito. I do assure you, upon my word,
Mr. Nicolas, that, in point of stile, this is the best book that ever
was written. Here the knights eat, sleep, and die, in their beds, after
having made their wills, with many circumstances that are wanting in
other books of the same kind. Notwithstanding, the author who composed
it certainly deserved to be sent to the gallies for life, for having
spent his time in writing so much nonsense. Take and read him at home,
and you shall find what I say to be true.’—‘Very like,’ replied the
barber: ‘what shall we do with these small books that remain?’
‘These,’ said the curate, ‘cannot be books of chivalry, but must be
poems.’ Accordingly, opening one, he found it was the Diana of George de
Monte-major, and taking it for granted that all the rest were of the
same kind, said, ‘These books do not deserve to be burnt with the rest;
for they neither are nor ever will be guilty of so much mischief, as
those of chivalry have done; being books of entertainment, and no ways
prejudicial to religion.’—‘Pray, Sir,’ said the niece, ‘be so good as to
order these to be burnt with the rest; for my uncle will no sooner be
cured of his knight-errantry, than by reading these, he will turn
shepherd, and wander about the groves and meadows, piping and singing.
Nay, what is worse, perhaps turn poet, which they say is an infectious
and incurable distemper.’—‘The young woman is in the right,’ said the
curate; ‘and therefore it won’t be amiss to remove this temptation and
stumbling block out of our friend’s way. Since we have therefore begun
with the Diana of Monte-major, I am of opinion that we should not burn
him, but only expunge what relates to the sage Felicia, and the
inchanted water, together with all the larger poems, and leave to him, a
God’s name, all the prose, and the honour of being the ring-leader of
the writers of that class.’
‘This that follows,’ said the barber, ‘is called Diana the Second of
Salmantino, and this other that bears the same name, is written by Gil
Polo.’—‘Let Salmantino,’ replied the curate, ‘increase the number of
those that are already condemned to the yard; but let Gil Polo be
preserved as carefully as if it was the production of Apollo himself.
Proceed, friend Nicolas, and let us dispatch, for it grows late.’—‘This
here book,’ said the barber, opening the next, ‘is called the ten books
of the Fortune of Love, the production of Antonio Lofrasco, a Sardinian
poet.’—‘By my holy orders,’ cried the curate, ‘since Phœbus was Apollo,
the Muses the daughters of Jove, and bards delighted in poetry, there
never was such a pleasant and comical performance composed as this,
which is the best and most original of the kind which ever saw the
light; and he who has not read it may assure himself, that he has never
read any thing of taste: reach it me, neighbour; it gives me more
pleasure to have found this, than if I had received a cassock of
Florence silk.’
Accordingly, he laid it carefully by with infinite pleasure, and the
barber proceeded in his talk, saying; ‘Those that come next are the
Shepherd of Iberia, the Nymphs of Henares, and the Undeceptions of
Jealousy.’—‘Then there is no more to do,’ said the priest, ‘but to
deliver them over to the secular arm of the housekeeper; and do not ask
me why, else we shall never have done.’—‘Here comes the Shepherd of
Filida.’—‘He is no shepherd,’ cried the curate, ‘but a very elegant
courtier, and therefore preserve him as a precious jewel.’ Then the
barber laid hold of a very large volume, which was entitled, The
Treasure of Poetry. ‘If there was not so much of him, he would be more
esteemed,’ said the licentiate, ‘that book ought to be weeded and
cleared of certain meannesses, which have crept into the midst of its
excellencies: take care of it, for the author is my friend, and deserves
regard for some other more heroick and elevated works, which he has
composed.’—‘And this,’ continued the barber, ‘is a Collection of Songs,
by Lopez Maldonado.’—‘That author is my very good friend also,’ replied
the curate; ‘and his own verses out of his own mouth are the admiration
of every body; for he chants them with so sweet a voice, that the
hearers are inchanted. His eclogues are indeed a little diffuse, but
there cannot be too much of a good thing. Let them be preserved among
the elect: but, pray what book is that next to it?’ When the barber told
him it was the Galatea of Miguel de Cervantes; ‘That same Cervantes,’
said he, ‘has been an intimate friend of mine these many years, and is
to my certain knowledge more conversant with misfortunes than poetry.
There is a good vein of invention in his book, which proposes something,
though it concludes nothing. We must wait for the second part, which he
promises, and then perhaps his amendment may deserve a full pardon,
which is now denied: until that happens, let him be close confined in
your closet.’
‘With all my heart,’ replied the barber; ‘but here come three more
together, the Araucana of Don Alonzo de Ercilla, the Austriada of Juan
Ruso Jurado de Cordova, and the Monserrato of Christoval de Virues, a
Valentian poet.’—‘These three books,’ said the curate, ‘are the best
epic poems in the Castilian language, and may be compared with the most
renowned performances of Italy. Let them be kept as the inestimable
pledges of Spanish poetry.’ The curate grew tired of examining more
books, and would have condemned all the rest, contents unknown, if the
barber had not already opened another, which was called the Tears of
Angelica. ‘I should have shed tears for my rashness,’ said the curate,
hearing the name, ‘if I had ordered that book to be burned: for its
author was one of the most celebrated poets, not only of Spain, but of
the whole world; and, in particular, extremely successful in translating
some of the Metamorphoses of Ovid.’
Footnote 40:
In the original, _Quirielyson_, from the two Greek words κύριε
ἐλέησον, signifying, Lord have mercy.
CHAP. VII.
THE SECOND SALLY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA.
While they were busied in this manner, Don Quixote began to cry aloud,
‘This way, this way, ye valiant knights! now is the time to shew the
strength of your invincible arms, that the courtiers may not carry off
the honour of the tournament.’ The scrutiny of the books that remained
was deserted by the curate and barber, who hastened to the author of
this noisy exclamation, and it is believed that all were committed to
the flames, unseen, unheard, not even excepting the Carolea, and Lyon of
Spain, together with the exploits of the emperor, composed by Don Louis
D’Avila; which were, doubtless, among those committed to the fire;
though, perhaps, had the curate seen them, they would not have undergone
so severe a sentence.
When they arrived in Don Quixote’s chamber, they found him on the floor,
proceeding with his rhapsody, and fencing with the walls, as broad awake
as if he had never felt the influence of sleep. Laying hold on him, by
force they re-conveyed him to his bed; where, after having rested a
little, he returned to his ravings, and addressed himself to the curate
in these words: ‘Certainly, my Lord Archbishop Turpin, we, who are
called the Twelve Peers of France, will be greatly disgraced, if we
allow the court-knights to win the victory in this tournament, after we,
the adventurers, have gained the prize in the three preceding
days.’—‘Give yourself no trouble about that consideration, my worthy
friend,’ said the curate; ‘for Providence may turn the scale, and what
is lost to-day may be retrieved to-morrow. In the mean time, have a
reverend care of your health, for you seem to be excessively fatigued,
if not wounded grievously.’—‘I am not wounded,’ replied the knight: ‘but
that I am battered and bruised, there is no manner of doubt; for the
bastard Don Orlando has mauled me to mummy with the trunk of an oak, and
all out of mere envy, because he saw that I alone withstood his valour.
But may I no longer deserve the name of Reynaldos de Montalban, if, when
I rise from this bed, I do not repay him in his own coin, in spite of
all his inchantments! Meanwhile, bring me some food, which is what I
chiefly want at present, and let me alone to take vengeance for the
injury I have received.’
In compliance with his desire they brought him something to eat, and
left him again to his repose, not without admiration of his madness and
extravagance. That very night the housekeeper set fire to, and consumed,
not only all the books that were in the yard, but also every one she
could find in the house; and no doubt many were burned, which deserved
to have been kept as perpetual archives. But this their destiny, and the
laziness of the inquisitors, would not allow; so that in them was
fulfilled the old proverb, _a saint may sometimes suffer for a sinner_.
Another remedy which the curate and barber prescribed for the distemper
of their friend, was to alter and block up the closet where his books
had been kept; that upon his getting up, he should not find them, and
the cause being taken away, the effect might cease; and that, upon his
inquiry, they should tell him an inchanter had carried them off, closet
and all; this resolution was executed with all imaginable dispatch,
during the two days that Don Quixote kept his bed.
The first thing he did when he got up, was to go and visit his books,
and not finding the apartment where he had left it, he went from one
corner of the house to the other in quest of his study. Coming to the
place where the door stood, he endeavoured but in vain to get in, and
cast his eyes all around without uttering one syllable; but after he had
spent some time in this sort of examination, he inquired of his
housekeeper whereabouts he might find his book-closet. She being well
instructed, readily answered, ‘What closet, or what nothing is your
worship in search of? There are neither books nor closet in this house;
for the devil himself has run away with both.’—‘It was not the devil,’
cried the niece, ‘but an inchanter that conveyed himself hither in a
cloud, one night after your worship’s departure, and alighting from a
dragon on which he was mounted, entered the closet, where I know not
what he did, but having staid a very little while, he came flying
through the roof, leaving the whole house full of smoke. And when we
went to see what he had done, we could neither find books nor closet;
only the housekeeper and I can very well remember, that when the old
wicked conjuror went away, he cried in a loud voice, that for the hatred
he bore to the master of those books and closet, he had done that
mischief, which would afterwards appear: he said also, that his name was
the sage Munaton.’—‘You mean Freston,’ said Don Quixote. ‘I do not
know,’ answered the housekeeper, ‘whether it was Freston or Friton; but
this I am certain of, that his name ended in ton.’—‘The case then is
plain,’ said the knight; ‘that same sage inchanter is one of my greatest
enemies; who bears me a grudge, because he knows, by the mystery of his
art, that the time will come when I shall fight and vanquish in single
battle a certain knight, whom he favours, in spite of all he can do to
prevent my success; and for this reason, he endeavours to give me every
mortification in his power; but let me tell him he won’t find it an easy
matter to contradict or evade what Heaven has decreed.’—‘Who ever
doubted that?’ said the niece; ‘but what business have you, dear uncle,
with these quarrels? Would it not be better to live in peace at home,
than to stray up and down the world in search of superfine bread,
without considering that many a one goes out for wool, and comes home
quite shorn.’—‘My dear niece,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘you are altogether
out of your reckoning. Before I be shorn, I will pull and pluck off the
beards of all those who pretend to touch a single hair of my mustacho.’
The two women did not chuse to make any farther answer, because they
perceived that his choler was very much inflamed. After this
transaction, however, he staid at home fifteen days in great
tranquillity, without giving the least sign or inclination to repeat his
folly; during which time, many infinitely diverting conversations passed
between him and his friends, the curate and the barber; wherein he
observed, that the world was in want of nothing so much as of
knights-errant, and that in him this honourable order was revived. The
clergyman sometimes contradicted him, and sometimes assented to what he
said, because, without this artful conduct, he would have had no chance
of bringing him to reason.
About this time, too, the knight tampered with a peasant in the
neighbourhood, a very honest fellow, if a poor man may deserve that
title, but one who had a very small quantity of brains in his skull. In
short, he said so much, used so many arguments to persuade, and promised
him such mountains of wealth, that this poor simpleton determined to
follow and serve him in quality of squire. Among other things, that he
might be disposed to engage chearfully, the knight told him that an
adventure might one day happen, in which he should win some island in
the twinkling of an eye, and appoint him governor of his conquest.
Intoxicated with these and other such promises, Sancho Panza (so was the
countryman called) deserted his wife and children, and listed himself as
his neighbour’s squire.
Thus far successful, Don Quixote took measures for supplying himself
with money; and what by selling one thing, mortgaging another, and
making a great many very bad bargains, he raised a tolerable sum. At the
same time accommodating himself with a target, which he borrowed of a
friend, and patching up the remains of his vizor as well as he could, he
advertised his squire Sancho of the day and hour in which he resolved to
set out, that he might provide himself with those things which he
thought most necessary for the occasion; above all things, charging him
to purchase a wallet. Sancho promised to obey his orders; and moreover
said he was resolved to carry along with him an excellent ass which he
had, as he was not designed by nature to travel far on foot.
With regard to the ass, Don Quixote demurred a little, endeavouring to
recollect some knight-errant who had entertained a squire mounted on an
ass; but as no such instance occurred to his memory, he was nevertheless
determined to allow it on this occasion, on a supposition that he should
be able to accommodate him with a more honourable carriage, by
dismounting the first discourteous knight he should meet with. He also
laid in a store of linen, and every thing else in his power, conformable
to the advice of the innkeeper.
Every thing being thus settled and fulfilled, Panza, without taking
leave of his children and wife; and Don Quixote, without bidding adieu
to his niece and housekeeper, sallied forth from the village one night,
unperceived by any living soul, and travelled so hard, that before dawn
they found themselves secure from all search, if any such had been made:
Sancho Panza journeying upon his ass like a venerable patriarch, with
his wallet and leathern bottle, longing extremely to see himself settled
in the government of that island which was promised to him by his
master.
The knight happened to take the same route and follow the same road in
which he travelled at his first sally through the field of Montiel, over
which he now passed with much less pains than formerly, because it was
now early in the morning, the rays of the sun were more oblique,
consequently he was less disturbed by the heat. It was hereabouts that
Sancho first opened his mouth, saying to his master, ‘Sir knight-errant,
I hope your worship will not forget that same island which you have
promised me, and which I warrant myself able to govern, let it be as
great as it will.’ To this remonstrance Don Quixote replied, ‘You must
know, friend Sancho Panza, that it was an established custom among the
ancient knights-errant, to invest their squires with the government of
such islands and kingdoms as they had laid under their subjection; and I
am firmly resolved, that such a grateful practice shall never fail in
me, who, on the contrary, mean to improve it by my generosity; for they
sometimes, nay generally, waited until their squires turned grey-haired,
and then, after they were worn out with service, and had endured many
dismal days and doleful nights, bestowed upon them the title of count or
marquis, at least of some valley or province, more or less; but if
Heaven spares thy life and mine, before six days be at an end, I may
chance to acquire such a kingdom as shall have others depending upon it,
as if expressly designed for thee to be crowned sovereign in one of
them. And thou oughtest not to be surprized, that such incidents and
accidents happen to knights-errant, by means never before known or
conceived, as will enable me even to exceed my promise.’—‘In that case,’
replied Sancho Panza, ‘if I should ever become a king, by any of those
miracles which your worship mentions, my duck Juana Gutierez would also
be a queen, and each of my daughters an infanta.’—‘Certainly,’ said the
knight; ‘who doubts that?’—‘That do I,’ said the squire; ‘for certain I
am, that though it were to rain kingdoms upon the earth, not one of them
would fit seemly on the head of Mary Gutierez[41]; your worship must
know, she is not worth a farthing for a queen; she might do indeed for a
countess, with the blessing of God, and good assistance.’—‘Recommend the
matter to Providence,’ replied Don Quixote, which will bestow upon thee
what will be best adapted to thy capacity; but let not thy soul be so
far debased, as to content itself with any thing less than a
vice-royalty.’—‘That I will not,’ answered Sancho, ‘especially as I have
a powerful master in your worship, who will load me with as much
preferment as I can conveniently bear.’
Footnote 41:
How comes Juana to be so suddenly metamorphosed into Mary?
CHAP. VIII.
OF THE HAPPY SUCCESS OF THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE,
AND THE DREADFUL AND INCONCEIVABLE ADVENTURE OF THE WIND-MILLS,
WITH OTHER INCIDENTS WORTHY TO BE RECORDED
BY THE MOST ABLE HISTORIAN.
In the midst of this their conversation, they discovered thirty or forty
wind-mills all together on the plain, which the knight no sooner
perceived, than he said to his squire, ‘Chance has conducted our affairs
even better than we could either wish or hope for; look there, friend
Sancho, and behold thirty or forty outrageous giants, with whom I intend
to engage in battle, and put every soul of them to death, so that we may
begin to enrich ourselves with their spoils; for it is a meritorious
warfare, and serviceable both to God and man, to extirpate such a wicked
race from the face of the earth.’—‘What giants do you mean?’ said Sancho
Panza in amaze. ‘Those you see yonder,’ replied his master, ‘with vast
extended arms; some of which are two leagues long.’—‘I would your
worship would take notice,’ replied Sancho, ‘that those you see yonder
are no giants, but wind-mills; and what seem arms to you, are sails,
which being turned with the wind, make the mill-stone work.’—‘It seems
very plain,’ said the knight, ‘that you are but a novice in adventures;
these I affirm to be giants; and if thou art afraid, get out of the
reach of danger, and put up thy prayers for me, while I join with them
in fierce and unequal combat.’ So saying, he put spurs to his steed
Rozinante, without paying the least regard to the cries of his squire
Sancho, who assured him, that those he was going to attack were no
giants, but innocent wind-mills: but he was so much possessed with the
opinion that they were giants, that he neither heard the advice of his
squire Sancho, nor would use the intelligence of his own eyes, though he
was very near them; on the contrary, when he approached them, he called
aloud, ‘Fly not, ye base and cowardly miscreants, for he is but a single
knight who now attacks you.’ At that instant a breeze of wind springing
up, the great sails began to turn; which being perceived by Don Quixote,
‘Tho’ you wield,’ said he, ‘more arms than ever belonged to the giant
Briareus, I will make you pay for your insolence.’ So saying, and
heartily recommending himself to his Lady Dulcinea, whom he implored to
succour him in this emergency, bracing on his target, and setting his
lance in the rest, he put his Rozinante to full speed, and assaulting
the nearest wind-mill, thrust it into one of the sails, which was drove
about by the wind with so much fury, that the lance was shivered to
pieces, and both knight and steed whirled aloft, and overthrown in very
bad plight upon the plain.
Sancho Panza rode as fast as the ass could carry him to his assistance;
and when he came up, found him unable to stir, by reason of the bruises
which he and Rozinante had received. ‘Lord have mercy upon us!’ said the
squire, ‘did not I tell your worship to consider well what you were
about? Did not I assure you, they were no other than wind-mills? Indeed,
no body could mistake them for any thing else, but one who has
wind-mills in his own head!’—‘Pr’ythee, hold thy peace, friend Sancho,’
replied Don Quixote; ‘the affairs of war are more than any thing subject
to change. How much more so, as I believe, nay, am certain, that the
sage Freston, who stole my closet and books, has converted those giants
into mills, in order to rob me of the honour of their overthrow; such is
the enmity he bears me; but in the end, all his treacherous arts will
but little avail against the vigour of my sword.’—‘God’s will be done!’
replied Sancho Panza, who helped him to rise and mount Rozinante that
was almost disjointed.
While they conversed together upon what had happened, they followed the
road that leads to the pass of Lapice; for in that, which was a great
thoroughfare, as Don Quixote observed, it was impossible but they must
meet with many and divers adventures. As he jogged along, a good deal
concerned for the loss of his lance, he said to his squire, ‘I remember
to have read of a Spanish knight, called Diego Perez de Vargos, who,
having broke his sword in battle, tore off a mighty branch or bough from
an oak, with which he performed such wonders, and felled so many Moors,
that he retained the name of Machuca, or the Feller, and all his
descendants from that day forward have gone by the name of Vargos and
Machuca. This circumstance I mention to thee, because, from the first
ash or oak that I meet with, I am resolved to rend as large and stout a
bough as that, with which I expect, and intend to perform such exploits,
as thou shalt think thyself extremely happy in being thought worthy to
see, and give testimony to feats otherwise incredible.’—‘By God’s help,’
says Sancho, ‘I believe that every thing will happen as your worship
says: but pray, Sir, sit a little more upright; for you seem to lean
strangely to one side, which must proceed from the bruises you received
in your fall.’—‘Thou art in the right,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘and if I
do not complain of the pain, it is because knights-errant are not
permitted to complain of any wound they receive, even though their
bowels should come out of their bodies.’—‘If that be the case, I have
nothing to reply,’ said Sancho; ‘but God knows, I should be glad your
worship would complain when any thing gives you pain; this I know, that,
for my own part, the smallest prick in the world would make me complain,
if that law of not complaining does not reach to the squires as well as
the knights.’ Don Quixote could not help smiling at the simplicity of
his squire, to whom he gave permission to complain as much and as often
as he pleased, whether he had cause or no; for, as yet, he had read
nothing to the contrary in the history of knight-errantry.
Then Sancho observing that it was dinner-time, his master told him, that
for the present he had no occasion for food; but that he, his squire,
might go to victuals when he pleased. With this permission, Sancho
adjusted himself as well as he could upon his ass, and taking out the
provision with which he had stuffed his wallet, he dropped behind his
master a good way, and kept his jaws agoing as he jogged along, lifting
the bottle to his head, from time to time, with so much satisfaction,
that the most pampered vintner of Malaga might have envied his
situation.
While he travelled in this manner, repeating his agreeable draughts, he
never thought of the promise which his master had made to him, nor
considered it as a toil, but rather as a diversion, to go in quest of
adventures, how dangerous soever they might be: in fine, that night they
passed under a tuft of trees, from one of which Don Quixote tore a
withered branch to serve instead of a lance; and fitted to it the iron
head he had taken from that which was broken: all night long the knight
closed not an eye, but mused upon his Lady Dulcinea, in order to
accommodate himself to what he had read of those errants who had passed
many sleepless nights in woods and desarts, entertaining themselves with
the remembrance of their mistresses.
This was not the case with Sancho Panza, whose belly being well
replenished, and that not with plantane water, made but one nap of the
whole night, and even then would not have waked, unless his master had
called to him, notwithstanding the sun-beams that played upon his face,
and the singing of the birds, which in great numbers, and joyous melody,
saluted the approach of the new day. The first thing he did when he got
up, was to visit his bottle, which finding considerably more lank than
it was the night before, he was grievously afflicted, because in the
road that they pursued, he had no hopes of being able in a little time
to supply its defect. Don Quixote refusing to breakfast, because, as we
have already said, he regaled himself with the savoury remembrance of
his mistress, they pursued their journey towards the pass; which, after
three days travelling, they discovered. ‘Here,’ cried Don Quixote,
‘here, brother Sancho Panza, we shall be able to dip our hands up to our
elbows in what is called adventure; but take notice, although thou seest
me beset with the most extreme danger, thou must by no means even so
much as lay thy hand upon thy sword, with design to defend me, unless I
am assaulted by vulgar and low-born antagonists; in which case thou
mayest come to my assistance; but if they are knights, thou art by no
means permitted or licensed, by the laws of chivalry, to give me the
least succour, until thou thyself hast received the honour of
knighthood[42].’—‘As for that matter,’ replied Sancho, ‘your worship
shall be obeyed to a tittle; for I am a very peaceable man, and not at
all fond of meddling with riots and quarrels. True, indeed, in the
defence of my own person, I shall not pay much regard to the said laws,
seeing every one that is aggrieved is permitted to defend himself by all
the laws of God and man.’—‘I say nothing to the contrary,’ replied Don
Quixote; ‘but in the affair of assisting me against knights, thou must
keep thy natural impetuosity under the rein.’—‘That will I,’ answered
Sancho, ‘and keep your honour’s command as strictly as I keep the Lord’s
day.’
While they were engaged in this conversation, there appeared before them
two Benedictine monks mounted upon dromedaries, for their mules were not
much less, with their travelling spectacles and umbrellas; after them
came a coach, accompanied by four or five people on horseback, and two
mule-drivers on foot. In this carriage, it was afterwards known, a
Biscayan lady was travelling to Seville to her husband, who was bound to
the Indies with a rich cargo.
Don Quixote no sooner perceived the friars, (who though they travelled
the same road, were not of her company) than he said to his squire, ‘If
I am not very much mistaken, that will be the most famous adventure that
ever was known, for those black apparitions on the road must doubtless
be inchanters, who are carrying off in that coach some princess they
have stolen; and there is a necessity for my exerting my whole power in
redressing her wrongs.’—‘This will be worse than the wind-mills,’ cried
Sancho: ‘for the love of God! Sir, consider that these are Benedictine
friars; and those who are in the coach can be no other than common
travellers. Mind what I say, and consider what you do, and let not the
devil deceive you.’—‘I have told thee already, Sancho,’ replied Don
Quixote, ‘that with regard to adventures, thou art utterly ignorant:
what I say is true, and in a moment thou shalt be convinced.’
So saying, he rode forward, and placed himself in the middle of the
highway through which the friars were to pass; and when he thought them
near enough to hear what he said, he pronounced, in a loud voice,
‘Monstrous and diabolical race! surrender, this instant, those high-born
princesses, whom you carry captives in that coach; or prepare to receive
immediate death, as a just punishment for your misdeeds.’ The friars
immediately stopped short, astonished as much at the figure as at the
discourse of Don Quixote: to which they replied, ‘Sir knight, we are
neither diabolical nor monstrous, but innocent monks of the order of St.
Benedict, who are going this way about our own affairs; neither do we
know of any princesses that are carried captives in that coach.’—‘These
fawning speeches,’ said Don Quixote, ‘shall not impose upon me, who know
too well what a treacherous pack ye are.’ And without waiting for any
other reply, he put spurs to Rozinante; and couching his lance, attacked
the first friar with such fury and resolution, that if he had not thrown
himself from his mule, he would have come to the ground extremely
ill-handled, not without some desperate wound, nay, perhaps stone dead.
The second monk, who saw how his companion had been treated, clapped
spurs to the flanks of his trusty mule, and flew through the field even
swifter than the wind.
Sancho Panza seeing the friar on the ground, leaped from his ass with
great agility, and beginning to uncase him with the utmost dexterity,
two of their servants came up, and asked for what reason he stripped
their master. The squire replied, that the cloaths belonged to him, as
the spoils that Don Quixote, his lord, had won in battle: but the
others, who did not understand raillery, nor knew any thing of spoils
and battles, seeing Don Quixote at a good distance, talking with the
ladies in the coach, went to loggerheads with Sancho, whom they soon
overthrew; and, without leaving one hair of his beard, mauled him so
unmercifully, that he lay stretched upon the ground, without sense or
motion. Then, with the utmost dispatch, the friar mounted, as pale as a
sheet, and almost frightened to death; and no sooner found himself on
horseback, than he galloped towards his companion, who tarried at a good
distance, to see the issue of this strange adventure. However, being
joined again, without waiting for the conclusion of it, they pursued
their journey; making as many crosses as if the devil had been at their
backs.
Don Quixote, in the mean time, as we have already observed, was engaged
in conversation with the lady in the coach, to whom he expressed himself
in this manner; ‘Beautiful lady, you may now dispose of your own person
according to your pleasure; for the pride of your ravishers lies level
with the ground, being overthrown by this my invincible arm; and that
you may be at no difficulty in understanding the same of your deliverer,
know that I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, knight-errant, adventurer and
captive of the unparalleled and beautiful Donna Dulcinea del Toboso: and
the only acknowledgment I expect for the benefit you have received is,
that you return to that place, and presenting yourself before my
mistress, tell her what I have performed in behalf of your liberty.’
This whole address of the knight was overheard by a Biscayan squire, who
accompanied the coach, and who, seeing that he would not allow the
carriage to pass forward, but insisted upon their immediate returning to
Toboso, rode up to Don Quixote, and laying hold of his lance, spoke to
him thus in bad Castilian, and worse Biscayan: ‘Get thee gone, cavalier!
go to the devil, I zay! vor, by the God that made her, if thou wilt not
let the coach alone, che will kill thee dead, as zure as che was a
Biscayan.’ The knight, understanding very well what he said, replied
with great composure; ‘If thou wast a gentleman, as thou art not, I
would chastise thy insolence and rashness, wretched creature.’—‘I not a
gentleman!’ replied the Biscayan in great choler; ‘by God in heaven,
thou lyest, as I am a Christian! if thou wilt throw away thy lance, and
draw thy sword, che will soon zee which be the better man[43]. Biscayan
by land, gentleman by zea, gentleman by devil; and thou liest, look ye,
in thy throat, if thou zayest otherwise.’—‘Thou shalt see that
presently, as Agragis said,’ replied Don Quixote; who, throwing his
lance upon the ground, unsheathing his sword, and bracing on his target,
attacked the Biscayan with full resolution to put him to death[44].
His antagonist, who saw him approach, fain would have alighted from his
mule, (which being one of the worst that ever was let out for hire,
could not much be depended upon;) but he scarce had time to draw his
sword; however, being luckily near the coach, he snatched out of it a
cushion, which served him as a shield, and then they flew upon each
other as two mortal enemies. The rest of the people who were present
endeavoured, but in vain, to appease them; for the Biscayan swore, in
his uncouth expressions, that if they did not leave him to fight the
battle, he would certainly murder his mistress, and every body who
should pretend to oppose it. The lady in the coach, surprized and
frightened at what she saw, ordered the coachman to drive a little out
of the road, to a place from whence she should see at a distance this
rigorous engagement. In the course of which, the Biscayan bellowed such
a huge stroke upon the shoulder of Don Quixote, that if it had not been
for the defence of his buckler, he would have been cleft down to his
girdle. The knight feeling the shock of such an unconscionable blow,
exclaimed aloud, ‘O Dulcinea! lady of my soul, thou rose of beauty,
succour thy knight, who, for the satisfaction of thy excessive goodness,
is now involved in this dreadful emergency.’ To pronounce these words,
to raise his sword, to secure himself with his target, and attack the
Biscayan, was the work of one instant; for he was determined to risk his
all upon a single stroke. His antagonist, who saw him advance, and by
this time was convinced of his courage by his resolution, determined to
follow his example; and covering himself with his cushion, waited his
assault, without being able to turn his mule either on one side or the
other; for she was already so jaded, and so little accustomed to such
pastime, that she would not move one step out of the way.
Don Quixote, then, as we have said, advanced against the cautious
Biscayan, his sword lifted up with an intention to cleave him through
the middle; the Biscayan waited his attack in the same posture, being
shielded with his cushion. The frightened bye-standers stood aloof,
intent upon the success of those mighty strokes that threatened each of
the combatants; and the lady in the coach, with the rest of her
attendants, put up a thousand prayers to Heaven, and vowed an offering
to every image, and house of devotion in Spain, provided God would
deliver the squire and them from the imminent danger in which they were:
but the misfortune is, that in this very critical instant, the author of
the history has left this battle in suspence, excusing himself, that he
could find no other account of Don Quixote’s exploits, but what has
already been related. True it is, that this second author of this work
could not believe that such a curious history was consigned to oblivion;
nor, that there could be such a scarcity of curious virtuosi in La
Mancha, but that some papers relating to this famous knight should be
found in their archives or cabinets: and therefore, possessed of this
opinion, he did not despair of finding the conclusion of this delightful
history, which indeed he very providentially lighted upon, in the manner
which will be related in the second book.
Footnote 42:
Here Don Quixote seems to have been too scrupulous: for though no
squire was permitted to engage with a knight on horseback, yet they
were allowed, and even enjoined, to assist their masters when they
were unhorsed or in danger, by mounting them on fresh steeds,
supplying them with arms, and warding off the blows that were aimed at
them; Davy Gam, at the battle of Agincourt, lost his life in defending
Henry V. of England, and Saint Severin met with the same fate in
warding off the blows that were aimed at Francis I. of France, in the
battle of Pavia.
Footnote 43:
The literal meaning of the Spanish is, ‘Thou shalt soon see who is to
carry the cat to the water:’ or rather, in the corrupted Biscayan
phrase, ‘The water how soon thou wilt see, that thou carriest to the
cat.’
Footnote 44:
The behaviour of Don Quixote was exactly conformable to the rules of
chivalry; which, though they hindered a knight from fighting in armour
with a squire, did not prevent him from giving satisfaction to an
inferior, at sword and target; and every squire who was aggrieved had
a right to demand it.
BOOK II.
CHAP. I.
THE CONCLUSION AND CONSEQUENCE OF THE STUPENDOUS COMBAT BETWEEN THE
GALLANT BISCAYAN, AND THE VALIANT KNIGHT OF LA MANCHA.
In the first book of this history we left the valiant Biscayan and
renowned Don Quixote with their gleaming swords brandished aloft, about
to discharge two such furious strokes, as must (if they had cut sheer)
have cleft them both asunder from top to toe, like a couple of
pomegranates; and in this dubious and critical conjuncture, the
delicious history abruptly breaks off, without our being informed by the
author where or how that which is wanting may be found.
I was not a little concerned at this disappointment; for the pleasure I
enjoyed in the little I had read, was changed into disgust, when I
reflected on the small prospect I had of finding the greater part of
this relishing story, which in my opinion was lost: and yet it seemed
impossible, and contrary to every laudable custom, that such an
excellent knight should be unprovided with some sage to undertake the
history of his unheard of exploits; a convenience which none of those
knights-errant, who went in quest of adventures, ever wanted, each of
them having been accommodated with one or two necromancers, on purpose
to record not only his atchievements, but even his most hidden thoughts
and amusements. Surely, then, such a compleat errant could not be so
unlucky as to want that, which even Platil, and other such second-rate
warriors, enjoyed.
I could not therefore prevail upon myself to believe that such a
spirited history was left so lame and unfinished, but laid the whole
blame on the malignity of time, which wastes and devours all things, and
by which, no doubt, this was either consumed or concealed: on the other
hand, I considered, that as some books had been found in his library so
modern as the Undeceptions of Jealousy, together with the Nymphs and
Shepherds of Henares; his own history must also be of a modern date, and
the circumstances, though not committed to writing, still fresh in the
memory of his neighbours and townsmen. This consideration perplexed and
inflamed me with the desire of knowing the true and genuine account of
the life and wonderful exploits of our Spanish worthy Don Quixote de La
Mancha, the sun and mirror of Manchegan chivalry; the first who, in this
our age, and these degenerate times, undertook the toil and exercise of
errantry and arms, to redress grievances, support the widow, and protect
those damsels who stroll about with whip and palfrey, from hill to hill,
and from dale to dale, on the strength of their virginity alone: for in
times past, unless some libidinous clown with hatchet and morrion, or
monstrous giant, forced her to his brutal wishes, a damsel might have
lived fourscore years without ever lying under any other cover than that
of heaven, and then gone to her grave as good a maiden as the mother
that bore her. I say, therefore, that for these and many other
considerations, our gallant Don Quixote merits incessant and immortal
praise; and even I myself may claim some share, for my labour and
diligence in finding the conclusion of this agreeable history; though I
am well aware, that if I had not been favoured by fortune, chance, or
Providence, the world would have been deprived of that pleasure and
satisfaction which the attentive reader may enjoy for an hour or two, in
perusing what follows: the manner of my finding it I will now recount.
While I was walking one day on the exchange of Toledo, a boy coming up
to a certain mercer, offered to sell him a bundle of old papers he had
in his hand: now, as I have always a strong propensity to read even
those scraps that sometimes fly about the streets, I was led by this my
natural curiosity, to turn over some of the leaves; I found them written
in Arabick, which not being able to read, though I knew the characters,
I looked about for some Portuguese Moor who should understand it; and,
indeed, though the language had been both more elegant and ancient, I
might easily have found an interpreter. In short, I lighted upon one, to
whom expressing my desire, and putting the pamphlet into his hands, he
opened it in the middle, and after having read a few lines, began to
laugh; when I asked the cause of his laughter, he said it was occasioned
by a whimsical annotation in the margin of the book. I begged he would
tell me what it was, and he answered, still laughing, ‘What I find
written in the margin, is to this purpose: “this same Dulcinea, so often
mentioned in the history, is said to have had the best hand at salting
pork of any woman in La Mancha.”’
Not a little surprized at hearing Dulcinea del Toboso mentioned, I
immediately conjectured that the bundle actually contained the history
of Don Quixote. Possessed with this notion, I bade him, with great
eagerness, read the title-page, which having perused, he translated it
extempore from Arabic to Spanish, in these words: ‘The History of Don
Quixote de La Mancha, written by Cid Hamet Benengeli, an Arabian
author.’ No small discretion was requisite to dissemble the satisfaction
I felt, when my ears were saluted with the title of these papers, which,
snatching from the master, I immediately bought in the lump for half a
rial; though, if the owner had been cunning enough to discover my
eagerness to possess them, he might have laid his account with getting
twelve times the sum by the bargain.
I then retired with my Moor through the cloisters of the cathedral, and
desired him to translate all those papers that related to Don Quixote
into the Castilian tongue, without addition or diminution, offering to
pay any thing he should charge for his labour: his demand was limited to
two quarters of raisins, and as many bushels of wheat, for which he
promised to translate them with great care, conciseness, and fidelity:
but I, the more to facilitate the business without parting with such a
rich prize, conducted him to my own house, where, in little less than
six weeks, he translated the whole, in the same manner as shall here be
related.
In the first sheet was painted to the life the battle betwixt Don
Quixote and the Biscayan, who were represented in the same posture as
the history has already described, their swords brandished aloft, one of
the antagonists covered with his shield, the other with his cushion, and
the Biscayan’s mule so naturally set forth, that you might have known
her to have been an hireling, at the distance of a bow-shot. Under the
feet of her rider was a label containing these words, ‘Don Sancho de
Azpetia,’ which was doubtless his name; and beneath our knight was
another, with the title of ‘Don Quixote.’ Rozinante was most wonderfully
delineated, so long and raw-boned, so lank and meagre, so sharp in the
back, and consumptive, that one might easily perceive, with what
propriety and penetration the name of Rozinante had been bestowed upon
him. Hard by the steed was Sancho Panza, holding his ass by the halter,
at whose feet was a third label, inscribed ‘Sancho Zancas,’ who, in the
picture, was represented as a person of a short stature, swag belly, and
long spindle-shanks: for this reason he ought to be called
indiscriminately by the names of Panza[45] and Zanchas; for by both
these surnames is he sometimes mentioned in history.
There were divers other minute circumstances to be observed, but all of
them of small importance and concern to the truth of the history,
though, indeed, nothing that is true can be impertinent: however, if any
objection can be started to the truth of this, it can be no other, but
that the author was an Arabian, of a nation but too much addicted to
falshood, though, as they are at present our enemies, it may be
supposed, that he has rather failed than exceeded in the representation
of our hero’s exploits; for, in my opinion, when he had frequently
opportunities and calls to exercise his pen in the praise of such an
illustrious knight, he seems to be industriously silent on the subject;
a circumstance very little to his commendation, for all historians ought
to be punctual, candid, and dispassionate, that neither interest,
rancour, fear, or affection, may mislead them from the road of Truth,
whose mother is History, that rival of Time, that repository of great
actions, witness of the past, example and pattern of the present, and
oracle of future ages. In this, I know, will be found whatsoever can be
expected in the most pleasant performance; and if any thing seems
imperfect, I affirm it must be owing to the fault of the infidel its
author, rather than to any failure of the subject itself: in short, the
second book in the translation begins thus—
The flaming swords of the two valiant and incensed combatants,
brandished in the air, seemed to threaten heaven, earth, and hell, such
was the rage and resolution of those that wielded them; but the first
blow was discharged by the cholerick Biscayan, who struck with such
force and fury, that if the blade had not turned by the way, that single
stroke would have been sufficient to have put an end to this dreadful
conflict, and all the other adventures of our knight; but his good
genius, which preserved him for mightier things, turned the sword of his
antagonist aside, so that though it fell upon his left shoulder, it did
no other damage than disarm that whole side, slicing off in its passage,
the greatest part of his helmet, with half of his ear, which fell to the
ground with hideous ruin, leaving him in a very uncomfortable situation.
Good Heavens! where is the man who can worthily express the rage and
indignation which entered into the heart of our Manchegan, when he saw
himself handled in this manner! I shall only say, his fury was such,
that raising himself again in his stirrups, and grasping his sword with
both hands, he discharged it so full upon the cushion and head of the
Biscayan, which it but ill-defended, that, as if a mountain had fallen
upon him, he began to spout blood from his nostrils, mouth, and ears,
and seemed ready to fall from his mule, which would certainly have been
the case, if he had not laid hold of the mane: yet notwithstanding this
effort, his feet falling out of the stirrups, and his arms quitting
their hold, the mule, which was frightened at the terrible stroke, began
to run across the field, and after a few plunges came with her master to
the ground. Don Quixote, who sat observing him with great tranquillity,
no sooner perceived him fall, than leaping from his horse, he ran up to
him with great agility, and setting the point of his sword to his
throat, bade him surrender on pain of having his head cut off. The
Biscayan was so confounded by the blow and fall he had sustained, that
he could not answer one syllable; and as Don Quixote was blinded by his
rage, he would have fared very ill, if the ladies of the coach, who had
hitherto, in great consternation, been spectators of the battle, had not
run to the place where he was, and requested, with the most fervent
entreaties, that his worship would grant them the favour to spare the
life of their squire.
To this petition the knight replied, with great stateliness and gravity,
‘Assuredly, most beautiful ladies, I am very ready to do what you
desire, but it shall be upon condition and proviso, that this cavalier
promise to go straight to Toboso, and present himself in my behalf,
before the unparalleled Donna Dulcinea, that she may use him according
to her good pleasure.’ The timorous and disconsolate ladies, without
entering into the detail of what Don Quixote desired, or enquiring who
this Dulcinea was, promised that the squire should obey the knight’s
commands in every thing. ‘Upon the faith of your word, then,’ said Don
Quixote, ‘I will do him no farther damage, though he has richly deserved
it at my hand.’
Footnote 45:
Panza, in Castilian, signifies Paunch; and Zancas, Spindle-shanks.
CHAP. II.
OF WHAT FARTHER HAPPENED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND THE BISCAYAN.
All this time, Sancho Panza having got up, though very roughly handled
by the lacquies of the friars, stood very attentively beholding the
battle of his master Don Quixote, and put up ejaculatory petitions to
heaven, that it would please to grant him the victory, and that he might
gain by it some island, of which he himself might be made governor, in
consequence of the knight’s promise. Seeing therefore the battle ended,
and his master returning to mount Rozinante, he went to hold his
stirrup, and before he got up, fell on his knees before him; then laying
hold of his hand, and kissing it, pronounced with great fervency, ‘Sir
Don Quixote, will your worship be pleased to bestow on me the government
of that island which you have won in this dreadful combat; for let it be
ever so great, I find I have strength enough to govern it, as well as
any he who governs an island in this world.’ To this request Don Quixote
replied, ‘You must know, Brother Sancho, that such as these are not
adventures of islands, but frays that happen in bye-roads, in which
there is nothing to be got but a broken head, with the loss of an ear;
have a little patience, and we shall meet with adventures, which will
enable me to make you not only a governor, but something more.’ Sancho
made him many hearty acknowledgments for his promise, then kissing his
hand again, and his coat of mail, helped him to mount Rozinante; and he
himself getting upon his ass, followed his master, who set off at a
round pace, and without bidding adieu, or speaking one syllable to those
in the coach, entered a wood that was in the neighbourhood.
Sancho followed him as hard as his beast would trot; but Rozinante
exerted such speed, that seeing himself left behind, he was obliged to
call to his master to wait for him. The knight complied with his
request, and checked his horse, until he was overtaken by his weary
squire; who, when he approached him, ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘methinks it would
be the wisest course for us to retreat to some church; for as he with
whom you fought remains but in a sorry condition, it is odds but they
inform the holy brotherhood of the affair[46], and have us apprehended;
and verily, if they do, before we get out of prison we may chance to
sweat for it.’—‘Peace, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘where didst thou ever
see or hear, that a knight-errant was brought to justice for the
greatest homicides he had committed?’—‘I know nothing of your
honey-seeds,’ answered Sancho, ‘nor in my life did I ever see one of
them; this only I know, that the holy brotherhood commonly looks after
those who quarrel and fight up and down the country; and as to the other
affair, I have no business to intermeddle in it.’
‘Set your heart at ease then, friend Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘for
I will deliver you from the hands of the Philistines, much more from the
clutches of the brotherhood; but tell me, on thy life, hast thou ever
seen a more valiant knight than me in any country of the known world?
Hast thou ever read in story of any other who possesses, or has
possessed, more courage in attacking, more breath in persevering, more
dexterity in wounding, and more agility in overthrowing his
antagonist?’—‘The truth is,’ answered Sancho, ‘I never read a history
since I was born; for indeed I can neither read nor write; but what I
will make bold to wager upon is, that a more daring master than your
worship I never served in the days of my life; and I wish to God, that
your courage may not meet with that reward I have already mentioned.
What I beg of your worship at present is, that you would allow me to
dress that ear, which bleeds very much, for I have got some lint, and a
little white ointment in my wallet.’—‘These would have been altogether
needless,’ answered the knight, ‘if I had remembered to make a phial of
the balsam of Fierabras, one single drop of which would save abundance
of time and trouble.’—‘What sort of a phial and balsam is that?’ said
Sancho Panza. ‘It is a balsam,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘the receipt of
which I retain in my memory, and he that possesses the valuable
composition needs be in no fear of death, nor think of perishing by any
wound whatsoever: and therefore, when I shall have made it, and
delivered it into thy keeping, thou hast no more to do when thou seest
me in any combat cut through the middle, a circumstance that very often
happens, but to snatch up that part of the body which falls to the
ground, and before the blood shall congeal, set it upon the other half
that remains in the saddle, taking care to join them with the utmost
nicety and exactness; then making me swallow a couple of draughts of the
aforesaid balsam, thou wilt see me in a twinkling, as whole and as sound
as an apple.’
‘If that be the case,’ said Sancho Panza, ‘I henceforth renounce the
government of that island you promised me, and desire no other reward
for my long and faithful service, but that your worship will give me the
receipt of that same most exceeding liquor; for I imagine, that it will
sell for two rials an ounce at least, and that will be sufficient to
make me spend the rest of my days in credit and ease: but it will be
necessary to know if the composition be costly.’—‘I can make a gallon of
it for less than three rials,’ replied the knight. ‘Sinner that I am!’
cried Sancho, ‘what hinders your worship from teaching me to make it
this moment?’—‘Hold thy tongue, friend,’ said the knight. ‘I intend to
teach thee greater secrets, and bestow upon thee more considerable
rewards than that; but, in the mean time, let us dress my ear, which
pains me more than I could wish.’
The squire accordingly took out his lint and ointment: but when his
master found that his helmet was quite demolished, he had almost run
stark mad: he laid his hand upon his sword, and lifting up his hands to
heaven, pronounced aloud, ‘I swear by the Creator of all things, and by
all that is written in the four holy evangelists! to lead the life which
the great Marquis of Mantua led, when he swore to revenge the death of
his cousin Valdovinos; neither to eat food upon a table, nor enjoy his
wife, with many other things, which, though I do not remember, I here
consider as expressed, until I shall have taken full vengeance upon him
who has done me this injury[47].’ Sancho hearing this invocation, ‘Sir
Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘I hope your worship will consider, that if the
knight shall accomplish what he was ordered to do, namely, to present
himself before my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he will have done his duty,
and certainly deserves no other punishment, unless he commits a new
crime.’—‘Thou hast spoke very much to the purpose, and hit the nail on
the head,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘therefore I annul my oath, so far as it
regards my revenge, but I make and confirm it anew, to lead the life I
have mentioned, until such time as I can take by force as good a helmet
as this from some other knight; and thou must not think, Sancho, that I
am now making a smoke of straw; for I know very well whom I imitate in
this affair; the same thing having literally happened about the helmet
of Mambrino, which cost Sacripante so dear.[48]’
‘Sir, Sir,’ replied Sancho, with some heat, ‘I wish your worship would
send to the devil all such oaths, which are so mischievous to the health
and prejudicial to the conscience; for, tell me now, if we should not
find in many days, a man armed with a helmet, what must we do? must we
perform this vow, in spite of all the rubs and inconveniences in the
way; such as to lie in one’s cloaths, and not to sleep in an inhabited
place, with a thousand other penances contained in the oath of that old
mad Marquis of Mantua, which your worship now wants to renew? Pray, Sir,
consider that there are no armed people in these roads, none but
carriers and carters, which far from wearing helmets themselves, perhaps
never heard of any such thing during the whole course of their
lives.’—‘There thou art egregiously mistaken,’ replied Don Quixote;
‘for, before we are two hours in the cross-ways, we shall see armed men
more numerous than those that came to Albraca, in order to win Angelica
the fair.’—‘On then, and be it so,’ said Sancho, ‘and pray God we may
succeed, and that the time may come when we shall gain that island which
has cost me so dear, and then I care not how soon I die.’—‘I have
already advised thee, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘to give thyself no
trouble about that affair; for, should we be disappointed in the
expectation of an island, there is the kingdom of Denmark; or that of
Sobrediza, which will suit thee as well as ever a ring fitted a finger,
and ought to give thee more joy, because it is situated on Terra Firma;
but let us leave these things to the determination of time, and see if
thou hast got any thing in thy wallet; for we must go presently in quest
of some castle, where we may procure a night’s lodging, and ingredients
to make that same balsam I mentioned; for, I vow to God! my ear gives me
infinite pain.’
‘I have got here in my bags,’ said Sancho, ‘an onion, a slice of cheese,
and a few crusts of bread; but these are eatables which do not suit the
palate of such a valiant knight-errant as your worship.’—‘How little you
understand of the matter!’ answered Don Quixote. ‘Thou must know,
Sancho, that it is for the honour of knights-errant, to abstain whole
months together from food, and when they do eat, to be contented with
what is next at hand; this thou wouldst not have been ignorant of, hadst
thou read so many histories as I have perused, in which, numerous as
they are, I have never found any account of knights-errant eating,
except occasionally, at some sumptuous banquet made on purpose for them;
at other times, living upon air; and though it must be taken for
granted, that they could not altogether live without eating, or
complying with the other necessities of nature, being in effect men as
we are; yet we are likewise to consider, that as the greatest part of
their lives was spent in travelling through woods and desarts, without
any cook or caterer, their ordinary diet was no other than such rustick
food as thou hast now got for our present occasions[49]; therefore,
friend Sancho, give thyself no uneasiness, because thou hast got nothing
to gratify the palate, nor seek to unhinge or alter the constitution of
things.’
‘I beg your worship’s pardon,’ said Sancho, ‘for as I can neither read
nor write, as I have already observed, I may have mistaken the rules of
your knightly profession; but from henceforward I will store my budget
with all sorts of dry fruits for your worship, who are a knight; and for
myself, who am none, I will provide other more volatile and substantial
food[50].’—‘I do not say, Sancho, that knights-errant are obliged to eat
nothing except these fruits, but only that their most ordinary
sustenance is composed of them and some certain herbs, which they know
how to gather in the fields; a species of knowledge which I myself am no
stranger to.’—‘Surely,’ answered Sancho, ‘it is a great comfort to know
these same herbs; for it comes into my head, we shall one day or another
have occasion to make use of the knowledge:’ and taking out the contents
of his wallet, they eat together with great harmony and satisfaction;
but, being desirous of finding some place for their night’s lodging,
they finished their humble repast in a hurry, and mounting their beasts,
put on at a good rate, in order to reach some village before it should
be dark; but the hope of gratifying that desire failed them with
day-light, just when they happened to be near a goatherd’s hut, in which
they resolved to pass the night; and in the same proportion that Sancho
was disgusted at not being able to reach some village, his master was
rejoiced at an opportunity of sleeping under the cope of heaven, because
he looked upon every occasion of this kind as an act of possession that
strengthened the proof of his knight-errantry.
Footnote 46:
Santa Hermandad was a brotherhood or society instituted in Spain in
times of confusion, to suppress robbery, and render travelling safe.
Footnote 47:
These ridiculous oaths or vows are not confined to romances. Philip,
the good Duke of Burgundy, at a publick banquet, vowed to God, the
holy virgin, the peacock, and the ladies, that he would declare war
against the infidels; and a great number of persons who were present,
listed themselves under the same vow, and incurred voluntary penance
until it should be accomplished. Some swore they would never lie upon
a bed, others renounced the use of a table-cloth, a third set obliged
themselves to fast one particular day in the week, a fourth went
without one particular piece of armour, a fifth wore his armour night
and day, and many confined themselves to shirts of sackcloth and hair.
Footnote 48:
Geoffroi de Rançon, having been injured by the Count de La Marche,
swore by the saints that he would wear his buskin like a woman, and
never suffer himself to be shaved in the manner of chivalry, until he
should be revenged. This oath he scrupulously observed, until he saw
his adversary, with his wife and children, kneeling in distress before
the king, and imploring his forgiveness; then he called for a stool,
adjusted his buskin, and was shaved in presence of his majesty and the
court.
The knight’s forehead was commonly shaved, that in case he should lose
his helmet in combat, his antagonist should have no hold by which he
might be pulled off his horse.
Footnote 49:
We read in Perce Forest, that there were flat stones placed at certain
distances in uninhabited parts of the country, for the use of
knights-errant; who, having killed a roe-buck, pressed the blood out
of it upon one of these tables by the help of another smooth stone,
and then eat it with some salt and spices, which they carried along
with them for that purpose. This diet is called in the French
romances, _Chevraux de presse, nourreture des heraux_.
Footnote 50:
Volatile, in the original, signifies any things that fly; and
therefore Sancho may be supposed to mean, he would provide himself
with game or poultry; but the blunder which we have made him commit
seems to be more in character.
CHAP. III.
OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE
WHILE HE REMAINED WITH THE GOATHERDS.
He received a very hearty welcome from the goatherds; and Sancho having,
as well as he could, accommodated Rozinante and his ass, was attracted
by the odour that issued from some pieces of goat’s flesh that were
boiling in a kettle; but though he longed very much at that instant to
see if it was time to transfer them from the kettle to the belly, he
checked his curiosity, because the landlord took them from the fire, and
spreading some sheep-skins upon the ground, let out their rustick table
without loss of time; inviting their two guests to a share of their
mess, with many expressions of good-will and hospitality. Then those who
belonged to the cot, being six in number, seated themselves round the
skins, having first, with their boorish ceremony, desired Don Quixote to
sit down on a trough, which they had overturned for that purpose.
The knight accepted their offer, and Sancho remained standing, to
administer the cup, which was made of horn; but his master perceiving
him in this attitude, ‘That thou may’st see, Sancho,’ said he, ‘the
benefit which is concentered in knight-errantry; and how near all those
who exercise themselves in any sort of ministry belonging to it, are to
preferment and esteem of the world, I desire thee to sit down here by my
side, in company with these worthy people; and that thou may’st be on an
equal footing with me, thy natural lord and master, eating in the same
dish, and drinking out of the same cup that I use; for what is said of
love may be observed of knight-errantry, that it puts all things upon a
level.’
‘I give you a thousand thanks,’ said Sancho; ‘but I must tell your
worship that, provided I have plenty, I can eat as much, nay more to my
satisfaction, standing on my legs, and in my own company, than if I was
to sit by the side of an emperor; and, if all the truth must be told, I
had much rather dine by myself in a corner, though it should be upon a
bit of bread and an onion, without all your niceties and ceremonies,
than eat turkey-cocks at another man’s table, where I am obliged to chew
softly, to drink sparingly, to wipe my mouth every minute, to abstain
from sneezing or coughing, though I should be never so much inclined to
either, and from a great many other things, which I can freely do when
alone; therefore, Sir master of mine, I hope these honours which your
worship would put upon me, as being the servant and abettor of knight
errantry, which to be sure I am, while I remain in quality of your
squire, may be converted into other things of more ease and advantage to
me, than those which, though I hold them as received in full, I renounce
from henceforth for ever, amen.’—‘Thou must nevertheless sit thee down,’
said his master; ‘for him that is humble, God will exalt;’ and, seizing
him by the arm, he pulled him down to the seat on which he himself sat.
The goatherds, who understood not a word of all this jargon of squire
and knights-errant, did nothing but eat in silence, and gaze upon their
guests; who, with keen appetite, and infinite relish, solaced their
stomachs, by swallowing pieces as large as their fists. This service of
meat being finished, they spread upon their skins great quantities of
acorns, and half a cheese, harder than plaister of Paris: all this time
the horn was not idle, but went round so fast, sometimes full, sometimes
empty, like the buckets of a well, that they soon voided one of the two
skins of wine that hung in view.
Don Quixote having satisfied his appetite, took up an handful of the
acorns, and after looking at them attentively, delivered himself to this
purpose: ‘Happy age, and happy days were those, to which the ancients
gave the name of golden; not that gold, which in these our iron times is
so much esteemed, was to be acquired without trouble, in that fortunate
period; but because people were then ignorant of those two words MINE
and THINE: in that sacred age, all things were in common; no man was
necessitated, in search of his daily food, to undergo any other trouble
than that of reaching out his hand, and receiving it from the sturdy
oak, that liberally invited him to pull his sweet and salutary fruit.
The limpid fountains and murmuring rills afforded him their savoury and
transparent waters in magnificent abundance. In clefts of rocks and
hollow trees, the prudent and industrious bees formed their
commonwealths, offering without interest to every hand the fruitful
harvest of their delicious toil. The stately cork-trees voluntarily
stripped themselves of their light extended bark, with which men began
to cover their rural cottages, supported upon rustick poles, with a view
only to defend themselves from the inclemencies of the weather. All was
then peace, all was harmony, and all was friendship. As yet the
ponderous coulter of the crooked plough had not presumed to open, or
visit the pious entrails of our first mother, who, without compulsion,
presented on every part of her wide and fertile bosom, every thing that
could satisfy, sustain, and delight her sons, who then possessed her.
Then did the simple and beautiful shepherdesses rove from hill to hill,
and dale to dale, bare-headed, in their braided locks, without any other
cloaths than what were necessary to cover modestly that which modesty
commands, and always has commanded to be covered. Neither were their
ornaments such as are used now-a-days, enhanced in value by the Tyrian
purple, and the many-ways martyred silk, but composed of verdant
dock-leaves, and ivy interwove together; with which they appeared,
perhaps, with as great pomp and contrivance as the court ladies of our
days, dressed in all the rare and foreign fashions which idle curiosity
has invented. Then were the amorous dictates of the soul expressed in
sensible simplicity, just as they were conceived, undisguised by the
artificial cloak of specious words. There was no fraud, no deceit, no
malice intermixed with plain dealing truth; justice then kept within her
proper bounds, undisturbed and unbiased by interest and favour, which
now impair, confound, and persecute, her so much; law was not then
centered in the arbitrary bosom of the judge, for, at that time, there
was neither cause nor contest. Damsels and decency, as I have already
laid, went about single, and without fear of being injured by insolence
or lust; and their ruin, when it happened, was the fruit of their own
will and pleasure. But, now-a-days, in this detestable age, no maid is
secure, though she was concealed and shut up in such another labyrinth
as was that of Crete; for, even there, the amorous pestilence, with the
zeal of mischievous importunity, would enter either by the help of
wings, or by gliding through some chink or other, and all her
barricadoed chastity would go to wreck. For the security of this virtue,
in process of time, when mischief grew to a greater head, the order of
knight-errantry was first instituted to defend damsels, protect widows,
and succour the needy and the fatherless. This order, brother goatherds,
I profess; and thank you for this kind entertainment and reception,
which I and my squire have received at your hands; for though, by the
law of nature, all mankind are obliged to favour and assist
knights-errant, during the whole course of their lives; yet, as you have
received and regaled me, before you knew yourselves to be under that
obligation, I think it my duty to return my most sincere acknowledgment
for your hospitality.’
The whole of this tedious harangue, which might very well have been
spared, was pronounced by our knight, because the acorns they presented
recalled to his memory the golden age: therefore he took it in his head
to make these useless reflections to the goatherds; who, without
answering one syllable, listened with suspence and astonishment. Sancho
was also silent, but kept his teeth employed upon the acorns, and paid
many a visit to the second wine-bag; which, that the contents might be
the cooler, was hung upon a cork-tree. Don Quixote was less tedious in
his discourse than at his meal, which being ended, one of the goatherds
said, ‘That your worship, knight-errant, may be convinced of our
readiness and good-will to give you all the entertainment in our power,
you shall have the pleasure and satisfaction of hearing a song from one
of our companions, who will soon be here. He is an understanding young
fellow, very much in love, who, moreover, can read and write, and play
upon the rebeck[51], that it will delight you to hear him.’ Scarce had
the goatherd pronounced these words, when their ears were saluted with a
sound of this instrument; and presently after appeared the musician, who
was a young fellow of about twenty, or twenty two years of age, and of a
very graceful appearance. His companions asked him if he had supped, and
he answering in the affirmative, one of them, who made the offer to the
knight, said to him, ‘If that be the case, Antonio, you will do us the
pleasure to sing a song, that this gentleman, our guest, may see there
are some, even among these woods and mountains, who understand musick.
We have already informed him of thy uncommon talents, and we desire thou
wouldst shew them, in order to justify what we have said in thy praise;
I therefore earnestly beseech thee to sit down and sing the ballad of
thy love, composed by thy uncle the curate, which is so much commended
in our village.’—‘With all my heart,’ replied the young man; who,
without farther entreaty, sat down upon the trunk of an ancient oak, and
tuning his instrument, began in a very graceful manner to sing and
accompany the following song.
I.
You love, Olalla, nay, adore me;
In spite of all your art I know it,
Although you never smile before me,
And neither tongue nor eyes avow it.
II.
For, sure to slight a lover’s passion
So try’d as that which lives this heart in,
Were but small proof of penetration;
And that you are no fool is certain.
III.
Sometimes, indeed, and ’tis amazing,
Tho’ prov’d by evidence of twenty,
You’ve plainly shewn your soul was brazen,
And eke your snowy bosom flinty.
IV.
Yet in the midst of maiden shyness,
Affected scorn and decent scolding,
Kind Hope appear’d with proffer’d spy-glass,
The border of her robe unfolding.
V.
Then balance in the scales of reason,
My love unshaken and untainted,
Unapt to change from truth to treason,
By frowns impair’d, by smiles augmented.
VI.
If love be courtesy refin’d,
And you be civil to profusion,
That you will to my hopes prove kind,
Is but a natural conclusion.
VII.
If gratitude that breast can soften,
Which bids to other arts defiance,
The services I’ve render’d often,
Must melt your soul to kind compliance.
VIII.
For, more than once, had you attended,
You might have seen me wear on Monday,
My best apparel scower’d and mended,
With which I wont to honour Sunday.
IX.
As love delights in finery,
And women oft are won by tightness,
I’ve still endeavour’d in your eye,
To shine the mirror of politeness.
X.
That I have danc’d the swains among,
To please your pride, what need I mention;
Or with the cock begun my song,
To wake my sleeping fair’s attention!
XI.
Or that, enamour’d of your beauty,
I’ve loudly sounded forth its praises;
A talk which, tho’ a lover’s duty,
The spite of other women raises!
XII.
For, once, Teresa of the hill,
Beneath all notice would have sunk ye,
‘You think Olalla angel still,’
Said she, ‘but others scorn the monkey.’
XIII.
‘Thanks to her beads of glittering glass,
‘And her false locks in ringlets curling,
‘And the false colour of her face,
‘Which Love himself might take for sterling.’
XIV.
She ly’d, I told her in her throat;
And when her kinsman kept a racket,
You know I made him change his note,
And soundly thresh’d the booby’s jacket.
XV.
Your lovely person, not your wealth,
At first engag’d my inclination;
Nor would I now possess by stealth,
The guilty joys of fornication.
XVI.
The church has silken ties in store,
Then yield thy neck to Hymen’s fetters;
Behold, I put my own before,
And trust the noose that binds our betters.
XVII.
Else, by each blessed saint I swear,
And Heav’n forbid I prove a liar!
Never to quit this desart drear,
Except in form of hooded friar[52].
Thus ended the goatherd’s ditty; and though Don Quixote desired him to
sing another, yet Sancho Panza would by no means give his consent, being
more inclined to take his natural rest than to hear ballads; and
therefore, he said to his master, ‘Your worship had better consider
where you are to lodge this night; for the labour that these honest men
undergo in the day, will not suffer them to pass the night in
singing.’—‘I understand thee, Sancho,’ replied the knight, ‘it plainly
appears that the visits thou hast made to the wine-bag, demand the
consolation of sleep, rather than that of musick.’—‘They agreed with us
all very well, blessed be God!’ replied Sancho. ‘I do not deny it,’ said
the knight; ‘and thou mayest bestow thyself in the best manner thou
canst; but it is more seemly for those of my profession to watch than to
sleep: it would not be amiss, however, Sancho, to dress my ear again;
for it gives me more pain than I could wish.’ Sancho did as he desired:
when one of the goatherds perceiving the wound, bade him give himself no
trouble about it, for he would apply a remedy that would heal it in a
trice: so saying, he took some leaves of rosemary, which grew in great
plenty round the hut, and having chewed and mixed them with a little
salt, applied the poultice to his ear; and binding it up carefully,
assured him, as it actually happened, that it would need no other
plaister.
Footnote 51:
A sort of small fiddle of one piece, with three strings, used by
shepherds.
Footnote 52:
The reader will perceive that I have endeavoured to adapt the
versification to the plainness and rusticity of the sentiment, which
are preserved through the whole of this ballad; though all the other
translators seem to have been bent upon setting the poetry at variance
with the pastoral simplicity of the thoughts. For example, who would
ever dream of a goatherd’s addressing his mistress in these terms?
‘With rapture on each charm I dwell,
‘And daily spread thy beauty’s fame;
‘And still my tongue thy praise shall tell,
‘Though envy swell, or malice blame.’
The original sentiments which this courtly stanza is designed to
translate, are literally these:
‘I do not mention the praises I have spoke of your beauty, which,
though true in fact, are the occasion of my being hated by some other
women.’
CHAP. IV.
WHAT WAS RELATED BY A GOATHERD, WHO CHANCED TO COME INTO THE HUT.
In the mean time, another of the lads, who brought them victuals from
the village, entering the hut, said, ‘Do you know what has happened in
our town, comrades?’ When one of them answered, ‘How should we!’ ‘Know,
then,’ continued he, ‘that the famous student Chrysostom died this
morning; and it is murmured about, that his death was occasioned by his
love for that devilish girl Marcella, daughter of William the rich. She
that roves about these plains in the habit of a shepherdess.’—‘For
Marcella, said you!’ cried one. ‘The same,’ answered the goatherd; ‘and
it is certain, that in his last will he ordered himself to be buried in
the field like a Moor (God bless us!) at the foot of the rock, hard by
the cork-tree spring; for, the report goes, and they say he said so
himself, as how the first time he saw her was in that place; and he has
also ordained many other such things as the clergy say must not be
accomplished; nor is it right they should be accomplished; for, truly,
they seem quite heathenish: to all which objections his dear friend,
Ambrosio the student, who also dressed himself like a shepherd, to keep
him company, replies, that he will perform every thing, without fail,
that Chrysostom has ordered; and the whole village is in an uproar about
it: but it is believed that every thing, at last, will be done according
to the desire of Ambrosio, and all the rest of the shepherds, his
friends; and that to-morrow he will be interred with great pomp in the
very spot I have mentioned. I am resolved, therefore, as it will be a
thing well worth seeing, to go thither without fail, even though I
thought I should not be able to return to the village that night.’—‘We
will do so too,’ replied the goatherds, ‘and cast lots to see which of
us must stay and take care of our flocks.’—‘You are in the right,
Pedro,’ said one; ‘but there will be no occasion to use that shift, for
I myself will stay and take care of the whole; and you must not impute
my tarrying to virtue, or the want of curiosity, but to the plaguy thorn
that ran into my foot the other day, and hinders me from walking.’—‘We
are obliged to thee, however,’ answered Pedro; whom Don Quixote desired
to tell him who that same dead shepherd and living shepherdess were.
To this question the goatherd replied, all that he knew of the matter
was, that the deceased was the son of a rich farmer, who lived in the
neighbourhood of a village in these mountains; that he had studied in
Salamanca many years, at the end of which he had returned to his family
with the character of a great scholar: in particular, they said he was
very knowing in the science of the stars, and what passed betwixt the
sun and moon, and the heavens; for he had punctually foretold the clipse
of them both! ‘The obscuration of those two great luminaries,’ said the
knight, ‘is called the eclipse, and not the clipse, friend.’ But Pedro,
without troubling his head with these trifles, proceeded, saying, ‘he
likewise foresaw when the year would be plentiful or staril.’—‘You mean,
sterile,’ said Don Quixote. ‘Sterile, or staril,’ replied Pedro, ‘comes
all to the same purpose; and I say, that his father and his friends,
taking his advice, became very rich: for they gave credit to his words,
and followed his counsel in all things. When he would say, this year you
must sow barley, and no wheat; here you must sow carabances, but no
barley; next year there will be a good harvest of oil; but for three
years to come there will not be a drop.’—‘That science,’ replied Don
Quixote, ‘is called astrology.’—‘I know not how it is called,’ replied
Pedro; ‘but this I know, that he knew all this, and much more. In short,
not many months after he came from Salamanca, he appeared all of a
sudden in shepherd-weeds, with his woolly jacket, and a flock of sheep,
having laid aside the long dress of a student. And he was accompanied by
a friend of his in the same habit, whose name was Ambrosio, and who had
been his fellow student at college. I forgot to tell you that Chrysostom
the defunct was such a great man at composing couplets, that he made
carols for Christmas eve, and plays for the Lord’s-day, which were
represented by the young men in our village; and every body said, that
they were tip-top. When the people of the village saw the two scholars
so suddenly cloathed like shepherds, they were surprized, and could not
guess their reason for such an odd change. About that time the father of
this Chrysostom dying, he inherited great riches, that were in moveables
and in lands, with no small number of sheep, more or less, and a great
deal of money: of all which this young man remained desolate lord and
master: and truly he deserved it all; for he was an excellent companion,
very charitable, a great friend to good folks, and had a most blessed
countenance. Afterwards it came to be known, that his reason for
changing his garb, was no other than with a view of strolling through
the woods and desarts after that same shepherdess Marcella, whose name
my friend mentioned just now, and with whom the poor defunct Chrysostom
was woundily in love: and I will now tell you, for it is necessary that
you should know who this wench is; for, mayhap, nay even without a
mayhap, you never heard of such a thing in all the days of your life,
though you be older than St. Paul[53].’—‘Say, Paul’s,’ replied Don
Quixote, offended at the goatherd’s perverting the words. ‘Saint Paul
was no chicken,’ replied Pedro; ‘and if your worship be resolved to
correct my words every moment, we shall not have done in a
twelvemonth.’—‘I ask your pardon friend,’ said the knight; ‘I only
mention this, because there is a wide difference between the person of
St. Paul, and a church that goes by his name: but, however, you made a
very sensible reply; for, to be sure, the saint lived long before the
church was built: therefore go on with your story, and I promise not to
interrupt you again.’
‘Well, then, my good master,’ said the goatherd, ‘there lived in our
village a farmer, still richer than Chrysostom’s father; his name was
William, and God gave him, over and above great wealth, a daughter, who
at her birth was the death of her mother, the most worthy dame in all
the country. Methinks I see her now with that face of her’s, which
seemed to have the sun on one side, and the moon on the other; she was
an excellent housewife, and a great friend to the poor, for which reason
I believe her soul is enjoying the presence of God in paradise. Her
husband died of grief for the loss of so good a wife, leaving his
daughter Marcella, young and rich, to the care of an uncle, who has got
a living in our village. The girl grew up with so much beauty, that she
put us in mind of her mother, who had a great share, and yet it was
thought it would be surpassed by the daughter’s. It happened
accordingly; for when she came to the age of fourteen or fifteen, nobody
could behold her without blessing God, for having made so beautiful a
creature; and every body almost grew desperately in love with her. Her
uncle kept her up with great care; but, for all that, the fame of her
exceeding beauty spread in such a manner, that both for her person and
her fortune, not only the richest people in our town, but likewise in
many leagues about, came to ask her in marriage of her uncle, with much
importunity and felicitation. But he, who, to give him his due, was a
good christian, although he wanted to dispose of her as soon as she came
to the age fit for matrimony, would not give her away without her own
consent; neither had he a view in deferring her marriage, to the gain
and advantage which he might enjoy in managing the girl’s fortune. And
truly I have heard this spoken in more companies than one, very much to
the praise of the honest priest. For I would have you know, Sir
traveller, that in these small towns people intermeddle and grumble
about every thing. And this you may take for certain, as I know it to be
so, that a clergyman must be excessively good indeed, if he can oblige
his flock to speak well of him, especially in country villages.’—‘You
are certainly in the right,’ said Don Quixote; ‘and pray go on, for your
story is very entertaining; and you, honest Pedro, relate it with a good
grace.’—‘May I never want God’s grace!’ said the shepherd; ‘for that is
the main chance; and you must know, moreover, that though the uncle
proposed to his niece, and described the good qualities of each in
particular who asked her in marriage, desiring her to give her hand to
some one or other, and chuse for herself; she never would give him any
other answer, but that she did not chuse to marry, for she was too young
to bear the burden of matrimony. On account of these excuses, which
seemed to have some reason in them, her uncle forbore to importune her,
and waited till she should have more years and discernment to make
choice of her own company; for he said, and to be sure it was well said,
that parents should never dispose of their children against their own
inclinations. But behold, when we least thought of it, the timorous
Marcella one day appeared in the habit of a shepherdess; and without
imparting her design to her uncle, or any body in the village, for fear
they might have dissuaded her from it, she took to the field with her
own flock, in company of the other damsels of the village. As she now
appeared in publick, and her beauty was exposed to the eyes of every
body, you cannot conceive what a number of rich youths, gentlemen and
farmers, immediately took the garb of Chrysostom, and went wooing her
through the fields. One of these suitors, as you have heard, was the
deceased, who, they say, left off loving to adore her; and you must not
think, that because Marcella took to this free and unconfined way of
living, she brought the least disparagement upon her chastity and good
name; on the contrary, such is the vigilance with which she guards her
honour, that of all those who serve and solicit her, not one has
boasted, nor indeed can boast with any truth, that she has given him the
smallest hope of accomplishing his desire; for though she neither flies,
or avoids the company and conversation of the shepherds, but treats them
in a courteous and friendly manner, whenever any one of them comes to
disclose his intention, let it be ever so just and holy, even marriage
itself, she throws him from her like a stone from a sling; and being of
this disposition, does more damage in this country, than if a pestilence
had seized it; for her affability and beauty allures all the hearts of
those that converse with her to serve and love her, but her coyness and
plain dealing drives them even to the borders of despair; therefore they
know not what to say, but upbraid her with cruelty and ingratitude, and
give her a great many such titles, as plainly shew the nature of her
disposition: and if your worship was but to stay here one day, you would
hear these hills and dales resound with the lamentations of her rejected
followers. Not far from this place there is a tuft of about a dozen of
tall beeches, upon every one of which you may read engraved the name of
Marcella, and over some a crown cut out in the bark, as if her lover
would have declared, that Marcella wears, and deserves to wear, the
crown of all earthly beauty. Here one shepherd sighs, there another
complains; in one place you may hear amorous ditties, in another the
dirges of despair; one lover sits musing through all the hours of the
night, at the foot of some tall ash or rugged rock, and there, without
having closed his weeping eyes, shrunk up as it were, and intranced in
his own reflections, he is found by the rising sun; a second, without
giving respite or truce to his sighs, exposed to the heat of the most
sultry summer’s sun, lies stretched upon the burning sand, breathing his
complaints to pitying Heaven, and over this and that, and these and
those, the free, the unconcerned, the fair Marcella triumphs. We who are
acquainted with her disposition, wait with impatience to see the end of
all this disdain, and long to know what happy man will tame such an
unsociable humour, and enjoy such exceeding beauty. As every thing that
I have recounted is true to a tittle, I have no reason to doubt the
truth of what our comrades said concerning the cause of Chrysostom’s
death; and therefore I advise you, Sir, not to fail being to-morrow at
his burial, which will be well worth seeing; for Chrysostom had a great
many friends, and the spot in which he ordered himself to be buried is
not more than half a league from hence.’
‘I will take care to be present,’ said the knight, ‘and thank you
heartily for the pleasure you have given me in relating such an
interesting story.’—‘Oh! as for that,’ cried the goatherd, ‘I do not
know one half of what has happened to the lovers of Marcella: but
to-morrow, perhaps, we may light upon some shepherd on the road, who is
better acquainted with them. In the mean time you will do well to go to
sleep under some cover, for the cold night air may not agree with the
hurt your jaws have received, though the remedy I have applied is such,
that you have nothing else to fear.’
Sancho Panza, who wished the goatherd’s loquacity at the devil,
earnestly intreated his master to go to sleep in Pedro’s hut. This
request the knight complied with, and spent the greatest part of the
night in thinking of his Lady Dulcinea, in imitation of Marcella’s
lovers; while Sancho Panza, taking up his lodging betwixt Rozinante and
his ass, slept soundly, not like a discarded lover, but like one who had
been battered and bruised the day before.
Footnote 53:
In the original Spanish, the goatherd, instead of saying as old as
Sarah, says, as old as Sarna, which in that language signifies the
itch; but as it is impossible to preserve these mistakes in the
translation, I have substituted another in its room, which I apprehend
is equally natural and expressive.
CHAP. V.
THE CONCLUSION OF THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS MARCELLA, AND OTHER
INCIDENTS.
Scarce had Aurora disclosed herself through the balconies of the east,
when five of the six goatherds arising, went to waken Don Quixote, and
told him, that if he continued in his resolution of going to see the
famous funeral of Chrysostom, they would keep him company. The knight,
who desired nothing better, arose, and commanded Sancho to saddle his
horse and pannel his ass immediately. This order was executed with great
dispatch, and they set out without loss of time. They had not travelled
more than a quarter of a league, when, upon crossing a path, they saw
coming towards them six shepherds, cloathed in jackets of black
sheep-skin, and crowned with garlands of cypress and bitter-bay, each
having a club of holly in his hand. Along with them came also two
gentlemen on horseback, very well equipped for travel, accompanied by
three young men on foot.
When they advanced they saluted one another, and understanding, upon
inquiry, that they were all bound to the place of interment, they joined
company, and travelled together. One of the horsemen said to his
companion, ‘Signior Vivaldo, we shall not have reason to grudge our
tarrying to see this famous funeral, which must certainly be very
extraordinary, by the strange account we have received from these
people, of the dead shepherd, and the murderous shepherdess.’—‘I am of
the same opinion,’ answered Vivaldo; ‘and would not only tarry one day,
but even four or five, on purpose to see it.’ Don Quixote asking what
they had heard of Marcella and Chrysostom, the traveller replied, that
early in the morning they had met with these shepherds, of whom
inquiring the cause of their being cloathed in such melancholy weeds,
they had been informed of the coyness and beauty of a certain
shepherdess called Marcella, and the hapless love of many who courted
her, together with the death of that same Chrysostom to whose funeral
they were going. In short, he recounted every circumstance of what Pedro
had told Don Quixote before.
This conversation being ended, another began by Vivaldo’s asking Don
Quixote why he travelled thus in armour in a peaceable country. To this
question the knight replied, ‘The exercise of my profession will not
permit or allow me to go in any other manner. Revels, feasting, and
repose, were invented by effeminate courtiers; but toil, anxiety, and
arms, are peculiar to those whom the world calls knights-errant, of
which order I, though unworthy, and the least, am one.’ He had no sooner
pronounced these words, than all present took him for a madman; but, in
order to confirm their opinion, and discover what kind of madness it
was, Vivaldo desired to know what he meant by knights-errant. ‘What!’
said Don Quixote, ‘have you never read the annals and history of
England, which treat of the famous exploits of Arthur, who, at present,
in our Castilian language, is called King Artus, and of whom there is an
ancient tradition, generally believed all over Great Britain, that he
did not die, but was, by the art of inchantment, metamorphosed into a
raven; and that the time will come when he shall return, and recover his
sceptre and throne; for which reason it cannot be proved, that from that
period to this, any Englishman has killed a raven. In the reign of that
excellent king was instituted that famous order of chivalry, called the
Knights of the Round Table; and those amours punctually happened, which
are recounted of Don Lancelot of the Lake, with Queen Ginebra, by the
help and mediation of that sage and venerable duenna Quitaniona, from
whence that delightful ballad, so much sung in Spain, took its rise:
‘For never, sure, was any knight
‘So serv’d by damsel, or by dame,
‘As Lancelot, that man of might,
‘When he at first from Britain came.’
‘With the rest of that most relishing and delicious account of his
amours and valiant exploits. From that time the order of knight-errantry
was extended, as it were, from hand to hand, and spread through divers
and sundry parts of the world, producing, among many other worthies
celebrated for their atchievements, the valiant Amadis de Gaul, with all
his sons and nephews, even to the fifth generation; the courageous
Fleximarte of Hicarnia, the never-enough to be commended Tirante the
White, and he whom, in this our age, we have as it were seen, heard, and
conversed with, the invincible and valorous knight Don Belianis of
Greece. This, gentlemen, is what I meant by knight-errant; and such as I
have described is the order of chivalry, which, as I have already told
you, I, though a sinner, have professed; and the very same which those
knights I mentioned professed, I profess also. On which account I am
found in these desarts and solitudes, in quest of adventures, fully
determined to lift my arm, and expose my person, to the greatest danger
that my destiny shall decree, in behalf of the needy and oppressed.’
By this declaration, the travellers were convinced that the knight had
lost his wits, and easily perceived the species of folly which had taken
possession of his brain, and which struck them with the same surprise
that always seized those who became acquainted with our knight. Vivaldo,
who was a person of discretion and a great deal of archness, in order to
travel agreeably the rest of the road which they had to go till they
should come to the place of interment, wanted to give him an opportunity
of proceeding in his extravagance, and in that view said to him: ‘Sir
knight-errant, methinks your worship professes one of the strictest
orders upon earth; nay, I will affirm, more strict than that of the
Carthusian friars.’
‘The order of the Carthusians,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘may be as strict,
but, that it is as beneficial to mankind, I am within a hair’s breadth
of doubting; for, to be plain with you, the soldier who executes his
captain’s command, is no less valuable than the captain who gave the
order. I mean, that the monks pray to God for their fellow-creatures in
peace and safety; but we soldiers and knights put in execution that for
which they pray, by the valour of our arms, and the edge of our swords;
living under no other cover than the cope of heaven; set up in a manner
as marks for the intolerable heat of the sun in summer, and the chilly
breath of frosty winter; we are therefore God’s ministers, and the arms
by which he executes his justice upon earth; and as the circumstances of
war, and what has the least affinity and concern with it, cannot be
accomplished without sweat, anxiety, and fatigue; it follows, that those
who profess it, are doubtless more subject to toil, than those who in
rest and security implore the favour of God for persons who can do
nothing for themselves; not that I would be thought to say or imagine,
the condition of a knight-errant is equal to that of a recluse monk; I
would only infer from what we suffer, that it is without doubt more
troublesome, more battered, more famished, more miserable, ragged, and
lousy; for the knights-errant of past times certainly underwent
numberless misfortunes in the course of their lives. And if some of them
came to be emperors by the valour of their arms, considering the blood
and sweat it cost them, in faith it was a dear purchase; and if those
who attained such a supreme station, had been without their sage
inchanters to assist them, they might have been defrauded by their
desires, and grievously baulked of their expectations.’
‘I am very much of your opinion,’ answered the traveller; ‘but there is
one thing among you knights-errant, that I cannot approve of, and that
is, when any great and dangerous adventure occurs, in which you run a
manifest risk of losing your lives, in the instant of an engagement, you
never think of recommending your souls to God, as every Christian ought
to do on such occasions; but, on the contrary, put up your petitions to
your mistresses, with as much fervour and devotion as if they were your
deities; a circumstance which, in my opinion, smells strong of
paganism.’—‘Sir,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘that practice must in no degree
be altered; and woe be to that knight-errant who should do otherwise;
for, according to the practice and custom of chivalry, every knight,
when he is upon the point of atchieving some great feat, must call up
the idea of his mistress, and turning his eyes upon her with all the
gentleness of love, implore, as it were, by his looks, her favour and
protection in the doubtful dilemma in which he is about to involve
himself: nay, even though nobody should hear him, he is obliged to
mutter between his teeth an ejaculation, by which he heartily and
confidently recommends himself to her good wishes: and of this practice
we have innumerable examples in history; but I would not have you think,
that we are to forbear recommending ourselves to God also; there will be
time and opportunity enough for that duty in the course of action.’
‘But, nevertheless,’ said the traveller, ‘I have still one scruple
remaining; which is, that I have often read of a dispute between two
knights, which proceeding to rage from one word to another, they have
turned about their steeds, to gain ground for a good career; and then,
without any more ceremony, returned to the encounter at full gallop,
recommending themselves to their mistresses by the way; and the common
issue of such an engagement is, that one of them is thrown down by his
horse’s crupper, stuck through and through with his adversary’s lance,
while the other, with difficulty, avoids a fall by laying hold of his
horse’s mane: now, I cannot comprehend how the dead man could have time
to recommend himself to God, in the course of so sudden an attack;
surely it would have been better for his soul, if, instead of the words
he uttered in his career, he had put up a petition to Heaven, according
to the duty and obligation of every Christian; especially, as I take it
for granted that every knight-errant has not a mistress; for all of them
cannot be in love.’—‘That’s impossible,’ answered Don Quixote. ‘I
affirm, that there never could be a knight-errant without a mistress;
for to be in love is as natural and peculiar to them, as the stars are
to the heavens. I am very certain that you never read an history that
gives an account of a knight-errant without an amour; for he that has
never been in love, would not be held as a legitimate member, but some
adulterate brood, who had got into the fortress of chivalry, not through
the gate, but over the walls, like a thief in the night.’
‘Yet, notwithstanding,’ said the traveller, ‘I have read that Don
Galaor, brother of the valiant Amadis de Gaul, never had any known
mistress to whom he could recommend himself; and he was not disregarded,
but looked upon as a very valiant and famous knight.’—‘Signior,’
answered our hero, Don Quixote, ‘one swallow makes not a summer;
besides, to my certain knowledge, that knight was privately very much in
love; indeed, he made love to every handsome woman who came in his way;
for that was his natural disposition, which he by no means could resist:
in short, it is very well attested, that he had one mistress, whom he
enthroned as sovereign of his heart, and to whom he recommended himself
with great caution and privacy, because he piqued himself upon being a
secret knight.’
‘Since, then, it is essential to every knight to be in love, we may
conclude that your worship, being of that profession, is no stranger to
that passion: and if you do not value yourself upon being as secret a
knight as Don Galaor, I earnestly entreat you, in behalf of myself, and
the rest of the company, to tell us the name, country, station, and
qualities of your mistress; who must think herself extremely happy in
reflecting, that all the world knows how much she is beloved and adored
by so valiant a knight as your worship appears to be.’
Here Don Quixote uttered a grievous sigh, saying, ‘I am not positively
certain, whether or not that beauteous enemy of mine takes pleasure in
the world’s knowing I am her slave; this only I can say, in answer to
the question you asked with so much civility, that her name is Dulcinea;
her native country, a certain part of La Mancha called Toboso; her
station must at least be that of a princess, since she is queen and lady
of my soul; her beauty supernatural, in that it justifies all those
impossible and chimerical attributes of excellence, which the poets
bestow upon their nymphs; her hair is of gold, her forehead the Elysian
Fields, her eye-brows heavenly arches, her eyes themselves suns, her
cheeks roses, her lips of coral, her teeth of pearl, her neck alabaster,
her breast marble, her hands ivory, her skin whiter than snow; and those
parts which decency conceals from human view are such, according my
belief and apprehension, as discretion ought to enhance above all
comparison.’
‘I wish we knew her lineage, race, and family,’ replied Vivaldo. To this
hint the knight answered, ‘She is not descended of the ancient Caii,
Curtii, and Scipios of Rome, nor of the modern Colonas and Orsini, nor
of the Moncades and Requesenes of Catalonia, much less of the Rebellas
and Villanovas of Valencia; or the Palafaxes, Newcas, Rocabertis,
Corellas, Lunas, Alagones, Urreas, Fozes and Gurreas of Arragon; or the
Cerdas, Manriquez, Mendozas and Gusmans of Castile; or the Alencastros,
Pallas and Menesis of Portugal: but she sprung from the family of Tobosa
de La Mancha: a lineage which, though modern, may give a noble rise to
the most illustrious families of future ages; and let no man contradict
what I say, except upon the conditions expressed in that inscription
placed by Cerbino under the trophy of Orlando’s arms!
‘“That knight alone these arms shall move,
”Who dares Orlando’s prowess prove[54].”
‘Although I myself am descended from the Cachopines of Loredo[55],’ said
the traveller, ‘I won’t presume to compare with that of Toboso de La
Mancha; though, to be plain with you, I never before heard of any such
generation.’—‘How, not heard!’ replied Don Quixote. The rest of the
company jogged on, listening with great attention to this discourse, and
all of them, even the goatherds, by this time were convinced, that our
knight’s judgment was grievously impaired. Sancho alone believed that
every thing his master said was true, because he knew his family, and
had been acquainted with himself from his cradle. The only doubt that he
entertained was of this same beautiful Dulcinea del Toboso; for never
had such a name or such a princess come within the sphere of his
observation, although he lived in the neighbourhood of that place.
While they travelled along, conversing in this manner, they perceived
about twenty shepherds descend through a cleft made by two high
mountains. They were all clad in jackets of black sheep-skin, and each
of them crowned with a garland, which was composed, as we afterwards
learned, partly of cypress, and partly of yew; six of the foremost
carried a bier, upon which they had strewed a variety of branches and
flowers. And this was no sooner perceived by one of the goatherds, than
he said, ‘These are the people who carry the corpse of Chrysostom, and
the foot of that mountain is the place where he ordered himself to be
interred.’
Upon this information they made haste, and came up just at the time that
the bearers having laid down the body, began to dig the grave with
pick-axes on one side of a flinty rock. They received our travellers
with great courtesy; and Don Quixote, with his company, went towards the
bier to look at the dead body, which was covered with flowers, clad in
shepherds weeds, and seemingly thirty years old. Notwithstanding he was
dead, they could plainly perceive that he had been a man of an engaging
aspect, and genteel stature; and could not help wondering at the sight
of a great many papers, both sealed and loose, that lay round him in the
coffin.
While the new-comers were observing this phænomenon, and the shepherds
busied in digging a grave, a wonderful and universal silence prevailed,
till such time as one of the bearers said to another, ‘Consider,
Ambrosio, if this be the very spot which Chrysostom mentioned, that his
last will may be punctually fulfilled.’—‘This,’ answered Ambrosio, ‘is
the very place in which my unhappy friend has often recounted to me the
story of his misfortunes. Here it was he first beheld that mortal enemy
of the human race; here also did he first declare his amorous and
honourable intention; and here, at last, did Marcella signify her
disgust and disdain, which put an end to the tragedy of his wretched
life; and in this place, as a monument of his mishap, did he desire to
be deposited in the bowels of eternal oblivion.’
Then addressing himself to Don Quixote, and the travellers, he thus
proceeded: ‘This corpse, gentlemen, which you behold with compassionate
eyes, was the habitation of a soul which possessed an infinite share of
the riches of Heaven: this is the body of Chrysostom, who was a man of
unparalleled genius, the pink of courtesy and kindness; in friendship a
very phœnix, liberal without bounds, grave without arrogance, gay
without meanness, and in short second to none in every thing that was
good, and without second in all that was unfortunate. He loved, and was
abhorred; he adored and was disdained; he implored a savage; he
importuned a statue; he hunted the wind; cried aloud to the desart; he
was a slave to the most ungrateful of women; and the fruit of his
servitude was death, which overtook him in the middle of his career; in
short, he perished by the cruelty of a shepherdess, whom he has
eternized in the memory of all the people in this country; as these
papers which you gaze at would shew, if he had not ordered me to commit
them to the flames as soon as his body shall be deposited in the earth.’
‘You will use them, then, with more cruelty and rigour,’ said Vivaldo,
‘than that of the author himself; seeing it is neither just nor
convenient to fulfil the will of any man, provided it be unreasonable.
Augustus Cæsar would have been in the wrong, had he consented to the
execution of what the divine Mantuan ordered on his death-bed.
Wherefore, Signior Ambrosio, while you commit the body of your friend to
the earth, you ought not likewise to consign his writings to oblivion;
nor perform indiscreetly what he in his affliction ordained; on the
contrary, by publishing these papers, you ought to immortalize the
cruelty of Marcella, that it may serve as an example in time to come,
and warn young men to shun and avoid such dangerous precipices; for I,
and the rest of this company, already know the history of that enamoured
and unhappy friend, the nature of your friendship, the occasion of his
death, together with the orders that he left upon his death-bed: from
which lamentable story, it is easy to conclude how excessive must have
been the cruelty of Marcella, the love of Chrysostom, the faith of your
friendship, and the check which those receive, who precipitately run
through the path exhibited to them by idle and mischievous love. Last
night, we understood the death of Chrysostom, who, we are informed, was
to be buried in this place; and therefore, out of curiosity and concern,
have turned out of our way, resolving to come and see with our eyes,
what had affected us so much in the hearing; and in return for that
concern, and the desire we felt in remedying it, if it had been in our
power, we entreat thee, O discreet Ambrosio! at least, for my own part,
I beg of thee, not to burn these papers, but allow me to preserve some
of them.’
Accordingly, without staying for an answer, he reached out his hand, and
took some of those that were nearest him; which Ambrosio perceiving,
said, ‘Out of civility, Signior, I will consent to your keeping what you
have taken up; but to think that I will fail to burn the rest, is a vain
supposition.’ Vivaldo being desirous of seeing the contents, immediately
opened one, intitled, A Song of Despair; which Ambrosio hearing, said,
‘That is the last poem my unhappy friend composed; and that you may see,
Signior, to what a pass his misfortunes had reduced him, read it aloud,
and you’ll have time enough to finish it before the grave be
made!’—‘That I will do with all my heart,’ said Vivaldo; and every body
present being seized with the same desire, they stood around him in a
circle, and he read what follows, with an audible voice.
A SONG OF DESPAIR.
I.
Since then, thy pleasure, cruel maid!
Is, that thy rigour and disdain
Should be from clime to clime convey’d,
All hell shall aid me to complain!
The torments of my heart to tell,
And thy achievements to record,
My voice shall raise a dreadful yell,
My bowels burst at every word:
Then listen to the baleful sound
That issues from my throbbing breast,
Thy pride, perhaps, it may confound,
And yield my madd’ning soul some rest.
II.
Let the snake’s hiss and wolf’s dire howl,
The bull’s harsh note, the lion’s roar,
The boding crow and screeching owl,
The tempest rattling on the shore,
The monster’s scream, the turtle’s moan,
The shrieks of the infernal crew,
Be mingled with my dying groan,
A concert terrible and new!
The hearer’s senses to appal,
And Reason from her throne depose;
Such melody will suit the gall
That from my burning liver flows!
III.
Old Tagus with his yellow hair,
And Betis with her olive wreath,
Shall never echo such despair,
Or listen to such notes of death,
As here I’ll utter and repeat,
From hill to dale, from rock to cave,
In wilds untrod by human feet,
In dungeons dreary as the grave.
The beasts of prey that scour the plain,
Shall thy more savage nature know,
The spacious earth resound my strain;
Such is the privilege of woe!
IV.
Disdain is death, and doubt o’erturns
The patience of the firmest mind;
But jealousy still fiercer burns,
Like all the flames of hell combin’d!
The horrors of that cursed fiend,
In absence to distraction rage,
And all the succour hope can lend,
The direful pangs will not assuage.
Such agonies will surely kill;
Yet spite of absence, doubts and scorn,
I live a miracle, and still
Those deadly flames within me burn!
V.
Hope’s shadow ne’er refresh’d my view,
Despair attends with wakeful strife;
The first let happier swains pursue,
The last my consort is for life.
Can hope and fear at once prevail,
When fear on certainty is fed?
To shut mine eyes will nought avail,
When thunder bursts around my head,
When cold Disdain in native dye
Appears, and Falshood’s cunning lore
Perverts the tale of Truth, shall I
Against Despondence shut the door?
VI.
O jealousy! love’s tyrant lord,
And thou, soul-chilling, dire disdain!
Lend me the dagger and the cord,
To stab remembrance, strangle pain.
I die bereft of hope in death,
Yet still those are the freest souls,
(I’ll vouch it with my latest breath)
Whom love’s old tyranny controuls.
My fatal enemy is fair,
In body and in mind, I’ll say,
And I have earn’d the woes I bear:
By rigour love maintains the sway.
VII.
With this opinion let me fall
A prey to unrelenting scorn;
No fun’ral pomp shall grace my pall,
No laurel my pale corpse adorn.
O thou! whose cruelty and hate
The tortures of my breast proclaim,
Behold how willingly to fate
I offer this devoted frame.
If thou, when I am past all pain,
Should’st think my fall deserves a tear,
Let not one single drop distain
Those eyes so killing and so clear.
VIII.
No! rather let thy mirth display
The joys that in thy bosom flow;
Ah! need I bid that heart be gay
Which always triumph’d in my woe!
Come then, for ever barr’d of bliss,
Ye, who with ceaseless torment dwell,
And agonizing, howl and hiss
In the profoundest shades of hell:
Come, Tantalus, with raging thirst,
Bring, Sysiphus, thy rolling stone,
Come, Titius, with thy vulture curst,
Nor leave Ixion rack’d alone.
IX.
The toiling sisters too shall join,
And my sad, solemn dirge repeat,
When to the grave my friends consign
These limbs deny’d a winding-sheet;
Fierce Cerberus shall clank his chain,
In chorus with chimæras dire:
What other pomp, what other strain,
Should he who dies of love require?
Be hush’d, my song, complain no more
Of her whose pleasure gave thee birth;
But let the sorrows I deplore
Sleep with me in the silent earth.
This ditty of Chrysostom was approved by all the hearers; but he who
read it observed, that it did not seem to agree with the report he had
heard of Marcella’s virtue and circumspection; inasmuch as the author
complained of jealousy, absence, and suspicion, which tended to the
prejudice of her morals and reputation. To this objection, Ambrosio, as
one that was acquainted with the most secret sentiments of his friend,
answered, ‘Signior, for your satisfaction in this point, it is necessary
you should know, that the forlorn shepherd composed this song in the
absence of Marcella, from whose presence he had gone into voluntary
exile, in order to try if he could reap the usual fruits of absence, and
forget the cause of his despair; and as one in that situation is apt to
be fretted by every circumstance, and invaded by every apprehension,
poor Chrysostom was harassed by groundless jealousy and imaginary fears,
which tormented him as much as if they had been real; for which reason,
this circumstance ought not to invalidate the fame of Marcella’s virtue,
against which, exclusive of her cruelty, arrogance, and disdain, envy
itself hath not been able to lay the least imputation.’
‘That may be very true,’ replied Vivaldo; who, being about to read
another of the papers he had saved from the flames, was diverted from
his purpose by a wonderful vision, for such it seemed, that all of a
sudden presented itself to their eyes. This was no other than the
shepherdess Marcella, who appeared upon the top of the rock, just above
the grave they were digging, so beautiful that she surpassed all report.
Those who had never seen her before, gazed with silent admiration; nor
were the rest, who had been accustomed to see her, less astonished at
her appearance. But no sooner did Ambrosio perceive her, than with
indignation in his looks, he cried—
‘Comest thou hither, fierce basilisk of these mountains! to see if the
wounds of this unhappy youth whom thy cruelty hath slain, will bleed at
thy approach? or art thou come to rejoice in the exploits of thy
barbarity, and from the top of that mountain, behold, like another Nero,
the flames which thy impiety hath kindled? or inhumanly to trample upon
this unfortunate corpse, as the unnatural daughter insulted the dead
body of her father Tarquin? Tell us at once the cause of thy approach,
and deign to signify thy pleasure, that I who know how devoutly
Chrysostom obeyed thee, when alive, may, now that he is dead, dispose
his friends to yield the same obedience.’
‘I come not,’ answered Marcella, for any of the purposes you have
mentioned, Ambrosio; but rather personally to demonstrate how
unreasonably people blame me for their own affliction, as well as for
the death and sufferings of Chrysostom. I beg, therefore, that all
present will give me the hearing, as it will be unnecessary to spend
much time, or waste many words, to convince those that are unprejudiced
of the truth. Heaven, you say, hath given me beauty, nay, such a share
of it, as compels you to love me, in spite of your resolutions to the
contrary; from whence you draw this inference, and insist upon it, that
it is my duty to return your passion. By the help of that small capacity
which nature has bestowed upon me, I know that which is beautiful is
lovely; but I can by no means conceive, why the object which is beloved
for being beautiful, is bound to be enamoured of its admirer; more
especially, as it may happen that this same admirer is an object of
disgust and abhorrence; in which case would it be reasonable in him to
say, “I love thee because thou art beautiful, and thou must favour my
passion, although I am deformed?” But granting the beauty equal on both
sides, it does not follow that the desires ought to be mutual; for all
sorts of beauty do not equally affect the spectator; some, for example,
delighting the eye only, without captivating the heart. And well it is
for mankind, that things are thus disposed; otherwise there would be a
strange perplexity and confusion of desires, without power of
distinguishing and chusing particular objects; for beauty being
infinitely diversified, the inclination would be infinitely divided: and
I have heard, that true love must be undivided and unconstrained; if
this be the case, as I believe it is, why should I constrain my
inclination, when I am under no other obligation so to do, but your
saying that you are in love with me? Otherwise tell me, if Heaven that
made me handsome, had created me a monster of deformity, should I have
had cause to complain of you for not loving me? Besides, you are to
consider, that I did not chuse the beauty I possess; such as it is, God
was pleased of his own free will and favour to bestow it upon me,
without any solicitation on my part. Therefore, as the viper deserves no
blame for its sting, although it be mortal, because it is the gift of
nature; neither ought I to be reviled for being beautiful: for beauty in
a virtuous woman, is like a distant flame and a sharp sword afar off,
which prove fatal to none but those who approach too near them. Honour
and virtue are the ornaments of the soul; without which the body, though
never so handsome, ought to seem ugly. If chastity then be one of the
virtues which chiefly adorns and beautifies both body and soul, why
should she that is beloved, lose that jewel for which she is chiefly
beloved, merely to satisfy the appetite of one who, for his own selfish
enjoyment, employs his whole care and industry to destroy it? I was born
free; and to enjoy that freedom, have I chosen the solitude of these
fields. The trees on these mountains are my companions; and I have no
other mirror than the limpid streams of these crystal brooks. With the
trees and the streams I share my contemplation and my beauty; I am a
distant flame, and a sword afar off; those whom my eyes have captivated,
my tongue has undeceived; and if hope be the food of desire, as I gave
none to Chrysostom, or to any other person, so neither can his death,
nor that of any other of my admirers, be justly imputed to my cruelty,
but rather, to their own obstinate despair. To those who observe that
his intentions were honourable, and that therefore I was bound to comply
with them, I answer, when he declared the honesty of his designs in that
very spot where now his grave is digging, I told him, my purpose was to
live in perpetual solitude, and let the earth alone enjoy the fruits of
my retirement, and the spoils of my beauty: wherefore, if he,
notwithstanding this my explanation, persevered without hope, and sailed
against the wind; it is no wonder that he was overwhelmed in the gulph
of his rashness. Had I cajoled him, I should have been perfidious; had I
gratified his inclination, I should have acted contrary to my own reason
and resolution. But because he persisted after I had explained myself,
and despaired before he had cause to think I abhorred him, I leave you
to judge whether or not it be reasonable to lay his misfortune at my
door. Let him whom I have deceived complain, and let him despair to whom
I have broke my promise; if I call upon any man, he may depend upon me;
if I admit of his addresses, he may rejoice in his success: but why
should I be stiled a barbarous homicide by him whom I never soothed,
deceived, called, or admitted? Hitherto Heaven has not thought fit that
I should love by destiny; and the world must excuse me from loving by
election. Let this general declaration serve as an answer to all those
who solicit me in particular, and henceforward give them to understand,
that whosoever dies for me, perishes not by jealousy or disdain, for she
who never gave her love, can never give just cause of jealousy; neither
ought her plain-dealing to be interpreted into disdain. Let him who
terms me a fierce basilisk, shun me as an evil being; if any man thinks
me ungrateful, let him refuse his services when I ask them. If I have
disowned any one, let him renounce me in his turn; and let him who has
found me cruel, abandon me in my distress; this fierce basilisk, this
ungrateful, cruel, supercilious wretch, will neither seek, serve, own,
nor follow you, in any shape whatever. If Chrysostom perished by the
impatience of his own extravagant desire, why should my innocent reserve
be inveighed against? If I have preserved my virginity in these desarts,
why should he that loves me, wish to see me lose it among mankind! I
have riches of my own, as you all know, and covet no man’s wealth. I am
free, and will not be subjected; I neither love nor hate any man; I do
not cajole this one, nor teaze that, nor do I joke with one, or
discourse with another; but amuse myself with the care of my goats, and
the innocent conversation of the shepherdesses belonging to the
neighbouring villages. My desires are bounded by these mountains; or if
my meditation surpasses these bounds, it is only to contemplate the
beauty of the heavens, those steps by which the soul ascends to its
original mansion.’ So saying, without waiting for any reply, she turned
her back, and vanished into a thicket on a neighbouring mountain,
leaving all that were present equally surprized with her beauty and
discretion.
Some of the by-standers being wounded by the powerful shafts that were
darted from her fair eyes, manifested an inclination to follow her,
without availing themselves of the ingenuous declaration they had heard;
which being perceived by Don Quixote, who thought this a proper occasion
for exercising his chivalry in defence of distressed damsels; he laid
his hand upon the hilt of his sword, and in a lofty and audible voice,
pronounced, ‘Let no person, of whatsoever rank or degree, presume to
follow the beautiful Marcella, on pain of incurring my most furious
indignation. She has demonstrated, by clear and undeniable arguments,
how little, if at all, she is to be blamed for the death of Chrysostom;
and how averse she is to comply with the desires of any of her admirers;
for which reason, instead of being pursued and persecuted, she ought to
be honoured and esteemed by all virtuous men, as the only person in the
universe who lives in such a chaste and laudable intention.’ Whether it
was owing to these menaces of the knight, or to the advice of Ambrose,
who desired them to perform the last office to their deceased friend,
not one of the shepherds attempted to stir from the spot, until the
grave being finished, and the papers burnt, the body of poor Chrysostom
was interred, not without abundance of tears shed by his surviving
companions. The grave was secured by a large fragment of the rock which
they rolled upon it, till such time as a tomb-stone could be made, under
the direction of Ambrose, who was resolved to have the following epitaph
engraved upon it.
The body of a wretched swain,
Kill’d by a cruel maid’s disdain,
In this cold bed neglected lies.
He liv’d, fond hapless youth! to prove,
Th’ inhuman tyranny of love,
Exerted in Marcella’s eyes.
Having strewed the place with a profusion of flowers and branches, every
body present condoled, and took leave of the afflicted executor; and Don
Quixote bade farewel to his kind landlords, as well as to the
travellers, who would have persuaded him to accompany them to Seville,
which they said was a city so well adapted for adventures, that they
occurred in every street, nay, at the corner of every blind alley. Our
hero thanked them most courteously for their advice, and the inclination
they expressed to give him pleasure; but assured them, he neither could
nor would set out for Seville, until he should have cleared these
desarts of the robbers and banditti, of whom they were reported to be
full.
The travellers seeing him thus laudably determined, importuned him no
farther, but, taking leave of him anew, pursued their journey, during
which they did not fail to discuss the story of Marcella and Chrysostom,
as well as the madness of Don Quixote; who, on his part, resolved to go
in quest of the shepherdess, and offer her all the service in his power:
but this scheme did not turn out according to his expectation, as will
be related in the course of this faithful history, the second book of
which is here concluded.
END OF THE SECOND BOOK.
Footnote 54:
When a knight challenged the whole world, he wore an emprize,
consisting of a gold chain, or some other badge of love and chivalry;
and sometimes this emprize was fixed in a publick place, to attract
the attention of strangers. When any person accepted the challenge for
a trial of chivalry, called the combat of courtesy, he touched this
emprize; but, if he tore it away, it was considered as a resolution to
fight the owner to extremity or outrance. The combat of courtesy is
still practised by our prize-fighters and boxers, who shake hands
before the engagement, in token of love.
But no defiance of this kind could be either published or accepted
without the permission of the prince at whose court the combatants
chanced to be. Accordingly, we are told by Oliver de La Marche, that
the lord of Ternant having published a defiance at the court of
Burgundy, in the year 1445, Galiot asked the duke’s permission to
touch the challenger’s emprize; which being granted, he advanced and
touched it, saying to the bearer, while he bowed very low, ‘Noble
knight, I touch your emprize; and, with God’s permission, will do my
utmost to fulfil your desire, either on horseback or on foot.’ The
lord of Ternant humbly thanked him for his condescension, said he was
extremely welcome, and promised to send him that same day a cartel,
mentioning the arms they should use.
Footnote 55:
Cachopines is the name given to the Europeans by the Indians of
Mexico.
BOOK III.
CHAP. I.
WHEREIN IS RECOUNTED THE UNLUCKY ADVENTURE WHICH HAPPENED TO DON
QUIXOTE, IN MEETING WITH CERTAIN UNMERCIFUL YANGUESIANS.
The sage Cid Hamet Benengeli relates, that Don Quixote having bid adieu
to his entertainers, and to all who were present at the funeral of the
shepherd Chrysostom, entered, with his squire, the same wood to which
Marcella had retreated; where, when they had wandered about upwards of
two hours, without seeing her, they chanced to find themselves in a
delightful spot, overgrown with verdant grass, and watered by a cool and
pleasant stream; which was so inviting as to induce them to stay in it
during the heat of the day, that now began to be very sultry; the knight
and squire, therefore, dismounting, and leaving the ass and Rozinante at
pleasure to regale themselves with the rich pasture, emptied their
knapsack; and, without any ceremony, attacked the contents, which they
eat together like good friends, laying aside all vain distinction of
master and man.
Sancho had been at no pains to tether Rozinante; secure, as he thought,
in knowing him to be so meek and peaceable, that all the mares in the
meadows of Cordova could not provoke his concupiscence. Chance, however,
or the devil, who is not often found napping, ordered it so, as that a
drove of Gallician fillies belonging to certain Yanguesian carriers,
happened, at that very instant, to be feeding in the same valley: for,
it being the custom of these people to halt and refresh themselves and
their beasts in places where there is plenty of water and grass, they
could not have lighted on a more convenient spot than that where Don
Quixote chanced to be. It was then that Rozinante, seized with an
inclination to solace himself with some of those skittish females, no
sooner had them in the wind, than deviating from his natural disposition
and accustomed deliberation, without asking leave of his lord and
master, he went off at a small trot, to communicate his occasions to the
objects of his desire. But they, it seems, more fond of their pasture
than of his addresses, received him so uncivilly with their hoofs and
teeth, that, in a twinkling, his girth was broke, his saddle kicked off,
and he himself remained in cuerpo. But what he chiefly suffered was from
the carriers, who, seeing violence offered to their mares, ran to their
assistance with long staves, which they exercised upon him so
unmercifully, that he fell prostrate to the ground, almost battered to
death.
The knight and Sancho seeing their steed thus bastinadoed, made all the
haste they could to his rescue; the former addressing the latter in this
manner: ‘I perceive, friend Sancho, that these are no knights, but
fellows of low degree and infamous descent: this particular I mention,
because thou mayest now assist me in taking just vengeance upon them,
for the injury they have done to Rozinante before my face.’—‘What a
devil of vengeance can we pretend to take,’ answered the squire, ‘when
they are more than twenty, and we but two? Nay, I believe, if it was put
to the trial, no better than one and a half.’—‘I myself am worth an
hundred of such vagabonds!’ cried Don Quixote: and without uttering
another syllable, he unsheathed his sword, and assaulted the
Yanguesians, being seconded by Sancho, who suffered himself to be rouzed
and encouraged by the example of his master; and, indeed, the knight
lent the first he met with such a hearty stroke, as laid open a leathern
jacket he wore, together with a large portion of his shoulder.
The carriers seeing themselves thus maltreated by two men only, took the
benefit of their numbers, and ran to sustain one another with their
staves; then surrounding the two assailants, began to drum upon their
carcases with infinite eagerness and dexterity. True it is, at the
second application, Sancho fell to the earth; a misfortune that also
happened to his master; who, in spite of all his own address, together
with the assistance of his good friend, soon found himself stretched at
the feet of Rozinante, who had not as yet been able to rise: from whence
we may learn what furious execution is often done by packstaves, when
managed by the hands of such enraged clowns.
The carriers perceiving the havock they had made, thought proper to load
again with all dispatch, and pursue their journey, leaving our
adventurers in miserable plight and doleful dilemma. The first that
recovered the use of his senses was Sancho Panza; who, finding himself
laid along by the side of his master, pronounced, with a weak and
lamentable voice, ‘Sir Don Quixote! ah, Sir Don Quixote!’—‘What wouldst
thou have, brother Sancho?’ replied the knight, in the same feeble and
complaining tone. ‘I wish,’ resumed Sancho, ‘your worship would, if it
be possible, comfort me with a couple of gulps of that same balsam made
by fairy Blas, if you have got any of it about you: perhaps it may be
serviceable in bruises and broken bones, as well as in wounds and
running sores.’—‘Would to God I had it here, unfortunate wight that I
am!’ cried Don Quixote; ‘but I swear to thee, Sancho, on the faith of a
knight-errant, that ere two days pass, if some mischievous accident does
not intervene, I will have it in my possession, if my hands do not very
much misgive me.’—‘In how many days does your worship think we shall be
able to move our feet?’ said the squire. ‘With regard to myself,’
answered the battered knight, ‘I really cannot fix any number of days;
but this I know, that I alone am to blame for what has happened, in
condescending to use my sword against antagonists who were not dubbed
and knighted like myself. I therefore firmly believe, that as a
punishment for having transgressed the laws of chivalry, the God of
battles hath permitted me to receive this disgraceful chastisement; for
which reason, brother Sancho, it is proper that thou shouldst be
apprized of what I am going to say, as it may be of great importance to
the safety of us both: whenever thou shalt see us insulted or aggrieved
for the future, by such rascally scum, thou shalt not wait for my
drawing upon them; for I will in no shape meddle with such unworthy
foes; but lay thy hand upon thy sword, and with thy own arm chastise
them to thy heart’s content; but should any knights make up to their
defence and assistance, then shall I know how to protect thee, and
assault them with all my might; and thou art already convinced, by a
thousand amazing proofs, how far extends the valour of this my
invincible arm.’ So arrogant was the poor knight become by his victory
over the valiant Biscayan.
This wholesome advice, however, was not so much relished by Sancho, but
that he replied, ‘Sir, I am a quiet, meek, peaceable man, and can digest
any injury, be it never so hard; for I have a wife and small children to
maintain and bring up: wherefore, let me also apprize, (since I cannot
lay my commands upon) your worship, that I will in no shape whatever use
my sword against either knight or knave; and that henceforward, in the
fight of God, I forgive all injuries, past, present, or to come, which I
have already received, at this present time suffer, or may hereafter
undergo, from any person whatsoever, high or low, rich or poor, gentle
or simple, without exception to rank or circumstance.’
His master hearing this declaration, answered, ‘I with the grievous pain
I feel in this rib would abate a little, so as that I could speak for a
few moments with ease, and convince thee of thy damnable error, Panza.
Hark ye me, sinner! suppose the gale of fortune, which hath been
hitherto so adverse, should change in our favour; and, swelling the
sails of our desire, conduct us safely, without the least impediment,
into the haven of some one of those islands which I have promised thee:
what would become of thy wretched affairs, if after I had won and given
it into thy possession, thou shouldst frustrate my intention, by thy
lack of knighthood, ambition, valour and courage, to revenge thy wrongs,
or defend thy government? for I would have thee to know, that in all
new-conquered kingdoms or provinces, the friends of their natural
masters are never so quiet or reconciled to their new sovereign, as to
dispel all fear of some fresh insurrection, to alter the government
again, and, as the saying is, try fortune once more: it is therefore
requisite that the new possessor should have understanding to govern,
resolution to punish, and valour to defend himself, in case of any such
accident.’
‘In this last accident which hath befallen us,’ said Sancho, ‘I wish the
Lord had pleased to give me that same understanding and valour your
worship mentions: but I protest, upon the word of a poor sinner, that I
am at present more fit for a searcloth than such conversation. See if
your worship can make shift to rise, and then we will give some
assistance to Rozinante, though it be more than he deserves; for he was
the principal cause of all this plaguy-rib-roasting: never could I
believe such a thing of Rozinante, who I always thought was as chaste
and sober a person as myself; but this verifies the common remark, that
you must keep company a long time with a man before you know him
thoroughly; and that there is nothing certain in this life. Who could
have thought that those huge back-strokes your worship dealt so heartily
to the unlucky traveller, would be followed, as it were post-haste, by
such a mighty tempest of blows, as just now discharged itself upon our
shoulders!’—‘Thy carcase, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘was formed for
enduring such rough weather; but my limbs were tenderly nursed in soft
wool and fine linen; and therefore must feel more sensibly the pain of
this discomfiture; and if I did not believe (believe, said I) if I were
not certain, that all these inconveniencies are inseparably annexed to
the exercise of arms, I would lie still where I am, and die with pure
vexation.’
To this protestation the squire replied, ‘Seeing these misfortunes are
the natural crops of chivalry, pray good your worship, do they happen at
all times of the year, or only fall at an appointed season; because, in
my simple conjecture, two such harvests will leave us altogether
incapable of reaping a third, if God, of his infinite mercy, will not be
pleased to send us extraordinary succour.’—‘Thou must know, friend
Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘that the life of a knight-errant is
subject to a thousand dangers and mishaps; but then he enjoys the
self-same chance of being a king or emperor, as experience demonstrates
to have been the case of divers and sundry knights, the history of whose
lives I am perfectly well acquainted with; and I could now relate, if
this pain would give me leave, the fortunes of some, who, by their
valour alone, have risen to that supreme degree: and those very persons,
both before and after their success, have undergone various calamities
and affliction; witness the valiant Amadis de Gaul, who saw himself in
the power of his mortal enemy Arcalaus the inchanter, of whom it is
positively affirmed, that while the knight was his prisoner, he caused
him to be bound to a pillar in his court-yard, and gave him two hundred
stripes with the reins of his horse’s bridle. There is likewise a
certain secret author of no small credit, who relates that the knight of
the sun was caught in a trap in a certain castle, and falling found
himself tied hand and foot in a deep dungeon below ground, where was
administered unto him one of those things they call clysters, composed
of sand and water, which had well nigh cost him his life; and if he had
not been succoured in that perilous conjuncture by a sage who was his
good friend, the poor knight would have fared very ill. Wherefore what
hath happened to me, may easily pass unheeded, among those much greater
affronts that such worthy people have undergone: besides, I would have
thee know, Sancho, that it is never reckoned an affront to be wounded by
those instruments which are casually in the hands of our enemies; for it
is expressly mentioned in the laws of duelling, that if a shoe-maker
beats a man with a last he has by accident in his hand, the man cannot
properly be said to be cudgelled, although the said last was made of
wood. This particular I mention, that thou mayest not suppose us
affronted, although we have been mauled in this unlucky fray; for the
weapons with which those men threshed us so severely, were no other than
their own pack-staves; and so far as I can remember, there was neither
tuck, poignard, nor sword, among them.’
‘They did not give me time,’ answered Sancho, ‘to make any such
observation: for scarce had I laid my fingers upon my Toledo[56], when
there rained a shower of cudgels upon my poor shoulders, that banished
the light from my eyes, and strength from my feet, and laid me flat upon
the spot where I now lie, not so much concerned about thinking whether
this drubbing be an affront or not, as about the intolerable pain of the
blows, which remain imprinted upon my memory as well as upon my
carcase.’——‘Notwithstanding all this complaining,’ said the knight, ‘I
aver, brother Sancho, that there is no remembrance which time does not
efface, nor pain that death does not remove.’—‘And pray, what greater
misfortune can there be,’ answered Sancho, ‘than that which nothing but
time can remove, or death put a stop to? If this mishap of ours were
such a one as might be cured with a couple of snips of searcloth, it
would not be altogether so vexatious; but so far as I can see, all the
plaister of an hospital will not be sufficient to set us cleverly on our
legs again.’
‘Truce with thy reflections,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘and collecting
strength out of weakness, as I will endeavour to do, let us rise and
examine Rozinante’s case; for, in all appearance, the poor beast hath
not suffered the least part of the misfortune.’—‘That is not to be
wondered at,’ said the squire, ‘he being a knight-errant also; but what
surprizes me most is, that my dapple should get off without paying his
score, when we are scored all over.’—‘Destiny, when one door is shut,
always leaves another open, is a resource in all calamities,’ said Don
Quixote: ‘this I observe, because thy ass will now supply the place of
Rozinante, and carry me from hence to some castle, where my wounds may
be cured: more especially as such carriage will be no dishonour to
chivalry; for I remember to have read, that the good old Silenus, tutor
and companion to the jolly god of mirth and wine, entered the city of
the hundred gates, lolling at his ease upon a most comely ass.’—‘It may
be very true that he rode upon an ass,’ replied Sancho; ‘but there is
some difference, I apprehend, between riding, and lying across the beast
like a bag of dirt.’ To this observation the knight answered, ‘Those
wounds which are received in battle, may well give, but can never
deprive one of honour: therefore, friend Sancho, do as I bid thee,
without farther reply; get up as well as thou canst, and lay me upon
dapple just as thou shalt find most convenient, that we may be gone
before night comes to surprize us in this unfrequented place.’
‘And yet,’ said Sancho, ‘I have heard your worship remark, that it is
usual for knights-errant to sleep upon commons and heaths the greatest
part of the year; aye, and to be thankful for their good fortune in
being able so to do.’—‘Yes,’ said the knight, ‘when they can do no
better, or are in love; and this is so true, that there was a knight who
lay upon a bare rock, exposed to the sultry noon and midnight damps,
with all the inclemencies of the weather, during two whole years, before
his mistress knew any thing of the matter: this was no other than
Amadis, who, assuming the name of Beltenebros, took up his quarters upon
the naked rock, for the space of either eight years, or eight months, I
really do not remember which; only that he remained doing penance in
that place, for some disgust shewn to him by his dame Oriana: but truce
with this conversation, Sancho, and make haste, before such another
accident can happen to thy beast, as that which hath already befallen
Rozinante.’
‘Odds my life! that would be the devil indeed!’ cried Sancho, who
uttering thirty ah’s and sixty oh’s! together with a hundred and fifty
ola’s! and curses upon him who had brought him to that pass, raised
himself up, though he could not for his soul stand upright, but in spite
of all his efforts, remained bent like a Turkish bow; and in that
attitude, with infinite labour, made shift to equip his ass, which had
also gone a little astray, presuming upon the excessive licence of the
time; he then lifted up Rozinante, who, could he have found a tongue to
complain with, would certainly have surpassed both his master and Sancho
in lamentation: in short, the squire disposed of Don Quixote upon the
ass, to whose tail Rozinante was tied; then taking his own dapple by the
halter, jogged on, sometimes faster, sometimes slower, towards the place
where he conjectured the high road to lie; and indeed, they had not
exceeded a short league, when by good luck, which now seemed to take the
management of their affairs, they arrived at the highway, and discovered
an inn, which, to Sancho’s great grief, was mistaken for a castle by the
joyful knight. This difference of opinion begat an obstinate dispute
that lasted until they arrived at the place, into which Sancho
immediately conveyed his cargo, without farther expostulation.
Footnote 56:
Tizona, which is the word in the original, is a romantick name given
to the sword that belonged to Roderick Dias de Bivar, the famous
Spanish general against the Moors.
CHAP. II.
THE ADVENTURE THAT HAPPENED TO THIS SAGACIOUS KNIGHT AT THE INN,
WHICH HE MISTOOK FOR A CASTLE.
The innkeeper seeing Don Quixote laid athwart the ass, asked what was
the matter? to which interrogation Sancho replied, ‘Nothing but a few
bruises which my master has received in a fall from a rock in this
neighbourhood.’ The landlady, who differed in disposition from most of
your innkeepers wives, being naturally charitable and sympathizing with
the calamities of her fellow-creatures, came running to the relief of
the battered knight, and brought her daughter, who was a very handsome
girl, to assist in taking care of her guest. There was in the same house
a servant-maid from the Asturies, remarkable for her capacious
countenance, beetle brow’d, flat-nosed, blind of one eye, and bleared in
the other: true it is, the gentility of her shape made amends for her
other defects; she was something short of seven hands from head to foot,
and moreover incumbered so much by her shoulders, that she was obliged
to contemplate the dust beneath her feet oftener than she could have
wished.
This comely creature, with the assistance of the other damsel, made up a
sort of sorry bed for our hero in a garret; which gave evident tokens of
having been formerly an hay-loft, and in which at that time a certain
carrier had taken up his quarters, in a bed of his own making, a little
on one side our knight’s: and though his couch was composed of the
pannels and furniture of his mules, it had greatly the advantage over
Don Quixote’s, which consisted only of four rough boards, supported on
two benches of unequal height, covered by a mattras, so thin it might
have passed for a quilt, and full of knots so hard as to be mistaken for
pebble stones, had not the wool appeared through divers openings; with a
couple of sheets made of bull’s hide, and a blanket so bare, that you
might have counted every thread, without losing one of the reckoning.
In this wretched bed, Don Quixote having laid himself down, was anointed
from head to foot by the good woman and her daughter, while Maritornes
(that was the Asturian’s name) stood hard by holding a light. The
landlady, in the course of her application, perceiving the knight’s
whole body black and blue, observed that those marks seemed rather the
effects of drubbing than of a fall; but Sancho affirmed she was
mistaken, and that the marks in question were occasioned by the knobs
and corners of the rocks among which he fell. ‘And now I think of it,’
said he, ‘pray, Madam, manage matters so as to leave a little of your
ointment, for it will be needed, I’ll assure you; my own loins are none
of the soundest at present.’—‘What, did you fall too?’ said she. ‘I
can’t say I did,’ answered the squire, ‘but I was so infected by seeing
my master tumble, that my whole body aches as much as if I had been
cudgelled without mercy.’—‘That may very easily happen,’ cried the
daughter: ‘I myself have often dreamed that I was falling from a high
tower, without ever coming to the ground; and, upon waking, have found
myself bruised and battered, as if I had actually got a great
fall.’—‘Ah, mistress!’ replied the squire, ‘here is the point; I,
without dreaming at all, but on the contrary, being as broad awake as I
am this precious minute, found almost as many marks upon my own
shoulders, as you have observed upon those of my master Don
Quixote.’—‘What is the name of that knight?’ said the Asturian. ‘Don
Quixote de La Mancha,’ answered the squire: ‘he is a knight-adventurer,
and one of the greatest and most valiant that have been seen in this
world for many ages.’—‘And what is a knight-adventurer?’ resumed the
wench. ‘Are you such a suckling as not to know that?’ cried Sancho;
‘well, I’ll tell you, mistress of mine, a knight-adventurer is a thing,
that before you count a couple, may be kicked and be crowned: to-day he
is the most despicable and beggarly wretch upon earth, and to-morrow he
will have a brace of kingdoms to bestow upon his squires.’—‘Methinks,’
said the landlady, ‘seeing you appertain to such a great man, you ought
to be a count at least.’—‘All in good time,’ replied Sancho; ‘we have
not been out a month in search of adventures, and have found none worth
naming; besides, people sometimes go in quest of one thing, and meet
with another: indeed, if my master Don Quixote gets well of this
drubbing——fall, I mean, and I myself escape without being crippled, I
won’t barter my hopes for the best lordship in Spain.’
The knight having listened attentively to this whole conversation, sat
up in his bed as well as he could, and taking his landlady by the hand,
‘Believe me, beautiful lady,’ said he, ‘you may account yourself
extremely happy in having within your castle my person as your guest;
such a guest, that if I praise him not, it is on account of the common
saying, that self-commendation is in effect self-dispraise. My squire,
however, will intimate who I am; while I content myself with assuring
you, that I will, to all eternity, preserve engraven upon the tables of
my memory the benevolence you this day vouchsafed unto me, that I may be
grateful for the favour, as long as life shall remain. And, oh! that it
pleased you, Heaven supreme, that love had not so vanquished and
enslaved my heart to the triumphant eyes of the beautiful ingrate whom I
now mention between my teeth, but that the charms of this amiable young
lady could be the authors of my freedom.’
The good woman, her daughter, and the gentle Maritornes, were astonished
at this rhapsody, which they understood as much as if it had been
delivered in Greek; though they could easily comprehend, that the whole
of it tended to compliment and proffers of service: as they were
therefore altogether unaccustomed to such language, they gazed at him
with admiration, as a person of a different species from other men; and
having thanked him for his courtesy, in their tapster phrase, left him
to his repose; while the Asturian Maritornes administered to Sancho, who
had as much need of assistance as his master.
She and the carrier had made an assignation to divert themselves that
night; nay, she had given her word that as soon as the company should be
quiet, and her master and mistress asleep, she would visit him in the
dark, and give him all the satisfaction he desired; and indeed it is
recorded, for the honour of this good creature, that she never failed to
perform her promises of that kind punctually, although they had been
made in the midst of a heath, and out of the hearing of all evidence:
for she valued herself much upon her gentility, and did not look upon it
as any affront to be servant at an inn, because, she observed,
disappointments and misfortunes had reduced her to that condition.
The bed of Don Quixote, which we have described so hard, so narrow,
crazy, and uncomfortable, stood foremost, and exactly in the middle of
this ruinous hay-loft; hard by had Sancho taken up his quarters upon a
rush-mat, covered with a rug, which seemed to be manufactured of hemp,
rather than wool; and last of all was the carrier’s couch, composed, as
we have already said, of the pannels and furniture of his two best
mules; for he had no less than twelve plump, sleek, and notable beasts,
being one of the richest carriers in Arevalo, according to the report of
the author of this history, who makes particular mention of him, and
says he knew him perfectly well; nay, some go so far as to affirm, that
he was his distant relation: be this as it will, Cid Hamet Benengeli was
a most curious historian, and punctual to admiration, as appears from
what hath been related, which, though in itself mean and trivial, he
would by no means pass over in silence. This ought to serve as an
example to those important and weighty historians, who recount events so
succinctly and superficially, that the reader can scarce get a smack of
them; while the most substantial circumstances are left, as it were, in
the ink-horn, through carelessness, ignorance, and malice. A thousand
times blessed be the authors of Tablante and Ricamonte, and he that
compiled that other book, in which are recounted the atchievements of
Count Tomillas! How punctually have they described the most minute
particular!—But, to return to our story.
The carrier having visited his cattle, and given them their night’s
allowance, stretched himself upon his pannels, in expectation of the
most faithful Maritornes; while Sancho, plaistered all over, and huddled
up in his kennel, endeavoured with all his might to sleep; but the
aching of his ribs would by no means allow him to enjoy that
satisfaction; and Don Quixote, for the same uncomfortable reason, lay
like a hare, with his eyes wide open. A profound silence reigned
throughout the whole house, in which there was no other light than a
lamp stuck up in the passage; and this wonderful quiet, together with
those reflections which always occurred to our knight, relating to the
events continually recorded in the books of chivalry, that first
disordered his understanding; I say, those reflections suggested to his
fancy one of the strangest whims that ever entered a man’s imagination.
This was no other than a full persuasion that he was arrived at some
famous castle; for, as we have before observed, all the inns he lodged
at seemed castles to him; and that the landlord’s daughter was the
governor’s only child, who, captivated by his genteel appearance, was
become deeply enamoured of him, and had actually promised to come,
without the knowledge of her parents, and pass the best part of the
night in bed with him. Believing, therefore, this chimera (which was the
work of his own brain) to be a firm and undoubted fact, he began to
reflect with extreme anxiety upon the dangerous dilemma into which his
virtue was like to be drawn; and resolved in his heart to commit no
treason against his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso; even though Queen
Ginebra herself, and the lady Quintaniona, should make him a tender of
their favours.
While his mind was engrossed by these extravagant fancies, the hour of
assignation arrived, and an unlucky hour it was for him, when the kind
Asturian, barefoot and in her smock, having her hair tucked up under a
fustian nightcap, entered the apartment in which the three guests were
lodged, and with silence and caution directed her steps towards the nest
of her beloved carrier. But scarce had she got within the door, when her
approach was perceived by our knight, who sitting up in his bed, in
spite of his plaisters and the aching of his ribs, stretched forth his
arms to receive this beautiful young lady, who, on her part, holding in
her breath, moved softly on her tiptoes, groping her way with her hands
before her.
While she thus crept along, in quest of her lover, she chanced to come
within arm’s-length of Don Quixote, who laid fast hold of her by the
wrist, and without her daring to speak a syllable, pulled her towards
him, and made her sit down upon the bed; he then felt her smock, which,
though made of the coarsest canvas, to him seemed a shift of the finest
and softest lawn; the string of glass beads she wore about her wrist, in
his apprehension out-shone the brightest oriental pearl: her hair, which
bore some resemblance to a horse’s mane, he mistook for threads of pure
Arabian gold, that even eclipsed the splendor of the sun; and her
breath, which doubtless smelt strong of broken meat and garlick, his
fancy converted into an aromatick flavour, proceeding from her delicate
mouth: in short, his imagination represented her in the same form and
situation with that of a certain princess, recorded in one of his books,
who came to visit a wounded knight of whom she was enamoured; with all
the other embellishments there described. Nay, such was the infatuation
of this poor gentleman, that he was not to be undeceived, either by the
touch, the breath, or any other circumstance of this honest wench,
though they were powerful enough to discompose the stomach of anybody
but a rampant carrier.
But our knight believed he folded in his arms the goddess of beauty,
straining her in his embrace, began to pronounce, in a soft and amorous
tone, ‘Would to Heaven! I were so circumstanced, beautiful and high-born
lady! as to be able to pay the transcendent favour bestowed upon me, in
the contemplation of your amazing charms; but it hath pleased fortune,
that never ceases to persecute the virtuous, to lay me upon this bed, so
bruised and battered, that even if it was my desire to gratify yours, I
should find it utterly impossible; how much more so, when that
impossibility is linked to another still greater? I mean the plighted
faith I have vowed to the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the sole
mistress of my most hidden thoughts: did not that consideration
interpose, I should not be such a simple knight, as to let slip this
happy occasion which your benevolence hath tendered to my choice.’
Maritornes, sweating with vexation to find herself thus pinioned, as it
were, by the knight, whose discourse she neither heeded nor understood;
endeavoured, without answering a syllable, to disengage herself from his
embrace: while the honest carrier, whose lewd desires kept him awake,
and made him perceive his doxy from the moment she entered, listened
attentively to every thing that Don Quixote said; and being jealous that
the Asturian had broke her promise to him, in order to keep it with
another, crept nearer the bed of his rival, to wait the issue of this
rhapsody, the meaning of which he could not comprehend; observing,
however, that the wench struggled to get loose, and that the knight
endeavoured to detain her, he could not relish the joke, but lifting his
arm on high, discharged such a terrible blow on the lanthorn jaws of the
enamoured Don, as bathed his whole countenance in blood; and not
satisfied with this application, jumped upon his ribs, and travelled
over his whole carcase, at a pace somewhat exceeding that of a brisk
trot, until the bed, which was none of the strongest, either in
materials or foundation, unable to sustain the additional weight, sunk
to the ground with both; and made such a hideous noise in its fall, as
waked the inn-keeper, who immediately concluded that Maritornes was
concerned in the adventure, because she made no answer when he called.
On this supposition he arose, and lighting a candle, went directly to
the place where he had heard the scuffle: meanwhile, the poor wench,
confused and affrighted at the approach of her master, who was a fellow
of a most savage disposition, retreated to the kennel of Sancho Panza,
who slept in spite of all this din, and nestling in beside him, wound
herself up like a ball, and lay snug. The landlord now entered the
apartment, and crying with a loud voice, ‘Where have you got, strumpet?
to be sure these must be your jade’s tricks, with a vengeance!’ Sancho
started, and feeling a prodigious weight upon him, thought he was
labouring under the night-mare, and beginning to lay about him on all
sides, chanced, in course of his efforts, to bestow divers cuffs on
Maritornes, who feeling herself thus belaboured, forgot the care of her
reputation, and returned the squire’s compliments so heartily, that
sleep forsook him whether he would or not: without knowing the person
who treated him so roughly, he raised himself up, as well as he could,
and going to loggerheads with Maritornes, a most furious and diverting
skirmish ensued.
By this time, the carrier perceiving by the light the situation of his
mistress, ran to her assistance; and the landlord followed the same
course, though with a very different intention, namely, to chastise the
maid; being fully persuaded, that she was the sole cause of all this
uproar; and so, as the saying is, the cat to the rat, the rat to the
rope, the rope to the gallows. The carrier drummed upon Sancho, Sancho
struck at the maid, the maid pummelled him, the innkeeper disciplined
her; all of them exerting themselves with such eagerness, that there was
not one moment’s pause. But, to crown the joke, the landlord’s candle
went out, and the combatants being left in the dark, such a circulation
of blows ensued, that wheresoever the fist fell, there the patient was
disabled.
There chanced to lodge at the inn that night, a trooper belonging to the
ancient holy brotherhood of Toledo, who also hearing the strange noise
of this fray, arose, and seizing his tipstaff, together with the tin-box
that contained his commission, entered the apartment in the dark,
calling aloud—‘Keep the peace, in the king’s name; keep the peace, in
the name of the holy brotherhood.’ The first he encountered was the
forlorn Don Quixote, who lay insensible on his demolished bed, with his
face uppermost; so that groping about, he happened to lay hold of his
beard, and cried—‘Assist, I charge you, the officers of justice:’ but
perceiving that the person he held neither stirred nor spoke, he
concluded that he must be dead, and that the people within were the
assassins. In this persuasion he raised his voice, crying—‘Shut the
gates of the inn, that none may escape; for here is a man murdered.’
This exclamation, which astonished them all, was no sooner heard, than
every one quitted his share in the battle; the landlord retreated to his
own chamber, the carrier sneaked to his panniers, and the damsel to her
straw: while the unfortunate knight and squire were left on the spot,
unable to move from the places where they lay. The trooper letting go
the beard of Don Quixote, went out for a light to search for and
apprehend the delinquents; but in this design he was disappointed; the
landlord having purposely extinguished the lamp when he retired to his
apartment; so that he was obliged to have recourse to the embers, at
which, with great industry and time, he made shift to light another
candle.
CHAP. III.
CONTAINING THE SEQUEL OF THOSE INCREDIBLE GRIEVANCES
WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE, AND HIS TRUSTY SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA,
UNDERWENT AT THE INN,
WHICH FOR THEIR MISFORTUNE THE KNIGHT MISTOOK FOR A CASTLE.
About this time, Don Quixote recovering the use of his tongue, began to
call in the same feeble tone with which he spoke the preceding day, when
he lay stretched in the pack-staff valley—‘Art thou asleep, friend
Sancho? friend Sancho, art thou asleep?’—‘God’s my life!’ replied
Sancho, full of peevishness and pain, ‘how should I be asleep, seeing
all the devils in hell have been upon me this whole night?’—‘That thou
mayest assure thyself of,’ answered the knight: ‘for either I understand
nothing at all, or this castle is inchanted. Thou must know, Sancho,
(but what I am going to disclose to thee, thou shalt swear to keep
secret till after my death.)’—‘I do swear,’ said Sancho. ‘This secrecy I
insist upon,’ replied his master, ‘because I would by no means take away
the reputation of any person.’—‘Well then,’ cried the squire, ‘I swear
to keep it secret till the days of your worship be past and gone; and
God grant that I may be at liberty to reveal it to-morrow.’—‘Have I done
you so much mischief, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that you wish to see
me dead so soon?’—‘It is not for that,’ replied the squire, ‘but because
I am an enemy to all secrets, and would not have any thing rot in my
keeping.’—‘Be that as it may,’ said the knight, ‘I will trust greater
things to thy love and fidelity. Know, therefore, that this very night I
have been engaged in a most rare and wonderful adventure; which, that I
may briefly relate, take notice, that a little while ago, I was visited
by the constable’s daughter, than whom a more beautiful and gracious
young lady is scarce to be found on this terraqueous globe. How shall I
paint to thee the comeliness of her person? how delineate the acuteness
of her understanding? or, how shall I describe those mysterious charms
which, that I may preserve the fealty I have sworn to my own sovereign
mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, I must pass over in sacred silence? I
shall only tell thee, that Heaven itself was jealous of the happiness
which fortune had put into my power; or, perhaps, which is more
probable, this castle, as I have already observed, is inchanted: for,
while I was engaged with her in a most delightful and amorous
conversation, an unseen hand, belonging, doubtless, to the arm of some
monstrous giant, descended, I know not whence, upon my jaws, leaving my
whole face bathed in gore; and afterwards bruised me in such a manner,
that I am infinitely worse than I was yesterday, when the carriers
maltreated us, as thou knowest, for the excesses of Rozinante; from
whence I conjecture, that the treasure of this fair damsel’s beauty is
guarded by some inchanted Moor, and not destined for my
possession.’—‘Nor for mine neither,’ cried Sancho; ‘for I have been
drubbed by five hundred Moors, so unmercifully, that the pack-stave
threshing was but cakes and gingerbread to what I now feel: so that I
see no great cause you have to brag of that rare adventure, which has
left us in this comfortable pickle. Indeed, your worship was not so
badly off, because you had that same incomparable beauty in your arms;
but what had I, except the hardest knocks, which, I hope, I shall ever
feel in my born days? Cursed am I, and the mother that bore me; for
though I neither am knight errant, nor ever design to be one, the
greatest part of the mischief that betides us for ever falls to my
share.’—‘It seems, then, thou hast suffered too,’ said Don Quixote. ‘Woe
be unto me and my whole pedigree!’ cried Sancho; ‘have I not been
telling you so all this time?’—‘Give thyself no concern about that
matter,’ answered the knight; ‘for now I am determined to prepare that
precious balsam, which will cure us both in the twinkling of an eye.’
About this time the officer of the holy brotherhood, having made shift
to light his candle, came back to examine the person whom he supposed
murdered; and Sancho, seeing him approach in his shirt and woollen
night-cap, with a very unfavourable aspect, and a light in his hand,
said to his master, ‘Pray, Sir, is this the inchanted Moor returned to
spend the last drop of his vengeance upon us[57]?’—‘That cannot be the
Moor,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘for inchanters never suffer themselves to
be seen.’—‘If they won’t allow themselves to be seen,’ cried the squire,
‘they make no bones of letting themselves be felt; that my shoulders can
testify.’—‘And mine too,’ said the knight; ‘but we have no sufficient
reason to believe that he whom we now see is the inchanted Moor.’
Meanwhile, the trooper drawing near, and hearing them talk so
deliberately, remained some time in suspence; then observing Don
Quixote, who still lay on his back, unable to stir, on account of his
bruises and plaisters, he went up to him, saying, ‘How do’st do, honest
friend?’—‘I would speak more submissively,’ answered the knight, ‘were I
such a plebeian as you. Is that the language used in this country to
knights-errant, you blockhead?’ The officer finding himself treated with
so little ceremony, by such a miserable wight, could not bear the
reproach, but lifting up his lamp, oil and all, discharged it upon Don
Quixote’s pate, which suffered greatly in the encounter; and the light
being again extinguished, slipped away in the dark. Things being in this
situation, ‘Sir,’ said Sancho Panza, ‘without doubt, that was the
inchanted Moor, who keeps the treasure for other people, and the
fisty-cuffs and lamp-leavings for us.’—‘It must be so,’ replied the
knight; ‘but we must not mind those affairs of inchantment so much, as
to let them ruffle or inflame us; because, they being invisible and
fantastical, do what we can we shall never be able to take vengeance
upon the authors of them: get up, therefore, Sancho, if thou canst, and
desire the constable of this castle to supply me with some oil, wine,
salt, and rosemary; that I may prepare the salutiferous balsam, which,
really, I believe, I stand in great need of at present, for the wound
which the phantom hath given me bleeds apace.’
Accordingly the squire made shift to rise, notwithstanding the
intolerable aching of his bones; and creeping in the dark towards the
innkeeper’s bed-chamber, happened to meet with the trooper, who stood
listening, to know the intention of his adversary. ‘Signior,’ cried he,
‘whosoever you are, do us the benefit and favour to assist us with some
rosemary, salt, wine, and oil; in order to cure one of the most mighty
knights errant upon earth, who lies in that bed, desperately wounded by
the hands of an inchanted Moor that frequents this inn.’ The officer,
hearing such an address, concluded that the man had lost his senses; and
it being by this time dawn, opened the inn-gate, and calling to the
landlord, told him what this honest man wanted. The innkeeper having
provided Sancho with the ingredients, he immediately carried them to his
master; who lay holding his head between his two hands, and complaining
very much of the effect of the lamp; which, however, had done no farther
damage than that of raising a couple of large tumours upon his pate;
that which he took for blood being no other than sweat forced out by the
anguish and pain he had undergone. In short, he made a composition, by
mixing the materials together, and boiling them a good while, until he
found he had brought the whole to a due consistence: then he asked for a
phial to contain the balsam; but as there was none in the house, he
resolved to cork it up in a tin oil-flask, of which the landlord made
him a present. Which being done, he repeated over it more than fourscore
pater-nosters, with the like number of ave-maria’s, salve’s and credo’s,
accompanying every word with the sign of the cross, by way of
benediction: and this whole ceremony was performed in presence of
Sancho, the innkeeper, and officer; the carrier having very quietly gone
to take care of his beasts.
This precious balsam being thus composed, the knight was determined to
make instant trial of the efficacy with which he imagined it endued; and
accordingly swallowed about a pint and a half of what remained in the
pot, after the oil-flask was full; which had scarce got down his throat,
when he began to vomit in such a manner, as left nothing in his stomach;
and a most copious sweat breaking out upon him, in consequence of the
violent operation, he desired they would wrap him up warm, and leave him
to his repose. They complied with his request, and he fell into a
profound sleep that lasted three hours; at the end of which awaking, he
found himself exceedingly refreshed, and so well recovered of his
bruises, that he seemed perfectly well; and implicitly believed that he
had now made sure of the balsam of Fierabras; which, while he possessed,
he might, with the utmost confidence and safety, engage in the most
perilous quarrels, combats, and havock, that could possibly happen.
Sancho Panza seeing his master recovered to a miracle, begged he would
bestow upon him the sediment of the pot, which was no small quantity:
and his request being granted, he laid hold of it with both hands, and
setting it to his head, drank off, with strong faith and eager
inclination, almost as much as his master had swallowed before. But the
poor squire’s stomach chanced to be not quite so delicate as that of the
knight; and therefore, before he could discharge a drop, he suffered
such pangs and reachings, such qualms and cold sweats, that he verily
believed his last hour was come; and in the midst of his wamblings and
affliction cursed the balsam and the miscreant that made it. Don Quixote
perceiving his situation, said, ‘I believe that all this mischief
happens to thee, Sancho, because thou art not a knight; for I am
persuaded, that this liquor will be of service to none but such as are
of the order of knighthood.’—‘If your worship knew so much,’ cried
Sancho, ‘woe be unto me and my whole generation! why did you allow me to
taste it?’ At this instant the potion began to operate, and the poor
squire to unload at both ends with such fury, that the mat upon which he
had thrown himself, and the sheet that covered him, were soon in a
woeful pickle: he sweated and shivered with such violent motions and
fits, that not only he himself, but every body present, thought he would
have given up the ghost.
This tempest of evacuation lasted near two hours; at the expiration of
which, he found himself far from being relieved like his master, but, on
the contrary, so much fatigued that he was not able to stand. The
knight, as we have already observed, finding himself in good health and
excellent spirits, longed fervently to depart in quest of adventures,
thinking every minute he spent in that place was an injury to the world
in general, and to those miserable objects who wanted his favour and
protection; especially as he was now in possession of the certain means
of safety and confidence, in that efficacious balsam he had made.
Prompted by these suggestions, he himself saddled Rozinante, and with
his own hands put the pannel upon the beast of the squire, whom he also
assisted in getting on his cloaths, and mounting his ass. He then
bestrode his own steed; and laying hold of a pitchfork that stood in the
corner of the yard, appropriated it to the use of a lance; while all the
people in the house, exceeding twenty persons, beheld him with
admiration: the landlord’s daughter being among the spectators, he fixed
his eyes upon her, and from time to time uttered a profound sigh, which
seemed to be heaved from the very bottom of his bowels; and which, in
the opinion of all those who had seen him anointed over night, was
occasioned by the aching of his bones.
He and his squire being by this time mounted, he halted at the gate, and
calling to the innkeeper, pronounced, in a grave and solemn tone,
‘Numerous and mighty are the favours, Sir Constable, which I have
received in this castle of yours; and I shall think myself under the
highest obligation to retain a grateful remembrance of your courtesy all
the days of my life. If I can make you any return, in taking vengeance
on some insolent adversary, who hath, perhaps, aggrieved you; know, that
it is my province and profession to assist the helpless, avenge the
injured, and chastise the false: recollect, therefore; and if you have
any boon of that sort to ask, speak the word; I promise, by the order of
knighthood which I have received, that you shall be righted and
redressed to your heart’s content.’—‘Sir knight,’ replied the innkeeper,
with the same deliberation, ‘I have no occasion for your worship’s
assistance, to redress any grievance of mine; for I know how to revenge
my own wrongs when I suffer any: all I desire is, that you will pay the
score you have run up in this inn, for provender to your cattle, and
food and lodging to yourself and servant.’—‘It seems, then, this is an
inn,’ answered the knight. ‘Aye, and a well-respected one,’ said the
landlord. ‘I have been in a mistake all this time,’ resumed Don Quixote,
‘for I really thought it was a castle; and that none of the meanest
neither: but since it is no other than a house of publick entertainment,
you have nothing to do but excuse me from paying a farthing; for I can
by no means transgress the custom of knights-errant, who, I am sure, as
having read nothing to the contrary[58], never paid for lodging nor any
thing else, in any inn or house whatsoever, because they had a right and
title to the best of entertainment, in recompence for the intolerable
sufferings they underwent, in seeking adventures by night and by day, in
winter as well as summer, on foot and on horseback, exposed to hunger
and thirst, to heat and cold, and to all the inclemencies of heaven, as
well as the inconveniencies of earth.’—‘All this is nothing to my
purpose,’ said the innkeeper; ‘pay me what you owe, and save all your
idle tales of knight-errantry for those who will be amused with them;
for my own part, I mind no tale but that of the money I take.’—‘You are
a saucy publican, and a blockhead to boot,’ cried Don Quixote; who,
putting spurs to Rozinante, and brandishing his pitchfork, sallied out
of the inn without opposition; and was a good way off before he looked
behind to see if he was followed by his squire.
The landlord, seeing the knight depart without paying, ran up to seize
Sancho; who told him, that since his master had refused to discharge the
bill, he must not expect any money from him, who being the squire of a
knight-errant, was, as well as his master, bound by the same laws to pay
for nothing in taverns and inns. The publican, irritated at this answer,
threatened, if he would not pay him, to indemnify himself in a manner
that should not be so much to the squire’s liking: but Panza swore by
the laws of chivalry his master professed, that he would not pay a doit,
though it should cost him his life; for he was resolved that the
honourable and ancient customs of knight-errantry should not be lost
through his misbehaviour; neither should those squires, who were to come
into the world after him, have occasion to complain of his conduct, or
reproach him with the breach of so just a privilege.
[Illustration: Sancho Being Tossed.]
As the unfortunate Sancho’s evil genius would have it, there were among
the company that lodged that night in the house, four clothiers of
Segovia, three pin-makers from the great square of Cordova, and a couple
of shopkeepers from the market-place of Seville; all of them brisk jolly
fellows, and mischievous wags. These companions, as if they had been
inspired and instigated by the same spirit, came up to the squire, and
pulled him from his ass; then, one of them fetching a blanket from the
landlord’s bed, they put Sancho into it, and lifting up their eyes,
perceived the roof was too low for their purpose; therefore determined
to carry him out into the yard, which had no other ceiling than the sky:
there placing Panza in the middle of the blanket, they began to toss him
on high, and divert themselves with his capers, as the mob do with dogs
at Shrove-tide. The cries uttered by this miserable vaulter, were so
piercing as to reach the ears of his master, who halting to listen the
more attentively, believed that some new adventure was approaching,
until he clearly recognized the shrieks of his squire: he immediately
turned his horse, and with infinite straining, made shift to gallop back
to the inn; but finding the gate shut, rode round in search of some
other entrance; and when he approached the yard-wall, which was not very
high, perceived the disagreeable joke they were practising upon his
squire, who rose in the air, and sunk again with such grace and
celerity, that if his indignation would have allowed him, I verily
believe the knight himself would have laughed at the occasion. He
attempted to step from his horse upon the wall, but was so bruised and
battered, that he could not move from his seat; and therefore, situated
as he was, began to vent such a torrent of reproachful and opprobrious
language against Sancho’s executioners, that it is impossible to repeat
the half of what he said. This, however, neither interrupted their mirth
nor their diversion, nor gave the least truce to the lamentations of
Sancho, who prayed and threatened by turns, as he flew. Indeed, nothing
of this sort either could or did avail him, until leaving off, out of
pure weariness, they thought fit to wrap him up in his great coat, and
set him on his ass again. The compassionate Maritornes seeing him so
much fatigued, thought he would be the better for a draught of water,
which, that it might be the cooler, she fetched from the well; and
Sancho had just put the mug to his lips, when his draught was retarded
by the voice of his master, who cried aloud, ‘Son Sancho, drink not
water, drink not that which will be the occasion of thy death, my son;
behold this most sacred balsam,’ holding up the cruse of potion in his
hand, ‘two drops of which will effectually cure thee.’ At these words
the squire eyed him, as it were, askance, and in a tone still more
vociferous, replied, ‘Perchance your worship has forgot that I am no
knight; or may be, you want to see me vomit up all the entrails I have
left, after last night’s quandary. Keep your liquor for yourself, and
may all the devils in hell give you joy of it; and leave me to my own
discretion!’ He had no sooner pronounced these words than he began to
swallow; and perceiving at the first draught, that the cordial was no
other than water, he did not chuse to repeat it; but desired Maritornes
to bring him some wine. This request she complied with very chearfully,
and paid for it with her own money; for it was reported of her, that
although she was reduced to that low degree in life, she actually
retained some faint sketches and shadows of the Christian.
Sancho having finished his draught, clapped heels to his ass, and the
inn-gate being thrown wide open, sallied forth very well satisfied with
having got off without paying any thing, although he had succeeded at
the expence of his shoulders, which were indeed his usual sureties. True
it is, the landlord had detained his bags for the reckoning; but these
Sancho did not miss in the confusion of his retreat. As soon as he was
clear of the house, the innkeeper would have barricadoed the gate, had
he not been prevented by the blanket companions, who were of that sort
of people, who would not have valued Don Quixote a farthing, even if he
had been actually one of the knights of the round-table.
Footnote 57:
Literally, what is left in the bottom of his inkhorn.
Footnote 58:
Don Quixote seems in this place to have forgot one adventure of his
great pattern, Orlando, who, while he accompanied Angelica in her
flight from Albracca, happened to intrude upon the king of the
Lestrigons as he sat at dinner in a valley; and being in great want of
victuals, accosted his most savage majesty in these words, recorded by
Boyardo, or rather Berni, in his poem intitled Orlando Innamorato.
_Poichè fortuna a quest’ora ne mena_
_Da voi, vi prego, che non vi despiaccia,_
_O pe nostri danari o in cortesia,_
_Che noi cenium con voi di compagnia._
Thus humbly requesting, that he would either for love or money give
them a bone to pick.
CHAP. IV.
IN WHICH IS RECOUNTED THE DISCOURSE
THAT PASSED BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA AND HIS MASTER DON QUIXOTE;
WITH OTHER ADVENTURES WORTHY OF RECORD.
Sancho made shift to overtake his master, so haggard and dismayed, that
he was scarce able to manage his beast: and when the knight perceived
his melancholy situation, ‘Honest Sancho,’ said he, ‘I am now convinced
beyond all doubt, that this castle or inn is inchanted; for those who
made such a barbarous pastime of thy sufferings, could be no other than
phantoms and beings belonging to the other world. I am confirmed in this
opinion, from having found, that while I was by the wall of the yard, a
spectator of the acts of thy mournful tragedy, I could neither climb
over to thy assistance, nor indeed move from Rozinante, but was fixed in
the saddle by the power of inchantment; for I swear to thee, by the
faith of my character! if I could have alighted from my steed, and
surmounted the wall, I would have revenged thy wrongs in such a manner,
that those idle miscreants should have remembered the jest to their
dying day: although I know, that in so doing, I should have transgressed
the laws of chivalry, which, I have often told thee, do not allow a
knight to lift his arm against any person of an inferior degree, except
in defence of his own life and limbs, or in cases of the most pressing
necessity.’—‘So would I have revenged myself,’ said Sancho, ‘knighted or
not knighted; but it was not in my power; though I am very well
satisfied that those who diverted themselves at my cost were no
phantoms, nor inchanted beings, as your worship imagines, but men made
of flesh and bones, as we are, and all of them have Christian names,
which I heard repeated, while they tossed me in the blanket; one, for
example, is called Pedro Martinez, another Tenorio Harnandez, and the
innkeeper goes by the name of Juan Palameque the left-handed; and
therefore, Signior, your being disabled from alighting and getting over
the wall, must have been owing to something else than inchantment. What
I can clearly discern from the whole is, that these adventures we go in
search of, will, at the long run, bring us into such misventures, that
we shall not know our right hands from our left; and therefore, in my
small judgment, the best and wholesomest thing we can do, will be to jog
back again to our own habitation now, while the harvest is going on, to
take care of our crops, and leave off sauntering from post to
pillar[59], and falling out of the frying-pan into the fire, as the
saying is.’
‘How little art thou acquainted, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘with the
pretensions of chivalry! hold thy tongue and have patience; for the day
will soon arrive on which thy own eyes shall judge what an honourable
profession it is: pray, tell me, now, what greater satisfaction can
there be in this world, or what pleasure can equal that of a conqueror,
who triumphs over his adversary in battle? None, sure!’—‘That may be,’
answered the squire, ‘though I know nothing of the matter. This only I
know, that since we have taken up the trade of knights-errant, your
worship I mean, for as to my own part I have no manner of title to be
reckoned in such an honourable list, we have not gained one battle,
except that with the Biscayan; and even there your worship came off with
half an ear, and the loss of one side of your helmet: from that day to
this good hour, our lot hath been nothing but cudgelling upon
cudgelling, pummelling upon pummelling; except the advantage I have had
over your worship, in being tossed in a blanket by inchanted Moors, whom
I cannot be revenged of, in order to know how pleasant a pastime it is
to overcome one’s enemy, as your worship observes.’—‘That is the very
grievance, Sancho, under which both you and I labour,’ said Don Quixote:
‘but, for the future, I will endeavour to procure a sword tempered with
such masterly skill, that he who wears it shall be subject to no kind of
inchantment; and who knows but accident may furnish me with that which
Amadis possessed, when he stiled himself the knight of the flaming
sword; and truly it was one of the most excellent blades that ever a
warrior unsheathed; for, besides that sovereign virtue it contained, it
cut keen as a razor, and no armour, though ever so strong or inchanted,
could stand before its edge.’—‘I am so devilishly lucky,’ said Sancho,
‘that if the case was really so, and your worship should light on that
same sword, it would, like the precious balsam, be of no service or
security to any but your true knights; and we that are squires might
sing for sorrow.’—‘Thou must not be afraid of that,’ replied the knight;
‘Heaven will surely deal more mercifully with thee.’
In such conversation, Don Quixote and his squire jogged along, when the
former descrying on the road in which they travelled, a large and thick
cloud of dust rolling towards them, turned to Sancho, saying, ‘This, O
Sancho, is the day that shall manifest the great things which fortune
hath in store for me! This, I say, is the day on which the valour of
this arm shall be displayed as much as upon any other occasion; and on
which I am resolved to perform deeds that shall remain engraven on the
leaves of fame to all posterity! Seest thou that cloud of dust before
us? The whole of it is raised by a vast army, composed of various and
innumerable nations that are marching this way.’—‘By that way of
reckoning, there must be two,’ said Sancho, ‘for right over against it
there is just such another.’ Don Quixote immediately turned his eyes,
and perceiving Sancho’s information to be true, was rejoiced beyond
measure; firmly believing that what he saw were two armies in full march
to attack each other, and engage in the middle of that spacious plain;
for every hour and minute of the day his imagination was engrossed by
those battles, inchantments, dreadful accidents, extravagant amours, and
rhodomontades, which are recorded in books of chivalry; and indeed every
thing he thought, said, or did, had a tendency that way.
As for the dust he now saw, it was raised by two flocks of sheep which
chanced to be driven from different parts into the same road, and were
so much involved in this cloud of their own making, that it was
impossible to discern them until they were very near. The knight
affirmed they were armies with such assurance, that Sancho actually
believed it, and said to his master, ‘And pray now, good your worship,
what must we do?’—‘What,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘but assist and support
that side which is weak and discomfited? Thou must know, Sancho, that
yonder host which fronts us, is led and commanded by the mighty Emperor
Alifanfaron, sovereign of the great island of Trapoban; and that other
behind us belongs to his mortal enemy the king of the Garamanteans,
known by the name Pentapolin with the naked arm, because he always goes
to battle with the sleeve of his right-arm tucked up.’—‘But why are
those chieftains so mischievously inclined towards each other?’ said
Sancho. ‘The cause of their enmity,’ replied the knight, ‘is this:
Alifanfaron, who is a most outrageous Pagan, is enamoured of
Pentapolin’s daughter, a most beautiful and courteous lady, who being a
Christian, her father will by no means betroth her to the infidel
prince, unless he shall first renounce the law of his false prophet
Mahomet, and become a convert to the true faith.’—‘Now, by my whiskers!’
cried Sancho, ‘King Pentapolin is an honest man, and I am resolved to
give him all the assistance in my power.’—‘In so doing thou wilt perform
thy duty, Sancho,’ said his master; ‘for to engage in such battles as
these, it is not necessary to be dubbed a knight.’—‘That I can easily
comprehend,’ replied the other; ‘but where shall we secure the ass, that
we may be sure of finding him after the fray is over; for I believe it
is not the fashion now-a-days, to go to battle on such a beast.’—‘True,’
said the knight, ‘and I think the best way will be to leave him to his
chance, whether he be lost or not; for we shall have such choice of
steeds, when once we have gained the victory, that Rozinante himself
will run some risk of being exchanged for another: but observe and
listen attentively; I will now give thee a detail of the principal
knights that serve in these two armies; and that thou may’st see and
mark them the better, let us retire to yon rising ground, from whence we
can distinctly view the line of battle in both.’ They accordingly placed
themselves upon a hillock, whence they could easily have discerned the
two flocks of sheep which Don Quixote metamorphosed into armies, had not
the dust they raised confounded and obscured the view; but nevertheless,
beholding in his imagination that which could not otherwise be seen,
because it did not exist, he began to pronounce with an audible voice—
‘That knight whom thou seest with yellow armour, bearing in his shield a
lion crowned and crouching at the feet of a young lady, is the gallant
Laucalco, lord of the silver bridge; that other beside him, who wears
armour powdered with flowers of gold, and bears for his device three
crowns argent in a field azure, is the amorous Micocolembo, Grand Duke
of Quiracia; and he upon his right-hand, with those gigantick limbs, is
the never to be daunted Brandabarbaran de Boliche, sovereign of the
three Arabias, who comes armed with a serpent’s skin, and, instead of a
shield, brandishes a huge gate, which, it is said, belonged to the
temple that Samson overthrew, when he avenged himself of his enemies at
his death; but turn thine eyes, and behold in the front of this other
army, the ever-conquering and never-conquered Timonel de Carcajona,
prince of New-Biscay, whose arms are quartered azure, vert, argent, and
or; and the device in his shield, a cat or, in a field gules, with the
letters Miau, which constitute the beginning of his lady’s name; and
she, they say, is the peerless Miaulina, daughter of Alfeniquen, Duke of
Algarve; the other who loads and oppresses the loins of that fiery
Arabian steed, with armour white as snow, and a shield without a device,
is a noviciate knight of the French nation, called Pierre Papin, Baron
of Utrique; the third, who strikes his iron rowels into the flanks of
that spotted nimble zebra[60], is the potent Duke of Nerbia,
esparta-filardo of the wood, who bears in his shield for a device, a
bunch of asparagus, with an inscription signifying, “By destiny I am
dogged.”’
In this manner did he invent names for a great many knights in either
army, to all of whom also he gave arms, colours, mottos, and devices,
without the least hesitation, being incredibly inspired by the fumes of
a distempered fancy; nay, he proceeded without any pause, saying, ‘That
squadron forming in our front is composed of people of divers nations:
there be those who drink the delicious waters of the celebrated Xanthus,
with the mountaineers who tread the Masilican plains: and those who sift
the purest golden ore of Arabia Felix; there also may be seen the people
who sport upon the cool and famous banks of the translucent Thermodonte;
and those who conduct the yellow Pactolus in many a winding stream; the
promise-breaking Numidians; the Persians for their archery renowned; the
Parthians and the Medes who combat as they fly; the Arabians famed for
shifting habitations; the Scythians cruel as they are fair; the
thick-lipped race of Ethiopia; and an infinite variety of other nations,
whose looks I know, and can discern, though I cannot recollect their
names. In that other squadron march those men who lave in the crystal
current of the olive-bearing Betis; those whose visages are cleaned and
polished with the limpid wave of the ever rich and golden Tagus; those
who delight in the salutiferous draughts of Genil the divine; those who
scour the Tartesian fields that with fat pasture teem; those who make
merry in the Elysian meads of Herezan; the rich Manchegans crowned with
ruddy ears of corn; those cloathed in steel the bold remains of ancient
Gothick blood; those who bathe in Pisuerga, famous for its gentle
current; those who feed their flocks upon the spacious meads of the
meandring Guadiana, celebrated for its secret course; those who shiver
with the chill blasts of the woody Pyrenees; and those who feel the
snowy flakes of lofty Appenine: in fine, whatever nation Europe imbosoms
and contains.’
Heaven preserve us! what provinces did he mention! what nations did he
name! bestowing, with wonderful facility, those attributes that belonged
to each; being all the while absorpt, and, as it were, immersed in the
contents of his deceitful books. Sancho Panza listened attentively to
his master, without uttering one syllable; and from time to time turned
his eyes from one side to another to see if he could discern those
knights and giants who were thus described: but not being able to
discover one of them, ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘your worship may say what you
please, but the devil a man, giant, or knight, that you have mentioned,
is there; at least I can see none: perhaps, indeed, the whole is
inchantment, like the phantoms of last night.’—‘How say’st thou?’
replied Don Quixote, ‘dost thou not hear the neighing of steeds, the
sound of clarions, and noise of drums?’—‘I hear nothing,’ answered
Sancho, ‘but abundance of bleating of ewes and lambs.’ And truly that
was the case; for by this time the two flocks were pretty near them.
‘Thy fear,’ said Don Quixote, ‘hinders thee from seeing and hearing
aright: for one effect of terror is to disturb the senses, and make
objects appear otherwise than they are; if thou art therefore under such
consternation, retire on one side, and leave me alone; for I myself am
sufficient to bestow victory on that cause which I espouse.’ So saying,
he clapped spurs to Rozinante, and putting his lance in the rest, darted
down from the hillock like lightning. In vain did Sancho bellow forth,
‘Turn, Signior Don Quixote: good your worship, turn! so help me God,
those are ewes and lambs you are going to attack! Woe be to the father
that begat me! Will you not turn? What madness possesses you! Consider,
here are no giants, nor knights, nor cats, nor arms, nor shields
quartered or whole, nor inverted azures, and the devils knows what: was
there ever such distraction? sinner that I am!’
[Illustration: Don Quixote Valiantly Charging the Herd of Sheep.]
The knight, however, did not regard this exclamation: on the contrary,
he rode on, bauling aloud, ‘So ho, knights! you that attend and serve
under the banners of the valiant Emperor Pentapolin, with the naked arm,
follow me in a body, and you shall behold how easily I will avenge him,
on his adversary Alifanfaron, of Trapoban.’ Having uttered these words,
he rushed into the thickest of the squadron of sheep, and began to lay
about him, with as much eagerness and fury, as if he had been actually
engaged with his mortal enemies. The herdsmen and shepherds who were
driving the flock, called to him to forbear; but finding their
admonition had no effect, they ungirded their slings, and began to
salute his ears with stones, the least of which was as large as an
ordinary fist; but he, far from minding their missiles, rode about the
field, crying, ‘Where art thou, proud Alifanfaron? face me if thou
darest; I am but a single knight, who want to prove thy prowess hand to
hand, and sacrifice thy life for the injury thou hast done to Pentapolin
Garamanta.’ Just as he pronounced these words, he received a pebble on
his side, that seemed to have buried a couple of his ribs in his belly;
and gave him such a rude shock, that he believed himself either dead or
desperately wounded; then remembering his specifick, he pulled out the
cruse, and setting it to his mouth, began to swallow the balsam; but
before he had drank what he thought a sufficient dose, there came
another such almond, so plump upon his hand and cruse, that after having
shivered the pot to pieces, it carried off in its way three or four of
his grinders, and shattered two of his fingers in a grievous manner: in
short, so irresistible were both the applications, that the poor knight
could not help tumbling from his horse. The shepherds immediately came
up, and believing him actually dead, gathered together their flock with
all imaginable dispatch; and taking their dead, which might be about
seven in number, upon their shoulders, made off without any farther
inquiry.
All this time Sancho remained upon the hill, beholding, with amazement,
the madness of his master, tearing his beard, and cursing the hour and
minute on which it was his fate to know him: and now seeing him fallen,
and the shepherds gone, he descended to his assistance, when finding him
still sensible, though in a miserable situation, ‘Did not I warn you,
Signior Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘to turn; and assure you that those you
went to attack were no armies, but flocks of innocent sheep?’—‘How
strangely can that miscreant inchanter, who is my enemy, transmography
things to thwart me? Know, Sancho, that it is a very easy matter for
necromancers to make us assume what shapes they please; and the
malicious wretch who persecutes me, envying the glory I should have
gained in this battle, hath doubtless metamorphosed the squadrons of the
foe into flocks of sheep: but thou shalt do one thing, I intreat thee,
Sancho, in order to be undeceived and convinced of the truth; mount thy
ass, and follow them fair and softly; and when they are at a convenient
distance from hence, thou wilt see them return to their former shapes,
and ceasing to be sheep, become men again, right and tight as I at first
described them; but do not go at present, for I have occasion for thy
service and assistance: come hither, and see how many teeth I have lost;
methinks there is not one left in my whole jaw.’
Sancho accordingly approached so near as to trust his eyes into his
master’s mouth, just at the time when the balsam began to operate in his
stomach, which, with the force of a culverin, discharged its contents
full in the beard of the compassionate squire. ‘Holy Virgin!’ cried
Sancho, ‘what is this that hath befallen me? Without doubt, this poor
sinner is mortally wounded, since he vomits blood.’ But considering the
case more maturely, he found by the colour, taste, and smell, that it
was not blood, but the balsam he had seen him drink: and such was the
loathing he conceived at this recognition, that his stomach turned, and
he emptied his bowels upon his master; so that both of them remained in
a handsome pickle. Sancho ran to his ass, for a towel to clean them, and
some application for his master’s hurt; but when he missed his bags, he
had well-nigh lost his senses; he cursed his fate again, and determined
with himself to leave the knight, and return to his habitation, even
though he should lose his wages for the time he had already served, as
well as his hopes of governing the Island of Promise.
At this juncture Don Quixote arose, and clapping his left-hand to his
cheek, in order to prevent his teeth from falling out, with the right
laid hold of the bridle of Rozinante; who, like a faithful and
affectionate servant, had never stirred from his master’s side; and went
up to the place where his squire stood, leaning upon his ass, with one
hand applied to his jaw, in the posture of a person who is exceedingly
pensive; the knight perceiving him in this situation, with manifest
signs of melancholy in his countenance, ‘Know Sancho,’ said he, ‘that
one man is no more than another, unless he can do more than another. All
those hurricanes that have happened to us prognosticate that we soon
shall have fair weather, and that every thing will succeed to our wish:
for it is impossible that either good or bad fortune should be eternal;
and therefore it follows, that our adversity having lasted so long, our
prosperity must be now at hand. Be not grieved then, at the misfortunes
that happen to me, since no part of them falls to thy share.’—‘Not to my
share!’ answered Sancho; ‘mayhap, then, he whom they tossed in the
blanket yesterday was not the son of my father; and the bags that are
lost to-day, with all the goods in them, belonged to some other
person.’—‘What, hast thou lost the bags, Sancho!’ cried Don Quixote.
‘Yes, sure,’ said the other. ‘At that rate, then, we have no victuals to
eat?’ resumed the knight. ‘That would certainly be the case,’ answered
the squire, ‘if the meadows did not furnish those herbs you say you know
with which unfortunate knights like your worship are wont to make up
such losses.’—‘Yes, but for all that,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I could at
present relish a luncheon of brown bread, or a loaf, with a couple of
red herrings, better than all the herbs described by Dioscorides, even
with the annotations of Doctor Laguna; but, nevertheless, mount thy
beast, honest Sancho, and follow me. God, who provides all things, will
not be wanting to us; more especially as we are employed in his
immediate service: he faileth not to provide for the gnats of the air,
the insects of the earth, the spawn of the sea; and is so beneficent, as
to cause the sun to shine upon the good and bad, and sendeth rain to the
wicked as well as the righteous.’—‘Your worship,’ said Sancho, ‘is more
fit to be a preacher than a knight-errant.’—‘Knights-errant,’ replied
his master, ‘ever had, and ought to have, some knowledge of every thing;
nay, some there have been in times past, who would stop to make a sermon
or discourse upon the highway, with as much eloquence as if they had
taken their degrees at the university of Paris: from whence it maybe
inferred, that the lance was never blunted by the pen, nor the quill
impeded by the lance.’—‘What your worship observes may be very true,’
said Sancho; ‘but, in the mean time, let us leave this place, and
endeavour to get a night’s lodging in some house or other, where, God
grant there may be neither blankets nor blanketeers, nor phantoms, nor
inchanted Moors; else, may the devil confound both hook and crook!’
‘Implore the protection of God, my son,’ answered the knight, ‘and lead
me where thou wilt: for this once, I leave our lodging to thy care; but
reach hither thy hand, and feel with thy finger how many teeth I have
lost on this right side of my upper jaw, which is the place that gives
me the greatest pain.’ Sancho introduced his fingers, and having
carefully examined his gums. ‘How many teeth,’ said he, was your worship
wont to have in this place?’—‘Four, besides the dog-tooth,’ answered Don
Quixote, ‘all of them sound and whole.’—‘Consider what your worship
says,’ replied Sancho. ‘I say, four, if not five,’ resumed the knight;
‘for, in all my life, I never lost tooth or fang, either by worm, rheum,
or scurvy.’—‘At present,’ said the squire, ‘in that part of the lower
jaw, your worship has but two grinders and a half; and above, neither
half nor whole; all is smooth as the palm of my hand.’—‘Cruel fortune!’
cried Don Quixote, hearing this melancholy piece of news; ‘would they
had rather demolished a limb, so it had not been the sword-arm: for I
would have thee to know, Sancho, that a mouth without grinders, is like
a mill without a milstone; and a tooth is worth a treasure[61]; but such
mischances always attend us who profess the strict order of chivalry.
Get up, friend, and lead the way, and I will follow at thy own pace.’
Sancho complied with his desire, and took the way that seemed most
likely to lead to some accommodation, without quitting the high road,
which was thereabouts very much frequented. While they jogged on softly,
because the pain in Don Quixote’s jaws would not suffer him to be quiet,
or exert himself in pushing forward, Sancho being desirous of
entertaining and diverting him with his discourse, said, among other
things, what will be rehearsed in the following chapter.
Footnote 59:
In the original, from Ceca to Mecca; a phrase derived from the customs
of the Moors, who used to go in pilgrimage to these two places. Ceca
was in the city of Cordova.
Footnote 60:
Zebra is a beautiful creature, native of Arabia, vulgarly called the
wild ass.
Footnote 61:
I have endeavoured to preserve an alliteration in tooth and treasure,
after the example of Cervantes, who seems to have intended it, in the
words _diente_ and _diamante_.
CHAP. V.
AN ACCOUNT OF THE SAGE DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN SANCHO AND HIS
MASTER—THE SUCCEEDING ADVENTURE OF THE CORPSE—WITH OTHER REMARKABLE
EVENTS.
‘In my opinion, my good master, all the misventures, which have this day
happened to us, are designed as a punishment for the sins committed by
your worship, in neglecting to fulfil the oath you took, not to eat off
a table-cloth, nor solace yourself with the queen; together with all the
rest that follows, which your worship swore to observe, until such time
as you could carry off that helmet of Malandrino, or how d’ye call the
Moor? for I don’t remember his right name.’—‘Thou art very much in the
right,’ said Don Quixote: ‘to deal ingenuously with thee, Sancho, that
affair had actually slipt out of my remembrance; and thou mayest depend
upon it, that affair of the blanketing happened to thee, for the fault
thou wast guilty of, in omitting to put me in mind of it in time: but I
will make an atonement; for there are methods for compounding every
thing, in the order of chivalry.’—‘Did I swear any thing?’ replied
Sancho. ‘Your not having sworn is of no importance,’ said Don Quixote;
‘it is enough that I know you to be concerned as an accessary; and
whether that be the case or not, it will not be amiss to provide a
remedy.’—‘Well, then,’ replied the squire, ‘I hope your worship will not
forget this, as you did the oath: perhaps the phantoms may take it in
their heads again to divert themselves with me, and even with your
worship, if they find you obstinate.’
In this and other such discourse, night overtook them in the midst of
their journey, before they could light on or discover any house where
they could procure lodging; and what was worse, they were almost
famished; for in their bags they had lost their whole buttery and
provision: nay, to crown their misfortune, an adventure happened to
them, that, without any exaggeration, might have actually passed for
something preternatural. Though the night shut in very dark, they
continued travelling; Sancho believing, that, as they were in the king’s
highway, they should probably find an inn at the distance of a league or
two.
Jogging on, therefore, under cloud of night, the squire exceeding
hungry, and the master very well disposed to eat, they descried upon the
road before them a vast number of lights, that seemed like moving stars,
approaching them. Sancho was confounded at the sight, the meaning of
which even Don Quixote could not comprehend: the one checked his ass,
the other pulled in his horse’s bridle, and both halted, in order to
gaze attentively at the apparition of the lights, which seemed to
increase the nearer they came. This being perceived by the squire, he
began to quake like quicksilver; and the hair bristled up on Don
Quixote’s head: nevertheless, recollecting himself a little, ‘Without
doubt, Sancho,’ said he, ‘this must be a vast and perilous adventure in
which I shall be obliged to exert my whole strength and prowess.’—‘Woe
is me!’ cried Sancho, ‘if perchance this should be an adventure of
phantoms, as I am afraid it is, where shall I find ribs for the
occasion?’—‘Phantoms or not phantoms,’ said the knight, ‘I will not
suffer them to touch a thread of thy cloaths: if they made merry at thy
expence before, it was owing to my incapacity to climb over the yard
wall; but at present we are in an open field, where I can manage my
sword as I please.’—‘But if they should benumb and bewitch you, as they
did in the morning,’ said the squire, ‘what benefit shall I receive from
being in the open field?’—‘Be that as it will,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I
beseech thee, Sancho, be of good courage, and thou shalt soon know by
experience how much I am master of that virtue.’ Sancho accordingly
promised to do his best, with God’s assistance. Then they both stepped
to one side of the road, and began to gaze again with great attention.
While they were thus endeavouring to discern the meaning of the lights,
they perceived a great number of persons in white; which dreadful vision
entirely extinguished the courage of Sancho Panza, whose teeth began to
chatter, as if he had been in the cold fit of an ague; and this
agitation and chattering increased, when they saw them more distinctly;
for, first and foremost appeared about twenty persons on horseback, all
of them cloathed in white, with each a lighted flambeau in his hand,
muttering in a low and plaintive tone. Behind them came a litter covered
with black, followed by six mounted cavaliers in deep mourning, that
trailed at the very heels of their mules, which were easily
distinguished from horses by the slowness of their pace.
This strange vision, at such an hour, and in such a desart place, was
surely sufficient to smite the heart of Sancho with fear, and even make
an impression upon his master; and this would have been the case, had he
been any other than Don Quixote; as for the squire, his whole stock of
resolution went to wreck. It was not so with his master, whose
imagination clearly represented to him, that this was exactly an
adventure of the same kind with those he had read in books of chivalry;
that the close litter was a bier, in which was carried some dead or
wounded knight, the revenge of whose wrongs was reserved for him alone:
wherefore, without canvassing the matter any farther, he set his lance
in the rest, fixed himself in his seat, and with the most genteel and
gallant deportment, placing himself in the middle of the road, through
which they were indispensibly obliged to pass, he raised his voice, and
called to them as they approached—
‘Halt, knights, whosoever ye are, and give an account of yourselves:
whence come ye? whither go ye? and what are you carrying off in that
bier? for, in all appearance, you have either done or received an
injury; and it is necessary and convenient that I should know it, in
order to chastise you for what you are now doing, or revenge the wrong
you have already done.’—‘We are at present in a hurry,’ replied one of
the phantoms in white; ‘the inn we intend to lodge at is far off, and we
cannot stay to give such a tedious account as you desire.’ So saying, he
spurred on his mule; while Don Quixote, mightily incensed at this reply,
laid hold of his bridle, saying, ‘Stand, and answer the questions I have
asked, with more civility; otherwise I will give battle to you all.’
The mule being skittish, was frighted in such a manner, at being seized
by the bridle, that rearing on her hind feet, she fell backward upon her
rider; and a servant on foot, seeing his master fall, began to revile
Don Quixote, whose choler being already provoked, he couched his lance,
and without hesitation attacked one of the mourners, who soon fell to
the ground, most miserably mauled; then wheeling about upon the rest, it
was surprizing to see with what dispatch he assaulted and put them to
the rout! while Rozinante acted with such agility and fury, that one
would have sworn, at that instant, a pair of wings had sprung from his
back. All the squadron arrayed in white, was composed of timorous and
unarmed people, who were fain to get out of the fray as soon as
possible, and began to fly across the plain, with their lighted torches
like so many maskers in carnival time. The mourners being involved and
intangled in their long robes, could not stir out of the way; so that
Don Quixote, without running any risk, drubbed them all round, and
obliged them at length to quit the field, much against their
inclination; for they actually believed he was no man, but a devil
incarnate, who lay in wait to carry off the dead body that was in the
litter.
All this while Sancho stood beholding with admiration the courage and
intrepidity of the knight; saying within himself, ‘This master of mine
is certainly as strong and valiant as he pretends to be.’
Meanwhile, Don Quixote, by the light of a torch that lay burning on the
ground, perceiving the first whom the mule overthrew, rode up to him,
and clapping the point of his lance to the poor man’s throat, commanded
him to yield, otherwise he would put him to death. To this declaration
the other answered, ‘Methinks I am already sufficiently quiet; for one
of my legs is broke, so that I cannot stir; I beseech your worship,
therefore, if you be a Christian, not to kill me, as in so doing you
will commit the horrid sin of sacrilege; for I am a licentiate, and have
taken holy orders.’—‘If you are an ecclesiastick, what the devil brought
you here?’ cried Don Quixote. ‘The devil, indeed, I think it was,’
answered the overthrown priest. ‘You will have to do with worse than the
devil,’ said the knight, ‘if you refuse the satisfaction I at first
demanded.’—‘That is easily granted,’ replied the other; ‘and in the
first place your worship must know, that though I just now called myself
a licentiate, I am no more than a batchelor: my name is Alonzo Lopez; I
was born at Alcovendas; and now come from the city of Baeça, in company
with eleven other priests, who are those who fled with the torches; we
are conveying to Segovia that litter which contains the corpse of a
gentleman who died at Baeça, where it was deposited till now, (as I was
saying) that we are carrying his bones to be interred at Segovia, which
was the place of his nativity.’—‘And who killed him?’ said Don Quixote.
‘God himself,’ replied the batchelor, ‘by means of a pestilential
calenture that seized him!’—‘At that rate,’ resumed the knight, ‘the
Lord hath saved me the trouble of avenging his death, as I would have
done, had he been slain by any mortal arm; but, considering how he died,
there is nothing to be done, except to shrug up our shoulders in
silence, for this is all that could happen, even if I myself should fall
by the same hand; and I desire your reverence would take notice, that I
am a knight of La Mancha, called Don Quixote, whose office and exercise
is to travel through the world, redressing grievances and righting
wrongs[62].’—‘I do not know how you can call this behaviour righting
wrongs,’ said the batchelor: ‘I am sure you have changed my right into
wrong, by breaking my leg, which will never be set to rights again so
long as I live; and the grievances you have redressed for me, have been
to aggrieve me in such a manner, as that I shall never cease to grieve
at my misventure, in meeting with you, while you was in search of
adventures.’—‘All things do not equally succeed,’ observed the knight;
‘it was the misfortune of you and your companions, Mr. Batchelor Alonzo
Lopez, to travel in the night, with these surplices and lighted
flambeaus, singing all the way, before people clad in deep mourning, so
that you seemed a company of ghosts broke from the other world,
therefore I could not help performing my duty in attacking you; and I
would have behaved in the same manner, had I actually known you to be
really and truly the inhabitants of hell; for such indeed I thought you
were.’—‘Since my hard fate would have it so,’ said the batchelor, ‘I
entreat your worship, Sir knight-errant, who have been the cause of an
unlucky errand to me, to help me from getting under the mule, which
keeps one of my legs fast jammed between the stirrup and the saddle.’—‘I
might have talked on till morning,’ said the knight; ‘why did not you
inform me of your distress sooner?’
He then called aloud to Sancho, who was in no hurry to hear him, but
busy in rummaging a sumpter-mule which those honest priests brought
along with them, well furnished with provisions. Having made a bag of
his great coat, into which he crammed as much of their victuals as it
would hold, he loaded his ass with the bundle, and then running up to
his master, helped to free Mr. Batchelor from the oppression of his
mule, on which having mounted him, with a torch in his hand, Don Quixote
advised him to follow the route of his companions; and desired him to
beg their pardon in his name, for the injury he had done them, as it was
not in his power to avoid it. Sancho, likewise interposing, said, ‘If in
case the gentleman should want to know who the valiant hero is who put
them to flight, your worship may tell them, that he is the famous Don
Quixote de La Mancha, otherwise surnamed the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance.’
Thus dismissed, the batchelor pursued his way; and the knight asked what
had induced Sancho, now, rather than at any other time, to stile him the
Knight of the Rueful Countenance. ‘Truly,’ answered Sancho, ‘I have been
looking at you some time by the light of that torch the unfortunate
traveller held in his hand; and in good faith, your worship cuts the
most dismal figure I have almost ever seen; and it must certainly be
occasioned either by the fatigue you have undergone in this battle, or
by the want of your teeth.’—‘That is not the case,’ replied his master;
‘but the sage who is destined to write the history of my exploits, hath
thought proper that I should assume some appellation, by the example of
former knights, one of whom took the title of the Flaming Sword; another
of the Unicorn; a third of the Ladies; a fourth of the Phœnix; a fifth
of the Griffin; a sixth called himself the Knight of Death; and by these
epithets and symbols they were known all over the face of the earth; and
therefore I say, that the forementioned sage hath now put it into thy
thoughts, and directed thy tongue to call me the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance; an appellation that henceforward I adopt; and that it may
suit me the better, I am resolved to have a most woeful figure painted
upon my shield, with the first opportunity.’—‘There is no occasion,’
said Sancho, ‘to throw away time and money on such a device; your
worship has nothing more to do but uncover your face; and I’ll warrant
those who behold it will call it a rueful one, without your having
recourse to pictures and shields to explain your meaning; and you may
believe I tell you nothing but the truth, when I maintain, though it be
but in jest, that hunger and want of teeth makes your worship look so
ill-favouredly, that we may very well save the expence of a rueful
picture.’
Don Quixote could not help laughing at the pleasantry of Sancho, though
he actually determined to assume that name, and have his shield and
target painted according to his fancy, ‘I know, Sancho,’ said he, ‘that
I have incurred the sentence of excommunication, for having laid violent
hands on consecrated things, according to the canon; “_Si quis suadente
diabolo, &c._” yet you know I touched them not with my hands, but with
my lance; and even then never dreamed of injuring priests, or of giving
the smallest offence to the church, which I respect and adore, like a
faithful catholick and Christian as I am; but, on the contrary, took
them for phantoms and beings of another world: but the case being as it
is, I remember what happened to the Cid Ruy Diaz, who broke to pieces
the chair of a certain king’s ambassador, in presence of his holiness
the pope; for which outrage he was excommunicated; and that very day the
worthy Rodrigo de Vivar behaved like a valiant and honourable knight.’
The batchelor being gone, as we have observed, without answering one
word, Don Quixote expressed a desire of examining the litter, to see if
it really contained a corpse; but Sancho would by no means consent to
this enquiry, saying, ‘Your worship has already finished this perilous
adventure with less damage to yourself than I have seen you receive in
any other; but the people whom you have conquered and overthrown, may
chance to recollect that they were vanquished by a single man, and be so
much ashamed and confounded at their own cowardice as to rally, and if
they find us, give us our belly-full. Dapple is at present very
comfortably furnished; there is an uninhabited mountain hard by, hunger
is craving, we have nothing to do but retreat thither at a gentle trot;
and, as the saying is, “The dead to the bier, and the living to good
cheer.”’ With these words he took the lead with his ass, and the knight
thinking there was a good deal of reason in what he said, followed him
very peaceably, without making any reply.
When they had travelled a little way between two hills, they found
themselves in a spacious and retired valley, where they alighted; Sancho
unloaded the ass, they sat down on the green turf, and with hunger for
their sauce, dispatched their breakfast, dinner, afternoon’s luncheon,
and supper, at one meal; solacing their stomachs out of more than one
basket, which the ecclesiastical attendants of the defunct, who seldom
neglect these things, had brought along with them on their sumpter-mule:
but another misfortune befel them, which, in Sancho’s opinion, was the
worst that could happen: they had not one drop of wine to drink, nor
indeed of water to cool their throats, so that they were parched with
thirst; then the squire, perceiving the meadow where they sat was
overgrown with green and tender grass, made the proposal which may be
seen in the following chapter.
Footnote 62:
Knights engaged themselves, by oath, to protect the widow and the
orphan, to redress all injuries; and, in a special manner, to defend
the characters of ladies by force of arms.
CHAP. VI.
OF THE UNSEEN AND UNHEARD OF ADVENTURE
ATCHIEVED BY THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA,
WITH LESS HAZARD THAN EVER ATTENDED ANY EXPLOIT
PERFORMED BY THE MOST RENOWNED KNIGHT ON EARTH.
‘This grass, my good master, proves beyond all contradiction, that there
must be some spring or rivulet hereabouts by which it is watered; and
therefore we had better proceed a little farther, until we find
wherewith to allay this terrible thirst, which is more painful and
fatiguing than hunger alone.’ This advice appearing rational to Don
Quixote, he took hold of Rozinante’s bridle, and Sancho leading Dapple
by the halter, after he had loaded him again with the fragments of their
supper, they began to move farther into the meadow, at a venture; for
the night was so dark, they could not distinguish one object from
another: but they had not gone two hundred paces, when their ears were
saluted with a prodigious noise of water, that seemed to rush down from
some huge and lofty rocks; they were infinitely rejoiced at the sound,
when halting to listen, that they might know whence it came, they were
all of a sudden surprized with another kind of noise, that soon damped
the pleasure occasioned by the water, especially in Sancho, who was
naturally fearful and faint-hearted; I say they heard the sound of
regular strokes, accompanied with strange clanking of iron chains,
which, added to the dreadful din of the cataract, would have smote the
heart of any other but Don Quixote with fear and consternation.
The night, as we have already observed, was dark; our travellers
happened at this time to be in a grove of tall trees, whose leaves,
moving gently by the wind, yielded a sort of dreary whisper: so that the
solitude of the place, the darkness of the night, the noise of the
water, and rustling of the leaves, concurred to inspire them with horror
and dismay; the more so, as the strokes were continued, the wind sighed
on, and the morning was far off; and all these circumstances were
aggravated by their ignorance of the place in which they were. But Don
Quixote, encouraged by his own intrepid heart, mounted Rozinante, braced
his shield, and brandishing his lance, ‘Friend Sancho,’ cried he, ‘know
that I was born by Heaven’s appointment in these iron times to revive
the age of gold, or, as it is usually called, the golden age. I am he
for whom strange perils, valiant deeds, and vast adventures, are
reserved! I am he, I say, ordained to re-establish the Knights of the
Round-table, the Twelve Peers of France, with the Nine Worthies! He
whose feats shall bury, in oblivion the Platirs, Tablantes, Olivantes,
and Tirantes, the Febuses and Belianises, together with the whole tribe
of knights-errant who lived in former times; performing such mighty and
amazing deeds of arms, as will eclipse their most renowned acts!
Consider well, thou true and loyal squire, the darkness and the solemn
stillness of this night, the indistinct and hollow whispering of these
trees, the dreadful din of that water we came to seek, which seems to
rush and rumble down from the lofty mountains of the moon; together with
these incessant strokes that strike and wound our ears: all those
circumstances united, or each singly by itself, is sufficient to infuse
fear, terror, and dismay, into the breast of Mars himself; much more in
him who is altogether unaccustomed to such adventures and events. Yet
all I have described are only incentives that awaken my courage, and
already cause my heart to rebound within my breast, with desire to
atchieve this adventure, howsoever difficult it may appear to be!
Therefore straiten Rozinante’s girth, recommend thyself to God, and wait
for me in this place, three days at farthest; within which time, if I
come not back, thou mayest return to our village; and, as the last
favour and service done to me, go from thence to Toboso, and inform my
incomparable mistress, Dulcinea, that her captive knight died in
attempting things that might render him worthy to be called her lover.’
When Sancho heard these last words of his master, he began to blubber
with incredible tenderness. ‘I cannot conceive,’ said he, ‘why your
worship should attempt such a terrible adventure: it is now dark, and
nobody sees us; therefore we may turn out of this road and avoid the
danger, though we should not taste liquor these three days; and if
nobody sees us, we run no risk of being accused of cowardice; besides, I
have heard the curate of our town, whom your worship knows very well,
remark in his preaching, “He that seeketh danger perisheth therein;”
therefore it must be a sin to tempt God by engaging in this rash
exploit, from whence there is no escaping without a miracle; and Heaven
hath wrought enow of them already, in preserving you from being
blanketed as I was, and bringing you off conqueror, and sound wind and
limb, from the midst of so many adversaries as accompanied the dead man:
and if all this will not move you, nor soften your rugged heart, sure
you will relent, when you consider and are assured that your worship
will be scarce gone from hence, when I shall I through pure fear yield
my life to any thing that may chuse to take it. I left my habitation,
wife and children, to come and serve your worship, believing it would be
the better, not the worse for me so to do; but as greediness bursts the
bag, so is the bag of my hopes bursten; for when they are at the highest
pitch, in expectation of that curst unlucky island your worship has
promised me so often, I find in lieu of that, you want to make me amends
by leaving me in this desart, removed from all human footsteps: for the
love of God, dear master, do me not such wrong; or if your worship is
resolved to attempt this atchievement at any rate, at least delay it
till morning, which, according to the signs I learned when I was a
shepherd, will appear in less than three hours; for the muzzle of the
bear is at the top of his head[63], and shews midnight in the line of
the left paw.’
‘How canst thou perceive,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that line, or head, or
muzzle, thou talked of, when the night is so dark that there is not a
star to be seen?’—‘It is so,’ answered Sancho; ‘but fear hath many eyes;
and I can at present behold things that are hid within the bowels of the
earth; much more those that appear in the firmament above: a man of
sound judgment, like me, can easily foretel that it will soon be
day.’—‘Let it come when it will,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘it shall not be
said of me, either now or at any other time, that I was diverted by
tears and intreaties from doing what I owed to the customs of chivalry;
I therefore beseech thee, Sancho, to hold thy peace; for God, who hath
put it in my heart to attempt this dreadful and unseen adventure, will
doubtless take care of my safety, and comfort thee in thy affliction:
thy business at present is to gird fast Rozinante, and remain in this
place, for dead or alive I will soon return.’
Sancho finding this was the final resolution of his master, and how
little all his tears, advice, and intreaties availed, determined, to
make use of stratagem to detain the knight, if possible, till morning:
with this purpose, under pretence of adjusting the girth of Rozinante,
he fair and softly, without being perceived, tied two of the horse’s
feet together with the halter of his ass, in such a manner, that when
Don Quixote attempted to depart, he found it impossible, because his
steed could move no otherwise than by leaps. The squire perceiving the
success of his invention, ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘you may see that Heaven,
melted by my tears and prayers, hath ordained that Rozinante shall not
stir; and if you obstinately persist in spurring and driving him on, you
will only give offence to Providence, and, as the saying is, “Kick
against the pricks.”’
The knight actually despaired of making him go forward, because the more
he goaded his horse, the less was he inclined to stir; and therefore,
without guessing a tittle of the ligature, thought proper to submit and
wait with patience, either till morning, or such time as Rozinante
should recover the use of his limbs; believing for certain, that his
disappointment was owing to another cause than the craft of his squire,
to whom he said, ‘Since Rozinante is incapable of moving, I am content
to wait for the dawn, though I cannot help lamenting its delay.’—‘You
shall have no cause for lamentation,’ answered Sancho; ‘I will entertain
your worship with telling stories till day, unless you chuse to alight,
and take a nap on the soft grass according to the custom of
knights-errant, that you may find yourself refreshed when day breaks,
and ready to undertake the unconscionable adventure that awaits
you.’—‘Talk not to me of alighting or sleeping,’ said Don Quixote; ‘dost
thou imagine me to be one of those knights who seek their repose in
times of danger? Sleep thou who wast born to sleep, or follow thy own
inclinations; for my own part, I will behave as becomes a person of my
pretensions.’—‘Let not your worship be offended; for that was not my
intention when I spoke;’ answered Sancho; who coming close to him, laid
hold of the saddle before and behind, and stood embracing his master’s
left thigh, without daring to stir a finger’s breadth from the spot;
such was his consternation, inspired by the strokes, which all this time
sounded alternately in his ears.
Then Don Quixote claiming his promise of entertaining him with some
story; ‘I would with all my heart,’ said Sancho, ‘if the dread of what I
hear would allow me; but nevertheless I will try to force out one story,
which if I hit it aright, without letting it slip through my hands, is
the best tale that ever was told; therefore I would have your worship be
attentive, for thus I begin.
‘There was, so there was; the good that shall fall, betide us all; and
he that seeks evil, may he meet with the devil. Your worship may take
notice, that the beginning of ancient tales is not just what came into
the head of the teller: no, they always began with some saying of Cato
the censor of Rome, like this of, “He that seeks evil, may he meet with
the devil.” And truly it comes as pat to the purpose as the ring to my
finger, in order to persuade your worship to remain where you are,
without going in search of evil in any manner of way; or else to turn
into another road, since we are not bound to follow this in which we
have been surprized with fear and terror.’—‘Follow thy story, Sancho,’
said Don Quixote; ‘and as to the road we have to follow, leave the care
of that to me.’—‘To proceed, then,’ said Sancho; ‘in a certain village
of Estremadura there lived a certain goat shepherd; I mean, one that
kept goats; and this shepherd or goatherd, as the story goes, was called
Lope Ruyz; and it came to pass, that this Lope Ruyz fell in love with a
shepherdess whose name was Torralva; which shepherdess, whose name was
Torralva, was the daughter of a rich herdsman; and this rich herdsman—’
‘If thou telleth thy tale in this manner,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘repeating
every circumstance twice over, it will not be finished these two days:
proceed therefore connectedly, and rehearse it like a man of
understanding; otherwise thou hadst better hold thy tongue.’—‘In my
country,’ answered Sancho, ‘all the old stories are told in this manner;
neither can I tell it in any other; nor is it civil in your worship to
desire I should change the custom.’—‘Take thy own way,’ said the knight;
‘and since it is the will of fate that I should hear thee, pray go on.’
‘Well, then, good master of mine,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘that same
shepherd, as I have already remarked, fell in love with the shepherdess
Torralva, who was a thick, brawny wench, a little coy, and somewhat
masculine; for she wore a sort of mustachios: methinks I see her now for
all the world.’—‘Then thou knewest her?’ said the knight. ‘Not I,’
answered the squire; ‘but the person who told me the story, said it was
so true and certain, that if ever I should chance to tell it again, I
might affirm upon oath that I had seen it with my own eyes—And so, in
process of time, the devil, who never sleeps, but wants to have a finger
in every pye, managed matters in such a manner, that the shepherd’s love
for the shepherdess was turned into malice and deadly hate: and the
cause, according to evil tongues, was a certain quantity of small
jealousies she gave him, exceeding all bounds of measure. And such was
the abhorrence the shepherd conceived for her, from that good day
forward, that, in order to avoid the sight of her, he resolved to absent
himself from his own country, and go where he should never set eyes on
her again. Torralva, finding herself despised by Lope, began to love him
more than ever.’—‘That is the natural disposition of the sex,’ said Don
Quixote, ‘to disdain those who adore them, and love those by whom they
are abhorred: but proceed, Sancho.’
‘It so fell out,’ said Sancho, ‘that the shepherd put his resolution in
practice, and driving his goats before him, travelled through the plains
of Estremadura, towards the kingdom of Portugal. Torralva, having got an
inkling of his design, was soon at his heels, following him on foot,
aye, and barefoot too, with a pilgrim’s staff in her hand, and a wallet
at her back, in which, as the report goes, she carried a bit of a
looking-glass, a broken comb, and a kind of phial of wash for her
complexion: but howsomever, whether she carried these things or not, I
shall not at present take upon me to aver; but only say what is
recorded, that the shepherd came with his flock to the river Guadiana,
which at that time was very high, having almost forsaken its channel;
and finding at the place neither boat nor bark to carry himself and his
flock to the other side, he was very much in the dumps, because he saw
Torralva behind him, and knew what he must suffer from her tears and
complaints: but looking about, he at last perceived hard by him a
fisherman in a boat, that was so small as to contain only one person and
one goat: nevertheless, they struck up a bargain, by which the man was
to ferry over the shepherd with his three hundred goats. Accordingly the
fisherman took one goat into the boat, and carried it over; then he
returned and carried over another, then he returned again to fetch
another. Pray, good your worship, keep an exact account of the goats, as
the fisherman ferried them over; for, if one only should be lost in the
reckoning, the story will break off, and it will be impossible for me to
relate one word more. To be short, then, I say, the landing-place on the
other side being full of mud and slippery, was a great hindrance to the
fisherman in his going and coming; but however he returned for the other
goat, and then for some more, and then for another.’
‘Suppose them all passed over at once,’ said Don Quixote, ‘for if thou
goest backwards and forwards in this manner, thou wilt not have them all
ferried over in a year.’—‘How many have already passed?’ said the
squire. ‘How the devil should I know?’ answered the knight. ‘Did not I
tell you to keep a good account?’ said Sancho; ‘now, before God, the
tale is ended, and it is impossible to proceed!’—‘How can that be?’
replied Don Quixote; ‘is it so essential to the story to know the number
of goats as they passed, so precisely, that if I misreckon one, thou
canst not proceed?’—‘Certainly, Sir,’ said Sancho, ‘I can proceed in no
manner of way: for when I desired your worship to tell me what number of
goats had passed, and you answered you did not know; at that instant the
whole of the story that remained untold, vanished from my remembrance;
and, upon my conscience! it was very curious and entertaining.’—‘At that
rate, then, the story is at an end?’ said Don Quixote. ‘As much at an
end,’ replied the squire, ‘as the mother that bore me.’
‘In good sooth,’ resumed the knight, ‘thou hast related the strangest
fable, tale, or story, that ever was invented; and finished thy relation
in such a manner as never was or will be heard again in this world; but
nothing else was to be expected from thy sound judgment; and indeed it
is a matter of no admiration with me, because I take it for granted,
that these incessant strokes have disordered thy understanding.’—‘Not
unlikely,’ said Sancho; ‘but this I know, that there is no more to be
said of the tale, which ended in that place where the mistake began
about the passage of the goats.’—‘In good time end it according to thy
own pleasure,’ replied the knight, ‘and now let us see if Rozinante will
move.’ So saying, he began again to spur, and the horse to leap without
moving from his station, so effectually had Sancho fettered him.
About this time, whether it was owing to the coolness of the morning
that approached, or to his having supped upon something that was
laxative; or, which is more probable, to the operation of nature; Sancho
was seized with an inclination and desire of doing that which could not
be performed by proxy; but such was the terror that had taken possession
of his soul, that he durst not move the breadth of a nail-pairing from
his master’s side; at the same time it was as impossible for him to
resist the motion of his bowels; and therefore, to compromise the
matter, he slipped his right-hand from the hinder part of the saddle,
and without any noise softly undid the slip-knot by which his breeches
were kept up; upon which they of themselves fell down to his heels,
where they remained like a pair of shackles; he then gathered up his
shirt behind as well as he could, and exposed his posteriors, which were
none of the smallest, to the open air: this being done, and he imagined
it was the chief step he could take to deliver himself from the pressing
occasion and dilemma in which he was, another difficulty still greater
occurred, namely, that he should not be able to disincumber himself
without noise; he therefore began to fix his teeth close, shrug up his
shoulders, and hold in his breath with all his might. But,
notwithstanding these precautions, he was so unlucky in the issue, as to
produce a rumbling sound very different from that which had terrified
him so much. It did not escape the ears of Don Quixote, who immediately
cried, ‘What noise is that, Sancho?’—‘I know not, Sir,’ said the squire;
‘it must be some new affair, for adventures and misventures never begin
with trifles.’ He tried his fortune a second time; and, without any more
noise or disorder, freed himself from the load which had given him so
much uneasiness. But as Don Quixote’s sense of smelling was altogether
as acute as that of his hearing, and Sancho stood so close to him that
the vapours ascended towards him almost in a direct line, he could not
exclude some of them from paying a visit to his nose. No sooner was he
sensible of the first salutation, than, in his own defence, he pressed
his nose between his finger and thumb, and, in a snuffling tone,
pronounced, ‘Sancho, thou seemest to be in great fear.’—‘I am so,’
answered the squire; ‘but how comes your worship to perceive my fears
now more than ever?’—‘Because at present thou smellest more than ever,
and that not of amber,’ replied the knight. ‘That may be,’ said Sancho;
‘but I am not so much to blame as your worship, who drags me at such
unseasonable hours into these uninhabited places.’—‘Retire three or four
steps farther off, friend,’ resumed Don Quixote, stopping his nose all
the time, ‘and henceforth take more heed of thy own person, and remember
what thou owest to mine; for I find the frequent conversation I maintain
with thee, hath engendered this disrespect.’—‘I’ll lay a wager,’ replied
Sancho, ‘that your worship thinks I have been doing something I ought
not to have done.’—‘The more you stir it, friend Sancho,’ said the
knight, ‘the more it will stink.’
In this and other such discourse, the master and his squire passed the
night; but Sancho perceiving the day begin to break apace, with great
care and secresy unbound Rozinante, and tied up his breeches. The beast,
which was naturally none of the briskest, seemed to rejoice at his
freedom, and began to paw the ground; for as to curvetting, with his
leave be it spoken, he knew nothing of the matter. Don Quixote, finding
him so mettlesome, conceived a good omen from his eagerness, believing
it a certain presage of his success in the dreadful adventure he was
about to atchieve. Aurora now disclosed herself, and objects appearing
distinctly, Don Quixote found himself in a grove of tall chesnut-trees,
which formed a very thick shade. The strokes still continuing, though he
could not conceive the meaning of them, he, without farther delay, made
Rozinante feel the spur; then turning to take leave of Sancho, commanded
him to wait three days at farthest, as he had directed before; and if he
should not return before that time was expired, he might take it for
granted that God had been pleased to put a period to his life in that
perilous adventure; he again recommended to him the embassy and message
he should carry from him to his mistress Dulcinea, and bade him give
himself no uneasiness about his wages; for he had made a will before he
quitted his family, in which he should find his services repaid, by a
salary proportioned to the time of his attendance: but if Heaven should
be pleased to bring him off from that danger, safe, sound, and free, he
might, beyond all question, lay his account with the government of the
island he had promised him. Sancho, hearing these dismal expressions of
his worthy master repeated, began to blubber afresh, and resolved not to
leave him until the last circumstance and issue of the affair.
From these tears, and this honourable determination of Sancho Panza, the
author of this history concludes, that he must have been a gentleman
born, or an old Christian at least. His master himself was melted a
little at this testimony of his affection, but not so much as to
discover the least weakness: on the contrary, disguising his sentiments,
he rode forward towards the place from whence the noise of the strokes
and water seemed to come; Sancho followed on foot, and according to
custom, leading by the halter his ass, which was the constant companion
of his good and evil fortune. Having travelled a good way among those
shady chesnut-trees, they arrived in a small meadow lying at the foot of
a huge rock, over which a stream of water rushed down with vast
impetuosity. Below appeared a few wretched huts, that looked more like
ruins than houses; and they observed that from them proceeded the
horrible din of the strokes, which had not yet ceased.
Rozinante being startled at the dreadful noise of the strokes and water,
Don Quixote endeavoured to soothe him, and advanced by little and little
towards the huts, recommending himself in the most earnest manner to his
mistress, whose favour he implored in the atchievement of that fearful
enterprize: neither did he omit praying to God for his protection.
Sancho, who never stirred from his side, thrust his neck as far as he
could between the legs of Rozinante, in order to discover the objects
that kept him in such terror and suspence; and when they had proceeded
about a hundred paces farther, at the doubling of a corner, stood fully
disclosed to view the very individual and undoubted cause of this
tremendous sound and terrible noise, which had filled them with such
doubts and consternation all night long.
This was no other, (be not offended, gentle reader) than six
fulling-hammers, which, by their alternate strokes, produced that
amazing din. Don Quixote was struck dumb with astonishment at the sight;
Sancho looked at him, and found his head hanging down upon his breast,
and other manifest signs of his being out of countenance. The knight, in
his turn, looked at the squire, and saw his mouth shut, his cheeks
puffed up, with other symptoms of his being ready to burst with
laughing. This comical situation of the squire, in spite of all his own
melancholy, obliged the master to begin; and Sancho no sooner beheld the
severity of the knight’s features relaxed, than he opened the
flood-gates of his mirth, which broke forth with such violence, that he
was under the necessity of supporting his sides with both fists, that
they might not be rent to pieces by the convulsion. Four times did he
exhaust, and as often renew the laugh with the same impetuosity as at
first; for which Don Quixote already wished him at the devil, more
especially when he heard him pronounce, by way of sneer, ‘Know, friend
Sancho, that I was born by Heaven’s appointment, in these iron times, to
revive the age of gold, or the Golden Age! I am he for whom strange
perils, valiant deeds, and vast adventures, are reserved!’ And in this
manner he proceeded, repeating all, or the greater part of the knight’s
exclamation, when they first heard the terrible noise.
Don Quixote finding that Sancho made a jest of him, was so much ashamed
and provoked, that, lifting up his lance, he bestowed upon him two or
three thwacks, which, had they fallen upon his head, as they lighted on
his shoulders, would have saved his master the trouble of paying his
salary, unless it might be to his heirs. Sancho feeling his joke turned
into such disagreeable earnest, which he was afraid might not be as yet
over, addressed himself to his master with great humility, saying, ‘Good
your worship, forbear; before God, I was only in jest.’—‘Though you was
in jest,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘I was not quite so merrily disposed:
come hither, Mr. Joker; don’t you think, that if, instead of
fulling-hammers, these had been some very dangerous adventure, I have
shewn courage enough to undertake and atchieve it? Am I, who am a
knight, obliged, for sooth, to distinguish sounds, and know which
proceed from fulling-mills, and which do not? especially as it may be
the case, and it really is so, that I never saw one before; though it is
otherwise with thee, base plebeian as thou art, who was born and bred up
among them: but see if thou canst metamorphose these six hammers into so
many giants, and bring them within arm’s length of me, one by one, or
all together; and if I don’t make them lie with their heels uppermost,
make a jest of me as much as you please.’
‘Enough, dear master,’ replied Sancho, ‘I confess I have exceeded a
little in my pleasantry; but, pray tell me now, that we are at peace
again, as God shall deliver your worship from all succeeding adventures
as safe and sound as you have been extricated from this, is not the
terror with which we were seized, a thing to be laughed at and repeated?
I mean, my own terror; for, as to your worship, I know you are an utter
stranger to terror and dismay!’—‘I do not deny,’ answered Don Quixote,
‘that what hath happened to us is ridiculous enough; but, nevertheless,
it ought not to be repeated; because every body has not discretion to
take things by the right handle.’—‘I am sure,’ replied Sancho, ‘that
your worship knows how to handle your lance, with which, while you
wanted to handle my head, you happened to salute my shoulders; thanks be
to God, and my own activity, in avoiding the blow: but all that, when it
is dry, will rub out; and I have often heard it said, “He that loves
thee well, will often make thee cry.” Nay, it is a common thing for your
gentry, when they have said a harsh thing to a servant, to make it up
with him by giving him a pair of cast breeches; though I don’t know what
they used to give after having beaten him, unless it be the practice of
knights-errant, after blows, to give islands, or kingdoms on the main
land.’
‘Who knows,’ said Don Quixote, ‘but the dice may run that way, and all
that thou hast mentioned come to pass. I ask pardon for what is past,
since you are resolved to be more discreet for the future; and as the
first emotions are not in a man’s own power, I must apprize thee
henceforward to be more reserved, and abstain from speaking so freely to
me; for in all the books of chivalry I have read, and they are almost
infinite, I never found that any squire talked so much to his master as
thou hast talked to thine: and really both you and I are very much to
blame; thou, in regarding me so little; and I, in not making myself
regarded more. Was not Gandalin, squire of Amadis de Gaul, count of the
Firm Island? and yet we read of him, that he always spoke to his master
cap in hand, with an inclination of his head, and his body bent in the
Turkish manner. What need I mention Gasabal, squire to Don Galaor, who
was so reserved, that, in order to express the excellence of his
surprizing silence, his name is mentioned but once in the whole course
of that equally vast and true history. From what I have said, Sancho,
thou art to draw this inference, that there is a necessity for
maintaining some distinction between the master and his man, the
gentleman and his servant, and the knight and his squire: wherefore,
from this day forward, we are to be treated with more respect and less
provocation; for if ever I am incensed by you again, in any shape
whatever, the pitcher will pay for all. The favours and benefits I have
promised will come in due time; and if they should fail, your wages at
least will be forthcoming, as I have already informed you.’
‘All that your worship observes is very just,’ said Sancho; ‘but I
should be glad to know, since if the benefits come not in time, I must
be fain to put up with the wages, what was the hire of a knight-errant’s
squire in those days; and whether they agreed by the month or the day,
like common labourers?’—‘I do not believe,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘that
they were retained for hire, but depended altogether on favour; and
though I have bequeathed a sum to thee in my will, which I have left
signed and sealed at home, it was done in case of the worst; for one
does not know how chivalry may succeed in these calamitous times: and I
would not have my soul punished in the other world for so small a
matter; for, let me tell thee, Sancho, in this there is not a more
dangerous course than that of adventures.’—‘That I know to be true,’
answered the squire, ‘since the noise of a fulling-mill could daunt and
disturb the heart of such a valiant knight-errant as your worship: but
this I assure you of, that from this good hour, my lips shall never give
umbrage to your worship in turning your affairs to jest again; but, on
the contrary, honour you as my natural lord and master.’—‘In so doing,’
replied Don Quixote, ‘thou shalt live long upon the face of the earth;
for, after your father and mother, you ought to respect your master as
another parent.’
Footnote 63:
In Castilian, _bocina_ signifies a cornet, or hunting-horn, to which
the Spaniards suppose the constellation of Ursa Minor bears some
resemblance.
CHAP. VII.
OF THE SUBLIME ADVENTURE AND SHINING ACQUISITION OF MAMBRINO’S
HELMET—WITH OTHER ACCIDENTS THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE KNIGHT.
About this time some rain beginning to fall, Sancho proposed that they
should shelter themselves in the fulling-mill; but Don Quixote had
conceived such abhorrence for it on account of what was past, that he
would by no means set foot within its walls; wherefore, turning to the
right-hand, they chanced to fall in with a road different from that in
which they had travelled the day before: they had not gone far, when the
knight discovered a man riding with something on his head, that
glittered like polished gold; and scarce had he descried this
phænomenon, when turning to Sancho, ‘I find,’ said he, ‘that every
proverb is strictly true; indeed all of them are apothegms dictated by
Experience herself, the mother of all science; more especially that
which says, “Shut one door, and another will soon open:” this I mention,
because if last night Fortune shut against us the door we sought to
enter, by deceiving us with the fulling-hammers; to-day another stands
wide open, in profering to us another greater and more certain
adventure, by which if I fail to enter, it shall be my own fault, and
not imputed to my ignorance of fulling-mills, or the darkness of the
night. This I take upon me to say, because, if I am not egregiously
mistaken, the person who comes towards us, wears upon his head the very
helmet of Mambrino, about which I swore the oath which thou mayest
remember.’
‘Consider well what your worship says, and better still what you do!’
said Sancho. ‘I should not chuse to meet with more fulling-mills to mill
us and maul us altogether out of our senses.’—‘The devil take the
fellow,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘what affinity is there between a
fulling-mill and a helmet?’—‘Truly, I know not,’ answered the squire;
‘but in good faith, if I were permitted to speak freely, as usual, I
could perhaps give such reasons as would convince your worship, that you
are mistaken in what you say.’—‘How can I be mistaken, scrupulous
traitor?’ replied Don Quixote: ‘seest thou not yonder knight who rides
this way upon a dapple steed with a golden helmet on his head?’—‘What I
perceive and discern,’ said Sancho, ‘is no other than a man upon a grey
ass, like my own, with something that glitters on his head.’—‘And that
is the very helmet of Mambrino,’ replied the knight: ‘stand aside, and
leave me alone to deal with him: thou shalt see, that without speaking a
syllable, in order to spare time, this adventure will be concluded by my
acquisition of the helmet I have longed for so much.’—‘Yes, I will take
care to get out of the way,’ answered Sancho; ‘and God grant,’ cried he,
as he went off, ‘that this may turn out a melon rather than a
milling[64].’—‘I have already warned thee, brother,’ said the knight,
‘not to mention, nor even so much as think of the mill again: else, by
Heaven! I’ll say no more, but mill the soul out of thy body.’
Sancho was fain to hold his tongue, dreading the performance of his
master’s oath, which had already struck him all of a heap. The whole
affair of the helmet, steed, and knight, which Don Quixote saw, was no
more than this: in that neighbourhood were two villages, one of them so
poor and small, that it had neither shop nor barber: for which reason,
the trimmer of the larger that was hard by, served the lesser also, in
which, at that time, there was a sick person to be blooded, and another
to be shaved; so that this barber was going thither with his brass bason
under his arm; but, as it chanced to rain while he was on the road, that
he might not spoil his hat, which probably was a new one, he sheltered
his head under the bason, which being clean scoured, made a flaming
appearance, at the distance of half a league; and, as Sancho had
observed, he rode upon a grey ass, which gave occasion to Don Quixote to
believe he was some knight with a helmet of gold, mounted upon a dapple
steed; for he accommodated every thing he saw, with incredible facility,
to the extravagant ravings of his disordered judgment. When he,
therefore, saw this unlucky knight approach, without the least
expostulation, he put Rozinante to full speed, and couching his lance in
the rest, resolved to run him through the body at once; but, when he was
almost up with him, without checking the impetuosity of his career, he
cried aloud, ‘Defend thyself, wretched caitiff, or voluntarily yield
what so justly belongs to me.’
The poor barber, who neither dreaded nor dreamed of any such demand,
seeing this phantom coming full speed upon him, could find no other
means to defend himself from the stroke of the lance, than to throw
himself down over the buttocks of his ass: then getting up, before he
had scarce touched the ground, with the nimbleness of a stag, he began
to fly across the plain so swift, that the wind itself could not
overtake him: but he left his bason upon the spot, with which Don
Quixote was satisfied, saying, ‘The pagan hath acted with discretion, in
imitating the beaver, which, seeing itself chaced by the hunters, tears
off with its teeth, by natural instinct, these parts for which it is
pursued.’ Then, he ordered Sancho to take up the helmet, which the
squire having examined all round, ‘Egad!’ said he, ‘it is a special good
bason, well worth a piece of eight, if it be worth a farthing!’ and gave
it to his master, who putting it on his head, and turning it round and
round, without being able to find the vizor, said, ‘Without doubt, the
pagan for whom this renowned helmet was first forged, must have had a
most capacious head: but the worst of it is, that one half is wanting.’
When Sancho heard him call the bason a helmet, he could not refrain from
laughing; but, remembering the indignation of his master, checked his
mirth all of a sudden; and when Don Quixote asked what he laughed at,
replied, ‘I cannot help laughing when I think of the huge head of the
pagan who owned that helmet, which looks for all the world like a
barber’s bason.’—‘Why, truly Sancho,’ said he, ‘I imagine that this very
individual inchanted helmet, by some strange accident or other, must
have fallen into the hands of somebody who did not know its inestimable
value, but seeing it was made of the purest gold, melted down one half
of it for sale, and left the other in this shape, resembling, as thou
sayest, a barber’s bason: but be that as it may, since I am satisfied of
its real worth and identity, the transmutation is of small consequence;
for I will order it to be repaired in the first village where we can
find a blacksmith, in such a manner as to be unexcelled, nay even
unequalled by that which Vulcan forged and finished for the god of war;
meanwhile, I will wear it in this manner, for it is still better than
nothing at all, and will be sufficient to defend me from any shower of
stones that may chance to fall.’
‘Yes, if they come not out of slings, as was the case in the skirmish
between the two armies, when they demolished your worship’s grinders,
and broke the cruse which contained that blessed balsam, which made me
vomit up my liver and lights!’—‘That loss gives me not much uneasiness,’
answered the knight, ‘because thou knowest, Sancho, I retain the receipt
of it in my memory.’—‘So do I,’ replied the squire. ‘But, Lord, let me
never stir from the place where I now stand, if ever I either make or
meddle with it for the future; especially as I hope I never shall have
occasion for it again, being resolved, with the assistance of my five
senses, to avoid being hurt myself, and also to refrain from hurting any
person whatsoever. As to another bout of blanketing, I have little to
say: such misfortunes are not easily prevented; but when they happen,
there is nothing else to be done, but to shrug up our shoulders, hold in
our breath, shut our eyes, and leave ourselves to the determination of
chance and the blanket.’
‘Thou art a bad Christian, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, when he heard
these words; ‘for once you receive an injury, you never forget it; but
know it is peculiar to noble and generous minds to overlook such
trifles: hast thou got a leg lamed, a rib fractured, or thy head broke
in the prosecution of that jest, that thou canst not forget it? for the
affair, when duly considered, was no more than jest and pastime; had I
not understood it so, I should have returned ere now, and done more
mischief in revenging thy quarrel, than the Grecians did for the rape of
Helen; who, it she had lived in this age, or if my Dulcinea had
flourished in her time, would not have been so renowned for beauty.’
Here he fetched a profound sigh, and sent it to the clouds. ‘Let it
pass, then, for a joke,’ said Sancho, ‘since there is no likelihood of
its being revenged in earnest: but I know what sort of jokes and
earnests those are; and I believe they will scarce slip out of my
memory, while they remain engraven on my shoulders. But, setting this
aside, I wish your worship would tell me what I shall do with this
dapple steed so like a grey ass, which was abandoned by that caitiff,
whom your worship overthrew; for by the swiftness of his heels, when he
ran away, he seems to have no thoughts of returning; and by my whiskers
’tis an excellent beast!’
‘It is never my custom,’ said Don Quixote, ‘to plunder those I overcome;
neither is it according to the laws of chivalry, to take them from their
horses and leave them on foot, unless the conqueror hath lost his own
during the engagement; in which case we are allowed to take the horse of
the vanquished as the lawful spoils of war: wherefore, Sancho, leave
that horse or ass, or what thou wilt, where he now stands, and perhaps
his master, perceiving we are gone, will return and find him.’—‘God is
my witness,’ answered Sancho, ‘I should be glad to carry him off, or at
least exchange him for my own, which seems to be the worst of the two:
truly the laws of chivalry are too confined; and since they do not
extend to the exchange of one ass for another, I would fain know if they
allow me to change the furniture of the one for that of the other?’—‘I
am not quite clear in that particular,’ replied the knight; ‘and in such
a dubious case, till such time as we can get better information, I think
thou mayest exchange the furniture, if the necessity for so doing be
extreme.’—‘It is so extreme,’ said Sancho, ‘that if it were for my own
particular wearing, I could not want it more.’ Thus provided with a
licence, he made the exchange of caparisons, and equipped his beast with
such finery, that he looked ten per cent. the better.
This exploit being performed, they went to breakfast on the remains of
what they had plundered from the sumpter-mule, and quenched their thirst
with the water from the fulling-mills, without turning their heads that
way, so much did they abhor them on account of the dread which they had
inspired. The rage of hunger and anxiety being thus appeased, they
mounted, and without following any determined course, (for it is the
practice of true knights-errant to keep no certain road) they left the
choice of their route to the will and pleasure of Rozinante, which was
always a rule to his master, as well as to the ass, that followed
whithersoever he led, like a trusty friend and companion. In
consequence, therefore, of his determination, they returned into the
high-road, in which they travelled at random without any particular
scheme.
While they thus jogged on, ‘Sir,’ said Sancho to his master, ‘I wish
your worship would allow me to confer a little with you; for, since you
imposed that severe command of silence upon me, divers things have
perished in my stomach; and this moment I have somewhat at my tongue’s
end, which I would not for the world have miscarry.’—‘Speak then,’ said
Don Quixote, ‘and be concise in thy discourse; for nothing that is
prolix can relish well.’—‘I say, Sir,’ answered Sancho, ‘that for some
days past I have been considering how little is to be got and saved by
going in quest of those adventures your worship hunts after, through
these cross-paths and desarts, where, though you conquer and atchieve
the most perilous exploits, there is nobody present to be witness of
your prowess; so that it may remain in everlasting silence, contrary to
the intention, and prejudicial to the merits of your worship; wherefore,
in my opinion, with submission to your better judgment, our wisest
course would be to go into the service of some emperor or great prince,
who hath a war upon his hands, in whose service your worship may have
occasion to shew your personal valour, your great strength, and greater
understanding; which being perceived by the king we serve, he cannot
chuse but reward each of us according to his deserts; neither will there
be wanting some person to write the history of your worship’s exploits,
for a perpetual memorial: I shall not mention my own, because they
cannot exceed the bounds of a squire’s province; though this I will
venture to say, that if it was customary in chivalry to recount the
atchievements of our fraternity, I don’t think but mine might be
inferred between the lines of the book.’
‘Thou art not much in the wrong,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘but before it
comes to that issue, a knight must travel up and down the world as a
probationer in quest of adventures, until by his repeated atchievements
he shall have acquired a sufficient stock of fame; so that when he
arrives at the court of some mighty monarch, he may be immediately known
by his works. In that case, as soon as he shall be seen to enter the
gates of the city, all the boys will surround and follow him, shouting
and crying, “Behold the knight of the sun,” or the serpent, or of any
other badge under which he hath performed his great exploits. “Behold,”
they will say, “the man who vanquished in single combat the mighty giant
Brocarbruno, and delivered the great Mamaluke of Persia from the strange
inchantment that prevailed over him for the space of nine hundred
years.” Thus shall they proceed, recounting his exploits from mouth to
mouth; until, surprized at the noise of the children and populace, the
king of that country shall appear at one of the palace-windows; and no
sooner behold the knight, than knowing him immediately by his armour, or
the device upon his shield, he will certainly exclaim, “So ho, there!
let all the knights belonging to my court go forth and receive the
flower of chivalry that comes yonder.”
‘At this command all of them will come out, and the king himself advance
to meet him on the middle of the stair-case, where he will embrace him
most affectionately, giving him the kiss of friendship and welcome; then
taking him by the hand, will he conduct him to the queen’s closet, where
he will find her majesty with the princess her daughter, who is one of
the most beautiful and accomplished young ladies that ever was seen in
the known world. In this interview she will immediately fix her eyes
upon the knight, who at that instant shall be gazing at her, and each
will appear to the other something supernatural; without knowing how or
wherefore, they will find themselves presently caught and intangled in
the inextricable net of love, and be infinitely concerned because they
have no opportunity of conversing together, and of disclosing the
reciprocal anxiety of their thoughts. After this audience, he will,
doubtless, be carried to some apartment of the palace richly furnished,
where, after they shall have taken off his armour, they will clothe him
in a rich scarlet robe brought for the purpose; and if he made a fine
appearance in armour, he will look infinitely more genteel in his
doublet. At night he will sup at the same table with the king, queen,
and infanta, upon whom he will fix his eyes as often as he can, without
being perceived by the by-standers; while she will practise the same
expedient with equal sagacity: for, as I have already observed, she must
be a young lady of vast discretion.
‘The table being uncovered, there will enter at midnight through the
hall-door, a little deformed dwarf, followed by a beautiful lady,
guarded by two giants; and he will propose a certain adventure,
contrived by a most ancient sage, which whosoever shall finish, will be
deemed the most valiant knight in the whole world: then the king will
order every warrior in waiting to attempt it; but all of them shall fail
except the strange knight, who will perform and accomplish it very much
to his own credit, as well as to the satisfaction of the princess, who
will think herself extremely happy, and well requited, for having placed
her affections so worthily. What is better still, this king or prince,
or whatever he is, being at that time engaged in a most obstinate war
with a potentate of equal strength, his guest, after having staid a few
days at court, begs leave to go and serve him in the field; and the king
granting his request with pleasure, the knight most politely kisses his
hand for the great honour he hath done him; that same night he goes to
take his leave of his mistress the infanta, through the rails of a
garden adjoining to the chamber in which she lies; where they have
already at different times enjoyed each other’s conversation, by the
means of a damsel, who being the infanta’s confidante, is privy to the
whole amour: on this occasion he will sigh most piteously, she will
actually faint away; the damsel will run for water, and the knight will
be extremely concerned, because the day begins to break, and he would
not for the world be discovered to the prejudice of the lady’s
reputation. In fine, the princess recovers, and reaches her fair hand
through the rails to the knight, who kisses it a thousand times, and
bathes it with his tears; then is concerted between them some method by
which he is to inform her of his good or bad success, and the infanta
intreats him to return as soon as possible: he swears solemnly to comply
with her request, kisses her hand again, and bids her farewel with such
affliction as well-nigh deprives him of life: from thence he retreats to
his chamber, throws himself upon the bed, but cannot sleep, so grieved
is he at parting; he rises early in the morning, goes to take leave of
the king, queen, and infanta; their majesties accordingly bid him
farewel, after having informed him that the princess is indisposed, and
cannot see company; the knight imputing her disorder to her sorrow for
his departure, is pierced to the soul, and well-nigh betrays his own
anxiety. The confidante being present all the while, takes notice of
every circumstance, which she imparts to her lady, who listens with
tears in her eyes, and observes that nothing gives so much uneasiness as
her ignorance of the knight’s pedigree, and her impatience to know
whether or not he is of royal extraction: the damsel assures her, that
so much politeness, gentility, and valour as he possessed, could never
be united except in a dignified and royal disposition; the afflicted
infanta consoles herself with this observation, and endeavouring to
regain her serenity, that she may not give cause of suspicion to her
parents, in two days appears again in publick.
‘The knight having set out for the army, comes to battle, overcomes the
king’s adversary, takes many towns, makes divers conquests, returns to
court, visits his mistress in the usual manner, and the affair being
concerted between them, demands her in marriage, as the reward of his
service; her father refuses to grant the boon, on pretence of not
knowing who this hero is: but, nevertheless, either by stealth, or some
other way, the infanta becomes his wife; and at last the king is
overjoyed at his good fortune, when this knight proves to be the son of
a valiant monarch of some unknown country, for I suppose it could not be
found in the map. The father dies, the infanta succeeds, and in two
words the knight becomes king; this, then, is the time to reward his
squire, and all those who helped him to ascend the throne. The squire
accordingly is married to a damsel belonging to the infanta, who
doubtless must be she that was privy to her amour, and daughter of some
powerful duke.’
‘This is what I want,’ cried Sancho, ‘and what with fair play I
shall obtain; for all that you have mentioned will exactly happen to
your worship, under the title of The Knight of the Rueful
Countenance.’—‘Never doubt it, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘for in
the same manner, and by the same steps I have recounted, knights
errant rise, and have risen to the rank of kings and emperors. Our
only business now is to look out for some Christian or Pagan king
who is at war, and hath a beautiful daughter; but there will be time
to think of that, since, as I have already told thee, renown must be
acquired elsewhere, before we repair to court; nay, another
difficulty occurs, namely, that though we should find a king at war
who has a beautiful daughter, after I shall have acquired incredible
glory through the whole universe; I do not know how it can be proved
that I am of royal extraction, or even second cousin to an emperor;
and no king will grant his daughter to me in marriage, until he is
first thoroughly satisfied in that particular, though my famous
exploits should merit a much more valuable reward; wherefore, on
account of this defect, I am afraid I shall lose that which the
prowess of my arm may well deserve. True it is, I am a gentleman of
an ancient and honourable family, not without property, possession,
and a title to the revenge of the five hundred sueldos[65]; and it
is not impossible, that the sage ordained to write my history, may
furnish up my parentage and pedigree in such a manner, as to prove
me descended in the fifteenth or sixteenth generation from a king;
for I must tell thee, Sancho, there are two sorts of pedigree in the
world; one that brings and derives its original from princes and
monarchs, which time hath defaced by little and little, till at last
it ends in a point like a pyramid; the other owes its beginning to
people of mean degree, and increases gradually to nobility and
power; so that the difference is, the one was once something, but is
now nothing; and the other was once nothing, but is now something!
perhaps, therefore, I may be one of the first mentioned division;
and my origin, upon enquiry, be found high and mighty; a
circumstance that ought to satisfy the king, who is to be my
father-in-law; and if it should not have that effect, the infanta
will be so enamoured of me, that in spite of her father, she will
receive me as her lord and husband, even though she were certain of
my being the son of a porter; but should she be shy, then is the
time to carry her away by force, to any corner of the earth I shall
chuse for my residence, until time or death shall put an end to the
resentment of her parents.’
‘And here,’ cried Sancho, ‘nothing can be more pat to the purpose, than
what some of your unconscionable fellows often say, “Who would beg a
benison, that for the taking may have venison[66]?” though it would
still be more proper, if they had said, “Better thieve than grieve[67].”
This I observe, that in case the king, your worship’s father-in-law,
should not prevail upon himself to give you the infanta his daughter,
you may, as your worship says, steal and convey her off by main force;
but the misfortune is, that while the peace is on the anvil, and before
you come to the peaceable enjoyment of your kingdom, the poor squire may
chew his cud in expectation of his recompense, unless that confidante
damsel, who is to be his spouse, should make her escape with the
princess, and be content to join her evil fortune to his, until such
time as Heaven shall ordain it otherwise; for I believe his master may
very safely give her away in lawful marriage.’—‘That thou mayest depend
upon,’ said Don Quixote. ‘Since it is so, then,’ answered Sancho, ‘we
have nothing to do but recommend ourselves to God, and let fortune take
its own course.’—‘The Lord conduct it,’ replied the knight, ‘according
to my desires and my necessity; and small be his grace, who counts
himself base.’—‘A God’s name be it so,’ said Sancho; ‘for my own part I
am an old Christian, and therefore fit to be a lord.’—‘Aye, to be
greater than a lord,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘and even if thou wast not
so well qualified, it would be of no signification[68], because I being
king, can confer nobility upon thee, without putting thee to the expence
of purchasing, or of subjecting thyself to any kind of servitude; for,
in creating thee an earl, behold thou art a gentleman at once; and let
people say what they will, in good faith, they must call thee your
lordship, if it should make their hearts ache.’—‘And do you reckon that
I should not know how to give authority to the portent?’ said the
squire. ‘Patent, thou wouldst say, and not portent,’ replied the knight.
‘It may be so,’ answered Sancho; ‘but I insist upon it, that I should
demean myself very decently; for once in my life-time I was beadle of a
corporation, and the gown became me so well, that every body said I had
the presence of a warden: then what shall I be when I am clothed in a
ducal-robe, all glittering with pearls like a foreign count? Upon my
conscience, I believe people will come a hundred leagues on purpose to
see me.’—‘You will make a very good appearance,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but
thou must take care to keep thy beard close shaved; for it is so thick,
matted, and unseemly, that unless thou hast recourse to the razor, every
second day at least, they will see what thou art a gun-shot off.’—‘What
else have I to do,’ said the squire, ‘but to hire a barber, and keep him
constantly in the house; and if I find occasion for it, even make him
follow me as a master of the horse follows one of your grandees.’
‘How do’st thou know,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that our grandees are attended
by their masters of horse?’—‘That you shall be satisfied in,’ answered
the squire: ‘heretofore I was a whole month at court, where I saw a very
little gentleman, who they told me was a very great lord, passing to and
fro, and a man following him a horseback, turning ever and anon as he
turned, as if he had been the nobleman’s own tail: when I asked why the
man did not overtake the other, but always kept behind him; they
answered, that he was his master of horse, and that it was a fashion
among the great, for each to be attended by an officer of that name.
Ever since that time I have remembered their office so distinctly, that
I believe I shall never forget it.’—‘I think thou art much in the
right,’ said Don Quixote, ‘in resolving to carry thy barber along with
thee; for customs come not all together, because they were not invented
all at once; therefore thou mayest be the first earl that ever went
attended by a shaver; and truly it is an office of greater confidence to
trim the beard than to saddle the horse.’—‘Leave that affair of the
barber to my management,’ said Sancho, ‘and be it your care to make
yourself a king, and me an earl, with all convenient speed.’—‘That shall
be done,’ replied the knight; who lifting up his eyes, perceived that
which shall be recounted in the succeeding chapter.
Footnote 64:
_Oregano_, in the original, signifies sweet marjoram; as if Sancho had
wished his master might find a nosegay, rather than a bloody nose.
Footnote 65:
The Spaniards of old paid a tribute of five hundred sueldos, or pieces
of coin, to the Moors, until they were delivered from this imposition
by the gallantry of the gentlemen or people of rank, from which
exploit a Castilian of family used to express the nobility and worth
of his extraction, by saying he was of the revenge of the Sueldos.
Footnote 66:
Literally, ‘Never beg when you can take.’
Footnote 67:
In the original, ‘A snatch from behind a bush is better than the
prayer of good men.’
Footnote 68:
This seems to have been intended as a stroke of satire against those
princes who sell nobility to the highest bidder, without any regard to
the merit of the purchaser.
CHAP. VIII.
DON QUIXOTE SETS AT LIBERTY
A NUMBER OF UNFORTUNATE PEOPLE,
WHO, MUCH AGAINST THEIR WILLS,
WERE GOING ON A JOURNEY THAT WAS NOT AT ALL TO THEIR LIKING.
Cid Hamet Benengeli, the Arabian and Manchegan author, recounts in this
solemn, sublime, minute, pleasant, and fanciful history, that the
conversation between the renowned Don Quixote, and his squire Sancho
Panza, as related in the foregoing chapter, was no sooner concluded,
than the knight lifting up his eyes, beheld upon the road before him
about twelve men on foot, strung together like beads, with a great iron
chain fastened to their necks, and he perceived shackles upon the arms
of each. They were conducted by two men on horseback, and the like
number on foot: the horsemen armed with firelocks, and the foot with
javelins and swords. Sancho seeing them advance, ‘That,’ said he, ‘is
the chain of slaves compelled by the king to work in the gallies.’—‘How,
compelled!’ cried the knight; ‘is it possible the king compels people
into his service?’—‘I don’t say so,’ answered Sancho; ‘those people are
condemned for their crimes to serve in the king’s gallies on
compulsion.’—‘In short,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘be that as it will, they
go not voluntarily, but are driven by force.’—‘Certainly,’ said Sancho.
‘Since that is the case,’ resumed his master, ‘here the execution of my
office is concerned, to annul force, and bring succour to the
miserable.’—‘Pray, good your worship, take notice that justice, which is
the king himself, never uses violence nor severity to such people,
except as a punishment for their crimes.’
By this time the chain of galley-slaves being come up, Don Quixote, with
much courtesy, desired the guards would be pleased to inform him of the
cause or causes for which those people were treated in that manner: one
of the horsemen replied, that they were slaves belonging to his majesty
going to the gallies, and that was all he could say, or the enquirer had
occasion to know of the matter. ‘Nevertheless,’ resumed the knight, ‘I
am desirous of knowing from each in particular the occasion of his
misfortune.’ To these be added other such courteous entreaties to induce
them to satisfy his desire, that the other man on horseback said,
‘Though we have got along with us the register and certificate of the
sentence of each of those malefactors, we have no time at present to
take it out and give you the reading of it; but if you have a mind to go
and question themselves, they will answer every thing you ask, to the
best of their knowledge; for they are a set of miscreants, who delight
in recounting as well as in acting their roguery.’
With this permission, which he would have taken if they had not granted
it, Don Quixote approached the chain and asked of the foremost, for what
offence he travelled in that equipage. ‘Only for being in love,’
answered the criminal. ‘For that only!’ replied the knight. ‘If they
condemn people for being in love, I might have been tugging in the
gallies long ago.’—‘But my love,’ answered the slave, ‘was quite
different from what your worship imagines. I fell deeply in love with a
basket crammed full of white linen, and locked it so fast in my embrace,
that if justice had not tore it from my arms by force, I should not have
quitted it willingly to this good hour: the thing being flagrant, there
was no room for putting me to the torture, and therefore the cause was
soon discussed; my shoulders were accommodated with a cool hundred, I
was advised to divert myself three years in the gurapas, and so the
business ended.’—‘Pray what are the gurapas?’ said Don Quixote. ‘The
gurapas are the gallies,’ answered the thief; who was a young fellow,
about twenty years of age, and said he was a native of Piedrahita.
The knight put the same question to the second, who seemed so
overwhelmed with grief and melancholy, that he could not answer one
word; but the first saved him the trouble, by saying, ‘This man, Sir,
goes to the gallies for being a canary bird; I mean, for his skill in
vocal musick.’—‘What!’ said the knight, ‘are people sentenced to the
gallies for their skill in musick.’—‘Yes, Sir,’ answered the other, ‘for
nothing is worse than to sing in the heart-ache.’—‘On the contrary,’
said Don Quixote, ‘I have always heard it observed, that musick and play
will fright sorrow away.’—‘But here,’ replied the slave, ‘the case is
quite different; for he that sings but once will have cause to weep for
ever.’ Don Quixote saying he could not comprehend his meaning, one of
the guards explained it. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘to sing in the heart-ache, is
a term used by these miscreants to express a criminal who confesses
under the torture; and it hath been applied to that delinquent, he owned
his crime, which was horse-stealing; accordingly, having received two
hundred lashes he was condemned for six years to the gallies, and he
appears always pensive and sad, because his brother-rogues who keep him
company, continually maltreat, upbraid, despise, and scoff at him, for
having confessed out of pure pusillanimity. “For,” say they, “No
contains as many letters as Ay: an offender is very lucky, when his life
or death depends upon his own tongue, and not upon the evidence of
witnesses;” and truly I think they are not far mistaken.’
‘I am of the same opinion,’ said Don Quixote; and passing on, repeated
his former question to the third, who, with great readiness and
alacrity, answered, ‘I am going to pay a visit of five years to Lady
Gurapa, for having wanted ten ducats.’—‘I will give twenty with all my
soul,’ replied the knight, ‘to ease you of your misfortune.’—‘That,’
resumed the slave, ‘is like giving money to a man perishing with hunger
at sea, where there is no food to be bought. I say this, because had I
been master in time of those twenty ducats your worship now offers, I
would have anointed the secretary’s pen, and quickened my lawyer’s
invention with them, to so good purpose, that I should be now standing
at liberty in the square of Zocodover in Toledo, and not dragging like a
hound to the gallies; but Heaven is above—Patience and—that is enough.’
Don Quixote then advanced to the fourth, who was a man of a venerable
aspect, with a long white beard hanging down to his girdle; and he no
sooner heard the knight ask the cause of his being in that situation,
than he began to weep bitterly, without answering one word; but the
fifth criminal lent him his tongue, saying, ‘That honourable gentleman
is going to the gallies for four years, after having made his publick
appearance on horseback with great solemnity.’—‘That is, I suppose,’
said Sancho, ‘after having been exposed to publick shame[69].’—‘Even
so,’ replied the slave, ‘and that punishment was inflicted upon him for
being an ear-broker, or rather a broker for the whole body: to be plain
with you, the gentleman was convicted of pimping, and giving himself out
for a conjurer.’—‘Were it not for the addition of his conjuring scheme,’
said Don Quixote, ‘he is so far from deserving to row in the gallies for
pure pimping, that it rather intitles him to the command of them[70], as
general in chief; for if the office of a pander was well regulated, it
would be a most honourable and necessary employment in a well-ordered
commonwealth, reserved for people of birth and talents, and like the
other places of trust, laid under the inspection of proper comptrollers,
and limited to a certain number, like the brokers of merchandize: such a
regulation would prevent many mischiefs, which are now occasioned by
that employment’s being in the hands of idiots or simple wretches, such
as silly women, pages, and buffoons, without either age or experience;
who, upon the most urgent occasions, when there is need of the most
important contrivance, let the morsel freeze between the dish and the
mouth, and can scarce distinguish betwixt their right-hands and their
left. I could proceed and advance many arguments to prove how
advantageous it would be in a commonwealth to make proper distinctions
in the choice of those who exercise such a necessary employment; but
this is no place to settle that affair in; and one day I may chance to
recommend it to the consideration of those who can both discern and
provide a suitable remedy for this defect. I shall only at present
observe, that the compassion I feel at sight of these grey hairs, and
that venerable countenance in distress for having been a pander, is
extinguished by the additional crime of sorcery; though I am well
apprized there are no conjurers in the world, who can force or alter the
will, as some weak minded people imagine: for the inclination is free,
and not to be enslaved by any incantation whatsoever. The practice of
some simple women, and knavish impostors, is to compose poisonous
mixtures, to deprive people of their senses, under pretence of causing
them to be beloved; it being a thing impossible, as I have said, to
compel the will.’—‘What your honour says is very true,’ replied the good
old man; ‘and really, Sir, as to the affair of conjuring, I am not
guilty; though I cannot deny that I have been a pimp; but I never
thought I was to blame in that capacity, because my whole intention was,
that all the world should enjoy themselves, and live in peace and quiet
without quarrels and anxiety. Yet the uprightness of my intention was of
no service in preventing my being sent to a place from which I shall
never return, oppressed as I am with years and a violent strangury, that
will not allow me a moment’s rest.’ So saying, he began to weep again,
as before; and his tears raised the pity of Sancho to such a degree,
that he took a rial out of his bosom, and gave it in charity to the
distressed senior.
Then Don Quixote addressed himself to the next, who answered his
question, not with less, but infinitely more vivacity than that of the
former; saying, ‘I trudge in this manner, for having jested a little
extravagantly with two of my female cousins, and with two more, who,
though not related to me, were in the same degree of blood to each
other: in short, I jested with them so long, that in the end there was
such an intricate increase of kindred as no casuist could unravel. Every
thing was proved against me, I had neither interest nor money, and ran
some risk of having my windpipe stopped; but they only condemned me for
six years to the gallies; I submitted to the sentence, as the punishment
of my crime: youth is on my side, life may be long, and time brings
every thing to bear; if your worship, Sir knight, will part with any
small matter for the comfort of poor wretches like us, God will requite
you in heaven, and we upon earth will take care to petition him for long
life and health to your worship, that you may be as happy as by your
goodly appearance you deserve to be.’ The person who spoke in this
manner appeared in the dress of a student, and one of the guards said he
was a great orator and excellent Latin scholar.
After all these came a man of a good mien, about thirty years of age,
who squinted so horribly, that his eyes seemed to look at each other: he
was equipped in a very different manner from the rest; his foot being
loaded with a huge chain that went round his whole body, and his neck
adorned with two iron rings, to one of which the chain was fastened; and
the other was called a keep-friend, or friend’s-foot; from which
descended to his middle a couple of iron bolts fitted with a pair of
manacles for his arms, secured by a large padlock, in such a fashion, as
to hinder him from lifting up his hands to his mouth, and to disable him
from bending his head to his hands. Don Quixote enquiring why that man
was more fettered than all the rest, one of the guard answered, ‘Because
he is a greater rogue than all the rest put together, and so daring a
villain, that although he is shackled in that manner, we are under some
apprehension that he will give us the slip.’—‘What crime has he
committed,’ said the knight, ‘that deserves no greater punishment than
that of going to the gallies?’—‘He goes for ten years,’ replied the
guard, ‘which is a kind of civil death; but you need not enquire any
farther, when you know that this honest gentleman is the famous Gines de
Passamonte, alias Genisello de Parapilla.’—‘Softly, Mr. Commissary,’
said the slave, hearing these words, ‘don’t transmography names and
sir-names in that manner. Gines is my name, and not Ginesello, and
Passamonte the title of my family; not Parapilla, as your worship says:
let every body turn about and look at home, and he will have business
enough.’—‘Speak with less insolence, Mr. Thief above sterling,’ replied
the commissary, ‘or else I shall make you hold your peace with a
vengeance.’—‘It appears by this oppression,’ answered the galley-slave,
‘that God’s will must be done; but one day somebody shall know whether
or not my name is Ginesello de Parapilla.’—‘An’t you called so, you
lying vagabond?’ said the guard. ‘Yes, yes, I am so called,’ answered
Gines; ‘but I will make them change that name, or their skins shall pay
for it, if ever I meet them in a place I don’t chuse at present to
name.—Sir knight, if you have any thing to bestow, pray let us have it,
and the Lord be with you, for you only tire us with enquiring about
other people’s affairs; if you want to be informed of my history, know,
I am that Gines de Passamonte, whose life is written by these ten
fingers.’
‘He tells nothing but the truth,’ said the commissary; ‘for he has
actually written his own history, as well as could be desired, and
pawned the manuscript in gaol for two hundred rials.’—‘Aye, and I shall
redeem it,’ said Gines, ‘if it were for as many ducats.’—‘What! is it so
entertaining?’ said Don Quixote. ‘Yes,’ answered Gines, ‘it is so
entertaining, that woe be unto Lazarillo de Tormes, and all who have
written or shall write in that manner. What I can affirm of mine is,
that it contains truths, and such ingenious and savoury truths, as no
fiction can equal.’—‘And what is the title of your book?’ said the
knight. ‘The Life of Gines de Passamonte,’ replied the other. ‘Is it
finished?’ said Don Quixote. ‘How can it be finished,’ answered the
author, ‘when my natural life is not yet concluded? I have already
written my whole history from my birth till the last time I was sent to
the gallies.’—‘You have visited them before now then?’ said the knight.
‘For the service of God, and the good of my country, I have already
served in them, during the space of four years, and know the difference
between the biscuit and the bull’s pizzle,’ answered the thief; ‘and my
journey to them now gives me no great pain, for there I shall have time
to finish my book, and set down a great many things I have to say: there
being spare time enough in the gallies of Spain for that purpose, which
does not require much leisure, as I have every circumstance by
heart.’—‘You seem to be an ingenious fellow,’ said Don Quixote. ‘And
unfortunate,’ answered Gines; ‘for genius is always attended by evil
fortune.’—‘Evil fortune ought to attend villains like you,’ said the
guard. ‘I have already desired you, Mr. Commissary, to proceed fair and
softly,’ answered Passamonte; ‘your superiors did not give you that rod
to maltreat us poor wretches, but to conduct and carry us to the place
of our destination, according to his majesty’s command: and by the life
of—but ’tis no matter. The spots we received in the inn, may one day be
rubbed out in washing. Mum’s the word. Let us live while we can, speak
while we may, and at present pursue our journey; for this joke has
already lasted too long.’
The commissary lifted up his rod, in order to give a proper reply to the
threats of Passamonte; but Don Quixote interposing, begged he would not
chastise him; because it was not to be wondered at, if one whose limbs
were so shackled, should take such liberties with his tongue: then
addressing himself to the prisoners, ‘From all that you have told me,
dear brethren,’ said he, ‘I clearly perceive, that although you ought to
be chastised for your crimes, the punishment you are going to suffer is
not much to your liking; on the contrary, you make this journey very
much against your inclination; and perhaps, the pusillanimity of one of
you under the torture, this man’s want of money, and that others
scarcity of friends, and last of all, the partiality of the judge, may
have been the cause of your perdition, in depriving you of that justice
your several cases entitled you to. Which consideration now operates
within me, suggesting, persuading, and even compelling me to shew in
your behalf, the end and aim for which Heaven sent me into this world,
and made me profess the order of knight-errantry, by which I am bound by
oath, to succour the needy and oppressed; but because I know, that one
maxim of prudence is, not to do that by foul means which can be
accomplished by fair, I beseech Mr. Commissary and the guards to unchain
and let you depart in peace. The king will not want people to serve him
on better occasions; and I think it is very hard to enslave those whom
God and nature have made free. Besides, gentlemen soldiers,’ added the
knight, ‘those poor people have committed no offence against you: and
every body hath sins to answer for. There is a God in heaven, who will
take care to chastise the wicked and reward the righteous: and it is not
seemly, that honest men should be the executioners of their
fellow-creatures, on account of matters with which they have no concern.
This favour I entreat in a mild and peaceable manner; and if you grant
my request, will thank you heartily: whereas, if you refuse to do
quietly what I desire, this lance and sword, with the valour of my
invincible arm, shall make you do it on compulsion.’
‘A fine joke, truly!’ replied the commissary; ‘he has brought his
harangue to a very merry conclusion; desiring us to set at liberty the
king’s prisoners, as if we had authority to grant, or he to demand,
their discharge. I wish your worship would go about your business, and
set to rights that bason on your skull, without going in quest of a cat
with three feet.’—‘You are a cat, and a rat, and a scoundrel to boot!’
replied the knight, attacking him with such wonderful dispatch, that he
had not time to put himself in a posture of defence, so was thrown from
his horse, dangerously wounded by a thrust of the knight’s lance. And it
happened luckily that this was one of the two who had firelocks. The
rest of the guard were at first astonished and confounded at this
unexpected assault; but they soon recollected themselves, and the
horsemen drawing their swords, while those on foot handled their
javelins, set upon Don Quixote in their turn, who waited for them with
vast composure; and doubtless he would have fared ill, if the
galley-slaves, seeing a fair occasion offered of gaining their liberty,
had not made shift to obtain it, by breaking the chain with which they
were fettered. Such was the confusion, that the guards, between their
endeavours to detain the slaves that were unbound, and their efforts
against Don Quixote who assaulted them, could do nothing at all
effectual. Sancho, for his part, assisted in disengaging Gines de
Passamonte, who being the first that leaped free and disencumbered on
the plain, attacked the wounded commissary, and robbed him of his sword
and musket, with which pointing at one, and taking aim at another,
without firing, however, in a trice there was not one of the guards to
be seen; for they made the best of their way, not only from Passamonte’s
firelock, but also from the shower of stones which was rained upon them
by the rest of the slaves, who had by this time disengaged themselves.
Sancho was infinitely grieved at this event, representing to himself,
that those who fled would instantly give notice of the affair to the
holy brotherhood, which, upon the tolling of a bell, would immediately
sally forth in search of the delinquents. This supposition he suggested
to his master, whom he entreated to depart forthwith, and conceal
himself somewhere in the neighbouring mountain. ‘That may be a very good
expedient,’ said the knight; ‘but I know what is proper for me to do at
present.’ He then called to the slaves, who were all in confusion, and
after they had plundered and stripped the commissary to the skin, they
assembled round him in a circle in order to receive his commands, and he
accosted them in this manner: ‘It is the duty of honest men to be
thankful for benefits received: and one of the sins that gives the
greatest offence to God, is ingratitude. This truth I observe,
gentlemen, because you must be sensible, by manifest experience, of that
which you have received from me; as an acknowledgment for which, it is
my will and pleasure, that you set out immediately, loaded with that
chain from which I have delivered your neck, and repairing to the city
of Toboso; there present yourselves before the lady Dulcinea del Toboso,
and tell her that her Knight of the Rueful Countenance hath sent you to
her, with his hearty commendations. You shall also punctually recount to
her every circumstance of this famous adventure, even to the granting
you that liberty you so ardently wished for: and this duty being
performed, you may go a God’s name whithersoever ye list.’
To this command Gines de Passamonte, in the name of all the rest,
answered, ‘What your worship commands, most worthy deliverer, is of all
impossibilities the most impossible to fulfil. For we must by no means
travel in a body, but single and divided, and each by himself endeavour
to abscond within the bowels of the earth, in order to avoid the holy
brotherhood, which will doubtless come out in search of us. But your
worship may, and it is but justice you should, change that service and
tribute intended for my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, into a certain number
of Ave maria’s and Credo’s, which we will say for your prosperity; and
this is a duty we can fulfil by night as well as by day, in motion and
at rest, and in peace as well as in war: but to suppose that we will now
return to the flesh-pots of Egypt, I mean, to the carriage of our chain,
and take the road to Toboso, is to suppose that it is now midnight,
though it wants little more than two hours of noon; and indeed, to
expect this condescension of us, is like expecting pears from an elm.’
‘Then, by heavens!’ said Don Quixote in a rage, ‘Don Son of a Whore, Don
Ginesello de Parapilla, or whatsoever is thy name, you shall go alone,
with your tail between your legs, and carry the whole chain upon your
own shoulders.’ Passamonte, who was none of the most passive people in
the world, having already smoaked the knight’s weak side, from the mad
action he had committed in giving them their freedom, and finding
himself treated by him in this haughty manner, tipped the wink to his
companions; who retiring with him at a little distance, began to shower
forth such a number of stones upon their deliverer, that he could not
contrive how to cover himself with his shield; and poor Rozinante minded
the spur no more than if he had been made of brass. Sancho retired
behind his ass, which sheltered him from the storm of hail that
descended on them both; but his master could not screen himself so well,
as to avoid an infinite number of pebble-shot which took place upon
different parts of his body, some of them with such force, that he came
tumbling to the ground; and no sooner was he fallen, than the student
set upon him, and snatching the bason from his head, made a most furious
application of it to the knight’s shoulders, and then dashed it upon the
ground with such force, that it went into a thousand pieces. They
likewise stripped him of a jacket[71] he wore above his armour; and
would even have taken his hose, had not his greaves been in the way:
they plundered Sancho of his great coat, leaving him in his doublet and
hose; and dividing the spoils of the battle among them, each took his
own separate route, more anxious to escape the holy brotherhood, which
they dreaded, than to load themselves with the chain again, and go to
present themselves before the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso.
The ass and Rozinante, Sancho and Don Quixote, were the only persons
remaining on the field. Dapple, with his head hanging down in a pensive
attitude, and every now and then shaking his ears, as if he imagined the
hurricane of stones that whizzed about them was not yet over; Rozinante
lying stretched upon the ground, to which, like his master, he was
humbled by a pebble: Sancho, in his doublet, terrified at the thoughts
of the holy brotherhood; and Don Quixote excessively out of humour, at
seeing himself so ill requited by those people whom he had served in
such an essential manner.
Footnote 69:
A crime that is punished by the pillory in England, is in Spain
expiated by the convict’s being mounted upon an ass, in a particular
dress, and led through the streets by a crier, who proclaims the
transgression.
Footnote 70:
This is a good hint for a reforming legislature.
Footnote 71:
It was the custom of knights to wear a coat of arms made of some rich
stuff figured in a particular manner. The Duke of Brabant being called
in a hurry to the battle of Agincourt, took a trumpeter’s banner, and
making a hole through the middle, put it over his head, and wore it as
his coat of arms.
CHAP. IX.
OF WHAT BEFEL THE RENOWNED DON QUIXOTE IN THE BROWN MOUNTAIN;
BEING ONE OF THE MOST SURPRIZING ADVENTURES
WHICH IS RECOUNTED IN THIS TRUE HISTORY.
Don Quixote, finding himself so evil entreated, said to his squire, ‘I
have always heard it observed, Sancho, that benefits conferred on
base-minded people are like drops of water thrown into the sea. Had I
taken thy advice, I might have avoided this vexation: but, now the
affair is over, we must have recourse to patience, and take warning for
the future.’—‘Yes,’ replied Sancho, ‘your worship will take warning as
sure as I am a Turk; but, since you allow, that if you had taken my
advice, you would have avoided this misfortune, take my advice now, and
you avoid a greater still! for I give you notice, that all your errantry
will stand you in little stead against the holy brotherhood, who don’t
value all the knights-errant in the universe three farthings: and, in
faith, this minute methinks I hear their arrows buzzing about my
ears.’—‘Thou art naturally a coward, Sancho,’ said the knight; ‘but that
thou mayest have no reason to say I am obstinate, and never follow thy
counsel, for once thou shalt prevail; I will retreat from the danger
thou dreadest so much; but it shall be on condition, that thou shalt
never, either in life or death, hint to any person whatsoever, that I
retired and avoided this peril through fear, but merely in compliance
with thy earned request; for to say otherwise would be to propagate
falsehood; and from this hour to that, and from that hour to this, I
give thee the lye, and affirm thou lyest, and wilt lye as often as thou
shalt say or think any such thing: make no reply, therefore; the very
thought of my being supposed to abscond, or retreat from danger,
especially from this, as it implies some sort of shadow of fear,
inspires me with such courage, that here am I alone, ready to remain,
and expect not only the holy brotherhood, which thou hast mentioned with
fear and trembling, but also the brothers of the twelve tribes of
Israel, those of the seven Maccabees, with Castor and Pollux, and all
the brethren and brotherhoods in the universe.’—‘Sir,’ replied Sancho,
‘to retreat is not to fly; nor is it prudent to tarry when the danger
overbalances the hope, and it is always the practice of wise people, to
reserve something for to-morrow, without venturing all upon one cast;
and you must know, that though I be a rustick and a clown, I have all my
life-time had a small share of what is called good conduct; wherefore
you need not repent of having taken my advice, but mount Rozinante, if
you can; if not, I will lend you my assistance, and follow me; for this
noddle of mine tells me, that, at present, we have more need of heels
than of hands.’
Don Quixote accordingly mounted, without the least reply; and Sancho
leading the way upon his ass, they took refuge in that part of the brown
mountain which was nearest, the squire intending to go quite across to
Viso or Almodavar del Campo, after they should have lurked for some days
amongst the rocks, that they might not be found, in case the holy
brotherhood should come in search of them: he was encouraged to this
resolution, by seeing, that in the scuffle with the galley slaves, the
provisions his ass carried had escaped untouched[72]; a circumstance
that, in his opinion, amounted to a miracle, considering what the
thieves had taken, and how narrowly they had searched.
That evening they arrived in the very heart of the Sierra Morena[73],
where Sancho proposed to spend the night, and even to pass a few days,
at least to stay as long as their store should last: accordingly they
took up their lodging between two rocks in the midst of a great number
of cork-trees; but fate, which, according to the opinion of those who do
not enjoy the light of the true faith, guides, conducts, and disposes
all things after its own way, ordained that Gines de Passamonte, that
famous robber and cheat, who had been delivered from the chain by the
valour and madness of Don Quixote; I say, fate ordained that he,
impelled by the fear of the holy brotherhood, which he did not dread
without good reason happened likewise to take refuge in those mountains;
and even to be carried by this fear to the same place whither the same
principle had directed Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, just time enough to
know who they were, notwithstanding their being gone to sleep. As the
wicked are always ungrateful, and necessity puts them to their shifts,
and the present convenience overcomes the prospect of future quiet;
Gines, who was neither grateful nor good-natured, resolved to steal
Sancho’s ass, undervaluing Rozinante, as a subject that he could neither
pawn nor sell: accordingly, while the squire was asleep, he stole
Dapple; and, before morning, was gone far enough to elude all pursuit.
[Illustration: Sancho’s Ass Stolen As They Sleep.]
The appearance of Aurora that rejoices the earth, had a quite contrary
effect upon Sancho Panza; who, missing his Dapple, and searching for him
in vain, began to utter the most woeful lamentation that ever was heard;
and Don Quixote, waked by the noise, heard him exclaiming in this
manner: ‘O son of my bowels! born in my house, the play fellow of my
children, the delight of my spouse, the envy of my neighbours, and
comforter of my cares! in short, the half of my sustenance: for with six
and twenty maravedis, which thou hast daily earned, did I defray one
half of my family-expence!’ Don Quixote hearing this complaint, and
being informed of the cause, consoled Sancho with all the arguments in
his power; and, begging him to have patience, promised to give him a
bill of exchange, on sight of which he should receive three asses out of
five, which the knight had left at home. Sancho being comforted with
this declaration, dried up his tears, moderated his sighs, and returned
a thousand thanks to Don Quixote for his generosity. As they sauntered
among the rocks, the knight’s heart was rejoiced to see places so well
adapted to those adventures he was in quest of; for they recalled to his
remembrance those wonderful events which had happened to knights-errant
among such rocks and solitudes: he went on, musing on these subjects,
and indeed so wrapped up and engrossed by them, that he minded nothing
else; while Sancho’s only care, now that he thought he travelled in
safety, was to satisfy his appetite with what remained of the spoils of
the clergy; he therefore jogged on leisurely after his master, sitting
side-ways on his ass[74], and replenishing his own bags out of that
which contained the provision; and while he was thus employed, would not
have given a farthing for the best adventure that could happen.
Chancing, however, to lift up his eyes, he perceived his master had
stopped, and was endeavouring, with the point of his lance to raise some
bundle that lay upon the ground; he therefore hastened up to him, in
order to lend his assistance, should it be found necessary; and arrived
just as the knight had turned up with his lance, a pillion with a
portmanteau fixed to it, all rotted and consumed by the weather; but so
heavy, that Sancho was obliged to alight, in order to take them up. His
master having ordered him to examine the contents of the portmanteau, he
obeyed with great alacrity, and though it was shut with a chain and
padlock, there were so many holes in it, that he soon reached the
inside, where he found four shirts of fine holland, with other provision
of linen, equally fashionable and clean, together with a pretty large
heap of crowns of gold, wrapped up in a rag; which he no sooner
perceived, than he cried in a rapture, ‘Blessed be Heaven for granting
us one advantageous adventure!’ then continuing his search, he found a
pocket-book richly garnished, which Don Quixote desired to have, bidding
him keep the money for his own use. Sancho kissed his hand for the
favour, and taking the linen out of the portmanteau, crammed it into the
bag that held their provision.
The knight having considered the whole affair, ‘Sancho,’ said he, ‘I am
of opinion, and I cannot possibly be mistaken, that some bewildered
traveller, in his passage over these mountains, has been set upon by
robbers, who having slain him, must have dragged his body to be buried
in this unfrequented place.’—‘That cannot be the case,’ answered the
squire; ‘for if they had been robbers, they would not have left the
money behind them.’—‘Thou art in the right,’ said Don Quixote; ‘and I
cannot guess nor conceive what the matter can have been. Let us see if
there be any thing written in this pocket-book, by which we may trace
out and come to the certainty of what we want to know.’ He opened it
accordingly, and the first thing he found was the rough draught, though
very legible, of a sonnet, which he read aloud for the benefit of
Sancho, in these words.
I.
Love either cruel is or blind;
Or still unequal to the cause,
Is this distemper of the mind,
That with infernal torture gnaws.
II.
But Love’s a god, and cruelty
In heavenly breasts can never dwell:
Then say by what authority,
I’m doom’d to feel the pains of hell?
III.
Of all my sufferings and my woe,
Is Chloe then the fatal source?
Sure ill from good can never flow,
Nor so much beauty gild a curse.
IV.
With hopeless misery weigh’d down,
I’ll seek for quiet in the grave;
For when the malady’s unknown,
A miracle alone can save.
‘From such rhyme,’ said Sancho, ‘there is no information to be
got, unless by that Clue we could come to the bottom of the
affair[75].’—‘What clue dost thou mean?’ said the knight. ‘The
Clue your worship mentioned just now in the sonnet,’ answered the
squire. ‘I mentioned no clue,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘but Chloe,
which is without doubt the name of the lady of whom the author of
these verses complains; and really he must have been a very
ingenious poet, or else I know very little of the art.’—‘Then your
worship understands crambo?’ said the squire. ‘Better than you
imagine,’ answered the knight, ‘as you will see when you carry
from me a letter to my mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, written in
verse from top to bottom; for thou must know, Sancho, that all, or
the greatest part of the knights-errant who lived in former ages,
were very much addicted to poetry and musick; these two qualities,
or rather gifts of nature, being annexed to all errants in love;
though the truth is, their couplets were rather sprightly than
elegant.’—‘I wish your worship would read on,’ said Sancho;
‘perhaps you may find something more to our satisfaction.’
Accordingly the knight having turned over the leaf, ‘Here is
prose,’ said he; ‘and seems to be a letter.’ Sancho asking if it
was upon business, his master replied, ‘In the beginning there was
nothing but love.’—‘Pray, Sir,’ cried Sancho, ‘read it aloud; for
I am highly delighted with matters of love.’—‘With all my heart,’
answered Don Quixote; who raising his voice, in compliance with
the squire’s request, read what follows.
‘Thy false promises, together with the certainty of my misfortune,
have exiled me to a corner of the world, from whence thou wilt hear
an account of my death, before this my complaint shall reach thine
ears. Thou hast cast me off, ungrateful as thou art, in favour of
one who, though he is richer, is not a more deserving lover than me:
for if virtue were the wealth that is most esteemed, I should have
no cause to envy the happiness of others, or to bewail my own
mishap. What thy beauty had raised, thy behaviour has overthrown: by
the first I mistook thee for an angel; by the last I discovered thee
to be a woman. Mayest thou live in peace, fair authoress of my
misfortunes; and Heaven grant that the deceit of thy husband may
never be disclosed, that thou mayest never repent of what thou hast
done, nor I enjoy the revenge I do not desire!’
Don Quixote having read this letter, observed that nothing else could be
inferred either from it, or the verses, but that the author was some
despairing lover. Then perusing the rest of the book, he found more
verses and letters, some legible, and others not intelligible; but the
substance of them all was composed of complaints, lamentations,
suspicions, desires, disgusts, favours, and disdain, some of which were
extolled, and others deplored. While Don Quixote examined the book,
Sancho rummaged the portmanteau, without leaving a corner in that of the
pillion which he did not search, pry into, and overhaul; no seam was
left unripped, no lock of wool unpicked, that nothing might be lost
through negligence and want of care; so much was his cupidity awakened,
by finding the money, which amounted to more than a hundred crowns; and
though he reaped no other fruit from his industry, he thought himself
abundantly requited for his capers in the blanket, his vomit of the
balsam, the benediction of the pack-staves, the fisty-cuffs of the
carrier, the loss of his bags, the robbery of his great coat, with all
the hunger, thirst, and fatigue he had undergone in the service of his
worthy master, who had made him more than amends by his generous present
of this windfall.
The knight of the rueful countenance was impatient to know the owner of
the portmanteau; conjecturing by the sonnet, the letter, the gold, and
the fine linen, that he must be some lover of quality, whom the disdain
and barbarity of his mistress had driven to some desperate end: but, as
in that uninhabited and rocky place, there was nobody who could give him
the information he wanted, he resolved to penetrate still farther into
the mountain, without taking any other road than what Rozinante should
chuse for his own conveniency, still confident of meeting with some
strange adventure among these briars and brambles.
As he went on, entertaining himself with these reflections, he perceived
upon the top of a hill right before him, a man skipping from bush to
bush, and rock to rock, with wonderful agility; his body seemed naked,
his beard black and bushy, his hair long and matted, his feet unshod,
his legs bare, and his thighs covered with breeches, which to all
appearance were of crimson, but so ragged, that his skin appeared
through many different holes, while his head was without any sort of
covering. Notwithstanding the nimbleness with which he passed, all these
minute circumstances were seen and remarked by the knight of the rueful
countenance, who in vain attempted to follow him; those rough roads
being quite unpassable by the feeble Rozinante, who was naturally
phlegmatick and tender-footed. However, Don Quixote concluded that this
must be the owner of the pillion and portmanteau, and determined within
himself to find him out, although he should travel a whole year through
the mountains for that very purpose. With this view he ordered Sancho to
alight, and take a short cut over one part of the mountain, while he
should go round the other; and by this expedient they might come up with
the man who had so suddenly vanished from their sight. ‘That proposal I
can by no means comply with,’ answered the squire; ‘for if I stir but an
inch from your worship, fear instantly lays hold on me, and assaults me
in a thousand horrid shapes and visions; and let this serve to apprize
you, that henceforward, I will not budge a finger’s breadth from your
presence.’—‘Be it so,’ said he of the rueful countenance; ‘and I am very
glad that thou canst avail thyself of my courage, which shall never fail
thee, even if thy soul should fail thy body; follow me, therefore, step
by step, or at thy own leisure; and use thine eyes like two spy glasses;
we will take a compass round this little mountain, and perhaps we may
meet again with that man, who is certainly no other than the owner of
what we found.’ To this observation Sancho replied, ‘Methinks we may
save ourselves that trouble; for if, upon finding him, he should prove
to be the owner of the money, I must of course make restitution;
therefore we had better spare all this fruitless search; and keep it
_bona fide_, until the true owner appear of himself, without all this
intricate enquiry: and before that happens, perhaps I shall have spent
the whole, and then I shall be discharged by law.’—‘In that notion thou
art mistaken, Sancho,’ resumed the knight; ‘for as we have already good
grounds to believe he is the owner, it is our duty to find him out, and
restore what we have taken; and though we should not find him, the
strong reason we have to believe that it belongs to him will make us
equally guilty in detaining it, as we should be if it really did.
Wherefore, friend Sancho, do not give thyself any uneasiness about the
enquiry; because if we find him, I shall be freed from a great deal of
anxiety.’ So saying, he put spurs to Rozinante, and Sancho followed him
in his usual manner. Having surrounded part of the mountain, they found
in a brook that watered the foot of it, a dead mule saddled and bridled,
and half consumed by the dogs and crows; another circumstance which
confirmed them in the opinion, that he who fled from them was master
both of the mule and portmanteau.
While they were looking at this object, they heard a shepherd’s whistle,
and presently on the left appeared a good number of goats, and behind
them, on the top of the mountain, they descried the goatherd, who seemed
to be a man in years. Don Quixote calling aloud, entreated him to come
down; and he, in the same tone, asked what had brought them to that
place, which was seldom trodden, except by the feet of goats, wolves,
and other wild beasts that harboured thereabouts? Sancho bade him come
down, and they would tell him what had brought them thither; upon which
the goatherd descended, and coming up to Don Quixote, ‘I will wager,’
said he, ‘that you are looking at the hireling mule, which lies dead in
that bottom, where in good sooth it hath lain full six months. Pray,
have you met with its master?’—‘We have met with nothing,’ answered the
knight, ‘but a pillion and portmanteau, which we found not far from
hence.’—‘I have often seen the same things,’ replied the goatherd, ‘but
would never touch nor go near them, being afraid of some misfortune, or
of being questioned for theft; for the devil is very cunning, and raises
blocks under our feet, over which we stumble, and very often fall,
without knowing how or wherefore.’—‘That is the very thing I say,’
answered Sancho, ‘though I saw them also, I would not go within a
stone’s throw of them; there I left them, and there they remain as they
were; for I don’t chuse to steal a dog with a collar about his
neck[76].’—‘Pr’ythee, honest friend,’ said Quixote, ‘dost thou know who
the owner of these things is?’—‘All that I can say of the matter,’
answered the goatherd, ‘is, that it may be about six months, more or
less, since there came to our hut, which is about three leagues from
hence, a very genteel young man of a comely appearance, riding upon that
very mule that now lies dead, with the same pillion and portmanteau
which you say you found. He asked what part of the mountain was the most
woody and concealed, and we told him, that it was this very spot where
we now are; and it is so, for if you go half a league farther into the
mountain, you will perhaps find it a very difficult matter to return:
and I marvel much how you have got so far, for there is neither
high-road nor by-path that leads to this place. But as I was saying, the
young man hearing our reply, turned his mule, and rode towards the place
to which we had directed him, leaving us all very much pleased with his
appearance, though not a little surprized at his question, and the speed
with which we saw him ride back, into the heart of the mountain: from
that time we saw no more of him, till a few days after; when he sprung
upon one of our shepherds on the road; and, without saying why or
wherefore, beat and bruised him unmercifully; after which he went to the
sumpter ass, and carrying off all the bread and cheese that was on his
back, with surprizing nimbleness, ran back again to the thicket. As soon
as we understood this particular, several of us goatherds went in search
of him, through the most wild and unfrequented part of the mountain, for
the space of two days, at the end of which we found him lying in the
hollow of a large cork-tree. He came out to us in a very civil manner,
with his cloaths all torn, and his face so tanned and disfigured by the
sun, that we should scarce have known him, had not his cloaths, tattered
as they were, which we had before taken particular notice of, assured us
that he was the person we went in search of. He saluted us very
courteously, and in a few words, though very well chosen, bade us not
wonder at seeing him in that condition; for he was obliged in that
manner to do penance, which had been enjoined him, on account of his
manifold sins and transgressions. We earnestly begged to know who he
was; but that he never could be prevailed upon to tell: we desired him
also, whenever he should have occasion for food, without which he could
not live, to tell us where we should find him, and we would bring it to
him with great care and affection; or if that was not to his liking, we
desired him to ask it civilly, without taking it by force. He thanked us
kindly for our tenders of service, begged pardon for the assaults he had
committed, and promised for the future, to ask it for God’s sake,
without giving offence to any person whatsoever. With regard to the
place of his habitation, he said, he had no other than that which chance
presented every night when it grew dark; and concluded his discourse
with such piteous lamentation, that our hearts must have been made of
flint, if we could have heard it without shedding tears, considering the
woeful change he had undergone since we saw him at first: for as I have
already observed, he was a genteel, comely youth, and by his courteous
and polite discourse, shewed himself to be a person of good birth and
excellent breeding; and though we who heard him were only home-bred
country people, the gentility of his carriage was easily perceived by
our clownish ignorance. In the midst of this conversation that passed
between him and us, he grew silent all of a sudden, and nailed, as it
were, his eyes to the ground, for a considerable space of time, during
which we remained in suspense and no small concern, to see the effect of
this stupefaction; for by his staring at the ground for a good while,
without moving his eye-lids, then shutting them close and biting his
lips, and then drawing up the skin of his forehead, we could easily
perceive that he was seized with some fit of madness; and he soon
confirmed the truth of our opinion, for he sprung up with surprizing
force from the ground on which he had thrown himself, and attacked the
person who was next to him with such rage and resolution, that if we had
not taken him off, he would have beaten and bit him to death; crying
aloud all the time, “Ha, treacherous Fernando! now shalt thou pay for
the injury thou hast done me. These hands shall tear out thy heart, in
which all kinds of wickedness, particularly fraud and deceit, are
harboured and dwell!” To these he added other expressions, tending to
reproach that Fernando with treachery and baseness. When we had got our
friend out of his clutches, with no small trouble, he went off without
speaking another word, and ran at full speed among these shrubs and
brambles, so as that it was impossible for us to follow him. From these
things we conjectured that his madness came upon him by fits, and that
some person of the name of Fernando must have done him some deadly
wrong, which hath driven him to distraction. Indeed, this conjecture has
been since confirmed by his different behaviour on divers occasions,
when he hath met with our shepherds, from whom he hath sometimes begged
part of their provision, and at other times hath taken it by force; for
when the fit of lunacy is upon him, though they offer it of their own
free will, he will not accept of it peaceably, without coming to blows;
but when he is in his right senses, he begs it for God’s sake, in a very
courteous and civil manner, and returns many thanks for the favour,
accompanied with abundance of tears. And truly, gentlemen,’ added the
goatherd, ‘I and four more country lads, two of them my own servants,
and the other two friends of mine, yesterday resolved to go in search of
him, and after having found him, to carry him, either by force or fair
means, to the city of Almodavar, which is about eight leagues from
hence, and there have him cured, if he be curable; or learn of him, when
he is in his senses, who he is, or whether or not he has any relations
to whom we may give an account of his misfortune. This, gentlemen, is
all I can say, in answer to the questions you asked; and you may take it
for granted, that the owner of the goods you found, is the very same
person whom you saw skip about half-naked, with such agility:’ for Don
Quixote had said that they had seen a man in that condition, leaping
from rock to rock.
The knight was very much surprized at this information of the goatherd,
which making him still more impatient to know who this unfortunate
lunatick was, he determined with himself to put his former design in
execution, and go in quest of him, through the whole mountain, without
leaving a cave or corner unsearched until he should find him. But
accident was more his friend on this occasion than he could either
imagine or expect; for at that instant, the young man of himself
appeared in the cleft of a rock hard by the place where they stood; and
came towards them, muttering something to himself, which they could not
have understood had he been near, much less as he was at some distance
from them. His equipage was just as it has been described; but, as he
approached, Don Quixote perceived that his buff doublet, though torn to
rags, still retained the perfume: from whence he concluded, that the
person who wore such dress, could not be a man of the lowest rank. When
he came up, he saluted them very politely, though with a hoarse,
mistuned voice; and the salutation was returned with no less courtesy by
Don Quixote, who alighting from Rozinante, with genteel and graceful
deportment, went and embraced the stranger, whom he strained within his
arms a good while, as if he had been a very old acquaintance. The other,
who might have been called the tatterdemalion of the distracted, as Don
Quixote was stiled the knight of the rueful countenance, after having
submitted to this embrace, stepped back, and laying his hands on the
shoulders of the knight, stood looking attentively in his face, in order
to recollect him; no less astonished, perhaps, at the figure, mien, and
armour of Don Quixote, than this last was surprized at his forlorn
appearance. At length, the first who broke silence after the embrace,
was the ragged youth, who spoke what you may read in the following
chapter.
Footnote 72:
This is an oversight of the author, who seems to have forgot that
Sancho lost his wallet at the inn, and was robbed by the galley-slaves
of the great coat or cloak, in which he carried the remains of that
provision he had taken from those who attended the dead body towards
Segovia.
Footnote 73:
A chain of dusky mountains that divide Castile from Andalusia.
Footnote 74:
Here Cervantes hath been caught napping by the criticks; who observe,
that Sancho could not be mounted on the ass, which was but just now
stolen by Gines de Passamonte.
Footnote 75:
As it is impossible to preserve the original blunders of Sancho, who
mistakes Fili or Phillis, for Hilo, that signifies a thread, we are
obliged to substitute another, by changing Phillis into Chloe, which
Sancho, in English, might have as naturally mistaken for a clue; and
by this expedient the sense of the passage is not hurt, and but very
little altered.
Footnote 76:
Methinks it is inconsistent with the character of the knight, to allow
Sancho to tell such a fraudulent untruth in his hearing; nor is
Panza’s behaviour on this occasion much for the honour of his
simplicity.
CHAP. X.
THE CONTINUATION OF THE ADVENTURE IN THE SIERRA MORENA.
The history relates, that Don Quixote listened with vast attention to
the shabby knight of the mountain, who began the conversation thus:
‘Assuredly, Signior, though I have not the honour to know who you are, I
thank you heartily for those expressions of kindness with which you
treat me; and wish I were in such a situation as would enable me to
repay this courteous reception with something more than mere good-will:
but my hapless fortune affords me nothing to offer in return for the
civilities that are shewn me, except a hearty inclination to make a more
adequate satisfaction.’—‘My will and desire,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘to
serve you is so strong, that I was determined not to quit these
mountains until I had found you, and learned of yourself whether or not
the grief you manifest in this strange course of life, could be
alleviated by any kind of remedy, for which, had need required, I would
have searched with all possible diligence; and had your misfortune been
such as shut up all the avenues to advice and redress, I was resolved to
join your lamentations, and bemoan your misery to the utmost of my
power: for, in all misfortunes, the greatest consolation is a
sympathizing friend; and if this my friendly intention deserves the
least return of civility, I entreat you, Signior, by that courtesy which
I see you so eminently possess, and moreover conjure you by that object,
which of all others in this life you have most loved, or are most in
love with, to tell me who you are, and inform me of the cause that
brings you to live and die in this solitude, like the brute beasts among
which you dwell, so different from that rank and situation to which your
appearance and person declare you are entitled. And I swear by the order
of chivalry which I have received, unworthy sinner that I am! and by the
profession of a knight-errant, that if you comply with this my request,
I will serve you with that earnestness which my duty obliges me to
express; either in remedying your mishap, if it admits of remedy, or in
condoling with you, as I have already promised.’ The knight of the wood,
hearing him of the rueful countenance talk in this manner, could do
nothing for some time but gaze, and stare, and survey him from head to
foot; at length, having examined him thoroughly, he said, ‘If you have
got any food, for God’s sake spare me a little; and after I shall have
eaten it, I will do as you desire, in return for the civility you now
shew me.’
Sancho immediately pulled from his bag, and the goatherd from his scrip,
some victuals to appease the hunger of the tatterdemalion, who swallowed
what they gave him like a frantick person, with such hurry, that he left
not the interval of an instant between one mouthful and another, but
seemed to devour rather than eat, without either speaking or being spoke
to by the spectators. His repast being ended, he beckoned them to
follow, and conducted them to a verdant spot of grass, at the turning of
a rock, a little way from the place where they were; and sitting down on
the green turf, they followed his example; not a word being spoke all
the time, until the ragged knight, after having adjusted himself in his
seat, began in this manner. ‘If you desire, gentlemen, that I should, in
a few words, inform you of the immensity of my misfortunes, you must
give me your promise that you will not by any question, or otherwise,
interrupt the thread of my doleful story; for if you should, that
instant I will break off the narration.’ This warning recalled to the
knight’s memory the story recounted by his squire, which still remained
unfinished, because he had not kept an exact account of the goats, as
they passed the river. But, to return to the tattered knight: ‘I give
you this precaution,’ added he, ‘because I would briefly pass over the
detail of my misfortunes, the remembrance of which brings fresh addition
to my woe; and the fewer questions you ask, the sooner shall I have
finished the relation; although, in order to satisfy your curiosity to
the full, I will not fail to mention every material circumstance.’ Don
Quixote promised, in behalf of himself and the company, to avoid all
manner of interruption; and the stranger, thus assured, began in these
words:
[Illustration: The Tattered Gentleman Tells His Tale.]
‘My name is Cardenio, the place of my nativity one of the best cities in
this province of Andalusia, my family noble, my parents rich, and my
misfortunes so great, that no doubt they have been lamented by them, and
even felt through my whole kindred, though all their wealth would not
alleviate my woe; for the goods of fortune are but of little service
against those ills inflicted by the hand of Heaven. In the same country
lived, shall I call her, a paradise, which love had adorned with all the
charms I could desire to possess; such was the beauty of Lucinda, a
young lady as well-born and rich as I, though more fortunate and endowed
with less constancy than what was due to my honourable intentions. This
Lucinda did I admire, love, and adore, even from my most tender years;
and she made me all the returns of love and inclination that I could
expect from her infant age. Our parents were not ignorant of our mutual
affection, which gave them no offence, because they foresaw that if it
should increase with our years, it could have no other issue than
marriage; an union which the equality of our age and fortune seemed to
point out. Meanwhile, our passion growing up with our age, Lucinda’s
father thought himself obliged to forbid me his house, imitating in that
particular, the parents of Thisbe, whom the poets have celebrated so
much. This prohibition added flame to flame, and wish to wish, for
though our tongues were restrained, they could not silence our pens,
which commonly express the sentiments of the heart with more liberty,
because the presence of the beloved object often confounds the most
determined intention, and puts to silence the most undaunted tongue.
‘Good Heaven! what letters did I write! what chaste endearing answers
did I receive! what songs did I compose, inspired by love that displayed
the soul unmasked, inflamed each soft desire, regaled the fancy, and
indulged the wish! in fine, my patience being exhausted, and my heart
almost consumed with the desire of seeing her, I resolved to execute the
scheme which seemed most favourable for my love and pretensions; and
this I put in practice, by demanding her in marriage of her father, who
thanked me for the honour I intended him, by this proposal of marrying
into his family; but said, as my own father was alive, it was properly
his business to make the demand; for, unless his consent and inclination
were obtained, Lucinda was not a person either to be given or taken in
marriage by stealth. I thanked him in my turn, for his politeness; and
thinking there was a great deal of reason in what he said, assured
myself that my father would readily agree to the proposal whenever I
should make it. I therefore flew instantly to disclose my sentiments to
him on that subject; and entering the closet where he was, found him
reading a letter, which, before I could speak a syllable, he put into my
hands saying, “By this letter, Cardenio, you will see how much Duke
Ricardo is inclined to do you service.” This Duke Ricardo, as you must
know, gentlemen, is a grandee of Spain, whose estate lies in the best
part of this province. I took and read this letter, which was so
extremely kind, that I myself should have blamed my father, had he
refused to comply with what he requested in it: this was to send me
immediately to this house, he being desirous that I should live as the
companion, not the servant, of the eldest son; and he would take care of
my fortune in such a manner as should manifest the esteem he had for me.
Having read the letter, I was struck dumb at knowing the contents;
especially when I heard my father pronounce, “Two days hence, Cardenio,
you shall set out, according to the pleasure of the duke; and you ought
to thank God for having opened an avenue, through which you may arrive
at that fortune I know you deserve.” To this declaration he added other
services, as became a prudent father; and I, the night before I
departed, finding means to speak with Lucinda, told her what had
happened; nay, I even imparted it to her father, entreating him to wait
a few days, without disposing of her to any other, until I should know
in what manner Ricardo wanted to employ me. He gave me his promise
accordingly, and she confirmed it by a thousand vows and anxious sighs.
‘I at length arrived at the seat of Duke Ricardo, by whom I was so well
received and kindly entertained, that Envy presently began to do her
office, possessing the old servants with the opinion, that every
expression of favour I received from the duke was prejudicial to their
interest. But he who was most rejoiced at my residing there, was the
duke’s second son, Fernando, a gay, genteel, liberal, and amorous youth,
who in a short time was pleased to honour me with such intimacy of
friendship as became the subject of every body’s discourse; and though
the eldest brother loved and favoured me also, he did not carry his
favour and affection to such a pitch. Now, as all secrets are
communicated between friends, and the confidence in which I lived with
Fernando was soon changed into friendship, he imparted to me his most
secret thoughts, and among other things, a love affair that gave him a
good deal of disquiet. In short, he had an inclination for a
country-maid, who was his father’s vassal; her parents were very rich,
and she herself so beautiful, reserved, modest and discreet, that nobody
who knew her could determine in which of these qualifications she most
excelled. These accomplishments of this fair maiden inflamed the desires
of Don Fernando to such a pitch, that he resolved, as the easiest
conquest over her virtue, to promise he would marry her; for he found it
impossible to gratify his wish in any other way. I, prompted and bound
by my friendship, endeavoured to dissuade and divert him from his
purpose, by the strongest arguments and most lively examples I could
produce; but finding them all ineffectual, I resolved to communicate the
whole affair to his father Duke Ricardo.
‘Don Fernando, having abundance of cunning and discernment, suspected my
intention; and was afraid, that the obligation he saw I was under, as a
faithful servant, would not allow me to conceal an affair so prejudicial
to the honour of the duke my master; he therefore, in order to divert
and deceive me, observed that he could find no better remedy to remove
the beauty that enslaved him from his remembrance, than that of absence
for a few months; and therefore desired that we should go to my father’s
house, upon pretence, as he would tell the duke, of seeing and
purchasing some fine horses in our town, which produces the best in the
world. Scarce had he uttered this proposal, when prompted by my love,
exclusive of his prudent intention, I approved of it, as one of the best
concerted schemes that could be imagined; and was rejoiced at meeting
with such a fair conjuncture and occasion of returning to my dear
Lucinda. Induced by this motive and desire, I applauded his pretence,
and enforced his proposal, advising him to execute his plan with all
speed; for absence would certainly do its office, in spite of the most
established inclination. At that very time, as I afterwards understood,
he had enjoyed the country-maid, under the title of her husband, and
waited for an opportunity of owning it with safety to himself, being
afraid of the duke’s resentment, in case he should discover his folly.
It happened afterwards, that as love in young people is, for the most
part, nothing but appetite, whose only aim is pleasure, and this being
enjoyed, what seemed love vanishes, because it cannot exceed the bounds
of nature; whereas real love is bounded by no such limits: I say, as
soon as Don Fernando enjoyed the country girl, his desires were
appeased, and his raptures abated; and if at first he pretended to seek
a cure for them in absence, he now earnestly desired to be absent, that
he might avoid any farther gratification.
‘The duke having given him leave, and ordered me to attend him, we
arrived at our habitation, where he was received by my father in a
manner suitable to his rank and family. I went instantly to visit
Lucinda, whose presence in a moment rekindled all my desires, which
indeed were neither dead nor decayed within me: and, to my infinite
misfortune, I made Don Fernando acquainted with my love, because I
thought, by the laws of that intimate friendship with which he honoured
me, I ought to conceal nothing from him. I therefore praised the beauty,
grace, and discretion of Lucinda, in such a manner, as excited his
curiosity to see such an accomplished young lady. Prompted by my evil
genius, I gratified his desire, shewing her to him one night by the
light of a taper at the window from which I used to converse with her.
At sight of her he absolutely forgot all the beauties he had formerly
seen; he was struck dumb with wonder; he seemed to lose all sense,
became absent and pensive; and in short, enamoured of her to that
degree, which you will perceive in the course of my unhappy story: and
the more to inflame his desire, which he concealed from me, and
disclosed to Heaven alone, he happened one day to find a letter which
she had written, desiring me to ask her in marriage of her father, so
prudent, modest, and tender, that upon perusing it, he said, “In Lucinda
alone are concentered all the charms of beauty and understanding, which
are divided among the rest of her sex.” True it is, and I will now
confess it, and although I knew how justly Fernando applauded Lucinda, I
was vexed at hearing these praises proceed from his mouth, and began to
dread and suspect his inclination; for he was eternally talking of her,
and always turned the discourse upon her, even when he was obliged to
bring her in by the head and shoulders; a circumstance that waked a sort
of jealousy within me; not that I imagined ought could alter the faith
and affection of Lucinda; yet, notwithstanding, my destiny made me dread
the very thing that confidence insured. Don Fernando always contrived
means to read the letters I sent to Lucinda, together with her answers,
on pretence of being highly pleased with the good sense they contained;
and it once happened, that she having desired me to send her a book of
knight-errantry, in which she took great delight, called Amadis de
Gaul——’
Don Quixote no sooner heard him mention this book, than he said, ‘Had
you told me in the beginning of your story, that your mistress Lucinda
was an admirer of books of chivalry, you would have had no occasion to
use any other argument to convince me of her sublime understanding;
which I should not have deemed quite so extraordinary as you have
represented it, had she wanted relish for that sort of reading:
wherefore you need not spend any more words with me, in extolling her
beauty, virtue, and good sense; for, upon the knowledge of her taste
only, I pronounce her to be the most beautiful and discreet lady in the
universe. I wish, however, that you had sent along with Amadis de Gaul,
the worthy Don Rugel of Greece; for I know your mistress Lucinda would
have been greatly pleased with Darayra and Garaya, together with the
judicious sayings of the shepherd Darinel, and those admirable verses of
his eclogues, sung and represented by him with such grace, spirit, and
discretion; but the time will come when that omission may be rectified;
indeed, the fault may be repaired as soon as you shall please to
accompany me to the place of my habitation, where I can supply you with
more than three hundred books, which are the feast of my soul, and
entertainment of my life; though now I recollect, not one of them
remains in my possession; thanks to the malice of wicked and envious
inchanters. But I hope you will be so good as to forgive me for having
contradicted my promise of not interrupting your story; for when the
subject turns upon chivalry or knights-errant, I can no more forbear
interposing, than the rays of the sun can cease to warm, or those of the
moon to wet: but I ask pardon; pray proceed with your story; for that is
most to the purpose at present.’
While Don Quixote was talking in this manner, Cardenio hung his head,
and fell into a profound reverie; and though the knight repeated his
request, would neither lift up his head, nor answer one word. At length,
after a long pause, looking up, ‘You cannot,’ said he, ‘beat it out of
my thoughts; nor is there any person upon earth, who can persuade me to
the contrary; and he must be a blockhead, who imagines or believes
otherwise, than that the villain Master Elisabat carried on a criminal
correspondence with Queen Madasima.’—‘By Heaven, ’tis false,’ cried Don
Quixote, with great indignation and impetuosity, as usual; ‘that report
is the effect of malice, or rather mere wantonness. Queen Madasima was a
most royal dame, and it is not to be presumed, that a princess of her
rank would confer favours upon a mere quack doctor. Whosoever thinks
otherwise, lyes like a very great scoundrel; and I will prove him such
either on horseback or a foot, armed or disarmed, by night or by day, as
will most suit his inclination.’ Cardenio stood all the while looking
attentively at him, and being by this time seized with the paroxism of
his madness, could not proceed with his story; neither, if he had
proceeded, would Don Quixote have listened to it, for he was offended at
what he had heard to the prejudice of Queen Madasima[77], whose
reputation interested him as much as if she had been actually his own
mistress: such wonderful impression had those profane books made on his
imagination!
I say, then, Cardenio being by this time under the influence of his
distraction, and hearing himself called lyar and scoundrel, with other
terms of reproach, could not relish the joke; but, snatching up a large
pebble that lay near him, aimed it so successfully at Don Quixote’s
breast, that he fell fairly on his back with the blow. Sancho Panza,
seeing his master treated in this manner, attacked the madman with his
clenched fist; but the lunatick received him with such a blow, as
knocked him down to the ground at once, and then getting upon him,
mauled his carcase to his heart’s content; while the goatherd, who
attempted to defend him, met with the same fate. Having thus mastered
and pummelled them all round, he left off, and with great composure
retreated to the thickets from whence he came. Sancho then arose; and,
enraged to find himself handled in this manner for nothing, ran to take
vengeance on the goatherd, saying that he was to blame for the whole,
because he had not informed him, that the man had intervals of madness;
which had they known, they might have guarded against them. The goatherd
affirmed, that he had apprized them of what might happen; and if they
had not heard him, it was no fault of his. The squire replied; the
goatherd retorted; and, in conclusion, they went by the ears together,
and pulled each other’s beards with such fury, that there would not have
been a single hair left on either chin, had not Don Quixote interposed.
Sancho, grappling stoutly with his adversary, cried, ‘Give me leave, Sir
Knight of the Rueful Countenance; this is no armed knight, but a
plebeian like myself, of whom I can securely take satisfaction for the
injury he has done me, by fighting with him hand to hand, like a man of
honour.’—‘True,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but the cause of what hath happened,
cannot be justly imputed to him.’ Peace accordingly ensued, and the
knight asked the goatherd again, if there was a possibility of finding
Cardenio; for he was extremely desirous of hearing the conclusion of his
story. The goatherd repeated what he had said before, that he did not
certainly know whereabouts he resided; but, if they should stay long in
these parts, they could not fail of finding him either mad or sober.
Footnote 77:
Queen Madasima, a lady in Amadis de Gaul, attended by one Elisabat, a
surgeon with whom she travels, and lies in woods and desarts.
CHAP. XI.
OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURES THAT HAPPENED TO THE VALIANT KNIGHT OF LA
MANCHA IN THE SIERRA MORENA, WHERE HE DID PENANCE, IN IMITATION OF
BELTENEBROS.
Don Quixote, having taken leave of the goatherd, and mounted Rozinante
again, commanded Sancho to follow him; and the squire, bestriding his
ass, obeyed with great reluctance. As they advanced at leisure, into the
most rocky part of the mountain, Sancho longed to death for an
opportunity of talking, and waited impatiently till his master should
begin, that he might not transgress his orders; but, being utterly
unable to keep silence any longer, ‘Sir Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘be
pleased to give me your blessing, and grant me leave to return
immediately to my wife and children, with whom, at least, I can talk and
prattle my fill; for in commanding me to travel with you, through these
desarts, night and day, without opening my lips when I am disposed to
speak, your worship buries me alive; if it were the will of Heaven, that
beasts spoke as they did in the days of Hyssop, I should be the less
uneasy, because I would converse with my ass at pleasure; and that would
be some comfort to me in my misfortunes; but it is a very hard case, and
what I cannot bear with patience, to travel in search of adventures all
my life, and find nought but rib-roastings, blankettings, robberies, and
fisty-cuffs; and, after all, be obliged to sew up our mouths, without
daring to bring up what lies upon our stomachs, more than if we were
dumb.’
‘I understand thee, Sancho,’ replied the knight; ‘thou art impatient
until I take off the interdiction I have laid upon thy tongue. I take it
off, then; say what you please, on condition that this repeal shall last
no longer than our stay in this mountain.’—‘Be it so,’ said Sancho;
‘to-day I will speak, to-morrow God’s will be done; and the first use I
make of this safe conduct, is to ask why your worship was in such a
passion about that Queen Magimasa, or how d’ye call her; or of what
signification was it to you, whether that same Abat was her sweetheart
or not? Had your worship overlooked that circumstance, that you had no
concern in, I firmly believe the madman would, have gone on with his
story, and you would have saved yourself the pebble-shot, with more than
half a dozen kicks and cuffs.’
‘In faith, Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘If thou knewest, as I do,
what an honourable and princely lady that Queen Madasima was, thou
wouldst say, I had great patience in forbearing to demolish the mouth
from whence such blasphemy proceeded; for sure, ’tis no less to say, or
even think, that a queen should take a surgeon to her bed. The truth of
the story is, that Master Elisabat, whom the lunatick mentioned, was a
man of prudence and discernment, and served the queen in quality of
tutor and physician; but to suppose that there was any indecent
familiarity between them, is a piece of folly that deserves to be
severely chastised: and to convince thee that Cardenio knew not what he
said, thou mayest remember he was deprived of his senses, when he took
notice of that circumstance.’—‘This I’ll venture to say,’ replied the
squire, ‘that the words of a madman are not to be minded; for, if
fortune had not stood your worship’s friend, and directed to your breast
the pebble that was aimed at your head, we should have been in a fine
condition, for your having quarrelled about that lady, whom Heaven
confound! you may depend upon it, Cardenio would have been acquitted on
account of his madness.’
‘Every knight-errant,’ said Don Quixote, ‘is obliged to quarrel with
those who are out of their senses, as well as those who are in them, if
they asperse the honour of women, whatsoever they might be. How much
more, then, in behalf of princesses of such high quality and
accomplishments as adorned Queen Madasima, for whom I have a particular
affection, on account of her admirable qualifications; for, over and
above her beauty, she had a great share of prudence and resignation in
her calamities, which were manifold: and the advice and company of
Master Elisabat were of great service in encouraging her to bear her
afflictions with patience and equanimity. From hence, the ignorant and
malicious vulgar took occasion to say and suppose, that she admitted of
his caresses; but they lye. I say again, all those who either say or
think so, lye in their throats, and I will tell them so two hundred
times over.’—‘As for my own part,’ said Sancho, ‘I neither say nor think
any such thing; those that do may dine upon it: if they were too
familiar, by this time they have answered for it to God. I prune my own
vine, and know nothing about thine. I never meddle with other people’s
concerns. He that buys and denies, his own purse belyes, as the saying
is. Bare I was born, and bare I remain; and if I lose nothing, as little
I gain. If he did lie with her, that is no matter of mine. Many people
hunt the hare without ever finding the scut; for, Till you hedge in the
sky, the starlings will fly. And evil tongues will not refrain from God
himself.’
‘Good Heaven,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘what fooleries art thou stringing
together, Sancho? Pray, what relation have these old saws to the subject
of our conversation? I charge thee to hold thy peace, and henceforth
entertain thyself with spurring up thy ass, and leave off talking of
things which do not concern thee: or let thy whole five senses be
convinced, that every thing I have done, am doing, or will do, is highly
reasonable, and in exact conformity with the laws of chivalry, which I
understand better than any knight that ever professed the order.’—‘Yes
Sir,’ replied Sancho, ‘to be sure it is an excellent law of chivalry, to
stroll about bewildered in these mountains, where there is neither high
road nor bye path, in search of a madman, who, after we have found him,
will perhaps take it in his head to finish what he left undone; not of
his story, but of your worship’s pate and my ribs, which he may chance
to break in a thousand shivers.’
‘I say again, Sancho,’ resumed the knight, ‘hold thy peace; for I would
have thee know, that I am not detained in this place, so much by the
desire of finding the lunatick, as of performing in it an exploit by
which I shall acquire everlasting renown throughout the whole known
world; and put the stamp of perfection upon the wonderful efforts of
knight-errantry?’—‘And will this exploit be attended with much danger?’
said Sancho. ‘No,’ answered he of the rueful countenance, ‘though the
dice may run so as to produce bad instead of good fortune; but the whole
will depend upon thy diligence.’—‘Upon my diligence!’ cried the squire.
‘Without doubt,’ answered his master; ‘for, if thou wilt return
speedily, from the place to which thou must be sent, my affliction will
soon be at an end, and my glory will speedily begin: and, that I may no
longer keep thee in suspence about the meaning of my words, know,
Sancho, that the celebrated Amadis de Gaul was one of the most perfect
knights-errant; one of them, said I? he alone was the only, single,
chief, and superior of all his cotemporaries. Contempt and shame upon
Bellianis, and all those who say he equalled him in any one particular;
for, by this light, they are all egregiously deceived! I say, moreover,
when a painter desires to become famous in his art, he endeavours to
imitate the originals painted by the most noted artists; and the same
maxim holds in every other science and exercise that adorns a
commonwealth: therefore, he who wants to attain the virtues of prudence
and equanimity, must endeavour to imitate the character of Ulysses, in
whose person and sufferings Homer has drawn an excellent picture of
wisdom and patience, as Virgil, in the person of Æneas, represents the
piety of an affectionate son, and the sagacity of a wise and valiant
general; not that they are described and set forth exactly as they were,
but as they ought to have been, as examples of virtue to posterity. In
the same manner, Amadis shone like the north-star, the Lucifer and sun
of all valiant and amorous knights; and therefore must be imitated as a
pattern, by all those who serve under the banners of love and chivalry.
Now, this being the case, friend Sancho, I find that the knight-errant
who approaches the nearest to this great original, will bid fairest for
attaining the perfection of chivalry: and one of the circumstances in
which that knight gave the highest proofs of his worth, prudence,
valour, patience, constancy, and love, was his retiring to the poor
rock, when he was in disgrace with his mistress Oriana, there to do
penance under the feigned name Beltenebros[78]; an appellation certainly
very significant and proper to the way of life he had voluntarily
chosen. As it is therefore more easy for me to imitate him in this than
in cleaving giants, beheading serpents, slaying dragons, overthrowing
armies, scattering navies, and dissolving inchantments; and as this
solitude is so well adapted to such designs, I am resolved to seize
occasion by the forelock, which she now so complaisantly presents.’
‘In reality,’ said Sancho, ‘what is your worship resolved to do in this
remote place?’—‘Have I not already told thee,’ replied the knight, ‘that
I am determined to imitate Amadis, in acting the desperado, the
lunatick, the madman: to copy also after the valiant Don Roldan, when he
discovered, in a fountain, certain marks by which he was convinced that
Angelica the fair had committed uncleanness with Medoro. A piece of
information attended with such grief and anxiety, that he ran mad, tore
up the trees by the root, sullied the waters of the transparent springs,
slew shepherds, destroyed flocks, set fire to cottages, demolished
houses, dragged mares along the ground, and performed a thousand other
insolent feats worthy to be inserted in Fame’s eternal record; and
because I do not propose to imitate Roldan, or Orlando, or Rotolando,
for he went by all these names, literally in all the extravagancies he
thought, said, and did, I will copy his outlines as well as I can, in
the most essential parts of his character; nay, perhaps, I may content
myself with the sole imitation of Amadis, who, by his tears and sighs
alone, acquired as much fame as the other with all the mischief he
did.’—‘If I apprehend the matter aright,’ said Sancho, ‘the knights who
played such mad pranks were provoked, and had some reason to act these
fooleries and penance: but what cause hath your worship to turn madman?
With what lady are you in disgrace? or by what signs are you given to
understand that the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso has been playing the rogue
either with Moor or Christian!’—‘This is the point,’ answered Don
Quixote, ‘and refinement of my design; a knight who turns madman,
because he cannot help it, can claim no merit from his misfortune; but
the great matter is to run distracted without cause, and give my lady
reason to conceive what I could do were I moistened, when I can do so
much being dry. More especially, as I have sufficient cause in the long
absence to which I am doomed by my ever-darling mistress Dulcinea del
Toboso; for, according to the words of the shepherd Matias Ambrosio,
which thou mayest have heard,
“In absence of my charming fair,
“I suffer all those ills I fear.”
‘Wherefore, friend Sancho, you need not throw away your time
unprofitably, in advising me to refrain from an imitation at once so
admirable, rare, and happy: mad I am, and mad I shall be until thou
returnest with the answer of a letter which I propose to send by thee to
my Lady Dulcinea; and if it be such as I am entitled to by my love and
fidelity, my distraction and penance will end; but, should it be
otherwise, I shall run mad in earnest, and consequently be insensible of
my misfortune: wherefore, let her answer be as it may, it will extricate
me from the doubts and affliction in which thou leaved me; because, if
it be favourable, I shall enjoy it in my right senses; and if it be
unfavourable, my frenzy will not feel it.
‘But tell me, Sancho, hast thou taken care of Mambrino’s helmet, which I
saw thee take up, after that ungrateful vagabond endeavoured in vain to
break it in pieces; a circumstance that proves the excellency of its
temper?’ To this exclamation, Sancho replied, ‘’Fore God! Sir Knight of
the Rueful Countenance, I cannot suffer, nor bear with patience, some
things which your worship says; for they make me imagine, that all you
have mentioned about chivalry, and acquiring kingdoms and empires, and
giving away islands, with other favours and presents, according to the
practice of knights-errant, is nothing but puffs of falshood, and the
mere effect of piction or fiction, or what do you call it: for who that
hears your worship call a barber’s bason the helmet of Mambrino, and
sees you continue in that error so many days, but will believe, that he
who affirms such nonsense must be very much crazed in his understanding?
The bason, which is all bruised and battered, I have put up in my bag,
in order to be mended at home, and used for the service of my own beard,
if ever, by the grace of God, I come to see my wife and family.’—‘Hark
ye, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘by the same oath you swore, I swear
again, that thou hast the most slender understanding that any squire in
this world does or ever did possess! Is it possible, that after all thy
travelling in my company, thou art not convinced that every thing
belonging to knights-errant, appears chimera, folly, and distraction,
being metamorphosed into the reverse of what it is, by the power of a
tribe of inchanters who attend us, changing, converting, and restoring
each particular, according to their pleasure, and the inclination they
have to favour or annoy us: for which reason, what seems a barber’s
bason to thee, I can easily discern to be the helmet of Mambrino, and
perhaps to a third, it will assume a quite different appearance; and I
cannot but admire the providence of the sage who is my friend, in making
that which is really and truly Mambrino’s helmet, appear a bason to the
rest of mankind, because it is of such inestimable value, that if it was
known, the whole world would combine to ravish it from me; but as it
appears to them no more than a barber’s bason, they never attempt to
obtain it. This was plainly the case with the villain, who, having
endeavoured to break it in pieces, left it on the ground, when he went
off; whereas, had he known what it was, in good faith he would not have
quitted it so easily. Keep it therefore with care, my friend, for at
present there is no occasion for it; on the contrary, I shall strip off
all my armour, and remain naked as I was born, in case I be inclined to
imitate the penance of Roldan, rather than that of Amadis.’
Conversing in this manner, they arrived at the foot of a high mountain
that stood alone, as if it had been cut out from the rest that
surrounded it. A gentle rill murmured by the skirts of it, winding along
a meadow, so green and fertile, that it ravished the spectator’s eye;
while a number of forest trees that grew around, together with some
delicious herbs and flowers, conspired to make the place inchanting.
This was the scene in which the knight of the rueful countenance chose
to do penance; and therefore he no sooner perceived it, than he began to
exclaim aloud, as if he had actually lost his senses, ‘This is the spot,
ye heavens! which I chuse and appoint my residence, while I bewail that
misfortune to which you yourselves have reduced me. This is the place
where the tears from these eyes will increase the waters of that little
brook; and where my profound and uninterrupted sighs will incessantly
move the leaves of these mountain-oaks, in witness and testimony of the
pangs which my tormented heart endures. O ye rural deities, whosoever ye
are, who take up your mansion in this uninhabited place, give ear to the
complaints of an unhappy lover, whom a tedious absence and imaginary
doubts have brought to lament among these craggy hills, and bemoan the
cruel disposition of that ungrateful fair, who is the end and perfection
of all human beauty? O ye nymphs and dryads, who were wont to inhabit
the hills and groves, (so may no nimble and lascivious satyrs, by whom
you are beloved, though loved in vain, disturb your sweet repose) help
me to bewail my mishap: or at least disdain not to hear my moan!—O
Dulcinea del Toboso! light of my darkness! glory of my affliction!
north-star of my inclinations! and planet of my fortune! as Heaven shall
pour upon you the blessings which you ask; consider the place and
condition to which your absence hath exiled me, and put such a period to
my woe, as my fidelity shall seem to deserve! O ye solitary trees, who
henceforth are to bear me company in this retreat, convince me, by the
gentle waving of your boughs, that my presence gives you no disgust.—And
thou, my squire, the agreeable companion of my good and evil fortune,
faithfully retain in thy remembrance what thou shalt see me do, that
thou mayest recount and rehearse every circumstance to the lovely cause
of all my distraction!’ So saying, he alighted; and, taking off the
bridle and saddle from Rozinante, gave him a slap on the buttocks,
pronouncing these words: ‘He who is a slave himself, bestows freedom
upon thee, O steed, as excellent in thy qualities as unlucky in thy
fate! go wheresoever thou wilt; thou bearest engraven on thy forehead,
that thou wast never equalled in swiftness, either by Astolpho’s
Hypogriff, or the renowned Frontino that cost Bradamante so dear.’
Sancho, hearing this apostrophe, ‘My blessing,’ cried he, ‘be upon him
whose industry now saves us the trouble of taking the halter from the
head of Dapple[79], who, in good faith, should not want slaps on the
buttocks, nor abundance of fine things said in his praise; but, if he
was here, I would not consent to his being turned loose, there being no
reason for so doing; for he was never acquainted with love and despair,
no more than I, who was his master, while it pleased God I should be so:
and truly, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, if this departure of
mine, and distraction of your worship, are really to take place, you had
better saddle Rozinante again, to supply the want of Dapple; by which
means a great deal of time will be saved in my going and coming;
whereas, if I make the journey on foot, I know not when it will be
performed; for, in short, I am a very sorry walker.’—‘I say, be it so,
then, Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote: ‘I approve of thy proposal; and
assure thee, that thou shalt set out in three days, during which I would
have thee take notice of what I shall do for her sake, that thou mayest
be able to give her a full account of my behaviour.’—‘What more can I
see,’ said Sancho, ‘than I have seen already?’—‘You are pretty perfect
in your story,’ answered the knight; ‘but, as yet, I have not torn my
cloaths, scattered my armour, and dashed my head against the rocks, nor
performed many other things of this sort, which thou wilt behold with
admiration.’—‘For the love of God, Sir!’ cried Sancho, ‘take care how
you dash your head against the rocks; for you may chance to meet with
such a one as will, at the first push, put the finishing stroke to this
whole scheme of penance; and I should think, that as knocks of the head
are absolutely necessary to compleat the work, your worship might
content yourself, seeing the whole affair is a sham, a counterfeit, and
a joke; I say, your worship might content yourself with ramming your
skull against water, or some soft thing, like a cotton bag; and leave it
to my care to tell my lady, that your worship went to loggerheads with
the point of a rock a thousand times harder than adamant.’—‘Friend
Sancho,’ replied the knight, ‘I am obliged to thee, for thy kind
intention; but, thou must know, that what I do is not a sham, but a very
serious matter; for, to behave otherwise, were to transgress the orders
of chivalry, which forbid us to lye, under pain of being degraded; and
you know, that to substitute one thing instead of another, is downright
telling a lye: wherefore, my knocks on the head must be real, hard, and
effectual, and not sophisticated or imaginary; and it will be necessary
to leave me some lint for my wounds, since it was the will of fate that
we should lose the balsam.’
‘It was a much greater misfortune,’ said the squire, ‘to lose the ass,
and with him the lint and all; but I beseech your worship, not to talk
of that accursed drench, the sole mention of which not only turns my
stomach, but even my very soul; and I beseech you, moreover, to suppose
we have passed those three days, which you have appointed for shewing me
your mad pranks; for I take them all for granted, and will tell wonders
of them to my lady. Write the letter, therefore, and dispatch me
forthwith: because I am impatient till I return and deliver your worship
from that purgatory in which I leave you.’—‘Purgatory! call you it,
Sancho?’ replied Don Quixote: ‘it rather deserves the name of hell, or
something worse, if worse can be.’—‘I have heard,’ said the squire,
‘that from hell there is no retention.’—‘I know not,’ replied the
knight, ‘what you mean by retention.’—‘Retention,’ answered Sancho,
‘signifies, that whosoever goeth to hell, neither will nor can come back
again. The contrary of which shall happen to your worship, or my feet
will misgive me, provided I carry spurs to quicken Rozinante: and set me
once face to face before my Lady Dulcinea, at Toboso, I will tell her
such stories of the folly and madness, for they are both the same thing,
which your worship has committed, and will then be committing, that
though I should find her harder than a cork-tree, I will make her as
pliant as a glove; and, with her sweet and honied answer, return through
the air, like a witch, and deliver your worship from this purgatory,
that appears like hell, though it be not really so, because there are
some hopes of getting out of it; whereas those who are actually in hell
can have no such expectation; and I dare say, your worship will not
advance any thing to the contrary.’
‘That is all very true,’ said he of the rueful countenance; ‘but how
shall we make shift to write this letter?’—‘Aye, and the bill for the
colts?’ added Sancho. ‘That shall be inserted in the letter,’ answered
his master; ‘and I think, as there is no paper to be had in this place,
the best thing we can do, will be to write in the manner of the
ancients, on the leaf of a tree, or on waxen tables; though, I believe,
those will be as difficult to be found as the paper. But, now I remember
what will do well, and excellently well, for our purpose: I will write
it in the pocket-book which belonged to Cardenio, and thou shalt take
care to have it fairly transcribed in the first place where thou canst
find a school-master or a parish-clerk to copy it. But, by no means
employ a scrivener, who way write it in such an unintelligible
court-hand, that Satan himself could not understand it.’—‘But what is to
be done about the signing of it?’ said Sancho. ‘Love-letters are never
signed,’ replied Don Quixote. ‘True,’ resumed the squire; ‘but all bills
must be subscribed: and if this of yours were to be copied, they would
say the subscription was counterfeit, and I might go whistle for my
colts.’—‘The bill shall be subscribed with my own hand in the
pocket-book; which my niece shall no sooner see, than she will comply
with the order, without any farther objection: and with regard to the
letter, instead of my subscription, thou shalt cause to be inserted,
“Yours, till death; the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.” And though it
be written by another hand, it is of small importance, because, now I
remember, Dulcinea can neither read nor write, nor ever set eyes on any
writing or letter of mine: for our mutual love has been altogether
platonick, without extending farther than a modest glance; and even that
so seldom, that I can safely swear, in twelve years, during which I have
loved her more than the light of these eyes, which will one day be
closed in dust, I have not seen her more than four times, and even in
these four times, perhaps, she hath not perceived me looking at her more
than once. Such is the restraint and reserve in which her father Lorenzo
Corchuelo, and her mother Aldonza Nogales, have brought her up!’
‘Ah, ha!’ cried Sancho, ‘is the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo, whose
other name is Aldonza Lorenza, the same with the Lady Dulcinea?’—‘Yes,’
answered the knight; ‘and she deserves to be lady of the whole
universe.’—‘I know her perfectly well,’ said Sancho; ‘and this will
venture to say in her behalf, that she will pitch the bar as well as
e’er a lusty young fellow in the village. Bless the sender! she is a
strapper, tall, and hale wind and limb; and can lift out of the mire any
squire or knight errant, who shall chuse her for his sweetheart. Ah! the
whore’s chick! what a pair of lungs and voice has she got! I heard her
one day halloo from the belfray to some young fellows of her
acquaintance, who were at work in a corn-field of her father’s; and,
though it was at the distance of half a league, they heard her as plain
as if they had been right under the steeple; and what is better still,
she is not at all coy, but behaves herself civilly; and jokes and romps,
and plays the rogue with any body. Now, Sir Knight of the Rueful
Countenance, I say that your worship not only has cause to run mad for
her, but even to despair and hang yourself, and I am sure nobody that
heard it, but would say you had done extremely well; even though the
devil should run away with you; and truly, I wish I were now upon my
way, merely to see her; for I have not beheld her these many days: and,
surely, she must be greatly altered; for the sun and weather does very
much damage to the face of a woman who is always at work in the field.
To tell you the truth, Sir Don Quixote, I have hitherto lived in great
ignorance with respect to my Lady Dulcinea, whom I verily believed to be
some princess, that your worship was in love with; or a person of such
rank as to deserve the rich presents you sent to her; namely, the
Biscayan and galley-slaves, with many others whom you conquered in the
course of your numberless victories, both before and since I have been
your squire, But, when one considers the affair, what benefits can my
Lady Aldonza Lorenzo—I mean, my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, reap from your
worship’s sending, or having sent those whom you overcome in battle, to
fall upon their knees before her? especially as they might chance to
come at a time when she is busy, carding flax and threshing corn; in
which case, they would be ashamed to see her, and she laugh and be out
of humour at their arrival.’—‘I have frequently observed before now,
Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that thou art an everlasting babbler; and,
though of a shallow understanding, thy bluntness borders often on
severity; but, to convince thee of thy own ignorance and my discretion,
thou shalt give ear to a short story which I will relate.
‘Know, then, that once upon a time a certain handsome widow, young,
free, wealthy, and, above all, good-humoured, fell in love with a thick,
squat, brawny, lay-brother, belonging to a neighbouring convent; the
superior of which being informed of the affair, said to the widow, one
day, by way of brotherly reproof, “I am amazed, Madam, and not without
cause, that a lady of your rank, beauty, and fortune, should bestow your
affection upon such a low, simple, clownish fellow; when there are so
many masters, graduates, and divines, in the convent, among whom your
ladyship may chuse, as one picks pears, saying, ‘This I like, that I
loath.’” The lady answered, with great freedom and vivacity, “Signior,
you are very much deceived, and very old-fashioned in your opinion, if
you think I have made a bad choice in that fellow who seems so simple:
for, in that particular which I admire, he is as much of a philosopher,
nay, more than Aristotle himself.” In like manner, Sancho, Dulcinea del
Toboso is as proper for my occasions as the highest princess upon earth.
All the poets, who have celebrated ladies, under names which they
invented at pleasure, had not really such mistresses as they describe.
Dost thou imagine, that all the Amaryllis’s, Silvia’s, Phillis’s,
Diana’s, Galatea’s, Alida’s, and other names so often met with in
romances, poems, barbers shops, and on the stage, actually belonging to
ladies of flesh and blood, who were adored by those who sing, and have
sung their praises? No, surely; but, on the contrary, are, for the most
part, feigned and adopted as the subjects of verse, that the poets may
be thought men of amorous and gallant dispositions. Wherefore, let it
suffice, that I imagine and believe the worthy Aldonza Lorenzo to be
beautiful and modest: and, as to her pedigree, it is a matter of small
importance; there is no necessity for taking information on that head,
as if she were to be invested with some order of knighthood; and I take
it for granted, that she is the noblest princess in the universe; for,
thou must know, Sancho, if it be a thing of which thou art ignorant,
that the two qualities, which, above all others, inspire love, are
beauty and reputation: and these two is Dulcinea in consummate
possession of; for in beauty she excels all women, and is equalled by
very few in point of reputation. And, to conclude, I imagine that all I
have said is true, without exaggeration or diminution. I paint her in my
fancy according to my wish, as well in beauty as in rank; unexcelled by
Helen, unrivalled by Lucretia, or any other heroine of ages past,
whether Grecian, Roman, or Barbarian; and let people say what they will,
if I am blamed by the ignorant, I shall be acquitted by the most rigid
of those who are proper judges of the case.’—‘I say,’ answered Sancho,
‘that your worship is very much in the right, and I am no better than an
ass: but I know not why I should mention the word ass; for one ought not
to talk of halters in the house of a man who was hanged. But give me the
letter, and farewel till I return.’
Don Quixote pulled out the memorandum-book, and, stepping aside, with
great composure, began to write the letter; which, when he had finished,
he called to Sancho, saying he wanted to read it to him, that he might
retain it in his memory, in case he should lose it by the way; for every
thing was to be feared from his evil fortune. ‘Your worship,’ answered
Sancho, ‘may write it down two or three times in the book, and I will
take special care to convey it safely; but it is folly to suppose that I
can retain it in my memory, which is so bad, that I have many a time
forgot my own name; but, notwithstanding, pray, Sir, read it to me; I
shall be hugely rejoiced to hear it; for it must certainly be curiously
penned.’—‘Listen then, and I will read it,’ said Don Quixote; who began
as follows.
Don Quixote’s Letter to Dulcinea del Toboso.
‘SOVEREIGN AND SUBLIME PRINCESS,
‘He who is wounded by the edge of absence, and whose heart is stuck
full of the darts of affliction, most divine Dulcinea del Toboso!
wishes thee that health which he is not doomed to enjoy. If I am
scorned by thy beauty, if thy virtue affords me no relief, if thy
disdain compleats my misfortune; albeit, I am inured to suffering, I
can ill support the misery I bear; which hath not only been
excessive, but also of long duration. My trusty squire Sancho will
give thee an ample relation, O ungrateful beauty and lovely foe! of
the situation in which I remain on thy account: if it be thy will to
succour me, I am thy slave: if not, use thy pleasure; for the end of
my life will satisfy thy cruelty and my desire. Thine till death,
‘THE KNIGHT OF THE RUEFUL COUNTENANCE.’
‘By my father’s soul!’ cried Sancho, ‘this is the highest thing I ever
heard. Odds-niggers! how your worship writes whatsoever you please, and
how curiously you conclude, “The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.” I
verily believe your worship is the devil himself, and knows every
thing.’—‘All that knowledge,’ replied the knight, ‘is necessary for the
employment I profess.’—‘Why, then,’ said the squire, ‘be so good as to
write on the other leaf the order for the three colts, and be sure to
subscribe distinctly, that when it is presented, your hand-writing may
be known.’—‘With all my heart!’ said Don Quixote, who having written the
order, read it aloud in these terms.
‘DEAR NIECE,
‘Please deliver to Sancho Panza, my squire, or order, at sight of
this my first bill of colts, three of the five which I left at home
in your custody; which three colts I order you to pay, in return for
the like number received of him: and this bill, together with his
receipt, shall be a sufficient acquittance to you.
‘Given in the heart of the brown mountain, the twentieth and second
of August, this present year.’
Sancho liked the form, and desired his master to sign it. ‘There is no
occasion for my signing it,’ said Don Quixote, ‘with any thing but my
cypher, which is sufficient not only for three, but three hundred
asses.’—‘As to that, I will take your worship’s word; and now give me
leave to go and saddle Rozinante, which when I have done, and received
your blessing, I intend forthwith to depart, without staying to see you
play any foolish tricks, though I will affirm, I have beheld you perform
so many, that she will desire to hear no more of the matter.’—‘At least,
Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘I would have thee, because there is a
necessity for it, stay and see me strip, and perform a dozen or two of
mad pranks, which I can easily finish in half an hour; for, when thine
eyes shall have been witnesses of some things I will act, thou mayest
safely swear to what additions thou shalt make in thy report; and I
assure thee, thou wilt not relate the half of what I intend to
atchieve.’—‘For the love of God, dear Sir!’ cried Sancho, ‘let me not
see your worship naked; for it will give me so much uneasiness, that I
shall not be able to refrain from weeping; and my head aches already
with the sorrow I felt last night about Dapple; so that I cannot bear to
be set a mourning again; wherefore, if it be your worship’s pleasure
that I should see some of your mad actions, pray dispatch them in your
cloaths; and let them be such as will stand you in most stead: for my
own part, I think there is no occasion for any such thing; and if you
dispense with them, it will save time, and send me back the sooner with
such news as your worship desires and deserves. For, if my Lady Dulcinea
is not prepared to send a reasonable answer, I solemnly protest, I will
extract a favourable reply out of her maw, by kicking and cussing. What!
is it to be borne, that such a renowned knight-errant as your worship,
should run mad without why or wherefore, on account of a —— I would not
have her ladyship compel me to speak; or, egad, I shall blab things by
the dozen, even though they should spoil the market. I am a rare fellow
at that sport. I find she knows a little of my temper, otherwise
i’faith! she would take care to give me no offence.’—‘In good faith,
Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘thou seemest to be as mad as myself.’—‘Not
quite so mad,’ replied the squire, ‘but a little more cholerick; but
enough of that. What eatables has your worship got to live upon till my
return? will you go to the high-road, and rob the shepherds, like
Cardenio?’—‘Let not that give thee any concern,’ answered the knight;
‘though I had store of provisions by me, I should eat nothing but the
herbs and fruits which this meadow and these trees afford; the
perfection of my design consisting in abstaining from food, and in
encountering other hardships.’—‘Your worship must know,’ said Sancho,
‘that I am afraid I shall not find my way back again to this concealed
and unfrequented place, in which I leave your worship.’—‘Take good
notice of the marks,’ answered the knight, ‘and I shall endeavour to
remain always near this very spot: nay, I will take care to ascend the
highest rocks hereabouts, that I may have a chance of descrying thee
afar off, in thy return. But, the best scheme for preventing thy being
bewildered, will be, to cut down some of the furze that grows here in
great plenty, and drop bunches of it, at small distances on the way,
until thou shalt reach the flat country: and they will serve as
land-marks to guide thee hither on thy return, like the clue of Theseus,
in the labyrinth of Crete.’
‘I will take your advice,’ said Sancho; who accordingly cutting a large
bundle, begged his master’s blessing, and took his leave, not without
many tears on both sides. Then mounting Rozinante, whom Don Quixote
strongly recommended to his care, commanding him to pay as much regard
to the steed as he would shew for his own person; he set out for the
plain, scattering, by the way, the furze he had cut, according to the
direction of his master. In this manner then, did he begin his journey,
notwithstanding the incessant importunities of Don Quixote, who
solicited him to stay and see some of his extravagancies: but, he had
not travelled above an hundred yards, when he returned, saying, ‘I
confess your worship was in the right, when you observed, that, in order
to my swearing with a safe conscience that I have seen you perform mad
pranks, it would be necessary for you to play some in my presence;
although, in my opinion, I have seen a pretty good sample already in
your staying here by yourself.’—‘Did not I tell thee so, Sancho?’ said
Don Quixote: ‘wait a little, and I will finish them in a twinkling.’ So
saying, he stripped off his breeches in a great hurry, leaving his
posteriors covered by the tail of his shirt alone, and without farther
ceremony, cut a couple of capers, and a like number of tumbles, with his
head down and his heels up, disclosing particulars, which shocked the
modesty of Sancho so much, that in order to avoid the sight of them a
second time, he turned Rozinante, fully satisfied and pleased, that he
might now honestly swear he had left his master distracted. We will
therefore let him pursue his journey, till his return, which was more
speedy than could be expected.
Footnote 78:
The Beautiful Obscure.
Footnote 79:
Lo! Sancho’s ass hath disappeared again.
CHAP. XII.
A CONTINUATION OF THE REFINEMENTS IN LOVE,
PRACTISED BY DON QUIXOTE IN THE BROWN MOUNTAIN.
But, to return to the account of what the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance executed when he found himself alone. The history relates,
that, having performed the capers and the tumbles, naked, from the waist
downward, and perceived that Sancho was gone, without waiting to see
more of his extravagancies, he climbed to the top of a high rock, and
there revolved what he had often reflected upon without coming to any
conclusion; namely, whether it was better and more fit for his purpose,
to imitate Orlando in his outrageous, or Amadis in his melancholy
madness. ‘It is not to be wondered at,’ said he within himself, ‘if
Orlando was such a stout and valiant knight as he is represented; for he
was actually inchanted, and invulnerable by every weapon but the point
of a pin, thrust into his foot, upon which he always wore a shoe with
seven soles of iron: though that precaution did not avail him against
Bernardo del Carpeio, who being informed of the contrivance, strangled
him in his arms at the battle of Roncevalles: but the circumstance of
his valour apart, let us consider that of his losing his senses, which
actually happened, when he found the tokens in the fountain, and
received the information of the shepherd, by which he learned that
Angelica had slept more than two afternoons with Modero, the little Moor
with curled locks, who was Agramante’s page; and, truly, if he was
convinced in his own mind, that his mistress had misbehaved in that
manner, it was no great feat to run mad upon the discovery. But why
should I imitate him in his madness, when the occasion is not similar;
for, my Dulcinea del Toboso, I dare swear, never in all the days of her
life, beheld one Moor in his own likeness; and is this day as much a
virgin as the mother that bore her; I should therefore do her a manifest
injury, in imagining otherwise, and adopting that kind of madness which
possessed Orlando Furioso. On the other hand, I am sensible that Amadis
de Gaul, without losing his senses, or acting the madman, acquired as
much, or more fame than he, in the character of a lover; for, according
to the history, all that he did, when he found himself in disgrace with
his mistress Oriana, who banished him from her presence during pleasure,
was to retire, in company of a hermit, to the poor rock, where he
contented himself with bemoaning his misfortune, until Heaven sent him
succour, in the midst of his great necessity and affliction. If this
circumstance, therefore, be true, as I know it is, why should I now take
the trouble of stripping myself naked, or give umbrage to these trees,
which have done me no harm! or what reason have I to defile the pure
stream of these rivulets, which, when I want it, will yield me pleasant
drink! Flourish, then, the memory of Amadis! and let him be imitated as
much as possible, by Don Quixote de La Mancha, of whom may be said, that
which is recorded of another[80], “If he did not atchieve great things,
at least he died in attempting.” And, though I am not banished nor
disdained by my Dulcinea, let it suffice, as I have already said, that I
am absent from her. Come, then, let us begin: recur to my remembrance,
ye feats of Amadis, and initiate me in the imitation of your fame. I
know his chief exercise was prayer, and in that too will I follow his
example.’ So saying, he composed a rosary of the large galls of a cork
tree, which he strung together instead of beads; but, he found an
unsurmountable difficulty in the want of an hermit to confess and
console him: wherefore, he entertained himself in strolling about the
meadow, writing and engraving verses on the barks of trees, and the
smooth sand; all of them on the subject of his own melancholy, or in
praise of his mistress Dulcinea; but, after he was found in this place,
none, except the following, remained intelligible and entire.
I.
Ye trees and herbs, so green and tall,
That shade this meadow, and adorn,
If you rejoice not at my thrall,
Give ear unto a wretch forlorn;
Nor let my grief, though loud, invade
Your peace; but, by Don Quixote, be a
Self-offer’d tax of sorrow, paid
In absence of his Dulcinea
del Toboso.
II.
These are the rocks to which he’s driven
By her who seems not much to care for
The truest lover under heaven:
And yet he knows not why nor wherefore.
By love toss’d like a tennis-ball,
A cask of tears will not defray a
Whole day’s expence of grief and gall,
In absence of his Dulcinea
del Toboso.
III.
Among these craggy rocks and brambles,
He hangs, alas! on sorrow’s tenters;
Or curses, as alone he rambles,
The cruel cause of his misventures.
Unpitying love about his ears,
With scourge severe began to play a
Most dreadful game, that made his tears
Flow for his absent Dulcinea
del Toboso.
These verses, with the addition of del Toboso, to the name of Dulcinea,
afforded infinite diversion to those who found them: for, they concluded
Don Quixote had imagined, that, if he named her without this title, the
stanza could not possibly be understood; and this was really the case,
as he afterwards owned. Many other ditties did he compose; but, as we
have already observed, none but these three stanzas could be decyphered
and read. In this amusement, in sighing, invoking the fauns and sylvans
of those woods, the nymphs of the brooks, with the damp and doleful echo
to hear, console, and resound his complaints; and, in culling plants to
sustain nature, he employed himself till the return of Sancho, who, had
he stayed three weeks, instead of three days, the knight of the rueful
countenance would have been so emaciated and disfigured, that he could
not have been known by the mother who bore him.
However, it will not be amiss to leave him, engrossed by his sighs and
poetry; in order to recount what happened to Sancho Panza, in the
execution of his embassy. Having reached the highway, this trusty
messenger took the road to Toboso, and next day arrived at the very inn
where he had met with the disgraceful adventure of the blanketting. He
no sooner perceived the unlucky house, than he fancied himself cutting
capers in the air again; and was very lothe to enter, although it was
then dinner time, and he was very much instigated by the desire of
tasting something hot, as he had lived for a great many days past on
cold victuals only. This inclination compelled him to ride close up to
the inn, where, while he was sitting in suspence, and hesitating whether
or not he should enter, two persons happened to come to the door, and
knowing him immediately, the one said to the other, ‘Pray, Mr.
Licentiate, is not that man on horseback our neighbour Sancho Panza;
who, as the housekeeper told us, went out with our adventurer in quality
of squire?’—‘The very same,’ answered the licentiate, ‘and that is the
individual horse of our friend Don Quixote.’ And no wonder they should
know him so easily; for they were no other than the curate and barber of
the knight’s town, by whom the scrutiny and trial of his books were
held. Having therefore recognized Sancho Panza and Rozinante, and being
impatient to hear news of Don Quixote, they ran up to the squire, and
the curate called him by name, saying, ‘Friend Sancho, where is your
master?’ Sancho, who recollected them also, resolved to conceal the
place and condition in which he had left his master; and therefore
answered, that the knight was in a certain place, employed about a
certain affair of the utmost importance, which he durst not disclose for
the eyes that stood in his head. ‘That pretence will not do, Sancho,’
said the barber; ‘if you refuse to tell where he is, we shall imagine,
as indeed we do, that you have robbed and murdered him, and taken
possession of his horse; so that in good sooth, you must either produce
him, or in this very spot, we will——’ ‘You have no occasion,’ cried
Sancho, interrupting him, ‘to threaten people in this manner; I am not
the man to rob and murder any person; every man must fall by his own
fortune, or by the will of God that created him: my master is sound and
safe, doing penance in the midst of that mountain, to his heart’s
content.’ He then, without pausing, in a breath informed them of the
condition in which he left him, recounted all the adventures which had
happened to him, and told them of the letter he was carrying to my Lady
Dulcinea del Toboso, who was no other than Lorenzo Corchuelo’s daughter,
with whom his master was up to his ears in love.
They were astonished at what the squire related, and though well
acquainted with the particular species of Don Quixote’s madness, this
instance afforded fresh admiration: they desired Sancho to shew them the
letter for the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; and he told them it was only a
rough draught, written on the leaf of a pocket-book; and that his master
had ordered him to get it transcribed on a sheet of paper, with the
first convenient opportunity. The curate promised to transcribe it in a
fair legible hand, and again desiring a sight of it, Sancho put his hand
in his bosom, in search of the book, which, however, he could not find;
and indeed, had he fumbled till this time, it would have been to no
purpose; for he had left it with Don Quixote, who had forgot to give, as
he to ask it of him, before he set out. Sancho missing his charge, grew
pale as death, and searching again his whole body with great eagerness,
could find nothing; upon which, without more ado, he laid hold of his
beard with both hands, and plucked one half of it from his chin; then,
with vast dispatch and precipitation, belaboured his face and nose in
such a manner, as left the whole covered with blood. The curate and
barber seeing him make so free with his own person, asked what had
happened to him, that made him handle himself so roughly. ‘What has
happened to me?’ cried the squire, ‘I have lost and let slip through my
fingers in an instant, three ass colts, each of which was as tall as a
tower.’—‘By what means?’ resumed the barber. ‘I have lost,’ answered
Sancho, ‘the pocket-book, in which was written the letter for Dulcinea,
together with an order, signed by my master’s own hand, desiring his
niece to deliver to me three colts out of four or five which he has at
home.’ At the same time he told them how he had lost Dapple. The curate
comforted him, by saying, that when he returned, his master would renew
the order, and give him a bill upon paper, as the custom is, for those
written in pocket-books are never accepted or paid.
With this assurance Sancho consoled himself, observing, since that was
the case, he should not give himself much uneasiness about the loss of
the letter, which, as he retained it by heart, he could cause to be
transcribed where and when he pleased. The barber desired him to repeat
it, telling him they would transcribe it; upon which Sancho began to
scratch his head, in order to recollect it, standing sometimes on one
foot, sometimes on the other. One while he fixed his eyes upon the
ground, then lifted them up to Heaven; at last, after a most tedious
pause, during which he gnawed off the half of one of his nails, and kept
his hearers in the most impatient suspence; ‘‘Fore God, Mr. Licentiate,’
said he, ‘I believe the devil has run away with every word that I
remembered of this letter; though I am positive it began with subterrene
and sublime princess!’—‘It could not be subterrene,’ said the barber,
‘but superterrene or sovereign.’—‘You are in the right,’ resumed Sancho;
‘then, if my memory does not fail me, it went on with the smitten, the
sleepless, and the sore, kisses your hands, most ungrateful and
unregarded beauty; and something or other of health and distemper which
he wished her; running on at this rate, till he concluded with, “yours,
till death, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.”’
The hearers were not a little diverted with this specimen of Sancho’s
memory, which they applauded very much; desiring him to repeat the
letter again, twice over, that they might retain it, until they could
have an opportunity of transcribing it. He accordingly renewed his
efforts, repeated it three times; and as often recited three thousand
other absurdities. He likewise gave them an account of every thing which
had befallen his master; but mentioned not a syllable of the blanketting
that had happened to himself, in that very inn which he refused to
enter; nay, he gave them to understand that his master, as soon as he
could bring him a favourable dispatch from my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso,
would put himself in the way of becoming an emperor or monarch at least,
according to the plan settled between them. This he represented as a
very easy matter, considering the valour of his person, and strength of
his arm; and told them, that this design would be no sooner
accomplished, than the knight would bestow upon him in marriage, (for by
that time, he must of necessity be a widower) one of the maids of honour
to the empress; a fine young lady, and heiress of a vast and wealthy
estate upon the main land, without any oilands or islands, which he did
not much care for.
Sancho uttered this piece of wrong-headed information with such
composure, wiping his nose from time to time, that his townsmen could
not help admiring anew the madness of Don Quixote; which, like a
whirlpool, had sucked in and swept along with it the understanding of
this poor simpleton. They did not chuse to fatigue themselves with
endeavours to convince him of his error; but, as they believed it was
not prejudicial to his conscience, resolved, for their amusement, to
encourage him in his folly; with this view they advised him to pray to
God for long life and health to his master; and observed, that it was a
thing both likely and feasible that he should, in process of time,
become an emperor, at least an archbishop, or attain some station of
equal dignity. To this encouragement Sancho replied, ‘Gentlemen, if
fortune should bring matters about, so as that my master should incline
to be an archbishop rather than an emperor, I should be glad to know
what archbishops-errant bestow upon their squires?’ The curate told him,
that they commonly gave him some simple benefice, curacy, or the office
of sacristan, with a good yearly income, besides the fees of the altar,
which are usually reckoned at as much more. ‘In order to fill an
employment of that kind,’ answered Sancho, ‘the squire must be
unmarried, and at least capable of assisting at mass; and if that be the
case, what will become of me, who have not only the misfortune to be
married, but am also ignorant of the first letter of the A, B, C; should
my master take it in his head to be an archbishop, rather than an
emperor, according to the custom of knights-errant?’—‘Don’t make
yourself uneasy about that matter, friend Sancho,’ said the barber; ‘for
we will intreat and advise your master, nay, even make it an affair of
conscience, for him to become an emperor rather than archbishop, as a
station more suited to his disposition, which is more war-like than
studious.’—‘I was of the same opinion,’ resumed Sancho; ‘but now, I’ll
venture to say, he has a capacity for every thing; and what I intend to
do, is to beseech our Lord to direct his choice to that station which
will be most for his own honour and my advantage.’—‘You speak like a
sensible man,’ said the curate; ‘and in so doing will act the part of a
good Christian; but, our present business is to think on some means of
putting an end to this useless penance your master has imposed upon
himself; and in the mean time go in to dinner.’ Sancho desired them to
enter, saying he would wait for them at the door, and afterwards tell
them why he did not go in, and wherefore it was not proper for him so to
do; but begged they would be so good as to bring out something hot for
himself, and some barley for Rozinante. They accordingly went in, and in
a little time the barber brought him out a mess of hot victuals. After
they had both maturely deliberated about the means of accomplishing
their design, the curate fell upon a scheme, extremely well-adapted to
the taste of the knight, as well as to their purpose. He proposed to
clothe himself in the dress of a lady-errant, and that the barber should
disguise himself as well as he could, in the likeness of a squire; which
being done, they should go to the place where Don Quixote was, and the
priest, on pretence of being a damsel in distress, should beg a boon,
which he, as a valiant knight-errant, could not help granting. This boon
should be a request, that he would accompany her to a certain place
whither she would conduct him, there to redress an injury she had
received from a discourteous knight; and the boon should be attended
with an humble supplication, that he would not desire her to take off
her mask, nor ask any question about her affairs, until he should have
done her justice upon her adversary. And as he firmly believed that Don
Quixote would comply with any request made in that stile, he hoped, by
these means, to withdraw him from the mountain, and conduct him to his
own habitation, where they would endeavour to find some remedy for his
strange disorder.
Footnote 80:
Probably alluding to the epitaph of Phaeton.
_Hic situs est Phaeton, currus auriga paterni,_
_Quem si non tenuit, magnis tamen excidit ausis._
CHAP. XIII.
HOW THE CURATE AND BARBER SET OUT
ON THE EXECUTION OF THEIR PLAN;
WITH OTHER EVENTS WORTHY TO BE RECORDED IN THIS SUBLIME HISTORY.
This scheme of the curate was so well relished by the barber, that they
began to put it in execution immediately; by borrowing of the landlady a
petticoat and tucker, for which the priest lent a new cassock in pawn;
while the barber made an artificial beard of the tail of a pied ox, in
which the innkeeper used to stick his comb. When the hostess asked what
occasion they had for these things, the curate gave her a brief account
of Don Quixote’s madness, and explained the use to which they intended
to put the disguise, in order to disengage him from the mountain where
he then was. The innkeeper and his wife immediately discovered that this
lunatick was no other than their quondam guest, who was author of the
balsam, and master of the blanketted squire; and recounted to the curate
every thing that had happened, not even forgetting the circumstance
which Sancho was at such pains to conceal. In short, the landlady
dressed up the curate in a most curious manner; she put upon him a cloth
petticoat flounced and furbelowed, with a broad border of black velvet,
and a close jerkin of green velvet, garnished with robings of white
sattin, which, together with the petticoat, seemed to have been made in
the reign of King Bamba[81]; he would not suffer himself to be coifed,
but covered his head with a quilted linen night-cap, which he always
carried about with him; and bound his forehead with a garter of black
taffety, making a sort of mask with the other, which effectually
concealed his countenance and beard. Over all, he slapped his beaver,
which was so broad that it might have served for an umbrella; and,
wrapping himself up in his cloak, mounted his mule, sitting sideways
like a woman; while the barber bestrid his own beast, with his beard
flowing down to his girdle, of a white and red colour, being made, as we
have before observed, of a pied ox’s tail.
Thus equipped, they took leave of every body present, even the kind
Maritornes, who promised, though a sinner, to mumble a whole rosary over
in prayers to God, for the good success of that arduous and Christian
design they had undertaken; but scarce had they sallied from the inn,
when the curate began to think he was to blame for disguising himself;
it being, in his opinion, indecent for a priest to appear in such a
manner, how much soever depended upon their success. He therefore
proposed that he should exchange characters with the barber, who might
act the part of the damsel in distress, while he took that of the
squire, which he thought did not so much profane the dignity of the
cloth; and unless his neighbour would agree to this proposal, he assured
him that he was resolved to go no farther, even if the devil himself
should carry off Don Quixote. At that instant Sancho chanced to come up,
and seeing them in such a garb, could not refrain from laughing; in
short, the barber assented to every thing the other proposed; and the
plan being thus altered, the curate began to instruct him touching his
behaviour and speech to Don Quixote, in order to move and induce him to
accompany them, and quit that place he had chosen for the scene of his
vain and extravagant penance. The barber told him, that without his
lessons, he knew very well how to demean himself in the character; and
as he did not chuse to put on the dress till they should be near Don
Quixote, he folded it up with great care; the priest adjusted his beard;
and both together proceeded, on their journey, under the direction, of
Sancho Panza, who by the way related to them what happened between his
master and the madman whom they met with in the Brown Mountain;
concealing, nevertheless, the circumstance of the portmanteau, and its
contents; for, notwithstanding his simplicity, our youth was as covetous
as wiser people.
Next day they came to the broom boughs, which Sancho had strewed, in
order to ascertain the place where he had left his master: he no sooner,
therefore, perceived his marks, than he told them, that was the entrance
into the mountain; and desired them to put on their dresses, if they
were necessary towards the deliverance of his master: for they had
already assured him, that their travelling in such disguise was of the
utmost importance, in disengaging the knight from that disagreeable
course of life he had chosen: and they charged him not to tell his
master that he knew who they were; and if he should ask, as doubtless he
would, whether or not he had delivered the letter to Dulcinea, they
advised him to answer in the affirmative, and tell him, that as she
could not read it, she had sent her answer by word of mouth, commanding
him, on pain of her displeasure, to appear in her presence with all
convenient speed, on an affair of the utmost consequence to him: for,
with this answer, and other speeches they intended to make, they did not
at all doubt of reconciling him to a better way of life, and prevail
upon him immediately to begin his career towards being an emperor or
king; and as to the office of archbishop, Sancho had nothing to fear.
The squire listened to these directions, which he carefully deposited in
his memory, thanking them heartily for their intention to advise his
master to accept of an emperor’s crown, rather than an archbishop’s
mitre; as he was very sensible that emperors could do more for their
squires than archbishops-errant. He also proposed to go before, in
search of his master, and impart to him this answer of his lady, which,
he assured them, would be sufficient to bring him out of the mountain,
without their being put to any farther trouble. They approved of his
opinion, and resolved to stay where they were until he should return
with the news of his having found Don Quixote: accordingly, Sancho
proceeded towards the heart of the mountain, leaving them in a spot
watered by a small purling brook, and shaded in a most cool and
agreeable manner by some rocks and trees that grew round it.
It being then the month of August, when the heat in those parts is
excessive, and three in the afternoon, which is the hottest time of the
day, they were the more charmed with the situation, which was so
inviting, that they chose it for the place of their residence, until
Sancho should return. While they lay at their ease, under the covert of
this shade, their ears were saluted with the sound of a voice, which,
though unaccompanied by any instrument, sung so sweet and melodiously,
that they were struck with astonishment; little expecting to meet with
such a delicious warbler in that unfrequented place; for though it is
usually said, that the woods and mountains abound with shepherds, who
sing most inchantingly, that report is rather the fiction of poets than
the voice of truth: besides, the verses which they heard were not
composed in the rustick phrase of clowns, but in a polite and courtly
strain; as may be perceived by the song itself, which follows:
I.
Ah! what inspires my woeful strain?
Unkind disdain!
Ah what augments my misery?
Fell jealousy!
Or say, what hath my patience worn?
An absent lover’s scorn.
The torments, then, that I endure,
No mortal remedy can cure:
For every languid hope is slain,
By absence, jealousy, disdain!
II.
From Love, my unrelenting foe,
These sorrows flow!
My infant glory’s overthrown,
By Fortune’s frown;
Confirm’d in this my wretched state,
By the decrees of Fate.
In Death alone I hope release
From this compounded, dire disease;
Whole cruel pangs to aggravate,
Fortune and Love conspire with Fate!
III.
Ah, what will mitigate my doom?
The silent tomb!
Ah! what retrieve departed joy?
Inconstancy!
Or say, can aught but frenzy, bear
This tempest of despair?
All other efforts, then, are vain,
To cure this soul-tormenting pain,
That owns no other remedy
Than madness, death, inconstancy.
The hour, the season, and the solitude, conspired with the agreeable
voice of the singer, to increase the wonder and satisfaction of the
hearers, who listened for some time in expectation of something else;
but the silence having continued a good while, they resolved to go in
quest of the person who sung so enchantingly, and were just going to set
out on this design, when they were arrested by the same voice, which
again saluted their ears with this other song:
I.
O sacred Friendship! mild and gay,
Who to the regions of the bless’d
Hath soar’d, and left mankind a prey
To fraud, in thy resemblance dress’d:
II.
Auspicious hear, and hither send
Thy sister Truth, with radiant eyes,
To brand the false professing friend,
Detected in the fair disguise.
III.
Or come thyself, and re-inspire
The purpose candid and humane;
Else Peace and Order will retire,
While Horror and Confusion reign.
This sonnet was concluded with a most profound sigh, and the curate and
barber began again to listen for more; but, finding the musick converted
into mournful sobs and interjections, they were determined to know who
this melancholy person was, who sung so well, and groaned so piteously.
They had not gone many paces with this intent, when turning the point of
a rock, they perceived a man of the same make and appearance that Sancho
described, when he related the story of Cardenio: he did not seem
surprized at sight of them, but stood with his head reclining upon his
breast, in a very pensive posture, without lifting his eyes to look at
them, after their first sudden appearance. The curate, who was a
well-spoken man, concluding, from the description, that this must be he
whose misfortune he had been apprized of, went up, and in a short, but
pathetick address, exhorted and entreated him to quit that miserable
course of life, which was the greatest of all misfortunes, and
altogether perverted the end of his being. Cardenio being at that time
in one of his lucid intervals, entirely free of that frantick paroxism
which used so utterly to deprive him of his senses, and seeing two
people so differently dressed from those he commonly met with in that
solitude, could not help being somewhat surprized; especially, when he
heard him talk of his misfortune as a circumstance with which they were
well acquainted; for the curate had mentioned it in the course of his
expostulation: and therefore he answered in this manner: ‘I plainly
perceive, gentlemen, that Heaven, which is careful in succouring the
good, and sometimes even the bad, hath sent, though I little deserve
such favour and condescension, divers people into this unfrequented
solitude, so remote from all commerce and society, in order to convince
me by just and various arguments, how unreasonably I act in leading this
kind of life, which they have endeavoured to make me exchange for a
better; and, as they know not the reasons I have to think that, in
quitting this situation, I shall be plunged into a worse; they have
perhaps looked upon me as a person of very shallow understanding, or,
which is still a conjecture more unfavourable, a downright madman: and
truly, it is not to be wondered at, if that was really the case; for I
can easily conceive, that my misfortunes operate so intensely upon my
imagination, and impair my faculties so much, that sometimes, in spite
of all my endeavours to the contrary, I become, like that rock, void of
all sentiment and knowledge; and am convinced of my infirmity too late,
when people shew me the marks of what I have done, while I was under the
influence of that terrible transport: then, all that I can do, is to
bewail my distemper; curse my lot in vain; and, in excuse of my madness,
relate my sufferings to all who express the least desire of hearing
them; that those of sounder judgment, knowing the cause, may not wonder
at the effects; and if they cannot prevent, at least pardon my frenzy;
converting their indignation at my extravagance into compassion for my
woes; and if you, gentlemen, are come with that intention, which hath
brought others to this place, before you proceed with your prudent
admonitions, I intreat you to hear the detail of my misfortunes, which
you do not yet know, and then, perhaps, you will save yourselves the
trouble which you might otherwise take, in consoling an affliction that
admits of no consolation.’
The two friends, who desired nothing else than to hear from his own
mouth the cause of his misfortune, earnestly begged he would recount it,
and promised to attempt nothing contrary to his own inclination in the
way of remedy or comfort. Thus assured, the melancholy gentleman began
his distressful story, nearly in the same words and circumstances which
he had used a few days before, to Don Quixote and the goatherd, when he
was interrupted in the affair of, Mr. Elisabat, by the knight’s
punctuality in asserting the decorum of chivalry, as the particulars of
that quarrel have been already related: but now he remained fortunately
free from his paroxism, and of consequence, had time to finish the
narration, which was imperfect before. When he therefore came to the
circumstances of the letter which Don Fernando had found between the
leaves of Amadis de Gaul[82], he said he remembered the contents, and
accordingly repeated them in these terms.
‘“LUCINDA TO CARDENIO.
‘“I every day discover new qualities in Cardenio, which oblige and
compel me to esteem him the more. If you are inclined to extricate
me out of all suspence, you may effectuate your purpose, without the
least prejudice to my honour; for my father, who is, well acquainted
with your virtues, loves me dearly, and far from tyrannizing over my
affections, will chearfully grant that which is so justly your due,
if your passion is such as I wish and believe it to be.”
‘I resolved, as I have already told you, to demand Lucinda in marriage,
upon the receipt of this letter, which not only confirmed Don Fernando’s
high opinion of her prudence and virtue, but also inflamed him with the
desire of ruining my hopes, before I should be able to bring them to
maturity. I told this faithless friend, Lucinda’s father expected that
mine should propose the match; and that I durst not communicate my
desire to him, lest he should refuse to comply with it: not that he was
ignorant of Lucinda’s rank, virtue, beauty, and qualifications, which
were sufficient to ennoble any other family in Spain; but, because I
understood he was averse to my being married, until he should see what
Duke Ricardo would do in my behalf; in short, I told him that I would
not venture to propose it, being afraid not only of this ill
consequence, but also of many others which I could not foresee; although
I had a strong impression upon my mind, that my wishes would never be
compleated. In answer to this declaration, Don Fernando undertook to
manage the affair, and prevail upon my father to propose the match to
Lucinda’s parents.——O villain! more ambitious than Marius, more cruel
than Catiline, more savage than Sylla, more fraudulent than Galalon,
more treacherous than Vellido[83], more vengeful than Julian, and more
covetous than Judas! cruel, false, vindictive traitor! what injuries
hast thou suffered from this poor credulous wretch, who with such
confidence disclosed to thee the most secret recesses of his soul! What
offence had he given? what words had he uttered, or what advice had he
offered, that did not directly tend to thy honour and advantage?——But,
unhappy that I am! wherefore should I complain? seeing it is a thing
certain, that when once the tide of misfortune, heaped up by one’s
malignant stars, begins to descend with violence and fury, no earthly
mound can oppose, nor human industry divert its course. Who could
imagine, that such an illustrious, accomplished young gentleman, as Don
Fernando, who lay under obligations for the services I had done him, and
was powerful enough to obtain the gratification of his wish,
whithersoever his amorous inclination pointed, should plague himself, as
I may say, in attempts to rob me of my single lamb, even before I had
possessed it?
‘But, let us lay aside these vain and unprofitable reflections, and
rejoin the broken thread of my unfortunate story. Well, then, Don
Fernando, perceiving that my presence would be an obstruction to the
execution of his false and perfidious design, resolved to send me back
to his elder brother, on pretence of getting money to pay for six
horses, which he purposely bought that very day he undertook to speak to
my father, in order to have an excuse for sending me away, that he
might, in my absence, the more easily succeed in his villainous
intention. Was it possible for me to prevent this treachery, or indeed
conceive his design! No, surely. On the contrary, I offered, with the
utmost alacrity, to set out forthwith, so pleased was I with the
purchase he had made. That very night I had a private conversation with
Lucinda, in which I told her the scheme I had concerted with Don
Fernando, and bade her rest assured in the hope that our just and
honourable desires would soon be gratified. She, as little suspicious of
Don Fernando’s perfidy as I was, entreated me to return with speed,
believing that our wishes would be compleated, as soon as my father
should mention the affair to hers. I don’t know upon what account, her
eyes were filled with tears when she pronounced these words; and
something that seemed to swell in her throat, prevented her from
uttering another syllable, though she looked as if she had something
more to say. I was confounded at this new circumstance, which had never
happened before; in all our former conversations, which my good fortune
offered, or my diligence effected, there had been nothing but joy and
satisfaction, without any mixture of tears, sighs, jealousy, dread, or
suspicion; all my discourse used to consist of acknowledgments to
Heaven, for having bestowed upon me such a mistress, whose beauty I
extolled, and whose virtue and good sense I admired; while she returned
the compliment, by praising those qualities in me, which she, in the
partiality of her fondness, deemed worthy of applause; besides, we used
to entertain each other with an account of a thousand trifling accidents
that happened among our neighbours and acquaintance: and the heighth of
my vivacity never amounted to more than the seizing of one of her
delicate white hands, and pressing it to my lips, through the narrow
distance betwixt the rails that divided us. But, on that night, which
preceded the fatal day of my departure, she wept, sighed, and sobbed,
and left me filled with confusion and surprize, and terrified at such
unusual and melancholy marks of grief and affliction in my Lucinda. But
I was flattered by my hopes, which ascribed the whole to the strength of
her passion, and that sorrow which is commonly produced by the absence
of a beloved object. In fine, I set out, pensive and sad, my imagination
tortured with suspicions and doubts, which my reflection could neither
digest nor explain: a sure presage of the melancholy fate that awaited
me.
‘I arrived at the place of my destination, and delivered my letters to
Don Fernando’s brother, who received me kindly; but, far from
dispatching me immediately, desired me, to my infinite regret, to wait
eight whole days in a place where his father should not see me, because
his brother had writ to him to send the money without the knowledge of
the duke. But this was altogether an invention of the false Fernando,
whose brother had money enough, and could have sent me back the very
same day on which I arrived. This was such an order as I was scarce able
to obey, for I thought it impossible to support life for so many days in
the absence of Lucinda, considering the sorrow in which I had left her.
Yet, notwithstanding, I resolved to do my duty like a faithful servant,
though I very well foresaw that my obedience must be at the expence of
my peace. Four days of the eight were not yet elapsed, when a man came
in search of me, and gave me a letter, the superscription of which I no
sooner beheld, than I knew it to be written by Lucinda’s own hand. I
opened it with fear and trembling, believing that there must be
something very extraordinary in the case, which induced her to write to
me in my absence; considering that while I was present, she had been so
sparing of her pen[84]. But, before I read a syllable, I asked the
messenger, who had put it into his hands, and how long he had been upon
his journey? He answered, that passing through a certain street, about
noon, he was stopped by a very beautiful young lady, who called to him
from a window, saying, with great earnestness, while the tears trickled
from her eyes, “Brother, if you are a Christian, as you seem to be, I
entreat you, for God’s sake, to carry this letter to the place and
person for whom it is directed; they are both well known; and in so
doing, you will render a piece of service acceptable to the Lord. That
you may not want conveniences upon the road, here is something to defray
the expence of your journey.”” So saying, she threw down a handkerchief,
in which were tied a hundred rials, this gold ring, and the letter I
have delivered. Then, without waiting for a reply, she went from the
window, after having seen me take up the handkerchief and the letter,
and make signs that I would do as she desired. Accordingly, finding
myself so well paid for the trouble I should be at, and seeing, by the
direction, that you was the person to whom it was sent, (and I know you
perfectly well;) induced, moreover, by the tears of that beautiful young
lady, I resolved to trust no other messenger, but come and deliver it
with my own hand; and in sixteen hours, which are past since I received
it, I have travelled to this place, which, as you know, is about
eighteen leagues from our town. While I listened attentively to the
information of this grateful and extraordinary courier, my legs shook
under me in such a manner, that I could scarce stand upright. At length,
however, I ventured to read the letter, which contained these words.
‘“The promise which Don Fernando made, to prevail upon your father
to propose a match to mine, hath been performed more to his
inclination than your advantage. Know, Cardenio, that your pretended
friend allied me in marriage for himself; and my father, swayed by
the advantage which he thinks Don Fernando has over you in point of
fortune, hath given his consent so much in earnest, that two days
hence the nuptials are to be celebrated so privately, that none but
Heaven, and some people in the family, are to be present at the
marriage. My situation you may guess. If it be in your power, return
with all speed, and the event of this affair will shew whether I
love you tenderly or not. Heaven grant that this may come to your
hand, before mine shall be presented to him who so ill performs the
duty of a friend!”
‘This, which was the sum of what the letter contained, made me set out
immediately, without waiting for any answer, or the money for which I
had come. For, by that time, I plainly perceived that it was not the
purchase of the horses, but his own treacherous intention, which had
induced Don Fernando to send me out of the way. The indignation I
conceived against him, together with the fear of losing the jewel which
I had acquired, and treasured up with such unwearied services and care,
added wings to my speed, and conveyed me to the place of my habitation,
just at the hour and minute proper for my going to visit Lucinda. I
entered the town privately, and leaving my mule at the house of the
honest man who brought the letter, I went to the rail, which was the
constant witness of our love, and there was so far favoured by fortune
as to find Lucinda.—We knew each other presently; though not as we ought
to have known each other. But, who is he who can arrogate praise to
himself, for having fathomed and discerned the capricious sentiments and
sickly disposition of woman? Surely no man on earth.—But this apart.
Lucinda perceiving me, “Cardenio,” said she, “I am now in my bridal
dress, and this moment expected in the hall by the traitor Don Fernando,
my covetous father, and some other people, who shall bear witness to my
death sooner than to my marriage. Be not confounded, my friend, but
endeavour to be present at the sacrifice, which, if I cannot prevent by
my declaration, I wear a dagger concealed, which can obstruct a more
vigorous determination; and, by putting an end to my life, begin to
convince thee of the sincere passion I have always entertained, and
shall retain for my Cardenio.” Afraid I should want time to answer her,
I replied with great hurry and confusion, “Let your words be verified by
your deeds, Madam. If you have a dagger to assert your love, I wear a
sword to defend it; or, should fortune prove our foe, to rid myself of
life.” I believe she did not hear all that I said, because she was
called away in a hurry, to the bridegroom, who waited for her.’
‘Thus deepened the night of my distress; thus set the sun of my
happiness! I remained without light to my eyes, or reflection to my
mind, for some time; I could neither resolve to enter her father’s
house, nor remove to any other place; at length, however, considering of
what consequence my presence might be, in case any thing extraordinary
should happen, I recollected myself, as well as I could, and went in,
without being perceived, as I was well acquainted with all the passages
and corners of the house, and was favoured by the confusion which then
prevailed in it on account of the nuptials. Thus entering, unseen, I
found means to conceal myself in the hollow of a window in the hall,
that was covered by the meeting of two pieces of tapestry, from behind
which I could, without being perceived, observe every thing that
happened.
‘How shall I describe the throbbings and palpitations of my heart, the
images that occurred to my fancy, the reflections that I made while I
remained in that situation! they were such as I neither can nor ought to
describe. Let it suffice to say, the bridegroom came into the hall,
without any other ornaments than his usual dress, attended by a first
cousin of Lucinda, in quality of bridesman, no other person being
present, except some servants of the family. A little while after
Lucinda came in from her closet, accompanied by her mother and two
waiting-women; and as richly dressed and adorned as her rank and beauty
deserved, or as the perfection of gaiety and gallantry could invent. The
suspence and transport of my soul would not allow me to observe and mark
the particulars of her dress; I could only take notice of the colours,
which were carnation and white; and the blaze of jewels that adorned
her, which was even excelled by the singular beauty of her golden locks,
that struck the eye with more splendor than all the precious stones,
together with the light of four torches that burned in the hall.—O
memory! thou mortal enemy of my repose! to what purpose dost thou now
represent to my fancy the unparalleled beauty of that adorable foe?
Cruel remembrance! rather recal to my view the particulars of what then
happened, that, incensed by such a manifest injury, I may take
vengeance, if not upon her, at least upon my own life. But you,
gentlemen, must be tired with these digressions; though my misfortune is
such as neither can, nor ought to be superficially or succinctly
related; because every circumstance, in my opinion, requires a full
discussion.’ The curate answered, that far from being tired, they were
very much entertained by those minute particulars, which he thought
deserved as much attention as the principal events of the story.
‘I say, then,’ resumed Cardenio, that the parties being assembled in the
hall, the curate of the parish entered, and taking them both by the
hands, in order to perform his function, he said, “Madam Lucinda, are
you willing to take Don Fernando here present for your lawful spouse, as
holy mother church ordains?” At this question, I thrust out my whole
head and neck from behind the tapestry, and, with the utmost attention
and disorder of soul, listened, to Lucinda’s answer, which I expected,
as either the sentence of my death or confirmation of my life.—O that I
had boldly advanced, and called aloud, “Ah Lucinda! Lucinda! take care
what you do; reflect upon your duty to me, remember you are mine, and
can never belong to any other husband. Consider, that my life must end
the moment you answer yes.—Ha! treacherous Don Fernando! robber of my
glory! death of my life! what are thy intentions! What wouldst thou
have! remember that, as a Christian, thou canst not fulfil thy desires;
for I am Lucinda’s husband, and she is my lawful wife!”—Fool that I am!
now, when I am absent, and far removed from the danger, I can reflect
upon what I ought to have done. Now that I am robbed of all that was
dear to my soul! accursed be the robber, on whom I might have taken
vengeance, had my heart supplied me with courage, as it now affords
inclination to complain. In fine, as I then acted like a booby and a
coward, it is but reasonable that I should now die of madness, sorrow,
and shame. The priest waited for the reply of Lucinda, who declined it a
good while; and when I expected she would either unsheath her dagger to
vindicate her love, employ her tongue in the cause of truth, or utter
some ingenious fraud that should tend to my advantage, I heard her
pronounce with a weak and faultering voice, “Yes, I will.” Don Fernando
repeated the same words, and the ring being put upon her finger, they
were united in the indissoluble bond of marriage; then he embraced his
new-married spouse, who, laying her hand on her heart, fainted away in
the arms of her mother. It now remains to describe my own situation,
when I heard and saw my hopes thus baffled by Lucinda’s breach of
promise; and found myself rendered incapable of ever retrieving the
happiness I had that instant lost. I remained without sense or
reflection, abandoned, as I thought, by Heaven, and a declared enemy to
that earth on which I lived. The air refused breath for my sighs, the
water denied moisture for my tears, fire alone increased within me, to
such a degree, that I was scorched with jealousy and rage! Lucinda’s
swooning threw the whole company into confusion; and her mother opening
her breast to give her air, found in it a folded paper, which Don
Fernando taking, read by the light of one of the torches, and then sat
down in a chair, and leaned one side of his head upon his hand, in a
pensive attitude, without minding the remedies they were applying for
the recovery of his spouse.
‘I, seeing the whole family in confusion, ventured to come out, cost
what it would; resolving, should I be seen, to do some desperate action
that would convince the whole world of my just indignation, in
chastising the false Don Fernando, and the fickle fainting traitress.
But fate, that reserved me, if possible, for greater misfortunes,
ordained that I should then abound in reflection, which hath since
failed me; and resolve, rather than take vengeance upon my greatest
enemies, who, as they had no suspicion of me, were then at my mercy, to
turn upon myself that resentment which they so justly deferred to feel;
and, perhaps, with more rigour than I should have exercised upon them,
had I at that time sacrificed them to my rage, because sudden death is
infinitely more easy than that which is lengthened out by lingering
torments. In short, I quitted the house, and went to the place where I
had left my mule, which being saddled, I mounted her, and without taking
leave of my host, sallied out of town, dreading, like another Lot, to
look behind me. When I found myself alone in the open field, shrouded by
the darkness of the night, and invited by the silence to complain,
without caution or fear of being overheard or known, I raised my voice,
and gave a loose to my indignation, in venting curses upon Lucinda and
Don Fernando, as if those vain exclamations could have atoned for the
injury they had done me. I bestowed upon her the epithets of cruel,
false, perfidious, and ungrateful; but, above all, avaricious; since the
wealth of my rival had shut the eyes of her love, detached her from me,
and swayed her inclination towards him to whom fortune had shewn herself
more kind and liberal. Yet, in the midst of these reproaches and
invectives, I could not help excusing her, observing, it was no wonder,
that a damsel educated under restraint, in the house of her parents,
bred up, and always accustomed to obey them, should comply with their
will and pleasure, in marrying a young gentleman of such wealth, rank,
and qualifications, that her refusal might have been thought to proceed
either from want of sense, or a passion for some other man, which would
have been a suspicion equally prejudicial to her virtue and reputation:
then I argued on the other side of the question; saying, had she owned
that I was her husband, her parents would have seen she had not
committed an unpardonable crime in making such a choice; since, before
the offer of Don Fernando, they themselves could not have desired, had
their desires been bounded by reason, a better match than me for their
daughter; and consequently, before she complied with that compulsive
injunction of giving her hand to another, she might have told them, that
she had already given it to me; in which case, I would have appeared and
confirmed the truth of every thing she should have feigned for the
occasion; in fine, I concluded, that superficial love, slender
understanding, vast ambition, and thirst after grandeur, had obliterated
in her memory those professions by which I had been deceived, cherished,
and supported, in the unshaken hope of my honourable desires.
‘In this exclamation and anxiety I travelled all night; and in the
morning found myself in one of the passages to this mountain, in which I
proceeded three days more, without high-road, or bye-path, till I
stopped at a small meadow, that lies either on the right or left of
these rocks; there I enquired of some goatherds whereabouts the most
craggy part of the mountain was; and, according to their directions,
thither I rode, resolving to put an end to my life. When I arrived among
those ragged rocks, my mule fell down dead of weariness and hunger; or,
as I rather believe, to disencumber herself of such a useless load as
then burdened her; and I remained on foot, quite spent and famished,
without having or desiring any support. In this situation, I know not
how long I continued stretched upon the ground: but, at length, I got up
without feeling any cravings or hunger, and found myself in the midst of
some shepherds, who, doubtless, had relieved my necessity. Indeed, they
told me in what condition I had been found, uttering such incoherent and
extravagant expressions, as clearly demonstrated that I had lost my
senses. Since that time, I have frequently perceived my intellects so
crazy and unsound, that I perform a thousand mad actions, tearing my
cloaths, bellowing through those unfrequented places, cursing my fate,
and repeating in vain the beloved name of my fair enemy, without any
connected sentences, or indeed any other intent than that of putting an
end to my life by violent outcries; and when I recover the use of my
senses, I find myself so weak and exhausted, that I scarce can move. My
usual habitation is the hollow of a cork tree, large enough to contain
this miserable carcase; the cow and goatherds who frequent these
mountains, maintain me out of charity, by leaving food upon the road, or
rocks, on which they think I may chance to find it; and, even while I am
deprived of my understanding, natural instinct teaches me to distinguish
this necessary nourishment, awakening my appetite and desire of seizing
it for my use. They tell me, too, when they meet with me in one of my
lucid intervals, that at other times I sally out by the highway, and
take it by force from the shepherds, as they are bringing it from their
cots, although they offer it of their own accord. In this manner I lead
my woeful and wretched life, until Heaven shall be pleased to put a
period to it, or give me grace to forget the beauty and falshood of
Lucinda, together with the wrong I have suffered from Don Fernando. If
this shall happen before I die, my intellects will return into their
right channel; otherwise there is nothing to be done, but to supplicate
Heaven to have mercy on my soul; for I find I have neither virtue nor
strength to extricate myself out of this extremity into which I was
voluntarily plunged.
‘This, gentlemen, is the bitter story of my misfortune; tell me, if you
think it could have been rehearsed with less concern than I have shewn;
and pray give yourselves no trouble in offering to me such persuasions
and advice, as your reason prompts you to think will do me service; for
they can have no other effect upon me, than the prescription of a
celebrated physician upon a patient who will not receive it. I will have
no health without Lucinda; and since she who is, or ought to be mine,
hath attached herself to another, I, who might have been the child of
happiness, am now the willing votary of woe. She, by her inconstancy,
wants to fix my perdition; and I welcome it, in order to gratify her
desire, and be an example to posterity, of one who wanted that
consolation, which almost all the wretched use! namely, the
impossibility of receiving comfort; a consideration that increases my
misery, which, I fear, will not end even with death.’
Thus did Cardenio wind up the long thread of his amorous and unfortunate
story; and just as the curate was about to give him his best advice and
consolation, he was prevented by a voice that saluted his ears, and in
mournful accents pronounced what will be rehearsed in the fourth book of
this narration; for, in this place, the third is concluded by the sage
and attentive historian Cid Hamet Benengeli.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
Footnote 81:
Bamba, or Wamba, king of the Visigoths in Spain, mounted the throne in
the year 672, and was famous for his success against the Arabians, as
well as for his attachment to the Christian religion, as a proof of
which he retired into a monastery, and resigned the kingdom to Ervige.
Footnote 82:
There is no such letter mentioned in his conversation with Don
Quixote.
Footnote 83:
Who murdered Sancho I. king of Castile, while he was engaged in the
siege of Zamora.
Footnote 84:
The original _pues presente pocas vezes lo bazía_, signifies, ‘Since
while I was present she did it very seldom.’ This at first sight
appears a solecism, and the petulant critick will exclaim, ‘What
occasion had she to write to her lover who was present, unless she had
lost the faculty of speech!’ But the seeming absurdity will vanish,
when we reflect that by _present_, he means, in the same city with his
mistress; to whom, however, according to the custom of Spain, he had
little or no access but by a literary correspondence.
VOLUME THE SECOND.
PART I.
BOOK IV.
CHAP. I.
OF THE NEW AND AGREEABLE ADVENTURE THAT HAPPENED TO THE CURATE AND
BARBER, IN THE BROWN MOUNTAIN.
Thrice happy and fortunate was that age which produced the most
audacious knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, in consequence of whose
honourable resolution to restore and revive the lost, and, as it were,
buried order of knight-errantry, we of these times, barren and
unfruitful of sprightly amusements, enjoy the agreeable entertainment,
not only of his own true and delightful adventures, but also the
intervening episodes, which are no less real, artful, and delicious,
than the main history itself, the twisted, reeled, and ravelled thread
of which is continued thus!
Just as the curate was ready to offer some consolation to Cardenio, he
was prevented by a voice that saluted his ears in these mournful
accents, ‘Would to God I could find a place to serve as a private tomb
for this wearisome burden of life, which I bear so much against my
inclination! this very spot will yield me what I ask, if I can trust the
solitary appearance of these mountains. Alas! how much more agreeable is
the company of these rocks and thickets, which give me opportunities of
complaining to Heaven, than that of faithless man! since nature hath not
created one of whom I could reasonably expect advice in difficulty,
comfort in affliction, or remedy in distress!’
This exclamation was distinctly overheard by the priest and his company,
who, concluding that the person who spoke must be hard by, arose to make
farther enquiry, and had not gone twenty paces, when behind the fragment
of a rock they perceived a boy sitting under an ash-tree, in the habit
of a peasant, whose face, as he stooped, in order to wash his feet in a
brook that murmured by him, they could not then survey. Their approach
they managed with softness and silence, while his whole attention was
employed in bathing his legs, that seemed two crystal pillars, which had
been produced among the pebbles in the rill. They were surprized at the
whiteness and beauty of his feet, which they could not believe had been
formed to tread the clods, and follow the cattle or plough, as his dress
would have seemed to intimate; and the curate, who went foremost,
finding himself still unperceived by the youth, made signs to the rest
to crouch down, or hide themselves behind a neighbouring rock. This
being done, all three stood gazing attentively at the apparition, which
was clad in a double-skirted grey jacket, girt about the middle with a
white napkin, and wore breeches and hose of the same cloth, with a grey
hunting-cap upon his head; the hose being pulled up to the middle of his
leg, which actually seemed of white alabaster. Having washed his
delicate feet, he wiped them with a handkerchief which he took out of
his cap, and in so doing, lifted up his head, shewing to the by-standers
a face of such exquisite beauty, that Cardenio said in a whisper to the
curate, ‘Since that is not Lucinda, it can be no earthly, but some
celestial being!’ The youth taking off his cap, and shaking his head, a
large quantity of hair, that Apollo himself might envy, flowed down upon
his shoulders, and discovered to the spectators, that the supposed
peasant was no other than a woman, the most delicate and handsome that
the curate and barber had ever beheld; or even Cardenio, had he not seen
and been acquainted with Lucinda, who alone, as he afterwards owned,
could contend with her in beauty. Her golden locks fell down in such
length and quantity, as not only covered her shoulders, but also
concealed every other part of her body except her feet: and, instead of
a comb, she made use of her hands, which, if her feet looked like
crystal in the brook, appeared among her hair like moulds of drifted
snow. All these circumstances increasing the desire of the by-standers
to know who she was, they resolved to shew themselves, and at the stir
they made in advancing, the beauteous phantom raised her head, and
parting her locks with both hands, to see what occasioned the noise she
heard, no sooner perceived them than the started up, and, without
staying to put on her shoes, or tie up her hair, seized a bundle that
lay by her, and betook herself to flight, full of consternation and
surprize: but she had not run six yards, when her delicate feet, unable
to bear the roughness of the stones, failed under her, and she fell to
the ground. This accident being perceived by the other three, they ran
to her assistance, and the curate approaching her first, ‘Stay, Madam,’
said he, ‘whosoever you are; those whom you see have no other design
than that of doing you service: therefore there is no necessity for your
attempting such a precipitate flight, which neither your own feet nor
our inclination will allow.’ To this address she made no reply, being
quite astonished and confused; but the priest taking her by the hand,
proceeded in this manner: ‘Madam, though your dress concealed, your hair
hath discovered manifest signs, that it must be no slight cause which
hath shrouded your beauty in such unworthy disguise, and brought you to
this solitude, where it is our fortune to find you; and to offer, if not
a certain remedy for your misfortune, at least our best advice; for no
grievance can harass or drive the afflicted to such extremity, while
life remains, as to make them shut their ears against that counsel which
is given with the most humane and benevolent intention. Wherefore,
Madam, or Sir, or what you please to be, recollect yourself from the
confusion in which the sight of us hath thrown you, and tell us the
particulars of your good or evil fortune, in full assurance of finding
us all together, or each by himself, disposed to sympathize with your
affliction.’
While the curate pronounced these words, the disguised damsel stood
wrapt in attention, gazing at them all round, without moving her lips,
or uttering one syllable, like a country villager gaping at rarities
which he had never seen before: but the priest enforcing what he had
said, with other arguments to the same effect, she heaved a profound
sigh, and broke silence, saying, ‘Since these solitary mountains have
not been able to conceal me, and my loose dishevelled hair allows me not
to disguise the truth, it would be in vain for me to feign such things
as your reason could not believe, though your courtesy might excuse
them. On that supposition, I thank you, gentlemen, for your humane
offer, which lays me under the obligation of giving you all the
satisfaction you desire; though I am afraid, that the relation I shall
make of my misfortunes will, instead of compassion, excite your disgust,
for you will find it impossible either to cure my woes, or teach me to
bear them with fortitude; but, nevertheless, that my reputation may not
suffer in your opinion, as you have discovered me to be a woman, and a
young one, alone, and in this disguise; circumstances which, considered
either together or apart, might prejudice my good name in this world; I
will freely disclose to you those things, which, if possible, I would
have willingly concealed.’
All this preamble was uttered in a breath by the beautiful apparition,
with such volubility of tongue, and sweetness of voice, that they
admired her good sense as much as her beauty; and repeating their
proffers of service, as well as their intreaties that she would perform
her promise; she, without farther importunity, put on her shoes with
great modesty, adjusted her hair, and sat down in the midst of her three
hearers, upon a seat in the rock, where, after having endeavoured to
repress a few tears that started in her eyes, she, with a clear and
deliberate voice, began the story of her life in this manner.
‘In this province of Andalusia, there is a place, from whence a certain
duke, one of those who are called grandees of Spain, derives his title:
he hath two sons, the eldest of whom is heir to his estate, and, in all
appearance, to his good qualities; but the younger inherits nothing that
I know, but the treachery of Vellido, and falshood of Galalon. To this
nobleman my parents are vassals; and though low in pedigree, so
considerable in wealth, that if their descent was equal to their
fortune, they would have nothing more to desire, nor I the mortification
of seeing myself in this distress; for, I believe, my misfortunes
proceed from their defect in point of birth, which though not so mean as
to make them ashamed of their origin, is not splendid enough to
overthrow my conjecture about the source of my affliction: in short,
they are farmers, of a plain honest family, without the least
intermixture of Moorish blood; but, as the saying is, old, rusty
Christians; aye, and so rusty, that by their riches and opulent way of
living, they are gradually acquiring the title of gentlefolks, nay, of
quality too; though what they prized above all riches and title, was
their happiness in having me for their daughter; and therefore, as they
had no other child to inherit their estate, and were naturally the most
affectionate of parents, I was beloved and indulged by them with the
utmost degree of parental fondness. I was the mirror in which they
beheld themselves, the staff of their age, and shared with Heaven their
whole attention and desires, with which, as they were pure and
unblemished, my own perfectly corresponded; and therefore, I was
mistress of their affection as well as their wealth. By my advice, they
received and dismissed their servants; the tale and account of what was
both sowed and reaped, passed through my hands; I managed the oil-mills,
the vineyards, the herds and the flocks, the bee-hives, and every thing
that such a rich farmer as my father may be supposed to possess: in
short, I was steward and mistress; and acted with such care and œconomy,
that I should not find it easy to exaggerate the pleasure and
satisfaction which my parents enjoyed. Those parts of the day that
remained, after I had given all due attention to the herdsmen,
overseers, and other day-labourers, I employed in exercises equally
decent and necessary for young women, such as lace-making, needle-work,
and spinning; and if, at any time, I interrupted these employments, in
order to recreate the mind, I entertained myself with some religious
book, or diversified my amusement with the harp; being convinced by
experience, that musick lulls the disordered thoughts, and elevates the
dejected spirits. Such was the life I led in my father’s house; and if I
have described it too minutely, it is not through ostentation, in order
to display our riches, but with a view of manifesting how innocently I
forfeited that happy situation, and incurred the misery of my present
state. While I passed my time in these occupations, my retirement was
such as almost equalled that of a nunnery, being seen by nobody, as I
thought, but the servants of the family; for I went to mass early in the
morning, accompanied by my mother and the maids, and veiled with such
reserve, that my eyes scarce beheld the ground on which I trod; yet,
nevertheless, I was perceived by those of love, or rather libertinism,
which even exceeds the lynx in penetration, and then possessed the
faculties of Don Fernando, younger son of the duke whom I have already
mentioned.’
She no sooner mentioned the name of Don Fernando, than Cardenio changed
colour, and began to sweat with such agitation, that the curate and
barber, perceiving it, were afraid he would be seized with one of those
fits of distraction which, as they had heard, assaulted him from time to
time; but, after some drops of sweat had burst out upon his skin, he
remained quiet, and looking earnestly at the farmer’s fair daughter,
immediately guessed who she was; while she, without observing the
emotions of Cardenio, went on with her story, in these words: ‘And he no
sooner beheld me, than, as he afterwards protested, he deeply felt the
power of love, which indeed his behaviour clearly evinced; but, to
shorten the account of my misfortune, which is lengthened beyond all
comfort, I will pass over in silence the industrious schemes that Don
Fernando planned, for opportunities of declaring his passion. He bribed
every servant in the family, and even made presents and proffers of
service to my relations: there was nothing but gaiety and rejoicing all
day long in our street; and all night, it was impossible to sleep for
serenades. The letters which, through an unknown channel, came to my
hand, were without number, filled with the most amorous flights and
professions, and vows and promises in every line; but all these efforts,
far from soothing, hardened me against him, as much as if he had been my
mortal foe; and all the stratagems he practised, in order to subdue my
coyness, had a quite contrary effect: not that I was disgusted at the
gallantry of Don Fernando, or enraged at his importunities, for I felt a
certain kind of pleasure in being courted and beloved by such a noble
cavalier; neither did I take umbrage at seeing myself praised in his
letters; for it is my opinion, that all women, let them be never so
homely, are pleased to hear themselves celebrated for beauty; but, to
all these artifices, I opposed my own virtue, together with the repeated
advices of my parents, who plainly perceived the passion of Don
Fernando, because he himself took no care to conceal it from the world.
They assured me, that in my virtue and prudence alone they confided and
deposited their own honour and reputation: they bade me consider the
inequality between Don Fernando and me, which was a convincing proof
that his love, though he himself asserted the contrary, tended more to
his gratification than my advantage; and said, if I could throw any
obstruction in his way, to make him quit his unjust pretensions, I
should be married immediately, according to my own choice, either to one
of the principal persons of our own town, or to some gentleman in the
neighbourhood, as I had abundance of lovers, attracted by their wealth,
and my reputation. With these assurances, the truth of which I could not
doubt, I fortified my integrity, and would never send any reply to Don
Fernando, that could in the most distant manner flatter him with the
hope of accomplishing his wish: but all my reserve, which he ought to
have looked upon as the effect of disdain, served only to whet his
libidinous appetite, which is the true name of the passion he professed;
for, had it been genuine love, you would not now be listening to my
story, which I should have had no occasion to recount.
‘In fine, Don Fernando got notice that my parents intended to bestow me
in marriage, that they might deprive him of all hope of possessing me,
or, at least, provide me with more guards to protect my virtue; and this
piece of news alarmed him so much, that he put in practice an expedient
to retard the dreaded match. One night, while I sat in my apartment,
attended by my maid only, the doors being all fast locked, that through
negligence my virtue might not be in danger, without knowing or
comprehending the means of his conveyance, he appeared before me, in the
midst of this reserve, precaution, solitude, silence, and retreat! At
sight of him, I was so much confounded, that the light forsook my eyes,
and my tongue denied its office; so that being deprived of the power of
utterance, I could not cry for help, neither, I believe, would he have
suffered me to exclaim; for he instantly seized me in his arms, my
confusion being such, that I had not strength to defend myself, and
began to pour forth such protestations, that I cannot conceive how
falshood is able to ape truth so exactly. The traitor’s tears gave
credit to his words, and his sighs confirmed the honesty of his
intention. I, being a poor young creature by myself, altogether
unexperienced in those affairs, began, I know not how, to believe his
false professions; but, not so as to be moved to weak compassion, either
by his vows or artful sorrow; on the contrary, my first surprize being
over, I recollected my dissipated spirits, and with more courage than I
thought myself possessed of, said to him, “Signior, if, instead of being
within your arms, as I now am, I was in the paws of a fierce lion, and
my deliverance entirely depended upon my doing or saying any thing
prejudicial to my virtue, it would be as impossible for me to comply
with these terms, as it as impossible for that which is, to lose its
existence; wherefore, though you keep my body confined within your arms,
I am in full possession of my soul, with all her chaste desires, which
are entirely opposite to yours, as you will plainly perceive, if you
resolve to proceed in gratifying your wishes by force. I am your vassal,
but not your slave; the nobility of your blood neither has, nor ought to
have, the power of dishonouring or despising the lowliness of mine; and
my character is as precious to me, though I am but a plebeian farmer’s
daughter, as yours can be to you, who are a nobleman and cavalier. All
your strength shall not effect your purpose, neither am I to be
influenced by your riches, deceived by your words, or melted by your
sighs and tears. Any of these expressions in a man, to whom my parents
should give me in marriage, would gain my consent and reciprocal
inclination; nay, if my honour were safe, I could sacrifice my
satisfaction, and voluntarily yield what you, Signior, now attempt to
obtain by force; this I observe, that you may rest assured, I will never
grant any favour to him who is not my lawful spouse.”
‘“If that be your sole objection, charming Dorothea,” (for that is the
name of this wretched creature) said the perfidious cavalier, “behold I
here present my hand, in pledge, of being yours for ever; and may
Heaven, from which nothing is concealed, together with that image of the
blessed Virgin, bear witness to the sincerity and truth of this
declaration!”’ Cardenio, when she called herself Dorothea, was surprized
anew, and confirmed in his first conjecture; but, unwilling to interrupt
the story in which he expected to hear the issue of what he already
knew, he only said, ‘Is your name Dorothea, Madam? I have heard of one
of that name, to whose misfortunes yours bear a great resemblance: but
pray proceed; the time will come when I shall tell you such things as
will equally excite your terror and affliction.’ Dorothea, surprized at
the discourse of Cardenio, as well as at his strange and ragged attire,
intreated him, if he knew any thing of her affairs, to communicate it
immediately; saying, that if fortune had left her any thing of value, it
was the courage to endure any disaster that might befal her; though she
was almost certain, that what she had already suffered could admit of no
addition. ‘Madam,’ replied Cardenio, ‘I would not be the means of
impairing that fortitude, by telling you what I know, if my conjecture
be right; neither is there any opportunity lost, nor is it of any
consequence to you, whether you hear it or not.’—‘Be that as it will,’
answered Dorothea, ‘I will go on with the sequel of my story. Don
Fernando, addressing himself to the image he found in my apartment,
invoked the blessed Virgin to bear witness to our nuptials, and avowed
himself my husband with the most binding and solemn oaths; though,
before he proceeded so far, I desired him to reflect upon what he was
going to do, and consider how much his father might be incensed at his
conduct, when he should find him married to the daughter of his own
farmer and vassal. I cautioned him against being blinded by my beauty,
such as it was, telling him it would be far from being a sufficient
excuse for his error; and begged, if he had any love and regard for me,
he would manifest it, in leaving me to a fate more adequate to my rank
and circumstances; observing, that such unequal matches were seldom
blessed with a long duration of those raptures with which they begin.
‘All these reflections I repeated to him, with many more which I do not
remember; but they had no effect in diverting him from the prosecution
of his purpose; for he was like a man, who, in making a bargain, never
boggles at the price of the commodity, because he never intends to pay
it. At the same time, I held a short conference with my own breast,
saying within myself, “Neither shall I be the first, who, by marriage,
has risen from a low station to rank, and grandeur; nor will Don
Fernando be the first nobleman whom beauty, or rather blind affection,
hath induced to share his greatness with a partner of unequal birth.
Since, therefore, I neither make a new world nor a new custom, it is but
reasonable in me to embrace this honour that fortune throws in my way;
and although the affection he professes should not survive the
accomplishment of his wish, I shall nevertheless, in the sight of God,
remain his true and lawful wife. Besides, should I treat him with
disdain, I see he is determined to transgress the bounds of duty, and
avail himself of force; in which case, I shall be dishonoured and
inexcusable in the opinion of those who do not know how innocently I
have incurred their censure; for where shall I find arguments to
persuade my parents, that this cavalier entered my apartment without my
knowledge and consent?”
‘All these reflections, which my imagination revolved in an instant,
began to sway me towards that which (though I little thought so) proved
my ruin; especially when aided and enforced by the oaths of Don
Fernando, the powers he called to witness, the tears he shed, and, in
short, by his genteel carriage and agreeable disposition accompanied by
such marks of real passion, as might have melted any other heart as soft
and unexperienced as mine. I called my maid to be a joint evidence with
the powers of Heaven: Don Fernando repeated and confirmed his oaths;
took other saints to witness his integrity; imprecated a thousand curses
on his head, in case he should fail to fulfil his promise; had recourse
to sighs and tears again, straining me still closer in his arms, from
which he had never released me. By these means, and the departure of my
maid, I forfeited that name, and he became a false and finished traitor.
‘The morning that succeeded this night of my misfortune, did not arrive
so soon, I believe, as Don Fernando could have wished; for, when once a
man hath satisfied his rage of appetite, his chief inclination is to
quit the scene of his success. This I observe, because Don Fernando
seemed impatient to be gone; and, by the industry of my maid, who had
conducted him to my chamber, found himself in the street before day:
when he took his leave, he told me, though not with such violence of
rapture as he expressed on his first coming, that I might depend upon
his honour, and the sincerity of the oaths he had sworn; as a farther
confirmation of which, he took a ring of value from his finger, and put
it upon mine. In short, he vanished, leaving me in a situation which I
can neither call joyful nor sad. This I know, that I remained in a state
of confusion and perplexity, and, as it were, beside myself, on account
of what had happened; but I either wanted courage or memory to quarrel
with my maid for the perfidy she had been guilty of, in conducting Don
Fernando to my apartment; indeed, I could not as yet determine, whether
the adventure would redound to my advantage or misfortune. I told him,
at parting, that now I was his wife, he might see me any night, by the
same means he had used to procure the first interview, until he should
think proper to make our marriage publick: but, except the following
night, I could never set eyes on him, either in the street or at church,
during a whole month, which I spent in the utmost anxiety of
expectation; although I knew he was in town, and almost every day
employed in the chace, an exercise to which he was greatly addicted.
Those were doleful and distracting hours and days to me; for then I
began to doubt, and afterwards to disbelieve the faith of Don Fernando;
then was my maid exposed to those rebukes for her presumption, which she
had never heard before; then was I obliged to husband my tears, and wear
composure on my countenance, that I might not give occasion to my
parents to ask the cause of my discontent, and be put to the trouble of
inventing falshoods to deceive them. But all this constraint was
banished by an event, the knowledge of which trod down all other
respects, put an end to all my prudent measures, and by destroying my
patience, published my misfortune to the world. This was no other than a
report that soon after prevailed in our town, by which I learned that
Don Fernando was married, in a neighbouring city, to a young lady of
exceeding beauty, and distinguished birth, though her parents could not
give her a portion suitable to such a noble alliance. I understood her
name was Lucinda, and that several surprizing accidents had happened at
their nuptials.’
Cardenio hearing Lucinda’s name, though he said nothing, shrugged up his
shoulders, bit his lips, contracted the skin of his forehead, and
discharged from his eyes two fountains of tears; but, notwithstanding,
Dorothea continued her story, saying, ‘This melancholy piece of news no
sooner reached my ears, than, instead of freezing, it inflamed my heart
with such rage and fury, that I had well-nigh run out into the streets,
and published aloud the falshood and treachery he had practised upon me:
but my rage was restrained for that time, by a plan which I conceived,
and actually put in execution that very night. I dressed myself in this
garb, which I received from one of the swains belonging to the house, to
whom I disclosed my whole misfortune, intreating him to attend me to the
city, where I understood my adversary was. After having disapproved of
the attempt, and blamed my resolution, seeing me determined, he offered
to keep me company, as he said, to the world’s end: that moment I packed
up my woman’s dress in a pillow-case, together with some jewels and
money, as a resource in time of need; and in the dead of that very
night, without giving the least hint to my perfidious maid, left my
father’s house, and accompanied by my servant, and a thousand strange
imaginations, set out for that city on foot, winged with the desire of
finding Don Fernando; and resolved, though I could not prevent what was
already done, to demand with what confidence he had done it.
‘In two days and an half I arrived at the city, and enquiring for the
house of Lucinda’s parents, the first person to whom I put the question,
told me more than I desired to hear. He directed me to the house, and
related every incident which had happened at his daughter’s wedding; a
story so publick, that it was the common town-talk. He said, that on the
night of their nuptials, after she had pronounced the “Yes,” by which he
became her husband, Lucinda was seized with a violent fit; that Don
Fernando opening her breast to give her fresh air, found in it a paper
written with her own hand, importing that she could not lawfully espouse
Fernando, being already the wife of Cardenio, who, as the man told me,
was one of the principal cavaliers of that town; and that she had now
pronounced the fatal “Yes,” merely because she would not swerve from the
obedience she owed to her parents; in short, he said, the contents of
the paper plainly gave them to understand, that she intended to make
away with herself, immediately after the ceremony, induced by the
reasons which were there contained; and this resolution was confirmed by
a poignard which they found concealed in some part of her dress. Don
Fernando perceiving, by what happened, that Lucinda had baffled,
scorned, and undervalued his addresses, ran to her before she had
recovered the use of her senses, and with the poignard they had found,
would have stabbed her to the heart, had he not been prevented by her
parents and the rest of the company. It was, moreover, reported that Don
Fernando immediately retired; and that Lucinda continued in a fit till
next day. When she recovered from her swoon, she declared to her father
and mother, that she was the true and lawful wife of that same Cardenio,
who, it seems, was present at the ceremony; and who, when he saw her
actually married, contrary to his former belief and firm expectation,
quitted the city in despair, having first left a writing that declared
the wrong she had done him, and signified his intention to banish
himself for ever from the society of mankind. All this transaction was
so notorious and publick in the city, as to furnish discourse for every
body; and the subject was not diminished, when it was known that Lucinda
was not to be found either in her father’s house, or in any other part
of the town, which were searched all over by her parents, who had almost
run distracted, not knowing what other method they should take to
retrieve her. This information revived my hopes a little; for I was
better pleased to have missed Don Fernando, than to have found him
married to another; thinking, that every gate of comfort was not yet
shut against me; and that Heaven, perhaps, had thrown that impediment in
the way of his second marriage, with a view of making him reflect upon
what he owed to the first; and reminding him of his being a Christian,
consequently more interested in the care of his soul than in any other
human concern. All these things I revolved in my imagination; and, as I
had no real comfort, consoled myself with the most feeble and distant
hope, in order to support a life which I now abhor.
‘While I remained in this city, undetermined what course to take, as I
could not find Don Fernando, I heard a publick crier describe my person
and dress, and offer a considerable reward to any one that should
discover where I was. Nay, it was said, that I had seduced from my
father’s house, the young man who attended me; a circumstance that
touched me to the very soul: finding my credit fallen so low, that they
were not satisfied with publishing my escape, but must needs also
mention my attendant, a creature so mean and unworthy of my attention
and regard, as soon as I heard myself proclaimed, I quitted the town,
accompanied by my servant, who already began to give marks of staggering
in his promised faith and fidelity, and that night reached the most
woody part of this mountain, urged by the fear of being discovered; but,
as it is commonly observed, one mischance invites another, and the end
of one misfortune is often the beginning of a worse, this was literally
my case: my trusty servant, who had hitherto behaved with such zeal and
fidelity, seeing me in this solitary place, and instigated by his own
villainy rather than any beauty of mine, attempted to avail himself of
the opportunity which he thought this desart offered; and with great
impudence, contempt of Heaven, and disregard to me, began to talk of
love; when, finding that I rejected his immodest proposals with just
indignation and disdain, he laid aside intreaties for the use of those
who might please to use them, and began to employ force for the
accomplishment of his will; but, just Heaven, who seldom or never
abandons the righteous intention, favoured and assisted mine so
effectually, that with the little strength I have, and no great trouble,
I pushed him over a precipice, unknowing whether or nor he survived the
fall; then, as nimbly as my weariness and terror would allow, I
penetrated farther into the mountain, without any other thought or
intention, than that of keeping myself concealed from my father, and
those whom he had employed to find me out.
‘I know not how many months I have lived in this place, where I met with
a grazier, who took me into his service, and carried me to his house,
which stands in the very heart of the mountain. Him I served all this
time, in quality of a cowherd, endeavouring to be always in the field,
that I might the more easily conceal that hair which now so unexpectedly
discovered my sex: yet, all my care and industry were vain; for, my
master having found me out to be a woman, was seized with the same
desire that took possession of my own servant. But fortune, with the
evil, does not always send the remedy; for, I could neither find rock
nor bog, by which I might have disabled my master, as I had before
punished my man; and therefore, as the least inconvenience, I have left
his house, and chosen to hide myself again among these thickets, rather
than try my strength against him, in defence of my innocence. I say, I
returned to these woods in hopes of finding a place in which I might,
without impediment, implore Heaven with sighs and tears, to have
compassion upon my misery, and give me industry and grace to overcome
it, or quit my being in this solitude, without leaving behind me the
least trace or remembrance of this forlorn wretch, who, without any
fault of her own, hath afforded so much matter for conversation and
censure both at home and abroad.
CHAP. II.
OF THE BEAUTIFUL DOROTHEA’S DISCRETION—WITH OTHER PLEASANT AND
ENTERTAINING PARTICULARS.
‘This, gentlemen, is the genuine detail of my tragick story; consider,
therefore, and judge whether or not I have sufficient cause to heave
more sighs than I have vented, utter more complaints than you have
heard, and shed more tears than have flowed from mine eyes; and when you
shall have deliberated upon the quality of my misfortune, you will
perceive how vain all consolation must be, as the disease admits of no
remedy. I only ask what you easily can, and ought to grant, namely, that
you would inform me where I can pass my life, without being harrassed by
the surprize and fear of being found by those who are in search of me.
For, though I am well assured, that my parents, out of their great love
and affection, would receive me again into their favour, such is the
shame and confusion I feel at the bare thought of their having altered
their opinion to my prejudice, that I would rather conceal myself from
their sight for ever, than appear in their presence under the suspicion
of having acted contrary to the expectations they entertained from my
virtue.’ So saying, she left off speaking, and her face was overspread
with a blush that plainly denoted the sentiments and confusion of her
soul. Those who had heard her story, were equally surprized and
afflicted at her misfortune; to which the curate was going to offer some
consolation and advice, when Cardenio took her by the hand, saying, ‘It
seems, then, Madam, you are the beauteous Dorothea, only daughter of
Cleonardo the rich!’ She was astonished to hear her father’s name
pronounced by one of such a miserable appearance, (for we have already
observed, how wretchedly Cardenio was cloathed) and said to him, ‘And
who are you, brother, who know so well my father’s name; which, if I
remember aright, I have not once mentioned in the whole course of my
unfortunate story?’
‘I am,’ replied Cardenio, ‘that unfortunate man, to whom, as you have
observed, Lucinda said she was married. I am that miserable Cardenio,
whom the villainy of him who reduced you to your present situation, hath
brought to this deplorable condition in which you now see me, ragged,
half-naked, destitute of all human comfort, and, which is still worse,
deprived of my understanding, except at certain short intervals, that I
enjoy by the permission of Heaven. I, Dorothea, am the person who was
present at the perfidy of Don Fernando, and heard Lucinda pronounce the
fatal “Yes,” by which she accepted him for a husband. I am he who wanted
resolution to wait the issue of her swoon, or stay and see the result of
that paper which was found in her bosom; for, my soul could not sustain
the shock of such accumulated misfortune; and therefore, I quitted the
house, already abandoned by my patience, and leaving a letter with my
host, whom I charged to deliver it into Lucinda’s own hand, betook
myself to these desarts, with an intention here to finish the life which
from that instant I have abhorred as my most inveterate foe. But fate
hath not been pleased to grant my wish, contenting itself with having
deprived me of my judgment, with a view, perhaps, of reserving me for
better fortune; which I begin to hope may proceed from this lucky
meeting with you, since, if that which you have recounted be true, as I
believe it is, there is a possibility that Heaven may have in store for
us both, a more favourable termination of our disasters than we imagine;
for, supposing that Lucinda, who is already my wife, as she hath openly
declared, cannot be married to Don Fernando, nor he lawfully wed her,
being already espoused to you, I think we have reason to hope, that
Heaven will one day restore what mutually belongs to us; as it is
neither alienated, ruined, nor irretrievable. And since this consolation
still remains, sprung from hopes that are not very remote, and founded
on expectations which are not the effects of a disordered imagination, I
entreat you, Madam, in the purity of your sentiments, to change your
present resolution, as I intend to alter mine, and accommodate yourself
to the hopes of better fortune; for, I swear upon the faith of a
gentleman and a Christian, that I will never abandon you, until I see
you in the arms of Don Fernando, whom, if I cannot by reasonable
arguments, bring to a true sense of his duty towards you, I will then
use that privilege to which every gentleman is intitled, and in single
combat demand satisfaction for the injury he has done you, without
minding my own wrongs, which I will leave to the vengeance of Heaven,
that I may the sooner revenge yours upon earth.’
This speech of Cardenio put an end to the surprize of Dorothea, who
being at a loss how to thank him for his kind and generous offer,
stooped in order to kiss his feet, but this piece of condescension he
would by no means allow. The priest answering for both, approved of
Cardenio’s declaration; and, in a particular manner, intreated, advised,
and persuaded them, to accompany him to the village where he lived, in
order to provide themselves with what they wanted; and there consult
some scheme either for finding Don Fernando, or for carrying Dorothea
back to her parents, or, in short, for doing that which should seem most
necessary and convenient. Cardenio and Dorothea thanked him for his
courteous offer, which they immediately embraced; and the barber, who
had been silent and attentive all this time, having joined the curate in
his compliments and hearty proffers of service, briefly recounted the
cause which had brought them thither; namely, the strange madness of Don
Quixote; observing, that they were then waiting for the return of his
squire, whom they had sent in quest of his master. Cardenio immediately,
as if it had been the faint impression of a dream, recollected and
related the quarrel which had happened between the knight and him,
though he could not remember the cause of the dispute.
At that instant they heard and recognized the voice of Sancho; who, not
finding them in the place where he had left them, hallooed aloud; upon
which they went to meet him, and enquiring about Don Quixote, were told
by the squire, that he found him naked to the shirt, wan, meagre, half
famished, and sighing for his mistress Dulcinea; that when he (Sancho)
told him she had commanded him to quit that place, and go immediately to
Toboso, where she waited with impatience to see him, he had answered,
that he was determined never to appear before her, until he should have
performed such atchievements as would render him worthy of her favour;
and Sancho observed, that if this resolution should hold, it was
possible he might never attain to the rank of an emperor, as he was in
duty bound, nor even to that of an archbishop, which was the least he
could expect. He desired them, therefore, to consider some means of
disengaging the knight from his solitude. The priest bade him be under
no concern, for they would fall upon a method to remove his master,
whether he would or no.
Then he explained to Cardenio and Dorothea, the plan they had laid to
cure Don Quixote of his madness, or at least bring him back to his own
house. This Dorothea no sooner understood, than she told him, that she
was more proper than the barber for acting the part of the distressed
damsel; especially, as she had cloaths along with her, that would answer
the purpose; and bade them trust to her, for representing every part of
the character which should be necessary towards the success of their
design, for she had read a great many books of chivalry, and was
perfectly well acquainted with the stile in which afflicted damsels were
wont to beg boons of knights-errant. ‘If that be the case,’ said the
curate, ‘let us not delay the execution of our scheme; for, without
doubt, Heaven seems to favour my endeavours; not only in opening a door
so unexpectedly, towards the cure of your misfortunes, but also in
making you subservient in facilitating our success.’ Dorothea then
pulled out of her pillow-case, a gown and petticoat of very rich stuff,
with a beautiful green mantelet, and opening a little casket, took out a
rich necklace and other jewels, with which she instantly dressed herself
to such advantage that she appeared like a lady of the first rank and
fortune. All these, and other ornaments, she said, she had carried off
from her father’s house, in case of what might happen; though hitherto
she had met with no opportunity of using them. Every one present was
charmed with her graceful mien, easy deportment, and exceeding beauty;
and passed sentence on Don Fernando, as a person of little taste and
discernment, for having abandoned such excellence. But the admiration of
Sancho was superior to that of all the rest; for he actually thought,
and indeed it was true, that in all the days of his life, he had never
seen such a beautiful creature; and, accordingly, asked the curate, with
great eagerness, who that handsome lady was, and what she looked for in
these bye places. ‘Friend Sancho,’ answered the curate, ‘that handsome
lady, to say no more of her, is heiress, in the direct male line, of the
kingdom of Micomicon[85], come hither to beg a boon of your master, that
he would redress a wrong and grievance done to her by a discourteous
giant; for such is the fame and reputation of that excellent knight, Don
Quixote, through the whole extent of Guinea, as to induce this princess
to come from thence in quest of him.’—‘Blessed quest!’ cried Sancho,
‘and happy finding, say I! especially if my master should be so
fortunate as to right the wrong, and redress the grievance, by killing
that son of a whore of a giant that your worship mentions; and kill him
he certainly will, if they should once meet, provided he be not a
phantom; for you must know, my master has no power over phantoms. But
one thing, among many others, I must beg of you, Mr. Licentiate, and
that is, to put my master out of conceit of an archbishoprick, for I am
afraid his inclination leans that way, and advise him to marry this
princess out of hand, a match which will make it impossible for him to
receive holy orders; and therefore he will the more easily arrive at the
seat of empire, and I at the end of my wish. For I have carefully
considered the affair, and by my reckoning, I shall not find my account
in his being an archbishop, as I am altogether unfit for the church, by
reason of my being married; and for me, who have a wife and children, to
be petitioning for dispensations to hold livings, would be an endless
task. Wherefore, Signior, the point is this: let my master immediately
take to wife the same lady, whose name I do not know; for, indeed, I
never saw her grace before this blessed minute.’—‘She is called the
princess Micomicona,’ replied the curate, ‘because her kingdom being
Micomicon, it is plain her name must be Micomicona.’—‘Yes, to be sure,’
said Sancho, ‘I have known several people take a surname and addition
from the place of their nativity, calling themselves, for example, Pedro
d’Alcala, Juna de Ubeda, Diego de Valladolid; and I suppose they have
the same custom in Guinea, where the queens take their names from the
kingdoms they rule.’ The priest confirmed Sancho’s opinion, and promised
to use his utmost influence to promote the marriage of the knight. With
this assurance Sancho rested as much satisfied as the other was
surprized at his simplicity, when he perceived how carefully he
cherished, in his imagination, the same extravagant whims that possessed
his master, who he firmly believed would one day become an emperor.
By this time, Dorothea being mounted on the curate’s mule, and the
barber’s face accommodated with the ox’s tail by way of beard, they
desired Sancho to guide them to the place where Don Quixote was, and
cautioned him against pretending to know the licentiate and his
companion, assuring him that his master’s becoming an emperor entirely
depended upon his professing ignorance of their persons. Yet neither the
curate nor Cardenio would accompany them; because the presence of this
last might recal to the knight’s memory the quarrel which had happened
between them; and it was not yet proper that the priest should appear;
for which reasons, they let the rest proceed by themselves, and they
followed at a small distance, after the curate had given her cue to
Dorothea; who desired him to make himself perfectly easy on her account,
for she would act the part assigned to her, without the least occasion
for a prompter, in the true stile and spirit of knight-errantry.
Having travelled about three quarters of a league, they discovered Don
Quixote already cloathed, though still unarmed, sitting in the midst of
a labyrinth of rocks: and Dorothea no sooner understood it was he, in
consequence of Sancho’s information, than she whipped up her palfrey,
close attended by the well-bearded barber, who, when she approached the
knight, threw himself from his mule, and ran to help his lady to alight.
But she, dismounting with great agility, went and fell upon her knees
before Don Quixote, whom, in spite of his repeated endeavours to raise
her, she accosted in these words.
‘Never will I rise from this posture, most valiant and invincible
knight, until your benevolence and courtesy grant me a boon, which will
not only redound to the honour and applause of your own person, but also
to the advantage of the most injured and disconsolate damsel that ever
the sun beheld; and if the valour of your mighty arm corresponds with
the voice of your immortal fame, you are obliged to favour the
unfortunate, who, attracted by the odour of your celebrated name, come
from far distant regions, in quest of your assistance.’—‘Beauteous
lady,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I will not answer one word, nor hear one
circumstance of your affairs, until you rise from the ground.’—‘I will
not rise, Signior,’ answered the afflicted damsel, ‘until I shall have
obtained from your condescension, the boon I beg.’—‘I condescend and
grant it,’ resumed the knight, ‘provided, in so doing, I act neither to
the detriment nor derogation of my king, my country, and her who holds
my heart and liberty[86].’—‘Your compliance, worthy Signior,’ replied
the mourning lady, ‘shall in no ways affect the exceptions you have
made.’
At that instant Sancho came up, and whispered softly in his master’s
ear: ‘Your worship may safely grant the boon she asks, which is a mere
trifle; no more than slaying a giantish sort of a fellow; and she who
begs it, is the high and mighty princess Micomicona, queen of the great
empire of Micomicon in Ethiopia.’—‘Whosoever she is,’ answered Don
Quixote, ‘I will do what I am in duty bound to perform, and act
according to the dictates of my own conscience, and conformable to the
order I profess.’ Then turning to Dorothea, ‘Rise, most beautiful lady,’
said he, ‘the boon you ask is granted.’—‘Then, what I ask is this,’
resumed the damsel, ‘that your magnanimity would immediately accompany
me to the place from whence I came, and promise to attempt no other
adventure, nor grant any other request, until you shall have taken
vengeance on a traitor who hath usurped my crown, contrary to all right,
human and divine.’—‘I grant your request, Madam,’ answered Don Quixote;
‘henceforth you may dispel that melancholy with which you are depressed,
and let your fainting hope resume new strength and vigour; for, with the
assistance of God, and this my arm, you shall, in a short time, see
yourself restored to your kingdom, and seated on the throne of your
royal ancestors, in defiance and despite of all those evil-designing
persons who mean to oppose you: let us set hands to the work then; for,
according to the common observation, Delay breeds danger.’
The distressed damsel struggled with great perseverance, to kiss his
hand;
but Don Quixote, who was in all respects a well-bred knight, would by no
means allow such humiliation: on the contrary, raising her up, he
embraced her with great politeness and cordiality, ordering Sancho to
secure Rozinante’s girths, and help him to arm with all expedition. The
squire taking down the armour, which hung on a tree, in the manner of a
trophy, and adjusting the horse’s girths, in a twinkling, equipped his
master, who finding himself armed, ‘Now,’ said he, ‘let us go, in the
name of God, to the assistance of this high-born lady.’ The barber, who
was all this time on his knees, at infinite pains to preserve his
gravity and his beard, the fall of which, perhaps, would have utterly
ruined their laudable design, when he found the boon was granted, and
saw with what eagerness the knight undertook to fulfil it, rose up, and
with the assistance of Don Quixote, helped his lady upon her mule again;
then her protector bestrode Rozinante, and he himself mounted his own
beast, while Sancho Panza being left on foot, felt the loss of Dapple
anew: but this he contentedly bore, believing that his master was now in
the right road, and almost at the very point of being an emperor; for he
assured himself, that the knight would wed that princess, and so become
King of Micomicon at least; the only uneasiness he felt, was, on account
of that kingdom’s being in the land of negroes, so that all his servants
and vassals must be black; but, his imagination supplied him with a
remedy for this inconvenience, and he said within himself, ‘Suppose my
vassals are negroes, what else have I to do, but transport them to
Spain, where I can sell them for ready-money, with which I may purchase
some title or post that will maintain me at my ease all the days of my
life? No, to be sure! sleep on, void of all invention or ability to
dispose of your ware, and sell thirty, or ten thousand slaves in the
turning of a straw! Before God! I’ll make them fly, little and big, or
just as I may; and, blacks as they are, turn them all into whites and
yellows! Let me alone to suck my own fingers.’ With these conceits he
was so much engrossed, and so well satisfied, that he actually forgot
the pain of travelling on foot.
Cardenio and the curate saw every thing that passed, from behind some
bushes where they were hid, and could fall upon no method of joining
them conveniently, until the priest, who was an excellent schemer,
thought of an expedient for the purpose; having a pair of scissars about
him, he cut off the beard of Cardenio with infinite dispatch, and giving
him a grey jacket, with his own black cloak, he himself remaining in his
doublet and hose, the tattered cavalier was so much altered in point of
appearance, that he would scarce have known himself had he looked in a
glass. Although the others were jogging on, while they disguised
themselves in this manner, they easily reached the highway, before the
knight and his company, whose beasts were retarded by the bushes and
rockiness of the ground; and taking their station just at the mouth of
the entrance to the mountain, no sooner perceived the knight and his
attendants come forth, than the curate looked earnestly at him a good
while, as if he had been recollecting a person whom he knew, then ran to
him with open arms, crying aloud, ‘Blessed be this meeting with the
mirror of chivalry, my worthy compatriot Don Quixote de La Mancha, the
flower and cream of gentility, the protector and physician of the
distressed, and quintessence of knights-errant!’ So saying, he embraced
the left-knee of Don Quixote; who being astonished at the words and
action of the man, began to consider his features with great attention,
and at length, recollecting him, was struck dumb with admiration, at
seeing him in that place, and made many efforts to alight; which when
the priest opposed, ‘Give me leave, Mr. Licentiate,’ said he, ‘it is not
seemly that I should remain on horseback, when such a reverend person as
you travels on foot.’—‘I will by no means,’ answered the curate,
‘consent to your alighting; since, on horseback, your mighty arm hath
atchieved the greatest exploits and adventures that this age hath seen;
it shall suffice for me, who am but an unworthy priest, to get up, with
permission, behind this gentleman who travels in your worship’s company;
and then I shall imagine myself mounted upon Pegasus, a zebra, or that
fiery courser that carried the famous Moor Muzaraque, who still lies
inchanted in the vast mountain Zulema, at a little distance from the
great Compluto.’—‘I did not think of that expedient, Mr. Licentiate,’
resumed the knight; ‘but I know that my lady the princess will, out of
regard to me, be pleased to order her squire to accommodate you with the
saddle of his mule, and he himself may ride upon the crupper, if the
beast will carry double.’—‘I believe she will,’ said the princess; ‘and
I am sure, there will be no occasion to lay my commands upon my squire
who is too courteous and polite, to suffer an ecclesiastick to travel on
foot, when it is in his power to provide him with a beast.’—‘Your
majesty is in the right,’ answered the barber; who instantly alighting,
complimented the curate with the saddle, which was accepted without much
intreaty.
But the misfortune was, when the squire attempted to get up behind, the
mule, which was an hireling, consequently mischievous, lifted up her
hind legs, and kicked with such fury, that had they lighted on the head
or breast of Mr. Nicholas, he would have had reason to curse the hour on
which he set out in quest of Don Quixote: such, however, was his
confusion, that he came to the ground, and his beard being neglected,
fell off; so that he could find no other method to prevent a discovery,
than to clap both hands to his face, with great expedition, and roar out
that his teeth were demolished. Don Quixote, seeing that huge mass of
beard torn from the jaw, without blood, and lying at a good distance
from the squire’s face, ‘Good Heavens!’ cried he, ‘what a wonderful
phænomenon is this! The beard is taken off and shaved as clean by the
heel of the mule, as if it had been done by the hand of a barber.’ The
curate, seeing the risk he ran of being detected in his scheme, snatched
up the tail, and running with it to Mr. Nicholas, who still lay
bellowing for help, pulled his head to his breast with one jerk, and
clapping it on again, muttered some words, which he said were an
infallible charm for fixing on beards, as they should presently see;
accordingly, when the affair was adjusted, he quitted the squire, who
now seemed as well bearded and as sound as ever; a circumstance that,
above measure, surprized the knight, who begged that the curate, at a
proper opportunity, would impart to him the charm, which he imagined
must contain more virtues than that of cementing beards, because it was
plain, that where the hair was torn off, the skin and flesh must be
lacerated and hurt, and if the application could heal those wounded
parts, it was good for something more than mere mustachios. The curate
confirmed his conjecture, and promised to disclose the secret to him,
with the first proper opportunity; then it was agreed, that the priest
should mount the mule by himself, and, with the other two, ride her by
turns, until they should arrive at the inn, which was about two leagues
off.
Don Quixote, the princess, and the curate, being thus mounted, and
Cardenio, the barber, and Sancho Panza following on foot, the knight
told the damsel, that her highness might conduct him whithersoever she
pleased; but, before she could make any reply, the priest interposed,
saying, ‘Towards what kingdom is your majesty journeying? I am much
mistaken in my notions of kingdoms, if you are not bound for Micomicon?’
She, who had been well instructed in her cue, concluding that the must
answer in the affirmative, said, ‘Yes, Signior, that is the place of my
destination.’—‘Then you must pass through our village,’ answered the
curate, ‘and take your route to Carthagena, where your highness may
happily embark; and if you meet with no hurricane, but be favoured with
a fair wind and smooth sea, in something less than nine years, you may
get sight of that vast Lake Meona, I mean, Meotis, which is a little
more than one hundred days journey from your majesty’s kingdom.’—‘Your
worship must be mistaken,’ said the princess, ‘for two years are not yet
elapsed since I set out from thence; and though the weather has always
been bad, I have already obtained what I so much longed after, namely,
the sight of Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha, whose fame reached my
ears as soon as I landed in Spain, and induced me to come in quest of
him, that I might solicit his courtesy, and trust my righteous cause to
the valour of his invincible arm.’—‘Enough, Madam,’ said Don Quixote;
‘spare your encomiums; for I am an utter enemy to all sorts of
adulation; and, although you are not to be suspected of flattery, my
chaste ears are always offended at that kind of discourse. What I can
safely affirm, is this; whether I have valour or not, here is he,
valiant or pusillanimous, who will exert himself to the last drop of his
blood in the service of your highness. But, this apart——Pray, Mr.
Licentiate, what cause hath brought you hither alone, where I am really
astonished to find you so ill attended, and so slightly cloathed?’
‘In that particular you shall soon be satisfied,’ answered the curate:
‘your worship must know that I and our friend Mr. Nicholas the barber,
set out for Seville, to recover a sum of money, which was lent to me by
a relation of mine that went to the Indies, a good many years ago; no
less than sixty thousand pieces of eight in good silver, which make no
inconsiderable sum: and yesterday, passing through this place, we were
set upon by four highwaymen, who stripped us even to our very whiskers,
and that in such a manner as obliged the barber to wear artificial ones;
and you may see,’ pointing to Cardenio, ‘how they have despoiled the
face of this young man who accompanied us; and the cream of the story
is, that, according to the publick report, which prevails in this
neighbourhood, those who robbed us were galley-slaves, that, almost in
this very place, were set at liberty by a man so valiant, as to let them
all loose, in spite of the commissary and his guards. Without all doubt
he must have been deprived of his senses, or as great a villain as any
of those he freed, or some person void of all conscience and feeling,
who could thus turn loose the wolf among the lambs, the fox among the
poultry, and the flies among the honey-pots; defrauding justice, and
rebelling against his king and rightful sovereign, by acting contrary to
his just commands, in depriving the gallies of their hands, and putting
in confusion the holy brotherhood, which have continued so many years in
undisturbed repose: in short, he hath done a deed that may tend to the
perdition of his own soul as well as body.’
Sancho had before recounted to them the adventure of the galley-slaves,
which he had atchieved with so much glory; and therefore the curate
urged it home, in order to observe the behaviour of Don Quixote, who
changed colour at every word, without daring to own himself the
deliverer of that worthy crew. ‘Those,’ added the priest, ‘were the
persons who rifled us; and God of his infinite mercy forgive the man who
prevented the punishment they so richly deserved!’
Footnote 85:
As if he had said Ape-land, _mico_ signifying an ape.
Footnote 86:
When a knight had once granted a boon in this manner, it was
impossible for him to retract, let the request be never so
extravagant. We are told by Joinville, that the queen of St. Lewis,
being big with child, and in the utmost terror of falling alive into
the hands of the infidels at Damietta in Egypt, fell upon her knees
before an old knight turned of fourscore, and conjured him to grant
her boon: the old man having promised to comply, on the faith of his
knighthood, she told him the favour she so pressingly solicited, was,
that he would cut off her head before she should fall into the hands
of the enemy, provided the Saracens should become masters of the town.
The senior answered without hesitation, that she might depend upon his
sword; and owned he had taken that resolution even before she
signified her request.
CHAP. III.
THE PLEASANT ARTIFICE PRACTISED TO EXTRICATE OUR ENAMOURED KNIGHT
FROM THE MOST RIGOROUS PENANCE HE HAD IMPOSED UPON HIMSELF.
Scarce had the curate pronounced this apostrophe, when Sancho blundered
out—‘Then, in good faith, Mr. Licentiate, he who performed this exploit,
was no other than my master; not that I neglected to tell and advise him
beforehand, to consider what he was about, and think what a sin it would
be to let loose those who were going to the gallies for the most
grievous enormities.’—‘You blockhead,’ cried Don Quixote, incensed, ‘it
neither concerns, nor belongs to knights-errant, to examine whether the
afflicted, the enslaved, and oppressed, whom they meet on the highway,
are reduced, to these wretched circumstances by their crimes, or their
misfortunes; our business is only to assist them in their distress,
having an eye to their sufferings, and not to their demerits. I chanced
to light upon a string of miserable and discontented objects, in behalf
of whom I acted according to the dictates of my religion, without
minding the consequence; and he who takes umbrage at what I have done,
saving the sacred character and honourable person of Mr. Licentiate, is,
I insist upon it, utterly ignorant of chivalry, and lyes like the
base-born son of a whore; and this assertion I will make good with my
sword, in the most ample manner.’ So saying, he fixed himself in the
stirrups, and cocked his beaver; the barber’s bason, which he mistook
for Mambrino’s helmet, hanging useless at the saddle-bow, until the
damage it received from the galley-slaves could be repaired.
Dorothea, who was equally prudent and witty, understanding that every
body present, except Sancho, diverted themselves with the extravagant
humour of Don Quixote, was willing to have her share of the
entertainment; and accordingly, perceiving that his indignation was
raised, ‘Sir knight,’ said she, ‘I hope your worship will remember your
promise to me, by which you are restricted from engaging in any other
adventure, howsoever pressing it may be. Subdue your resentment
therefore, and be assured, that had Mr. Licentiate known the
galley-slaves were set at liberty by that invincible arm, he would have
taken three stitches in his mouth, and bit his tongue three times,
rather than have uttered one word that should redound to the prejudice
of your worship.’—‘That I swear I would have done,’ said the curate;
‘aye, and have plucked off one of my whiskers to boot.’—‘Madam,’
answered the knight, ‘I am silent. I will restrain the just indignation
which begins to rise within me, and proceed in the utmost peace and
quiet, until I shall have fulfilled the boon I promised to your
highness; but, in recompence for this my kind intention, I beseech you,
if it be not too much trouble, to make me acquainted with the nature of
your misfortune; and tell me the number, quality, and condition of those
persons on whom I am to take just satisfaction and full vengeance, in
your behalf.’—‘With all my heart,’ answered Dorothea; ‘though I am
afraid of tiring you with a recital of woes and misfortunes.’ The knight
assured her that would be impossible; and she resumed, ‘Well then, be so
good as to favour me with your attention.’
At these words, Cardenio and the barber went up close to her, in order
to hear what story she, in her discretion, would invent; and Sancho
Panza, who was as much deceived as his master, followed their example.
After she had seated herself firmly in the saddle, cleared her pipes
with a hem or two, and made other preliminary gestures, she with great
sprightliness thus began:
‘In the first place, gentlemen, you must know that my name is ——’ Here
she made a full stop, having forgot how the curate had christened her:
but this defect was soon remedied; for, immediately conceiving the cause
of her hesitation, he said, ‘It is no wonder, Madam, that your highness
is disturbed and disordered at the recollection of your misfortunes,
which are often so great, as to impair the memory to such a degree, that
the afflicted cannot even remember their own names: this effect they
have had upon you, Madam, who have forgot that you are the Princess
Micomicona, legitimate heiress of the great kingdom of Micomicon. With
the assistance of this hint, your highness will easily recal the whole
thread of your story to your sorrowful remembrance.’—‘You are in the
right,’ replied the damsel; ‘and I believe I shall be able to bring my
true narrative to a happy conclusion without farther prompting.
‘The king, my father, whose name was Tinacrio the sage, foresaw, by his
profound skill in magick, that my mother, who was called Queen
Zaramilla, would die before him; and that, as he himself must quit this
life soon after, I should be left an helpless orphan; but this
consideration, he said, did not give him so much pain and confusion, as
the certain foreknowledge that a monstrous giant, lord of a great island
that bordered on our kingdom, called Pandafilando of the Gloomy Aspect:
(for, it is affirmed, that although his eyes are, like any other
person’s, placed in the middle of his face, he always looks askance, as
if he squinted; and this obliquity the malicious tyrant practises, in
order to surprize and intimidate those who behold him;) I say, my father
foresaw by his art, that this giant, informed of my being an orphan,
would invade me with a great army, and deprive me of my whole kingdom,
without leaving so much as a village for my retreat; and that nothing
could prevent this my ruin and misfortune, unless I would consent to
marry him; though, so far as he could learn, it would never come into my
thoughts to make such an unequal match; and truly his conjecture was
well founded; for, it never entered into my head, to wed this giant, or
any other person, howsoever tall and unmeasurable he might be. My
father, therefore, advised me, that when, after his death, I should get
notice that Pandafilando was beginning to invade my kingdom, I should
not stay to put myself in a posture of defence, which would prove my
destruction, but freely leave him the possession of my realms, if I was
resolved to avoid my own death, and to prevent the total destruction of
my good and faithful subjects; for it would be impossible to defend
myself against the infernal force of the giant: but, that I should
immediately set out for Spain, where I would find a remedy for all my
misfortunes, in the person of a certain knight-errant, whose fame would
be at that time spread over the whole kingdom, and whose name, if I
right remember, would be Don Hackfot, or Kickfot.’—‘Don Quixote your
ladyship would say,’ cried Sancho, interposing, ‘alias the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance.’—‘The very same,’ replied Dorothea: ‘he told me,
moreover, that this knight would be a tall man, with a long meagre
visage, and have on his right-side, below his left-shoulder, or
thereabouts, a grey mole garnished with hairs, which bear some
resemblance to a hog’s bristles.’
Don Quixote hearing this circumstance, said to his squire, ‘Come hither,
son Sancho, and help me to strip; for I want to see if I am actually the
knight of whom that sage king foretold.’—‘Why should your worship
strip?’ said Dorothea. ‘In order to satisfy myself about that mole which
your royal father mentioned.’—‘You need not give yourself the trouble,’
said Sancho; ‘I know your worship hath just such a mole on the middle of
your back-bone, which is a sign of strength.’—‘That assurance is
sufficient,’ resumed Dorothea, ‘for, among friends, we ought not to
stand upon trifles; and it is of very little consequence whether the
mole be upon the shoulder or the back bone; provided there is really
such a mark on any part of your body, which is all composed of the same
flesh. Without doubt my worthy father was right in every thing he
prognosticated; and I have exactly followed his directions, in
recommending my cause to the protection of Signior Don Quixote, who is
certainly the individual knight my father described; since his features
correspond with his fame, which fills not only Spain, but likewise the
whole province of La Mancha[87]; for scarce had I landed at Ossuna, than
hearing of his vast exploits, my mind suggested that he must be the very
person I came in quest of.’—‘How could your highness,’ said Don Quixote,
‘land at Ossuna, which is not a sea-port?’
Before she had time to make a reply, the curate took the task upon
himself, saying, ‘The princess must mean, that after she landed at
Malaga, Ossuna was the first place in which she heard of your
worship.’—‘That was my meaning,’ said Dorothea. ‘There is nothing more
plain,’ answered the priest; ‘and now your majesty may proceed.’—‘I have
nothing more to say,’ resumed the princess, ‘but that, at length,
destiny has been so favourable to me, in my finding Don Quixote, I
reckon and look upon myself as queen again, and mistress of my whole
realms, since out of his great courtesy and magnificence, he hath
promised, in consequence of the boon I asked, to go with me
whithersoever I shall conduct him; and my intention is no other than to
bring him face to face with Pandafilando of the Gloomy Aspect, that he
may, by putting him to death, restore me to the possession of that which
he so unjustly usurps; and all this will literally happen, as it was
prophesied by my worthy father Tinacrio the Sage, who hath also left it
written in Chaldean or Greek characters, for I cannot read them, that if
the knight mentioned in the prophecy should, after having cut off the
giant’s head, demand me in marriage, I must instantly accept of him as
my lawful husband, without the least hesitation, and give him immediate
possession of my person and throne.’
Don Quixote hearing this circumstance, cried, ‘What do you think now,
friend Sancho? do you hear what passes? and did not I tell thee as much?
Observe now, whether or not we have not a queen to marry, and a kingdom
to govern.’—‘Adzookers, it is even so!’ cried the squire; ‘and plague
upon the son of a whore who refuses to marry her, as soon as Mr.
Pandahiladoe’s weazond is cut; then, what a delicate morsel the queen
is! odd, I wish all the fleas in my bed were such as she!’ So saying, he
cut a brace of capers, with marks of infinite satisfaction; then running
up, and taking hold of the bridle of Dorothea’s mule, made her halt,
while he, falling down on his knees before her, besought the princess to
let him kiss her hand, in token of his receiving her as his queen and
mistress. Which of the company could behold the madness of the master,
and the simplicity of the man, without laughing! Dorothea actually gave
him her hand, and promised to make him a grandee, as soon as, by the
favour of Heaven, she should be restored to the possession of her
kingdom; and he thanked her in terms which redoubled the mirth of all
present.
‘This, gentlemen,’ added the damsel, ‘is my story, and nothing now
remains but to tell you, that of all the people who attended me when I
left my own country, not one survives, except this well-bearded squire;
all the rest having perished in a dreadful storm that overtook us after
we were within sight of land: he and I miraculously floated to the shore
on two planks; and indeed the whole course of my life, as you may have
observed in my narration, hath been full of mystery and wonder. If I
have in any thing exceeded the bounds of credibility, or been less
accurate than I ought, I hope you will impute it to that cause assigned
by the licentiate, in the beginning of my story; namely, the continual
and extraordinary affliction, that often impairs the memory of the
unfortunate.’—‘But, mine shall not be impaired, most high and virtuous
lady!’ said Don Quixote, ‘by all the misfortunes I shall undergo in your
service, let them be never so great and unprecedented: therefore I again
confirm the boon I have promised, and swear to attend you even to the
world’s end, until I get sight of that ferocious adversary of yours,
whose proud head I hope to slice off, with the assistance of God, my own
arm, and the edge of this (I will not say good) sword; thanks to Gines
de Passamonte who run away with my own[88].’ This last apostrophe he
muttered between his teeth, and then proceeded aloud, saying—‘and after
I shall have deprived him of his head, and put you in peaceable
possession of your throne, you shall be at free liberty to dispose of
your person, according to your own will and pleasure; for, while my
memory is engrossed, my will enslaved, and my understanding subjected to
her who——I say no more; but, that it is impossible I should incline, or
have the least thought towards marrying any other person, though she
were a perfect phœnix.’
Sancho was so much disgusted at this last declaration of his master,
refusing the marriage, that raising his voice, he cried with great
indignation, ‘Signior Don Quixote, I vow and swear your worship is
crazy, else you would never boggle at marrying such a high-born princess
as this! Do you imagine that fortune will offer such good luck at every
turn, as she now presents? or pray, do you think my Lady Dulcinea more
handsome than the princess? I am sure she is not half so beautiful, and
will even venture to say, that she is not worthy to tie her majesty’s
shoe-strings. How the plague shall I ever obtain the earldom I expect,
if your worship goes thus a-fishing for mushrooms at sea? Marry her,
marry her, in the devil’s name, without much ado; lay hold on this
kingdom that drops, as it were, into your hand; and, after your
coronation, make me a marquis or lord-lieutenant, and then the devil, if
he will, may run away with the rest.’
Don Quixote was enraged, when he heard such blasphemies uttered against
his mistress Dulcinea, and lifting up his lance, without speaking a
syllable, or giving the least notice of his intention, discharged two
such hearty blows upon the squire, as brought him instantly to the
ground; and had not Dorothea called aloud, and begged of him to forbear,
would certainly have murdered poor Sancho on the spot. ‘Do you think,’
said he, after some pause, ‘you plebeian scoundrel, that I will always
stand with my hands in my pockets; and that there is nothing to be done,
but for you to misbehave, and for me to forgive you? I’ll teach you
better manners, you excommunicated rascal; for such to be sure you are,
else you would not wag your tongue against the peerless Dulcinea. Don’t
you know, you grovelling beggarly villain, that were it not for the
valour with which she inspires this arm, I should not have enough to
kill a flea? Tell me, you viperish scoffer, what you think hath won this
kingdom, cut off the giant’s head, and made you a marquis, for all this
I look upon as already done and determined? Is it not the valour of
Dulcinea that makes use of my arm as the instrument of her exploits? In
me she fights and overcomes; in her I live, breathe, and have my being.
O thou whoreson, ungrateful ruffian, who seest thyself raised from the
dust of the earth to the rank of nobility, and repayest the obligation
by slandering thy benefactress.’
Sancho was not so roughly handled but he heard every syllable that his
master spoke; and, starting up as nimbly as he could, ran behind
Dorothea’s palfrey, from whence he said to the knight, ‘Pray, Sir, if
your worship is determined against marrying this great princess, is it
not plain, that the kingdom cannot be yours; and if that be the case,
what favours can you bestow upon me? This is what I complain of. I would
your worship would, once for all, marry this queen, who is, as it were,
rained down from Heaven upon us; and then you may converse with my Lady
Dulcinea, according to the custom of some kings who keep concubines. As
to the affair of beauty, I will not intermeddle; but, if the truth may
be told, I like them both very well, though I never saw my Lady Dulcinea
in my life.’—‘How! not seen her, blasphemous traitor!’ cried Don
Quixote; ‘have you not just brought a message from her?’—‘I say,’
answered Sancho, ‘that when I saw her, I had not an opportunity of
examining the particulars of her beauty and good qualities one by one;
but all together she pleased me very much.’—‘Now, Sancho,’ said Don
Quixote, ‘I exculpate thee, and thou must forgive what I did in my
wrath; for no man can command the first emotions of his passion.’—‘That
I can plainly perceive,’ answered the squire, ‘and therefore, the desire
of speaking is always the first motion in me; and truly, when once my
tongue begins to itch, I cannot for my blood keep it within my
teeth.’—‘For all that, friend Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘I would have
you consider before you speak; for, though the pitcher goes often to the
well—I need not mention what follows.’—‘In good time,’ replied the
squire, ‘there is a God above, who sees the snare, and will judge which
of us is the more to blame; I in speaking, or your worship in doing
evil.’—‘Let there be no more of this, Sancho,’ said Dorothea, ‘but run
and kiss your master’s hand, and beg his pardon; and henceforth set a
better guard upon your praise and disparagement; above all things,
beware of saying any thing to the prejudice of that Lady Toboso, whom I
know by nothing else than my inclination to serve her: and if you put
your trust in God, you will not fail of acquiring some estate, by which
you will live like a prince.’
Sancho took her advice, and, hanging his head, went to beg a kiss of his
master’s hand, which was granted with great solemnity of deportment;
nay, the knight gave him his blessing also, desiring he would attend him
while he rode on a little before the rest of the company, that he might
have a better opportunity of asking a few questions, and conversing with
him about affairs of the utmost importance. Sancho obeyed the order; and
the two having advanced a good way before the rest, ‘Since thy return,’
said Don Quixote, ‘I have had neither time nor convenience, to enquire
about many particular circumstances of thy embassy, with the answer thou
hast brought: and now that fortune favours us with a fit opportunity,
thou must not deny me the pleasure I shall receive from thy agreeable
information.’—‘Your worship,’ answered the squire, ‘may ask as many
questions as you please: I shall make every thing come out as clear as
it went in; but I intreat your worship, dear Sir, not to be so
revengeful for the future.’—‘Why dost thou call me revengeful?’ said the
knight. ‘Because,’ resumed the squire, ‘those blows I was just now
honoured with, were more owing to the quarrel the devil picked between
us, t’other night, than to any thing I said against my Lady Dulcinea,
whom I love and reverence as a relick, though she be not one, merely,
because she appertains to your worship.’—‘No more of these reflections,
on thy life,’ said Don Quixote; ‘else thou wilt give me fresh umbrage: I
freely forgave thee at that time, and thou knowest, that, according to
the common observation, Every new fault deserves a new penance.’
While this conversation passed between them, they perceived a man riding
towards them on an ass; and, when he came a little nearer, discerned him
to be a gypsie; but Sancho Panza, who sent his soul abroad with his
eyes, to examine every ass that appeared, no sooner beheld the rider,
than he recognized Gines de Passamonte, and by the thread of the gypsie
discovered the clue of his own ass; for it was actually Dapple that
carried Passamonte, who, for the better convenience of selling the
beast, had disguised himself in the dress of a gypsie, whose language,
with many others, he could speak as fluently as his mother-tongue.
Sancho saw and recollected him, and no sooner had he seen and
recollected him, than he bellowed forth, ‘Ah, villain, Ginesillo!
restore my goods! give me back the comfort of my life! rob me not of my
heart’s content! give me my ass! give me my darling! Fly, thief! skip,
robber; and seek not to preserve that which is none of thy own.’
There was no need of all this exclamation and reproach; for Gines leaped
off at the first word, and at a pretty round trot, which might have
passed for a gallop, made the best of his way, and vanished in a
twinkling. Sancho running to his ass, embraced it with great affection,
saying, ‘How hast thou been, my dear Dapple? my trusty companion and joy
of my eyes!’ Then kissed and caressed it as if it had been a Christian;
while Dapple very peaceably received these demonstrations of love and
kindness, without answering one word. The whole company wished him joy
of his recovery; particularly Don Quixote, who assured him, that
although he had retrieved Dapple, the promise of the three colts should
not be annulled; and Sancho thanked him for his generosity.
While the master and man were conversing by themselves, the curate told
Dorothea, that she had behaved with great discretion in her story, both
with regard to the matter and brevity of it, as well as the resemblance
it bore to those legends that are found in books of chivalry. She
observed that she had employed a good part of her leisure time in
reading such romances; but, being ignorant of the situation of different
provinces and sea-ports, she had spoke at random, when she mentioned her
landing at Ossuna.’—‘I thought so,’ resumed the priest, ‘and made all
haste to adjust matters by what I said; but, is it not very strange, to
see with what facility this poor unfortunate gentleman swallows all
those lyes and fictions, merely, because they are delivered in the stile
and manner of his nonsensical books?’—‘So very strange and singular,’
said Cardenio, ‘that I question if there be any genius whatever, so
fertile as to frame such a character by the mere force of
invention.’—‘And what is a very remarkable circumstance,’ replied the
curate, ‘waving those extravagancies which this worthy gentleman utters
upon the subject of his disorder, he can discourse upon other topicks
with surprizing ability, and appears to be a man of great knowledge and
intellects; so that, if you do not touch upon chivalry, his hearers must
look upon him as a person of excellent understanding.’
While they were engaged in this conversation, Don Quixote proceeded in
his with Sancho; to whom he said, ‘Come, friend Panza, let us forget
what is past, with regard to animosity, and tell me, without any
ingredient of rancour and resentment, where and how you found Dulcinea?
What was she doing? What did she say? What answer did she make? How did
she look when she read my letter? Who transcribed it for her perusal?
These particulars, and every other circumstance of the affair, which you
think worthy to be known, asked, and answered, I expect you will
explain, without seeking to increase my pleasure with false additions,
much less to diminish it by malicious omission.’—‘Signior,’ said Sancho,
‘if the truth must be told, nobody transcribed the letter; because I had
no letter to be transcribed.’—‘That is very true,’ replied the knight;
‘for, two days after thy departure, I found the pocket-book in which it
was written; a circumstance that gave me infinite pain, as I could not
conceive what thou wouldst do when the mistake should appear; indeed I
always imagined thou wouldst have returned hither immediately upon the
discovery.’—‘That would certainly have been the case,’ said the squire,
‘if, when your worship read it to me, I had not retained it in my
memory, so perfect as to be able to dictate it to a parish clerk, who,
as I repeated, transcribed it so exactly, that he said, in all the days
of his life, though he had read many letters of excommunication, he had
never seen such a clever letter as yours.’—‘And dost thou still retain
it?’ said Don Quixote. ‘No, Sir’ replied Sancho, ‘For, after I had put
it into her hand, I thought there was no farther occasion to retain it,
and therefore let it slip out of my remembrance; or, if any part
remains, it is that of the subterrene, I mean sovereign lady, and the
conclusion Yours till death, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance; with
about three hundred souls, and lives, and pigsnies, which I set down in
the middle.’
Footnote 87:
This is a diverting example of the Bathos, not unlike that anticlimax
repeated in the art of sinking.
Nor Alps, nor Apennines could keep us out,
Nor fortified redoubt!
Footnote 88:
If the knight was robbed of his own sword by Gines, where did he find
that which he wore on this occasion?
CHAP. IV.
THE SAVOURY CONVERSATION
THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA,
WITH MANY OTHER INCIDENTS.
‘All this is pretty well; proceed!’ said Don Quixote: ‘how was that
queen of beauty employed, when you arrived? I dare say, you found her
stringing pearls, or embroidering some device for this her captive
knight, with threads of gold.’—‘No, truly,’ answered the squire; ‘I
found her winnowing two bushels of wheat in the yard.’—‘Then you may
depend upon it,’ resumed the knight, ‘the grains of that wheat were
converted into pearls by the touch of her hand; and didst thou observe,
my friend, whether it was of the finer or common sort?’—‘Why, neither!’
said Sancho; ‘it seemed to be, as it were, red wheat.’—‘But, since it
was winnowed by her fair hands,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘I dare affirm,
it will make the whitest bread in Spain. Go on with thy information.
When the letter was delivered, did she not kiss it, and place it on the
crown of her head, in token of respect? Did she not perform some
ceremony worthy of such a letter? Pray, how did she receive it?’—‘When I
presented the letter,’ answered Sancho, ‘she was in a main hurry,
winnowing a large heap of wheat that was in her sieve; and said to me,
“Friend, lay down the letter on that sack; for I cannot pretend to read
it, until I have made an end of my work.”’—‘Discreet lady!’ cried the
knight; ‘her intention certainly was to read it at her leisure, that she
might recreate herself with the contents. Proceed, Sancho; and while she
was thus employed, what conversation passed between you? what questions
did she ask concerning me? and what answers didst thou make? Recount the
whole, without leaving one syllable untold.’
‘She asked me no questions,’ replied the squire; ‘but I told her, how I
had left your worship doing penance for love of her, skipping among
those rocks, naked from the waist upwards, like a mere savage, sleeping
on the bare ground; neglecting to eat your food like a Christian, or to
comb your beard like a decent man; but whining, and weeping, and cursing
your fortune.’—‘If you said I cursed my fortune, you misrepresented me,’
said Don Quixote; ‘for I bless my fate, and will bless it all the days
of my life, for having made me worthy to aspire to the love of such an
high lady as Dulcinea del Toboso.’—‘High indeed!’ answered Sancho, ‘for,
in faith, she is a good hand taller than I am.’—‘How hast thou been
measured with her, Sancho?’ said the knight. ‘I’ll tell you how,’
answered the squire; ‘while I was helping to lay a load of corn upon an
ass, we came so close together, that I could easily perceive she
over-topped me by a full hand.’—‘That may be true,’ said Don Quixote;
‘though her tallness is accompanied and adorned by a myriad of mental
graces. But this you will not deny, Sancho, that while you was so near
her, your nostrils were regaled by a Sabæan odour, an aromatick
fragrance, a certain delicious sensation, for which there is no name. I
mean, a scent, a perfume, such as fills the shop of some curious
glover.’—‘All that I can say,’ answered Sancho, ‘is, that I was sensible
of a sort of rammish smell, which I believe was owing to her being in a
muck sweat with hard work.’—‘That is impossible,’ cried the knight; ‘thy
sense must have been depraved, or that smell must have proceeded from
thy own body; for I am perfectly well acquainted with the odour of that
rose among briars, that lily of the valley, that liquid amber.’—‘It may
be so,’ said Sancho: ‘I have often known such smells come from myself,
as then seemed to come from my Lady Dulcinea: but that is not to be
wondered at; because, as the saying is, every fiend may stink of
brimstone.’—‘Well, then,’ added Don Quixote, ‘she hath now winnowed the
wheat and sent it to the mill; how did she behave after she had read my
letter?’—‘The letter,’ answered Sancho, ‘was not read at all; for, as
she could neither read nor write, she chose to rend and tear it to
pieces, rather than give it to any body who might publish her secrets in
the village, saying, she was very well satisfied with the information I
gave her by word of mouth, concerning your worship’s love for her, and
the extraordinary penance I left you doing on her account. Finally, she
bade me tell you, that she kissed your worship’s hands, being much more
desirous of seeing than writing to you; and therefore she entreated and
commanded your worship, by these presents, to quit this desart, and
leave off playing the fool, and forthwith set out on your journey to
Toboso, provided that something else of greater importance should not
happen, for she longed very much for a sight of your worship, and
laughed heartily when I told her, that you had taken the name of the
Knight with the Rueful Countenance. When I asked if the Biscayan had
been lately with her, she answered, “Yes;” and that he was very much of
a gentleman; but, when I enquired about the galley-slaves, she said she
had as yet seen none of them.’
‘Hitherto all goes well,’ said the knight, ‘but pray tell me what jewel
she gave you at parting, for the news you had brought of me her lover;
for, it is an ancient practice and custom among knights-errant and their
mistresses, to bestow upon their squires, damsels, or dwarfs, who bring
them news of each other, some rich jewel, as a reward and acknowledgment
for the message.’—‘It may be so,’ said Sancho; ‘and I think it an
excellent custom, but that must have been in time past; for in this age
it is customary to give nothing but a piece of bread and cheese, which
was all the present I received from my Lady Dulcinea, who reached it
over the yard wall, when I took my leave; by this token, that the cheese
was made of ewe’s milk.’—‘She is liberal to excess,’ said the knight;
‘and if she omitted giving thee a jewel, it must certainly have been
owing to her not having any by her; but all in good time[89]; I shall
see her soon, and then every thing will be set to rights. Yet there is
one thing, Sancho, which overwhelms me with astonishment. You seem to
have travelled through the air; for you have spent little more than
three days in your journey; though Toboso is more than thirty leagues
distant from hence. From this extraordinary expedition, I conjecture,
that the sage, who is my friend, and interests himself in my affairs,
and such there certainly is, and must be, else I should be no true
knight-errant; I say, this inchanter must have assisted thee in thy
journey, though thou didst not perceive it; for some there are of that
class, who will take up a knight-errant while he is asleep in his bed,
and without his knowing any thing of the matter, he shall awake next
morning in some place more than a thousand leagues from the house where
he took up his lodging the night before; and without such sudden
transportations, it would be impossible for knights to succour each
other in distress, as they frequently do. A knight errant, for example,
happens to be fighting in the desarts of Armenia, with some fierce
dragon, dreadful goblin, or rival knight; and being worsted, and just at
the point of being slain, behold, when he least expects it, there
suddenly appears in a cloud or fiery chariot, another knight, a friend
of his, who but a minute before resided in England, and who assists and
delivers him from death; and that same night, he finds himself supping
at his ease at his own house, which is often two or three thousand
leagues from the field of battle; and all this is effected by the
industry and art of sage inchanters, who take those valiant knights
under their protection.
‘Wherefore, friend Sancho, I can easily believe that thou hast in so
little time travelled from hence to Toboso and back again; because, as I
have already observed, some friendly sage must have carried thee through
the air, though thou didst not perceive it.’—‘Not unlikely,’ replied the
squire, ‘for, in good faith, Rozinante went like a gypsy’s ass, with
quicksilver in his ears.’—‘With quicksilver,’ cried the knight; ‘ay, and
a legion of dæmons to boot, who are beings that travel themselves, and
make other people travel as fast as they please, without tiring.
‘But, waving this subject, how doest thou think I ought to regulate my
conduct, now that my mistress commands me to appear in her presence!
for, although I find myself obliged to comply with her orders, I am
utterly incapacitated by the boon I have granted to this princess: and I
am bound by the laws of chivalry to fulfil my promise, before I indulge
my inclination. On one hand, I am persecuted and harrassed by the desire
of seeing Dulcinea; on the other, I am incited and invited by my honour
and the glory I shall acquire in this enterprize. I am therefore
determined to travel with all expedition, until I arrive at the place
where the giant resides; and, when I shall have restored the princess to
the peaceful possession of her kingdom, after having shortened the
usurper by the head, I will return to the rays of that beauty which
enlightens my thoughts, and excuse myself in such a manner as to obtain
her forgiveness, as she will plainly perceive that my delay tended to
the increase of her glory and fame; seeing all my reputation in arms,
past, present, or to come, proceeds from her favour and
inspiration.’—‘Lord!’ cried Sancho ‘how your worship is concerned about
a parcel of potsherds. Pray tell me, Sir, do you intend to make this
journey for nothing, and to let such a rich and noble marriage as this
slip through your fingers; while the dowry is no less than a kingdom,
which I have actually heard is more than twenty thousand leagues round,
plentifully stored with every thing that is needful for the sustenance
of mortal man, and larger than Portugal and Castile put together? Hold
your tongue, a God’s name, and take shame to yourself, for what you have
said; pardon my freedom, take my advice, and marry in the first place
where we can find a curate, or make use of our friend the licentiate,
who will buckle you handsomely. Take notice, therefore, that I am of an
age to give good counsel, and this that I offer will fit you to a hair,
for a bird in hand is worth two in the bush; and, as the saying is, He
that hath good in his view, and yet will not evil eschew, his folly
deserveth to rue.’
‘Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘if thou advisest me to marry, with a
view of seeing me king, after I shall have killed the giant, that I may
have an opportunity of rewarding thee with what I have promised, thou
must know that I can easily gratify thy wishes, without wedding the
princess; for, before I engage in the combat, I will covenant, that,
provided I come off conqueror, and decline the marriage, I shall have it
in my power to dispose of one part of the kingdom, as I shall think
proper; and to whom should I give it but to thee?’—‘That is very plain,’
replied the squire; ‘but I beseech your worship to make choice of the
sea-coast, because if I should happen to dislike the country, I may ship
off my black slaves, and sell them, as I have already hinted. Wherefore,
without troubling yourself at present, about my Lady Dulcinea, I would
have you go and slay the giant, and conclude that affair from which,
before God! we shall certainly reap much honour and advantage.’—‘I tell
thee, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘thou art in the right, and I will
follow thy advice, so far as it regards my attendance upon the princess,
before I visit Dulcinea. But say not a word to any body, even those of
our company not excepted, of this conversation; for, as she is so
reserved and careful of concealing her sentiments, it would be
inexcusable in me, if I, or any other through my means, should disclose
them.’—‘Since this is the case,’ said the squire, ‘why does your worship
command all those that are vanquished by your arm to go and present
themselves before my Lady Dulcinea? you may as well give it under your
hand, that you are her true and trusty lover; for, if you compel them to
fall upon their knees before her, and say they are sent by your worship
to pay homage to her, how is it possible that the sentiments of either
you or her can be concealed?’
‘What an ignorant and simple fellow thou art!’ resumed the knight;
‘canst thou not see that all this redounds to her praise and exaltation?
Thou must know, that in our stile of chivalry, it is deemed a great
honour for a lady to be admired by a great many knights, whose wishes
extend no farther than to the desire of serving her for her own sake,
without expecting any other reward for their great and manifold
services, than the glory of being admitted into the number of her
knights.’—‘In like manner,’ said Sancho, ‘I have heard a priest in the
pulpit observe, that we must love our Saviour for his own sake, without
being moved thereto, by any fear of punishment or hopes of applause,
though, for my own part, I am inclined to love and serve him on account
of his power.’—‘Now, the devil take the clown!’ cried Don Quixote; ‘he
sometimes makes such shrewd observations that one would think he had
actually studied!’—‘And yet, upon my conscience,’ answered the squire,
‘I know not so much as my letters.’ At that instant Master Nicholas
calling aloud to them to stop a little, that the rest might have time to
drink at a spring which they found in the way; Don Quixote turned back,
to the no small satisfaction of Sancho, who was already tired with
telling lyes, and afraid of being detected by his master; for, although
he knew that Dulcinea was the daughter of a peasant at Toboso, he had
never seen her in his life. By this time Cardenio had put on the cloaths
which Dorothea wore when they found her; and, though they were none of
the most elegant, he made a much better figure than with his tattered
dress, which he now threw away. The whole company sat down, by the
spring, where, while they appeased the keen hunger that possessed them
all, with what the curate had brought from the inn, a lad chanced to
pass that way, who, looking earnestly at the whole company, at length
run up to Don Quixote, and embracing his knees, began to blubber most
heartily, saying, ‘Ah! Signior, don’t you know me? look at me again; I
am that same individual young man called Andrew, whom your worship
delivered from the tree to which I was tied.’ The knight recollected his
features, and taking him by the hand, addressed himself to the company
in these words.
‘That you may see of what importance knight-errantry is, to redress the
wrongs and grievances which are daily committed by the insolent and
wicked wretches who live upon this earth; know, that as I passed by a
wood some time ago, I heard the screams and woeful cries of some
afflicted creature in the utmost distress: and in consequence of my oath
and obligation, riding towards the place from which the lamentation
seemed to come, I found this very young man tied to an oak tree; and I
am glad from my soul that he is here in person, to bear witness to the
truth. I say, he was bound to an oak, naked, from the waist upwards; and
a peasant, who I afterwards understood was his master, stood scourging
him with the reins of a bridle. When I enquired into the cause of this
barbarous treatment, the rustick answered, that he only whipped his own
servant for being guilty of some neglect that savoured more of
knavishness than simplicity. The boy protested he had done nothing but
asked his wages: to this affirmation the master replied, by some
asseverations which I have forgot; but though I heard his excuses, I
would not admit of them. In short, I ordered the peasant to untie the
youth, and made him swear that he would carry him home and pay him his
wages in ready cash, nay, and pay him in rials that should be perfumed.
Is not this literally true, son Andrew? Didst thou not observe with what
authority I commanded, and with what humility he promised to comply with
every thing that I imposed, suggested, and desired? Answer without
perturbation or doubt, and tell this honourable company what passed,
that they may see and be convinced of what use it is, as I said, to have
knights-errant continually upon duty.’
‘All that your worship hath told is very true,’ answered the young man;
‘but the end of the business was quite the reverse of what you
imagined.’—‘How! the reverse!’ cried the knight; ‘has not the peasant
paid thee thy wages?’—‘Far from paying me my wages,’ said Andrew, ‘your
worship was no sooner out of the wood, and we by ourselves again, than
he bound me a second time to the same oak, and lashed me so severely,
that I remained like St. Bartholomew, flayed alive, and at every stripe
he jeered and scoffed, and made game of your worship in such a manner,
that if it had not been for the excessive pain I felt, I could not have
refrained from laughing at what he said. In short, he treated me so
cruelly, that till this very day, I have been in the hospital, for the
cure of the wounds I received from that mischievous farmer; and truly
your worship was the cause of all that I suffered; for if you had
followed your own road, without going where nobody called you, or
meddling with other people’s affairs, my master would have been
satisfied with giving me a cool dozen or two, and then loosed and paid
me my due. But when your worship abused him so unseasonably, and called
him so many bad names, his choler was inflamed; and, as he could not be
revenged upon you, as soon as you was gone, he discharged the storm of
his wrath upon me, in such a manner that I shall never be my own man
again.’
‘The misfortune,’ said the knight, ‘was in my leaving him before I had
seen thee paid; for I ought to have known by long experience, that no
peasant will keep his word, if he thinks it his interest to break it.
But thou mayest remember, Andrew, that I swore if he did not perform his
promise, I would return and search for him, until he should be found,
even if he should hide himself in the whale’s belly.’—‘Very true,’
replied Andrew; ‘but that threat signified nothing.’—‘Thou shalt
presently see what it signifies!’ resumed Don Quixote; who, getting up
hastily, ordered Sancho to bridle Rozinante, who was following their
example in refreshing himself with grass.
When Dorothea asked what he intended to do, he replied, he was going in
quest of the peasant, to chastise him for his villainous behaviour, and
make him pay Andrew to the last farthing, in despite and defiance of all
the rusticks upon earth. To this declaration, she answered, by desiring
him to consider, that according to the promised boon, he could not
engage in any enterprize, until her affair should be finished; and since
this stipulation was known to himself better than to any other person,
she intreated him to repress his resentment till his return from her
kingdom. ‘That is very true,’ resumed the knight, ‘and Andrew must wait
with patience for my return, as your majesty observes; but I repeat my
oath and my promise, never to desist until I shall have seen his wages
paid, and his injuries revenged.’—‘I don’t trust to those oaths,’ said
Andrew, ‘and would rather, at present, have wherewithal to bear my
expences to Seville, than all the revenge in the world; be so good, if
you have any victuals, to give me something to eat upon my journey, and
the Lord be with your worship and all knights-errant, who, I wish, may
always err as much in their own affairs, as they have done in mine.’
Sancho, taking a luncheon of bread and cheese from the store, gave it to
the young man, saying, ‘Here, brother Andrew, take this; and now we have
all shared in your misfortune.’ When Andrew asked what share of it had
fallen to him, he replied, ‘That share of bread and cheese, which I have
given you; and God knows whether I shall not feel the loss of it; for
you must know, friend, that we squires of knights-errant are subject to
many a hungry belly, with other misfortunes which are more easily felt
than described.’
Andrew accepted of the bread and cheese, and seeing that nobody offered
him any thing else, made his bows, and as the saying is, took his foot
in his hand[90]. True it is, before he departed, he addressed himself to
Don Quixote, saying, ‘For the love of God! Sir knight-errant, if ever
you meet me again, spare yourself the trouble of coming to my
assistance, even though you should see me cut into minced meat, but
leave me to my misfortune, which cannot be so great but that it may be
increased by the succour of your worship, whom God confound, together
with all the knights errant that ever were born.’ Don Quixote started
up, in order to chastise him, but he ran away with such nimbleness, that
nobody attempted to pursue him; and the knight was so ashamed of his
exploit, that the company were at great pains to contain their laughter,
to prevent his being quite out of countenance.
Footnote 89:
Literally, Sleeves are good even after Easter; i. e. Though a good
thing comes late, it is never unseasonable.
Footnote 90:
Literally, “Took the road in his hands.”
CHAP. V.
WHICH TREATS OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE AND HIS COMPANY
AT THE INN.
Their sumptuous meal being ended, they saddled their beasts, and without
meeting any thing worthy of mention, arrived next day at the very inn
which was so much the dread and terror of Sancho; but, unwilling as he
was to enter, he could not avoid going into it. The innkeeper, his wife,
daughter, and Maritornes, seeing Don Quixote and Sancho at the gate,
went out to receive them, with great demonstrations of joy; and the
knight returned their compliments with grave deportment and solemn
approbation, desiring them to prepare a better bed for him than that
which he had occupied before. To this demand, the landlady answered,
that, provided he would pay better than he did before, he should lie
like a prince; he promised to see her satisfied, and they immediately
made up a tolerable bed, in the same garret where he had formerly
lodged, in which he laid himself down, very much disordered, both in
body and mind. He was no sooner locked up in his chamber, than the
landlady attacked the barber, and seizing him by the beard, cried, ‘By
my faith! you shall no longer use my tail for a beard. Give me my tail,
I say; for it is a shame to see how my husband’s thing is bandied about
for want of it; I mean the comb that he used to stick in my tail.’ But
the barber would not part with it, for all her tugging, until the priest
desired him to restore it: because there was no farther occasion for the
disguise, as he might now appear in his own shape, and tell the knight,
that after he had been robbed by the galley-slaves, he had fled to that
inn; and if he should enquire for the princess’s gentleman usher, they
would tell him, she had dispatched him away before her, to advertise her
friends and subjects, that she was upon the road, accompanied by the
deliverer of them all. Thus satisfied, the barber willingly restored the
landlady’s tail, and every thing else they had borrowed with a view of
disengaging Don Quixote from the mountain; and all the people of the inn
were astonished at the beauty of Dorothea, as also at the genteel mien
of the swain Cardenio. The curate ordered them to get ready something to
eat; and the innkeeper, in hope of being well paid, dressed, with all
dispatch, a pretty reasonable dinner; but they did not think proper to
waken Don Quixote, who, they believed, stood at that time more in need
of sleep than of food.
The discourse at table, in presence of the innkeeper, his wife,
daughter, Maritornes, and all the other lodgers, happening to turn upon
the uncommon madness of the knight, and the condition in which they
found him; the hostess recounted to them, what had happened in her house
between him and the carrier; then looking round the room, and seeing
Sancho was not present, she told the whole story of the blanketting, to
the no small entertainment of the company. The curate observing that Don
Quixote’s understanding was disordered by the books of chivalry he had
read, the innkeeper replied, ‘I cannot conceive how that is possible;
for, really, in my opinion, they are the best reading in the world: I
have now in my custody two or three of them, together with some other
papers, which, I verily believe, have preserved not only my life, but
also that of many others; for, in harvest-time, a great number of
reapers come hither, to pass the heat of the day; and there being always
one among them who can read, he takes up a book, and we, to the number
of thirty or more, forming a ring about him, listen with such pleasure,
as were enough to make an old man grow young again; at least, I can say
for myself; when I hear him read of those furious and terrible strokes
that have been given by certain knights, I am seized with the desire of
being at it myself, and could listen to such stories whole nights and
days without ceasing.’—‘I wish you would, with all my heart,’ replied
the wife; ‘for, I am sure, I never enjoy a quiet minute in the house,
except when they are reading, and then you are so bamboozled with what
you hear, you forget to scold for that time.’—‘That is the very truth of
the matter,’ said Maritornes; ‘in good faith, I myself am hugely
diverted, when I hear those things; they are so clever, especially when
they tell us how yon t’other lady lay among orange trees, in the
embraces of her knight, while a duenna, half dead with envy and
surprize, kept sentry over them; odd! all these things make my chops
water.’
‘And what is your opinion of the matter, my young mistress?’ said the
priest to the innkeeper’s daughter. ‘Truly, Signior, I don’t well know,’
she replied; ‘but listen among the rest; and really, though I do not
understand it, I am pleased with what I hear; yet I take no delight in
those strokes that my father loves; but, in the lamentations made by the
knights, when they are absent from their mistresses, which in good
sooth, often make me weep with compassion.’—‘Then you would soon give
them relief, if they mourned for you, my pretty maid?’ said Dorothea. ‘I
don’t know what I should do,’ answered the girl; ‘but, this I know, that
some of those ladies are so cruel, their knights call them lions,
tygers, and a thousand other reproachful names. Jesus! I can’t conceive
what sort of folks those must be, who are so hard-hearted and
unconscionable as to let a man of honour die, or lose his senses, rather
than take the least notice of him; why should they be so coy? If their
suitors court them in an honest way, let them marry, and that is all the
men desire.’—‘Hold your peace, child,’ said the landlady; ‘methinks, you
are too well acquainted with these things; young maidens, like you,
should neither know nor speak so much.’ The daughter said, as the
gentleman asked her the question, she could do no less than answer him:
and the curate demanding a sight of the books, ‘With all my heart,’
replied the innkeeper, who, going to his own chamber, brought out an old
portmanteau secured with a chain, which being opened, the priest found
in it three large volumes and some manuscripts written in a very fair
character.
The first book they opened appeared to be Don Cirongilio of Thrace; the
second, Felixmarte of Hyrcania; and the third, was the history of that
great Captain Gonçalo Hernandes de Cordova, with the life of Diego
Garcia de Paredes. The curate having read the titles of the two first,
turned to the barber, saying, ‘We now want our friend’s housekeeper and
cousin.’—‘Not at all,’ answered Mr. Nicholas, ‘I myself can convey them
to the yard, or rather to the chimney, where there is actually a special
good fire.’—‘What! you intend to burn these books, then?’ said the
innkeeper. ‘Only these two,’ answered the curate, pointing to Don
Cirongilio and Felixmarte. ‘I suppose, then,’ resumed the landlord, ‘my
books are heretick and flegmatick?’—‘You mean schismatick, honest
friend, and not flegmatick,’ said the barber. ‘Even so,’ replied the
landlord; ‘but, if any of them be burnt, let it be the history of that
great captain, together with Diego Garcia; for, I would rather suffer
you to commit my son to the flames, than to burn e’er a one of the
rest.’—‘Heark ye, brother,’ said the curate, ‘these two books are
stuffed with lyes, vanity and extravagance; but that of the great
captain is a true history, containing the exploits of Gonçalo Hernandez
de Cordova, who, by his numerous and valiant atchievements, acquired,
all the world over, the epithet of the Great Captain, a renowned and
splendid appellation, merited by him alone; and that Diego Garcia de
Paredes was a noble cavalier, born in the city of Truxillo in
Estremadura, a most valiant soldier, and endowed with such bodily
strength, that with a single finger he could stop a mill-wheel in the
heat of its motion; and being once posted at the end of a bridge, with a
two-handed sword, he alone prevented a vast army from passing over it;
he performed a great many actions of the same kind, which he himself
hath recounted with all the modesty of a gentleman who writes his own
memoirs; whereas, had they been committed to writing by any other free
and dispassionate author, they would have eclipsed all the Hectors,
Achilles’, and Orlandos, that ever lived.’—‘You may tell such stuff to
my grannam,’ said the inn-keeper. ‘Lord! how you are surprized at the
stopping of a mill-wheel! before God, I advise your worship to read, as
I have done[91], the history of Felixmarte of Hyrcania, who, with a
single back-stroke, cut five giants through the middle, as easily as if
they had been made of beans, like the figures with which the boys divert
themselves. Another time, he engaged a most infinite and powerful army,
consisting of a million and six hundred thousand soldiers, all armed
cap-a-pee, whom he totally routed, as if they had been flocks of sheep.
Then what shall we say of the most excellent Don Cirongilio of Thrace,
who was so valiant and courageous, as may be seen in the book of his
history, that while he was sailing on the river, a fiery serpent rose
above the water, which he no sooner saw, than leaping on its back, he
fastened himself astride upon its scaly shoulders, and seized if by the
throat, with both hands, so forcibly, that the serpent feeling itself
well-nigh strangled, could find no other remedy but dive into the
profound, with the knight, who would not quit his hold; and when he
descended to the bottom, he found himself in a palace situated in the
midst of a garden that was wonderfully pleasant; and then the serpent
turned itself into an ancient man, who told him such things as you would
rejoice to hear. Say no more, Signior; if you was to hear it, you would
run stark mad for joy; so that, a fig for your great captain, and that
same Diego Garcia you talk of!’
Dorothea hearing this harangue, whispered to Cardenio, ‘Our host wants
not much to make the second edition of Don Quixote.’—‘I think so too,’
answered Cardenio; ‘for, by his discourse, he seems to take it for
granted, that every thing which is recounted in these books, is neither
more nor less than the truth; and all the capuchins in Spain will not be
able to alter his belief.’—‘Consider, brother,’ resumed the curate,
‘that there never was upon earth such a person as Felixmarte of
Hyrcania, nor Don Cirongilio of Thrace, nor any other of such knights as
are celebrated in books of chivalry. The whole is a fiction composed by
idle persons of genius, for the very purpose you mentioned, namely
pastime, which was the aim of your reapers; for, I swear to you, no such
knights ever existed, nor were any such exploits and extravagancies ever
performed in this world.’—‘You must throw that bone to some other dog!’
replied the landlord: ‘as if I did not know that two and three make
five; or where my own shoe pinches. Your worship must not think to feed
me with pap, for egad I am no such suckling! A good joke, faith! You
would make me believe that all the contents of these books are madness
and lyes, although they are printed by licence from the king’s council;
as if they were persons who would wink at the printing of such lyes,
battles, and inchantments, as turn people’s brains.’—‘Friend,’ replied
the curate, ‘I have already told you, that they are designed for the
amusement of our idle hours; and, as in every well-governed
commonwealth, the games of chess, billiards, and tennis, are licensed
for the entertainment of those who neither can nor ought to work; in
like manner, those books are allowed to be printed, on the supposition,
that no body is so ignorant as to believe a syllable of what they
contain; and if I was now permitted, or the company required it, I could
give some hints towards the improvements of books of chivalry, which
perhaps might be both serviceable and entertaining; but, I hope, the
time will come, when I may have an opportunity of imparting my
suggestions to those who can convert them to general use: meanwhile, Mr.
Publican, you may depend upon the truth of what I have said; take your
books away, and settle the affair of their truth or falshood, just as
your own comprehension will permit; much good may they do you, and God
grant that you may never halt on the same foot on which your lodger Don
Quixote is lame!’—‘I hope,’ answered the innkeeper, ‘I shall never be
mad enough to turn knight-errant, as I can easily perceive that the
customs now-a-days are quite different from those in times past, when,
as it is reported, those famous heroes travelled about the world.’
Sancho, who had come into the room, about the middle of this
conversation, was very much confounded and perplexed, when he heard them
observe, that there was no such thing as knight-errantry in the present
age, and that all the books of chivalry were filled with extravagance
and fiction; he therefore determined within himself, to wait the issue
of his master’s last undertaking; and if it should not succeed as
happily as he expected, to leave him, and return, with his wife and
children, to his former labour.
When the innkeeper took up the portmanteau with the books, in order to
carry them away, ‘Stay,’ said the curate, ‘until I examine these papers
which are written in such a fair character.’ The landlord accordingly
pulled out a manuscript, consisting of eight sheets of paper, intitled,
in large letters, ‘The Novel of the Impertinent Curiosity[92].’ The
priest having read three or four lines to himself, said, ‘Really the
title of this novel pleases me so much, that I have a strong inclination
to peruse the whole.’ To this observation, the innkeeper replied, ‘Then
your reverence may read it aloud; for, you must know, the reading of it
hath given great satisfaction to several lodgers at this inn, who have
earnestly begged the copy; but that request I would not comply with,
because I think of restoring it to the right owner, as I expect that the
person who left the portmanteau with the books and papers, in a mistake,
will return, on purpose to fetch them; or, you know, he may chance to
travel this way on, other business; and though I should miss them
heavily, in faith they shall be restored; for, though an innkeeper, I am
still a Christian.’—‘Friend,’ said the curate, ‘you are very much in the
right; but, for all that, if I like the novel, you shall give me leave
to transcribe it.’—‘With all my heart,’ replied the landlord. While this
discourse passed between them, Cardenio having taken up the manuscript,
and began to read, was of the curate’s opinion, and intreated him to
read it aloud, that the whole company might hear it. ‘I will,’ answered
the priest, ‘if you think we had not better spend the time in sleeping
than in reading.’—‘For my own part,’ said Dorothea, ‘it will be a
sufficient refreshment for me to listen to some entertaining story; for
my mind is not composed enough to let me sleep, even if I stood in need
of repose.’—‘If that be the case,’ resumed the curate, ‘I will read it
out of curiosity, at a venture, and perhaps it will yield us some
entertainment into the bargain.’ Master Nicholas earnestly joined in the
request, and Sancho himself expressed a desire of hearing it; upon which
the licentiate finding he should please the whole company as well as
himself, ‘Well, then,’ said he, ‘listen with attention, for the novel
begins in this manner.’
Footnote 91:
It will appear in the sequel, that the landlord could not read at all;
nevertheless, he might boast of what he could not do.
Footnote 92:
The original, which is _curioso impertinente_, signifies one who is
impertinently curious, not a curious impertinent.
CHAP. VI.
THE NOVEL OF THE IMPERTINENT CURIOSITY.
‘In Florence, a rich and celebrated city of Italy, situated in the
province called Tuscany, lived Anselmo and Lothario, two wealthy and
noble cavaliers, so strictly united in the bands of amity, that every
body who knew them, called them by way of excellence and epithet, the
Two Friends; and, indeed, being both batchelors, and their age and
education so much alike, it was not to be wondered at if a reciprocal
affection sprung up between them; true it is, Anselmo was rather more
addicted to amorous pastime than Lothario, whose chief delight was in
hunting; yet, upon occasion, Anselmo could quit his own amusements to
pursue those of his friend; and Lothario could postpone his favourite
diversion, in order to practise that of Anselmo; in this manner their
inclinations proceeded so mutually, that no clock ever went with more
regularity. Anselmo happened to fall desperately in love with a young
lady of rank and beauty in the same city, descended from such a noble
family, and so amiable in herself, that he determined, with the
approbation of his friend, without which he did nothing, to demand her
of her parents in marriage; and accordingly put his resolution in
practice. Lothario was intrusted with the message, and concluded the
affair so much to the satisfaction of his friends, that in a very little
time Anselmo saw himself in possession of his heart’s desire; and
Camilla thought herself so happy in having obtained such a husband, that
she was incessant in her acknowledgments to Heaven and Lothario, by
whose mediation her happiness was effected.
‘During the first two days after marriage, which are commonly spent in
feasting and mirth, Lothario, as usual, frequented the house of his
friend, with a view of honouring his nuptials, and endeavouring, as much
as in him lay, to promote the joy and festivity attending all such
occasions; but the wedding being over, and the frequency of visits and
congratulations abated, he began carefully and gradually to absent
himself from Anselmo’s house, thinking, as every prudent person would
naturally conclude, that a man ought not to visit and frequent the house
of a friend after he is married, in the same manner as he had practised
while he was single; for, though suspicion should never find harbour
with true and virtuous friendship, yet the honour of a married man is so
delicate, as to be thought subject to injury, not only from a friend,
but even from a brother. Anselmo perceived Lothario’s remissness, and
complained of it loudly; saying, that if he had thought his marriage
would have impaired their former correspondence, he never would have
altered his condition; and begged, that as by the mutual friendship
which inspired them while he was single, they had acquired such an
agreeable title as that of the Two Friends, he would not now suffer that
endearing and celebrated name to be lost, by a scrupulous adherence to
mere form and punctilio. He therefore entreated him, if he might be
allowed to use the expression, to be master of his house, and to come in
and go out as formerly, assuring him that the inclinations of Camilla,
in that respect, were exactly conformable to his own; and that knowing
the perfect friendship which subsisted between them, she was extremely
mortified at his late shyness.
‘To these and many other arguments used by Anselmo, to persuade his
friend to frequent his house as usual, Lothario answered with such
prudence, force, and discernment, that the other was convinced of his
discreet conduct; and it was agreed betwixt them, that Lothario should
dine with him twice a week, besides holidays; but, notwithstanding this
agreement, he resolved to comply with it no farther than he should see
convenient for the honour of Anselmo, which was dearer to him than his
own. He said, and his observation was just, that a man on whom Heaven
hath bestowed a beautiful wife, should be as cautious of the men he
brings home to his house, as careful in observing the female friends
with whom his spouse converses abroad; for that which cannot be
performed nor concerted in the street or the church, or at public shows
and diversions, with which a husband must sometimes indulge his wife,
may be easily transacted in the house of a female friend or relation, in
whom his chief confidence is reposed. Wherefore, Lothario observed, that
every married man had occasion for some friend to apprize him of any
omission in her conduct; for it often happens that he is too much in
love with his wife, to observe, or too much afraid of offending her, to
prescribe limits to her behaviour, in those things, the following or
eschewing of which may tend to his honour or reproach, whereas that
inconvenience might be easily amended by the advice of a friend. But
where shall we find such a zealous, discreet, trusty friend, as is here
required? I really know not, except in Lothario himself, who, consulting
the honour of Anselmo, with the utmost care and circumspection, was at
great pains to contract, abridge, and diminish, the number of the days
on which he had agreed to frequent his house; that the idle vulgar, and
prying eyes of malice, might not indulge their love of slander, when
they perceived a genteel young man of such birth, fortune, and
accomplishments as he knew himself possessed of, go into the house of
such a celebrated beauty as Camilla; for, although his virtue and honour
might be a sufficient check, to the most malevolent tongue, he would not
expose his own character, or that of his friend, to the smallest
censure; and therefore employed the greatest part of those days on which
he had agreed to visit Anselmo, in such things as he pretended were
indispensible; so that when they were present, a great deal of time was
consumed by the complaints of the one, and excuses of the other. One
day, however, as they were walking through a meadow, near the suburbs of
the city, Anselmo addressed himself to Lothario in these terms.
‘“You believe, my friend Lothario, that I can never be thankful enough
to Heaven for the blessings I enjoy, not only in the most indulgent
parents, and in the abundance of those things which are called the goods
of nature and fortune, but also in a friend like you, and a wife like
Camilla, two pledges which I esteem, if not as highly as I ought, at
least as much as I can. Yet, though I possess all those benefits which
usually constitute the happiness of mankind, I find myself one of the
most disgusted and discontented men alive. I have been for these many
days so harrassed and fatigued with such an odd unaccountable desire,
that I cannot help being amazed at my infatuation, for which I often
blame and rebuke myself, endeavouring to suppress and conceal it from my
own reflection; but I find it as impossible to keep the secret, as if I
had industriously published it to the whole world, and since it must
actually be disclosed to somebody, I would have it deposited in the most
secret archives of your heart, in full confidence, that by the diligence
which you as a trusty friend will exert in my behalf, when you know it,
I shall soon see myself delivered from that anxiety to which it hath
reduced me, and by your assiduity be raised to a pitch of joy equal to
the degree of vexation which my own folly hath intailed upon me.”
‘Lothario was astonished at this discourse of Anselmo, as he could not
comprehend the meaning of such a long preface and preamble, and
endeavoured, by revolving every thing in his imagination, to find out
what this desire could be, that preyed so much upon the spirits of his
friend; but, finding himself always wide of the mark, he was willing to
ease himself immediately of the excessive pain his suspence occasioned;
and with this view told Anselmo, that he did a manifest injury to the
warmth of his friendship, in going about the bush, seeking indirect
methods to impart his most secret thoughts, since he was well assured
that he might entirely depend upon him, either for advice to suppress,
or assistance to support them. “I am well convinced of the truth of what
you say,” answered Anselmo, “and in that confidence will tell you, my
friend, that the desire with which I am possessed, is to be certain,
whether or not my wife Camilla is as virtuous and perfect as I believe
her to be; and this truth I shall never be fully persuaded of, until the
perfection of her nature appear upon trial, as pure gold is proved by
fire; for it is my opinion, that there is no woman virtuous, but in
proportion to the solicitation she hath withstood; and that she only is
chaste, who hath not yielded to the promises, presents, tears, and
continual importunities of persevering lovers. And pray where is the
merit of a woman’s being chaste, when nobody ever courted her to be
otherwise? what wonder that she should be reserved and cautious, who has
no opportunity of indulging loose inclinations, and who knows her
husband would immediately put her to death should he once catch her
tripping? Wherefore I can never entertain the same degree of esteem for
a woman who is chaste out of fear, or want of opportunity, as I would
for her who hath triumphed over perseverance of solicitation; so that
for these, and many other reasons I could urge to sanction and enforce
my opinion, I desire that my wife Camilla may undergo the test, and be
refined in the fire of importunate addresses, by one possessed of
sufficient accomplishments to inspire a woman with love; and if she
comes off, as I believe she will, victorious in the trial, I shall think
my own happiness unparalleled. I shall then be able to say that my
wishes are fulfilled, and that she hath fallen to my lot, of whom the
wise man saith, ‘_Who hath found her?_’ And even if the contrary of what
I expect should happen, the satisfaction of seeing my opinion confirmed,
will help me to bear with patience that which would otherwise prove such
a costly experiment. Supposing, then, that nothing you can say, in
opposition to this desire of mine, can avail in diverting me from my
purpose, I expect and entreat that you, my friend Lothario, will
condescend to be the instrument with which I execute this work of my
inclination. I will give you proper opportunities, and supply you with
every thing I see necessary for soliciting a woman of virtue, honour,
and disinterested reserve; and what among other things induces me to
intrust you with this enterprize, is the consideration, that should
Camilla’s scruples be overcome, you will not pursue your conquest to the
last circumstance of rigour, but only suppose that done, which, for good
reason, ought to remain undone; so that I shall be injured by her
inclination alone, and my wrongs lie buried in the virtue of your
silence, which I know, in whatever concerns my welfare, will be eternal
as that of death. Wherefore, if you would have me enjoy what deserves to
be called life, you will forthwith undertake this amorous contest, not
with lukewarmness and languor, but with that eagerness and diligence
which corresponds with my wish, and the confidence in which I am secured
by your friendship.”
‘Such was the discourse of Anselmo; to which Lothario listened so
attentively, that except what he is already said to have uttered, he did
not open his lips, until his friend had finished his proposal: but
finding he had nothing more to alledge, after having for some time gazed
upon him as an object hitherto unseen, that inspired him with
astonishment and surprize, “I cannot be persuaded, Anselmo,” said he,
“but what you have said was spoke in jest; for, had I thought you in
earnest, I should not have suffered you to proceed so far; but, by
refusing to listen, have prevented such a long harangue. Without doubt,
you must either mistake my disposition, or I be utterly unacquainted
with yours; and yet I know you to be Anselmo, and you must be sensible
that I am Lothario; the misfortune is, I no longer find you the same
Anselmo you was wont to be, nor do I appear to you the same Lothario as
before; your discourse favours not of that Anselmo who was my friend,
nor is what you ask a thing to be demanded of that Lothario who shared
your confidence. Good men, as a certain poet observes, may try and avail
themselves of their friends, _usque ad aras_; I mean, not presume upon
their friendship, in things contrary to the decrees of Heaven. Now, if a
heathen entertained such ideas of friendship, how much more should they
be cherished by a Christian, who knows, that no human affection ought to
interfere with our love to God; and, when a person stretches his
connections so far as to lay aside all respect for Heaven, in order to
manifest his regard for a friend, he ought not to be swayed by trifles
or matters of small consequence, but by those things only on which the
life and honour of a friend depend. Tell me then, Anselmo, which of
these is in danger, before I venture to gratify your wish, by complying
with the detestable proposal you have made? Surely, neither; on the
contrary, if I conceive you aright, you are desirous that I should
indefatigably endeavour to deprive you, and myself also, of that very
life and honour which it is my duty to preserve; for if I rob you of
honour, I rob you of life; since a man without honour, is worse than
dead, and I being the instrument, as you desire I should be, that
entails such a curse upon you, shall not I be dishonoured, and of
consequence dead to all enjoyment and fame. Listen with patience, my
friend Anselmo, and make no answer until I shall have done with
imparting the suggestions of my mind, concerning the strange proposal
you have made; for there will be time enough for you to reply, and me to
listen in my turn.”—“With all my heart,” cried Anselmo; “you may speak
as long as you please.”
‘Accordingly, Lothario proceeded, saying, “In my opinion, Anselmo, your
disposition is at present like that of the Moors, who will not suffer
themselves to be convicted of the errors of their sect, by quotations
from the Holy Scripture, nor with arguments founded on speculation, or
the articles of faith; but must be confuted or convinced by examples
that are palpable, easy, familiar, and subject to the certainty of
mathematical demonstration; for instance, if from equal parts, we take
equal parts, those that remain are equal. And if they do not understand
this proposition verbally, as is frequently the case, it must be
explained and set before their eyes by manual operation, which is also
insufficient to persuade them of the truth of our holy religion. The
self-same method must I practise with you, whole desire deviates so far
from every thing that bears the least shadow of reason, that I should
look upon it as time misspent, to endeavour to convince you of your
folly, which is the only name your intention seems to deserve. Nay, I am
even tempted to leave you in your extravagancy, as a punishment for your
preposterous desire; but I am prevented from using such rigour by my
friendship, which will not permit me to desert you in such manifest
danger of perdition. But, to make this affair still more plain, tell me,
Anselmo, did not you desire me to solicit one that was reserved, seduce
one that was chaste, make presents to one that was disinterested, and
assiduously court one that was wise? Yes, such was your demand. If you
are apprized, then, of the reserve, virtue, disinterestedness, and
prudence of your wife, pray what is your aim? If you believe that she
will triumph over all my assaults, as undoubtedly she will, what fairer
titles can you bestow upon her, than those she possesses already? or how
will she be more perfect after that trial, than she is at present? You
either do not believe she is so virtuous as you have represented her, or
know not the nature of your demand. If you think she is not so chaste as
you have described her, you should not hazard the trial; but rather,
according to the dictates of your own prudence, treat her as a vicious
woman: if you are satisfied of her virtue, it would be altogether
impertinent to make trial of that truth, which, from the test, can
acquire no additional esteem. From whence we may reasonably conclude,
that for men to execute designs which are clearly productive of more
hurt than benefit, is the province of madness and temerity; especially,
when they are not incited or compelled to these designs by any sort of
consideration; but, on the contrary, may at a greater distance perceive
the manifest madness of their intention. Difficulties are undertaken,
either for the sake of God, of this world, or of both. The first are
incurred by holy men, who live the life of angels here on earth; the
second, by those who traverse the boundless ocean, visiting such a
diversity of climates and nations, with a view of acquiring what are
called the goods of fortune; and such undertakings as equally regard God
and man, fall to the share of those valiant soldiers, who no sooner
behold, in the wall of an adverse city, a breach, though no bigger than
that which is made by a single cannon ball, than laying aside all fear,
and overlooking with unconcern the manifest danger that menaces them,
winged with desire of signalizing their valour in behalf of their king,
country, and religion, throw themselves, with the utmost intrepidity,
into the midst of a thousand deaths that oppose and await them. These
are the enterprizes which are generally undertaken, and though full of
peril and inconvenience, attended with glory, honour, and advantage; but
that which you have planned, and purpose to put in execution, neither
tends to your acquiring the approbation of God, the goods of fortune,
nor the applause of mankind; for, granting that the experiment should
succeed to your wish, it will make you neither more happy, rich, or
respected than you are; and should it turn out contrary to your
expectation, you will find yourself the most miserable of all mortals.
It will then give you little ease to reflect, that your misfortune is
unknown; for, the bare knowing it yourself, will be sufficient to plunge
you in affliction and despair. As a confirmation of this truth, you must
give me leave to repeat the following stanza, written by the celebrated
poet Lewis Tansilo, at the end of the first part of the tears of St.
Peter.
‘“When Peter saw the approach of rosy morn,
His soul with sorrow and remorse was torn;
For, though from ev’ry mortal eye conceal’d,
The guilt to his own bosom stood reveal’d:
The candid breast will self-accusing, own
Each conscious fault, though to the world unknown,
Nor will th’ offender ’scape internal shame,
Tho’ unimpeach’d by justice or by fame.”
‘“Wherefore, secresy will never assuage your grief; but, on the
contrary, you will incessantly weep, not tears from your eyes, but drops
of blood from your heart, like that simple doctor, whom our poet
mentions[93], who made trial of the vessel, which the prudent Rinaldo,
with more discretion, refused to touch; and although this be a poetical
fiction, it nevertheless contains a well couched moral, worthy of
notice, study and imitation; especially, as what I am going to say,
will, I hope, bring you to a due sense of the great error you want to
commit.
‘“Tell me, Anselmo, if Heaven or good fortune had made you master and
lawful possessor of an exquisite diamond, the brilliancy of which was
admired by all the lapidaries who had seen it, and unanimously allowed
to be the most perfect of its kind; an opinion, which, as you knew
nothing to the contrary, was exactly conformable to your own; would it
be wise or pardonable in you, to put that jewel betwixt an anvil and a
hammer, and by mere dint of blows and strength of arm, try if it was as
hard and perfect as it had been pronounced? for, supposing that the
diamond should resist the force of this foolish experiment, it would
thereby acquire no addition of value or fame; and, if it should be broke
to pieces, a thing that might easily happen, would not all be lost? Yes,
for certain; and the owner be universally deemed a fool. Consider, then,
my friend, that Camilla is an exquisite diamond, not only in your
estimation, but in that of every one who knows her; and it would be
highly unreasonable to expose her to the least possibility of being
broke; for, even should she remain intire, her reputation will receive
no increase; but, should she fail in the trial, reflect upon what you
must feel, and the reason you will then have to complain of yourself,
for having been the fatal cause of her perdition and your own despair.
Consider, that no jewel upon earth is comparable to a woman of virtue
and honour; and, that the honour of the sex consists in the fair
characters they maintain. Since, therefore, the reputation of your wife
is already as high as it possibly can be, why would you bring this truth
into question? Remember, my friend, that woman is an imperfect creature;
and that, far from laying blocks in her way, over which she might
stumble and fall, we ought to remove them with care, and clear her paths
from all obstructions, that she may, without trouble, proceed smoothly,
in attaining to that perfection which she may still want, namely,
immaculate virtue. We are informed by naturalists, that the ermin is a
little animal, covered with a furr of excessive whiteness, and that the
hunters use this artifice to catch it: being well acquainted with the
places through which it chuses to pass in its flight, they daub them all
over with mud, and as soon as they get sight of the creature, drive it
directly thither. The ermin finding himself thus barricadoed, stands
still, and is taken; chusing captivity, rather than, by passing through
the filth, to stain and sully the whiteness of its furr, which it prizes
above liberty, and even life itself. A chaste and virtuous wife is like
the ermin, her character being more pure and white than drifted snow;
but he, who would guard and preserve it, must use a method quite
different from that which is practised upon the little animal, and
beware of clogging her way with the mud of entertainments, and the
addresses of importunate lovers; lest, perhaps, (nay, without a perhaps)
she should not possess such virtue and resolution as are sufficient of
themselves to surmount those obstructions. It is therefore necessary to
remove them, and place before her the purity of virtue, and the beauty
of an unblemished reputation. A virtuous woman also resembles a bright
transparent mirror, which is liable to be stained and obscured by the
breath of those who approach too near it. A virtuous woman, like
relicks, ought to be adored at a distance. She ought to be preserved and
esteemed as a beautiful garden, full of flowers and roses, the owner of
which will suffer nobody to handle them or pass through it, permitting
them only to enjoy its fragrance and beauty afar off, through the iron
rails that surround it. In fine, I will repeat a few verses that I just
now recollect, from a modern comedy, because they seem to have been
composed upon the very subject of our present discourse. A sage old man
advising his friend, who is blessed with a handsome daughter, to lock
her up, and watch over her with the utmost vigilance and care, among
other reasons, cautions him with these—
I.
“Woman is form’d of brittle ware;
Then, wherefore rashly seek to know
What force, unbroken, she will bear,
And strike, perhaps, some fatal blow.
II.
“Though easily to fragments tore,
’Twere equally absurd and vain,
To dash in pieces on the floor,
What never can be join’d again.
III.
“This maxim, then, by facts assur’d,
Should henceforth be espous’d by all;
Where’er a Danæ lies immur’d,
The tempting show’r of gold will fall.”
‘“All that I have hitherto suggested, Anselmo, regards yourself; and now
it is but reasonable you should hear something that concerns me; and if
I should be prolix in my observations, you must excuse me, because it is
absolutely necessary to expatiate on the subject, in order to extricate
you from the labyrinth in which you are involved, and from which you
desire to be disengaged by my assistance. You consider me as a friend,
and yet seek to deprive me of my honour; a desire opposite to all
friendship or regard; nay, even endeavour to make me rob you of your
own. That you want to destroy mine, is plain; for Camilla, finding
herself exposed to my solicitations, as you desire, will certainly look
upon me as a man void of all principle and honour; because I attempt to
succeed in a design so contrary to the dignity of my own character, and
the friendship subsisting between us. That you desire I should rob you
of yours, is not to be doubted; because, Camilla, seeing herself
importuned by my addresses, will think I must have observed some levity
in her conduct, which hath encouraged me to disclose my vicious
inclinations, and think herself dishonoured accordingly; so that you
will be as much concerned in her dishonour, as if it was your own. Hence
springs the common observation, that the husband of a lewd woman, though
he neither knows, nor hath given the least occasion for the misconduct
of his wife, and though his misfortune was neither owing to his want of
prudence or care, is, notwithstanding, pointed at, and distinguished by
a name of scandal and reproach; being looked upon, by those who know the
frailty of his wife, with an eye of disdain, instead of compassion,
which he certainly deserves, as his disgrace proceeds not from any fault
of his, but from the loose inclinations of his worthless spouse. I will
now explain the reason, why the husband of a bad woman is justly
dishonoured, though he neither knows, nor hath been in any shape
accessary to her backslidings; and you must hear me with patience,
because my remarks will, I hope, redound to your own advantage.
‘“When God created our first parent in the terrestrial paradise, we are
told, by the holy Scripture, that he was thrown into a deep sleep,
during which, the Almighty took a rib from his left side, and of this
Eve being formed, Adam no sooner awoke and beheld her, than he cried,
‘_This creature is flesh of my flesh, and bone of my bone._’ Nay, God
himself pronounced, ‘_For this shall a man leave father and mother, and
they two shall be one flesh._’ Then was instituted the divine sacrament
of marriage, consisting of such ties as death alone can unbind; and
endowed with such miraculous virtue and power, as to unite two different
persons in one flesh; nay, what is still more wonderful, to combine two
souls, so as to produce but one will; provided the union be happily
effected. From hence it follows, that the flesh of the wife being the
same with that of the husband, whatever stains or blemishes are imbibed
by the first, must equally affect the other, although, as I have already
observed, he is in no manner accessary to the misfortune. Wherefore, as
the whole person is affected by the pain of the foot or any other member
of the human body; and the head, though no way concerned in the cause,
be a fellow-sufferer with the ancle when it is hurt; by the same rule,
an husband, being a part of the same whole, must bear a share of his
wife’s dishonour; for, as all the honours and disgraces of this life
proceed from flesh and blood; the infamy of a vicious woman, being of
the same origin, must be shared by her husband, who ought to be looked
upon as a dishonoured person, though he be utterly ignorant of the
guilt. Reflect, therefore, Anselmo, on the danger into which you bring
yourself, by seeking to disturb the peace and tranquillity of your
virtuous wife. Reflect upon the vanity and impertinence of that
curiosity, which prompts you to awaken and stir up those humours, that
now lie tamed and quiet in the bosom of your chaste spouse. Consider,
that in this rash adventure, your gain must be very small, but your loss
may be so great, that I leave it unmentioned, because I want words to
express its estimation. On the whole, if what I have said be
insufficient to divert you from your mischievous design, I desire you
will chuse some other instrument of your misfortune and disgrace; for I
will not undertake the office, though, by my refusal, I should even lose
your friendship, which is dearer to me than any thing upon earth.”
‘Here the virtuous and prudent Lothario left off speaking, and Anselmo
remained in such confusion and perplexity, that, for some time, he could
not answer one word; at length, however, he broke silence, saying, “I
have listened, my friend Lothario, as you may have perceived, with great
attention to all you had to say, and by your arguments, examples, and
comparisons, am fully convinced, not only of your great discretion, but
also of that perfection of friendship to which you have attained: I see
also, and own, that in refusing your counsel, and following my own, I
avoid the good and pursue the evil. This truth being acknowledged, you
must consider me as a person afflicted with that infirmity, which
induces some women to swallow earth, chalk, coals, and other things of a
worse nature, which, if loathsome to the sight, how much more
disagreeable must they be to the taste. Wherefore, there is an absolute
necessity for using some method of cure, which you may easily effect, by
beginning to solicit the love of Camilla, though coldly and feignedly;
and, sure, she cannot be so frail as to surrender her virtue at the
first encounter. With this slight attempt I shall rest satisfied, and
you fulfil the duty of friendship, not only in giving me new life, but
also in dissuading me from being the cause of my own dishonour. Nay, you
are obliged to comply with my request, by this other consideration,
that, determined as I am to put my design in execution, you ought not to
allow me to communicate this extravagant resolution to any other person,
lest I run the risk of losing that honour which you endeavour to
preserve; and, as to your suffering in the opinion of Camilla, by
attempting to seduce her, that is a reflection of small importance,
because, when her integrity is proved, you can soon inform her of our
whole contrivance; consequently, regain and repossess the former place
you held in her esteem. Since, therefore, by adventuring so little, it
is in your power to give me so much satisfaction; I hope, you will not
refuse the office, even if it was attended with more inconvenience; for,
I have already told you, that I shall look upon the affair as concluded,
whenever you shall have made the first attempt.”
‘Lothario seeing him fixed in his resolution, even after he had
exhausted all his rhetorick to dissuade him from it; and fearing he
would execute his threat of imparting his unhappy design to some other
person, determined to prevent a greater misfortune, by complying with
his desire; purposing, however, to manage the business in such a manner,
as to satisfy Anselmo, without altering the sentiment of his wife. With
this view, he told Anselmo that he should have no occasion to
communicate his intention to any other man; for he, Lothario, would
undertake the affair, and begin when he pleased. Anselmo, embracing his
friend with great tenderness and affection, thanked him as much for his
compliance, as if he had granted him some vast favour; and it was
concerted between them, that Lothario should begin the enterprize the
very next day, when Anselmo would give him time and opportunity of being
alone with Camilla, that he might speak to her with freedom; and also
supply him with money and jewels, that with such presents he might
promote his suit; he, moreover, advised, him to attempt her by musick,
and write verses in her praise; or, if that would be too much trouble
for the gallant, he himself would compose them for the purpose. Lothario
undertook every thing, but with a very different intention from what
Anselmo supposed; and the agreement being made, they returned to the
house of this last, where they found Camilla waiting with great anxiety,
for her husband, who had that day tarried longer than usual abroad.
Lothario soon after went home to his own lodgings, leaving his friend as
happy as himself was perplexed how to contrive a scheme for bringing
this affair to a fortunate issue; but that night he fell upon an
expedient to deceive Anselmo, without giving offence to his wife.
‘Next day he went to dine with his friend, and was very kindly received
by Camilla, who entertained him with great cordiality, as her husband’s
intimate companion. Dinner being ended, and the table withdrawn, Anselmo
rising up, desired Lothario to stay with Camilla till his return from an
indispensable piece of business, that would detain him an hour and a
half. Camilla intreated him to defer it until another time, and Lothario
offered to go along with him; but he was deaf to both, pressing Lothario
to let him go, while he should wait at his house till he came back, for
he wanted to talk with him upon a subject of the last importance; at the
same time, desiring Camilla to keep Lothario company till his return; in
short, he so well feigned the necessity, or rather folly of his absence,
that nobody could have suspected the deceit. He accordingly went out,
and left Camilla and his friend by themselves, for the rest of the
family had gone to dinner; so that Lothario seeing himself within the
lists, according to Anselmo’s desire, with his fair enemy, whose beauty
alone was powerful enough to overcome a whole squadron of armed knights,
it may be easily conceived what reason he had to fear, yet all he did
was to lean his head on his hand, while his elbow rested upon the arm of
the chair in which he sat, and after having begged pardon for his
ill-manners, to tell Camilla he would take a nap till Anselmo’s return.
She said he would be more at his ease in a couch than in the chair, and
advised him to walk into a chamber where he would find one. This offer,
however, he declined, and slept where he was till the return of his
friend, who finding Camilla in her own apartment, and Lothario asleep,
concluded that by his long stay he had given them time not only to
speak, but also to take their repose, and was impatient for Lothario’s
waking, that he might carry him out to walk, and enquire about his own
fortune.
‘Every thing succeeded to his wish; when his friend awoke, they went
forth together, and he put every question to him that his curiosity
suggested. Lothario answered, that thinking it improper to explain
himself on the first occasion, he had done nothing but praised Camilla’s
beauty, which, together with her discretion, he told her engrossed the
conversation of the whole city; this he imagined was the most prudent
beginning, as it might prepossess her in his favour, and dispose her to
listen to him another time with pleasure; being the same artifice which
is practised by the devil, who, when he would seduce those who are on
their guard, transforms himself from an imp of darkness into an angel of
light, and flattering them with specious appearances, at length
discovers his cloven foot, and succeeds in his design, provided his
deceit be not detected in the beginning. This declaration was altogether
satisfactory to Anselmo, who said he would give him the same opportunity
every day, without quitting the house, in which he would employ himself
so artfully, that Camilla should never suspect his design. Many days
passed, in which, though Lothario never opened his mouth on the subject
to Camilla, he told Anselmo that he had made many efforts, but could
never perceive in her the least tendency to weakness, or obtain the
least shadow of hope; on the contrary, that she had threatened, if he
did not lay aside the wicked design, to disclose the whole affair to her
husband. “Very well,” said Anselmo, “hitherto she is proof against
words, we must now try whether or not she can resist works also.
Tomorrow you shall have two thousand crowns in gold, for a present to
her; and as much more to purchase jewels, for a bait; these are things
with which all beautiful women are captivated; for, be they ever so
chaste, they love finery and gay apparel, if she withstands that
temptation, I will rest satisfied and give you no farther trouble.”
‘Lothario promised to go through with the enterprize, now that he had
begun, though he was persuaded he should be fatigued and baffled in the
execution. Next day he received four thousand crowns, and as many
perplexities along with them; for he did not know what lye he should
next invent; however, he determined to tell his friend, that Camilla was
as invincible to presents as to words, and that he should give himself
no farther vexation, since all his endeavours were thrown away to no
purpose: but fortune, which conduced matters in another manner, ordained
that Anselmo, one day, after having, according to custom, left Lothario
and his wife by themselves, and gone to his own chamber, should peep
through the key-hole, and listen to their conversation, it was then he
perceived, that in half an hour and more, Lothario did not speak one
word, neither would he have opened his mouth, had he remained a whole
age in the same situation. From hence he concluded, that every thing his
friend had told him of Camilla’s replies, was mere fiction; but, to be
still more assured, he came out of his chamber, and calling Lothario
aside, asked what news he had, and how Camilla stood affected to him? He
replied, that he was resolved to drop the business entirely, for she had
checked him with such bitterness and indignation, that he had no mind to
return to the charge. “Ah, Lothario! Lothario!” said Anselmo, “how much
you have failed in the duty of friendship, and abused the confidence I
have reposed in your affection! I have been all this time looking
through the key-hole of that door, and perceived that you have not
spoken one word to Camilla, from whence I suspect that your first
declaration is yet to come; and if that be the case, as without doubt it
is, wherefore have you thus deceived me; and in so doing, prevented me
from other means to satisfy my desire?” He said no more, but this was
sufficient to cover Lothario with shame and confusion; who, thinking his
honour concerned in being convicted of a lye, swore to Anselmo, he would
from that moment take the charge of giving him the satisfaction he
required, without the least equivocation, as he might perceive by
watching him narrowly; though there would be no occasion for using such
diligence, because his future behaviour in that affair would acquit him
of all suspicion.
‘Anselmo gave credit to his protestation; and, that his opportunities
might be more secure, and less subject to interruption, resolved to
absent himself from his own house for eight days, during which he
proposed to visit a friend who lived in a village not far from the city;
and whom he desired to invite him to his house with the most earnest
intreaties, that he might excuse himself to Camilla for his absence.
Unfortunate and imprudent Anselmo! what art thou doing? what art thou
contriving and concerting? Consider that thou art acting against
thyself, planning thy own dishonour and perdition. Your wife Camilla is
virtuous and sober, and you possess her at present in quiet, enjoying
uninterrupted pleasure; her inclinations never ramble beyond the walls
of your own house; you are her paradise upon earth, the goal of her
desires, the accomplishment of her wishes, and the standard by which she
measures her will, adjusting it in all respects according to your
pleasure and the directions of Heaven. Since the mine of her honour,
beauty, modesty, and virtue, yields thee, without trouble, all the
riches which it contains, or thou canst desire; why wouldst thou, by
digging in search of a new and unheard-of treasure, risk the fall or
destruction of the whole, which is sustained by the feeble props of
female constancy? Remember it is but just, that he who builds on
impossibilities should be denied the privilege of any other foundation;
as the poet hath better expressed it in the following couplets—
‘“In death I sought new life to find,
And health, where pale distemper pin’d:
I look’d for freedom in the gaol,
And faith, where perjuries prevail;
But Fate supreme, whose stern decree
To sorrow match’d my destiny,
All possible relief withdrew,
Because th’impossible I kept in view.”
‘Next day Anselmo went to the country, after having told Camilla, that
in his absence Lothario would take charge of the family, and dine with
her every day; he therefore desired her to treat him with all the
respect due to his own person. Camilla, being a woman of honour and
discretion, was disgusted at this order, and bade him consider how
unseemly it was for another man to sit at the head of his table in his
absence; at the same time begging, that if his directions proceeded from
his diffidence in her capacity, he would for once put her management to
the trial, and be convinced by experience, that she was equal to a more
important charge. Anselmo replied, that such was his pleasure, and her
province was to bow the head and obey; upon which, she, though
unwillingly, submitted. Next day he set out accordingly, and Lothario
went to his house, where he met with a very kind and honourable
reception from Camilla, who never gave him an opportunity of being alone
with her, but was always surrounded by her servants, generally attended
by her own maid, whose name was Leonela, for whom her mistress had a
particular affection, because they had been brought up together from
their infancy, in the house of Camilla’s parents; and when she married
Anselmo, she accompanied her to his house in quality of waiting-woman.
‘During the first three days Lothario did not declare himself, although
he had opportunities immediately after the table was uncovered, while
the servants were at dinner, which Camilla always ordered them to finish
with all expedition. Nay, she gave directions to Leonela, to dine every
day before the cloth was laid for herself, that she might always be in
waiting; but her maid’s thoughts were too much engrossed by her own
amusements, the enjoyment of which required such time and opportunity,
as often hindered her from obeying the commands of her mistress, so that
she frequently behaved as if she had received orders to leave them
alone; but the dignified presence of Camilla, the gravity of her
countenance, and awfulness of person, were such as effectually bridled
Lothario’s tongue: yet the energy of virtue, in having this very effect,
redounded the more to the disadvantage of them both; for, though his
tongue was restricted, his thoughts had a full and free opportunity of
contemplating at leisure the charms both of her mind and person, which
were sufficient to captivate not only an heart of flesh, but even a
statue of stone.
‘Lothario, by gazing at her during those opportunities, beheld how
worthy she was to be beloved; and this conviction began gradually to sap
his regard for his friend, so that he made a thousand resolutions to
quit the city, and go where he should never more be seen by Anselmo, or
be exposed to danger from the beauty of his wife; but all these were
baffled by the pleasure he had already felt, in seeing and admiring her
charms; he constrained himself, and combated his own inclinations, in
order to expel and efface that satisfaction: when he was alone he
condemned his own madness, and reproached himself as a false friend and
worthless Christian; he made a thousand reflections and comparisons
between himself and Anselmo; and they all terminated in this conclusion,
that the madness and rash confidence of his friend greatly exceeded his
own infidelity, and that if he could excuse himself to Heaven, for what
he intended to do, as easily as to mankind, he had no reason to dread
any punishment for the crime. In short, the beauty and other
accomplishments of Camilla, together with the opportunity which the
ignorant husband put into his hands, entirely overthrew the integrity of
Lothario; who, giving way at once to the dictates of his passion, began
at the end of three days, during which he had been at continual war with
his desires, to address himself to Camilla with such disorder and
amorous discourse, that she was utterly astonished, and rising up went
to her own chamber without answering one word. But this coyness did not
abate Lothario’s hope, which always increases with a man’s love; on the
contrary, he redoubled his efforts: while she, perceiving him behave so
wide of expectation, did not well know what conduct to espouse; but,
thinking it would be both unseemly and unsafe in her, to grant him
another opportunity, she determined that very night to send a message to
her husband, and actually dispatched a servant to him with the following
letter.
Footnote 93:
Ludovico Ariosto, author of Orlando Furioso, to which poem Cervantes
frequently alludes. Here, however, he seems to have forgot the passage
he meant to cite; for the person who proffered the cup to Rinaldo, was
no doctor. In Canto 43, of the Orlando Furioso, mention is made,
indeed, of one Anselmo, who was a Doctor of Law, but not at all
concerned in the inchanted cup: yet it must be owned, that Dr. Anselmo
had recourse to an astrologer, in order to know whether his wife
preserved her chastity in his absence.
CHAP. VII.
THE CONTINUATION OF THE NOVEL CALLED THE IMPERTINENT CURIOSITY.
‘“It is a common observation, that an army without a general, and a
garrison without a chief, make but a very indifferent appearance; but I
say, that a young married woman without a husband makes a worse,
especially when his absence is not the effect of absolute necessity; for
my own part, I find myself so uneasy, and unable to support our
separation, that if you do not return immediately, I must go and pass my
time at my father’s house, though I should leave yours without a guard;
for I believe he that you left, if he was designed for that purpose,
hath more regard to his own pleasure than to your advantage; and since
you are wise, I have nothing more to say, nor is it proper I should.”
‘When Anselmo received this letter, he was convinced that Lothario had
began the enterprize, and that his wife had behaved according to his
wish; rejoiced beyond measure at this information, he answered by a
verbal message, that she should by no means leave the house, for he
would return in a very little time. Camilla was astonished at this
reply, which perplexed her more than ever, as she durst neither stay in
her own house, nor go to her father’s; for, in staying at home, she
endangered her honour, and in going to her parents she transgressed the
commands of her husband. In fine, she resolved upon that which was worst
of all, namely to remain where she was, determined not to avoid
Lothario, that the servants might not observe her situation; and she was
already sorry for what she had written to Anselmo, being afraid he would
imagine Lothario had perceived some levity in her conduct, which
encouraged him to lay aside the decorum he ought to have preserved.
Confident of her own virtue, she trusted to God and her conscious
prudence, by the help of which she thought she could in silence refill
all the felicitations of Lothario, without giving her husband any
farther information, lest it should involve him in some trouble or
dangerous dispute; nay, she was even industrious in inventing some
excuse for Lothario, in case Anselmo should ask the reason that induced
her to write such a letter.
‘With these sentiments, which were more honourable than prudent and
advantageous, she next day sat listening to Lothario, who exerted
himself in such a manner, as to shake her fortitude, which, with all her
virtue, was barely sufficient to hinder her eyes from giving manifest
indications of the amorous compassion that his tears and addresses had
awakened in her breast. All this tenderness, which Lothario observed,
inflamed his passion the more; and thinking there was a necessity for
shortening the siege, while this opportunity of Anselmo’s absence
lasted, he assaulted her pride with the praises of her beauty; for
nothing sooner succeeds in overthrowing the embattled towers of female
vanity, than vanity itself, employed by the tongue of adulation: in
short, he so assiduously undermined the fortress of her virtue, and
plied it with such irresistible engines, that though she had been made
of brass, she must have surrendered at mercy. He wept, intreated,
promised, flattered, feigned, and importuned, with such earnest
expressions of love, as conquered all her reserve; at last he obtained a
compleat triumph, which, though what he least expected, was what of all
things he most ardently desired; she yielded—the chaste Camilla yielded!
But what wonder? since even Lothario’s friendship gave way: a clear and
incontestible proof, that love is to be conquered by flight alone; and
that no person whatever ought to engage such a powerful adversary, hand
to hand, because nothing but force divine can subdue that human power.
‘Leonela alone was privy to the weakness of her mistress, which the two
new lovers and false friends could not possibly conceal from her
knowledge; and Lothario did not chuse to tell Camilla the contrivance of
Anselmo, who had given him the opportunity of accomplishing his design;
that she might not undervalue his love, by supposing that he courted her
by accident, without being at first really enamoured of her charms.
Anselmo returning in a few days, did not perceive the loss of that,
which, though he preserved with the least care, he prized above all
other possessions; but going in quest of Lothario, whom he found in his
own lodging, after a mutual embrace, he desired he would tell him the
news that must determine his life or death. “The news which I have to
give you, my friend,” said Lothario, “are these; you have a wife who
truly deserves to be the pattern and queen of all good women. The
expressions I used to her were spent in the air, my promises were
despised, my presents rejected, and some tears that I feigned, most
heartily ridiculed; in short, Camilla is the sum of all beauty, and the
casket in which are deposited honour, affability, modesty, and all the
qualifications that dignify and adorn a woman of virtue. Here, take back
your money, which I have had no occasion to use: the chastity of your
spouse is not to be shaken by such mean considerations as those of
promises and presents; be satisfied, Anselmo, and make no more
unprofitable trials; since you have dry-shod crossed the sea of those
doubts and suspicions which are and may be entertained of women, seek
not to plunge yourself anew into the dangerous gulf of fresh
difficulties, by using another pilot to make a second trial of the
strength and tightness of the vessel which you have received from Heaven
to perform the voyage of this life, but consider yourself as in a safe
harbour, where you ought to secure yourself with the anchor of sound
reflection, and remain until you are called upon to pay that tax from
which no human rank can exempt you.”
‘Anselmo was infinitely rejoiced at this information of Lothario, which
he believed as implicitly as if it had been pronounced by an oracle;
but, nevertheless, he besought him to continue his addresses, merely for
curiosity and amusement, though not with the same eagerness and
diligence which he had used before; he desired him to write verses in
praise of Camilla, under the name of Chloris, promising to tell his
wife, that he, Lothario, was in love with a lady whom he celebrated
under that fictitious name, in order to preserve the decorum due to her
character; and he assured him, that if Lothario did not chuse to take
the trouble of making verses, he himself would compose them for the
occasion. “You shall not need,” said Lothario; “the muses are not quite
so averse, but they visit me sometimes: you may tell Camilla what you
have mentioned, concerning my pretended love; and as for the verses, if
not adequate to the subject, they shall at all events be the best I can
make.”
‘This agreement being concerted between the impertinent husband and
treacherous friend, Anselmo returned to his own house, and asked
Camilla, what she wondered he had not mentioned before; namely, the
meaning of that letter which she had dispatched to him in the country.
She answered, that she then fancied Lothario looked at her with more
freedom than he used to take when Anselmo was at home: but now she was
undeceived, and convinced of it’s being no more than mere imagination,
for he had of late avoided all occasions of being alone with her.
Anselmo said she might make herself entirely easy, from that quarter;
for he knew that Lothario was in love with a lady of fashion in the
city, whom he celebrated under the name of Chloris; and even, if he was
free of any such engagements, there was nothing to be feared from the
honour of Lothario, and the friendship subsisting between them. If
Camilla had not been previously advertised by her secret gallant, of
this supposed love of Chloris, with which he intended to hoodwink her
husband, that he might sometimes indulge himself in her own praise,
under the cover of that name, she would, without doubt, have been
distracted with jealousy; but thus instructed, she heard him without
surprize or concern.
‘Next day, while they were at dinner, Anselmo intreated his friend to
repeat some of the verses he had composed in praise of Chloris, who
being utterly unknown to Camilla, he might securely say what he pleased.
“Tho’ she were of her acquaintance,” answered Lothario, “I should not
think myself bound to conceal my passion; for, when a lover praises the
beauty, and at the same time bewails the cruelty of his mistress, her
reputation can suffer no prejudice; but, be that as it will, I own, I
yesterday wrote a song on the ingratitude of Chloris, which you shall
hear.
I.
“When night extends her silent reign,
”And sleep vouchsafes the world to bless,
“To Heav’n and Chloris I complain
”Of dire and affluent distress.
II.
“When Phœbus, led by rosy morn,
”At first, his radiant visage shews,
“With tears, and sighs, and groans forlorn,
”My soul the bitter plaint renews.
III.
“When from his bright meridian throne,
”The dazzling rays descend amain,
“With aggravated grief I moan,
”And night brings back the woeful strain,
“Thus, to my vows and pray’rs, I find,
”My Chloris deaf, and Heav’n unkind.“
‘The song was approved by Camilla, and much more so by her husband, who
applauded it to the skies, and observed that the lady must be
excessively cruel, who could resist such a true and pathetick complaint.
“What!” said Camilla, “is every thing true that we are told by the poets
when they are in love?”—“What they rehearse as poets,” answered
Lothario, “is not always truth; but what they affirm as lovers, is
always from the heart.”—“You are certainly in the right,” replied
Anselmo, with a view of supporting and giving sanction to Lothario’s
sentiments, in the opinion of Camilla, whose indifference about her
husband’s artifice was now equal to her love for his pretended friend.
Pleased therefore with his performances, because she very well knew that
his inclinations and compositions were inspired by, and addressed to
her, who was the true Chloris, she desired him, if he had any more songs
or verses, to repeat them. “I have another,” said Lothario, “but I
believe it is not so good; or, rather, it is less tolerable than the
last. However, you shall judge for yourself; here it is.”
I.
“Yes, cruel maid! I welcome death,
”And tho’ I perish undeplor’d,
“Thy beauty with my latest breath,
”Shall be applauded and ador’d.
II.
“Tho’ lost in dark oblivion’s shade,
”Bereft of favour, life, and fame,
“My faithful heart, when open laid,
”Will shew thine image and thy name.
III.
“These reliques I preserve with care,
”My comfort in disastrous fate;
“For, steel’d and whetted by despair,
”My love new force acquires from hate.
“Unhappy those! who, darkling, sail
”Where stars, and ports, and pilots sail.“
‘This song was commended as much as the first, by Anselmo, who in this
manner added link to link of the chain with which he enslaved himself,
and secured his own dishonour: for then Lothario disgraced him most,
when he thought himself most honoured, and every step that Camilla
descended towards the very center of contempt, she, in the opinion of
her husband, mounted to the very summit of virtuous reputation. About
this time, happening to be alone with her maid, “I am ashamed, dear
Leonela,” said she, “when I consider how I have undervalued myself; for
I ought to have made Lothario employ a great deal of time in purchasing
the entire possession of my favours, which I so willingly surrendered at
once; and I am afraid that he will look upon my sudden yielding as the
effect of levity, without reflecting upon the violence of his own
addresses, which it was impossible to resist.”—“Let not that give you
the least disturbance, Madam,” answered Leonela, “for there is no reason
why a thing should lose its estimation, by being freely given, if it is
actually good in its kind and worthy of esteem; nay, it is a common
saying, That he who gives freely, gives twice.”—“There is also another
common observation,” replied Camilla, “That which is easily got is
little valued.”—“You are not at all affected by that observation,”
resumed Leonela, “for love, they say, sometimes flies, sometimes walks,
runs with one, creeps with another, warms a third, burns a fourth,
wounding some, and slaying others. In one moment it begins, performs,
and concludes its career; lays siege in the morning to a fortress, which
is surrendered before night, there being no fortress that can withstand
its power. This being the case, what cause have you to be alarmed or
afraid? This was the power that assisted Lothario, by making use of my
master’s absence, as the instrument of his success; and what love had
determined, must of necessity have been concluded during that period,
before Anselmo could, by his return, prevent the perfection of the work.
Opportunity is the best minister for executing the designs of love; and
is employed in all his undertakings, especially in the beginning of
them. This I know to be true, more by experience than hearsay; and I
shall one day tell you, Madam, that I am a girl of flesh and blood, as
well as your ladyship. Besides, your ladyship did not yield until you
had discerned in the looks, sighs, protestations, promises, and presents
of Lothario, his whole soul undisguised, and adorned with such virtues
as rendered him worthy of your love. Let not, therefore, these
scrupulous and whining reflections harrass your imagination; but assure
yourself, that Lothario’s love and yours are mutual: so that you may
think yourself extremely happy, in being caught in the amorous snare by
a man of worth and honour, who not only possesses the four qualities
beginning with S[94], which ought to be the case of all true lovers, but
also a whole alphabet of accomplishments. Listen, and you shall hear how
cleverly I will recount them. He is, in my simple opinion, amiable,
benevolent, courageous, diverting, enamoured, firm, gay, honourable,
illustrious, loyal, mettlesome, noble, obedient, princely, qualified,
rich, and the S. S. as I have already observed. Then, he is trusty,
vigilant; the X does not suit him, because it is a harsh letter; Y
stands for youth, and Z for zeal, in his attachment to you.”
‘Camilla laughed at the alphabet of her maid, whom she found more
knowing in the affairs of love than she pretended to be; and this
knowledge indeed she confessed, disclosing to her mistress an intrigue
that she carried on with a young man of a good family in town. Camilla
was disturbed at this information, fearing that her honour ran some risk
from their correspondence; and when she pressed her to confess, whether
or not it had been brought to the last extremity, she, without the least
symptom of shame, answered in the affirmative; for, it is very certain,
that the failings of mistresses divest their servants of all modesty;
because, seeing their ladies trip, they think themselves intitled to
halt, without being at the trouble to conceal their defect. Camilla,
thus circumstanced, could fall upon no other expedient than that of
cautioning her maid against betraying her to the person who was her
gallant, and beseeching her to keep her own intrigue secret, that it
might not fall under the observation of Anselmo and Lothario.
‘Leonela promised to be upon her guard, but managed her affairs with so
little discretion, that she confirmed Camilla in the apprehension of
losing her reputation by the carelessness of her maid; for the bold and
immodest Leonela, seeing that her lady’s conduct was not the same as
formerly, had the assurance to introduce and conceal her lover in the
house, conscious, that although her mistress should perceive, she durst
not detect him in that situation. Among other disadvantages incurred by
these slips of women of fashion, they become slaves to their own
servants, and find themselves obliged to connive at their impudence and
vice.
‘This was the very case of Camilla, who, though she more than once
observed Leonela engaged with her gallant, in one of the chambers, far
from reprimanding her on that score, she gave opportunities of
concealing him, and did all she could to prevent his being seen by her
husband. But all their caution could not screen him from the notice of
Lothario; who, perceiving him come out of the house, one morning at
break of day, and not knowing who he was, at first mistook him for a
phantom; but seeing him run away, and seek to hide himself with care and
concern, he soon changed that simple opinion for another, which would
have ruined them all, had not Camilla found out an expedient to prevent
their destruction. He was so far from thinking, that this man whom he
saw coming out of Anselmo’s house, at such an unseasonable hour, had
gone in on Leonela’s account, that he did not even remember there was
such a person in the world; on the contrary, he was firmly persuaded,
that Camilla, who yielded so easily to his addresses, had acted in the
same manner to some other person; for this additional misfortune attends
a loose woman, that she loses her credit even with the man by whose
importunities and intreaties her honour has subdued. Nay, he believes,
that she will be more easily won by another than by him, and implicitly
credits every suspicion that may arise from that unjust inference. On
this occasion, Lothario’s good sense failed, and all his caution seemed
to vanish; since, regardless of every thing that was right or
reasonable, without farther examination, he hied him to Anselmo before
he was up, where, impatient and blind with the jealous fury that preyed
upon his entrails, and inflamed with the desire of being revenged upon
Camilla, who had given him no offence, he expressed himself thus.
‘“You must know, Anselmo, that for some days past, I have had a
continual struggle with myself, endeavouring to suppress that which I no
longer either can or ought to conceal from your knowledge. The fortress
of Camilla is at last surrendered, and submitted entirely to the
dominion of my will. This I have delayed imparting to you, until I
should be certain whether her compliance was owing to some transient
flash of affection, or to the desire of trying the sincerity of those
addresses which, by your own direction, were carried on; and I likewise
concluded, that if she was a woman of honour and virtue as we both
imagined, she would ere now have given you an account of my
solicitation. But finding that still undone, I take it for granted she
means to keep her promise of giving me an interview in the wardrobe, the
very next time you go to the country; (and here it was where Camilla
actually used to entertain him) but I should not wish that you would run
precipitately into any scheme of vengeance. However, as the crime is
committed in thought only, before an opportunity offers of performing
that promise, Camilla may change her mind, and repent of her weakness.
Wherefore, as you have hitherto, in whole or in part, followed my
advice, I hope you will treasure up and observe one which I shall now
offer, that you may, without the least possibility of being deceived,
carefully and cautiously satisfy yourself, so as to take such measures
as your prudence shall suggest. You may pretend that you are going, as
usual, for two or three days to the country, and in the mean time
conceal yourself in the wardrobe, where you will find tapestry and
plenty of other things for the purpose; from thence you, with your own
eyes, as I with mine, will observe the conduct of Camilla, and if
unhappily you should find more cause to fear than to hope, you may in
person revenge your own wrongs, with silence, safety, and discretion.”
‘Anselmo was thunderstruck at this declaration of Lothario, which came
upon him when he least expected it; for he already looked upon Camilla
as a conqueror in the fictitious assaults of his friend, and had
actually began to enjoy the glory of her triumph. After having stood
silent for a long time, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, “Lothario,”
said he, “you have acted up to the expectation of my friendship: I will
adhere to your advice in every thing; do what you please; I hope you
will keep this unexpected affair as secret as the nature of it
requires.”
‘His false friend promised to observe the caution; but soon as he
quitted the apartment, repented of every thing he had said, reflecting
how foolishly he had proceeded, and that he might have punished Camilla
by means less cruel and dishonourable. He cursed his own folly,
condemned his precipitation, and endeavoured to find out some expedient
to undo what he had done, or at least bring it to some favourable issue.
At length, he resolved to disclose the whole to Camilla, as there wanted
not opportunities of being with her alone; and that very day being
together, she made use of the first that happened, addressing herself to
him in this manner. “Know, my dear Lothario, that my heart is ready to
burst with one affliction, which is so grievous that it will be a wonder
if I survive it: Leonela is arrived to such a pitch of impudence, that
every night she introduces a gallant into the house, and remains with
him till morning, very much at the expence of my reputation, as the
field is left open for any malicious construction, upon seeing a man
come out of my house at such unseasonable hours; and the misfortune is,
I dare neither chide nor chastise her for her audacity; for her being
privy to our correspondence puts a bridle in my mouth, obliging me to be
silent on the subject of her folly, from which I fear some mischance
will befal us.”
‘When Camilla began this discourse, Lothario imagined it was an artifice
to deceive and persuade him that the man he had seen coming out of the
house had been there on Leonela’s account only; but, seeing his mistress
weep, and in the utmost affection entreat him to find out some remedy
for this inconvenience, he was convinced of the truth, and covered with
shame and remorse for what he had done; nevertheless, he desired Camilla
to make herself easy, and promised to fall upon some method to curb
Leonela’s insolence. He then told her what, instigated by the rage of
jealousy, he had disclosed to Anselmo, who by his appointment was to
conceal himself in the wardrobe, that he might have an incontestible
proof of her infidelity: he begged pardon for his madness, with advice
how to remedy it, and to extricate himself from the labyrinth in which
he was involved by his own imprudence. Camilla was astonished at the
discourse of Lothario, whom she chid and reprimanded with great reason
and resentment, for the groundless suspicion which had driven him to
such a mad and mischievous resolution; but women having naturally more
invention than men can boast of, either for a good or bad occasion,
though sometimes they fail in premeditated schemes, Camilla instantly
thought of a cure for this seemingly incurable dilemma, and bade
Lothario prevail upon her husband to conceal himself in the appointed
place, the very next day; for she hoped to reap such advantage from his
concealment, as that for the future they should enjoy each other without
the least fear or interruption. She, therefore, without disclosing to
her lover the whole of her plan, desired him to take care, when Anselmo
was hid, to come at Leonela’s call, and answer every question she should
ask, in the same manner as he would reply if he did not know that her
husband was within hearing. Lothario insisted upon knowing the
particulars of her scheme, that he might with more security and success
perform his cue; but Camilla assured him he had nothing to do but answer
her questions with truth and sincerity; being unwilling to make him
previously acquainted with her design, lest he should disapprove of that
which to her seemed so necessary, and recommend another which perhaps
she might not think so effectual. Accordingly, Lothario took his leave,
and next day Anselmo, under pretence of going to his friend’s
country-house, set out, but soon returned to his hiding-place; Camilla
and her maid having purposely given him an opportunity of getting in
unseen. There he remained in a state of perturbation, which may be
easily conceived to harrass the breast of a man who expected to see with
his own eyes the bowels of his honour dissected, and found himself on
the brink of losing that supreme bliss which he thought he possessed in
his beloved Camilla.
‘She and her maid, by this time, certified of his being there, went to
the wardrobe, which Camilla no sooner entered, than heaving a profound
sigh, “Dear Leonela,” said she, “rather than execute the design which I
conceal from your knowledge, that you may not endeavour to prevent it,
would it not be better for you to take this poignard of Anselmo, and
plunge it in my unfortunate bosom? Yet do not, Leonela; for it were
unreasonable that I should be punished for another’s crime; I want first
to know what the daring and licentious eyes of Lothario have discerned
in my conduct, that should encourage him to declare a passion so guilty
as that which he hath owned, so much to my dishonour and the prejudice
of his friend. Go to that window, Leonela, and beckon to him, for
doubtless he is now in the street, expecting to succeed in his wicked
intention; but I shall first execute mine, which is equally honourable
and severe.”—“Alas, Madam!” answered the cunning and well-instructed
Leonela, “how do you intend to use that fatal poignard? are you
determined to take away your own life, or that of Lothario? by
sacrificing either the one or the other, you will entirely ruin your own
reputation. You should rather stifle your wrongs, than give that wicked
wretch an opportunity of finding us here alone; consider, Madam, that we
are but weak women, and he a determined man, who, blinded by his guilty
passion, may by force deprive you of that which you value more than
life, before you can execute your purpose upon him. A plague upon my
master Anselmo, for allowing that impudent fellow to be so free in his
house! besides, Madam, should you kill him, as I believe you intend to
do, what shall we do with him after he is dead?”—“Nothing, my friend,”
replied Camilla, “but let Anselmo bury him; for he ought to take
pleasure in the task of interring his own infamy. Go and beckon to him,
I say, for every moment I delay my just revenge seems to injure afresh
that fidelity which I owe to my husband.”
‘All this conversation was overheard by Anselmo, whose sentiments were
entirely changed by what Camilla said; and when he understood that she
intended to kill Lothario, he was inclined to come out and discover
himself, in order to prevent the deed; but he was diverted from that
resolution by the desire of seeing the issue of his wife’s gallant and
virtuous determination; purposing, however, to appear seasonably enough
for the safety of his friend.
‘About this time Camilla throwing herself upon a couch, was seized with
a violent fit, during which Leonela wept bitterly, exclaiming, “Ah, woe
is me! must I then see, expiring in these unfortunate arms, the flower
of human virtue, the queen of excellent wives, the pattern of chastity!”
with other epithets of the same kind, which nobody could have heard,
without esteeming her the most faithful and afflicted damsel upon earth,
and her mistress another persecuted Penelope. Camilla, having soon
recovered from her fit, said to her woman, “Why don’t you go and call
this the most faithful friend that ever was seen by the day, or shrouded
by the night? Make haste; go, run, fly; let not the fire of my rage be
consumed by your delay, and the just vengeance I mean to take evaporate
in curses and unsubstantial threats.”—“I go,” answered Leonela, “but you
must first give me that poignard, lest, in my absence, you do a deed to
make all those who love you weep to the end of their lives.”—“Go, dear
Leonela,” replied her mistress, “and fear nothing; for although, in your
opinion, I may be rash and even unreasonable, in thus resenting the
affront upon my honour; I shall not behave like that Lucretia, who, ’tis
said, killed herself, though innocent, without having first punished the
villainous cause of her misfortune. If I must die, I will at least fall
fully revenged of him who is the occasion of my being here, to bewail
his audacious behaviour, which, I am sure, proceeded from no misconduct
of mine.”
‘Many intreaties did she use, before Leonela would go and call Lothario,
but at length she prevailed; the maid went out to seek him, and, in her
absence, Camilla uttered the following soliloquy. “Good Heaven! would it
not have been more prudent to dismiss Lothario as usual, than to give
him this occasion of thinking me vicious and immodest, even though that
opinion can only last until I have an opportunity of undeceiving him?
Yes, certainly; but I shall not think myself revenged, nor the honour of
my husband sufficiently vindicated, if he escapes so smooth and clean
from this snare into which his wicked inclinations have decoyed him. Let
the traitor pay with his life for the enterprize of his lascivious
desire; the world shall know, if even the affair be made publick, that
Camilla not only preserved her affection for her husband inviolate, but
also took vengeance on the man who thought to impair it. Yet, methinks,
I ought to disclose the whole to Anselmo; but I have already touched
upon the subject, in the letter I sent to him when he was in the
country; and his omitting to apply a remedy to the evil I then hinted
at, must certainly be owing to his own integrity and unsuspecting heart,
which would not suffer him to believe, that the breast of such a
constant friend could harbour one thought to the prejudice of his
honour; indeed, this was my own opinion, until his behaviour became
intolerably licentious, and his presents, promises, and tears, fully
manifested his guilty purpose. But, wherefore these reflections? does a
gallant resolution stand in need of hesitating advice? No! traitor,
avaunt! hither vengeance! enter, thou false, perfidious wretch, come,
quick, be speedy, die, and let the consequence be what it will! Pure and
unspotted I came into the possession of him whom Heaven appointed to be
my husband and my lord, and equally pure shall I leave his embrace,
though bathed in my own chaste blood, and embrued in the tainted gore of
the falsest friend that ever friendship saw!” So saying, she brandished
the drawn dagger in her hand, and stalked across the room with such
disordered steps and violent gestures, that she seemed to have lost her
senses, and looked more like a desperate ruffian than a delicate wife.
‘All this transport and agitation was perceived, with astonishment, by
Anselmo, where he stood concealed behind the tapestry; he thought he had
now seen and heard enough to dispel suspicions of a stronger kind than
those he entertained; and even wished that the proof might proceed no
farther, by Lothario’s failing to keep the appointment; for he was
afraid that some sudden unlucky accident might happen. Being therefore
on the point of shewing himself, and running to embrace and undeceive
his wife, he was prevented by seeing Leonela return with his friend,
whom Camilla no sooner beheld, than drawing a line before her, with the
dagger, she said, “Take notice, Lothario, if you attempt to pass this
line, or even approach it, the moment I perceive your intention, I will
plunge the poignard in my breast. Without offering the least reply,
therefore, to this declaration, I desire you will listen to some
questions I mean to ask, which you may answer as you shall think proper;
in the first place, tell me, Lothario, if you know my husband Anselmo,
and what station he maintains in your opinion? and then be as explicit
in your sentiments of me; answer without perturbation or difficulty, for
the questions I ask are easily solved.”
‘Lothario was not so ignorant, but that he had conceived her design,
from the moment of her desiring him to advise Anselmo to conceal
himself; and therefore his replies were so seasonable, and corresponded
so exactly with her aim, that this fiction had all the air of the most
genuine truth. “Beauteous Camilla,” said he, “I did not imagine you had
sent for me with a view of asking questions so foreign to the purpose
for which I come; if you meant to delay the promised bliss, you might
have protracted the assignation to a more distant term; for, the nearer
the prospect of enjoyment is, the more grievous will the disappointment
be: but that you may have no cause to complain of my refusing to answer
your demands, I will own that I know your husband Anselmo, with whom I
have been intimate from our most tender years. Of the friendship (as you
know) subsisting between us, I will say nothing, that I may not bear
witness to the wrong which love, the powerful excuse of greater crimes,
compels me to commit: you too I know, and rate as high as you can
possibly be in his esteem; for a prize of less value I should not have
acted so unbecoming my own character, or transgressed those laws of
perfect friendship, which I have broken and violated, at the instigation
of that mischievous and irresistible power.”
‘“Since thou art self-convicted so far,” replied Camilla, “thou mortal
enemy to all that merits love! with what face darest thou appear before
her who is the mirror that reflects him, and in which thou oughtest to
have seen how little reason and encouragement thou hadst to wrong his
honour; but, unfortunate that I am! I have found out the cause that
induced thee to forget thyself so far; it must have been some lightness
of carriage in me; immodesty I will not call it, because it could not be
the effect of deliberate determination, but must have proceeded from a
neglect of some of those forms which women often inadvertently omit
before those whom they think they can entertain without ceremony.
Otherwise, tell me, traitor, when did I ever answer thy addresses with
any word or sign that could awaken in thy breast the least glimpse of
hope to accomplish thy infamous aim? Did I not always reject and reprove
thy amorous protestations with rigour and severity? and when were thy
promises and presents believed and accepted? But, as I think no person
could long persevere in such a flagitious intention, without being
supported by some sort of hope, I am willing to lay the blame of your
impertinence at my own door; since, without doubt, some failure of care
in me, hath enabled you to exert yours so long; and therefore, I will
inflict upon myself the punishment that your crime deserves; but that
you may see, in being thus inhuman to myself, it was impossible for me
to deal mildly by you, I have invited you hither, to be witness of the
sacrifice I mean to offer to the injured honour of my noble husband,
whom you have aggrieved to the utmost of your power, I myself being
accessary to the wrong, because I have not industriously enough avoided
all occasion, if I gave you any, of favouring and countenancing your
wicked inclinations. I say, the suspicion I have, that some levity of
mine engendered such frantick sentiments in your bosom, gives me the
utmost pain, and prompts me to chastise my indiscretion with my own
hands, rather than make my fault more publick, by submitting to another
executioner; but, if I must perish, my fall shall be accompanied with
the death of him whose blood will satisfy the vengeance which I already
in some measure enjoy, when I consider that wheresoever I go, I shall
have before mine eyes, the victim I offered to the most disinterested
justice, in punishing the wretch who hath reduced me to this despair.”
‘So saying, she assaulted Lothario with incredible force and agility,
manifesting such eagerness to plunge the poignard in his breast, that he
himself doubted whether her endeavours were feigned or real; and was
actually obliged to exert his whole strength in defending himself from
Camilla, who acted this strange imposture so much to the life, that, in
order to give it the greater appearance of truth, she resolved to colour
it with her own blood; for seeing, or feigning, that she could not touch
Lothario, she cried, “Though fate denies me the full satisfaction of my
just desire, it cannot rob me of one part of my revenge.” With these
words, struggling to disengage her dagger-hand, which was held by
Lothario, she at last succeeded, and directing her poignard to a part of
her body, which she thought she might slightly wound without danger, she
sheathed it between her shoulder and left-breast, and fell upon the
floor as in a swoon.
‘Leonela and Lothario were astonished and confounded at this event, and
still dubious whether or not Camilla was in earnest, when they saw her
stretched upon the ground, and bathed in her own blood. Lothario ran, in
the utmost fright and consternation, to draw forth the dagger; but
perceiving what a superficial wound she had made, he recovered of the
terror which had began to seize him, and could not help admiring anew,
the uncommon sagacity, prudence, and discretion, of the beautiful
Camilla; that he might therefore proceed in the part he had to act, he
began to make long and sorrowful lamentation over the body, as if she
had been really dead, imprecating a thousand curses, not only upon
himself, but also upon him who was the original cause of this disaster;
and as he knew that Anselmo was listening, said such melancholy things,
that whosoever had heard him, would have pitied his case, as much as
that of Camilla, though they had believed her actually dead.
‘Leonela lifted her up, and laying her on the bed, earnestly entreated
Lothario to find some person who would cure her privately; and begged he
would advise her, with regard to what she should tell Anselmo, about her
lady’s wound, in case he should return before she was cured: he said she
might tell him what she pleased, for he was then in no condition to give
any profitable advice about the matter; he only desired her to fall upon
some method of staunching the blood, and declared that for his own part
he would go where man should never see him. He accordingly departed with
the appearance of infinite grief and anxiety, and when he found himself
alone, in a private place, crossed himself with amazement at the
invention of Camilla, and the artful behaviour of her maid. He could
easily conceive that Anselmo was by this time thoroughly convinced of
his having a second Portia for his wife; and was impatient to see him,
that they might together extol her behaviour, which, though imposture,
had more appearance of truth than any thing of the same kind that had
ever been practised.
‘Leonela, as she was desired, stopped her lady’s blood, of which there
was just enough to give credit to her artifice; and washing the wound
with a little wine, bound it up as well as she could, uttering such
sorrowful expressions all the time, as would have been sufficient,
without any previous lamentation, to persuade Anselmo that his wife was
the mirror of chastity. Leonela’s complaints were joined by those of her
mistress, who taxed herself with cowardice and pusillanimity, in having
lost the best opportunity she should ever have of parting with that life
which she abhorred. She consulted her maid about disclosing the whole
affair to her beloved spouse; but this scheme Leonela opposed, observing
that it would lay her master under an obligation of taking vengeance on
Lothario; a satisfaction he could not enjoy without exposing himself to
great danger; and that a virtuous woman, far from seeking to involve her
husband in quarrels, was in duty bound to keep him free of all such
disputes, by every method in her power. Camilla seemed to approve of her
maid’s prudence, and promised to follow her advice; but said it would be
necessary at all events to invent some excuse to Anselmo about the
wound, which he could not fail of observing. Leonela assuring her, that
they could never tell a lye even in jest, the mistress replied, “What
shall I do then, child? for I would not attempt to frame and maintain a
falshood, even though my life depended upon it; since, therefore, we
know not how to extricate ourselves otherwise, we must e’en discover the
naked truth, rather than run the risk of being detected in a
lye.”—“Don’t give yourself any farther uneasiness, Madam,” said Leonela;
“by to-morrow morning I shall have found some expedient; perhaps the
wound being where it is, may be concealed from his view, and Heaven
vouchsafe to favour our upright and honourable intention. Compose
yourself, dear Madam, endeavour to calm the perturbation of your
spirits, that my master may not perceive your disorder, and leave the
consequence to my care and that of Heaven, which never fails to favour
the righteous design.”
‘Anselmo listened with the utmost attention to this tragedy of the death
of his honour, which was represented with such exquisite and surprizing
address, that the actors seemed really transformed into the very
characters they feigned; he longed impatiently for night, and an
opportunity of escaping unseen, that he might fly to his worthy friend
Lothario, and receive his congratulation upon the precious jewel he had
found in this vindication of his wife’s virtue; they took care to
furnish him with the occasion he wanted; and he, without letting it
slip, ran immediately in quest of Lothario. It would be difficult to
describe the eagerness of his embraces at meeting, or to recount the
expressions he used in the overflowings of his satisfaction, and the
extravagant praises he bestowed on Camilla. All these Lothario heard,
without being able to manifest the least signs of joy; his reflections
taxed him with the deceit he had practised, and the injury he had done
his unsuspecting friend. Anselmo took notice that he did not seem to
participate in his pleasure, but believed his concern proceeded from the
thoughts of having been the occasion of Camilla’s wound: he therefore,
among other things, told him to make himself easy on that score, for the
hurt must certainly have been very slight, as they had agreed to conceal
it from his knowledge; and since there was no bad consequence to be
apprehended, he hoped for the future to enjoy, in mirth and good-humour,
the friendship of his dear Lothario, by whose industry and mediation he
now saw himself raised to the most sublime pitch of human felicity; at
the same time he signified, that his desire and design was to pursue no
other amusement than that of composing verses in praise of Camilla, that
should transmit to latest posterity the remembrance of her worth.
‘Lothario commended his laudable determination, and promised to
contribute all that lay in his power towards the rearing of such an
illustrious edifice; so that Anselmo being the most agreeably deceived
of any man that ever lived, led by the hand to his own house, the very
man who, though in his opinion the instrument of his glory, was the
total perdition of his fame. Camilla received him with a countenance
expressing resentment, but a soul brimful of joy; and their secret
correspondence continued uninterrupted for a few months, at the end of
which the wheel of fortune having performed a full circle, the intrigue,
which had been hitherto so artfully concealed, was discovered, and
Anselmo’s Impertinent Curiosity cost him his life.’
Footnote 94:
_Sensato, secreto, sobrepusado, senzero_; Sensible, secret,
surpassing, and sincere.
CHAP. VIII.
THE CONCLUSION OF THE IMPERTINENT CURIOSITY.
A little more of this novel remained to be read, when Sancho came
running in great confusion, from the garret where his master Don Quixote
lay, bawling aloud, ‘Come hither, gentlemen! make haste to the
assistance of my master, who is this precious minute engaged and
grappled in the toughest battle that ever my eyes beheld! Egad, he has
given that same giant, the enemy to my Lady the princess of Micomicona,
such a back-stroke, as hath sliced off his head as smooth and clean as
the skin of a turnip.’—‘What do you mean, brother?’ said the curate,
closing the book; ‘are you in your right wits, Sancho? How the devil can
your master be fighting with a giant who is two thousand leagues from
hence?’
That instant they heard a great noise in the apartment, and Don Quixote
proclaiming aloud, ‘Stay, villain! robber! caitiff! here I have thee,
and thy scymitar shall not avail.’ Then he began to strike furiously at
the walls; and Sancho exclaimed, ‘Don’t stand here listening, but go in
and part the fray, or lend your assistance to my master, though I
believe that will be needless by this time, for the giant is certainly
dead, and giving an account to God of his wicked and misspent life: nay,
I saw, with my own eyes, his blood running about the floor, and his head
cut off, laying on one side, as a large wine bag.’—‘May I be hanged,’
cried the innkeeper, at these words, ‘if this Don Quixote, or Don Devil,
has not cut open one of the skins filled with red wine, that stood at
his bed’s head, and the wine that ran out is mistaken by this simple
fellow for blood!’
So saying, he rushed into the apartment with the whole company at his
heels, and found the knight in a very ludicrous situation; he appeared
in his shirt, which was too scanty before to cover his thighs, and still
shorter behind, by six inches at least, and displayed a pair of long
lank legs, imbrowned with hair, and not extremely clean; his head was
covered with a little, red, greasy night-cap, belonging to the landlord;
round his left-arm he had wrapped the blanket of his bed, to which
Sancho, for good reasons known to himself, bore an inveterate grudge;
and in his right, he wielded his drawn sword, with which he laid about
him at a furious rate, talking as if he was actually at blows with the
giant; but, what was very surprizing, his eyes were shut all the time,
and he was fast asleep, dreaming of this encounter; for his imagination
was so much engrossed by the adventure he had undertaken to atchieve, as
to make him dream that he was already arrived in the kingdom of
Micomicon, and engaged in single combat with his gigantick adversary;
instead of whom, he hacked the wine-bags so furiously, that the whole
room was afloat with their contents.
The innkeeper no sooner perceived this havock, than incensed to the last
degree, he assaulted Don Quixote with his clenched fists, and began to
pummel him so severely, that if the curate and Cardenio had not
interposed, he would soon have put an end to the adventure of the giant;
yet, for all that, the poor knight did not awake until the barber
fetching a kettle of cold water from the well, soused him all over; even
then, though sleep forsook him, he did not recollect the situation he
was in; and Dorothea, seeing him so slight and airily equipped, did not
chuse to be a spectator of the combat between her adversary and
protector. Meanwhile, Sancho went about the room, prying into every
corner, and searching for the giant’s head; which when he could not
find, ‘I know,’ said he, ‘that every thing goes by inchantment in this
house: the last time I was in this very spot, I received a great many
thwacks and thumps without seeing a soul, or being able to guess from
whence they came; and now this head is vanished, though I saw it cut off
with mine own eyes, and the blood spout out of the body, like water from
a fountain.’—‘What! dost thou talk of blood and fountains, thou enemy of
God and his saints!’ cried the inn-keeper; ‘don’t you see, rascal, that
there is no blood or fountain, but the skins that are pierced, and the
red wine that swims about the room? I hope the soul of him who pierced
them, will swim in hell!’—‘I know nothing of the matter,’ replied
Sancho; ‘but that, on account of my not finding the head, I shall see my
earldom dissolve like salt in water.’
Thus the squire, though awake, was more extravagant than Don Quixote in
his dream; such an impression had his master’s promises made upon his
imagination. The phlegmatick temper of the squire, together with the
mischievous disposition of the knight, well-nigh distracted the
landlord, who swore, that they should not now, as formerly, go away
without paying; and that all the privilege of their errantry should not
exempt them from paying both reckonings to the last farthing, for the
damage they had done, even to the bits of leather for patching the
wine-skins that were cut. The curate, by this time, had got hold of the
hands of Don Quixote, who, believing he had now finished the adventure,
and was in presence of the Princess Micomicona, fell upon his knees
before the priest, saying, ‘Renowned princess, your highness may
henceforth live secure of what that misbegotten wretch can do; and I,
from this day forward, am acquitted of my promise, which is now, by the
assistance of Heaven above, and the favour of her for whom I live and
breathe, happily and fully performed.’—‘Did not I tell you so?’ cried
Sancho, hearing these words. ‘You see I am not drunk, and may take
notice that my master hath put the giant in pickle: the holidays will
certainly come round, and the earldom fit me to a hair.’
Who could refrain from laughing at the follies of the master and man?
they occasioned abundance of mirth to every one present, except the
landlord, who cursed himself to the devil. At length the barber, curate,
and Cardenio, with no small difficulty, put the knight to bed again,
where he fell fast asleep in an instant, like one who had been
excessively fatigued; they left him to his repose, and went out to
console Sancho for his disappointment in losing the giant’s head; but
they found it a harder task to pacify the innkeeper, who was driven
almost to despair, by the sudden death of his wine-bags; besides, the
landlady began to cry, in a whimpering tone, ‘In an unlucky minute and
evil hour did this knight-errant enter my doors! for I am sure, I never
beheld him without paying dearly for the sight! The last time he was
here, he refused to defray a whole night’s expence of supper, lodging,
straw, and barley, for himself and his squire, his horse and his ass;
saying that he was a knight-errant, forsooth: (God send him and all
other knights-errant upon errands that will tend to their sorrow!) and
therefore, was not obliged to pay for any thing, because it was not
ordained in the registers of chivalry; then, this gentleman coming after
him t’other day, borrowed my tail, and though I have got it again, it is
a good penny the worse for the wearing, the hair being plucked off in
such a manner as makes it unfit for my husband’s purpose; and to finish
and conclude the whole, my bags are broke, and my wine spilt; (would I
could see his heart’s blood in the same condition!) but he must not
think to get off so easily, for by the bones of my father, and my
mother’s soul! they shall pay for every thing upon the nail; or, may I
never be called by my own name again, or believed to be my father’s own
child!’
These, and other expressions of the same kind, were uttered, with great
bitterness, by the landlady; and her faithful servant Maritornes joined
in the exclamation; while the daughter held her peace, and, from time to
time, smiled at their indignation, which at last was appeased by the
curate, who promised to give them satisfaction, to the best of his
power, for the loss they had sustained in bags and wine, and, in
particular, for the damage done to the tail, which they valued so
highly; and Dorothea comforted Sancho, by telling him, that as soon as
ever it should appear that his master had actually cut off the giant’s
head, and she should find herself in quiet possession of her kingdom,
she would bestow upon him the best earldom in her gift. The squire was
consoled by this promise, and assured the princess, that he was certain
he had seen the giant’s head, by the same token that he had a huge beard
that flowed down to his middle; and that the whole was now vanished,
because every thing in that house was performed by inchantment, as he
had found by woeful experience, the last time he had lodged in that
apartment. Dorothea said she was of the same opinion, desiring he would
give himself no uneasiness, for every thing would be for the best, and
succeed to his heart’s content. The quiet of the house being thus
re-established, the curate wanted to read the remaining part of the
novel, which he perceived already drew near a close; and Cardenio,
Dorothea, and the rest, intreating him to finish the story, he, with a
view of pleasing them as well as himself, proceeded in these words.
‘Anselmo being now satisfied of his wife’s virtue, enjoyed himself
without the least disturbance or care; while Camilla, in order to
disguise her real sentiments, affected always to frown upon Lothario,
who, as a farther sanction to this stratagem, desired Anselmo to excuse
him from coming to his house, since it was plain that Camilla was
disgusted at his presence: but the infatuated Anselmo would by no means
comply with this request; so that this unhappy husband was, in a
thousand shapes, the author of his own dishonour, while, in his own
opinion, he was laying up a store of happiness and reputation.
‘About this time Leonela’s desire of gratifying her own loose wishes,
carried her to such a pitch of imprudence, that she gave her wantonness
the rein without the least caution; conscious that her mistress would
conceal her conduct, and even advise her how to carry on the intrigue
without the least danger of being detected. At length, however, Anselmo,
one night heard somebody walking in her apartment, and endeavouring to
get in and see who it was, found the door shut against him. This
circumstance increased his desire, he made a violent effort, and the
door flew open, upon which he entered, and seeing a man leap out of the
window into the street, ran hastily to lay hold or get sight of him; but
he was disappointed in both by Leonela, who hanging upon her master,
cried, “Hold, dear Sir! be not surprized, nor seek to pursue the person
who is fled; he was here on my account, and is as good as my wedded
husband.”
‘Anselmo would give no credit to her words, but, blinded with passion,
drew his poignard to stab Leonela, whom he commanded to reveal the truth
on pain of immediate death. She, terrified by his threats, answered,
without knowing what she said, “Spare my life, good Sir, and I will
disclose things of greater importance than you imagine.”—“Speak, then,”
cried Anselmo, “or thou shalt instantly die.”—“At present,” replied
Leonela, “I am in such perturbation, that I cannot possibly make a
distinct confession; delay your vengeance till to-morrow morning, and
then you shall hear something that will strike you with astonishment:
meanwhile, be assured, that he who leaped out of the window, is a young
man of this city, who has given me a promise of marriage.”
‘Anselmo being somewhat pacified by this declaration, resolved to grant
the respite she demanded; though he never dreamed of hearing any thing
to the prejudice of Camilla, of whose virtue he was satisfied and
secure; he therefore quitted the room, in which however he locked up
Leonela, telling her she must continue in that place, until she should
have made this promised discovery; then going to Camilla, informed her
of every thing that had passed, together with the promise her maid had
made of discovering things of great importance. It is almost needless to
say that Camilla was disturbed at this information: the terror that took
possession of her was such, that believing, with good reason too,
Leonela would actually disclose to Anselmo every circumstance of her
infidelity, she had not resolution enough to wait the issue of her
suspicion; but that very night, while her husband was asleep, collected
the best of her jewels, with some money, and getting out of the house,
without being perceived, fled to Lothario, and recounted what had
happened, at the same time beseeching him to put her in a place of
safety, or accompany her to some retreat, where they should be secure
from the search of Anselmo.
‘Such was the confusion of Lothario, at the news of this unexpected
event, that he could not answer one syllable, nor for some time resolve
upon what was to be done. At length he proposed to carry Camilla to a
monastery, the abbess of which was his first cousin; and his mistress
consenting to the proposal, he conducted her thither with all the
dispatch which the nature of the case required, and leaving her to the
care of his relation, quitted the city that very night, without
imparting the cause of his absence to any living soul.
‘Next morning, soon as it was day, Anselmo, without perceiving that
Camilla was gone, so eagerly did he long to hear this confession of her
maid, arose and went directly to the room in which he had confined her;
but he no sooner opened the door, and entered the apartment, than he
perceived the sheets of the bed tied together, hanging out of the
window; a manifest proof that Leonela had lowered herself down into the
street, by means of that contrivance: he then returned, with a good deal
of chagrin, to communicate his disappointment to Camilla, whom when he
could not find, he was seized with the utmost consternation, especially
as none of the servants could give the least account of her departure;
but chancing, in the course of his enquiry, to find the coffers open,
and the best part of her jewels carried off, he began to comprehend his
disgrace; and concluded that Leonela was not the cause of his
misfortune.
‘Dispirited with this reflection, he did not stay to dress, but went in
a most disconsolate situation, to give an account of his mishap to his
friend Lothario; and when he understood from his servants, that their
master had gone out in the night, and carried all his ready money along
with him, he had well-nigh lost his senses. To crown his misery, he
returned to his own house, which was deserted by all his servants, and
found himself the most solitary being in nature; he knew not what to
think, say, or do, and his judgment began to be impaired; for, upon
recollection, he perceived that he was in an instant deprived of wife,
friend, and servants, renounced by Heaven, and, what he felt more deeply
than any other part of his disaster, destitute of honour, by the
misconduct of Camilla, from which he dated his utter destruction. At
length, after a long internal struggle, he resolved to go to the
country-house of his friend, where he had been, when he furnished the
opportunity of planning his own ruin. Accordingly, having locked his
door, he mounted his horse, and almost fainting under the burden of his
woes, set out for that place; but scarce had he travelled one half of
the way, when harrassed by his shocking reflections, he was obliged to
alight and tie his horse to a tree, at the root of which he threw
himself down, giving vent to the most lamentable sighs that ever were
heaved: there he remained till the twilight; about which time,
perceiving a man coming on horseback from the city, after salutation, he
asked what news were stirring at Florence. “The strangest,” replied the
citizen, “that have been heard these many days; it is publickly
reported, that Lothario, the intimate friend of Anselmo the rich, who
lived at St. John’s, hath this last night carried off the wife of his
friend, who is also missing. This discovery was made to the governor by
Camilla’s maid, who was detected in letting herself down by a sheet,
from one of the windows of Anselmo’s house. In short, I do not know the
particulars exactly; but the whole city is astonished at this event,
which they could never have expected from the intimacy of the two
gentlemen, who were so strictly united in the bands of amity, as to
acquire the title of the Two Friends.”—“Do you know what road Lothario
and Camilla have taken?” said Anselmo. “That is not yet discovered,”
replied the traveller; “though the governor hath used great diligence in
the enquiry.” Anselmo wished him a good evening; and the citizen having
returned the compliment, proceeded on his journey.
‘These unhappy news reduced this ill-fated husband to the verge of death
as well as distraction. He mounted, however, as well as he could, and
arrived at the house of his friend, who had not as yet heard of his
misfortune; but seeing him so exhausted, ghastly, and pale, imagined he
had met with some grievous disaster. Anselmo begged to be put to bed
immediately, and furnished with pen, ink, and paper: thus provided, he
was left alone, and the chamber locked at his own desire; then the
remembrance of his misfortune began to be so heavy upon his soul, that
he plainly perceived his end approaching, and being desirous of
declaring the cause of his strange and sudden death, he took up the pen;
but, before he could execute his design, his breath failed him, and he
expired, a victim to that sorrow which was occasioned by his own
impertinent curiosity. His friend finding it grow late, and that Anselmo
had not called, went into his chamber, to enquire about his health;
there he found him lying upon his face, one half of his body in bed, and
the other on the table, with a pen in his hand, and a written paper
lying open before him.
‘The gentleman having spoke to him without receiving any answer, took
him by the hand, and feeling him cold and stiff, concluded he was dead.
Surprized and concerned to the last degree, he called up his family to
be witnesses of this melancholy event, and knowing the paper to be
Anselmo’s own hand-writing, read the contents, in these words: “I am
deprived of life by my own impertinent curiosity. If the news of my
death reach Camilla’s ears, let her know that I forgive her infidelity;
for she was not bound to perform miracles, nor I under any necessity of
expecting them at her hands: since, therefore, I have been the contriver
of my own dishonour, there is no reason that——” So far he had written,
but life had forsaken him, before he could finish the sentence. Next day
his friend sent an account of his death to his parents, who were already
informed of his mischance, as also of the convent to which Camilla had
retreated; and where she now lay at the point of accompanying her spouse
in his last indispensible journey; not so much on account of Anselmo’s
death, as in consequence of the information she received concerning her
absent lover; it was said, that though she was now a widow, she would
neither quit the convent nor take the veil; but, in a little time the
news arrived of Lothario’s being killed in a battle which was fought
between the renowned Captain Gonçalo Fernandes de Cordova, and Monsieur
De Lautrec, in the kingdom of Naples, whither this too-late repenting
friend had made his retreat. This event was no sooner known, than
Camilla professed herself a nun, and in a few days yielded up her life a
prey to grief and melancholy. Such was the untimely end to which they
were all brought from a beginning of whim and indiscretion.’
‘This novel,’ said the curate, ‘is not amiss; but I cannot think the
story is true; and if it be feigned, the author has erred in point of
invention; for it cannot be supposed that any husband would be so mad as
to try this dangerous experiment of Anselmo: had it been related of a
gallant and his mistress, it might have passed; but with regard to a
husband and his wife, it is altogether improbable; however, the manner
of narrating it is not disagreeable.’
CHAP. IX.
AN ACCOUNT OF OTHER STRANGE ADVENTURES THAT HAPPENED AT THE INN.
At that instant the landlord, standing at the inn-door, exclaimed,
‘There is a noble company: odd! if they halt here, we shall sing for
joy.’—‘What company?’ said Cardenio. ‘Four men,’ replied the inn-keeper,
‘who ride with short stirrups, each of them equipped with lance, target,
and mask, with a lady on a side-saddle, dressed in white and veiled, and
two attendants on foot.’ When the priest asked if they were near, he
answered, ‘So near, that they are already at the gate.’
Dorothea hearing this information, put on her veil, and Cardenio
withdrew into Don Quixote’s apartment. Immediately the whole company
announced by the landlord, entered the inn-yard; and the four horsemen,
who were persons of genteel mien and carriage, instantly alighting, went
to help the lady from her horse, when one of them taking her in his
arms, placed her in a chair that stood by the door of the room in which
Cardenio had concealed himself. All this time neither she nor they took
off their masks, nor uttered one syllable; but when she was seated, she
heaved a profound sigh, and let her arms fall down on each side, like a
person fainting with weakness. While the footman led the horses into the
stable, the curate being curious to know who those persons were, so
remarkable in their silence and dress, went up and put the question to
one of the lacquies, who answered, ‘Truly, Signior, we are as ignorant
in that particular as you are; though they seem to be people of
condition, especially he who took the lady in his arms, because all the
rest behave to him with great respect, following his directions in every
thing with the utmost punctuality.’—‘And, pray, who may the lady be?’
said the priest. ‘We know as little of her as of the man,’ replied the
lacquey; ‘for during the journey I have never once beheld her face; I
have often heard her sigh bitterly, and utter piercing groans, in every
one of which she seemed to yield her very soul; but it is not to be
wondered at that we should know so little of their affairs, my companion
and I having attended them two days only; for, meeting us on the road,
they intreated and persuaded us to accompany them as far as Andalusia,
promising to pay us handsomely for our trouble.’—‘Have you never heard
one of them named?’ resumed the curate. ‘Never once,’ answered the young
man; ‘they travel with surprizing silence; nothing is heard but the sobs
and sighs of the poor lady, which move us to compassion; we firmly
believe that she is forced upon this journey, and gather from her dress
that she is a nun; or, which is more probable, going to take the veil;
and finding herself very little inclined to that way of life, is
melancholy at the prospect.’
The curate said, nothing was more probable; and leaving the lacquey,
returned to Dorothea, who by this time, out of natural sympathy with the
affliction of the masked lady, had approached and accosted her in these
words: ‘What is the matter with you, dear Madam? If you labour under any
indisposition which the practice and experience of women can relieve, my
assistance is heartily at your service.’ To this kind offer no reply was
made by the sorrowful lady, who, notwithstanding the other’s repeated
intreaties, would not open her mouth; until the person who by the
lacquey’s information was chief of the company, addressing himself to
Dorothea, said, ‘Do not fatigue yourself, Madam, in making proffers of
service to that woman, who cannot be grateful for any favour she
receives; nor importune her for any reply, unless you desire to hear
some falshoods proceed from her lips.’—‘My lips,’ said the hitherto
silent lady, ‘were never profaned with falshood; on the contrary, my
present misfortune is owing to my sincerity and my abhorrence of lyes.
Of this assertion you yourself are too sensible; since your own perfidy
and falshood are the effects of my constancy and truth.’
These words were distinctly overheard by Cardenio, who was only
separated from them by the door of Don Quixote’s chamber; and they no
sooner reached his ear, than he cried aloud, ‘Good Heaven, what do I
hear! What voice is that which struck my sense!’ The lady being
exceedingly surprized at that exclamation, turned about her head, and
not seeing the person that pronounced it, started up, and ran towards
the apartment from whence it seemed to come; but was prevented by her
conductor, who would not suffer her to move one step farther. In the
disorder occasioned by her struggle, her mask dropped off, and
discovered a countenance of incomparable and amazing beauty, even though
disguised with paleness and horror; for her eyes rolled about to every
corner which her sight could reach, with such eagerness and wildness,
that she looked like a woman possessed.
Dorothea, and all present, were infinitely concerned at these symptoms,
the meaning of which they could not understand; meanwhile, the cavalier
was so busied in holding her fast by the shoulders, that he could not
attend to his mask, which also fell to the ground: and Dorothea lifting
up her eyes towards him, as he held the lady in his arms, perceived that
this cavalier was no other than her own husband, Don Fernando. No sooner
did she recognize his features, than fetching a long and melancholy sigh
from the very bottom of her soul, she fell backward in a swoon; and if
the barber had not been at hand to support her, would have certainly
come to the ground. The curate ran instantly to take off her veil, that
he might sprinkle water on her face, which was immediately known by Don
Fernando, who held the other lady in his arms, and was thunderstruck at
the sight: he would not, however, quit Lucinda, who struggled to get
loose; she and Cardenio having by this time recognized each other by
their mutual exclamations. He had also overheard the groan uttered by
Dorothea when she fainted; and believing that it proceeded from Lucinda,
rushed out of his apartment in a fright, when the first object he beheld
was Don Fernando clasping her in his arms. This nobleman knew him
immediately; and all three (namely, Lucinda, Cardenio, and Dorothea)
were struck dumb with astonishment, and seemed insensible of what had
happened, gazing in silence at one another.
Dorothea directed her eager view to Don Fernando, who stared at
Cardenio, whose eyes were fixed upon Lucinda, who looked wishfully at
him; but the first that broke silence, was this last, who addressed
herself in these words to Don Fernando: ‘Suffer me, Signior, in regard
to your own character, since you are deaf to every other consideration,
to cleave to that wall of which I am the ivy, to avail myself of that
prop from which you could not disengage me, with all your importunities,
promises, and threats. Behold how Heaven, by unusual and mysterious
means, hath brought me to my true and lawful husband; and since you
know, by dear-bought experience, that nothing but death can expel his
image from my breast, let this plain demonstration, since all other
attempts are vain, convert your love into rage, your friendship into
hate, and instantly deprive me of life, which I shall yield with
pleasure in the presence of my legal lord, who will then perhaps be
convinced of the fidelity I preserved to the last moment of my
existence.’
In the mean time, Dorothea being recovered from her swoon, had listened
to Lucinda’s declaration, by which she discovered her situation and
name; but perceiving that Don Fernando neither quitted his hold, nor
answered one word to her solicitation, she exerted her whole strength in
falling down on her knees before him, and having shed a large quantity
of tears from her beautiful eyes, accosted him in these words: ‘My dear
lord! if your eyes were not dazzled and obscured by the rays of that sun
which you hold eclipsed within your arms, you would perceive that she
who thus kneels before you, is the unhappy (so long as you are pleased
she should be so) and forlorn Dorothea—I am that humble country maiden
whom your generosity or passion vouchsafed to raise to the honour of
calling you her own. I am she who, confined within the bounds of
modesty, lived a contented life, until moved by your importunities, and
seemingly upright addresses, she opened the gates of her reserve, and
surrendered to you the keys of her freedom. An offering but ill
requited, as plainly appears by that hard fate, in consequence of which
I am found in this place, and also find you in your present situation.
Nevertheless, I would not have you imagine that I came hither, induced
by any dishonourable motives; but that the sorrow conceived at seeing
myself forsaken and forgotten by you, was the sole cause of my retreat.
You desired I should be your own; and that desire you accomplished so
effectually, that although your inclinations may be changed, it is
impossible you should cease to be mine. Consider, my lord, that my
unparalleled affection may counterbalance the beauty and birth of her
for whom I am abandoned; you cannot be the fair Lucinda’s husband,
because you are already mine; nor she become your wife, while she
appertains to Cardenio; and it will be a much easier task, if you
reflect upon it impartially, to recal your love for her who adores you,
than to gain the affection of one by whom you are abhorred. You
solicited my unsuspecting heart, you importuned my integrity, you was
not ignorant of my lowly station, and know in what manner I yielded to
your will; so that you have no subterfuge, nor the least room to say you
was deceived. If this be the case, as doubtless it is, and you be a
Christian as well as a gentleman, why do you, by such evasions, delay to
make the end as happy as the beginning of my fortune? If you will not
receive me as what I really am, your lawful wife, at least admit me into
the number of your slaves; for, in whatever shape I belong to you, I
shall account myself fortunate and blessed; do not, therefore, by
renouncing me entirely, give scandal an opportunity of impeaching my
honour. Make not my parents miserable in their old age; their faithful
services to your father merit a more kind return! if you think your
blood will be debased in mixing with mine, consider, that almost all the
great families on earth have undergone the same intercourse, and that
the woman’s quality in no manner affects illustrious descents: besides,
true nobility consists in virtue; and in that shall I have the advantage
over you, if you deny and oppose the justice of my claim. In fine, the
last argument I shall use is this, whether you are pleased or displeased
with your destiny, I am your lawful wife: witness your own words, which
neither are nor ought to be false; if you value yourself on that for
which you undervalue me; witness your handwriting, and Heaven above, to
the testimony of which you appealed for the performance of your promise;
and if all these should fail, your conscience will never cease
whispering to you, amidst your pleasures, in vindication of this truth,
which will disturb your most exalted enjoyments.’
This supplication, enforced with other arguments, was pronounced so
feelingly by the afflicted and weeping Dorothea, that tears of sympathy
were shed by all present, the companions of Don Fernando not excepted;
he himself listened without answering one word, until she had made an
end of her address, and began to utter such woeful sighs and groans, as
were almost sufficient to melt an heart of brass. Lucinda stood gazing
upon her with equal compassion for her sorrow, and admiration of her
beauty and good sense; nay, she would have gone and offered her all the
consolation in her power, had she not still been kept fast locked in the
arms of Don Fernando; who, full of confusion and surprize, after having
for a good while fixed his eyes upon Dorothea, with great attention,
opened his arms, and leaving Lucinda at liberty, said, ‘You have
conquered, beauteous Dorothea: the victory is yours; for so many truths
conjoined are surely irresistible.’
Lucinda was so faint and weak, that when Don Fernando quitted her, she
would have fallen to the ground, had it not been for Cardenio, who had
placed himself behind her ravisher, that he might not be known[95]; but
now, laying aside all fear, and resolving to adventure every thing, he
sprung to the assistance of Lucinda, and catching her in his arms, ‘If,’
said he, ‘it be the will and pleasure of pitying Heaven, that you should
find repose, my faithful, constant, and charming Lucinda! I think you
can enjoy it no where so securely, as in these arms, which now receive,
and formerly encircled you, when fortune was pleased that I should call
you mine.’
At these words, she gazed upon him with great eagerness; she had before
began to recognize his voice, and now, recollecting his features, like a
person deprived of judgment, who disregards all decency and form, she
threw her arms about his neck, and joining her lips to his, ‘Yes, my
dear Cardenio,’ said she, ‘you are the real lord of this your slave, in
spite of adverse fate, and all those threats, though greater than they
are, that persecute my life, which now depends on yours alone.’
An unexpected sight was this to Don Fernando, and all the bye-standers,
who were not a little surprized at what they saw. While Dorothea
observing her husband change colour, and signify an inclination of being
revenged upon Cardenio, by laying his hand upon his sword, ran, with
incredible agility, and clasping his knees, which she kissed, held him
so firmly embraced, that he could not move, saying, while the tears
trickled from her eyes, ‘What means my only refuge to do on this
unexpected occasion? Your own wife is now kneeling before you, and she
whom you desire to wed is in the arms of her lawful husband; consider
whether it be just or possible for you to undo that which Heaven hath
done; why should you seek to unite yourself with one, who disdaining all
opposition and inconvenience, and confirmed in her own constancy and
truth, even before your eyes, lets fall from hers a shower of tenderness
into the bosom of her lawful spouse? For the sake of God and of
yourself, I entreat and beseech you, that this remarkable recognition
may not only fail to increase your indignation, but even diminish it in
such a manner, that these two lovers may, without any impediment from
you, enjoy each other as long as Heaven will permit them to live. In
this self-denial you will manifest the generosity of your noble and
illustrious soul, and convince the world, that you are governed more by
reason than by appetite.’
While Dorothea pronounced these words, Cardenio, though he held Lucinda
in his arms, kept his eyes still fixed upon Don Fernando, with full
resolution, if he attempted any thing to his prejudice, to defend
himself as well as he could, against his adversary and all his
adherents, although it should cost him his life; but this young
nobleman’s friends, together with the curate and barber, not forgetting
honest Sancho Panza, who were present at the whole affair, interposed,
and making a circle about him, begged earnestly that he would be pleased
to consider the tears of Dorothea; and if what she alledged was true, as
they firmly believed it was, no longer suffer her to be defrauded of her
just and reasonable hope. They desired him to observe, that in all
appearance it was not by accident, but the immediate direction of
Providence, that they had all met together so unexpectedly in this
place; and the curate intreated him to reflect, that death alone could
divide Lucinda from Cardenio; that though they might be parted by the
edge of the sword, they would look, upon death as the greatest blessing
that could befal them, and that, in a case of this kind, which admitted
of no other remedy, it would be his wisest course to constrain and
conquer his own passion, and demonstrate the generosity of his heart, by
permitting, of his own free-will, these two lovers to enjoy that state
of happiness which heaven had ordained for their lot; that he should
contemplate Dorothea’s beauty, which, far from being excelled, was
equalled in few or none; and to her beauty, add the consideration of her
humility and excessive love; above all, take notice, that if he valued
himself upon being a gentleman and a Christian, he could do no less than
perform the promise he had given, and in so doing, act in conformity to
the will of God, and satisfy the discreet part of mankind, who are very
sensible that it is the prerogative of beauty, even in a low estate,
when accompanied with virtue, to be lifted up to the highest rank,
without any disparagement to the person who thus raises it to an
equality with himself; and since the irresistible force of inclination
must prevail, provided there be nothing criminal in the means, he is not
to be blamed who acts according to its dictates.
To these arguments were added so many of the same sort, that the valiant
heart of Don Fernando, nourished by illustrious blood, relented, and he
was overcome by the force of that truth, which, however inclined, he
could not deny. The signal of his surrender, and yielding to this
reasonable and just proposal, was his stooping down and embracing
Dorothea: to whom he said, ‘Rise, Madam; it is not just that she who
reigns in my soul, should lie prostrate at my feet. If hitherto I have
given small proof of what I now profess, perhaps my omission hath been
owing to the appointment of Heaven, that by giving you an opportunity of
manifesting the sincerity of your love, I might know how to esteem you
according to your deserts. I beg, therefore, you will not upbraid me
with my misconduct and unkind neglect; since the same force and occasion
that attached me to you, was the cause of my endeavour to disengage
myself. That you may be convinced of the truth, behold and contemplate
the eyes of the now contented Lucinda, in which you will find an excuse
for all my errors; and, since she hath found and attained her heart’s
desire, and my utmost wish is fulfilled in thus retrieving you, may she
live in peace and quiet, for many happy years, with her Cardenio, and
may Heaven grant the same felicity to me with Dorothea!’
So saying, he embraced her again, pressing his lips to her’s with such
tenderness, that it required his greatest efforts to forbear giving,
with his tears, indubitable signs of his affection and remorse. But
those endeavours did not succeed with Lucinda, Cardenio, and every other
person present, who began to weep so plentifully, either at their own
happiness, or the satisfaction of their friends, that one would have
thought some grievous misfortune had happened to the whole company. Even
Sancho blubbered, though he afterwards owned, that his sorrow proceeded
from seeing that Dorothea was not, as he imagined, the Queen of
Micomicon, from whom he expelled such favours.
This universal admiration and thaw having lasted some time, Cardenio and
Lucinda fell upon their knees before Don Fernando, whom they thanked for
his generosity in such polite terms, that he scarce knew what answer to
make, but raised and embraced them both with demonstrations of uncommon
courtesy and affection. Then asking Dorothea how she had come to that
place, so distant from her own home, she with great elegance and brevity
repeated what she had before recounted to Cardenio; and her husband and
his company were so pleased with her narration, that they wished it
could have been spun out to a much greater length; so gracefully did she
relate her own misfortunes.
Her talk being finished, Don Fernando informed them of what had happened
to him in the city, after he found, in Lucinda’s bosom, the paper in
which she declared herself Cardenio’s wife. Seeing that she could not
possibly be his, he said, he was determined to put her to death, and
would actually have executed his purpose, had not her parents
interposed. He then quitted the house, full of shame and resentment,
resolving to revenge himself with the first opportunity; and next day
understood that she was gone off, without any body’s knowing whither she
had directed her flight. At length, however, in a few months, he got
notice that she was in a certain monastery, where she intended to spend
her whole life, if she could not enjoy it in the company of Cardenio. He
no sooner received this intimation, than chusing these three gentlemen
for his companions, he went straight to the place of her residence; but
without speaking to her, or making himself known, lest the monastery
should be more strictly guarded on his account. He waited, therefore,
until one day he found the porter’s lodge open; when leaving two of his
friends to secure the door, he entered the monastery with the other, in
quest of Lucinda, whom he found in the cloisters, talking with a nun;
and snatching her off, without giving her a moment’s time for
recollection, carried her instantly to a place where they provided
themselves with necessaries for their journey. This exploit they were
enabled to perform with safety, because the monastery stood in the
middle of a field, at a good distance from any village or town. He said,
Lucinda no sooner perceived herself in his power, than she fainted away;
and when she recovered the use of her senses, did nothing but weep and
sigh, without speaking one word: so that, accompanied with silence and
tears, they had arrived at that inn, which he looked upon as the
heavenly goal where all earthly misfortunes are happily terminated.
Footnote 95:
But it appears in the preceding page, that he was already known both
to Fernando and Lucinda. _Aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus._
CHAP. X.
A CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF THE RENOWNED PRINCESS MICOMICONA,
WITH OTHER PLEASANT ADVENTURES.
Sancho heard every thing that passed with no small anxiety of mind,
seeing the hopes of his preferment vanish into smoke, the beautiful
Princess Micomicona transformed into Dorothea, the giant into Don
Fernando, and his master in a sound sleep, little dreaming of what had
happened. Dorothea could not persuade herself, that all her good fortune
was not a dream; Cardenio entertained the same opinion, which was also
embraced by Lucinda; while Don Fernando gave thanks to Heaven for its
favour, in extricating him from that labyrinth of perplexity, in which
he was at the point of losing his reputation and soul. In fine, every
person present was well satisfied, and rejoiced at the happy issue of
such intricate and desperate affairs. The curate represented every thing
in the right point of view, with great discretion, and congratulated the
parties concerned on the felicity they had acquired; but she whose joy
was most vociferous was the landlady, who loudly exulted in the promise
of Cardenio and the curate, who had undertaken to pay her with interest,
for the damage she had sustained on Don Quixote’s account. Sancho alone,
as we have already observed, was afflicted, unfortunate, and sad, and
going to his master who was just awake, said, with a lamentable tone,
‘Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, your worship may now sleep as
long as you please, without giving yourself the trouble of slaying the
giant, or restoring the princess to her throne; that whole affair is
already brought to a conclusion.’
‘I really believe what you say,’ answered the knight, ‘for I have been
engaged with the giant, in the most obstinate and outrageous combat that
I believe I shall ever fight in all the days of my life; with one
back-stroke, slam went his head to the ground, and discharged such a
quantity of blood, that it ran like rills of water along the field.’—‘Or
rather like red wine, your worship should say,’ replied the squire; ‘for
I must inform you, if you do not already know it, that the dead giant is
no other than a wine bag, and the blood, eighteen gallons of good red
wine, which was contained in its belly: the head you cut off is the
whore my mother, and the whole affair is gone to the devil.’—‘What does
the lunatick mean?’ said Don Quixote; ‘are you in your right senses,
Sancho?’—‘Rise, Sir,’ resumed the squire, ‘and see what a fine piece of
work you have made, and what a score you have run. You shall behold the
queen converted into a private lady, called Dorothea, with many other
strange events, at which, if you take them right, you will be hugely,
astonished.’—‘I shall not wonder at any thing of that kind,’ replied his
master; ‘for thou may’st remember, the last time we were in this house,
I told thee that every incident which happened was conducted and brought
about by inchantment, so that we need not be surprized if the same power
should prevail at present.’—‘I should be of your worship’s opinion,’
answered Sancho, ‘if my blanketting had been of the same stamp; but that
was not the case, for it was really and truly a substantial tossing.
This very innkeeper whom we saw to-day, held a corner of the blanket,
and canted me into the air with great strength and nimbleness, passing a
thousand waggish jokes, and laughing at me all the while; from whence I
concluded, simple and sinner as I am, that as I knew their persons,
there was no inchantment in the case, but abundance of bruising and bad
fortune.’—‘Well, heaven will make thee amends,’ said the knight;
‘meanwhile reach me my clothes; for I want to go forth and examine those
events and transformations which thou hast mentioned.’
While Sancho was helping him to dress, the curate gave Don Fernando and
his company an account of Don Quixote’s madness, and the artifice they
had used to disengage him from the poor rock to which he imagined
himself exiled by the disdain of his mistress. He also recounted all
those adventures that Sancho had imparted to him, at which they were not
a little surprized, and laughed immoderately; agreeing in opinion with
every body who knew the knight, that it was the strangest extravagance
that ever entered a disturbed imagination. The priest moreover observed,
that since the good fortune of Dorothea obstructed the progress of their
design, there was a necessity for inventing another plan that should
bring him home to his own house. Cardenio proposed that they should
prosecute the scheme they had already begun; and Lucinda would act and
represent the part of Dorothea. ‘No,’ said Don Fernando, ‘that must not
be: Dorothea shall still proceed with her own invention; for, as it
cannot be far from hence to the habitation of that honest gentleman, I
shall be glad to contribute towards his cure.’ And when he understood
that they would arrive in two days at his house; ‘Were it farther off,’
said he, ‘I should go with pleasure to assist in such a laudable
design.’
At that instant Don Quixote came forth, armed at all points, with
Mambrino’s helmet, battered as it was, upon his head, his shield braced
upon his arm, and his pole or lance in his hand. Don Fernando and his
companions were amazed at this strange apparition, when they beheld such
a rueful length of face, so withered and tawney, together with his
ill-sorted armour, and the solemnity of his gait. They gazed upon him in
silent expectation of what he would say; while he, with infinite gravity
of aspect, fixing his eyes upon Dorothea, accosted her in these words;
‘Fair lady, I am informed by this my squire, that your greatness is
annihilated, and your quality undone, by being changed from your former
rank of queen and sovereign princess, into the condition of a private
damsel. If this hath been done by the necromancy of the king your
father, who is perhaps afraid that I should not be able to give you the
assistance required, I say he neither knows, nor ever did know, the half
of that art which he professeth, and that he is but little conversant in
the history of chivalry; for had he read and perused it with such
leisure and attention as I have bestowed upon that subject, he would
have found, that on every occasion, knights of much less reputation than
I possess, have atchieved much more difficult enterprizes than this, it
being a matter of small moment to kill a pitiful giant, let him be as
arrogant as he will; for not many hours ago, I saw myself engaged with
one,—but I chuse to be silent rather than have my veracity called in
question, though time, that unmasks all things, will shew when we least
expect it—’
‘That you was engaged with wine-bags, and not with a giant!’ cried the
innkeeper; who was silenced by Don Fernando, and forbid to interrupt the
knight’s discourse in any shape whatever. So that Don Quixote proceeded,
saying, ‘In fine, if the father of your disinterested highness hath
performed this metamorphosis on your person, for the causes I have
mentioned, I hope you will give no credit to such considerations; for
there is no danger upon earth through which my sword will not open a
way, and by laying the head of your adversary in the dust in a few days,
invest yours with that crown to which you have an undoubted right.’
Here Don Quixote left off speaking, in expectation of a reply from the
princess, who knowing it was Don Fernando’s pleasure that she should
continue the deceit, until the knight could be brought back to his own
house, answered with equal gravity and grace, ‘Whosoever hath told you,
most valiant Knight of the Rueful Countenance, that I am changed and
transformed from what I was, has not adhered to the truth in his
information: indeed I am somewhat changed by certain fortunate events
which have happened even beyond my own expectation; but; nevertheless, I
have not ceased to be what I was, nor altered that resolution which I
have always maintained, of taking the advantage of your valiant and
invincible arm. Wherefore, dear Sir, be so good as to do justice to the
honour of the father who begat me, and look upon him as a man of
sagacity and foresight; since, by the science he possessed, he found
such an easy and effectual path to the cure of my misfortune; for I
firmly believe, that were it not for you, I should not now be so happy
as I am, as the greatest part of these gentlemen can truly witness.
Nothing then remains, but that we set out to-morrow, because we could
not propose to travel far to-day; and as for the success on which my
hopes are built, I leave it entirely to God, and the worth of your
heroick breast.’
Don Quixote hearing these words, turned to Sancho in the most violent
indignation, saying, ‘I protest, sirrah! you are the most malicious
little slanderer in Spain. Say, you rascal—you vagabond—did not you tell
me just now, that the princess was transformed into a private
gentlewoman called Dorothea; and that the head, which I know I cut from
the giant’s shoulders, was the whore your mother; with many more foolish
particulars, which threw me into the greatest confusion that I ever felt
since I was born? By Heaven!’ (here he turned up his eyes and bit his
lips) ‘I have a strong inclination to commit such slaughter upon thee,
as will be an instructive warning[96] to all the lying squires who shall
henceforth attend knights-errant, in the course of their adventures.’
‘Pray be pacified, good your worship!’ cried Sancho: ‘I may possibly be
deceived in what concerns the change of my Lady Princess Micomicona; but
as to the giant’s head being a wine-bag, and the blood no other than
good red wine, I am not mistaken, as I shall answer to God; for the
skins that were slashed are still to be seen by your worship’s bed-side,
and the whole room is flooded with the wine. But the proof of the
pudding is in the eating of it[97]; you will be convinced when Mr.
What-d’ye call him our landlord here makes out a bill of the damage he
has suffered. As to the rest, I am rejoiced from my soul, to find that
the queen’s majesty is the same as usual, because it concerns me, as
well as any other neighbour’s child.’—‘I tell thee, Sancho,’ replied Don
Quixote, ‘that thou art distracted; forgive me, that is enough.’—‘Enough
in all conscience,’ said Don Fernando; ‘there is nothing more to be said
on this subject. I think the princess judges very prudently in deferring
her journey till to-morrow, because the day is already far advanced; let
us therefore spend this night in agreeable conversation, and at the
approach of day, we will in a body attend the gallant Don Quixote, that
we may be witnesses of the unheard-of exploits which he will doubtless
perform in the course of this vast enterprize he hath undertaken.’—‘It
is my duty and resolution to serve and attend you,’ answered the knight;
‘and I have the most grateful sense of your favour and good opinion,
which I shall endeavour to justify, though it should cost me my life, or
even more—if more I can pay.’
Many compliments and proffers of service passed between Don Fernando and
Don Quixote; but they were interrupted by the arrival of a traveller,
who, by his garb, seemed to be a Christian slave lately escaped from
Barbary; for he was clad in a coat of blue cloth, wanting a collar, with
short skirts and half-sleeves; his breeches and cap were of the same
stuff; and he wore date-coloured buskins, with a Moorish scymitar flung
in a shoulder-belt across his breast. He was followed by a woman dressed
in the Moorish habit, mounted upon an ass, with a veil over her face, a
brocaded bonnet on her head, and a mantle that flowed from her shoulders
to her heels. The man was robust, and well-proportioned, seemingly
turned of forty, with a brownish complexion, large whiskers, and a
well-furnished beard; in short, his mean was so genteel, that if he had
been properly dressed, they would have taken him for a man of birth and
quality.
Soon as he entered the gate, he called for a private apartment, and
seemed very much concerned, when he understood that all the rooms of the
inn were engaged; however, he went to the lady in Moorish dress, and
lifted her off in his arms. Upon which Lucinda, Dorothea, the landlady,
her daughter, and Maritornes, flocked around her; their curiosity being
excited by the novelty of the garb, which none of them had ever seen
before; and Dorothea, who was always good-humoured, mannerly, and
discreet, concluding that both she and her conductor were chagrined at
their want of a chamber, spoke to her thus: ‘Be not uneasy, Madam, at
your want of accommodation here; it is the inconvenience of almost all
inns; but if you will be pleased to partake with us, (pointing to
Lucinda) perhaps you will find that in the course of your journey you
have been fain to put up with harder fare.’ The veiled lady made no
answer; but only rising from her seat, signified her thanks by crossing
her hands upon her bosom, bending her body, and bowing her head; so that
from her silence they conjectured that she must be a native Moor, and
that she could not speak any Christian language.
Her attendant, who had hitherto been employed in something else,
perceiving that the company had made a circle about his companion, who
could make no replies to their interrogations, said to them, ‘Ladies,
this young woman understands little or no Spanish, and speaks no
language but that of her own country; so that she is incapable of
answering any questions you may have asked.’—‘We have asked no
questions,’ said Lucinda, ‘but only made her an offer of our company for
this night, with a share of our lodging, and what accommodation is to be
had: and this we tender with that hearty good-will which obliges us to
serve all strangers, especially those of our own sex who stand in need
of our assistance.’—‘Dear Madam,’ replied the conductor, ‘in her name,
and in my own, I return you a thousand thanks, and highly esteem your
proffered favour, which on this occasion, and from such persons as your
appearance proclaims you to be, must certainly be very kind and
condescending.’—‘Signior,’ said Dorothea, ‘is this lady Christian or
Moor? By her silence and her dress, we are induced to believe she is not
what we could wish her to be.’—‘In her body and dress,’ replied the
stranger, ‘she is a Moor, but altogether a Christian in her soul; for
she longs ardently to be a professed convert to our faith.’—‘Then she is
not baptized?’ resumed Lucinda. ‘She has had no opportunity,’ said the
captive, ‘since she quitted Algiers, which is her native country; and
hitherto hath never been in such imminent danger of her life, as to make
it necessary before she is instructed in all the ceremonies enjoined by
our holy mother church; but, if it please Heaven, she shall be baptized
very soon, with decency suitable to the quality of her person, which is
greater than either her dress or mine seems to declare.’
This intimation raised the curiosity of all the spectators, to know who
this Moor and captive were; but nobody chose to ask the question at that
time, which seemed more proper for reposing themselves than relating the
history of their lives. Dorothea taking her by the hand, seated the
stranger close by her side, and entreated her to take off the veil; she
looked at her conductor, as if she wanted to know what the lady desired,
and he told her in Arabick, that they entreated her to be uncovered; at
the same time, advising her to comply with their request. She
accordingly unveiled herself, and discovered a face so amiable, that
Dorothea thought her handsomer than Lucinda, who, in her turn, gave her
the preference to Dorothea; and all present concluded, that if any
creature upon earth could vie with them in beauty, it was this Moorish
lady, who, in the opinion of some of the company, excelled them both in
certain particulars. As beauty, therefore, has the privilege and energy
to conciliate minds and attract affections, every body present was
seized with an inclination to serve and cherish the charming Moor. Don
Fernando asked her name of the captive, who answered, ‘Lela Zorayda.’
This she no sooner heard, than understanding the question which had been
put to the Christian, she pronounced with great eagerness and sweetness
of concern, ‘No, no Zorayda; Maria, Maria!’ signifying that her name was
Maria, and not Zorayda: these words, with the affecting manner in which
they were expressed, brought tears from the eyes of some of the hearers,
especially the women, who are naturally tender and compassionate.
Lucinda embraced her affectionately, saying, ‘Yes, yes, Maria, Maria.’
And to this the Moor replied, ‘Yes, yes, Maria; Zorayda, ‘_macange_;’
which, in the Arabick, signifies ‘_No_.’
Meanwhile it grew late, and the innkeeper, by order of Don Fernando’s
attendants, prepared with great diligence and care, as good a repast as
he could possibly provide; so that when supper-time arrived, they sat
down all together at a long hall-table, for there was neither a round
nor square one in the house. They forced the head and principal seat, in
spite of all his excuses on Don Quixote, who desired that the Princess
Micomicona might sit by the side of her protector; next to her, Lucinda
and Zorayda placed themselves, being fronted by Fernando and Cardenio,
at whose left-hand sat the captive and the other gentlemen, while the
curate and the barber took their station close to the ladies. In this
manner they supped with vast satisfaction, which was still increased,
when Don Quixote leaving off eating, and inspired by the same spirit
that moved him to harangue among the goat-herds, began the following
dissertation: ‘Verily, gentlemen, if it be duly considered, great and
unexpected events are seen by those who profess the order of
knight-errantry. What inhabitant of this earth, if he should now enter
the gates of this castle, and behold us seated in this manner, could
conceive or credit that we are what we are? Who could imagine, that this
lady on my right-hand is the great queen whom we all know her to be; and
that I am the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, so celebrated by the
voice of fame? Now there is no manner of doubt, that this exercise and
art exceeds all others hitherto invented by man, and that it ought to be
more esteemed, because it is more exposed to danger. Away with those who
give letters the preference over arms! I affirm, that such people,
whosoever they are, know not what they say; for the sole reason to which
they adhere, in this decision, is, that the labour of the body is
exceeded by that of the mind; and that the profession of arms is
altogether as corporeal as the exercise and office of a common
day-labourer, that requires nothing more than bodily strength; as if
that which is called soldiership by us who profess it, did not include
acts of valour which none but persons of uncommon genius could execute;
or, as if the toil of a warrior who has the charge of an army, or
commands in a town that is besieged, doth not affect the mind as well as
the body. Is it to be supposed, that by mere corporeal strength he can
penetrate and discover the intention of the enemy? To anticipate
designs, baffle stratagems, surmount difficulties, and prevent the
mischief that is to be dreaded, are all efforts of the understanding, in
which the body hath no share; if the profession of arms, therefore,
requires genius, as well as that of letters, let us see which of the two
requires most mental toil: and this question may be determined by
considering the end and aim of each; for that occupation deserves the
highest esteem, which hath the noblest purpose in view, the end and
scope of letters. I speak not here of that divine learning, whose aim is
to raise and conduct the soul to Heaven; to an end so infinite, no
intention whatever can be compared. I speak of human learning, the
ultimate end of which is to regulate distributive justice, render to
every one his due, and to understand and to protect the equitable laws:
an aim certainly generous and highly commendable! yet not so deserving
of the most sublime praise as the profession of arms, the object and the
end of which is peace, the greatest good that mortals can enjoy; for the
first blessed news which this world and mankind heard, were those
pronounced by the angels, on that night which was our day, when they
sung in the air, “Glory be to God on high; and on earth, peace and good
will towards men!” and the salutation, which the best Master, either in
heaven or upon earth, taught his adherents and favourites; which was to
say when they entered any house, “Peace be to this house!” Nay, he
himself at different times, said, “My peace I give unto you! My peace I
leave with you! Peace be among you!” A jewel and legacy well worthy of
him who left it! a jewel, without which there can be no felicity, either
on earth or in heaven! This peace is the genuine aim of war; for arms
and war are the same; and this being taken for granted, the end of war
is nobler than that of learning; wherefore let us next consider the
bodily toil sustained by each, that we may see on which side the balance
lies in that particular.’
In this sensible manner did Don Quixote continue his discourse, from
which nobody that heard him could distinguish that he was mad; on the
contrary, his audience confiding chiefly of gentlemen, to which title
the profession of arms is annexed, they listened with great pleasure,
while he proceeded thus.
‘The hardships of a student, I say, are these; first of all, poverty,
(not that all students are poor, but that we may suppose the worst that
can happen) and when I have named his indigence, the whole of his
misfortune is mentioned; for he that is poor can enjoy nothing that is
good, but must endure necessity in all its forms; sometimes hunger,
sometimes cold, sometimes nakedness, and often all three together.
Nevertheless, his necessity is not so great, but that he eats, though
perhaps later than usual, or though he may feed upon the leavings of the
rich, or which is the greatest misery to which a scholar can be reduced,
go a-sopping[98], as they term it; then they are always admitted to some
charitable person’s fire-side or chimney-corner, where, if they cannot
warm themselves effectually, they may at least defy the cold; and at
night they sleep under cover. I need not descend to minute particulars;
such as want of linen, scarcity of shoes, flimsy and thread-bare
cloaths, nor the surfeits which they so eagerly incur, when their good
fortune sets a plentiful table in their way. By this path, rough and
difficult as I have already described it, after many tumblings,
slidings, risings, and fallings, they at last attain to the wished
degree, which being gained, we have seen many who have passed with a
favourable gale of fortune, through these quicksands and straits of
Scylla and Charybdis; I say, we have seen many such command and dictate
to the world, from a chair of state; their hunger being changed into
satiety, their cold into refreshment, their rags into gay apparel, and
the matts on which they lay, to the richest damask and finest holland: a
recompence which their merit most justly enjoys! but their labours, when
fairly stated and compared, are infinitely short of the warrior’s, as I
shall now clearly demonstrate.’
Footnote 96:
In the original, ‘As will put salt in the skull.’
Footnote 97:
Literally, ‘You shall see when the eggs are fried.’ A phrase alluding
to the story of a thief, who having stole a frying-pan, and being
asked by the owner what he carried under his cloak, replied, ‘You will
see when the eggs are fried.’ Metaphorically, ‘Time will discover.’
Footnote 98:
Alluding to the charity given at the gates of monasteries.
CHAP. XI.
THE SEQUEL OF DON QUIXOTE’S CURIOUS DISCOURSE, ON THE SUBJECTS OF
LEARNING AND WAR.
The knight proceeded thus: ‘Since we began with the student,
representing his poverty in all its circumstances, let us see if the
soldier be more wealthy: and we shall find that poverty itself is not
poorer; for he is restricted to his miserable pay, which comes always
late, if ever, or to what he can plunder by force with the imminent
danger of his life and conscience; and frequently his nakedness is such,
that his slashed buff doublet serves him instead of coat, shirt, and all
other parts of apparel. In a winter campaign, while he remains in the
open field, he has nothing to mitigate the severity of the cold, but his
own breath, which, as it proceeds from an empty place, must, I believe,
be cold, contrary to all the rules of nature: but stay till the approach
of night, when it is to be hoped his bed will make amends for all these
inconveniencies; and this, if it be not his own fault, will never offend
in point of narrowness, for he may measure as many feet of ground as he
thinks sufficient, and there tumble about at pleasure, without any
danger of discomposing the sheets. Then, instead of the day and hour of
receiving the degrees of his art, comes the day of battle, in which his
head is adorned with the doctoral tossle, made in form of a pledgit, to
stuff the wound made by some ball, which perhaps hath gone through his
temples, or left him maimed of a leg or arm; and even if this should not
happen, but merciful Heaven guard and preserve him safe and sound, he
continues as poor as ever; he must risk himself in several more
rencounters and battles, and be victorious in each, before his
circumstances be bettered; but these miracles rarely happen. Tell me,
gentlemen, have you considered what a small proportion those who make
their fortunes by war bear to those who perish in the field? Doubtless,
you must answer that there is no sort of comparison; that the slain are
scarce to be numbered, while the living who are recompensed for their
services, may be comprehended within three figures of arithmetick[99].
The case of the learned is quite the reverse[100]; for, one way or
another, they are all provided: so that, though the toil of a soldier is
greater, his reward is much less. To this observation, it may be
replied, that it is far more easy to reward two thousand scholars than
thirty thousand soldiers; for the first are recompensed with offices,
which must of course be bestowed on people of their profession; whereas,
the others can enjoy no reward, except a share of the property belonging
to their master whom they serve: even this impossibility strengthens my
asseveration.
‘But waving that consideration, which would lead us into a most
intricate labyrinth, let us return to the pre-eminence which arms have
over learning; a point hitherto undecided, of such force are the reasons
alledged on both sides of the question; one of which, in favour of the
last, is, that without letters, the profession of arms could not be
supported, because there are laws to which war itself is subject; and
all laws fall within the province of letters and learned men. To this
observation, the partizans of the other opinion reply, that no laws
could be maintained without arms, which preserve the constitution,
defend kingdoms, guard cities, scour the highways, and clear the seas of
piratical corsairs. In short, that without arms, all republicks,
kingdoms, monarchies, cities, journies by land, and voyages by sea,
would be exposed to the horror and confusion that attend unbridled war,
while it continues in all its licentious privilege and force. It is a
general and established maxim, that every thing ought to be esteemed in
proportion to what it costs. Now, to become eminent in letters, costs
the student much time, watching, hunger, nakedness, vertigoes,
indigestion, and their consequences, which are in part mentioned above:
but, to acquire in a regular manner the character of a good soldier, a
man must undergo all these inconveniences in an incomparably greater
degree; because he is every moment in danger of losing his life. What
fear of indigence and poverty can seize and harrass the student’s
apprehension, equal to that which must possess the soldier besieged in a
fortress, who being placed centinel or guard in some ravelin or
cavalier[101], perceives the enemy at work undermining the very spot
whereon he stands, without daring to stir from his post, or avoid the
danger by which he is so imminently threatened? All he can do, is to
give notice of what passes to his captain, who must endeavour to baffle
the foe by some countermine, while he remains upon the place in terror
and expectation of being suddenly whirled aloft into the clouds without
wings, and of falling thence headlong into the profound abyss: if this
danger seems inconsiderable, let us see whether it be equalled or
exceeded in the grappling of two gallies, by their prows, in the midst
of the extended ocean; when they are locked and fastened into each
other, and the soldier hath not an inch more than two feet of the beak
to stand upon, while he sees himself threatened and opposed by as many
ministers of death as there are cannon in the enemy’s vessel, and these
within a spear’s length of his body; and is sensible, that if his feet
should chance to slip, he would instantly visit the profound bosom of
the sea; yet, nevertheless, with an intrepid heart, incited and
transported by honour, he bears the brunt of their whole artillery, and
endeavours by that narrow passage to board the adverse vessel; and, what
is very much to be admired, is, that as soon as one falls, never to rise
again till the general resurrection, another occupies his place; and
should he also drop into the sea, which, like an enemy, gapes to devour
him, another and another still succeeds, without the smallest
intermission: an instance of gallantry and boldness the greatest to be
found in all the extremities of war. Happy were the ages past, while
strangers to those infernal instruments of artillery, the author of
which is, I firmly believe, now in hell, enjoying the reward of his
diabolical invention, that puts it in the power of an infamous coward to
deprive the most valiant cavalier of life; for, often in the heat of
that courage and resolution that fires and animates the gallant breast,
there comes a random ball, how or from whence no man can tell, shot off,
perhaps, by one that fled, and was afraid at the flash of his own
accursed machine, and, in an instant, puts an end to the schemes and
exigence of a man who deserved to live for ages. This very consideration
makes me almost own, that I am sorry for having chosen this profession
of a knight-errant in this detestable age; for, though no danger can
daunt my resolution, it gives me some uneasiness to think that powder
and shot may deprive me of the opportunity of making myself famous and
renowned through the whole globe, for the valour of my arm, and the
keenness of my sword: but, let the will of Heaven be fulfilled! if I
accomplish my aim, I shall be more esteemed, because I have faced more
danger than ever was incurred by the knights-errant in ages past.’
While the rest of the company were employed in eating, this long
harangue was uttered by Don Quixote, who never thought of swallowing a
morsel; though Sancho frequently put him in mind of eating his supper,
observing, that he would afterwards have time enough to say what he
pleased. The hearers were moved with fresh concern, at seeing a man, who
in every other subject seemed to have a large share of sense and
discernment, lose it so irrecoverably, whenever the discourse turned
upon the cursed mischievous theme of chivalry. The curate observed, that
there was a great deal of reason in what he had advanced in favour of
arms; and that he himself, though a graduate, consequently a man of
letters, was entirely of the knight’s opinion.
Supper being ended, and the table uncovered, while the landlady, her
daughter, and Maritornes, were busied in fitting up the garret of Don
Quixote de La Mancha, in which it was determined the three ladies should
pass the night by themselves; Don Fernando intreated the captive to
recount the story of his life, which he imagined must be both uncommon
and entertaining, from the specimen they had already seen, in his
arriving thus equipped, in company with the fair Zorayda. To this
request the stranger answered, that he would willingly obey his command,
though he was afraid the company would not find the relation to their
liking; but, nevertheless, rather than fail in point of obedience, he
was ready to make it. The curate and whole company thanked him for his
complaisance, and joined in the request; and he seeing himself besought
by so many, said there was no occasion for entreaties, where they might
so effectually command: ‘Lend me your attention, therefore, and you
shall hear a true story, perhaps unequalled by those fictions which are
usually adorned with all the curious and profound artifice of
composition.’
At this preamble, all present adjusted and composed themselves; and he
perceiving the general silence in which they waited for the performance
of his promise, began in this manner, with a grave and agreeable voice.
Footnote 99:
I. e. Do not amount to 1000, which is a number expressed by four
figures.
Footnote 100:
The literal translation is, ‘For, from the skirts—for I would not
mention the ‘sleeves.’ The Spaniards, instead of the English phrase,
‘By Hook or by Crook,’ use this of ‘From the sleeves, or the skirts;’
derived from the practice of taylors, who are supposed to cabbage from
those parts of the habit in which there is the greatest quantity of
cloth; but the knight’s exception of sleeves, on this occasion, seems
to have proceeded from a supposition that poor scholars are generally
provided for in the church, and consequently wear cassocks, which
descend to the heels.
Footnote 101:
Cavalier is an artificial mount raised in a fortress for the
convenience of scouring a field, or opposing a commanding work of the
enemy.
CHAP. XII.
IN WHICH THE CAPTIVE RECOUNTS HIS LIFE AND ADVENTURES.
‘In a certain place among the mountains of Leon, my family had its
origin; more beholden to the liberality of nature than to the smiles of
fortune: though, amidst the narrowness of circumstances, which prevails
in that country, my father had the reputation of being rich, and really
was so, had he possessed the art of preserving, as he practised the
means of spending his estate. This liberal and profuse disposition was
owing to his having been a soldier in his youth, the army being a school
in which the miser becomes generous, and the benevolent man grows
prodigal; for a covetous soldier is a monster which is rarely seen. My
father exceeded the bounds of liberality, and bordered upon those of
prodigality; a disposition of very little service to a married man who
has children to succeed him in rank as well as name: and he had no less
than three; all of them sons, already at an age to chuse for themselves.
The old gentleman finding it impossible, as he said, to resist the bent
of his inclination, was resolved to deprive himself of the means that
induced and enabled him to spend so lavishly, by giving up his estate;
as without money Alexander himself must have seemed frugal.
‘One day, therefore, calling us all three together into his chamber, he
delivered himself in these or the like words: “Sons, to say I love you,
is no more than to say and know you are my own children; though it would
seem that I do not love you, by my squandering away the fortune which is
your due. But that you may be henceforth convinced that I love you like
a true parent, rather than seek your destruction like a step-father, I
am resolved to execute a plan which I have formed a good while ago, and
digested with the most mature deliberation. You are now of an age to
chuse settlements for yourselves, or at least to pitch upon employments
which, in your riper years, may conduce to your honour and advantage. My
intention is to divide my estate into four equal parts, three of which
you shall receive among you, in equal shares, without the least
difference or distinction; and the fourth I will reserve for my own
sustenance and support, while Heaven will be pleased to protract the
days of my life. But after you have received your portions, I should be
glad to find you inclined to follow the paths which I shall propose. We
have a saying in Spain, which I believe is very true, as indeed all
proverbs are, because they are short sentences dictated by long and sage
experience; that which I mean, contains no more than these words: The
church, the court, or the sea; as if it more fully expressed the
following advice, ‘He that would make his fortune, ought either to
dedicate his time to the church, go to sea as a merchant, or attach
himself to the court,’ for it is commonly observed that, ‘The king’s
crumb is worth the baron’s batch.’ This I mention, because I wish and
desire that one of you would follow letters, another merchandize, and a
third serve his sovereign in the field, since it is difficult to obtain
an office at court: and although much wealth cannot be expected, there
is a great deal of valour and reputation to be acquired in war. In eight
days I will give each of you his share, in ready-money, without
defrauding you of one farthing, as you will see by my distribution. Tell
me, therefore, if you are willing to follow my advice in what I have
proposed?” said my father, addressing himself to me as the eldest. After
having dissuaded him from parting with his estate, and desired him to
spend as much of it as he pleased, observing, that we were young men,
and capable of making our own fortunes, I concluded with saying, I would
obey his will, and for my own part, chuse to serve God and my king, in
adhering to the exercise of arms. My second brother made the same offer,
proposing to set sail for the Indies, and employ his stock of
ready-money in traffick. The youngest, and I believe the wisest, said he
would qualify himself for the church, by going and finishing his studies
at Salamanca.
‘We having thus agreed in the choice of our different employments, our
father embraced us all affectionately, and within the time he had
proposed, performed his promise of giving us our portions, which to the
best of my remembrance amounted to three thousand ducats each; for an
uncle of ours paid ready-money for the whole estate, that it might not
be alienated from the family. In one day, all three took leave of our
worthy father; when I thinking it a piece of inhumanity to leave him so
straitened in his old age, prevailed upon him to accept two thousand of
the three I had received, as the remainder was sufficient to accommodate
me with all the necessaries of a soldier. Each of my brothers, induced
by my example, gave him back one-third of their shares; so that he
remained possessed of four thousand ducats in cash, and the value of
three thousand more in land, which he did not chuse to sell. At length,
I say, we took leave of him, and that uncle whom I have mentioned, not
without great concern and many tears on all sides; they charging us to
seize every opportunity of making them acquainted with our adventures,
either in prosperity or adversity. Having given this promise, and
received their embraces and blessing, one took the road to Salamanca,
another went to Seville, and I set out for Alicant, where I understood
there was a ship taking in a lading of wool for Genoa. Two and twenty
years are now elapsed since I left my father’s house; and during all
that time, though I have written several letters, I never received the
least information concerning him or my brothers. What hath happened to
myself within that period, I will now briefly relate.
‘Embarking at Alicant, I had a favourable passage to Genoa, from whence
I went to Milan, where I provided myself with arms and some gay military
furniture. Then I departed for Piedmont, with a resolution of inlisting
in the service; and being upon the road to Alexandria de la Paglia, was
informed that the great duke of Alva was on his march into Flanders.
Upon receiving this intimation, I changed my design, attended him to the
Low Countries, served in all his campaigns, and was present at the death
of the counts Egmont and Horn. There I obtained an ensign’s commission
in the company of a famous captain of Guadalajara, whose name was Diego
de Urbina: but after I had been some time in Flanders, the news arrived
of the league between his Holiness Pope Pius the Fifth of happy memory,
and the Spanish monarchy, against their common enemy the Turk, who about
that time had, by means of his fleet, made a conquest of the famous
island of Cyrus, which was under the dominion of the Venetians; a most
lamentable and unfortunate loss. It was certainly known that the most
serene Don John of Austria, natural brother to our good King Philip, was
to be general of this league; and the vast preparations for this war
were publickly reported. All these rumours raised and excited within me
the desire and resolution of being present in a campaign of such
expectation; and though I had strong hopes, and indeed certain promises,
of being promoted to the rank of a captain as soon as a vacancy should
happen, I chose to quit that prospect, and go, as I actually did, to
Italy; and luckily for me, Don John of Austria was then at Genoa, just
going to embark for Naples, in order to join the Venetian fleet, which
he afterwards found at Messina. In short, I served in that most happy
campaign, and was advanced to the rank of captain of foot, which
honourable post I obtained more by good fortune than merit, and that day
which was so fortunate for Christendom, on which the world was convinced
of the error they had espoused in believing the Turks invincible by sea;
on that day, I say, when the Ottoman pride and insolence were humbled
and broke among so many happy Christians there present, (and sure those
who fell were happier than the living victors!) I alone was unfortunate;
for, instead of receiving a naval crown, which would have been my
reward, had I lived in the Roman ages, on the night that succeeded that
glorious day, I found myself a captive loaded with chains! And this was
the cause of my misfortune: Uchali, King of Algiers, a bold and
fortunate corsair, having attacked and mastered the capitan galley of
Malta, in which there remained only three knights alive, and these
desperately wounded; the vessel commanded by John Andrea Doria, in which
my company was stationed, hastened to her relief, and I doing my duty on
that occasion, leaped into the enemy’s ship, which disengaging herself
immediately from our galley, that was grappled with her, my soldiers
were prevented from following their officer, and I found myself alone
among my foes, whom, by reason of their numbers, I could not resist;
therefore was obliged to submit after having been almost covered over
with wounds; and Uchali, as you have heard, gentlemen, having saved
himself with his whole squadron, I remained his prisoner, the only sad
person amidst the general joy, and captive among so many that were set
free; for full fifteen thousand Christians who came into the action
chained to the Turkish oars, that day recovered their long wished for
liberty.
‘I was carried to Constantinople, where Selim, the grand Turk, created
my master general of the sea, for having done his duty in the battle,
and as a proof of his valour brought off the high standard of Malta.
Next year, which was that of seventy-two, I rowed in the capitan galley
of the Three Lanthorns, at Navarino, where I saw and observed the
Christians lose the opportunity of taking the whole Turkish fleet in the
harbour; for, all the Levantines and Janissaries belonging to it laid
their account with being attacked in port, and had actually got in
readiness their knapsacks and passamaques, (which are a kind of shoes)
in order to go on shore, and seek their safety in flight, without
waiting for the assault; such was the consternation that prevailed among
them! But Heaven ordained things to happen in another manner; not
through any error or neglect of the general who commanded the
expedition, but on account of the sins of Christendom; it being the will
and permission of God, that we should never want executioners to
chastise us. In short, Uchali retreated to Modon, which is an island
almost contiguous to Navarino, where he disembarked his men, fortified
the mouth of the harbour, and remained until Don John set sail on his
return. In this expedition, the galley called the Prize, commanded by a
son of the famous corsair Barbarossa, was taken by the capitan galley of
Naples called the She-wolf, the commander of which was that thunderbolt
of war, that father of his soldiers, that fortunate and invincible
chief, Don Alvaro de Basan, marquis of Santa Cruz: and I cannot help
mentioning what happened at the taking of this prize. The son of
Barbarossa was so cruel, and treated his captives so inhumanly, that
when the rowers perceived the She-wolf ready to board, and in a fair way
of taking her, they quitted their oars all at once, and seizing the
captain, who stood upon the strentrel[102], calling to them to row
lustily, they tossed him forwards from bench to bench, and bit him so
severely as he went along, that before he passed the main-mast, his soul
passed into hell. Such was his barbarity, as I have already observed,
and such the revenge which their hatred to him inspired!
‘We returned to Constantinople; and during the following year, which was
seventy-three, understood that Don John had taken Tunis, wrested that
whole kingdom from the Turks, and put Muley Hamet in possession of the
whole; thus cutting off all the hopes of a restoration from Muley
Hamida, the most valiant and most cruel Moor of his time. The grand
Signior was deeply affected with his loss, and practising that sagacity
which is peculiar to all those of his family, clapped up a peace with
the Venetians, who were much more desirous of it than he. Next year,
being seventy-four, he attacked the goleta and fort, which Don John had
left half-finished, near Tunis: and on all these occasions I was
present, being tied to the oar, without the least hope of freedom,
especially by ransom; for, I was resolved not to write to my father an
account of my misfortune. At length, the goleta and fort were both lost,
having been besieged by seventy-five thousand Turkish soldiers,
regularly paid, and upwards of four hundred thousand Moors and Arabs
from the other parts of Africa; this multitude being provided with a
vast quantity of warlike stores and ammunition, and attended with such a
number of pioneers, that, by throwing handfuls of earth, they might have
covered both the places they came to besiege. The goleta, which had been
counted impregnable, was first taken; not through any fault of the
besieged, who performed all that men could do in its defence, but
because experience shewed that trenches could be made with ease in that
loose sand, under which, though water was commonly found at the depth of
two spans, the Turks, at that time, dug as many fathoms, without finding
one drop; and so filling a vast number of sacks, raised their works so
high as to overlook the fort; then mounting this cavalier with cannon,
kept such a firing as rendered it impossible for the garrison to make
any longer defence. It was a common opinion, that our troops ought not
to have shut themselves up in the goleta, but opposed the disembarkation
in the plain; however, those who talk in that manner, speak at random,
and must be persons of small experience in such affairs; for, if the
whole garrison in both places scarce amounted to seven thousand
soldiers, how could such a small number, though ever so valiant, take
the field, and at the same time defend the forts, against such a
multitude of foes? And how could the forts be possibly maintained
without supplies, in an enemy’s country, when they were hemmed in by
such a numerous and obstinate army? But others thought, and I am of the
same opinion, that Heaven manifested a particular grace and favour to
Spain, in permitting them to destroy that rendezvous and pretence of
mischief, that sink, spunge, and devourer of infinite sums of money,
which were there unprofitably spent, without serving any other purpose
than that of preserving the memory of its being the most happy conquest
of the invincible Charles the Fifth: as if it was necessary for those
stones to support his fame, which is already immortal. The fort was also
yielded, though the Turks won it by inches; for the garrison behaved
with such gallantry and resolution, that in two and twenty general
assaults, the enemy lost upwards of twenty-five thousand men; and of the
three hundred Spanish soldiers that remained alive, they did not make
one prisoner who had not been wounded during the siege: a clear and
certain proof of the obstinate valour with which the places were
defended. A small fort, or tower, that stood in the middle of the lake,
under the command of Don Juan Zanoguera, a Valentian knight and
celebrated soldier, surrendered upon terms: but, Don Pedro
Puertocarrero, general of the goleta, was made prisoner; and though he
did all that man could do in defence of the place, he was so deeply
affected by the loss of it, that he died of grief on the road to
Constantinople, whither they were carrying him captive. The general of
the fort, whose name was Gabrio Cerbellon, a Milanese gentleman, a great
engineer, and excellent soldier, was likewise taken prisoner; and in
these two forts perished many persons of note, among whom was one Pagan
d’Oria, a knight of St. John, a gentleman of a most generous
disposition, as appeared from his excessive liberality to his brother
the famous Juan Andrea d’Oria; and what made his death still more
lamentable, was, that he perished by the hands of some Arabs, to whom,
seeing the fort already lost, he trusted himself, relying upon their
promise to carry him disguised in a Moorish dress, to Tabarca, which is
a small port or settlement belonging to the Genoese, who fish for coral
on that part of the coast; but those perfidious Arabs cut off his head,
which they carried to the general of the Turkish navy, who fulfilled
upon them our Castilian proverb, which imports, that though we love the
treason, we abhor the traitor; for it was reported, that he ordered them
all to be hanged, because they had not brought him alive.
‘Among the Christians who were taken in the fort, was one Don Pedro de
Aguilar, a native of some town in Andalousia, who had been an ensign in
the garrison, a soldier of great worth and rare endowments, particularly
blessed with a happy talent for poetry. This circumstance I mention,
because it was his fate to belong to our galley, where he was my
companion at the oar, and fellow-slave; and before we departed from that
harbour, he composed two songs, by way of epitaph upon the goleta and
the fort. As I have them both by heart, I believe it will not be
disagreeable to the company if I repeat them.’
When the captive mentioned Don Pedro de Aguilar, Don Fernando looked at
his companions, who smiled; and when the stranger was going to repeat
the songs, one of the three said to him, ‘Before you proceed, I beg the
favour to know what became of that Don Pedro de Aguilar?’—‘All that I
know of the matter,’ replied the captive, ‘is, that after having staid
two years at Constantinople, he made off in the habit of an arnaut[103],
with a Greek spy: but I do not know whether or not he obtained his
liberty, though I believe be succeeded; for about a year after, I saw
the same Greek at Constantinople; but I had not an opportunity to
enquire about the success of their scheme.’—‘Then I can satisfy you in
that particular,’ resumed the cavalier; ‘Don Pedro is my brother, and
now lives at home, in good health and easy circumstances, blessed with a
wife and three hopeful sons.’——‘Thanks be to God for the great mercies
bestowed upon him!’ answered the captive; ‘for, in my opinion, there is
no happiness on earth equal to that of liberty regained.’—‘Besides,’
said the gentleman, ‘I retain in my memory the songs which my brother
composed.’—‘Be so good, then,’ replied the stranger, ‘as to entertain
the company with them; for, doubtless, you can repeat them more
perfectly than I can.’—‘With all my heart,’ said the cavalier: ‘that
upon the goleta runs thus.’
Footnote 102:
The strentrel, or estanterol, is a post that supports the awning of
the poop.
Footnote 103:
A Dalmatian trooper.
CHAP. XIII.
THE CONTINUATION OF THE CAPTIVE’S HISTORY.
I.
“Ye happy shades, whose deeds renown’d
”Have freed you from encumb’ring clay;
“From this low scene, where woes abound,
”Ascending to eternal day.
II.
“With glorious zeal your bosoms glow’d,
”Your bodies brav’d excessive toil:
“Your blood with that of Pagans flow’d,
”To drench the hostile, barren soil.
III.
“Your lives, but not your courage, fail’d;
”Death seal’d your just, victorious claim;
“Enjoy, still honour’d and bewail’d,
”Immortal happiness and fame.“
‘These are the very words which I remember,’ said the captive. ‘And if
my memory does not fail me,’ replied the gentleman, ‘the other upon the
fort is this.
I.
“Lo! from yon ruins on the desart plain,
”Oppress’d with numbers, in th’ unequal fight,
“Three thousand souls of Christian warriors slain,
”To happier regions, wing’d their joyous flight.
II.
“Yet not before in vain they had essay’d
”The force and vigour of their dauntless arms;
“Till wearied and reduc’d, though undismay’d,
”They welcom’d death, encompass’d with alarms.
III.
“On Afric’s coast, as records tell,
”The scene of past and present woes,
“More valiant bodies never fell,
”More spotless spirits never rose.“
The songs were not disliked; and the captive rejoicing at the good
fortune of his comrade, proceeded thus in his narration.
‘The goleta and forts being taken, the Turks ordered the first to be
dismantled, the other being quite demolished before it was surrendered;
and that this might be done with the less trouble, and greater dispatch,
it was undermined in three parts, but they could by no means blow up the
old walls, which seemed to be the weakest part, while that which was
executed by Fratin, was destroyed with great facility. In short, the
victorious fleet returned in triumph to Constantinople, where, in a few
months, happened the death of my master Uchali, who went by the name of
Uchali Fartax, which, in the language of that country, signifies the
Scabby Renegado; for such he actually was, and it is a custom among the
Turks, to bestow epithets upon people, derived either from some defect
or virtue inherent in them: this method they practise, because they have
but four families distinguished by particular names, and these are
descended from the house of Ottoman; so that the rest, as I have
observed, adopt some appellation, either from the blemishes of the body,
or the virtues of the mind. This leper, therefore, tugged at the oar,
during fourteen years, as slave to the Grand Signior; and when he was
turned of thirty-four, apostatized, out of resentment against a Turk,
who struck him at the oar; renouncing his religion, that he might be
able to revenge the affront. Such was his gallantry and conduct, that
without practising those vile steps and methods by which the sultan’s
favourites are raised, he was promoted to the throne of Algiers, and
afterwards created general at sea, which is the third post in the
empire. He was a native of Calabria, a man of good morals, and behaved
with great humanity to his slaves, who, to the number of three thousand,
were at his death, in consequence of his last will, divided between his
renegadoes and the Grand Signior, who is also coheir with the children
of all his deceased subjects. I fell to the share of a Venetian, who had
been a common sailor when he was taken; and Uchali had such an affection
for him, that he enjoyed the greatest share of his favour, and became
the most cruel renegado that ever was known. This man, whose name was
Azanaga, acquired great riches, and even succeeded to the crown of
Algiers, to which place I accompanied him from Constantinople, with some
degree of satisfaction, at the thoughts of being so near my own country;
not that I intended to send home an account of my unhappy fate, but to
see if fortune would not prove more favourable at Algiers than at
Constantinople, where I had laid a thousand schemes for my escape,
without having an opportunity of putting one of them in execution; but I
was in hope of finding at Algiers some other more effectual means of
obtaining that which I so ardently desired: for the hope of gaining my
liberty never forsook my breast; on the contrary, when all my pains,
efforts, and expectations, miscarried, far from abandoning myself to
despair, I endeavoured to find out some new expedient, which though ever
so frail and unsubstantial, served to support my spirits, and flatter my
imagination. Thus I made shift to live within a house or prison, called
a bath, in which the Turks confine the Christian captives, whether
belonging to the king, or private persons, or of that class which they
call magazine-slaves; these are the captives of the council, who serve
the state in publick works, and other kinds of day-labour; and find
great difficulty in obtaining their freedom, because they belong to the
community, and have no particular master with whom they can treat
concerning their ransom, even though they can command money for the
purpose.
‘In these baths, as I have already said, some private persons lodge
their slaves, especially when their ransom is agreed upon; and there
they remain secure, and at their ease, until it arrives. Neither do the
king’s captives, who are to be ransomed, go out to work with the rest of
the crew, except when the money is delayed; and then, that they may be
induced to write with more importunity, they are sent out with the rest
to cut wood, an office of no small mortification and toil. As they knew
I had been a captain, I in vain assured them, that I had neither
interest nor money; they put me into the number of those who were to be
ransomed, loading me with a chain, rather to denote my condition than to
secure my person; so that I spent my time in that bath, among a great
many cavaliers and people of fashion, who were thus marked and designed
for ransom; and though we were sometimes, nay, almost always exposed to
hunger and nakedness, nothing gave us so much pain, as to hear and see,
upon every occasion, the new and unheard of cruelties which my master
exercised upon the Christians. He was every day hanging one, impaling
another, maiming a third, upon such slight occasions, frequently without
any cause assigned, that the Turks themselves owned he acted thus out of
mere wantonness or barbarity, as being naturally of a savage
disposition, and an inveterate enemy to the whole human race. The person
who used the greatest freedom with him was a Spanish soldier, called
such-a-one de Saavedra; who, though he did many things which those
people will not soon forget, in attempting to regain his liberty, he
never gave him one blow, nor ordered him once to be chastised, nor even
chid him with one hasty word; and yet the least of all his pranks was
sufficient, as we thought, to bring him to the stake: nay, he himself
was more than once afraid of being impaled alive. If time would permit,
I could here recount some of that soldier’s actions, which perhaps,
might entertain and surprize you more than the relation of my own story.
‘But to return to the thread of my narration: just over the yard of our
prison were the windows of a rich and principal Moor; but, according to
the custom of the country, they were rather like peep-holes than
windows, and even these covered with very thick and close lattices. One
day I chanced to be on the terrace of our gaol, with three of my
companions, passing the time in trying which of us could leap farthest
in our shackles, the rest of the Christians being gone out to work; I
casually lifted up my eyes, and perceived a cane with a handkerchief
tied to it, held out at these little openings I have mentioned, and
waving to and fro, as if by way of signal for some of us to go and catch
it. This object was no sooner observed, than one of my companions ran
hastily to the place that was directly under it, to see if the cane
would be dropped, or what would be the consequence; but when he arrived
it was pulled up, and moved from one side to another, as if a man should
signify his dissent from any proposal, by shaking his head: when the
Christian returned, the cane was lowered again, with the same motion as
at first, upon which another of our company tried the experiment, but
succeeded no better than the first; a third went, and miscarried like
the other two. Observing their disappointment, I was resolved to try my
fortune also; accordingly, I had no sooner placed myself under the cane
than it was dropped, and fell down within the bath, just at my feet. I
snatched it up immediately, and untied the handkerchief, in which I
found a knot containing ten zianiys, which are pieces of bad gold,
current among the Moors, each of them valued at ten rials of our money.
It would be superfluous to say that I rejoiced at this windfall: indeed,
my joy was equal to my surprize; for I could not conceive from whence
that present could come, especially to me, the circumstance of the
cane’s being refused to every other person plainly shewing that the
favour was intended for me. I pocketed this lucky sum, broke the cane,
returned to the terrace, and looked at the window, through which
appeared a very white hand, that opened the lattice, and hastily shut it
again: from this circumstance we understood, or at least imagined, that
we owed the present to some lady who lived in that house; and, in token
of thanks, made our obeisance in the Moorish manner, by bowing the head,
bending the body, and crossing the hands upon the breast. Soon after
this ceremony, a small cross made of cane, was held out at the window,
and immediately withdrawn: a signal which confirmed us in the opinion
that we were befriended by some Christian woman, who lived as a slave in
that house; but this supposition was changed, when we reflected upon the
whiteness of the hand, and the bracelets which we had perceived; and
then we concluded that she must be one of those Christian renegades whom
their masters frequently take to wife; and even think themselves
fortunate in having such an opportunity; for they esteem them much more
than the women of their own nation. But all our conjectures were wide of
the truth.
‘From this day forward, our whole entertainment was to gaze at the
window, as the north in which the star of the cane had appeared; but
full fifteen days elapsed, before we had another glimpse either of that
or the hand, or indeed of any other signal; and during this interval,
though we endeavoured by all the means in our power to learn who lived
in that house, and whether or not there was a Christian renegado in it,
we never could get any other information, but that it belonged to a rich
Moor of great note, called Agimorato, who had been alcaide of Pata, an
office of great honour among that people; but, when we least expected
another shower of zianiys, the cane reappeared all of a sudden, with
another handkerchief, and a larger knot than before, and this occurrence
happened as formerly, when none but ourselves were in the bath: we made
the usual experiment, each of my three companions, going towards it as
at first without success, until I approached, and then it was
immediately dropped. I untied the knot, within which I found forty
crowns in Spanish gold, and a paper written in Arabian characters, with
a large cross at the head of the page. I kissed the sacred sign, put up
the money, returned to the terrace, where we made our obeisance; the
hand appearing again, I made signs that I should read the letter, and
then the window was shut. We were equally pleased and perplexed at this
event, for none of us understood Arabick; and although our impatience to
know the contents of the paper was very great, the difficulty of finding
an interpreter was still greater. At length I determined to trust a
renegade a native of Murcia, who had professed himself my friend, and
given me such pledges of his fidelity, as obliged him to keep any secret
I should think proper to impart: for those renegades who intend to
return to Christendom, usually carry about with them certificates signed
by the principal captives, attesting in the most ample form they can
devise, that such a renegade is an honest man, who hath always been
obliging to the Christians, and is desirous of making his escape with
the first opportunity. Some there are who procure these testimonials
with a good intention, others use them occasionally, as the instruments
of their craft: for, going to rob and plunder on the Christian coasts,
if they should chance to be shipwrecked or taken, they produce their
certificates, and observe that these papers will shew the real design of
their coming on a cruize with Turks, which was no other than to take the
first occasion of returning to their native country; by these means they
escape the first fury of resentment, and are reconciled to the church,
without suffering the least damage; but when they see their opportunity,
they return to Barbary, and re-assume their former way of life; whereas
those who procure recommendations with a good design, make use of them
accordingly, and remain in peace among the Christians. Such a renegado
was this friend, who had obtained certificates from all my companions,
conceived in the strongest terms of confidence and applause; for which,
had he been detected, the Moors would have burned him alive. I knew that
he could both speak and write the Arabian tongue; but, before I would
disclose the whole affair, I desired him to read that paper which I had
found by chance in a corner of my cabbin. He opened it accordingly, and
having pored and perused it a good while, muttering between his teeth, I
asked if he understood the contents. He answered in the affirmative,
bidding me, if I chose to have the literal meaning, furnish him with pen
and ink, that he might translate it the more exactly. I accordingly
accommodated him with what he desired; and when he had made an end of
the translation at his own leisure, he said, “This that I have written
in Spanish is the literal meaning of that Moorish paper; and you are to
take notice, that wheresoever you meet with the words Lela Marien, they
signify our Lady the Blessed Virgin.”
‘The paper contained these words—“When I was a child, my father had a
woman slave, who in my own language taught me the Christian worship, and
told me divers things of Lela Marien. This Christian died, and I am sure
her soul did not go to the fire, but to Ala; for I saw her twice after
her death, and she advised me to go to the land of the Christians, where
I should see Lela Marien, by whom I was beloved. I know not which way to
go; many Christians I have seen from this window, but not one who seems
so much a gentleman as yourself. I am very beautiful and young, and have
a great deal of money in my possession. If thou canst find out any
method of carrying me to thy country, thou shalt there be my husband, if
thou art so inclined; but, if that be contrary to thy inclination, I
shall not be uneasy, for Lela Marien will provide me with a spouse. I
write this with my own hand; let nobody read it, but such as you can
trust. Beware of the Moors, for they are altogether deceitful; therefore
I am very much concerned, for I would not have it disclosed to any
person whatever; because, if it should come to my father’s ears, he
would instantly cause me to be sunk in a well, and covered with stones.
I will fasten a thread to the cane, to which thou mayest tie thine
answer; and if thou hast not a proper person to write for thee in
Arabick, let me know by signs; for Lela Marien will help me to
understand them. May she and Ala preserve thee, by means of this cross,
which I often kiss, according to the direction of my deceased slave!”
‘You may easily conceive, gentlemen, whether or not we were surprized
and rejoiced at the contents of this paper. Indeed, the symptoms of joy
and admiration appeared so plain in our behaviour, that the renegado
suspected it was not found by accident, but actually written and
addressed to one of our company. He accordingly intreated us to tell him
if his conjecture was true, protesting that we might safely trust to his
fidelity, and assuring us, if we would favour him with our confidence,
he would venture his life in procuring our freedom. So saying, he pulled
from his bosom a crucifix of metal, and with many tears, swore by the
God represented under the form of that image, in whom he, though a
wretched sinner, fully and faithfully believed, that he would be trusty
and secret in every thing we should please to communicate; for he firmly
believed, and as it were prognosticated, that by means of her who had
written the paper, we should all obtain liberty, and he accomplish that
which he had so much at heart, namely, his re-admission into the bosom
of his holy mother church, from which he, through his ignorance and
guilt, had been like a rotten member, divided and cut off. This
declaration he made with so many tears and signs of repentance, that we
unanimously agreed to intrust him with the affair, and accordingly gave
him an account of every thing that had happened, without suppressing one
circumstance; and shewed him the window at which the cane appeared: so
that from thence he had took, his mark of the house, resolving to inform
himself, with great care and caution, of the name and quality of those
who lived in it. Meanwhile, we were all of opinion, that there was a
necessity for answering the billet; and there being a person present,
who could perform that office, the renegado that instant wrote in
Arabick what I dictated, which was literally as I shall now repeat, for
of all the material circumstances of that affair, not one hath escaped
my memory, which will retain them all to my last breath. In short, this
was the answer which I sent to the beautiful Moor.
“MY DEAR LADY!
“Mayest thou be protected by the true Ala, and that blessed Mary the
real mother of God, who, because she loves thee, hath put it into
thy heart to go to the land of Christians; beseech her therefore,
that she will be pleased to teach thee how thou mayest obey her
commands; for she is so benevolent that she will grant thy request.
For my own part, and in behalf of those who are my fellow prisoners,
I promise to serve thee with our whole power, even unto death. Fail
not to write and give me notice of what thou shalt resolve to do;
and I will always answer thy letters; for the great Ala hath
favoured us with the friendship of a Christian captive, who can
speak and write thy language, as thou wilt perceive by this paper;
wherefore thou mayest communicate thy will and pleasure to us
without fear. As to thy offer of becoming my wife, when thou shalt
be safely settled in the land of the Christians, I pledge myself
thine, on the faith of a good Christian; and know, that those of our
religion perform their promises more punctually than the Moors. God,
and his mother Mary, take my dear lady into their holy protection!”
‘This letter being written and sealed, I waited two days until the bath
was empty, and then went to the usual place on the terrace, to look for
the cane, which in a little time appeared. I no sooner perceived the
sign, though I could not see who made it, than I held up the letter to
make her understand that she should fasten a thread to the cane; but
that was already done, and I tied the paper to it accordingly. In a
little time our star appeared again, loaded with the white flag of
peace; which being dropped, I took it up, and found, in different coins
of gold and silver, to the amount of fifty crowns, which increased our
satisfaction fifty-fold, and confirmed us in the hope of obtaining our
freedom. That same night our renegade returned, and told us, he was
informed the house was inhabited by that same Moor I have mentioned
under the name of Agimorato, who was excessively rich, and had only one
daughter to inherit his whole fortune; that by the current report in the
city, she was the most beautiful woman in Barbary; and that many of the
viceroys who went thither, had demanded her in marriage, but she would
never yield her consent; he likewise understood that she had once a
Christian slave, who had died some time ago; so that all these
circumstances agreed with the contents of her letter. We then consulted
with the renegade about the means of transporting ourselves with the
Moorish lady, into Christendom; and, at length, we came to the
resolution of waiting for another intimation from Zorayda, which is the
name of her who now desires to be called Maria; for we plainly
perceived, that by means of her, and no other, we should be enabled to
surmount all the difficulties that occurred.
‘Having come to this determination, the renegado bid us give ourselves
no uneasiness, for he would either procure our liberty or forfeit his
own life. The bath being full of people during four days, no cane
appeared all that time; at the end of which the usual solitude
prevailing, we perceived it with a handkerchief so pregnant as to
promise a most happy birth. I stood under it; the whole was dropped as
usual, and I found in the handkerchief another paper with one hundred
crowns in gold, without any mixture of other coin. The renegade being
then present, we carried him to our cabbin, where we desired him to read
the letter, which he interpreted in these words.
“I know not, dear Sir, how to give directions about our passage into
Spain; nor hath Lela Marien told me, though I have earnestly
implored her assistance. But what may be easily effected is this: I
will from this window furnish you with a great quantity of money; so
that you may ransom yourself and your companions; and going to the
land of the Christians, purchase a bark with which you may return
for the rest; and you will find me in my father’s garden, which is
by the gate of Barbazon, close to the sea-side. There I shall be
during the whole summer, with my father and servants; and from
thence you may, in the night, carry me to the bark without fear. But
remember thou shalt be my husband; otherwise I will pray to Marien
to chastise thee. If thou canst depend upon no other person for
purchasing the bark, ransom thyself for that purpose. I know thou
wilt be more apt than any other body to return, because thou art a
gentleman and a Christian. Be sure to inform thyself well about the
garden. When I see thee walking where thou art at present, I shall
know the bath is empty, and provide thee with more money. Ala
preserve thee, my dear gentleman!”
‘These were the contents and purport of the second paper; which being
read in presence of us all, each proposed himself as the person to be
ransomed, promising to go and return with the utmost punctuality; I
likewise offered myself for that purpose. But the renegado opposed the
proposal; saying, that he could by no means consent that one should be
set free, before we had all obtained our liberty: because experience had
taught him, how ill those who are free perform the promises they have
made in their captivity; for prisoners of note had often practised the
expedient of ransoming one of their number, to go to Valencia or
Majorca, with money to purchase an armed bark, and return for his
companions, but they never saw his face again; for having once obtained
his own liberty, the dread of losing it again, by returning, blots all
manner of obligations out of his remembrance. As a confirmation of the
truth of what he alledged, he briefly recounted a case which had lately
happened to some Christian gentlemen, attended with the strangest
circumstances ever known even in these parts, where the most uncommon
and surprizing events occur almost every day. In short, he told us, the
most practicable and prudent scheme was, to give him the money we should
receive for our ransom, with which he would purchase a bark at Algiers,
under pretence of becoming merchant, and trading to Tetuan, and the
other places on that coast; and that being master of the vessel, he
would soon contrive the means of disengaging us from the bath, and
getting us all on board; especially if the Moorish lady should perform
her promise in supplying us with money sufficient to pay the ransom of
our whole company; in which case, being no longer slaves, we might
embark with the greatest ease and safety, even at noon-day. The greatest
difficulty that occurred, was the backwardness of the Moors, to allow a
renegade to purchase or command a vessel, unless it be a large cruizer
for pirating; because they suspect, especially if he be a Spaniard, that
his sole motive in buying a small bark, is to make his escape into
Christendom; but he undertook to remedy that inconvenience, by giving a
share of the bark and profits of the merchandize to a Tangarin Moor; by
which means he should be master of the bark, and of consequence have it
in his power to accomplish the whole affair.
‘Although, in the opinion of me and my companions, there was no better
plan than that of sending to Majorca for a bark, as the Moorish lady had
proposed, we durst not contradict the sentiments of the renegade, lest
he, being disobliged by our acting contrary to his intention, should
make a discovery of our correspondence with the fair Moor, and endanger
not only our lives, but also that of Zorayda, for which we would have
willingly sacrificed our own. We therefore determined to rely upon God
and the renegado; and immediately wrote an answer to Zorayda, importing,
that we would adhere in every thing to her advice, which was as prudent
as if it had been dictated by Lela Marien; and that it depended solely
upon her, either to hasten or retard the negociation; pledging my faith
anew to become her spouse. In consequence of this intimation, the very
next day, when the bath happened to be empty, she, at different times,
by means of the cane and handkerchief, transmitted two thousand crowns
in gold, with a paper signifying, that on the first Jama, which is
Friday, she should set out for her father’s garden, but before her
departure, supply us with more money; and desired us to inform her, if
we should find that insufficient; for she would give us as much as we
could desire, her father having such vast sums, that he would never be
sensible of what she took, especially as all his keys were in her
possession. We immediately accommodated the renegado with five hundred
crowns, for the purchase of the bark; with eight hundred more I ransomed
myself, depositing the money with a Valentian merchant then residing at
Algiers, who bargained for my ransom with the king, and obtained my
freedom, upon giving his word to pay the money on the arrival of the
first ship from Valencia; for, if he had paid it immediately, the king
would have suspected that the ransom had been some time at Algiers, and
that the merchant had hitherto detained it for his own convenience. In
short, my master was so contentious, that I durst by no means disburse
the money at once. On the Thursday before the fair Zorayda removed to
her father’s country house, she gave us another thousand crowns, and
apprized us of her departure; intreating me, as soon as I should be
ransomed, to make myself acquainted with her father’s garden, and find
some opportunity of going thither to see her. I answered, in few words,
that I would obey her in every thing, desiring she would fervently
recommend us to Lela Marien in all those prayers which she had learned
of the slave.
‘This affair being transacted, means were concerted for ransoming my
three companions; lest, seeing me at liberty and themselves confined,
since I had money enough to procure their freedom, they should be
chagrined and tempted by the devil to do something to the prejudice of
Zorayda; for, although their honour and integrity might have secured me
against any such apprehension, I would not run the smallest risk, and
therefore took care they should be ransomed by the same canal through
which my liberty was obtained; depositing the whole sum required in the
merchant’s hands, that he might with more certainty and confidence act
the part of their bondsman; though we never disclosed to him our secret
commerce with Zorayda, for fear of what might happen.’
CHAP. XIV.
THE CONTINUATION OF THE CAPTIVE’S ADVENTURES.
‘Before fifteen days had elapsed, our renegado had purchased a stout
vessel capable of containing thirty persons at least; and to secure what
he had done with a favourable pretext, he made a voyage to a place
called Sargel, about thirty leagues from Algiers, towards the coast of
Oran, where there is a great traffick of dried figs; and he made two or
three trips of this kind in company with the Tagarin Moor already
mentioned. The Moors of Arragon are in Barbary called Tagarins, and
those of Grenada go by the name of Mudajares; though these last are in
the kingdom of Fez called Elches, being the people whom the king chiefly
uses in his wars. I say, then, in every passage, the renegado brought
his bark to an anchor in a small creek, within two bow shots of
Agimorato’s garden, and there purposely employed himself and his Moorish
rowers in practising the Zala[104], or attempted that in jest which he
intended to execute in earnest. He went frequently to Zorayda’s garden,
on pretence of asking fruit, which he always received from her father,
though he did not know him; but although, as he afterwards owned, he
wanted to speak with Zorayda, and tell her that he was the person
appointed by me to carry her off to the land of the Christians, that she
might be satisfied and secure of his fidelity; he never had an
opportunity of executing his design, for the Moorish women avoid the
sight of their own countrymen and the Turks, unless when they are
commanded to appear by their parents and husbands: though they talk and
converse with Christian captives even more freely than decency allows. I
should have been very much concerned had he spoke with her, because it
would perhaps have given her great uneasiness to see renegades intrusted
with the affair; but God, who ordained all for the best, gave him no
opportunity of fulfilling his well-meaning intention.
‘Perceiving how securely he traded to and from Sargel, and anchored
when, where, and how he pleased, his partner submitting to his direction
in all things; and that I being ransomed, there was nothing wanted but
some Christians to row, he desired me to pick out those who should
accompany me exclusive of my friends who were ransomed, and bespeak them
for the Friday following, which he had appointed for the day of our
departure. Seeing him thus determined, I spoke to a dozen Spaniards, all
of them able-bodied rowers, and people who could easily get out of the
city; and indeed it was no small difficulty to find so many at that
conjuncture, for no fewer than twenty gallies being then out upon the
cruize, almost all the rowers were employed; so that I should not have
found those I have mentioned had not their master staid at home that
summer to finish a vessel which he had on the stocks. All I said to them
was, that next Friday in the evening they should slily slip out of the
city one by one, and betake themselves to Agimorato’s garden, where they
should wait my coming; and I directed every one by himself, if he should
meet with other Christians at the rendezvous, to say nothing but that I
had ordered him to wait for me in that place.
‘This point being settled, another precaution still more necessary
remained untaken; this was to advertise Zorayda of the situation of our
affairs, that she might be prepared and guarded against surprize at our
sudden assault, before she could think it possible that the Christian
bark was arrived. Resolved therefore to see and speak with her if
possible one day before our departure, I went to the garden on pretence
of gathering some herbs, and the first person I met was her father, who
spoke to me in a language used through all Barbary, and even at
Constantinople, between the captives and the Moors; it is neither
Arabick nor Castilian, nor indeed peculiar to any nation, but a mixture
of different tongues by which we may make shift to understand each
other. I say, he asked in this sort of jargon who I was, and what I
wanted in his garden? I answered that I was a slave belonging to Arnaute
Mami, who I knew to be an intimate friend of his, and that I wanted a
few herbs for a sallad. In consequence of this answer, he enquired
whether or not I was to be ransomed, and what my master demanded for my
freedom? And while we were thus conversing together, the fair Zorayda
came out into the garden. She had already perceived me from a window of
the house; and as the Moorish women make no scruple of shewing
themselves to Christians, with whom, as I have already observed, they
are not at all shy, she without any hesitation walked towards the place
where I was standing with her father, who no sooner saw her, than he
called at a distance desiring her to come up. It would be a difficult
task for me at present to describe the exceeding beauty, the genteel
mien, the gay and rich ornaments with which my beloved Zorayda then
presented herself before mine eyes: I shall only observe, that the
pearls about her beauteous neck and ears, out-numbered the hairs of her
head. On her ancles, which were bare, according to the custom of the
country, she wore carcaxes, (by which name the bracelets for the feet
are called in the Morisco language) of the purest gold, set with such a
quantity of diamonds, that she afterwards told me her father valued them
at twenty thousand ducats; and those she wore upon her wrists were of
equal richness. The pearls, though in such a vast number, were extremely
fine; for the greatest pride and magnificence of the Moorish women lie
in pearls and embroidery; consequently there is a greater quantity of
pearls and seed-pearl in Barbary than in all the other nations of the
world, and Zorayda’s father had the reputation of possessing the
greatest number and the best in Algiers, together with a fortune of two
hundred thousand Spanish crowns, of all which she who is now mine was
once mistress. Whether with the assistance of all these ornaments she
appeared beautiful or not, and what she must have been in her
prosperity, may be conjectured by what remains after the great fatigues
she hath undergone; for it is well known that the beauty of some women
hath its days and seasons, and is diminished or increased according to
the circumstances that happen; being improved or impaired, nay, often
totally destroyed, by the passions of the mind. In short, she approached
in all the pomp of dress, and all the excess of beauty; at least to me
she seemed the most beautiful creature I had ever seen; which
circumstance, joined to the obligation I lay under, made me look upon
her as an angel sent from heaven for my delight and deliverance. When
she came up, her father told her in their own language that I was a
captive belonging to his friend Arnaute Mami, and had come for a sallad;
upon which she took up the discourse, and in that jumble of languages
before-mentioned, asked if I was a gentleman, and why I did not ransom
myself? I answered that I was already ransomed, and that she might see
in what esteem I was with my master by the sum he received for my
freedom, which was no less than fifteen hundred sultanins. To this
observation she replied, “Truly, if thou hadst belonged to my father, he
should not have parted with thee for twice the sum; for you Christians
always dissemble, and call yourselves poorer than you really are, with a
view of imposing upon the Moors.”—“That may be sometimes the case,
Madam,” said I, “but I adhered to the truth in bargaining with my
master, and will deal honestly with all mankind.” She then asked how
soon I intended to depart: and I answered, “To-morrow, I believe; there
is a French ship in the harbour to sail in the morning, and I have some
thoughts of taking my passage on board of her.”—“Had not you better stay
till the arrival of a vessel from Spain,” said Zorayda, “than trust
yourself with the French, who are no good friends of yours?”—“No,
Madam,” answered I; “though, as there is a Spanish ship expected, if she
arrives immediately, I believe I shall wait for her; but it is more
likely that I shall sail to-morrow; for the desire I have to see myself
in my native country with those I love, is too strong to let me wait for
any other convenience, let it be ever so good.”—“Without doubt,” said
Zorayda, “thou art married in thy own country, and therefore desirous of
being with thy wife?”—“I am not yet wedded,” I replied; “but under
promise of being married at my return.”—“And is the woman beautiful to
whom thou hast pledged thy faith?” said she. “So beautiful,” answered I,
“that, to compliment her, and tell thee the truth, she is the exact
resemblance of thyself.”
‘Her father laughed heartily at this declaration, saying, “Truly,
Christian, she must be very handsome indeed, if she resembles my
daughter, who is the most beautiful woman in this kingdom: look at her,
and thou wilt see whether or not I speak truth.”
‘In the greatest part of this conversation, Agimorato served as
interpreter for his daughter, he being better acquainted with this
spurious language, which though she understood a little in consequence
of its being much spoke among the Moors, she explained, her meaning by
signs, oftener than by words.
‘While we were engaged in this and other such conversation, a Moor ran
towards us, crying aloud, that four Turks having got through the pales,
or leaped over the garden wall, were gathering the fruit, though it was
not yet ripe. At this information the old man and Zorayda started; for
the Moors are commonly, and as it were, naturally, afraid of the Turks,
especially the soldiers, who are so insolent and imperious to their
Moorish subjects, that they treat them worse than if they were slaves.
Accordingly, the father said to Zorayda, “Daughter, retire to the house,
and lock thyself up, while I go and talk to those dogs; and thou
Christian,” (turning to me) “gather thy herbs, and depart in peace; and
Ala send thee safe into thy own country!” I made my obeysance, and he
went in search of the Turks, leaving me alone with Zorayda, who
pretended to go homeward according to her father’s desire; but no sooner
was he out of sight, among the trees of the garden, than she came back,
with her eyes drowned in tears, saying, “Amexi, Christiano, amexi!” the
signification of which address is, “Thou art going away, Christian, thou
art going away!”—“Yes, Madam,” answered I, “but by no means without you:
on the next Jama expect me, and be not afraid when you see us; for we
shall certainly go to the land of the Christians.” I made shift to
express myself in such a manner, that she understood this, and every
thing else that I said; and throwing her arm about my neck, began to
walk towards the house, with a slow and faultering pace: but it pleased
fortune, which might have proved very unlucky, had not Heaven otherwise
ordained, that while we walked in this attitude, with her arm about my
neck, we were observed by her father, on his return from having sent
away the Turks; and we immediately perceived ourselves discovered.
Nevertheless, Zorayda, prompted by her discretion and presence of mind,
would not take her arm from my neck; but, on the contrary, coming closer
to me; let her head drop upon my bosom, and her knees sunk under her, as
if she was fainting; while I seemed to support her with a sort of
strained civility.
‘The father seeing his daughter in this situation, ran towards us with
great concern, and asked what was the matter: but she making no reply,
“Doubtless,” said he, “she hath fainted with the fright occasioned by
the insolence of those dogs.” Then, taking her out of my arms, he
supported her in his own; while she, fetching a deep sigh, the tears
still continuing in her eyes, repeated, “Amexi, Christiano,
amexi!——Begone, Christian, begone.”—“There is no necessity for the
Christian’s departure,” said the father, “he hath done thee no harm; and
as the Turks are gone already, be not disturbed: thou hast no cause to
be uneasy; for as I have already said, the Turks, at my entreaty, went
out as they had come in.”—“Indeed, Sir,” said I, “they have discomposed
her very much, as you observe; but since she desires me to go, I will
not stay to give offence. Peace be with you! I will, with your
permission, return to this garden for herbs, if they should be wanted;
for my master says there are none better to be found in any other
place.”—“Thou mayest come as often as thou wilt,” answered Agimorato:
“what my daughter says is not out of resentment against thee or any
other Christian; but instead of bidding the Turks begone, she applied
the words to thee, or else thought it was time for thee to go and gather
thy herbs.” I then took leave of them both; and she, as if her soul had
been rent from her body, went away with her father; while I, on pretence
of culling my sallad, went round the whole garden at my pleasure,
observing all the entries and outlets, together with the strength of the
house, and every convenience that might tend to facilitate our purpose.
‘Having thus reconnoitered, I went and communicated my observations to
the renegado and the rest of my companions, longing eagerly for the hour
of seeing myself in peaceable possession of the blessing which fortune
presented in the beauteous and charming Zorayda. At length the
intervening time elapsed, and the long-wished-for day and period
arrived, when all of us, following the order and plan which had been
often canvassed, and at last settled, after the most mature
deliberation, our desires were happily accomplished. On the Friday after
I had spoke with Zorayda, Morrenago, which was the renegade’s name,
anchored his bark, at night-fall, opposite to the place where my
charming mistress resided; and the Christians who were to row, in
consequence of my directions, lay already concealed in different
corners, all around the place, waiting for me with impatience, joy, and
desire of attacking the vessel which was in view; for they were ignorant
of our confederacy with the renegade, and believed that they must win
and maintain their liberty by force of arms, in killing all the Moors
who belonged to the bark; wherefore, as soon as I and my companions
appeared, those who were hid came and joined us immediately, about the
time when the city gates were shut, so that not a soul was to be seen in
the fields. Being all met together, we were in some doubt whether we
should go immediately for Zorayda; or first of all secure the Moorish
rowers belonging to the bark. While we hesitated on this point, the
renegado arriving, asked what we waited for; observing, that now was the
time, the Moors being altogether unguarded, and the greatest part of
them actually asleep. We told him the subject of our doubt; upon which
he assured us, that it was of the greatest consequence to make ourselves
first masters of the bark, a precaution which might be easily taken,
without running the least hazard, and then we could go in quest of
Zorayda, with greater security. His advice was unanimously approved; and
therefore without farther delay, we followed him as guide to the vessel,
into which he leaped, and drawing a scymitar, called in the Moorish
language, “Let none of you stir on pain of death.” The Christians were
at his back in an instant; while the Moors being naturally
pusillanimous, hearing their master talk in this manner, were seized
with consternation: and as there were few or no arms on board, suffered
themselves, without the least resistance, to be fettered by the
Christians, who performed this office with infinite dexterity and
dispatch, threatening to put them all to the sword, if any one of them
should raise his voice, or attempt to make the least noise.
‘This scheme being executed, we left one half of our number to guard
them, and with the rest, using the renegado still as our guide, went to
Agimorato’s garden door, which fortunately opened with as much ease as
if it had not been locked; so that, without being perceived, we
proceeded to the house with great silence and composure. The adorable
Zorayda, who stood waiting for us at a window, no sooner perceived
people at the door, than she asked with a low voice, if we were
Nazarini? which in their language signifies Christians. I replied in the
affirmative, desiring her to come down; when she knew my voice, she made
no delay, but without answering one syllable, came down in a moment,
opened the door, and appeared so beautiful and richly dressed, as to
surpass all description. Transported at the sight, I took her hand and
kissed it most devoutly; the renegado and my two companions did the
same; and the rest, though ignorant of the occasion, followed our
example, thinking we expressed our thanks and acknowledgments to her as
the instrument of our deliverance. The renegado asked, in the Morisco
tongue, if her father was in the house: and she assuring him, that he
was asleep in his own apartment; “Then it will be necessary,” said
Morrenago, “to wake and carry him off, together with every thing of
value, in this agreeable habitation.”—“Touch not my father,” said she,
“and take my word for it there is nothing valuable in this house but
what I have secured, which is enough to make you all rich and happy;
stay a little, and thou shalt see.”
‘So saying, she went back into the house, protesting she would
immediately return, and desiring us to make no noise. I then asked the
renegade what had passed between them, and when he told me, charged him
to do nothing that should be disagreeable to Zorayda, who soon returned
with a coffer so full of golden crowns, that she could scarce support
the weight. But our evil fortune ordained that her father should wake in
the interim, and hear a noise in the garden; upon which he started up,
and running to the window, no sooner perceived that we were all
Christians, than he began to bawl in Arabick with vast vociferation,
“Christians! Christians! thieves! thieves!” and his cries threw us all
into the utmost terror and confusion; however, the renegado seeing the
danger we were in, and how much it imported him to atchieve the
enterprize without being detected, ran up to Agimorato, with infinite
agility, being accompanied with some others of our company, as I could
not leave Zorayda, who by this time had fainted in my arms; in short,
those who entered the house managed him so well, that in a moment they
brought him down with his hands tied, and an handkerchief in his mouth,
to hinder him from crying, threatening all the while, that if he
presumed to speak, it would cost him his life. His daughter covered her
eyes, that she might not see her father in that condition; while he was
astonished at sight of her, little thinking how willingly she had put
herself in our power, and our feet being then more necessary than our
hands, we, with great industry and dispatch, returned to the vessel,
where we were expected with impatience by those we had left, who had
began to fear we had met with some mischance.
‘Before two hours of the night had elapsed, we were all safe on board,
where we untied the hands of Zorayda’s father, and took the handkerchief
out of his mouth; though the renegado commanded him again to be silent,
on pain of death. Seeing his daughter also in our power, he began to
sigh most bitterly, more especially as he perceived her lie quietly in
my arms, without resisting, complaining, or the least appearance of
constraint; but he was fain to hold his tongue, lest the renegado should
put his repeated threats in execution. Zorayda now seeing us embarked,
and on the point of manning the oars, while her father and the other
Moors remained fettered, as prisoners among us, bade the renegado
desire, in her name, that I would be so good as to dismiss the Moors,
and set her father at liberty; for she would rather throw herself into
the sea, than behold a parent, who loved her so much, dragged into
captivity on her account. Morrenago having made me acquainted with her
request, I consented to the proposal; but he said it was by no means
expedient, because, should we leave them there, they would instantly
alarm both town and country; so that some light frigates would be sent
out in pursuit of us, and then we should be so beset, both by sea and
land, that it would be impossible for us to escape; he proposed
therefore, to set them at liberty on the first Christian land he should
make. We were all of the same opinion, which was also embraced by
Zorayda, to whom he imparted the reasons which hindered us from
complying immediately with her desire; then each of our valiant rowers
laid hold of his oar with joy, silence, and alacrity, and recommending
ourselves to the protection of God, we took our departure, directing our
course towards the island of Majorca, which was the nearest Christian
land; but, the north wind beginning to blow, and the sea becoming rough,
it was impossible to steer our course, and we were obliged to row along
shore towards Oran, not without great apprehension of being discovered
from the town of Sargel, which lies upon that coast, about sixty miles
from Algiers; we were also afraid of meeting, in those parts, with some
of the gallies which frequently come thither from Tetuan to trade;
though each of us singly, and all of us together, presumed, that if we
could fall in with a merchant-vessel not fitted out, or manned for a
corsair, far from losing our liberty again, we should make ourselves
masters of a ship in which we might perform our voyage with more
security. While we thus coasted along, Zorayda lay with her head in my
bosom, that she might not see her father in distress; and I could hear
her imploring Lela Marien to assist us in our design.
‘When we had rowed about thirty miles, day-breaking discovered that we
were about three gun shots distant from the shore of a desart country,
where not a soul appeared to detect us; but, for all that, we plied hard
to get a little farther off to sea, which was now somewhat calmer; and
having made about two leagues, directed the men to row by turns, that we
might refresh ourselves with the provisions, of which we had plenty in
the bark; but the rowers said, it was then no time to be idle, and
desired the rest to bring them victuals, which they would eat while at
work, protesting that they would by no means quit their oars; this hint
was accordingly taken, and a fresh gale springing up, we were obliged to
lay aside our oars, and make sail directly for Oran; for it was
impossible to follow any other course. All this was done with great
expedition; we sailed at the rate of eight miles in an hour, without any
other dread than that of falling in with some corsair. We ordered some
victuals to be given to the Moors, who were consoled by the renegado’s
telling them, that they were not slaves, and should have their freedom
with the first opportunity; the same declaration he made to Zorayda’s
father, who answered, “I might expect any other favour from your
generosity and courteous behaviour, O Christians! but, you must not
think me so simple as to believe you will give me my freedom; for you
would never have run such risk in depriving me of it, with a view of
restoring it so liberally; especially when you know who I am, and the
advantage you may reap from my ransom, which, if you will now propose, I
here promise to pay your utmost demand, for myself and this unhappy
daughter, or for her alone, who is the better part of my soul!”
‘So saying, he wept with such bitterness, as moved us all to compassion,
and obliged Zorayda to lift up her eyes; when seeing the tears trickle
down from his aged cheeks, she was melted, and rising from the place
where I supported her, went to embrace her father; then joining her face
to his, the two uttered such a tender lamentation, as drew tears of
sympathy from the eyes of almost all those who heard it; but, when
Agimorato perceived her so gayly dressed, with all her jewels about her,
he said with some surprize, in their language, “What is the meaning of
this finery, my child? Last night, before this terrible misfortune
happened, I saw thee in thy ordinary and common dress; but now, though
thou hadst neither time, nor any happy tidings to solemnize with such
ornaments and finery, I see thee decked in all the richest apparel I
could contrive or bestow upon thee, while fortune was much more
favourable than at present! Answer me in this particular, at which I am
more concerned and surprized, than at the mishap which hath befallen
us?” The renegado interpreted to us all that the Moor said to his
daughter, who made no answer to his question; but when he saw on one
side of the bark the coffer in which she used to keep her jewels, which
he knew he had left at Algiers, when he moved to his country house; he
was still more confounded, and asked how that casket had fallen into our
hands, and what it contained. To this question the renegado replied,
without waiting for Zorayda’s answer; “You need not weary yourself,
Signior, in putting so many questions to your daughter; for I can
satisfy you in one word: know, then, that Zorayda is a Christian; that
she hath filed off our chains, and converted our captivity into freedom;
that she came hither of her own accord, and is now, I believe, as well
satisfied with her present condition as one delivered from darkness to
light, from death to life, and from affliction to triumph.”—“Daughter!”
cried the Moor, “is that which he affirms true?”—“Yes,” replied Zorayda.
“That thou art actually a Christian, and the very person who hath put
thy father into the hands of his enemies?” resumed the old man. “I am a
Christian, ’tis true,” said Zorayda, “but not the person who reduced you
to this situation; for my desire never extended so far as either to
leave or render you unhappy, my sole intention being to provide for my
own welfare.”—“And how hast thou provided for it, my child?” replied the
father. “Put that question to Lela Marien,” said she, “who will inform
you better than I can.”
‘Scarce had these words reached the ears of Agimorato, than, with
incredible agility, he darted himself headlong into the sea; where,
without all doubt, he must have perished, had not his large entangling
robes helped to keep him afloat. Zorayda shrieking, begged we would save
her father; upon which we all exerted ourselves, and laying hold of his
upper garment, pulled him on board, already half drowned, and deprived
of all sensation; when she was so much affected with his condition, that
she uttered a most tender and doleful lamentation over him, as if he had
been actually dead. Having turned him upon his face, a great quantity of
water ran out of his mouth, and he recovered the use of his senses, in
the space of two hours, during which, the wind shifting, we were driven
towards the shore, and by main dint of rowing kept from running aground;
but by good fortune, we arrived in a creek formed by a small creek or
promontory, known among the Moors by the name of Cava Rumia, which
signifies, the wicked Christian woman; there being a tradition among
them, that Cava[105], on whose account they lost their possessions in
Spain, is interred in that place; for Cava, in their language, implies a
wicked woman, and Rumia, signifies Christian: so that they look upon it
as a bad omen, when they are obliged, by necessity, to drop anchor here;
and, except in cases of emergency, they never attempt it: though to us,
it was by no means the shelter of a wicked woman, but a secure harbour
in stormy weather. Having placed centinels on shore, without quitting
our oars, we made another meal of what the renegado had provided; and
prayed heartily to God and the blessed Virgin, to favour and assist us,
in bringing such a fortunate beginning to a happy conclusion. We then
determined, at the intreaty of Zorayda, to set her father and the Moors,
whom we had fettered, on shore, because she had not resolution enough,
nor could her tender disposition endure to see her parent and countrymen
in the condition of captives; we accordingly promised to gratify her
desire, at our departure, since we ran no risk in setting them at
liberty in that uninhabited place.
‘Our prayers were not so vain as to be rejected by Heaven, that sent a
favourable wind and a smooth sea, inviting us to proceed with alacrity
in the voyage we had undertaken. This we no sooner perceived, than
unbinding the Moors, we put them all on shore, one by one, to their no
small astonishment: but, when we came to dismiss Zorayda’s father, who
by this time had recovered the entire use of his senses, “Christians,”
said he, “do you think that bad woman rejoices at my freedom through
filial piety? No surely! but merely to be rid of the check which she
would receive from my presence, in seeking to gratify her vicious
desires. Do not imagine that she hath been induced to change her
religion, because she believes that the Christian faith is preferable to
ours? No; she hath apostatized, because she understood that, in your
country she might indulge her loose inclinations more freely than in her
own.” Then turning to Zorayda, while I and another Christian held him
fast; that she might not commit some desperate action, he said, “O
infamous wretch, and ill-advised maiden! what blindness and distraction
hath prompted thee to put thyself in the power of these dogs, who are
all our natural foes? Cursed be the hour in which thou wast engendered!
and cursed be the gaiety and indulgence in which I brought thee up!”
‘Perceiving that there was no likelihood of his ending his exclamations
for some time, I presently set him on shore, where he proceeded with his
reproaches, imprecations, and complaints, imploring the mediation of
Mahomet with Ala, to confound, overwhelm, and destroy us: and when we
had sailed out of hearing, we could perceive him act his despair,
pulling his beard, and rolling himself upon the ground; nay, once he
raised his voice in such a manner, that we could distinctly hear him
pronounce, “Return, my beloved daughter! return to the shore; I forgive
all that is past: leave with these men the money which they already have
in their possession, and return to comfort thy disconsolate father, who,
if thou forsakest him, will lie down and breathe his last upon this
barren sand!” This pathetick address was heard by Zorayda, who lamented
his affliction with the utmost sensibility, though she could make no
other reply than this: “Ala grant, my dear father, that Lela Marien, who
was the cause of my conversion, may console you in your distress! Ala
knows, I could not do otherwise than I have acted, and that these
Christians owe nothing to any particular good-will I bore them; for if I
had not assisted and accompanied them in their escape, but remained at
home with you, it would have been impossible for me, in conference of
the earnest solicitations of my own soul, to execute that which, in my
opinion, is as righteous as it is infamous and wicked in yours.” But
these words never reached the ears of her father, whom by this time we
could not perceive: I therefore endeavoured to console my amiable
mistress; while the rest were intent upon our voyage, which was so much
favoured by a fair wind, that we laid our account with being next day on
the coast of Spain.
‘But, as good fortune seldom comes pure and single, unattended or
unpursued by some troublesome and unexpected circumstance, it was
ordained by Heaven, (perhaps, in consequence of the curses imprecated by
the Moor upon his daughter; for such curses are to be dreaded, let the
parent be what he will:) I say, Heaven ordained, that when we were a
good way off at sea, with a flowing sheet, three hours of the night
being already spent, the oars lashed up, because the fair wind made it
unnecessary to use them, and the moon shining with remarkable
brightness; we perceived a large round vessel with all her sails out,
steering a little upon the wind, right athwart our hause, and so near
that we were obliged to shorten sail, that she might not run foul of us,
while she clapped her helm a-weather that we might have time to pass:
those upon deck hailed us, asking who we were, whence we came, and
whither bound; but, as they spoke in French, the renegado said, “Let no
man answer; these are French privateers, who make prize of every thing
that falls in their way.”
‘Thus cautioned, we made no reply, but sailed on, leaving the ship a
little to windward; when all of a sudden, they discharged two pieces of
cannon, loaded, in all appearance, with chain-shot: for one of them cut
away our mast in the middle; which, with the sail, fell overboard into
the sea; and the other coming a moment after, took us amidships, and
laid the side of the bark entirely open, without doing any other
mischief. Seeing ourselves going to the bottom, we began to cry aloud
for assistance, beseeching the people in the ship to save us from
perishing: then they brought to, and hoisting out their boat or pinnace,
it was instantly manned by a dozen of Frenchmen, well armed with their
muskets, and lighted match, who rowing up to us, and seeing how few we
were, as also that our bark was on the point of foundering, took us in,
observing that this misfortune had happened, because we had been so
uncivil as to refuse an answer to their hail: while the renegado,
without being perceived, took up the coffer in which Zorayda’s treasure
was contained, and threw it into the sea. In short, we went onboard with
the French; who, when they had informed themselves of every thing we
could impart, for their purpose; as if they had been our enemies,
plundered us of all that we had, taking from Zorayda the very bracelets
she wore upon her ancles. But their behaviour to her gave me the more
anxiety, as I was afraid that, after having pilfered all her rich and
precious jewels, they would proceed to rob her of that which was of
greater value, and which she herself esteemed infinitely more than all
the rest: but the desires of those people extend no farther than to
money, and with that they can never satiate their avarice, which then
engrossed them so much, that they would even have robbed us of the
wretched garments we wore in our captivity, if they could have applied
them to any sort of use; nay, some among them proposed to wrap us all
together in a sail, and throw us into the sea; because they intended to
trade in the ports of Spain, under pretence of being Bretons, and if
they carried us thither alive, their depredation would be discovered,
and themselves chastised accordingly. But the captain, who had with his
own hands rifled my beloved Zorayda, said, he was satisfied with the
prize he had got, and resolved to touch at no port in Spain, but pass
the Straits of Gibraltar in the night, or take the best opportunity of
so doing that should occur, and return to Rochelle, from whence he had
sailed on the cruize; they, therefore, agreed to give us their boat,
with what necessaries we should want, to finish the little that remained
of our voyage: this promise they actually performed the next day, at a
small distance from the Spanish coast, at sight of which, all our
poverty and vexation vanished from our remembrance, as if we had never
endured them; such is the transport occasioned by liberty regained! It
might be about noon when we were put into the boat, with two casks of
water and some biscuit; and the captain, moved to compassion at the
distress of the lovely Zorayda, gave her to the amount of forty crowns
in gold, and would not suffer his soldiers to strip her of the cloaths
which she now wears: so that, at parting, instead of complaining of the
hard usage we met with, we thanked them kindly for the benefit we had
received at their hands. They steered right before the wind for the
Straits, while we, without minding any other compass than that of the
land that appeared a-head, plied our oars so vigorously, that at sun-set
we were near enough to conclude, that we could easily reach the shore
before the night should be far advanced; but that night being dark,
without any moonshine, and every body on board ignorant of the coast,
some of our company judged it unsafe to row ashore, while others
insisted upon our running that hazard, even if we should land among
rocks, or in some uninhabited part of the country, that we might be
secured from the just apprehension of meeting with some rovers from
Tetuan, who are frequently in the beginning of the night in Barbary, and
in the morning on the Spanish coast, where having taken a prize, they
return the same day, and sleep at home in their own houses. Of these
contrary opinions, we chose that of rowing gently towards the shore,
with intent, if the smoothness of the sea would permit, to land at the
first convenient place. In consequence of this resolution, a little
before midnight we arrived at the foot of a huge and lofty mountain,
though not so rocky towards the sea but that there was a little space
left for commodious landing. The boat being run ashore, and all of us
disembarked, we kissed the ground, and with tears of unutterable joy,
returned sincere thanks to our gracious Lord, for his unparalleled
protection vouchsafed to us in the voyage: then we took out the
provision, and dragging her on shore, ascended a vast way up the
mountain; not being as yet able to quiet our apprehensions, or persuade
ourselves, though it actually was so, that the soil we trod was
Christian ground. The day broke much later than we could have wished,
and about this time we gained the summit of the mountain; purposing to
look from thence for some village or shepherd-huts; but, although we
viewed the whole country around, we could neither discern village,
house, highway, path, nor the least trace of human footsteps.
Nevertheless, we determined to penetrate farther into the country, since
it could not be long before we should discover some person who would
give information; but what gave me the greatest concern was, to see
Zorayda travelling on foot among the flinty rocks: for though I
sometimes took her on my shoulders, she was much more fatigued with
seeing me weary, than refreshed by finding herself exempted from
walking, and therefore would not allow me to take any more trouble of
that kind, but proceeded with infinite chearfulness and patience, while
I led her by the hand all the way.
‘In this manner we had gone about a quarter of a league, when our ears
were saluted by the sound of a small sheep-bell, which was a sure sign
of a flock’s being somewhere not far off: looking therefore attentively
to discover it, we perceived a young shepherd, sitting with great
composure at the root of a cork-tree, smoothing a stick with his knife.
When we called to him he raised his head, and started nimbly up; and, as
we afterwards understood, the renegade and Zorayda, who were in Moorish
dress, being the first objects that presented themselves to his eyes, he
thought all the corsairs of Barbary were upon him, and running with
incredible swiftness into a wood that grew near the place where he was,
he began to cry as loud as he could bawl, “The Moors! The Moors are
landed! The Moors! The Moors! to arms, to arms!” These exclamations
threw us all into a perplexity; but reflecting that his cries would
alarm the country, and that the cavalry of the coast would immediately
come and see what was the matter; it was agreed, that the renegade
should pull off his Turkish robes, and put on a slave’s jacket, with
which one of our company accommodated him, though he himself remained in
his shirt. This being done, we recommended ourselves to God, and
followed the same road which we saw the shepherd take, expecting every
moment to see ourselves surrounded by the cavalry of the coast. Neither
were we deceived in our expectation; for in less than two hours, having
crossed those thickets, and entered a plain on the other side, we
descried about fifty horsemen riding briskly towards us, at a
hand-gallop; upon which we halted until they should come up: but when
they arrived, and instead of the Moors they came in quest of beheld so
many poor Christian captives, they were utterly confounded; and one of
them asked, if we were the people who had been the occasion of a
shepherd’s calling to arms. I answered in the affirmative, and being
desirous of telling him who we were, whence we came, and what had
happened to us, one of our company knew the horseman who accosted us,
and without giving me time to speak another word, said, “Thanks be to
God, gentlemen, for having conducted us to such an agreeable part of the
country; for, if I am not mistaken, the ground we now tread belongs to
Velez Malaga—and, if the years of my captivity have not impaired my
remembrance, you, Signior, who ask that question, are Pedro Bustamante,
my uncle.”
‘Scarce had the captive pronounced these words, when the cavalier threw
himself from his horse, and ran to embrace the young man; saying, “Dear
nephew of my life and soul! I now recollect thee; thy supposed death has
been mourned by myself, my sister, thy mother, and all thy relations,
who are still alive; for Heaven hath been pleased to spare their lives,
that they might enjoy the pleasure of seeing thee again. I knew thou
wast at Algiers, and from the information of thy habit, and that of all
your company, I guess you have made a miraculous escape.”—“Your
conjecture is true,” replied the young man, “and we shall have time to
recount the particulars.” As soon as the horsemen understood we were
Christian captives, they alighted, and each of them made a tender of his
horse to carry us to the city of Velez Malaga, which was about a league
and a half from the place where they found us. Some of them went to
bring the boat round to the city, after we had told them where she lay;
others took us up behind them; and Zorayda rode with the Christian’s
uncle. All the people came out to receive us, being apprized of our
arrival, by one of the troopers who had pushed on before; not that they
were surprized at the sight of the captives freed, or Moors in
captivity, for the inhabitants on that coast are accustomed to see great
numbers of both; but they were amazed at the beauty of Zorayda which was
at that instant in full perfection; the fatigue of her journey,
co-operating with the joy the felt in seeing herself in a Christian
country, without the fear of being lost, having produced such a bloom
upon her countenance, that, unless I was then prejudiced by my
affection, I will venture to say, the world never produced, at least I
had never seen, a more beautiful creature.
‘We went directly to church, to make our acknowledgments to God for his
mercies; and as soon as Zorayda entered, she said she perceived some
faces that resembled Lela Marien: we told her these were the images of
the blessed Virgin; and the renegado, as well as he could, informed her
of their signification, that she might adore them, as if each was
actually the person of Lela Marien, who had spoke to her; so that,
having naturally a good understanding, with a docile and discerning
disposition; she easily comprehended what he said upon the subject. From
thence they conducted us to our lodgings in different families of the
town; the renegado, Zorayda, and I, being invited by the Christian who
escaped with us, to the house of his father, who was moderately provided
with the good things of this life, and treated us with the same
affection he expressed for his own son. Six days we tarried at Velez,
during which the renegado having informed himself of what was necessary
for him to do, went to the city of Grenada, there, by means of the holy
inquisition, to be re-admitted into the bosom of our most sacred church:
the rest of our company departed, each for his own home; leaving Zorayda
and me by ourselves, destitute of every thing but the few crowns which
she received from the courtesy or the French corsair. With part of these
I bought the animal on which she arrived at this inn, and hitherto have
cherished her with the affection of a parent, and the service of a
squire, without using the prerogative of a husband; we are now upon the
road to the place of my nativity, to see if my father be still alive,
and if either of my brothers has been more fortunate than myself;
though, as heaven hath made Zorayda my companion for life, fortune could
not have possibly bestowed upon me any other favour which I should have
valued at so high a rate. The patience with which she bears the
inconveniences attending poverty, and the zeal she manifests to become a
Christian, is so great and extraordinary, as to raise my admiration, and
engage me to serve her all the days of my life; but the pleasure I take
in this office, and in the prospect of seeing her mine, is disturbed and
perverted, by reflecting that possibly in my own country I shall not
find a corner in which I can shelter the dear object of my love; and
that time or death may have made such alterations in the fortune and
lives of my father and his other children, that I shall scarce meet with
a soul that knows me.
‘This, gentlemen, is the substance of my story; whether or not it be
agreeable and uncommon, I leave to the decision of your better judgment;
assuring you, that I wish I could have related it more succinctly,
though the fear of tiring you hath made me suppress a good number of
circumstances.’
Footnote 104:
Zala, or Sala, is the Moorish salutation.
Footnote 105:
Cava, or Caba, daughter of Count Julian, Count of Ceuta, was violated
by Roderick king of Spain; and, in order to revenge this injury, the
father called the Saracens into that kingdom, in the year 712.
CHAP. XV.
OF WHAT FARTHER HAPPENED AT THE INN,
WITH MANY OTHER PARTICULARS WORTHY TO BE KNOWN.
Here the captive left off speaking; and Don Fernando said to him,
‘Really, Signior Captain, the novelty of your strange adventures is
equalled by your agreeable manner of relating them. Your whole story is
uncommon, surprizing, and full of incidents that keep the hearers in
admiration and suspence; and such is the pleasure we have received from
it, that though the narration should have continued till to-morrow
morning, we should rejoice at your beginning it anew.’
When this compliment was passed, Cardenio, and all the rest of the
company, offered to serve him to the utmost of their power, with such
affectionate and sincere expressions of friendship, that the captain was
extremely well satisfied of their good-will. Don Fernando, in
particular, promised, that if he would go home with him, his brother the
marquis should stand godfather to Zorayda; and that he, for his part,
would accommodate him in such a manner, that he should return to the
place of his nativity with that authority and ease to which he was
intitled by his birth and merit. The captive thanked him in the most
courteous manner, but declined accepting any of his generous offers.
It was now night, when a coach arrived at the inn, attended by some men
on horseback, who demanded lodging; and the landlady made answer, that
there was not in the whole house an handful of room unengaged. ‘Be that
as it will,’ said one of the horsemen, who had entered the gate, ‘there
must be some found for my lord judge.’ At mention of that name the
hostess was disturbed, saying, ‘Signior, the greatest difficulty is my
want of beds; but if his lordship hath brought one along with him, as I
suppose he hath, he is very welcome to come in: I and my husband will
quit our own apartment to accommodate his worship.’—‘Be it so,’ said the
attendant. By this time a person had alighted from the coach, who, by
his garb, immediately shewed the nature of his rank and office; for his
long robe, with high sleeves tucked up, plainly distinguished him to be
a judge, as the servant had affirmed. He led by the hand a young lady
seemingly sixteen years of age, dressed in a riding suit, and so
sprightly, beautiful, and genteel, as to raise the admiration of all who
beheld her: so that those who had not seen Dorothea, Lucinda, and
Zorayda then present, would have thought it a very difficult talk to
find another woman of equal beauty. Don Quixote seeing the judge and
young lady as they entered, pronounced with great solemnity, ‘Your
worship may securely enter and recreate yourself in this castle, which,
though narrow and inconvenient, there is no narrowness and inconvenience
in this world, but what will make room for arms and letters, especially
if they have for their guide and conductor such beauty as that which
accompanies the letters of your worship, in the person of that amiable
young lady, to whom not only castles ought to open and unfold their
gates, but also rocks divide, and mountains bow their heads at her
approach. Enter, I say, this paradise, where you will find stars and
suns to accompany that heaven which you have brought hither. Here you
will find arms in perfection, and beauty in excess!’
The judge marvelled greatly at this address of the knight, whom he
earnestly considered, no less surprized at his figure than his words,
without knowing what reply to make, so much was he confounded at both;
when he was relieved by the appearance of Lucinda, Dorothea, and
Zorayda; who, upon hearing the news of their arrival, and the landlady’s
description of the young beauty, had come out to welcome and receive
her: the beauteous ladies of the inn welcomed this beauteous damsel;
while Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the curate, paid their compliments to
the judge, in the most civil and polite terms. He was more and more
astonished at what he saw and heard, though he could easily perceive
that his fellow-lodgers were persons of rank and consequence: but the
mien, visage, and figure of Don Quixote, baffled all his conjectures.
Compliments having thus passed on all sides, and the conveniences of the
inn being duly considered, it was agreed, as before, that all the ladies
should sleep together in the fore-mentioned apartment, and the men sit
in another room to guard them. The judge was very well satisfied, that
his daughter (for such the young maiden was) should lodge with the other
ladies, she herself willingly consenting to the proposal; and what with
part of the inn-keeper’s narrow bed, and the half of that which the
judge brought along with him, they made shift to pass the night more
agreeably than they expected.
The captive, who, from the first moment he beheld the judge, felt his
heart throb with a sort of intimation that this was his own brother,
asked of one of the servants that attended him, his master’s name, with
the place of his nativity. The footman replied, that his name was the
licentiate Juan Perez de Viedma; and born, as he had been informed, in
the mountains of Leon. This information, together with what he himself
had before observed, confirmed him in the opinion, that he was his
brother, who by his father’s advice had followed his studies.
Transported with this discovery, he called aside Don Fernando, the
curate, and Cardenio, to whom he imparted the affair, and assured them
that the judge was his own brother by the servant’s report, so far on
his way to the West Indies, in quality of supreme judge of Mexico. He
understood also by the same canal, that the young lady was his daughter,
whose birth had cost the mother her life; and that he was very much
enriched by his wife’s fortune, which had been settled on the children
of the marriage. The captive therefore consulted them about the method
he should take to make himself known, or rather to be assured
before-hand whether upon the discovery his brother would be ashamed of
his poverty, or receive him with the bowels of affection. ‘Leave that
talk to my conduct, Signior Captain,’ said the curate; ‘though there is
all the reason in the world to believe that you will meet with a
brotherly reception: for the virtue and prudence that appear in his
courteous demeanor give no indications of his being proud and unnatural,
but rather declare that he knows how to consider the accidents of
fortune in the right point of view.’—‘Nevertheless,’ replied the
captain, ‘I would not willingly disclose myself of a sudden, but prepare
him by some round-about insinuation.’—‘I have already told you,’
answered the curate, ‘that I will manage the affair to your mutual
satisfaction.’ By this time, the cloth being laid[106], and every body
sat down to table, except the captive and the ladies, who supped in
their own apartment, the curate addressed himself to the judge,
saying—‘I had once a comrade of your lordship’s name at Constantinople,
where I was a slave for many years. He was one of the bravest soldiers
and best officers in the Spanish infantry, but his misfortunes were
equal to his valour and ability.’——‘Dear Sir,’ cried the judge, ‘what
was that officer’s name?’—‘He was called Ruy Perez de Viedma,’ replied
the priest, ‘and a native of some town in the mountains of Leon. He told
me a circumstance that happened between his father, two brothers, and
himself, which, had it not been affirmed by a person of his veracity, I
should have looked upon as one of those tales which old women tell by
the fire-side in winter; for he said his father divided his estate
equally among his three sons, whom he at the same time enriched with
advice more salutary than any that ever Cato gave. This I know, the
choice he made of going into the army succeeded so well, that in a few
years, by his gallant behaviour, and without any other assistance than
that of his extraordinary virtue, he rose to be captain of foot, and saw
himself in the straight road of becoming a field officer very soon: but
there, where he had reason to expect the smiles of fortune, she proved
most unkind; he having lost her, with his liberty, on that glorious day
of the battle at Lepanto, in which it was found by so many Christians. I
was taken in the goleta; and, after various vicissitudes, we happened to
be fellow-slaves at Constantinople, from whence he was transported to
Algiers, where he met with one of the strangest adventures that ever was
known.’
Then the curate briefly recapitulated the story of Zorayda, to which the
judge listened with more attention than ever he had yielded on the
bench[107]. But the priest brought it no farther than the period when
the French corsairs plundered the Christians who were in the bark,
describing the poverty and distress to which they had reduced his
comrade and the beautiful Moor; and observing that he did not know what
farther befel them, nor whether they had arrived in Spain, or been
carried into France.
The captain stood at some distance behind, listening to what the curate
said, and observing the emotions of his brother; who, seeing that the
curate had made an end of his story, uttered a profound sigh, saying,
while the tears gushed from his eyes, ‘O Signior! if you knew how nearly
I am concerned in what you have related, you would not wonder at these
tears, which, in spite of all my fortitude and discretion, trickle from
mine eyes. That valiant captain whom you have mentioned is my father’s
eldest son, who being more brave and noble-minded than my youngest[108]
brother and me, chose the honourable exercise of arms, which was one of
the three paths proposed by our father in his advice, as you seem to
have been informed by your companion in adversity. I followed that of
letters, in which God hath been pleased to reward my diligence with that
station which you see I now maintain: my younger brother is at present
in Peru, so rich, that his remittances to my father and me have made
large amends for the small sum he carried with him at first; and even
enabled the old gentleman fully to indulge his liberal disposition,
impowering me also to prosecute my studies with more honour and decency,
until I acquired the post I now enjoy. My father is still alive, though
daily pining with the desire of hearing from his eldest son, and putting
up petitions to Heaven incessantly, that his own eyes may not be closed
for ever until he shall have seen those of his first-born in life. What
gives me a great deal of surprize is, that a person of his discretion
should, in the midst of such trouble and affliction, or even in his
prosperity, omit writing to his father; for if he, or either of us, had
known his situation, he should have had no occasion to wait for the
miracle of the cane in obtaining his liberty; but at present the
uncertainty of his fate gives me the greatest concern, as it is doubtful
whether those French have set him at liberty, or taken away his life to
conceal their robbery. This apprehension will convert the joy and
satisfaction with which I undertook my journey into melancholy and
despondence.—O my dear brother! would to Heaven I knew where thou art,
that I might go and free thee from all trouble and affliction, though at
the expence of my own! Who shall carry the news of thy being alive to
our aged father, that although thou art shut up in the deepest dungeon
of Barbary, thou mayest be delivered by my brother’s riches and my
own!—O generous and lovely Zorayda! who shall requite thy benevolence to
my brother, be present at the regeneration of thy soul, and assist at
the nuptials which would afford such pleasure to us all!’
These and many other exclamations the judge pronounced with such
symptoms of sorrow at the news he had received of his brother, that all
the hearers sympathized with him in the expressions of his grief. The
curate, seeing every thing succeed to his own expectation, and the
captain’s desire, was unwilling to protract the judge’s anguish, and the
impatience of the whole company; so rising from the table, and going
into the other apartment, he led out Zorayda, who was followed by
Lucinda, Dorothea, and the young lady lately arrived; then, taking in
his other hand the captain, who stood waiting to see what he intended,
he went into the room, where the judge and the rest of the gentlemen
sat, and presenting them both, said, ‘Dry your tears, my lord judge, and
enjoy the completion of your wish; behold your worthy brother, and
virtuous sister-in-law: this is Captain Viedma, and that the beautiful
Moor who behaved so generously to him in his distress: the French
corsairs have reduced them to this extremity, that you may have an
opportunity of displaying the liberality of your noble breast.’
The captain ran to embrace his brother, who kept him off with both hands
fixed on his shoulders, that he might consider him the more attentively;
but no sooner did he recollect his features, than he flew into his arms,
and shed a flood of tears of joy, while the greatest part of those who
were present wept in concert at the affecting scene. The expressions of
both the brothers, and their mutual demonstrations of affection, are, I
believe, scarce to be conceived, much less described. They briefly
recounted their adventures to each other, and manifested the genuine
flame of fraternal affection. There the judge embraced Zorayda, making
her a tender of all his wealth; there he commanded his daughter to
receive her with open arms; there the mutual caresses of the beautiful
Christian and lovely Moor renewed the tears of the whole company; there
Don Quixote silently observed these surprising accidents, which he
wholly attributed to the chimeras of knight-errantry; there it was
concerted that the captain and Zorayda should return to Seville with his
brother, from whence they could advertise their father of the liberty
and arrival of his son; that the old gentleman being still able to
undertake such a journey, might come and be present at the baptism and
nuptials of his daughter-in-law; as it would be impossible for the judge
to go far out of his way, because he was informed, that in a month the
flota would set sail from Seville for New Spain; and it would be
extremely inconvenient for him to lose his passage. In short, the whole
company were exceedingly rejoiced at the captive’s good fortune; and
two-thirds of the night being already exhausted, they agreed to retire
and repose themselves during the remaining part of it; while Don Quixote
undertook to guard the castle from the assaults of any giant or wicked
adventurer that might possibly covet the vast treasure of beauty which
it contained. Those of his acquaintance thanked him for his courteous
offer, and afterwards gave an account of his strange disorder to the
judge, who was not a little diverted with the detail of his
extravagance. Sancho Panza alone was distracted at their sitting up so
late: though, in point of lodging, he was better accommodated than all
the rest; for he made his bed of the furniture of his ass, which cost
him so dear, as will hereafter be seen.
The ladies having retired to their apartment, and every other person
disposed of himself as tolerably as he could, Don Quixote went out to
keep guard at the castle gate, according to his promise; and a little
before morning, the ladies were serenaded by a voice so clear and well
tuned, as to attract the attention of them all, especially of Dorothea,
who was awake, and lay in the same bed with Donna Clara de Viedma, the
judge’s daughter. Nobody could imagine who the singer was, the voice
being single, and unaccompanied by any instrument, and seeming to come
sometimes from the stable, and sometimes from the court-yard. While they
listened with equal surprize and attention, Cardenio came to the door,
saying, ‘You that are not asleep, take notice, and you will hear the
voice of a mule-driver, who chaunts most enchantingly.’ When Dorothea
told him that they had heard it already, he went away; while she,
employing her whole attention, when he began to sing again, could
plainly distinguish the following words.
Footnote 106:
This is the second time they have sat down to supper in one night.
Vide p. 216.
Footnote 107:
A judge in Spanish is called _Oyder_, i. e. _Hearer_; and the
original, literally translated, is, ‘The hearer was never so much an
hearer before.’
Footnote 108:
Cervantes seems to have forgot that the judge was the youngest of the
three brothers, the second having gone to the Indies.
CHAP. XVI.
THE AGREEABLE STORY OF THE YOUNG MULETEER, WITH MANY OTHER STRANGE
INCIDENTS THAT HAPPENED IN THE INN.
I.
‘Toss’d in a sea of doubts and fears,
Love’s hapless mariner I sail,
Where no inviting port appears,
To screen me from the stormy gale.
II.
‘At distance view’d, a chearing star
Conducts me thro’ the swelling tide;
A brighter luminary, far,
Than Palinurus e’er descry’d.
III.
‘My soul, attracted by its blaze,
Still follows where it points the way,
And while attentively I gaze,
Considers not how far I stray.
IV.
‘But female pride, reserv’d and shy,
Like clouds that deepen on the day,
Oft shroud it from my longing eye,
When most I need the genial ray.
V.
‘O lovely star, so pure and bright!
Whole splendour feeds my vital fire;
The moment thou deny’st thy light,
Thy lost adorer will expire!’
Here the musician pausing, Dorothea thought it was pity Clara should not
hear such an excellent voice; therefore, by gently jogging, she waked
her, saying, ‘I ask pardon, my dear Clara, for disturbing you; but my
intention in so doing, was to regale you with one of the best voices
that ever you heard.’ Clara, being still half asleep, did not at first
understand what she said, which, at her desire, Dorothea repeated; and
the young lady listened accordingly; but scarce had she heard two lines
of the song, which was now resumed, when she began to tremble as
violently as if she had been seized with a severe fit of the ague,
saying, while she hugged Dorothea, ‘Ah! dear lady of my life and soul,
why did you wake me? The greatest favour that fortune could at present
bestow, would be to keep both my eyes and ears fast shut, that I might
neither see nor hear that unfortunate musician.’—‘What do you mean, my
dear child?’ answered Dorothea; ‘consider what you say; he that sings is
a young muleteer!’—‘Ah, no!’ replied Clara, ‘he is a young gentleman of
great fortune, and so much master of my heart, that unless he quits it
of his own accord, it shall remain eternally in his possession.’
Dorothea was surprized at this passionate declaration of such a young
creature, who seemed to have so much more sensibility than could be
expected from her tender years; and said to her, ‘Truly, Donna Clara,
you talk in such a manner that I do not understand you. Pray explain
yourself, and tell me the meaning of those expressions, about fortune
and heart, and that musician whose voice hath thrown you into such
disorder: but say no more at present; for I would not, by attending to
your transports, lose the pleasure of hearing the singer, who now seems
to be tuning his voice, and preparing to give us another song.’—‘With
all my heart,’ said Clara, stopping her ears with her fingers, to the
farther admiration of Dorothea, who listening attentively, heard the
musician proceed in these words:
I.
‘Aspiring Hope, thou, unconfin’d,
Pursu’st th’ imaginary path,
Thro’ woods, and rocks, and waves combin’d,
Defying danger, toil, and death.
II.
‘No laurel shall adorn his brow,
No happiness the sluggard crown;
Who tamely can to fortune bow,
And slumber on th’ inglorious down.
III.
‘The joys unmatch’d bestow’d by love,
Can never be too dearly priz’d;
For undeny’d examples prove,
What’s cheaply bought, is soon despis’d.
IV.
‘Success, by the consenting fair,
Is oft to perseverance given;
Then wherefore should my soul despair
Of mounting from this earth to Heaven!’
Here the voice ended, and Clara’s sighs beginning afresh, kindled
Dorothea’s curiosity to know the cause of such agreeable musick and
grievous lamentation; she therefore now desired to hear what her
bed-fellow had before proffered to impart. Then Clara, fearful of being
overheard by Lucinda, crept close to Dorothea, and applying her mouth to
her ear, so that she could securely speak without being perceived, ‘Dear
Madam,’ said she, ‘that singer is the son of an Arragonian gentleman,
who is lord of two towns, and when at court lives opposite to my
father’s house; and although our windows are covered with canvas in
winter, and lattices in summer, I know not how this young gentleman,
while he prosecuted his studies, got sight of me, either at church or
somewhere else; and, in short, being smitten, disclosed his passion from
the windows of his own apartment, by so many tears and significant
expressions, that I believed him sincere, and even loved him in my turn,
without knowing the nature of my own desires. Among other signs, he made
that of joining his hands, giving me to understand that he would take me
to wife; and though I should have been extremely glad to comply with
that proposal, as I was alone and motherless, I had nobody to consult,
and therefore let it rest, without granting him any other favour, except
(when his father and mine were abroad) that of lifting up the canvas or
lattice, that he might have a more perfect view of my person; and this
condescension always transported him so much, that I was afraid he would
have run stark mad with joy. In the midst of this commerce, the time of
my father’s departure drew near, of which being informed, though not by
me, for I never had an opportunity of telling him, he fell sick, as I
understand, of grief, so that when we set out I could not see him, as I
wished, to indulge one parting look; but, having travelled two days,
just as I entered the place at which we lodged last night, I perceived
him standing at the gate, disguised so naturally in the habit of a
muleteer, that it would have been impossible for me to know him, had not
his image been so deeply imprinted on my soul. The sight of him filled
me with joy and surprize; and he gazed upon me by stealth, unperceived
by my father, from whom he always conceals his face when he crosses the
road before me, or is obliged to appear at the inns where we lodge.
Knowing, therefore, who he is, and that he travels on foot, undergoing
so much hardship and fatigue for love of me, I am half dead with grief
and anxiety, and wheresoever he sets his feet, there I fix my pitying
eyes. I know not what he intends by thus following me, nor how he could
manage to escape from his father, who loves him tenderly, because he has
no heir but him; and the young gentleman deserves all his affection, as
you will perceive when you see him. I can moreover assure you, what he
sings is the product of his own head; for I have been told that he is a
great scholar, and an excellent poet; every time I behold him or hear
him sing, I start and tremble from head to foot, being afraid that he
will be known by my father, and thus our mutual love be discovered; for,
though I never spoke to him in my life, my passion is so violent, that
without him I shall not be able to live. This, dear Madam, is all I can
say concerning that musician, whose voice hath given you such pleasure,
and is alone sufficient to convince you that he is not a muleteer, but
the lord of towns and hearts, as I have described him.’
‘Enough, Donna Clara,’ said Dorothea, kissing her with great affection;
‘say no more, but wait with patience till the approach of a new day,
when I hope in God to manage matters so well as to bring such a virtuous
beginning to an happy end.’—‘Ah, Madam!’ replied the young lady, ‘what
happy end can be expected, seeing his father is a man of such rank and
fortune, that he would think me unworthy to be the servant, much less
the wife of his son! and as to marrying him without my own father’s
consent, I would not do it for the whole universe. All I desire is, that
the young gentleman would return; perhaps his absence, and the length of
the journey we have undertaken, will alleviate the uneasiness I at
present felt, though I must own I believe that remedy will have small
effect. I cannot conceive what the deuce is the matter with me; nor how
this same love got entrance into my heart, considering how young we both
are; for I really believe we are of the same age, and my father says,
that till Michaelmas next, I shall not be sixteen.’ Dorothea could not
help laughing at these innocent observations of Donna Clara; to whom she
said, ‘Let us sleep, my dear, during the little that I believe remains
of the night; God will grant us a new day, and if my skill fails me not,
every thing will succeed to our wish.’
They accordingly went to rest, and a general silence prevailed over the
whole house, in which there was not a soul awake, except the innkeeper’s
daughter and her maid Maritornes, who by this time being acquainted with
the extravagant humour of Don Quixote, and knowing that he was then
without the gate, keeping guard in arms and on horseback, determined to
play some trick upon him, or at least divert themselves in listening to
his folly.
The inn chancing to have no window nor opening towards the field, but a
hole through which they took in their straw; this pair of
demi-ladies[109] there took their station, and observed Don Quixote, who
sat on horseback, leaning upon his lance, and breathing from time to
time such profound and doleful sighs, as seemed to tear his very soul;
they likewise heard him pronounce, in a soft, complacent, and amorous
tone, ‘O my dear mistress, Dulcinea del Toboso! thou perfection of
beauty, scope and sum total of discretion, cabinet of good humour,
depository of virtue, and lastly, the idea of all that is useful,
chaste, and delectable in this life! in what art thou at present
employed? Art thou reflecting upon thy captive knight, who voluntarily
subjects himself to such dangers, with the sole view of serving thee?
Give me some information of my love, thou three-faced luminary! who now,
perhaps, with envious eyes, beholdest her walking through some gallery
of her sumptuous palace, or leaning over some balcony, revolving in her
mind, how, without impairing the delicacy of her honour, she may asswage
the torments that this heart endures on her account; how she may crown
my sufferings with glory; my care with comfort; in fine, my death with
new life, and my service with reward; and thou, sun, who by this time
must be busy in harnessing thy steeds to light the world, and enjoy the
sight of her who is the sovereign of my soul, I entreat thee to salute
her in my behalf; but, in thy salutation, beware of touching her amiable
countenance, else I shall be more jealous of thee than ever thou wast of
that nimble ingrate, who made thee sweat so much along the plains of
Thessaly, or banks of Peneus, for I do not remember through which thou
ran’st, so jealous and enamoured.’
So far had the knight proceeded in this piteous exclamation, when the
innkeepers daughter whispered softly, ‘Sir knight, will your worship be
pleased to come this way?’ Hearing this invitation, he lifted up his
eyes, and by the light of the moon, which was then in full splendour,
perceived them beckon to him from the straw-hole, which he mistook for a
window adorned with gilded bars, suitable to the grandeur of such a
magnificent castle as the inn appeared; then his crazy imagination
instantly suggested, as before, that the beauteous damsel, daughter of
the constable, being captivated by his person, intended again to solicit
his love. On this supposition, that he might not seem discourteous or
ungrateful, he turned Rozinante, and riding up to the hole, no sooner
perceived the two lasses, than he said, ‘I am extremely concerned, most
beautiful lady, that you have fixed your amorous inclinations where it
is impossible they should meet with that return which is due to your
rank and qualifications; but you ought not to impute your disappointment
to any fault in me, whom love hath rendered incapable of yielding my
heart to any other but to her, who at first sight took absolute
possession of my soul. Pardon my refusal, honoured Madam, and retire to
your apartment, without seeking to explain your sentiments more fully,
that I may not appear insensible or ungrateful; and if your love can
find in me the power of giving you any other sort of satisfaction, you
may freely command my service; for I swear by that absent and amiable
enemy of mine, to gratify your wish immediately; even if you should
desire to have a lock of Medusa’s hair, which was altogether composed of
snakes, or the rays of the sun confined in a phial.’
‘Sir knight,’ answered Maritornes, ‘my lady has no occasion for either
of these things.’—‘What then is your lady’s pleasure, discreet duenna?’
resumed the knight. ‘Only the favour of one of your beautiful hands,’
replied Maritornes, ‘with which she may, in some measure, indulge the
longing desire that brought her to the straw-hole, so much to the danger
of her reputation, that if she should be detected by her father, the
first slice of his indignation would cost her an ear at least.’—‘I would
fain see him take that liberty,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but he will take
care to refrain from any such acts of barbarity, unless he has a mind I
should bring him to the most calamitous exit that ever happened to a
father, for having laid violent hands upon the delicate members of his
enamoured daughter.’
Maritornes concluding that he would certainly grant the request, and
having already determined on what she was to do, ran down to the stable,
and laid hold of the halter belonging to Sancho’s ass, with which she
instantly returned, just when Don Quixote had made shift to set his feet
on the saddle that he might reach the gilded window, at which he
imagined the wounded damsel was standing: presenting therefore his hand,
‘Receive, Madam,’ said he, ‘that hand, or rather that chastiser of all
evil-doers; receive, I say, that hand, which was never touched by any
other woman, not even by her who is in possession of my whole body. I do
not present it to be kissed; but that you may contemplate the contexture
of its nerves, the knittings of the muscles, the large and swelling
veins, from whence you may conjecture what strength must reside in the
arm to which it belongs.’—‘That we shall see presently,’ said
Maritornes; who having made a running knot on the halter, fixed it upon
his wrist, and descending from the hole, made fast the other end to the
bolt of the hay-loft door. The knight feeling the roughness of this
bracelet, said, ‘Your ladyship seems to rasp rather than to clasp thy
hand; do not treat it so cruelly; for it is not to blame for what you
suffer, from my inclination; nor is it just that such a small part
should bear the whole brunt of your indignation; consider, that one who
is such a friend to love, ought not to be so attached to revenge.’
All these expostulations of Don Quixote were uttered in vain; for as
soon as Maritornes had tied him up, she and her companion, ready to
expire with laughing, left him fastened in such a manner, that it was
impossible for him to get loose: thus, while he stood on Rozinante’s
back, with his whole arm thrust up into the straw-hole, and fast tied to
the bolt of the door, he was in the utmost apprehension and dread, that
if his horse should make the least motion to either side, he must lose
his support, and the weight of his whole body hang by one arm, so that
he durst not venture to stir; though he might have expected, from the
patience and peaceful disposition of Rozinante, that he would stand
motionless for a whole century. In short, finding himself thus tucked
up, and the ladies vanished, he imagined that the whole had been
effected by the power of inchantment, which he had experienced once
before, in that same castle, when he was belaboured by the inchanted
Moor of a carrier; and cursed, within himself, his want of conduct and
discretion, in entering a second time that fortress in which he had
fared so ill at first; it being a maxim among knights-errant, that when
they prove an adventure, without success, they conclude it is reserved
for another, and therefore think it unnecessary to make a second trial.
Nevertheless, he pulled with intention to disengage his arm, but he was
so well secured, that all his efforts were ineffectual; true it is, he
pulled with caution, that Rozinante might not be disturbed; and though
he had a longing desire of sitting down upon the saddle again, he found
that he must either continue in his present upright posture, or part
with his hand; then he began to wish for the sword of Amadis, against
which no inchantment could prevail; then cursed his fortune; then
exaggerated the loss which the world would sustain, while he remained
inchanted, as he firmly believed himself to be; then he reflected anew
upon his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso; then he called to his trusty
squire Sancho Panza, who, stretched upon the pannel of his ass, and
buried in sleep, at that instant, retained no remembrance of the mother
that bore him; then he implored the assistance of the two sages,
Lirgando and Alquife; then he invoked his good friend Urganda, for
succour in his distress; and, in fine, the morning found him in that
situation, so distracted and perplexed, that he roared aloud like a
bull, without expecting that the day would put an end to this disaster,
which he thought would be eternal, believing himself actually inchanted:
and this opinion was confirmed, by his seeing that Rozinante scarce
offered to stir; for he was persuaded, that in this manner, without
eating, drinking, or sleeping, he and his horse would continue until the
evil influence of the stars should pass over, or some other sage of
superior skill disengage them from their inchantment.
But for once he was mistaken in his calculation; for day had scarce
began to dawn, when four men on horseback arrived at the inn, well
mounted, and accoutred with carbines hanging at their saddle-bows; the
knight perceiving from the place, where in spite of his misfortune, he
still kept guard, that they thundered for entrance at the gate, which
was still shut, called in an arrogant and haughty tone, ‘Knights or
squires, or whosoever you are, you have no business to make such a noise
at the gate of this castle; for it is very plain, that either the people
within are asleep, or unaccustomed, at these hours, to open the
fortress, which you cannot enter before the sun rise. Retire, therefore,
and wait until the day be farther advanced, and then we shall see
whether or not you have any title to be admitted.’
‘What the devil of a fortress or castle is this, that we must observe
such ceremony!’ said one of the company: ‘if you are the innkeeper,
order somebody to open the door; we are all travellers, and only want to
bait, that we may forthwith proceed on our journey, for we are in
haste.’—‘Gentlemen,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘do you think I resemble an
innkeeper?’—‘I don’t know what you resemble,’ answered the other, ‘but
this I know, that you talk nonsense in calling this inn a castle.’—‘A
castle it is,’ cried the knight, ‘and one of the best in this province;
nay, at this very instant, it contains those who have wore crowns on
their heads, and wielded sceptres in their hands.’—‘Or rather the
reverse,’ said the traveller; ‘that is, the sceptre on the head, and
crown in the hand[110]: but perhaps there may be within some company of
strollers, who frequently wear these crowns and sceptres you mention;
for otherwise, in such a sorry inn, without any sort of noise or stir, I
cannot believe that any persons of such note would lodge.’—‘You know
little of the world,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘since you are so ignorant of
the events that happen in knight-errantry.’
The other horsemen being tired with this dialogue that passed between
the knight and their companion, began again to knock and bawl with such
vociferation, that the landlord and all the persons in the inn waking,
rose to see who called so furiously: about this time one of the horses
belonging to the travellers drew near and smelled at Rozinante, who, sad
and melancholy, with his ears hanging down, stood supporting his
outstretched master without stirring; but at length, being made of
flesh, though he seemed to have been carved out of a block, he was
sensible of the civility, and turned about to repay the compliment to
the courteous stranger; and scarce had he moved one step, when both his
master’s feet slipping from the saddle, he would have tumbled to the
ground had he not hung by his arm, which endured such torture in the
shock, that he verily believed it was cut off by the wrist, or torn away
by the shoulder. He was suspended so low, that the tops of his toes
almost touched the ground; a circumstance that increased his calamity:
for feeling how little he wanted of being firmly sustained, he stretched
and fatigued himself with endeavouring to set his feet upon the ground;
like those wretches, who, in undergoing the strappado, being hoisted up
a very little space, increase their own torment by their eager efforts
to lengthen their bodies, misled by the vain hope of reaching the
ground.
Footnote 109:
In the original demi-donzellas, equivalent to the modern term
demi-reps.
Footnote 110:
Alluding to the delinquents, who were branded and marked with these
figures.
CHAP. XVII.
A CONTINUATION OF THE SURPRIZING EVENTS THAT HAPPENED IN THE INN.
Don Quixote actually made such a hideous outcry, that the innkeeper
opened the door, and ran out to see what was the matter; while the
strangers that remained without were no less astonished at his
bellowing. Maritornes being also waked by the same noise, conjectured
what might be the case, and going straight to the hay-loft without being
perceived, untied the halter that sustained him, so that the knight came
to the ground in sight of the landlord and strangers, who running up,
asked what was the matter with him, and wherefore he cried so violently?
Without answering one word, he loosed the tether from his wrist, and
rising up, mounted Rozinante, braced his target, couched his lance, and
making a pretty large circuit in the field, returned at a half gallop,
pronouncing with great emphasis, ‘If any person whatever sayeth that I
have justly suffered inchantment, I here with the permission of my Lady
Princess Micomicona give him the lye, challenge, and defy him to single
combat.’
The travellers were amazed at his words; but their astonishment abated
when the innkeeper told them who Don Quixote was, observing that they
ought not to mind what he did, because he was disordered in his brain:
they then asked if he had seen a youth about fifteen years of age,
dressed like a young muleteer, with such and such marks, giving an exact
description of Donna Clara’s lover. The landlord answered, there were so
many people in his house, that he could not possibly distinguish the
person for whom they enquired; but one of them perceiving the judge’s
coach, ‘He must certainly be here,’ said he; ‘for this is the coach
which they say he followed: let one of us stay at the door, and the rest
go in to search for him; it will also be proper that one go round the
whole house, to prevent his escaping over the yard wall.’ This plan
being agreed upon, two of them entered the inn, another remained at the
door, and the fourth rode round the house to reconnoitre; while the
landlord observing every thing that passed, could not conceive the
meaning of all this care and diligence, although he believed they were
in search of the youth whom they had described. By this time it was
clear day-light, and upon that account, as well as in consequence of Don
Quixote’s roaring, all the company were awake, and got up, especially
Donna Clara and Dorothea, who had slept very little that night; the
first being disturbed and alarmed by reflecting that her lover was so
near, and the other kept awake by the desire of seeing this pretended
muleteer.
Don Quixote seeing that none of the travellers took the least notice of
him, or made any answer to his defiance, was transported with rage and
vexation; and if he could have recollected any law of chivalry,
authorizing a knight-errant to undertake another enterprize while he was
under promise and oath to abstain from any adventure until that in which
he was engaged was already atchieved, he would have assaulted them all
together, and forced them to reply, contrary to their inclination: but
thinking it was neither expedient nor just to begin a new enterprize
until he had re-established the Princess Micomicona on her throne, he
chose to be silent, waiting to see the effects of that diligence
practised by the new comers, one of whom found the youth they came in
quest of sleeping by the side of a muleteer, and little dreaming that
any body was in search of him, much less that he was in any danger of
being discovered. The man, however, shook him by the arm, saying,
‘Truly, Signior Don Lewis, this is a very suitable dress for one of your
quality, and the bed in which you now lie extremely well-adapted to the
tenderness and delicacy in which your mother brought you up.’
The youth rubbed his sleepy eyes, and looking stedfastly at the person
who held him by the arm, no sooner perceived that he was one of his
father’s servants, than he was so much surprized and confounded, that
for a good while he could not speak one word; while the domestick
proceeded, saying, ‘At present, Don Lewis, there is nothing else to be
done but to exert your patience and return home, if you are not resolved
that your father and my lady shall visit the other world; for nothing
else can be expected from their anxiety at your absence.’—‘How did my
father get notice that I travelled this road, and in this habit?’ said
Don Lewis. ‘A student,’ replied the servant, ‘to whom you imparted your
intention, was so much moved by the sorrow that took possession of your
parents the moment you were missed, that he disclosed your scheme to
your father, who instantly dispatched four of his domesticks in search
of you; and we are all here, at your service, infinitely rejoiced that
we have now an opportunity of returning speedily, and carrying you back
to the longing eyes of those by whom you are so much beloved.’—‘That may
depend upon my own will, and the appointment of Heaven,’ said the young
nobleman. ‘What should you will, or Heaven ordain, but your immediate
return, which indeed you cannot possibly avoid?’
All this conversation was overheard by the muleteer with whom Don Lewis
lay, who got up immediately, and going to Don Fernando, Cardenio, and
the ladies, who were already dressed, told them how the man called his
fellow-servant, Don, and communicated every thing that passed between
them concerning the domestick’s proposal of conducting him home again,
and the youth’s refusal to comply with his desire. This information,
together with the knowledge of that sweet voice with which Heaven had
endowed him, excited in all the company a desire of knowing more
particularly who he was, and even of assisting him, should they offer
any violence to his inclination: for this purpose, therefore, they
repaired to the place where he still stood talking and disputing with
his father’s servant. At the same time Dorothea coming out of her
apartment, followed by Donna Clara, in the utmost confusion called
Cardenio aside, and briefly related to him the story of the musician and
the judge’s daughter; and he in his turn informed her of what passed on
the arrival of his father’s servants. This he spoke not so softly but
that he was overheard by Clara, who was so much affected at the news,
that if Dorothea had not supported her, she would have fallen to the
ground; but Cardenio desired them to retire into their apartment,
saying, he would endeavour to set every thing to rights, and they
accordingly followed his advice. Meanwhile, the four who had come in
quest of Don Lewis stood round him in the inn, persuading him to return
without loss of time, and console his melancholy father; but he assured
them he could by no means comply with their request until he had
finished an affair upon which his honour, life, and soul, depended. Then
the domesticks began to be more urgent, protesting they would in no
shape return without him; and declaring that if he would not go
willingly, they would be obliged to carry him off by force. ‘That you
shall never do,’ replied Don Lewis, ‘unless you carry me off dead: and
indeed you may as well kill me, as force me away in any shape.’
Most of the people in the house were now gathered together to hear the
dispute, particularly Cardenio, Don Fernando, his companions, the judge,
curate, barber, and Don Quixote, who thought it was no longer necessary
to guard the castle. Cardenio being already acquainted with the young
man’s story, asked what reason the domesticks had to carry off the youth
contrary to his own inclination. ‘Our motive,’ replied one of the four,
‘is to retrieve his father’s life, which is in danger of being lost on
account of this young gentleman’s absence.’ To this declaration Don
Lewis answered, ‘There is no reason why I should here give an account of
my affairs; I am free, and will return if I please, otherwise none of
you shall compel me into your measures.’—‘Your honour will, I hope, hear
reason,’ said the servant; ‘or if you should not, it will be enough for
us to execute our errand, as we are in duty bound.’
Here the judge desiring to know the whole affair from the bottom, the
man having lived in the same neighbourhood, knew him, and replied, ‘My
Lord Judge, don’t you know that young gentleman is your neighbour’s son,
who hath absented himself from his father’s house, in a dress altogether
unbecoming his quality, as your lordship may perceive?’ Then the judge
looking at him more attentively, recollected his features, and embracing
him said, ‘What a frolick is this, Don Lewis? or what powerful cause
hath induced you to come hither in a garb so ill-suited to your rank and
fortune?’ The tears gushing into the young man’s eyes, he could not
answer one word to the judge, who desired the four domesticks to make
themselves easy, for all would be well; then taking Don Lewis by the
hand, he led him aside, and asked again the cause of his coming in that
manner.
While he was employed in this and other questions, they heard a great
noise at the inn door, occasioned by two men who had lodged all night in
the house, and who seeing every body intent upon knowing the business of
the four last comers, resolved to march off without paying their
reckoning; but the innkeeper, who minded his own affairs more than those
of any other person, stopped them on the threshold, demanded his money,
and upbraided them for their evil intention, with such abusive language,
as provoked them to answer by dint of fists, which they began to employ
so dextrously, that the poor landlord found himself under the necessity
of calling aloud for assistance. His wife and daughter seeing nobody so
idle, consequently so proper for the purpose as Don Quixote, the damsel
addressed him in these words: ‘Sir knight, I beseech your worship, by
the valour which God hath given you, to go to the assistance of my poor
father, whom two wicked men are now beating to a jelly.’ To this request
the knight replied, with great leisure, and infinite phlegm, ‘Beautiful
young lady, I cannot at present grant your petition, being restricted
from intermeddling in any other adventure, until I shall have
accomplished one in which my honour is already engaged; all that I can
do for your service is this, run and desire your father to maintain the
combat as well as he can, and by no means allow himself to be overcome,
until I go and ask permission of the Princess Micomicona, to succour him
in his distress; and if I obtain it, be assured that I will rescue him
from all danger.’—‘Sinner that I am!’ cried Maritornes, who was then
present, ‘before your worship can obtain that permission, my master will
be in the other world.’—‘Allow me, Madam,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘to go
and solicit the licence I mention, which if I obtain, I shall not make
much account of his being in the other world, from whence I will
retrieve him, though all its inhabitants should combine to oppose me; at
least I shall take such vengeance on those who have sent him thither, as
will give you full and ample satisfaction.’
So saying, he went and kneeled before Dorothea, begging in the stile and
manner of knight-errantry, that her highness would be pleased to give
him permission to run and assist the constable of the castle, who was at
that time involved in a very grievous disaster. The princess having very
graciously granted his request, he braced on his target, unsheathed his
sword, and ran to the gate, where the two guests still continued
pummelling the landlord; but as soon as he beheld them, he stopped
short, as if suddenly surprized, and when Maritornes and her mistress
asked what hindered him from giving assistance to their master and
husband, ‘I am hindered,’ answered the knight, ‘by a law, which will not
permit me to use my sword against plebeians; but call hither my squire
Sancho, for to him it belongs, and is peculiar, to engage in such
vengeance and defence.’
This transaction happened on the very field of battle, while kicks and
cuffs were dealt with infinite dexterity, to the no small prejudice of
the innkeeper’s carcase, and the rage of his wife, daughter, and
Maritornes, who were half-distracted at seeing the cowardice of Don
Quixote, and the distress of their lord and master. But let us here
leave him awhile, for he shall not want one to assist him; or else, let
him suffer with patience, and hold his tongue as becomes those who
rashly undertake adventures which they have not strength to atchieve;
and let us retreat backwards, about fifty yards, to see what answer Don
Lewis made to the judge, whom we left enquiring the cause of his
travelling on foot in such a mean habit. The youth, squeezing both his
hands with great eagerness, in token of the excessive grief that wrung
his heart, and shedding a flood of tears, replied to this question,
‘Dear Sir, I can give you no other reason, but that from the first
moment that fortune made us neighbours, and Heaven ordained that I
should see Donna Clara, your daughter and my delight, I, that instant,
made her mistress of my heart; and if your inclination, my real lord and
father, does not oppose my happiness, this very day she shall be my
lawful wife; for her I forsook my father’s house, and disguised myself
in this manner, with a resolution to follow whithersoever she should go,
directing my views towards her, like the arrow to its mark, and the
needle to the pole; though she knows no more of my passion than what she
may have understood from the tears which, at a distance, she hath often
seen me shed. You yourself, my lord, know the rank and fortune of my
father, whose sole heir I am. If you think that a motive sufficient for
venturing to make me perfectly happy, receive me immediately as your
son; and though my father, prompted perhaps by other views, should be
disobliged at the blessing which I have chosen for myself, it is in the
power of time to work greater changes and alterations than human
prudence can foresee.’
Here the enamoured youth left off speaking, and the judge remained in
the utmost suspense; not only admiring the discretion with which Don
Lewis had disclosed his passion, but also finding himself perplexed
about the resolution he was to take, in such a sudden and unexpected
affair. He therefore made no other reply for the present, but to desire
he would make himself easy, and detain his servants a day longer, that
he might have time to consider what steps it would be most proper to
take, for the satisfaction of all concerned. Don Lewis kissed his hands
by force, and even bathed them with his tears; a circumstance sufficient
to melt a heart of marble, much more that of the judge, who, being a man
of prudence, had already conceived all the advantages of such a match
for his daughter; though he wished it could be effected, if possible,
with the consent of the young man’s father, who, he knew, had some
pretensions to a title for his son.
By this time peace was re-established between the innkeeper and his two
lodgers, who being persuaded by the arguments and exhortations of Don
Quixote, more than by his threats, had paid their reckoning to the last
farthing; and the servants of Don Lewis waited the result of the judge’s
advice, together with their master’s resolution; when the devil, who is
ever watchful, so ordered matters, that the barber should just then
enter the inn; that very barber from whom Don Quixote had retrieved
Mambrino’s helmet, and Sancho Panza taken the furniture of his ass,
which he had exchanged for his own. This individual shaver, as he led
his beast to the stable, perceived Sancho employed in mending something
that belonged to the pannel, and knowing him at first sight, assaulted
the squire in a trice, crying, ‘Ha! Don thief, I have caught you at
last. Restore my bason and pannel, with all the furniture you stole from
me.’
Sancho seeing himself so suddenly attacked, and hearing the reproachful
language of his antagonist, with one hand laid fast hold on the pannel,
and with the other bestowed upon the barber such a slap in the face, as
bathed his whole jaws in blood. But for all that, he would not quit the
pannel which he had also seized; on the contrary, he raised his voice so
high as to alarm the whole company, and bring them to the scene of
contention, crying, ‘Justice! help in the king’s name! this robber wants
to murder me, because I endeavour to recover my own property.’—‘You
lye,’ answered the squire; ‘I am no robber; my Lord Don Quixote won
these spoils fairly in battle.’ The knight coming up among the rest,
beheld with infinite satisfaction, his squire so alert in offending and
defending, and looking upon him from thenceforward as a man of valour,
resolved in his heart, to have him dubbed with the first opportunity,
confident that on him the order of knighthood would be very well
bestowed. Among other things alledged by the barber in the course of the
fray, ‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘that pannel belongs as much to me as my
soul belongs to God; for I know it as well as if it had been produced by
my own body, and though I had all the mind in the world, my ass, which
is now in the stable, would not suffer me to tell a falshood; since you
will not take my word, pray go and try it upon his back, and if it does
not fit him to a hair, I shall give you leave to call me the greatest
lyar upon earth. Besides, the very same day on which they took my
pannel, they also robbed me of a new brass bason, never hanselled, that
cost me a good crown[111].’
Don Quixote hearing this, could contain himself no longer, but
interposed between the combatants, whom he parted, and depositing the
pannel on the ground, to be publickly viewed until the truth should
appear, addressed himself thus to the spectators: ‘Gentlemen, you may
now clearly and manifestly perceive how this honest squire errs in his
judgment, by calling that a bason, which was, is, and shall be,
Mambrino’s helmet; a piece of armour I won in fair and open battle, and
now possess by the just laws of conquest. With regard to the pannel, I
will not intermeddle; all that I can say of the matter is, that my
squire Sancho having asked permission to take the trappings of that
coward’s horse, and adorn his own with them, I gave him leave, and he
took them accordingly; though I can give no other reason for their being
now converted into a pannel, but that such transformations frequently
happen in the events of chivalry: yet, as a confirmation of what I say,
run, friend Sancho, and bring hither the helmet, which this honest man
calls a bason.’
‘’Fore God!’ answered Sancho, ‘if your worship has no better proof of
our honourable doings than what you mention, Mambrino’s helmet will
turn out a bason, as certainly as this honest man’s trappings are
transmographied into a pannel.’—‘Do what I order,’ replied the knight;
‘sure I am every thing in this castle cannot be conducted by
inchantment.’ Sancho went accordingly, and fetched this bason or
helmet of Mambrino, as his master called it, which Don Quixote taking
in his hand, said, ‘Behold, gentlemen, with what face this plebeian
can affirm that this is a bason, and not the helmet I have mentioned:
now, I swear by the order of knighthood I profess, that this is the
individual helmet which I took from him, without the least addition or
diminution.’—‘Without all manner of doubt,’ said Sancho; ‘for since my
master won it, to this good hour, he hath used it but in one battle,
when he delivered those mischievous galley-slaves; and if it had not
been for that same bason-helmet, he could not have come off so well:
for there was a deadly shower of stones rained upon his pate in that
storm.’
Footnote 111:
Literally, ‘Lady of a crown.’
CHAP. XVIII.
THE DECISION OF THE DOUBTS CONCERNING MAMBRINO’S HELMET AND THE
PANNEL—WITH A FULL AND TRUE ACCOUNT OF MANY OTHER ADVENTURES.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the barber, ‘pray favour me with your opinion
concerning what is affirmed by these gentlefolks, who so obstinately
maintain that this is not a bason, but a helmet!’—‘And if any one
affirms to the contrary,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I will make him sensible
that he lyes, if he be a knight; and if a plebeian, that he lyes a
thousand times.’ His own townsman, who was present all the while, being
well acquainted with the knight’s humour, resolved to encourage him in
his extravagance, and carry on the joke for the diversion of the
company; with this view he addressed himself to the other shaver,
saying, ‘Mr. Barber, or whosoever you are, you must know that I am of
the same profession; I have had a certificate of my examination these
twenty years; and know very well all the instruments of the art, without
excepting one. I was, moreover, a soldier in my youth, consequently can
distinguish an helmet, a morrion, and a casque with its beaver, together
with every thing relating to military affairs; I mean the different
kinds of armour wore by soldiers in the field: I say, under correction,
and still with submission to better judgment, that the object now in
dispute, which that worthy gentleman holds in his hand, is not only no
barbers bason, but also, as far from being one as black is from white,
or falshood from truth. I likewise aver, that though it is an helmet, it
is not entire.’—‘You are certainly in the right,’ said Don Quixote, ‘for
it wants one half, which is the beaver.’
The curate, who by this time understood the intention of his friend,
seconded his asseveration, which was also confirmed by Cardenio, Don
Fernando, and his companions; and the judge himself would have bore a
part in the jest, had he not been engrossed by the affair of Don Lewis;
but that earnest business kept him in such perplexity of thought, that
he could give little or no attention to the joke that was going forward.
[Illustration: Don Quixote Displays the Bason.]
‘Good God!’ cried the barber, with amazement, ‘is it possible that so
many honourable persons should pronounce this bason to be a helmet! an
assertion sufficient to astonish a whole university, let it be never so
learned. Well, if that bason be an helmet, I suppose the pannel must be
a horses trappings too, as this gentleman says.’—‘To me it seems a
pannel,’ replied the knight; ‘but, as I have already observed, I will
not pretend to decide whether it be the pannel of an ass, or the
furniture of a steed.’—‘Don Quixote has no more to do but speak his
opinion,’ said the curate; ‘for in affairs of chivalry, all these
gentlemen, myself, and even the ladies, yield to his superior
understanding.’—‘By Heaven! gentlemen,’ cried the knight, ‘so many
strange accidents have happened to me, twice that I have lodged in this
castle, that I will not venture positively to affirm the truth of any
thing that may be asked relating to it; for I imagine that every thing
in this place is conducted by the power of inchantment. The first time I
passed the night in this place, I was harrassed extremely by an
inchanted Moor that resides in the castle, while Sancho was almost as
roughly handled by some of his attendants; and this very night I was
suspended by one arm for the space of two hours, without knowing how or
wherefore I incurred that misfortune. For me, therefore, to give my
opinion in a case of such perplexity, would be a rash decision: with
regard to the helmet, which they say is a bason, I have already
expressed my sentiments; but dare not give a definitive sentence by
declaring whether that be a pannel or a horse’s furniture. That I leave
to the judgment of the good company, who not being knights, as I am,
perhaps are not subjected to the inchantments of this place; but,
enjoying their faculties clear and undisturbed, can judge of these
things as they really and truly are, not as they appear to my
imagination.’—‘Doubtless,’ replied Don Fernando, ‘Signior Don Quixote
manifests his own prudence, in observing that to us belongs the
determination of this affair, which, that it may be the better founded,
I will in private take the opinions of this good company one by one, and
then openly declare the full result of my enquiry.’
To those who are acquainted with the knight’s humour, this proposal
afforded matter of infinite diversion; but the rest being ignorant of
the joke, looked upon it as a piece of downright madness: this was
particularly the opinion of the domesticks belonging to Don Lewis, which
was even espoused by himself and three travellers just arrived, who
seemed to be troopers of the holy brotherhood, as indeed they were; but
he that almost ran distracted was the barber, whose bason was, even in
his own sight, transformed into Mambrino’s helmet, while he expected
every moment that his pannel would be certainly declared the rich
trappings and furniture of a horse. Every body laughed to see Don
Fernando going about with great gravity collecting opinions in whispers,
that each might privately declare whether that jewel, about which there
had been such obstinate disputes, was the pannel of an ass, or the
furniture of a steed. Having received the answers of all those who knew
Don Quixote, he pronounced aloud, ‘Truly, honest friend, I am quite
tired with asking so many opinions: for every one to whom I put the
question, affirms it is downright distraction to call this a pannel,
which is certainly the furniture of a horse, and that too of an
excellent breed. Therefore, you must e’en have patience: for in spite of
you, and the testimony of your ass to boot, an horse’s furniture it must
remain, as you have failed so egregiously in the proof of what you
alledge.’—‘May I never taste the joys of heaven!’ cried the transported
barber, ‘if you are not all deceived; and so may my soul appear before
God, as this appears to me, a mere pannel, and not the furniture of an
horse! but thus might overcomes[112]——I say no more, neither am I drunk,
being fresh and fasting from every thing but sin.’
The company laughed as heartily at the simplicity of the barber as the
extravagance of the knight, who upon this decision, said, ‘Nothing now
remains, but that every one should take his own again; and may St. Peter
bless what God bestows[113].’ One of the four servants belonging to Don
Lewis now interposed, saying, ‘If this be not a premeditated joke, I
cannot persuade myself that people of sound understanding, such as all
this company are or seem to be, should venture to say and affirm that
this is no bason, nor that a pannel; yet seeing this is both said and
affirmed, I conceive there must be some mystery in thus insisting upon a
thing so contrary to truth and experience; for, by God!’ (an oath he
swore with great emphasis) ‘all the people on earth shall never make me
believe that this is not a barber’s bason, or that not the pannel of an
he-ass.’—‘Why not of a she-ass?’ said the curate. ‘That distinction
makes no difference,’ said the servant; ‘nor has it any concern with the
dispute, which is occasioned by your saying that it is not a pannel at
all.’
At the same time, one of the troopers who had entered and been witness
to the quarrel and question, could no longer contain his choler and
displeasure at what he heard; and therefore said, in a furious tone, ‘If
that is not a pannel, my father never begat me; and he that says, or
shall say the contrary, must be drunk.’—‘You lye, like an infamous
scoundrel!’ replied Don Quixote; who lifting up his lance, which he
still kept in his hand, aimed such a stroke at the troopers skull, that
if he had not been very expeditious in shifting it, he would have been
stretched at full length upon the ground, on which the weapon was
shivered to pieces: the rest of the troop, seeing their companion so
roughly handled, raised their voices, crying for help to the holy
brotherhood; the innkeeper being of that fraternity, ran in for his
tipstaff and sword, and espoused the cause of his brethren; the
domesticks surrounded Don Lewis, that he might not escape in the
scuffle; the barber seeing the house turned topsy-turvey, laid hold
again of the pannel, which was at the same time seized by Sancho; Don
Quixote attacked the troopers sword-in-hand; Don Lewis called to his
servants to leave him, and go to the assistance of Cardenio and Don
Fernando, who had ranged themselves on the side of Don Quixote; the
curate exhorted, the landlady screamed, the daughter wept, Maritornes
blubbered, Dorothea was confounded, Lucinda perplexed, and Donna Clara
fainted away. The barber pummelled Sancho, who returned the compliment;
one of the servants presuming to seize Don Lewis by the arm, that he
might not run away, the young gentleman gave him such a slap in the face
as bathed all his teeth in blood; the judge exerted himself in his
defence. Don Fernando having brought one of the troopers to the ground,
kicked his whole carcase to his heart’s content; the landlord raised his
voice again, roaring for help to the holy brotherhood; so that the whole
inn was a scene of lamentation, cries, shrieks, confusion, dread,
dismay, disaster, back-strokes, cudgelling, kicks, cuffs, and effusion
of blood. In the midst of this labyrinth, chaos, and composition of
mischief, Don Quixote’s imagination suggested that he was all of a
sudden involved in the confusion of Agramonte’s camp, and therefore
pronounced with a voice that made the whole inn resound, ‘Let every man
forbear, put up his sword, be quiet and listen, unless he be weary of
his life.’
On hearing this exclamation, all the combatants paused, while he
proceeded thus: ‘Did not I tell you, gentlemen, that this castle was
inchanted, and doubtless inhabited by a whole legion of devils? as a
proof of which, you may now perceive with your own eyes how the discord
and mutiny in Agramonte’s camp is translated hither: behold, in one
place, we fight for a sword; in another, for a horse; in a third, for an
eagle; and in a fourth, for a helmet; in short, we are all by the ears
together, for we know not what.—Advance, therefore, my lord judge, and
Mr. Curate, and in the persons of Agramonte and King Sobrino,
re-establish peace among us; for, by Almighty God! it were wicked and
absurd, that persons of our importance should be slain in such a
frivolous cause.’
The troopers, who did not understand the knight’s stile, and found
themselves very severely treated by Don Fernando, Cardenio, and their
companions, would not be pacified; but it was otherwise with the barber,
who, in the scuffle, had lost both his pannel and beard: Sancho, who,
like a faithful servant, minded the least hint of his master, willingly
obeyed, and the servants of Don Lewis were fain to be quiet, seeing how
little they had got by concerning themselves in the fray; the innkeeper
alone insisted upon their chastising the insolence of that madman, who
was every moment throwing the whole house into confusion; at length the
disturbance was appeased, the pannel remained as an horse’s furniture
till the day of judgment, the bason as an helmet, and the inn as a
castle, in Don Quixote’s imagination.
Every thing being thus amicably composed by the persuasion of the judge
and priest, the servants of Don Lewis began again to press him with
great obstinacy to set out with them for his father’s house immediately;
and while he expostulated with them, the judge consulted with Don
Fernando, Cardenio, and the curate, about what he should do on this
occasion; imparting to them the declaration Don Lewis had made; at last
it was agreed that Don Fernando should tell the servants who he was, and
express a desire that Don Lewis should accompany him to Andalousia,
where his brother the marquis should entertain him according to his rank
and merit; for he well knew the young gentleman was fixed in the
determination of being cut to pieces rather than return to his father at
that time. The domesticks being informed of Don Fernando’s quality, and
understanding the resolution of Don Lewis, determined amongst themselves
that three of them should return and give the father an account of what
had happened, while the fourth should attend the young gentleman, until
they should either come back for him, or know his father’s pleasure.
In this manner was that accumulation of quarrels appeased by the
authority of Agramonte and prudence of King Sobrino; but the enemy of
concord and rival of peace being thus foiled and disappointed, and
seeing how little fruit he had reaped from the labyrinth of confusion in
which he had involved them, determined to try his hand once more, and
revive discord and disturbance anew; and these were the means he
practised for this purpose: the troopers, apprized of the quality of
those with whom they had been engaged, were fain to be quiet and retreat
from the fray, concluding that whatever might happen they would have the
worst of the battle; but one of them who had been pummelled and kicked
by Don Fernando, recollected that among other warrants for apprehending
delinquents, he had one against Don Quixote, issued by the holy
brotherhood, on account of his having set the galley-slaves at liberty,
as Sancho had very justly feared: this coming into his head, he was
resolved to assure himself whether or not the knight’s person agreed
with the description, and pulling out of his bosom a bundle of
parchment, he soon found what he sought, and beginning to spell with
great deliberation (for he was by no means an expert reader) between
every word he fixed his eyes upon the knight, whose physiognomy he
compared with the marks specified in the warrant, and discovered beyond
all doubt that he was the very person described; no sooner was he thus
convinced, than putting up the parchment, and holding the warrant in his
left-hand, he with his right seized Don Quixote so fast by the collar
that he could scarce fetch his breath, roaring aloud, ‘Help, in the name
of the holy brotherhood; and that you may see my demand is just, read
that warrant for apprehending this highwayman.’
The curate, upon perusing the warrant, found what the trooper said was
true, and that the description exactly agreed with the person of Don
Quixote, who seeing himself so unworthily treated by such a ragamuffin,
was incensed to the highest degree, so that every bone in his body
trembled with rage; and he made shift to fasten on the trooper’s throat
with both hands so violently, that if his companions had not come to his
assistance, he would have quitted his life before the knight had quitted
his hold. The innkeeper being obliged to succour his brethren, ran
immediately to their assistance; his wife seeing her husband re-engaged
in the quarrel, exalted her voice anew; Maritornes and the daughter
squalled in concert, imploring heaven and the bye-standers for help:
Sancho perceiving what passed, ‘By the Lord!’ cried he, ‘what my master
says about the inchantments of this castle is certainly true; for it is
impossible to live an hour in quiet within its walls.’
Don Fernando parted the knight and trooper, to their mutual
satisfaction; unlocking their hands, which were fast clinched in the
doublet-collar of the one, and the wind-pipe of the other, but for all
that they did not cease demanding their prisoner, and the assistance of
the company, in binding and delivering him to their charge, agreeable to
the service of the king, and the order of the holy brotherhood, in whose
behalf they repeated their demand of favour and assistance, to secure
that felon, robber, and thief. Don Quixote smiled at hearing these
epithets, and with much composure replied, ‘Come hither, ye vile and
base-born race! do you call it the province of an highwayman to loose
the chains of the captive, and set the prisoner free! to succour the
miserable, raise the fallen, and relieve the distressed? Ah! infamous
crew! whose low and grovelling understanding renders you unworthy that
Heaven should reveal to you the worth that is contained in
knight-errantry, or make you sensible of your sin and ignorance, in
neglecting to revere the very shadow, much more the substance of any
knight. Come hither, ye rogues in a troop, and not troopers; ye robbers
licensed by the holy brotherhood; and tell me what ignorant wretch he
was, who signed a warrant of caption against such a knight as me? Who
did not know that we are exempted from all judicial authority, and that
a knight’s own sword is his law, he being privileged by his valour, and
restricted only by his will and pleasure? Who was the blockhead, I say,
who does not know, that no gentleman’s charter contains so many rights
and indulgences as adhere to a knight-errant, the very day on which he
is dubbed, and devotes himself to the painful exercise of arms? What
knight-errant ever paid tax, toll, custom, duty, or excise? What taylor
ever brought in a bill for making his cloaths? What governor ever made
him pay for lodging in his castle? What king did ever neglect to seat
him at his own table? What damsel ever resisted his charms, or refused
to submit herself entirely to his pleasure and will? And, in fine, what
knight-errant ever was, is, or will be, whose single valour is not
sufficient to annihilate four hundred troopers, should they presume to
oppose him?’
Footnote 112:
The original would be more literally translated, by saying, ‘The law’s
measure is the king’s pleasure.’
Footnote 113:
A bridal benediction.
CHAP. XIX.
IN WHICH IS CONCLUDED THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE TROOPERS—WITH AN
ACCOUNT OF THE SURPRIZING FEROCITY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT DON QUIXOTE.
While Don Quixote harangued in this manner, the curate was employed in
persuading the troopers, that he was a man disordered in his judgment,
as they might perceive both by his words and actions, and therefore they
ought not to proceed any farther in the affair; for even if they should
apprehend him, he would soon be dismissed as a person _non compos_. To
this observation the man who had the warrant replied, that it was not
his business to judge of Don Quixote’s madness, but to obey the orders
of his superiors; and that if he was apprehended once, they might
discharge him three hundred times over, if they would. ‘For all that,’
said the priest, ‘you must not carry him off at present, nor do I
believe he will suffer himself to be so treated.’
In short, the curate talked so effectually, and the knight himself acted
such extravagancies, that the troopers must have been more mad than he,
if they had not plainly perceived his defect; therefore they thought
proper to be satisfied, and even performed the office of mediators
betwixt the barber and Sancho Panza, who still maintained the fray with
great animosity; for the troopers, as limbs of justice, brought the
cause to an arbitration, and decided it in such a manner as left both
parties if not fully satisfied, at least in some sort content with the
determination, which was, that the pannels should be exchanged, but the
girths and halters remain as they were. With regard to Mambrino’s
helmet, the curate, unperceived by Don Quixote, took the barber aside,
and paid him eight rials for the bason, taking a receipt in full, that
cleared the knight from any suspicion of fraud from thence forward, for
ever, Amen.
These two quarrels, which were of the greatest importance of any that
happened, being luckily composed, it remained that three of the servants
belonging to Don Lewis should return, and the fourth accompany his
master to the place whither Don Fernando intended to conduct him; and as
good luck and favourable fortune had already began to quell the spirit
of discord, and smooth all difficulties, in behalf of the lovers and
heroes of the inn, they were resolved to proceed in such a laudable
work, and bring every thing to a happy conclusion; for the domesticks
were satisfied with what Don Lewis proposed; a circumstance that gave
such pleasure to Donna Clara, that every body who beheld her face might
have discerned the joy of her soul. Zorayda, though she did not well
understand the incidents she had seen, was sorrowful and gay, by turns,
according as she perceived the company affected, particularly her
Spaniard, upon whom her eyes and heart were always fixed. The innkeeper,
who took particular notice of the full satisfaction which the barber had
received from the curate, demanded payment of Don Quixote, of the
reckoning, as well as for the damage he had done to the bags, and the
loss of his wine; swearing that neither Rozinante nor Sancho’s ass
should stir from the stable, until he should be satisfied to the last
farthing[114]. The curate pacified the landlord, and Don Fernando paid
the bill, although the judge very frankly offered to take that upon
himself. In this manner universal concord was restored; so that the inn
no longer represented the disorder in Agramonte’s camp, but rather the
peace and quiet that reigned in the time of Octavius Cæsar; and this
blessing was generally ascribed to the laudable intention and great
eloquence of the priest, together with the incomparable generosity of
Don Fernando.
Don Quixote now finding himself freed and disentangled from so many
broils in which both he and his squire had been involved, thought it
high time to proceed on his journey, in order to finish that great
adventure to which he had been summoned and chosen: he therefore, with
determined purpose, went and fell upon his knees before Dorothea, who
refusing to hear him in that posture, he rose in obedience to her will,
and expressed himself in this manner: ‘It is a common proverb, beauteous
princess, that diligence is the mother of success; and in many important
causes, experience hath shewn that the assiduity of the solicitor hath
brought a very doubtful suit to a very fortunate issue. But the truth of
this maxim is no where more evinced than in war, where activity and
dispatch anticipate the designs of the enemy, and obtain the victory
before he has time to put himself in a posture of defence. This I
observe, most high and excellent princess, because, in my opinion, our
stay in this castle is unprofitable and prejudicial, as we may one day
perceive, when it is too late; for who knows but by means of secret and
artful spies, your enemy, the giant, may get notice that I am coming to
destroy him; and taking the opportunity of our delay, fortify himself in
some impregnable castle, against which all my diligence, and the
strength of my indefatigable arm, will not avail. Wherefore, most noble
princess, let us, as I have already observed, prevent his designs by our
activity, and set out immediately, in the name of good fortune, which
your highness shall not long sigh for, after I shall have come within
sight of your adversary.’
Here the knight left off speaking, and with great composure expected the
answer of the beautiful infanta; who, with a most princely air, and in a
stile perfectly well-suited to his address, replied in this manner: ‘I
thank you, Sir Knight, for the desire you express to assist me in my
necessity, like a true knight, whose duty and province it is, to succour
the fatherless and distressed; and Heaven grant that your desire and my
expectation may be fulfilled, that you may see there are grateful women
upon earth. With regard to my departure, let it be as speedy as you
please: my will is altogether included in yours; dispose of me,
therefore, according to your own pleasure; for she who hath once
invested you with the charge and defence of her person, and solely
depends upon your valour, for being re-established on her throne, would
act preposterously, in seeking to contradict what your prudence shall
ordain.’—‘In the name of God, then,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘since a
princess humbles herself thus before me, I will not let slip the
opportunity of raising her up, and placing her upon the throne of her
ancestors. Let us depart immediately; for the desire of seeing you
restored, the length of the journey, and the common reflection, that
“delays are dangerous,” act as spurs upon my resolution; and since
Heaven hath not created, nor hell ever seen an object that could strike
me with terror and consternation—go, Sancho, saddle Rozinante, prepare
the queen’s palfrey, and get ready your own ass, while we take leave of
the constable and these noble personages, and set forward on our
journey, without loss of time.’
Here Sancho, who was present all the time, shook his head, saying, ‘Ah,
master, master! there are more tricks in town than you dream of; with
submission to the honourable lappets be it spoken.’—‘What tricks can
there be either in town or city, that can redound to my discredit,
rascal?’ cried the knight. ‘Nay, if your worship be in a passion,’
replied the squire, ‘I will keep my tongue within my teeth, and not
mention a syllable of what, as a trusty squire and faithful servant, I
am bound to reveal to my master.’—‘Say what thou wouldst,’ answered Don
Quixote, ‘so thy words have no tendency to make me afraid; for in being
susceptible of fear, thou shewest the baseness of thy own character, as
I, in being proof against all sorts of terror, preserve the dignity of
mine.’—‘As I am a sinner to God,’ cried Sancho, ‘that is not the case;
but this I know for truth and positive certainty, that this lady, who
calls herself queen of the great kingdom of Micomicon, is no more a
queen than my mother; for if she were what she pretends to be, she would
not be nuzzling into a corner with one of this company, at every snatch
of an opportunity.’
Dorothea’s face was overspread with a blush, at these words of Sancho;
for, sooth to say, her husband Don Fernando had several times, as he
thought unperceived, made free with her lips, as earnest of that reward
his affection deserved; and in so doing, she was observed by Sancho, who
thought that such condescension in her looked more like the behaviour of
a courtezan than that of such a mighty princess; so that she neither
could nor would answer one word to this charge, but suffered him to
proceed in these words: ‘This, dear master, I make bold to mention;
because, if after we have travelled the Lord knows how far, and passed
many weary days and bitter nights, he that is taking his recreation in
this inn should gather the fruit of all our labour; we need not be in
such a perilous hurry to saddle Rozinante, prepare the palfrey, and get
ready the ass; but had better remain in peace where we are; and, as the
saying is, “While we enjoy our meal, let every harlot mind her
spinning-wheel.”’
Gracious Heaven! what a torrent of indignation entered the breast of Don
Quixote, when he heard these indecent expressions of his squire: such, I
say, was the rage that took possession of his faculties, that with a
faltering voice and stammering tongue, while his eyes flashed lightning,
he exclaimed, ‘O villainous, inconsiderate, indecent and ignorant
peasant! thou foul-mouthed, unmannerly, insolent, and malicious
slanderer! darest thou utter such language against these honourable
ladies in my presence? darest thou entertain such disgraceful and
audacious ideas in thy confused imagination? Get out of my sight,
monster of nature, depository of lyes, cupboard of deceit, granary of
knavery, inventor of mischief, publisher of folly, and foe to that
respect which is due to royalty; go, nor presume to see my face again,
on pain of my highest displeasure!’ so saying, he pulled up his
eye-brows, distended his cheeks, looked round him, and with his
right-foot stamped violently upon the floor, in consequence of the wrath
that preyed upon his intrails.
Sancho was so shrunk and terrified at these words and furious gestures,
that he would have been glad, if the earth had opened that instant under
his feet and swallowed him up; and not knowing what else to do, he
sneaked off from the presence of his incensed master: but the discreet
Dorothea, who was so well acquainted with Don Quixote’s humour, in order
to appease his indignation, accosted him thus; ‘Sir Knight of the Rueful
Countenance, let not your wrath be kindled by the nonsense which your
good squire hath uttered, for, perhaps, he might have had some sort of
reason for what he said; and as from his good understanding and
Christian conscience, he cannot be suspected of a design to bear false
witness against any person whatever, it is to be supposed, and indeed I
firmly believe, that every thing in this castle, as you, Sir Knight,
have observed, being conducted by means of inchantment, Sancho, through
that diabolical medium, must have seen what he affirms, so much to the
prejudice of my honour and reputation.’—‘I swear by Almighty God!’ cried
Don Quixote, ‘that your highness hath hit upon the true cause! and the
eyes of that poor sinner, Sancho, have been fascinated by some delusive
vision, of what could not possibly be real; for, unless he had been
misled by inchantment, such is the innocence and simplicity of that
miserable wretch, that I know he neither could nor would invent a
slander against any living soul.’—‘That certainly is, and shall be the
case,’ said Don Fernando; ‘for which reason, Signior Don Quixote ought
to pardon and restore him to the bosom of his favour, _Sicut erat in
principio_, before those illusions impaired his understanding.’
The knight promised to forgive him accordingly; upon which the curate
went in quest of Sancho, who came in with great humility, and falling on
his knees, begged leave to kiss his master’s hand; this favour was
granted by Don Quixote, who also gave him his benediction, saying, ‘Thou
wilt now, son Sancho, be convinced of the truth of what I have so often
told thee, that all things in this castle are performed by the power of
inchantment.’—‘I believe so too,’ replied the squire, ‘except in the
affair of the blanketting, which really happened in the ordinary course
of things.’—‘Thou must not imagine any such thing,’ answered the knight;
‘for had that been the case, I should have revenged thy cause at the
time, and even now would do thee justice; but neither at that time nor
now, could I, or can I find any persons to chastise as the cause of thy
disaster.’
The company being desirous of knowing the affair of the blanket, the
landlord gave a very minute detail of Sancho’s capering, to the no small
diversion of all present, except the squire himself, who would have been
very much out of countenance, had not the knight assured him anew, that
the whole was effected by inchantment; though the folly of Sancho never
rose to such a pitch, but that he firmly believed, without the least
mixture of doubt or delusion, that his blanketting had been performed by
persons of flesh and blood, and not by phantoms or imaginary beings,
according to the opinion and affirmation of his master.
Two days had this illustrious company already passed at the inn, from
whence thinking it now high time to depart, they concerted matters in
such a manner, as that, without putting Dorothea and Don Fernando to the
trouble of returning with Don Quixote to the place of his habitation, in
order to carry on the scheme concerning the restoration of Queen
Micomicona, the curate and barber were enabled to execute their design
of carrying him to his own house, where endeavours might be used for the
cure of his disorder. In consequence of this plan, they agreed with the
master of an ox waggon, who chanced to pass that way, for transporting
the knight in the following manner; having made a sort of wooden cage,
capacious enough to hold Don Quixote at his ease, Don Fernando, with his
companions, the servants of Don Lewis, together with the troopers and
innkeeper, by order and direction of the curate, covered their faces and
disguised themselves, some in one shape, some in another, so as to
appear, in Don Quixote’s eyes, quite different from the people he had
seen in the castle. Thus equipped, they entered, with all imaginable
silence, into the chamber where he lay asleep and fatigued with the toil
he had undergone in the skirmishes already described; and laying fast
hold on him, while he securely enjoyed his ease, without dreaming of
such an accident, tied both his hands and feet so effectually, that when
he waked, in surprize, he could neither move, nor do any other thing but
testify his wonder and perplexity at the sight of such strange faces. He
then had recourse to what his distempered imagination continually
suggested, and concluded that all these figures were phantoms of that
inchanted castle; and that he himself was, without all question, under
the power of incantation, seeing he could not even stir in his own
defence; and this conceit was exactly foreseen by the curate, who was
author of the whole contrivance. The only person of the whole company
who remained unaltered, both in figure and intellect, was Sancho; who,
though his lack of understanding fell very little short of his master’s
infirmity, was not so mad but that he knew every one of the apparitions,
though he durst not open his mouth, until he should see the meaning of
this assault and capture of the knight, who likewise expected, in
silence, the issue of his own misfortune.
Having brought the cage into his apartment, they inclosed him in it, and
fixed the bars so fast, that it was impossible to pull them asunder;
then taking it on their shoulders, in carrying it out, they were saluted
by as dreadful a voice as could be assumed by the barber (I do not mean
the owner of the pannel) who pronounced these words; ‘O Knight of the
Rueful Countenance! afflict not thyself on account of thy present
confinement, which is necessary towards the more speedy accomplishment
of that great adventure in which thy valour hath engaged thee; and which
will be atchieved when the furious Manchegan lion is coupled with the
white Tobosian dove, their lofty necks being humbled to the soft
matrimonial yoke: from which unheard-of conjunction, the world shall be
blessed with courageous whelps, who will imitate the tearing talons of
their valiant sire; and this will happen, ere the pursuer of the
fugitive nymph shall have twice performed his visit through the
resplendent constellations, in his natural and rapid course.—And O! thou
the most noble and obedient squire that ever wore sword in belt, beard
on chin, or smell in nostril, be not dismayed nor discontented at seeing
the flower of knight-errantry thus carried off before thine eyes; for,
if it please the Creator of this world, soon shalt thou be so exalted
and sublimed, as that thou wilt not even know thyself; neither shalt
thou be defrauded of the fruit of those promises which thy worthy lord
has made in thy behalf; and I assure thee, in the name of the sage
Fibberiana[115], that thy salary shall be faithfully paid, as in effect
thou wilt see; follow, therefore, the footsteps of the valiant and
inchanted knight; for it is necessary that you should proceed together
to the end of your career; and as I am not permitted to declare myself
more explicitly, I bid you heartily farewel, and will return I well know
whither.’ Towards the end of this prophecy, he raised his voice to the
highest pitch, and then sunk it gradually to such a faint and distant
tone, that even those who were privy to the joke, were tempted to
believe what they had heard.
Don Quixote remained very much comforted by this prophecy, the meaning
of which he no sooner heard than comprehended; interpreting the whole
into a promise, that he should one day see himself joined in the just
and holy hands of matrimony with his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso, from
whose fortunate womb would proceed those whelps (meaning his sons) which
would perpetuate the glory of La Mancha. In this persuasion, therefore,
and firm belief, he raised his voice, and heaving a profound sigh,
replied, ‘O thou! whosoever thou art, whose prognostication sounds so
favourably in mine ears, I beg thou wilt, in my name beseech the sage
inchanter who takes charge of my affairs, that he will not leave me to
perish in the confinement which I now suffer, until I shall have seen
the accomplishment of those joyful and incomparable promises which thou
hast uttered in my behalf. So shall I glory in the hardships of this
prison, and bear with pleasure these chains with which my limbs are
fettered; and instead of comparing the boards on which I lie, to the
rough, uncomfortable field of battle, consider them as the soothing down
of the most happy and luxurious marriage-bed. With respect to the
consolation of Sancho Panza, my squire, I confide in his virtue and
affection, which will not allow him to forsake me either in prosperity
or adversity; for should his evil fortune, or my unhappy fate, hinder me
from bestowing upon him the island, or some equivalent, according to my
promise; at least, he shall not lose his wages, specified and bequeathed
to him in my will, that is already made; a recompence which, though
proportioned to my own slender ability, comes far short of his great and
faithful services.’
Here the squire bowed in the most respectful manner, and kissed both his
hands, as he could not make his compliments to one of them apart, they
being fast bound together. Then the apparitions taking the cage upon
their shoulders, carried it to the waggon, in which it was immediately
fixed.
Footnote 114:
It were to be wished, for the honour of Spanish innkeepers, that
Cervantes had caused mine host to restore Sancho’s wallet, which he
had detained on the day of the blanketting; as such restitution would
have increased the general satisfaction.
Footnote 115:
A word of equal signification with _mentironiana_, from _mentereso_, a
lyar.
CHAP. XX.
AN ACCOUNT OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE
WAS INCHANTED—WITH OTHER REMARKABLE EVENTS.
Don Quixote seeing himself thus encaged, and placed upon a cart, could
not help saying, ‘Many very grave histories have I read, concerning
knights-errant; but never did I read, see, or hear, that inchanted
knights were transported in this manner, at such a pace as these lazy,
slow-footed animals, seem to promise; for they used always to be carried
through the air with surprizing swiftness, wrapped up in some dark and
dusky cloud, or in a fiery chariot, or mounted on a hypogriff, or some
such creature; so that, before God! I am utterly confounded at my own
fate, in being thus transported on a waggon drawn by oxen. But, perhaps,
the chivalry and inchantments of this age follow a different path from
that which was pursued of old; and as I am a new knight on the face of
the earth, and the first who revived the long-forgotten order of
errantry, perhaps they might have also newly invented other kinds of
incantation, and other methods of conveying those whom they
inchant.—What is thy opinion of the matter, son Sancho?’—‘I know not
what my opinion is,’ replied the squire, ‘because I am not so well read
in the scriptures of errantry as your worship; but, for all that, I will
venture to affirm, aye and swear to it, that these apparitions who
stroll about us, are not altogether catholick.’—‘Catholick! my
stars[116]!’ answered the knight, ‘how can they be catholick, when they
are all devils, who have assumed fantastical shapes, and come hither on
purpose to perform this deed, and leave me in my present situation? But
that thou mayest be convinced of the truth of what I alledge[117],
endeavour to touch and feel them, and thou wilt perceive that they have
no other bodies but forms of condensed air consisting of nothing but
mere semblance.’—‘’Fore God, Sir!’ cried Sancho, ‘I have made that trial
already, and that same devil who goes about so busy, is well provided
with good substantial flesh, and has another property widely different
from what is reported of evil spirits, all of whom, they say, stink of
brimstone and other bad smells; whereas, he is so well scented with
amber, that you may perceive it at the distance of half a league.’
Sancho made this remark on Don Fernando, who being a man of fashion,
probably wore scented linen. ‘Marvel not at that circumstance, friend
Sancho,’ replied the knight; ‘for thou must know that devils are a set
of very sagacious beings; and although they bring smells along with
them, they themselves being spirits, can produce no smell; or if any
odour proceeds from them, it cannot be agreeable, but rather stinking
and unwholesome, because they carry their hell about them wheresoever
they are, and their torments admit of no kind of alleviation; now, sweet
smells being agreeable and delicious, cannot possibly proceed from
beings which are productive of nought but evil; therefore, if in thy
opinion that devil smells of amber, either thy senses are perverted, or
he wants to impose upon thy understanding, by making thee believe that
he is not an inhabitant of hell.’
Don Fernando and Cardenio overhearing this dialogue between the master
and the squire, were afraid of Sancho’s stumbling upon the discovery of
their whole plot, in which he seemed already to have made great
progress, therefore determined to hasten their departure, and calling
the landlord aside, ordered him to saddle Rozinante, and put the pannel
on Sancho’s ass. This talk he performed with great dispatch, while the
curate agreed to give the troopers so much a day for attending Don
Quixote to the town where he lived. Cardenio having fastened the target
to one side of the pummel of Rozinante’s saddle, and the bason to the
other, made signs for Sancho to mount his ass, and lead his master’s
steed by the bridle, and then stationed two of the troopers with their
carbines on each side of the waggon. But before it began to move, the
landlady, her daughter, and Maritornes, came out to take leave of Don
Quixote, feigning themselves extremely affected with his misfortune;
upon which he said to them, ‘Weep not, worthy ladies; all these
disasters are incident to those who chuse my profession; and if I were
not subject to such calamities, I should not deem myself a renowned
knight-errant; for these things never happen to knights of little fame
and reputation, who are never regarded, scarce even remembered on the
face of the earth. It is quite otherwise with the valiant, whose virtue
and valour are envied by many princes and rivals, who endeavour by the
most perfidious means to destroy them; but, nevertheless, virtue is so
powerful, that of herself she will, in spite of all the necromancy
possessed by the first inventor, Zoroaster, come off conqueror in every
severe trial, and shine refulgent in the world, as the sun shines in the
heavens. Pardon me, beauteous ladies, if I have given you any disgust,
through neglect or omission; for willingly and knowingly I never
offended a living soul; and pray to God to deliver me from this prison,
in which I am confined by some malicious inchanter; for, if I regain my
liberty, the favours I have received from your courtesy in this castle,
shall never escape my remembrance, but always be acknowledged with
gratitude, service, and respect.’
While the knight made these professions to the ladies of the castle, the
curate and barber took their leave of Don Fernando and his companions,
the captain and his brother, and all the happy ladies, especially
Dorothea and Lucinda; they embraced each other, and agreed to maintain a
correspondence by letters; Don Fernando giving the curate a direction by
which he might write to him an account of the knight’s future behaviour
and fate, than which, he protested, nothing could yield him more
pleasure; and promising, for his own part, to inform the priest of every
thing which he thought would conduce to his satisfaction, relating to
his own marriage, the baptism of Zorayda, the success of Don Lewis, and
the return of Lucinda to her father’s house; the priest having assured
him that he would obey his commands with the utmost punctuality, they
embraced again, and repeated their mutual proffers of service. The
innkeeper coming to the curate, put into his hand a bundle of papers
which he said he had found in the lining of the portmanteau, along with
the novel of the Impertinent Curiosity; and since the owner had not
returned that way, he desired the priest to accept of them, for as he
himself could not read, he had no occasion for such useless furniture:
the curate thanked him for his present, which he immediately opened, and
found written in the title-page, ‘Rinconete and Cortadilla, a
novel[118];’ from hence he concluded, that since the Impertinent
Curiosity was an entertaining story, this might also have some merit, as
being probably a work of the same author; and on this supposition put it
carefully up, intending to peruse it with the first convenient
opportunity; then he and his friend the barber mounting their beasts,
with their faces still disguised, that they might not be known by Don
Quixote, jogged on behind the waggon. And the order of their march was
this: first of all proceeded the cart, conducted by the driver, and
guarded on each side by the troopers with their carbines, as we have
already observed; then followed Sancho Panza upon his ass, leading
Rozinante by the bridle; and in the rear of all came the curate and the
barber, masked, and mounted on their trusty mules, with a grave and
solemn air, marching no faster than the slow pace of the oxen would
allow; while the knight sat within his cage, his hands fettered, and his
legs outstretched, leaning against the bars, with such silence and
resignation, that he looked more like a statue of stone than a man of
flesh and blood. In this slow and silent manner had they travelled about
a couple of leagues, when they arrived in a valley, which the waggoner
thinking a convenient spot for his purpose, proposed to the curate that
they should halt to refresh themselves, and let the oxen feed; but the
barber was of opinion that they should proceed a little farther, to the
other side of a rising ground, which appeared at a small distance, where
he knew there was another valley better stored with grass, and much more
agreeable than this in which the waggoner proposed to halt. The advice
of Mr. Nicholas was approved, and they jogged on accordingly.
About this time the curate chancing to look back, perceived behind them
six or seven men well mounted, who soon overtook them, as they did not
travel at the phlegmatick pace of the oxen, but like people who rode on
ecclesiastick mules, and were desirous of spending the heat of the day
at an inn that appeared within less than a league of the waggon. These
expeditious strangers coming up with our slow travellers, saluted them
courteously; and one among them, who was actually a canon of Toledo, and
master of those who accompanied him, observing the regular procession of
the waggon, troopers, Sancho, Rozinante, the curate, and barber, and in
particular Don Quixote encaged and secured as he was, could not help
asking why and whither they were conveying that man in such a manner?
though he had already conjectured, from the badges of the troopers, that
he must be some atrocious robber or delinquent, the punishment of whom
belonged to the holy brotherhood. One of the troopers to whom the
question was put, answered, ‘Signior, the gentleman himself will tell
you the meaning of his travelling in this manner; for our parts we know
nothing at all of the matter.’ The knight, overhearing what passed, said
to the strangers, ‘Gentlemen, if you are skilled and conversant in
matters of knight-errantry, I will communicate my misfortune; otherwise
there is no reason why I should fatigue myself with the relation.’
By this time the curate and barber, having perceived the travellers in
conversation with the knight, came up in order to prevent their plot
from being discovered, just as the canon had begun to answer Don Quixote
in these words: ‘Truly, brother, I am better acquainted with books of
chivalry than with the Summaries of Villalpando; so that if there be
nothing else requisite, you may freely impart to me as much as you
please.’—‘A God’s name, then,’ said Don Quixote, ‘if that be the case,
‘you must know, Signior cavalier, that I am inchanted in this cage,
through the envy and fraud of mischievous necromancers; for virtue is
always more persecuted by the wicked than beloved by the righteous. A
knight-errant I am, though none of those whose names Fame never enrolled
in her eternal records; but of that number, whom maugre, and in despite
of Envy herself, and all the magi whom Persia ever produced, with the
brachmans of India, and gymnosophists of Ethiopia, will leave their
names engraved on the temple of immortality, as examples and patterns to
succeeding ages, by which all knights errant may see what steps they
must follow, if they wish to attain the height and honourable summit of
arms.’
Here the curate interposing, said, ‘Signior Don Quixote speaks no more
than the truth: he is inchanted in that waggon, not on account of his
own crimes or misdemeanors, but through the malice of those who are
disgusted at virtue, and offended at valour. This, Signior, is the
Knight of the Rueful Countenance, whose name perhaps you have heard, and
whose valiant exploits and mighty atchievements will be engraved on
durable brass, and carved in eternal marble, in spite of the unwearied
efforts of malice to cancel, and of envy to obscure them.’
The canon hearing such a stile proceed not only from the prisoner’s
mouth, but also from the lips of him who was free, had well-nigh crossed
himself with astonishment, and could not conceive what had befallen him,
while his whole company were seized with the same degree of amazement:
but Sancho Panza, who was near enough to hear what passed, being willing
to undeceive the strangers, said to them, ‘Gentlemen, whether what I am
going to say be ill or well taken, I must tell you the case is this: my
master Don Quixote is no more inchanted than the mother that bore me; he
enjoys his right wits, eats, drinks, and does his occasions, like other
men, and as he himself was wont to do before he was encaged; now, if
this be the truth of the matter, how can any man persuade me that he is
inchanted? since I have heard divers persons observe, that those who
were inchanted neither eat, sleep, nor speak; whereas my master, if he
is not hindered, will talk like thirty barristers.’ Then turning to the
curate, he proceeded thus: ‘Ah, Mr. Curate, Mr. Curate! you think I
don’t know you, and imagine that I cannot dive into the meaning of these
new inchantments, but you are mistaken; I know you very well for all
your masking, and can smell out your plots, disguise them as you will;
in short, as the saying is, Just are virtue’s fears, when envy
domineers, and Bounty will not stay, where niggards bear the sway. Damn
the devil! if it had not been for your reverence, my master by this time
would have been married to the Princess Micomicona, and I should have
been an earl at least; for less I could not expect, either from the
generosity of my Lord of the Rueful Countenance, or from the greatness
of my own services: but now I see the truth of what is commonly said,
That fortune turns faster than a mill-wheel; and that those who were
yesterday at top, may find themselves at bottom to-day. It grieves me on
account of my poor wife and children, who, instead of seeing their
father come home in the post of governor or viceroy of some land or
kingdom, as they had great reason to expect, will behold him returning
in the station of a common groom: all this I have observed, Mr. Curate,
for no other reason but to prevail upon your fathership to make a
conscience of the ill-treatment my master receives at your hands, and
consider that God may call you to account in the next world for this
captivity of my Lord Don Quixote, and for all the succours and benefits
that are prevented by his being thus confined.’
‘Snuff me these candles!’ cried the barber, hearing the squire’s
declaration; ‘why, sure, Sancho, you belong to your master’s fraternity;
by the Lord! I find you ought to keep him company in his cage, and
undergo the same sort of inchantment, so much are you infected with the
humour of his chivalry: in an unhappy moment were you got with child by
his promises, and in an evil hour did that island you harp so much upon
take possession of your skull.’—‘I am not with child by any person
whatever,’ answered Sancho, ‘nor will I suffer any king in Christendom
to beget a child upon my body; for though I be a poor man, I’m an old
Christian, and owe no man a farthing: if I long for an island, others
long for things that are worse, every one being the son of his own
works; the lowest mortal may come to be pope, much more governor of an
island, especially as my master may gain more than he knows well what to
do with. Mr. Barber, you had better think before you speak: there is
something else to do than shaving of beards, and one Pedro may differ
from another[119]; this I say because we know one another, and you must
not think to palm false dice upon me: with regard to the inchantment of
my master, God knows the truth, and there let it lie; for, as the saying
is, The more you stir it, the more it will—you know what.’ The barber
durst not make any reply, lest Sancho’s simplicity should discover what
he and the curate were so desirous of concealing; and the priest being
under the same apprehension, desired the canon to ride on with him a
little before the waggon, promising to disclose the mystery of the
encaged knight, with other particulars that would yield him some
diversion: the canon put on accordingly with his servants, listening
attentively to every thing the curate was pleased to communicate
concerning the rank, employment, madness, and manners, of Don Quixote;
for he briefly recounted the cause and beginning of his disorder, with
the whole progress of his adventures, until he was secured in the cage
by their contrivance, that they might carry him home to his own house,
and endeavour to find some cure for his distemper.
The canon and his servants were astonished anew at hearing the strange
story of Don Quixote; which being finished, the Toledan replied, ‘Truly,
Mr. Curate, I am firmly persuaded that those books of chivalry are very
prejudicial in the commonwealth; for though I have been induced by a
false taste and idle curiosity to read the beginning of almost every one
that hath been printed, I never could prevail upon myself to read any
one of them from the first to the last page; because, in my opinion,
they are all of the same stamp, without any essential difference. And,
indeed, that kind of composition seems to fall under that species of
writing called the Milesian Fables, which are no other than extravagant
tales calculated for mere amusement, without any tendency to
instruction; on the contrary, the scope of your apologues is to convey
instruction and delight together. Now, though the principal intention of
those books is to delight and entertain the reader, I do not see how
they can answer that end, being, as they are, stuffed with such
improbable nonsense; for the pleasure that the soul conceives, is from
the beauty and harmony of those things which are contemplated by the
view, or suggested by the imagination; so that we can receive no
pleasure from objects that are unnatural and deformed. And what beauty,
symmetry, or proportion, can be observed in a book containing the
history of a youth of seventeen, who with one back-stroke cuts through
the middle a giant like a tower, with as much ease as if he had been
made of paste; and in the description of a battle, after having observed
that there are no less than a million of combatants on the side opposite
to that which the hero of the piece espouses, we must, in despite of
common-sense, believe, that such a knight obtained the victory by the
single valour of his invincible arm. Then, how shall we account for the
confidence with which some queen, empress, or orphan heiress, throws
herself into the protection of an unknown knight-errant? What mind, if
not wholly barbarous and uncultivated, can be pleased with an account of
a huge tower full of knights sailing upon the sea like a ship before the
wind; being overnight upon the coast of Lombardy, and next morning
arrived in the dominions of Prester John in the Indies, or in some other
country which Ptolemy never discovered, nor Marcus Polus ever saw? If to
this observation it be answered, that the authors of those books do not
pretend that the stories they contain are true, and therefore they are
under no necessity of adhering to such niceties of composition; I reply,
that fiction is always the better the nearer it resembles truth, and
agreeable in proportion to the probability it bears, and the doubtful
credit which it inspires. Wherefore, all such fables ought to be suited
to the understanding of those who read them, and written so as that by
softening impossibilities, smoothing what is rough, and keeping the mind
in suspense, they may surprize, agreeably perplex, and entertain,
creating equal admiration and delight; and these never can be excited by
authors who forsake probability and imitation, in which the perfection
of writing consists. I have never as yet seen in any book of chivalry an
entire body of a fable, with all its members so proportioned, as that
the middle corresponds with the beginning, and the end is suitable to
both; on the contrary, one would think the author’s intention is
commonly to form a chimera or monster, instead of a figure well
proportioned in all its parts. Besides, their stile is usually harsh,
their atchievements incredible, their amours lascivious, their courtesy
impertinent, their battles tedious, their dialogue insipid, their
voyages extravagant, and, in short, the whole void of all ingenuity of
invention; so that they deserve to be banished as useless members from
every Christian commonwealth.’
The curate, who had listened with great attention, hearing the canon
talk so sensibly, looked upon him as a man of excellent understanding,
and assented to every thing he said; observing, that, in consequence of
his being of the same opinion, and of the grudge he bore to such books
of chivalry, he had burned a great number of those that belonged to Don
Quixote. He then gave him a detail of the scrutiny which had been made,
distinguishing such as he spared from those that he condemned to the
flames.
The traveller laughed heartily at this account of such an extraordinary
trial, saying, that notwithstanding what he had advanced to the
disadvantage of such books, there was one thing in them which he could
not but approve; namely, the subject they presented for a good genius to
display itself, opening a large and ample field in which the pen might
at leisure expatiate in the description of shipwrecks, tempests,
battles, and encounters; painting a valiant general with all his
necessary accomplishments, sage, and penetrating into the enemy’s
designs, eloquent and effectual either in persuading or dissuading his
soldiers, ripe in council, prompt in execution, and equally brave in
standing or in giving an assault. One while recounting a piteous
tragical story, at another time describing a joyful and unexpected
event; here, a most beautiful lady, endued with virtue, discretion, and
reserve; there, a Christian knight, possessed of courtesy and valour; in
the third place, an outrageous boasting barbarian; and in a fourth, a
polite, considerate, gallant prince; not forgetting to describe the
faith and loyalty of vassals, together with the grandeur and generosity
of great men. The author may also shew himself an astrologer,
geographer, musician, and well skilled in state-affairs; nay, if he be
so minded, he will sometimes have an opportunity of manifesting his
skill in necromancy and magick; he may represent the cunning of Ulysses,
the piety of Æneas, the valour of Achilles, the misfortunes of Hector,
the perfidy of Sinon, the friendship of Euryalus, the liberality of
Alexander, the ability of Cæsar, the clemency and candour of Trajan, the
fidelity of Zopyrus, the wisdom of Cato, and finally, all those
qualifications which constitute the perfection of an illustrious hero;
sometimes uniting them in one, sometimes dividing them into several
characters: and the whole being expressed in an agreeable stile and
ingenious invention, that borders as near as possible upon the truth,
will doubtless produce a web of such various and beautiful texture, as
when finished, to display that perfection which will attain the chief
end and scope of such writings; which, as I have already observed, is to
convey instruction mingled with delight. Besides, the unlimited
competition of such books gives the author opportunities of shewing his
talents in epicks, lyricks, tragedy, and comedy, and all the different
branches of the delicious and agreeable arts of poetry and rhetorick;
for epicks may be written in prose as well as verse.
Footnote 116:
In the original, _mi padre!_ my father! which I have changed for an
exclamation more frequently used in our language.
Footnote 117:
In the text, the knight is guilty of a palpable solecism, in desiring
Sancho to touch and feel that which he himself expressly observes was
subject neither to touch or feeling.
Footnote 118:
Written by Cervantes himself.
Footnote 119:
Equivalent to our saying, ‘Every Jack is not a good fellow.’
CHAP. XXI.
IN WHICH THE CANON PROSECUTES THE SUBJECT OF KNIGHT-ERRANTRY,
AND MAKES OTHER OBSERVATIONS WORTHY OF HIS GENIUS.
‘Mr. Canon,’ said the curate, ‘what you have observed, is extremely
just, and therefore those authors deserve the greater reprehension, who
have composed such books, without the least regard to good sense or the
rules of art, by which they might have conducted their plans, and
rendered themselves as famous in prose as the two princes of Greek and
Latin poetry are now in verse.’—‘I myself,’ replied the canon, ‘have
been tempted to write a book of chivalry, observing all the maxims and
precautions I have now laid down; nay, to tell you the truth, no less
than a hundred sheets of it are already written; and, in order to try if
my own opinion of it was well founded, I have communicated my
performance to a great many people who are passionately fond of that
kind of reading; not only men of learning and taste, but also ignorant
persons, who chiefly delight in extravagant adventures; and I have been
favoured with the agreeable approbation of them all: nevertheless, I
have not proceeded on the work; because, I not only thought it foreign
to my profession, but likewise concluded, that the world abounds much
more with fools than people of sense; and though an author had better be
applauded by the few that are wise, than laughed at by the many that are
foolish, I was unwilling to expose myself to the uninformed judgment of
the arrogant vulgar, whose province it principally is to read books of
this kind. But what contributed most to my laying aside the pen, and
indeed all thoughts of bringing the work to a conclusion, was a
reflection I made upon the comedies of the present age. “If,” said I to
myself, “our modern plays, not only those which are formed upon fiction,
but likewise such as are founded on the truth of history, are all, or
for the greatest part, universally known to be monstrous productions,
without either head or tail, and yet received with pleasure by the
multitude, who approve and esteem them as excellent performances, though
they are far from deserving that title; and if the authors who compose,
and the actors who represent them, affirm, that this and no other method
is to be practised, because the multitude must be pleased; that those
which bear the marks of contrivance, and produce a fable digested
according to the rules of art, serve only for entertainment to four or
five people of taste, who discern the beauties of the plan, which
utterly escape all the rest of the audience; and that it is better for
them to gain a comfortable livelihood by the many, than starve upon
reputation with the few.”—“At this rate,” said I, “if I should finish my
book, after having scorched every hair in my whiskers, in poring over
it, to preserve those rules and precepts already mentioned, I might fare
at last, like the sagacious botcher, who sewed for nothing, and found
his customers in thread[120].” I have sometimes endeavoured to persuade
the players, that they were mistaken in their maxims; and that they
would bring more company to their house, and acquire much more
reputation, by representing regular comedies, than such absurd
performances; but I always found them so obstinately bigotted to their
own fancies, that no evidence or demonstration could alter their opinion
in the least. I remember, I once said to one of these pragmatick
fellows, “Don’t you recollect, that a few years ago, three tragedies
were acted, composed by a celebrated poet of this kingdom; and that they
raised admiration, pleasure, and surprize, in all who saw them
exhibited, gentle as well as simple, ignorant as well as learned, and
brought more money to the actors than thirty of the best that have since
appeared?”—“Doubtless,” answered the player, “you mean Isabella,
Phillis, and Alexandria.”—“The very same,” said I; “and pray take
notice, whether or not they are composed according to rule, or failed to
please every body, because they were regular? Wherefore, the fault does
not lie in the multitude’s demanding absurdities, but in those who can
represent nothing else; for there is nothing absurd in the play of
Ingratitude Revenged, nor in Numantia, the Merchant Lover, the
Favourable Female Foe, nor in some others which are composed by poets of
genius, to their own reputation, and the advantage of those who
represented them.” I made use of many more arguments, by which he seemed
to be confuted, though not so much satisfied or convinced, as to retract
his erroneous opinions.’
‘Mr. Canon,’ said the curate, interrupting him in this place, ‘the
subject you have touched upon awakes in me an old grudge I have bore to
our modern plays, even equal to that I entertain against books of
chivalry. Comedy, according to Tully, ought to be the mirrour of life,
the exemplar of manners, and picture of truth; whereas, those that are
represented in this age, are mirrours of absurdity, exemplars of folly,
and pictures of lewdness; for sure nothing can be more absurd in a
dramatick performance, than to see the person, who in the first scene of
the first act, was produced a child in swaddling-cloaths, appear a full
grown man with a beard, in the second; or to represent an old man active
and valiant, a young soldier cowardly, a footman eloquent, a page a
counsellor, a king a porter, and a princess a scullion. Then what shall
we say concerning their management of the time and place, in which the
actions have or may be supposed to have happened? I have seen a comedy,
the first act of which was laid in Europe, the second in Asia, and the
third was finished in Africa; nay, had there been a fourth, the scene
would have shifted to America; so that the fable would have travelled
through all the four divisions of the globe. If imitation be the chief
aim of comedy, how can any ordinary understanding be satisfied with
seeing an action that passed in the time of King Pepin and Charlemagne,
ascribed to the Emperor Heraclius, who being the principal personage, is
represented, like Godfrey of Bulloign, carrying the cross into
Jerusalem, and making himself master of the holy sepulchre; an infinite
number of years having passed between the one and the other. Or, when a
comedy is founded upon fiction, to see scraps of real history
introduced, and facts misrepresented both with regard to persons and
times; not with any ingenuity of contrivance, but with the most manifest
and inexcusable errors and stupidity; and what is worst of all, there is
a set of ignorant pretenders, who call this the perfection of writing;
and that every attempt to succeed by a contrary method is no other than
a wild-goose chace[121]. Again, if we consider those plays that are
written on divine subjects, how many false miracles do they contain? how
many apocryphal events misunderstood by the author, who frequently
confounds the operations of one saint with those of another? Nay, in
prophane subjects, they have the assurance to work miracles, for no
other respect or consideration, but because they think such a miracle
will make a very decent appearance in such a place; and, as they term
it, attract the admiration of the vulgar, and bring them in crowds to
the play: but all this redounds to the prejudice of truth, the contempt
of history, and scandal of our Spanish wits; so that the authors of
other nations, who punctually observe the unities of the drama, conclude
that we are barbarous and ignorant, from our absurd and preposterous
productions. Neither is it a sufficient excuse to say, that the intent
of all well-governed commonwealths, in permitting publick plays to be
acted, is to entertain the common people with some honest recreation, in
order to divert those bad humours which idleness usually engenders; and
that, since this end is answered by any play whatever, either good or
bad, there is no occasion to cramp and limit the authors or actors to
the just laws of composition; the purpose of the legislature being, as I
have said, accomplished without any such restriction. To this suggestion
I answer, that the same end, without any sort of comparison, will be
much better answered by good than bad comedies; for, after having seen
an artful and well-digested play represented, the hearer will go away,
delighted with the comic parts, instructed by the serious, and agreeably
surprized with the incidents; collecting information from the dialogue,
precaution from the deceits of the fable, experience from the examples
exhibited, affection for virtue, and indignation for vice. All these
sensations, I say, will a good comedy excite in the spectator’s mind,
let it be never so stupid and uncultivated; for of all impossibilities,
it is the most impossible, that a comedy, thus perfect in all its parts,
should not yield more entertainment, satisfaction, and delight, than one
that is defective in each particular, as the greatest part of our modern
pieces are. Neither is this want of correctness always to be laid to the
author’s charge; for there are some poets among us who are perfectly
well acquainted with the rules of writing, and could easily avoid any
such errors of composition; but as their pieces are made for sale, they
say, and it is very true, that the players would not purchase them, if
they were of any other stamp; so that the author is fain to accommodate
himself to the demand of the actor who pays him for his work. The truth
of this observation evidently appears in a great number of comedies
which have been composed by a most happy genius of these kingdoms[122],
with so much wit, pleasantry, elegance of versification, genteel
dialogue, sententious gravity, and finally, with such elocution and
sublimity of stile, that the whole world resounds with his fame; yet in
suiting himself to the false taste of the actors, he hath not been able
to bring them all to the requisite point of perfection. Others again are
so inconsiderate in their productions, that after representation, the
players have been frequently obliged to fly and abscond for fear of
chastisement, on account of having exhibited something to the prejudice
of royal heads, or dishonour of noble families; now all these
inconveniences, with many more that I do not chuse to mention, might be
prevented, if there was at court some person of taste and learning,
appointed to examine every dramatick performance before its appearance
on the stage; and this precaution should affect not only the plays
composed in Madrid, but all pieces whatever to be represented within the
monarchy of Spain; for, without the approbation of this licencer, signed
and sealed, no magistrate should allow any production to be acted within
the bounds of his jurisdiction. In consequence of this expedient the
actors would take care to submit every play to the censure of the
examiner, that they might afterwards represent them with safety; and the
authors would employ more caution and study in their compositions,
knowing that they must pass the rigorous examination of an intelligent
judge; in this manner, good comedies would be produced, and the aim of
such writings happily accomplished, to the entertainment of the people,
and the credit of Spanish wits; while the actors would represent them
with security and advantage, and the state be exempted from the trouble
of chastising such delinquents. And if the same licencer, or any other
person, were invested with the charge of examining books of chivalry,
before they see the light, some performances of that sort would
certainly appear in all the perfection you have described, enriching our
language with the delightful and precious treasure of eloquence; while
the old romances would be entirely eclipsed by the light of the new,
that would furnish rational amusement, not only for the idle, but also
for those who are most industrious; seeing it is impossible for the bow
to continue always bent, or that feeble nature can subsist without some
innocent recreation.’
Thus far had the canon and curate proceeded in their conversation, when
the barber coming up to them, said to his townsman, ‘Mr. Licentiate,
this is the place in which I proposed to halt, that the oxen might have
fresh pasture in abundance.’ The curate approved of the hint, and
communicated their intention to the canon, who resolved to stay with
them, being invited by the situation of a delicious valley that
presented itself to his view; that he might therefore enjoy the
agreeable spot, together with the conversation of the curate, for whom
he had already conceived an affection, and be more particularly informed
of Don Quixote’s exploits, he ordered his domesticks to proceed to an
inn, which was not far off, and bring from thence victuals sufficient
for the whole company; for he was resolved to spend the afternoon where
he was. One of the servants told him that the sumpter-mule, which by
that time had reached the inn, carried provision enough, and that they
should want nothing but barley for the beasts. ‘If that be the case,’
said the canon, ‘carry the rest to the inn, and bring the sumpter-mule
hither.’
Meanwhile Sancho perceiving that he might now speak to his master,
without being overheard by the curate and barber, of whom he was
suspicious, approached the cage, and thus addressed himself to the
knight: ‘Truly, Sir, in order to disburthen my conscience, I must tell
you something concerning this same inchantment. These people, with
masks on their faces, are no other than the curate and barber of our
town, who, I verily believe, have contrived to carry you off in this
manner, out of pure envy and spite, because your worship has got the
heels of them in your famous atchievements: now, this being supposed,
it follows as plain as the nose upon my face, that you are not
inchanted, but rather fooled and bamboozled. As a proof of which, I
desire to ask you one question, which if you answer, as I do believe
you will, your worship may clap your ten fingers on the trick, and
perceive that you are not inchanted, but that your whole brain is
turned topsy-turvy.’—‘Ask what you will, son Sancho,’ replied Don
Quixote, ‘I will freely answer, and satisfy your doubts to the best of
my power; with regard to your saying, that those who attend us are our
friends and townsmen, the curate and barber, so indeed they may appear
to your eye; but that they are really and effectually so, you must by
no means believe: on the contrary, you are to conclude, that if they
resemble our friends, the inchanters, who can assume what form they
please, have taken that appearance and resemblance, to mislead your
credit, and bewilder your imagination in such a labyrinth of
perplexity, that even the clue of Theseus would not extricate your
thoughts. Besides, they may have done it with a view of confounding my
judgment, that I might not be able to guess from what quarter my
misfortune proceeds; for, if on the one hand you affirm that I am
attended by the barber and curate of our town; and on the other hand,
I find myself encaged; though I am sensible that nothing but
supernatural force could suffice to confine me thus, what would you
have me say or think, but that the manner of my inchantment exceeds
every thing I have read in all the histories that treat of inchanted
knights? Wherefore set your heart at rest, and take it for granted,
that these are as far from being the persons you have mentioned, as I
am from being a Turk. With respect to thy desire of asking me
questions, I repeat my promise of answering, even if thy interrogation
should last till to-morrow morning.’—‘God’s blessed mother!’ cried the
squire, with great vociferation, ‘is it possible that your worship can
be so thick-skulled and brainless, as not to perceive the truth of
what I alledge, and see that this imprisonment and misfortune is more
owing to malice than inchantment? But seeing it is so, I will venture
to prove, beyond all contradiction, that you are no more inchanted
than my ass. Tell me, therefore, as God shall deliver you from this
mischance, and as you hope to see yourself in the arms of my Lady
Dulcinea, when you least expect any such good luck—’ ‘Truce with thy
conjuration,’ said the knight, ‘and ask what thou wilt, I have already
promised to answer with the utmost punctuality.’—‘That is my request,’
answered Sancho, ‘and what I want to know is, that your worship will
tell me, without eking or curtailing God’s precious truth, but in
honest simplicity of heart as it ought to be, and always is told those
who, like your worship, profess the occupation of arms, under the
title of knight-errants—’ ‘I tell thee,’ cried the knight,
interrupting him, ‘I will not in the least prevaricate. Dispatch then,
Sancho, for truly I am quite tired with so many salvos, solicitations,
and preambles.’—‘I make so bold,’ replied the squire, ‘because I am
well aware of my master’s goodness and sincerity, which being as it
were to the purpose, I ask (with reverence be it spoken) whether or
not, since you have been confined, and as you suppose inchanted in
this cage, your worship hath felt any motion or desire to undam either
way, as the saying is?’—‘I do not know what you mean by undamming,’
answered Don Quixote; ‘you must be more explicit, Sancho, if you
expect an answer to the purpose.’—‘Is it possible,’ said the squire,
‘that your worship should be ignorant of the meaning of the word
undamming, which is the first thing the boys learn at school? Well,
then, you must know, I wanted to ask if you never had any inclination
to do that which nobody else can do for you?’—‘Now I understand thee,
Sancho,’ said the knight; ‘verily I have had divers calls of that
nature, one of which is at present very importunate: pray fall upon
some method to disembarrass me, for I believe all is not so sweet and
clean as it ought to be.’
Footnote 120:
A Spanish proverb, applicable to a great many modern projectors and
reformers.
Footnote 121:
_Buscar gullirias_, signifies to seek dainties.
Footnote 122:
Lopez de Vega Carpio.
CHAP. XXII.
THE SAGE CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA
AND HIS MASTER DON QUIXOTE.
‘Ha!’ cried Sancho, ‘have I caught you at last? This is what I wanted to
know with all my heart and soul: come on, Sir, there is no denying of
what is commonly said, when any person is in the dumps, I know not what
is the matter with such an one; he neither eats, drinks, nor sleeps, nor
answers to the purpose, when he is spoke to; sure the man must be
enchanted: from whence we are to conclude, that those who are inchanted
neither eat, drink, sleep, nor do their natural occasions, as I have
observed. But this is not the case with such as are disturbed with the
inclination that your worship at present feels, drinking when they can
get liquor, eating when they can lay hold on food, and giving plain
answers to every question that is asked.’—‘Thou art in the right,’
replied Don Quixote; ‘but I have already told thee, that there are
different kinds of inchantment; and time may have so entirely altered
the fashion, that those who are under the power of inchantment in this
age, may, like me, retain the use of their faculties, though it was
quite otherwise of old; so that there is no arguing or drawing
consequences against the different practice of different times. I am
sensible and certain of my being inchanted, and this is sufficient for
the quiet of my conscience, which would give me great uneasiness if I
had the least doubt about my fate, and allowed myself to be in this cage
like an idle coward, deceitfully withholding my succour from a great
number of the needy and oppressed, who at this very hour must be in the
most absolute and extreme necessity, from the want of my aid and
protection.’—‘Nevertheless,’ answered the squire, ‘for your more
abundant satisfaction, your worship, methinks, might try to escape from
this prison; for my own part, I’ll be bound not only to give my
assistance, but even to work your deliverance, and then you may
endeavour to remount your trusty Rozinante, who trudges along as
melancholy and sad as if he was inchanted also. This being performed,
let us try our fate once more in quest of adventures; and if they do not
turn out to our expectation, it will be time enough to return to the
cage, in which I promise, on the faith of a true and loyal squire, to
shut myself up with your worship, if perchance, through your ill fortune
or my folly, this that I mention should not succeed.’—‘I am content to
follow thy counsel, brother Sancho,’ replied the knight; ‘and whenever
thou shalt perceive a proper conjuncture for effecting my deliverance, I
will implicitly obey thee in every thing, but thou wilt soon find
thyself deceived in thy opinion of my mishap.’
This conversation between the knight-errant and the erring squire,
lasted until they arrived at the place in which the curate, canon, and
barber, who had already alighted, waited for them. The waggoner
immediately unyoking his oxen, turned them loose in that verdant and
delicious spot, the coolness of which was extremely inviting, not only
to inchanted people like Don Quixote, but also to persons of
intelligence and discretion like his squire, who besought the curate to
let his master come out of the cage for a few minutes; because, without
such permission, the prison would not be quite so clean as the decency
of such a knight required. The curate, understanding what he meant, told
him that he would willingly grant his request, were he not under some
apprehension that his master, finding himself at liberty, would play one
of his old pranks, and be gone where men should never see his face
again. ‘I will be bound for his good behaviour,’ answered Sancho; ‘and I
also,’ said the canon, ‘especially if he will promise, on the word of a
knight, not to stir from our presence, until he shall have obtained our
consent.’
‘I will,’ cried the knight (who overheard all that passed;) ‘the more
so, as one, who, like me, is inchanted, cannot be at liberty to make use
of his own person; for the inchanter can so utterly deprive him of all
motion, that he shall not be able to stir from the place for three whole
ages; and if he should make his escape, would whisk him back through the
air in a twinkling.’ This being the case, he said they might very safely
uncage him, especially as such indulgence would redound to the benefit
of the whole company; for he protested that if they did not comply with
his present necessities, he should be obliged to incommode their sense
of smelling, unless they removed to a greater distance from the place of
his confinement.
The canon, confiding in his word and honour, took him by the hands, tied
as they were, and helped him to descend from his cage: then the knight,
being infinitely rejoiced at his momentary deliverance, stretched every
joint in his body, and going up to Rozinante, gave him a slap on the
buttocks, saying, ‘I still hope in God and his blessed mother, thou
flower and mirrour of steeds! that in a short time we shall both obtain
our heart’s desire; thou prancing under the agreeable pressure of thy
lord, and I mounted upon thy trusty back, exercising the employment for
which Heaven sent me into the world.’ Having pronounced this apostrophe,
he retired with Sancho to a remote place, from whence he returned much
eased and comforted, and more desirous than ever of executing the
project of his squire. The canon could not help gazing upon him, being
struck with admiration at the strange unaccountable symptoms of his
disorder; for in all his conversation and replies, he gave evident
proofs of an excellent understanding, and never lost himself[123] except
on the subject of chivalry, as we have formerly observed: he was
therefore touched with compassion for his infirmity, and when the whole
company were seated on the grass, waiting for the return of the
sumpter-mule, addressed himself to the knight in this manner:
‘Is it possible, good Sir, that the idle and unlucky reading of books of
chivalry can have so far impaired your judgment, as that you should now
believe yourself inchanted, and give credit to other illusions of the
same kind, which are as far from being true as truth is distant from
falshood? Is it possible that the human understanding can suppose that
ever this world produced that infinite number of Amadis’s, with the
whole crowd of famous knights, so many emperors of Trebisond,
Fleximarte’s of Hyrcania, palfreys, damsels, serpents, dragons, and
giants; so many incredible adventures, inchantments of different kinds,
battles, dreadful encounters, magnificence of apparel, enamoured
princesses, squires created earls, witty dwarfs, billets, amorous
expressions, valiant ladies, and finally, such extravagant events as are
contained in books of knight-errantry? For my own part, when I read a
performance of that sort, without reflecting that it is a legend of
vanity and lyes, my imagination is a little amused; but as soon as I
begin to consider it in the right point of view, I dash the volume
against the wall, and would even commit it to the flames, (if I should
chance to be near a fire) as a criminal richly deserving such punishment
on account of its falshood and imposture, so contrary to nature, and
bewildered from the track of common-sense, and as an inventor of new
sects and preposterous ways of life, misleading and inducing the
ignorant vulgar to believe the absurdities which it contains; nay, so
presumptuous are such productions, as to disturb the minds of gentlemen
of birth and education, as may be too plainly perceived by their effects
upon you, Signior, whom they have reduced to such a pass as to make it
necessary that you should be cooped up in a cage, and transported from
place to place on a waggon, like a lion or tyger exhibited as a shew for
money. Go to, Signior Don Quixote! have pity upon yourself, return into
the bosom of discretion, and put those happy talents which Heaven hath
been pleased to bestow upon you to a better use, employing your genius
in other studies, which may redound to the increase of your honour, as
well as to the good of your soul; or, if swayed by your natural
inclination, you are still desirous of reading the histories of exploits
and atchievements, you may have recourse to the book of Judges in the
Holy Scripture, and there you will find real miracles of might, and
actions equally valiant and true, Portugal produced a Viriatus, Rome a
Cæsar, Carthage an Hannibal, Greece an Alexander, Castile a count Fernan
Gonçales, Valencia a Cid, Andalousia a Gonzalo Fernandez, Estremadura a
Diego Garcia de Paredes, Xerez a Garcia Perez de Vargas, Toledo a
Garcilasso, Seville a Don Manuel de Leon; the history of their valiant
exploits will afford entertainment, instruction, surprize, and delight,
to readers of the most sublime conception. Such study as this would be
worthy of the good sense of Signior Don Quixote, who would thus become
learned in history, enamoured of virtue, improved in worth, bettered in
morals, brave without rashness, cautious without cowardice; while the
whole would redound to the honour of God, his own particular emolument,
and the renown of La Mancha, from whence I understand his family and
origin is derived.’
Don Quixote listened with infinite attention to his harangue; and even
after he perceived it was finished, looked stedfastly at the canon for
some time, before he answered in these words: ‘Signior Hidalgo, if I am
not mistaken, the scope of your discourse was to convince me that there
never were knights-errant in this world; that all the books of chivalry
are false, deceitful, unprofitable, nay mischievous, in a commonwealth;
that I have been much to blame in reading, more so in believing, and
most of all in imitating, the characters they describe, by following the
most painful profession of knight-errantry; and, lastly, you deny that
ever there was an Amadis, either of Gaul or Greece, or that any one of
that vast number of knights recorded in those writings had any real
existence.’—‘You have exactly summed up my allegations,’ said the canon.
‘You were likewise pleased to add,’ resumed the knight, ‘that such books
had done me infinite prejudice, impaired my judgment, and reduced me to
the necessity of being confined in a cage; and that I would do well to
amend and alter my course of studies, and to use performances which
contain more truth, instruction, and delight.’—‘That,’ said the canon,
‘was my precise meaning.’—‘Why, then,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘in my opinion
the person impaired in his judgment, and inchanted, is no other than
your worship, who have presumed to utter such blasphemies against an
order so well received in the world, and established as truth, that he
who like you denies it deserves the same punishment you inflicted upon
those books that gave you disgust; for, to say that there never was such
a person as Amadis, or any other of those adventurous knights with whom
history abounds, is like an endeavour to persuade people that frost is
not cold, that the sun yields no light, and the earth no sustenance.
Will any earthly eloquence make a man believe, that the story of the
infanta Floripes, and Guy of Burgundy, is false; or that of Fierabras,
with the bridge of Mantible, which happened in the time of Charlemagne,
and I vow to God is as true as that the sun shines at noon-day? If this
be a lye, you may also affirm that there never was such an event as the
Trojan war, nor such persons as Hector and Achilles, or the Twelve Peers
of France, or Arthur King of England, who to this day survives in the
likeness of a raven, and is every moment expected to reascend his
throne. People may as well venture to say, that the history of Guarino
Mesquino, and the suit of St. Grial, are pure fiction; and look upon the
amours of Don Tristan and Queen Iseo, with those of Ginebra and
Lancelot, as altogether apocryphal; though there are people who almost
remember to have seen the Duenna Quintanona, who was the best
wine-skinker in Great Britain: this is so true, that I myself have heard
my grandmother by the father’s side often say, when she happened to see
a Duenna with a reverend biggen[124], “Grandson, there is a person very
like the Duenna Quintanona.” From whence I conclude, that she must
either have known her personally, or at least seen some picture of that
venerable matron. Then, who can deny the history of Peter of Provence
and the fair Magalona, since, to this day, may be seen in the royal
armoury the very peg that turned the wooden horse upon which the valiant
Peter travelled through the air; by the same token, that it is something
larger than the pole of a coach, and stands near the saddle of Babieca.
Nay, at Roncevalles you may see Orlando’s horn, as big as a weaver’s
beam. From all which circumstances we may justly infer, that the Twelve
Peers, the Peters, the Cids, with all those who were called
knights-errant, actually existed, according to the records of their
fame; otherwise they may as well deny that the valiant Portuguese, Juan
de Merlo, was a knight-errant; though it is well known, that he went to
Burgundy and fought in the city of Ras, with the famous lord of Charne,
called Monseigneur Pierre, and afterwards in the city of Basil, with
Monseigneur Henrique de Remestan; gaining the victory in each of these
combats, with abundance of honourable fame. Neither, I suppose, will
they credit the defiance and adventures that were also atchieved in
Burgundy, by those valiant Spaniards, Pedro Barba and Guttierre Quixada,
(from whom I am lineally descended on the father’s side) who conquered
the sons of the Count de St. Paul: nay, let them likewise refuse to own
that Don Fernando de Guevara went in quest of adventures into Germany,
where he fought with Messire George, a knight of the houshold to the
Duke of Austria; and say that the justs and tournaments at Suero de
Quinones, and the pass, were mere illusion, as well as the enterprizes
of Monseigneur Lewis de Falses, against Don Gonçalo de Guzman, a
Castilian knight, together with many other exploits performed by
Christian warriors belonging to these and other foreign realms, so
authentick and true, that (I repeat my asseveration) he who denies them
is void of all reason and common sense.’
The canon was struck with admiration, when he heard Don Quixote utter
such a medley of fiction and truth; and perceiving that he was
intimately acquainted with every circumstance regarding and concerning
the atchievements of knight-errantry, answered him in these words:
‘Signior Don Quixote, I cannot deny but what you have said is partly
true, particularly that which regards the Spanish knights; I grant also
that there was an order called the Twelve Peers of France, but cannot
believe that they performed all those exploits recounted by archbishop
Turpin; for the truth is, they were a set of knights chosen by the kings
of France, under the title of the Twelve Peers, because they were all
equal in point of virtue, rank, and valour; at least, if they were not,
they ought to have been possessed of this parity of qualifications; for
it was an association resembling the modern orders of St. Jago and
Calatrava, which suppose, that every member is valiant, virtuous, and
noble; and as we now say a knight of St. Juan or Alcantara, in those
days they said a knight of the Twelve Peers; because those who professed
that military order were equal in all respects, and twelve in number;
that there were such persons as the Cid and Bernardo del Carpio, I make
no question; but whether or not they performed all those exploits which
are ascribed to them, is, I believe, extremely doubtful; with respect to
the peg of Count Peter, which you say stands by the saddle of Babieca in
the royal armoury, to my shame be it spoken, I am either so ignorant or
short-sighted, that although I have seen the saddle, I could never
observe the peg, large as you have been pleased to describe it.’—‘But
there it certainly is,’ replied the knight; ‘and what makes it the more
remarkable, it is said to be kept in a case of calves leather, that it
may not rust.’—‘It may be so,’ said the canon; ‘but, by my holy orders!
I do not remember to have seen any such thing; yet, granting it to be in
that place, I am not therefore bound to believe the stories that are
recounted of so many Amadis’s, and such a rabble of knights; nor is it
reasonable, that a person of honour, like you, endowed with so many
happy talents, should give credit to such extravagant rhodomontades as
are related in the lying legends of knight-errantry.’
Footnote 123:
Literally, ‘Never lost the stirrup.’
Footnote 124:
_Toca_, which is the original word, signifies a woman’s coif, veil, or
handkerchief.
CHAP. XXIII.
OF THE SAGE CONTEST BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE
AND THE CANON—WITH OTHER EVENTS.
‘A good jest, truly,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘that books printed with the
licence of kings, and approbation of those who are appointed to examine
them, read with universal delight, celebrated by great and small, rich
and poor, knights and plebeians, the learned and illiterate; finally, by
persons of all ranks and degrees whatever; should contain nothing but
lyes; notwithstanding the appearance of truth which they maintain, in
mentioning the father, mother, country, relations, condition,
birth-place; and in giving an exact journal of the exploits peculiar to
every individual knight; cease, therefore, good Sir, to vent such
blasphemy, and believe that in this particular, I advise you to act
according to the dictates of good sense: read them again, and you will
see what pleasure you will reap for your pains; for what can be more
entertaining than to see, as it were, before our eyes, a vast lake of
boiling pitch, through which an infinite number of serpents, snakes, and
alligators, with many other kinds of fierce and terrible creatures, are
continually winding and writhing along; then to hear a most dismal voice
that seems to issue from the middle of this pitchy pool, pronounce, “O
knight, whosoever thou art, that now standest gazing at the dreadful
lake, if thou wouldst enjoy the bliss that is concealed beneath these
sable waves, display the valour of thy dauntless breast, and dart
thyself amidst these black and burning billows; otherwise, thou art not
worthy to behold the mighty wonders deposited and contained within the
seven castles of the seven nymphs, that dwell below this sullen flood.”
Scarce hath the sound of this dismal voice ceased to vibrate on his ear,
when the knight, without the least hesitation, or reflecting upon the
danger he incurs, nay, without putting off his heavy armour, but
recommending himself to God and his mistress, plunges at once into the
burning lake; and when he neither cares nor knows what will be his fate,
finds himself in the midst of a delightful plain, by which the Elysian
fields are infinitely excelled: there the heaven seems more transparent,
and the sun shines with new lustre; the eye is entertained with an
agreeable forest of tall and leafy trees, whose verdure delights the
view; while the ear is regaled with the sweet and artless notes of an
infinite number of little painted warblers that hop from bough to bough;
here he perceives a brook, whose refreshing waters, clear as liquid
chrystal, run murmuring on the yellow sand, and glistening pebbles, that
emulate the purest pearls, and heaps of sifted gold.
‘In one place springs an artificial fountain adorned with variegated
jasper and polished marble; in another rises a rustick grotto, in which
the small shells of the mussel, and the white and yellow twisted domes
of the snail, placed in beauteous disorder, and mixed with bits of
shining chrystal and counterfeit emeralds, compose such an agreeable
variety, that nature seems to be excelled by imitative art. In a third
place, all of a sudden, appears a strong castle or magnificent palace,
the walls of massy gold, the battlements of diamond, the gates of
hyacinth, and, finally, the workmanship so admirable, as infinitely to
excel the materials, which are no less than adamant, carbuncles, rubies,
pearls, emeralds, and gold. Nay, after having thus feasted his eyes,
there still remains for him to see a fair bevy of damsels coming out at
the castle gate, dressed in such gay and splendid attire, that were I to
describe it minutely, as it is represented in the history, I should
never have done. Then she who appears the principal, takes by the hand
the undaunted knight, who threw himself into the boiling-lake, and
silently leading him into the rich castle or palace, strips him as naked
as he was when his mother bore him, and bathes him in water of an
agreeable temperature, then anoints his whole body with aromatick
essences, and puts upon him a shirt of the finest lawn, all scented and
perfumed; then comes another damsel, and throws over his shoulders a
mantle, which, at least, is usually valued at the price of a whole city,
or more. After all this ceremony, what a sight it is, when, as they
relate, he is conducted into another hall, in which a table is furnished
with such elegance as to excite his admiration and suspense! when they
sprinkle upon his hands water distilled from amber and odoriferous
flowers! when he is seated upon a chair of ivory, and attended by all
those damsels, who serve him in amazing silence! when he is allured by
such a variety of dishes, and so savourily cooked, that the appetite is
confounded in its choice! Then to hear musick during his repast, without
seeing the minstrel, or knowing from whence the sounds proceeds; and,
after he has refreshed himself, and the table is uncovered, while he
lolls at ease upon his chair, perhaps picking his teeth, according to
custom, he is surprized with the sight of another young lady, much more
beautiful than any of the former, who enters the hall, and sitting down
by the knight, begins to tell him whose castle that is, and how she is
inchanted within it, relating other circumstances which create wonder in
him, and raise the admiration of those who read the story. I need not
farther expatiate on this subject, since, from what hath been said, it
plainly appears, that any part whatever of the history of any
knight-errant whatever, must yield pleasure and surprize to any reader
whatsoever. Believe me, therefore, good Sir, and as I have already
hinted, take the trouble of reading those books, and you will see what
effectual antidotes they are against melancholy, and how they improve
the disposition, when it is bad. For my own part I can safely aver, that
since I professed the order of knight errantry, I have been valiant,
courteous, liberal, well-bred, generous, civil, daring, good-humoured,
and a patient endurer of toils, captivities, and inchantment; and though
I so lately found myself shut up in a cage like a madman, I hope, by the
valour of this my arm, provided Heaven shall favour, and fortune cease
to oppose me, in a few days to see myself sovereign of some kingdom,
when I shall be enabled to demonstrate the gratitude and generosity
which reside within my breast; for, truly, Signior, a poor man is
incapable of exerting the virtue of liberality, let him possess it in
never so eminent a degree; and that gratitude which is restrained to
good-will alone, is like faith without works, no more than the ghost of
virtue. Wherefore I wish fortune would speedily furnish me with an
opportunity of making myself an emperor, that I may exercise the virtues
of my heart, in bestowing benefits on my friends, especially on my poor
squire Sancho Panza, one of the best men in the world, whom I intend to
create an earl, in consequence of a promise which he obtained from me
long ago, though I fear he wants capacity to manage his estate.’
These last words being overheard by Sancho, he said to his master,
‘Signior Don Quixote, I wish you would take the trouble to give me that
same earldom, which is as firmly promised by your worship as expected by
me, and I will undertake to find ability to manage it; or, if I should
find myself at a loss, I have heard it often said, that there are
certain persons who farm the estates of great noblemen at so much a
year, and take charge of the whole, while the owner lolls at his ease,
enjoying his income, without troubling his noddle about any other
affairs. Now, I would live in the very same manner, minding the cares of
this world as little as possible; but leaving off all sorts of business,
enjoying my rents, like any duke, and let the world wag.’—‘Brother
Sancho,’ said the canon, ‘that is to be understood only of the spending
your income; but the lord of a great estate must have regard to the
administration of justice, which requires ability, sound judgment, and
principally an upright intention; for if this be wanting in the
beginning, the middle and end will always be involved in error; and
therefore Heaven usually assists the righteous intent of the simple,
while it confounds the wicked aims of the cunning.’—‘I know nothing of
these philosophies,’ answered the squire; ‘but this I know, that I wish
to God I had this earldom, as soon as I should find understanding to
manage it; for I have as big a soul as my neighbours, and as much body
as he that has more; and would be as much a king in my own estate, as
any he that wears a head: and so being, I would do what I pleased; and
doing what I pleased, I should please myself; and pleasing myself, I
should be satisfied; and in being satisfied, I should have nothing more
to desire; and having nothing more to desire, there would be an end; so
let the earldom come a God’s name! I wish we could see it, as one blind
man said to another.’—‘These are no bad philosophies, as you call them,
Sancho,’ said the canon; ‘but, for all that, there is much to be said on
the subject of earldoms.’—‘I know not what more can be said,’ replied
Don Quixote; ‘for my own part, I do no more than follow the example
transmitted to me by the great Amadis de Gaul, who created his squire
earl of the Firm Island; and therefore I may, without scruple of
conscience, bestow the same honour on Sancho Panza, who is one of the
best squires that ever served knight-errant.’
The canon was amazed at the methodical madness of Don Quixote,
manifested in his description of the Knight of the Lake; and in the
impression which the false adventures of chivalry had made upon his
imagination; neither was his wonder diminished, when he considered the
folly of Sancho, who so ardently desired the possession of that island
which his master had promised to give him, as the reward of his
services.
By this time the canon’s servants had returned from the inn, with the
sumpter-mule; and, instead of a table, spread a carpet on the green
grass, under the shade of some trees, where the company seating
themselves all round, went to dinner, that the waggoner might not lose
the opportunity of such a convenient situation as we have already
observed. While they thus enjoyed themselves, their ears were struck
with a sudden noise, and the sound of a bell, issuing from the midst of
some briars and thickets that surrounded the place where they sat; and
immediately appeared a beautiful she-goat, her skin speckled with spots
of white, black, and grey, followed by the goatherd; who, in his rustick
dialect, called to her to stop and return to the fold. The fugitive goat
trembling with affright, came towards the company, and there stopped, as
if to implore their protection; while her keeper, seizing her by the
horns, accosted her in these words, as if she had been possessed of
sense and understanding; ‘Ah! you spotted wanton, what a rambler you
have become of late; the wolves will feast upon you one day; what is the
matter with you, my pretty child? Yet what else can it be but that you
are a female, and consequently inconstant! a plague upon your
disposition, and all those you resemble: return, return, my darling; and
if you are not so happy, at least you will be more secure, in the fold
among your companions! for if you, who ought to watch over and guide the
rest, stray about in this imprudent manner, what must become of them?’
These words of the goatherd diverted those who heard them, especially
the canon, who said to him, ‘I beseech you, brother, to pacify yourself,
and be not in such a hurry to drive back your goat, which being a
female, as you observe, will follow her natural disposition, in spite of
all you can do to oppose it. Take this morsel, and assuage your choler
with a cup of wine, and in the mean time the goat will repose herself.’
So saying, he presented to him, on the point of a fork, the hind-quarter
of a cold rabbit, which was thankfully accepted by the goatherd; who
having taken a long draught, and composed himself, said to the company,
‘Gentlemen, you must not take me for a simpleton, because I talk to this
animal as if it were a rational creature; for really there is a mystery
concealed beneath the words I have uttered. I am a peasant, ’tis true,
yet not so rustick but that I know how to converse with men as well as
beasts.’—‘I firmly believe what you say,’ replied the curate; ‘for I
myself have experienced that the mountains produce learned men, and that
philosophers are to be found within the shepherd’s cot.’—‘At least,’
resumed the goatherd, ‘the cottage may contain those who are warned by
woeful experience; and to convince you feelingly that what I alledge is
true, I, though undesired, and self-invited, saving the good pleasure of
this good company, entreat a moment’s hearing, while I recount a true
story, which will confirm what that gentleman,’ pointing to the curate,
‘and myself have observed.’
To this proposal Don Quixote replied, ‘As this affair seems to bear
something of the shadow of an adventure, I for my part will gladly give
you the hearing, brother, and so will all those gentlemen who are
persons of taste, and lovers of curious novels, that surprize, delight,
and entertain the sensible hearer, for I hope your story will certainly
produce these agreeable effects: begin then, friend, we are all
attention.’—‘By your leave,’ cried Sancho, ‘I will e’en betake myself
with this piece of pasty to yonder brook, and lay in store for three
days; for I have heard my master Don Quixote observe, that the squire of
a knight-errant ought to eat as often and as much as he can; because
they are frequently so bewildered in woods and forests, that it will
take them six whole days to disengage themselves; and if a man’s belly
or his bags be not well lined with provision, there he may stay, as he
often does, till he withers into perfect mummy.’—‘You are in the right,
Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘go where you will, and eat as much as you
please; for my own part, my grosser appetite is satisfied, and now I
want refreshment for the mind, which I shall enjoy in listening to this
honest countryman’s story.’—‘We shall all share in the repast,’ replied
the canon, who intreated the peasant to perform his promise.
Then the goatherd gave the goat, which he held by the horns, two slaps
on the buttocks, saying, ‘Lie down by my side, you speckled Nanny; we
shall have time enough to return to the fold.’ The creature seemed to
understand his meaning, for he was no sooner set than she lay down very
quietly, and looking in his face, gave him to understand that she was
attentive to what he was going to say; upon which he began his story in
these words.
CHAP. XXIV.
THE STORY WHICH THE GOATHERD RECOUNTED
TO THE CONDUCTORS OF DON QUIXOTE.
‘Three leagues from this valley stands a village, which though small, is
one of the richest in all this country; and therein dwelt a farmer in
great repute: and albeit respect follows worldly wealth, he was more
beloved for his virtue than respected for his riches; but what he
regarded as the best part of his good fortune, (as he himself was wont
to say) was a daughter he had, of such exceeding beauty, rare
discretion, modesty, and grace, that every one who saw and knew her,
marvelled at the happy talents with which Heaven and nature had enriched
her body and her soul. In the cradle she was handsome, and continually
increased in beauty, till at the age of sixteen she was a most
inchanting creature: the fame of her charms began to spread over all the
neighbouring villages; but what need I say the neighbouring villages! it
extended to distant cities, and even made its way into the king’s court,
filling the ears of all sorts of people, who came from all parts to see
her, as if she had been some great curiosity, or miracle-working image.
Her father watched over her with great care, and she took great care of
herself; for, truly, a maiden’s own prudent reserve is a better guard
upon her conduct than all the bolts and spies, and padlocks upon earth.
The father’s wealth, and the daughter’s beauty, moved a great many
people, both of town and country, to demand her in marriage; but he,
like one who has the disposal of a rich jewel, was perplexed in his
mind, and could not determine in favour of any one of the infinite
number that solicited his consent. Among the crowd of her suitors, I was
one who conceived great and flattering hopes of success, because her
father knew me to be his townsman, of an honest family, in the flower of
my age, rich in wealth, and in point of understanding not very poor. She
was also courted by another young man of our town, who was in every
respect my equal; so that her father was perplexed, and wavered in his
choice, because he thought his daughter would be well bestowed upon
either of us; wherefore, in order to deliver himself from this suspence,
he resolved to communicate our demands to Leandra, (for that is the name
of this wealthy maiden, who hath made me miserable) and since we were
equal in all qualifications, to refer the whole affair to the choice and
decision of his beloved daughter. An example worthy to be followed by
every father in the settlement of his children: not that I would have
parents leave them to their own choice, in things that are manifestly
wicked and base; but first propose a number of prudent schemes, out of
which they may be allowed to fix upon that which is most to their
liking. I know not to which of us Leandra gave the preference; this only
I know, that her father put us off, on pretence of his daughter’s tender
years, in general terms, which neither laid him under any obligation nor
gave us any cause of complaint. I think proper to tell you, that I am
called Eugenio, and my rival Anselmo, that you may be acquainted with
the names of the persons principally concerned in this tragedy, which is
still depending; though one may easily foresee, that it must have a
melancholy end.
‘But, to return to my story: just about that time, there came to our
town one Vincent de La Rosa, the son of a poor labouring man that lived
in the village: this Vincent, who was just returned from being a soldier
in Italy, and other foreign parts, had been carried away, when he was a
boy about twelve years of age, by a captain that chanced to march
through the town with his company; and now, after an absence of another
dozen of years, he returned, in the garb of a soldier, pinked up in a
thousand colours, and bedecked with a power of glass toys and
slender-chains of steel. To-day he dressed himself out in one gay suit,
to-morrow in another: but all his finery and gewgaws were of little
weight or value. The labouring people, who are naturally malicious, nay,
when idleness gives them opportunity, downright malice itself, observed
and took an exact account of all his ornaments and fine apparel, and
found that he had no more than three suits of different colours, with
garters and hose; but he found means to disguise them by such
inventions, that one who had not been at the pains to detect him, would
have sworn that he had appeared in more than ten different dresses, and
in upwards of twenty plumes of feathers; and you must not think it
impertinent or foolish in me to give you this account of his cloaths,
because they bear a considerable share in the story. He used to seat
himself upon a stone, under a tall poplar that grew in our market-place,
and there keep us all gaping around him at the exploits which he
recounted; if you would take his word for it, there was not a country on
the face of the earth, which he had not seen, nor a battle in which he
had not served: he had killed a greater number of Moors than ever Tunis
or Morocco produced; and, by his own account, fought more single combats
than were ever maintained by Gante, Luna, Diego Garcia de Paredez, and a
thousand more whom he named, gaining the victory in each, without losing
one single drop of his blood; then he would shew the marks of wounds,
which though not to be distinguished, he gave us to understand were the
effects of musket-shot he had received in different actions and
encounters; finally, with incredible arrogance, he used to _thou_ his
own equals, even those who knew his extraction, and say that his own arm
was his father, his family the work of his own hands, and being a
soldier, he owed nothing even to the king himself: with all his
boasting, he knew something of musick, and could thrum upon the guittar
so as that some people said he made it speak. But his talents did not
end here; for he was also a piece of a poet, and wrote ballads a league
and a half long, upon every silly trifle that happened in the village.
Well, then, this soldier whom I have described, this Vincent de La Rosa,
this braggadocio, this gallant, this musician, and poet, was often seen
and observed by Leandra from the window of her apartment, that looked
towards the market-place. She was captivated by the tinsel of his gaudy
cloaths, and inchanted by his ballads; for he gave away twenty copies of
each that he composed; the feats he related of himself, reached her
ears: in short, (as the devil himself must certainly have ordained) she
fell in love with him, even before he had the presumption to make any
attempt upon her heart; and, as in the affairs of love every thing is
easily accomplished by the man who is already in possession of the
woman’s affection, Leandra and Vincent soon came to a right
understanding; and before any one of her numerous admirers had the least
inkling of her inclination, she had already gratified it, by leaving the
house of her loving and indulgent father, (mother she had none) and
running away with the soldier, who triumphed in that enterprise, and
more effectually than in any one he had ever undertaken.
‘This event filled not only the whole village, but likewise all who
heard of it, with admiration: I, for my part, was amazed, Anselmo
astonished, the father overwhelmed with sorrow, and the relations with
shame. Justice, however, being solicited, the troopers immediately took
the road, examined every copse and thicket thereabouts, and after a
search of three days, found the giddy Leandra in the cave of a mountain,
naked to the smock, and stripped of a great quantity of money and
precious jewels, which she had carried off when she made her escape.
When she was brought back to the presence of her afflicted father, and
questioned about her misfortune, she frankly owned that Vincent de La
Rosa had imposed upon her; that under promise of marriage, he had
persuaded her to forsake her father’s house, promising to conduct her to
Naples, which he said, was the most beautiful and flourishing city in
the whole world; that she inadvertently and fondly believed his false
professions, and robbing her father, put herself under his protection
that same night she was missed, when he carried her to a rocky mountain,
and confined her in the cave where she was found: she likewise affirmed
that the soldier, without making any attempt upon her virtue, had
stripped her of all she had, and left her in that forlorn condition; a
circumstance that surprized all who heard it, the soldier’s continence
being so incredible; but she insisted upon it with such earnest
asseverations, that the disconsolate father was in some sort comforted,
making little account of the money he had lost, since his daughter was
allowed to keep the jewel which when once lost there is no hope of
retrieving.
‘The same day that Leandra appeared, her father removed her from our
eyes, and shut her up in a monastery of a neighbouring town, hoping that
time would efface some part of the bad opinion his daughter had
incurred. The tender years of Leandra served as an excuse for her
misconduct, especially with those who are not concerned in the affair;
but those who know her discretion and good sense, do not ascribe her
fault to ignorance, but to mere levity, and the natural disposition of
women, which is always injudicious and imperfect. Leandra being thus
secured, Anselmo’s eyes were blind to every thing that could yield him
pleasure; and mine remained in darkness, without the least glimpse of
light to direct them to any agreeable object: the absence of Leandra
increased our affliction, and exhausted our patience; we cursed the
soldier’s finery, and exclaimed against her father’s want of care. At
length we agreed to quit the village, and repair to this valley, where
he feeding a vast flock of sheep, which are his own property, and I
tending a numerous fold of goats, which are also mine, we spend our
lives under the cool shade of lofty trees, and give vent to our passion,
either by singing, in concert, the praise or dispraise of the beautiful
Leandra, or each by himself singing in the lonely grove, and ejaculating
his complaint to Heaven. In imitation of us, many more of Leandra’s
lovers have betaken themselves to these rugged mountains, and the
exercise of the same employment; so that this spot seems to be
transformed into a pastoral Arcadia, every field being crouded with
shepherds and folds, and every corner resounding with the name of the
fair Leandra. One curses and calls her fickle, inconstant, and immodest;
a second condemns her credulity and lightness of behaviour; a third
acquits and forgives her, while she is arraigned and reproached by a
fourth; some celebrate her beauty; others find fault with her
disposition: in short, she is censured and adored by them all; nay, to
such a pitch hath their extravagance risen, that some of them complain
of her disdain, though they never spoke to her; and others, in their
lamentations, pretend to feel the rage of jealousy, which is a passion
she never inspired; for, as I have already mentioned, her fault was
known before her inclination was suspected: there is not the hollow of a
rock, the margin of a rill, nor the shade of a tree, that is not
occupied by some shepherd, recounting his misfortune to the winds;
wherever an echo can be formed, it repeats the name of Leandra; the
hills resound with Leandra; the rivulets murmur Leandra; in short,
Leandra keeps us all inchanted and perplexed, hoping we know not how,
and dreading we know not what. Among the wrong-headed society, he that
shews the least, though he has the greatest share of judgment, is my
rival Anselmo; who, notwithstanding all the cause he has to be
dissatisfied, complains of absence only, turning his lamentation to the
sound of the rebeck, which he touches with admirable skill, in verses
that shew the excellence of his genius. I follow a more easy, and in my
opinion, a wiser course, namely, to inveigh against the levity of the
female sex; their fickleness, their double dealing, their rotten
promises, their broken faith; and finally, their want of judgment in
bestowing their affections. These, gentlemen, are my reasons for the
discourse you heard me address to my goat, whom (because she is a
female) I despise, although she be the best of the fold. This is the
story I promised to recount, and if I have been prolix in the narration,
I shall not be brief in what service you shall please to command. Hard
by is my cottage, in which I have plenty of new milk, and most savoury
cheese, with abundance of the fruit in season, no less agreeable to the
taste than to the view.’
CHAP. XXV.
OF THE QUARREL THAT HAPPENED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND THE GOATHERD,
WITH THE CURIOUS ADVENTURE OF THE DISCIPLINANTS, WHICH THE KNIGHT
HAPPILY ATCHIEVED WITH THE SWEAT OF HIS BROW.
This story of the goatherd gave infinite pleasure to all that heard it,
especially to the canon, who observed, with admiration, his manner of
relating it, as distant from the rustick phrase of a peasant as near
approaching to the polite stile of a courtier; and therefore he said,
the curate had justly observed that the mountains sometimes produced
learned men. Every body made proffers of service to Eugenio, but he that
shewed himself most liberal in compliment was Don Quixote, who said to
him, ‘Truly, brother goatherd, were it possible for me to undertake any
new adventure, I would forthwith set forward in your behalf, and deliver
Leandra from that monastery, in which she is, doubtless, detained
against her will, in spite of the abbess and all that should oppose my
design; and would put her into your hands to be treated according to
your good will and pleasure, so far as is consistent with the laws of
chivalry, by which all damsels are protected from wrongs: though I hope
in God, that a malicious inchanter shall not so far prevail, but that he
may be excelled in power, by another of a more righteous disposition;
and then you may depend upon my favour and assistance, according to the
duty of my profession, which is no other than to succour the wretched
and the weak.’
The goatherd stared at Don Quixote, and being struck with admiration at
his rueful aspect and dishevelled locks, said to the barber, who sat
near him, ‘Signior, pray, who is that man who looks and talks so
wildly?’—‘Who should it be,’ answered the barber, ‘but the renowned Don
Quixote de La Mancha! the redresser of grievances, the righter of
wrongs, the protector of damsels, the terror of giants, and thunder-bolt
of war?’—‘That discourse,’ replied the peasant, ‘puts me in mind of
those books which treat of knights errant, who were commonly
distinguished by such titles as you bestow on that man: but, I suppose,
you are pleased to be merry, or else the apartments of this poor
gentleman’s skull are but indifferent-furnished.’
‘You are a most impudent rascal!’ (cried the knight, over-hearing what
he said) ‘it is your skull that is unfurnished and unsound; but mine is
more pregnant than the abominable whore that brought you forth.’ So
saying, he snatched up a loaf, and flung it at the goatherd with such
fury, that he levelled his nose with his face.
Eugenio, who did not understand raillery, finding himself maltreated in
earnest, without any respect for the carpet, table-cloth, or company,
leaped upon the knight, and laying hold of his collar, with both hands,
would certainly have strangled him, if Sancho Panza had not at that
instant sprung to his master’s assistance, and pulling his antagonist
backwards, tumbled him over upon the table, where plates, cups,
victuals, wine, and all went to wreck. Don Quixote finding himself
disengaged, arose, and in his turn, got upon the goatherd, who being
battered by the master, and kicked by the man, was creeping about on all
fours in quest of a table-knife, with which he intended to take some
bloody revenge, but was prevented by the canon and curate; the goatherd,
however, managed matters so as that he got the knight under him, when he
rained such a shower of kicks and cuffs upon his carcase, that our
hero’s countenance was as much overflowed with blood as his own; the
curate and canon were ready to burst with laughing, the troopers capered
about with joy, and the whole company hallooed, according to the
practice of the spectators when two dogs are engaged: Sancho Panza alone
was distracted, because he could not get out of the clutches of one of
the canon’s servants, who hindered him from assisting his master. In
fine, when every body was thus regaled and rejoiced, except the
combatants, who worried each other, they heard a trumpet utter such a
melancholy note, that they could not help turning their heads, and
looking towards the place from whence the sound seemed to come: but he
on whom it made the greatest impression was Don Quixote; who, though
lying under his antagonist, very much against his inclination, and more
than sufficiently pummelled, said to the goatherd, ‘Brother devil, (for
sure thou canst be nothing else, who hast strength and valour sufficient
to overcome my efforts) I beg a truce for one hour only; because the
doleful sound of that trumpet which salutes our ears, seems to summon me
to some new adventure.’
The goatherd being by this time heartily tired of drubbing, as well as
of being drubbed, immediately complied with his request; and Don Quixote
starting up, directed his view towards the place whence the sound seemed
to issue, where he descried a great number of people dressed in white
like disciplinants, coming down the side of a neighbouring hill. That
year the heavens had withheld refreshing showers from the earth; and
through all the villages of that district the people instituted
processions, disciplines, and prayers, beseeching God to open the
fountains of his mercy, and favour them with rain: for this purpose, the
inhabitants of a neighbouring village were then going in procession to a
holy hermitage built on an eminence that skirted the valley; and Don
Quixote seeing the strange dress of the disciplinants[125], without
recollecting that he had frequently seen such habits before, concluded
the whole to be an adventure, which it was the province of him as a
knight-errant to atchieve: what served to confirm him in this notion,
was an image cloathed in black, which was carried before them, and which
he supposed to be some princess whom those discourteous robbers were
carrying off by force.
This whim no sooner entered his brain, than he ran with great agility to
Rozinante, who was feeding very quietly, and taking the bridle and
shield, which hung upon the pummel of the saddle, clapped the bit in his
mouth in a twinkling, and demanding his sword from Sancho, mounted his
steed, and braced his target, calling aloud to the company, ‘Now,
honourable gentlemen, ye shall perceive the importance of those who
profess the order of knight-errantry! now, I say, ye shall, in the
deliverance of that excellent lady, who is at present a captive, behold
how much knights-errant ought to be esteemed.’
So saying, he clapped heels to Rozinante, (spurs he had none) and at a
hand-gallop (for we do not find in this true history that ever Rozinante
went full-speed) rode up to attack the disciplinants. Though the canon,
curate and barber, made efforts to detain him, they found it
impracticable; he was even deaf to the cries of Sancho, who bawled with
great vociferation: ‘Where are you going, Signior Don Quixote? what
devil possesses and provokes you to act against our Catholick faith!
take notice—a plague upon me!—take notice that this is no other than a
procession of disciplinants, and that lady carried on the bier the
blessed image of the immaculate Virgin! Consider, Signior, what you are
about, for sure I am you do not know!’
In vain did Sancho strain his lungs: his master was so intent upon
overtaking the apparitions, and setting the lady in black at liberty,
that he heard not one syllable; nor if he had, would he have returned,
even if the king had commanded him so to do. When he approached the
procession, he stopped Rozinante, who was already out of breath, and
with a hoarse disordered voice, pronounced, ‘You there, who perhaps
disguise yourselves for no good, stop, and give ear to what I am going
to say.’
Those who carried the image were the first that halted, and one of the
four priests who sung the litanies, observing the strange aspect of Don
Quixote, the leanness of Rozinante, with other ridiculous circumstances
belonging to both, answered in these words: ‘Friend, if you have any
thing to say, speak quickly; for these our brethren are all this while
scourging their own flesh; and we cannot, nor is it reasonable we should
tarry to hear any thing that cannot be comprehended in two words.’—‘I
will comprehend what I have to say in one,’ replied the knight; ‘and it
is this: I command you instantly to set free that beautiful lady, whose
tears and melancholy deportment clearly demonstrate that you are
carrying her off, contrary to her inclination, after having done her
some notorious wrong; and I, who was born to redress such grievances,
will not suffer you to proceed one step farther, until she shall have
obtained that liberty she deserves.’
From these words, concluding that he must be some madman, all of them
began to laugh very heartily; and their mirth acting as a train of
gunpowder to the knight’s choler, he drew his sword, and without
uttering another word, attacked the bearers; one of whom, leaving his
share of the load to his companions, opposed himself to this aggressor,
brandishing a fork or pole, on which (when they were wearied) they
supported the bier. Don Quixote, with a furious back-stroke, cut this
implement in two; but with the piece which remained in the hand of the
defendant, received such a thwack upon the shoulder above his sword-arm,
that his buckler was unable to sustain the shock of such a rude assault,
and down came the poor knight in a most lamentable condition.
Sancho Panza, who came puffing after his master, seeing him fall, called
aloud to his antagonist to forbear; for he was a poor inchanted knight,
who had never done the least harm to man, woman, or child; but the
peasant’s forbearance was not owing to this exclamation of the squire,
so much as to the situation of Don Quixote, who neither moved hand nor
foot; so that believing he had done his business, he hastily gathered up
his frock, and fled through the field as nimble as a buck. By this time
the whole company were come up to the place where Don Quixote lay; and
those belonging to the procession seeing so many people running towards
them, accompanied by the troopers with their cross-bows, began to be in
dread of some mischievous event, and formed themselves into a circle
around the image: then the disciplinants lifting up their hoods, and
wielding their scourges, and the priests their long tapers, waited the
assault, with full determination to defend themselves, and, if possible,
act offensively against all who should attack them. But fortune disposed
of things more favourably than they expected; for all that Sancho did,
was to throw himself upon the body of his master, who he believed was
actually dead, and utter the most doleful and ludicrous lamentation that
ever was heard. The curate was immediately known by a brother of the
cloth, who belonged to the procession, and this acquaintance dispelled
the apprehension which both squadrons had began to conceive. Our
licentiate told his friend in a few words who Don Quixote was, upon
which he and the whole crowd of disciplinants went to see whether or not
the poor knight was dead, and heard Sancho Panza, with tears in his
eyes, lamenting in these words: ‘O flower of chivalry, who by the single
stroke of a cudgel, hast finished the career of thy well-spent life! O
thou honour of thy family, thou glory of La Mancha! aye, and of the
whole world, which being deprived of thee, will soon be filled with
evil-doers, who will prosper without fear of chastisement for their
wicked deeds! Oh, thou wast more liberal than all the Alexanders that
ever lived! for thou gavest me, for eight months service only, the best
island that ever the sea surrounded. Oh! thou wast humble with the
haughty, and haughty with the humble, tempting dangers, enduring
disgraces, in love without cause, imitating the good, scourging the
wicked, a professed enemy to every thing that was base; in short, a
knight-errant, and that is every thing in one word!’
The cries and groans of Sancho revived his master, and the first words
he pronounced were these: ‘He who is condemned to live absent from thee,
most amiable Dulcinea! is subjected to much greater hardships than
these. Friend Sancho, help to lay me on the inchanted car; for I am
incapable of pressing Rozinante’s saddle, this whole shoulder being
crushed to pieces.’—‘That I’ll do very willingly, dear master,’ replied
the squire; ‘and let us return to our own habitation, in company of
these gentlemen, who wish you well; and there we will lay a scheme for
another sally, which I hope will be more fortunate and creditable.’—‘You
are in the right, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘and it will be very
prudent in us to let the malign influence of the stars pass over.’
The canon, curate, and barber, approved of his intention, and being
extremely diverted with the squire’s simplicity, conveyed the knight to
his former situation in the waggon. The procession was formed anew, and
set forwards accordingly: the goatherd took his leave of the company;
the troopers, being unwilling to go farther, were paid by the curate for
their trouble; the canon having intreated the priest to inform him by
letter of Don Quixote’s fate, with regard to the continuation or cure of
his extravagance, bade him farewel, and proceeded on his journey; in
short, there was a general separation, till at length the curate,
barber, Don Quixote, and Panza, were left by themselves, with the trusty
Rozinante, who, with the patience of his master, bore and beheld every
thing that passed.
The waggoner yoking his oxen, accommodated the knight with a truss of
hay, and with his usual phlegm jogged on according to the priest’s
directions, till, at the end of six days, they arrived at their own
village, which they entered about noon; and it chancing to be Sunday,
the market-place through which they were obliged to pass was crouded
with people, who running to see what was in the cage, recognized their
townsman, and were struck with astonishment. A boy ran immediately to
his housekeeper and niece, whom when he informed of their master’s
arrival, in a most meagre, withered condition, stretched upon a truss of
hay, in a waggon; it was a piteous thing to hear the cries that were
uttered by these worthy ladies, who buffetted themselves through
vexation, and vented bitter curses against the wicked books of chivalry;
which lamentations, buffettings, and curses, were repeated with greater
violence than ever, when they saw the knight enter his own gate.
Sancho Panza’s wife, who had got intimation that he was gone with Don
Quixote in quality of his squire, hearing of his return, ran straight to
her husband, and the first question she asked was, whether or not the
ass was in good health? when the squire answered, that the ass was in
better health than his master, ‘Thanks be to God,’ cried she, ‘for that
and all his other mercies. But, now tell me, friend, what good you have
got by your squireship? Have you brought home a new petticoat for me, or
shoes for your children?’—‘I have brought no such matters, my dear,’
replied Sancho, ‘but things of greater consideration and importance.’—‘I
am glad of that, with all my heart!’ said the wife; ‘pray shew me these
things of greater consideration and importance, that the sight of them
may rejoice my heart, which hath been so sad and discontented all the
weary time of your being away.’—‘You shall see them at home,’ answered
Sancho; ‘and heark’ee, wife, make yourself easy for the present; for, an
it please God that we set out again in quest of adventures, you shall
speedily behold your husband an earl, or governor of an island; I don’t
mean your common islands, but one of the best that ever was seen.’—‘The
Lord in heaven grant it, husband; for I am sure we have need enough of
such windfalls: but tell me, what is an island; for, truly, I know not
the meaning of the word?’—‘Honey was not made for the mouth of an ass,’
said the squire; ‘you shall see what it is, all in good time, my dear;
aye, and admire to hear all your vassals call you, my lady.’—‘What is
that you say, Sancho, of ladies, islands, and vassals?’ cried Joan
Panza; for that was the name of the squire’s wife, though she was not
related to Sancho before marriage; but it is the custom in La Mancha for
the women to take the names of their husbands. ‘Don’t be in such a hurry
to know every thing, Joan,’ replied the squire; ‘it is sufficient that I
tell thee nothing but truth; let this, therefore, stop that mouth of
thine. Mean time, however, I care not if I tell thee, that it is one of
the most pleasant occupations in the world for an honourable person,
like me, to be squire to a knight-errant, when he is in quest of
adventures. True it is, the greatest part of them do not fall out quite
so much to one’s liking as one could wish; for, out of a hundred in
which we are engaged, ninety-nine are generally cross and unfortunate.
That I know by experience, having been sometimes threshed, and sometimes
blanketted; but howsomever, it is a curious pastime to be always in
expectation of adventures, crossing huge mountains, searching woods,
climbing rocks, visiting castles, lodging at inns, where we live at rack
and manger, and the devil a farthing to pay.’
While this conversation passed between Sancho and his wife, the
housekeeper and niece received Don Quixote, whom they undressed and put
to bed in his old chamber, while he eyed them askance, without being
able to comprehend where he was. The curate laid his injunctions on the
niece to cherish her uncle with great tenderness, and charged them both
to take especial care that he might not escape again, giving them an
account of the trouble he had been at in bringing him back to his own
house. Here they raised their voices again in concert, renewing their
curses upon the books of chivalry, and beseeching Heaven to confound the
authors of such madness and lyes to the lowest pit of hell; in short
they were half distracted with the apprehension of losing him again, as
soon as his health should be re-established; and this was actually the
case.
But the author of this history, although he inquired with the utmost
curiosity and diligence, concerning the actions of Don Quixote in his
third sally, could never find any satisfactory and authentick account of
them; only, fame hath preserved some memoirs in La Mancha, by which it
appears that Don Quixote, when he set out the third time, went to
Saragossa, where he was present at a most celebrated tournament, in
which many things happened to him worthy of his genius and valour: but
with regard to his death and burial, he could obtain no information; and
must have remained entirely ignorant of that event, had he not luckily
met with an old physician, who had in his custody a leaden box, which he
said he found under the foundation of an ancient hermitage that was
repairing. This box contained some skins of parchment, on which were
written in Gothick characters and Castilian verse, many of our knight’s
exploits, with a description of Dulcinea’s beauty, Rozinante’s figure,
Sancho’s fidelity, and Don Quixote’s own funeral, celebrated by divers
epitaphs, and panegyricks on his life and morals. All that could be
read, and fairly copied, are those which are here inserted by the
faithful author of this new and surprizing history, who, in recompence
for the immense trouble he has undergone in his enquiries, and in
examining the archives of La Mancha, that he might publish it with more
certainty, desires the reader to favour him with the same credit which
intelligent persons give to those books of chivalry that pass so
currently in the world; and herewith he will rest fully satisfied; and
perhaps be animated to search after, and find out other histories, if
not as authentick, at least as full of invention and entertainment.
The verses which were written in the first skin of parchment found in
the leaden box were these—
THE ACADEMICIANS OF ARGAMASILLA, A TOWN OF LA MANCHA, ON THE LIFE AND
DEATH OF THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA, HOC SCRIPSERUNT.
MONICONGO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, ON THE SEPULTURE OF DON QUIXOTE.
EPITAPH.
The bully that La Mancha deck’d
With spoils that shame the Cretan Jason,
Whose judgment ripe, and wit uncheck’d,
The trumpet of renown shall blazon;
That arm, whose valour did extend
To Gæta, from remote Cathay;
That muse which did the welkin rend
With verse which brazen plates display;
Who Amadis left far behind,
And deem’d Galaor a mere baby,
Whose valour with such lustre shin’d,
As shew’d ev’n Belianis shabby;
He that on Rozinante rode,
Now mingles with this clay-cold clod!
PANIGUADO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, IN PRAISE OF DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO.
SONG.
The maid, you see, with cheeks so blouzy,
High-chested, vigorous, and frouzy,
Dulcinea, fam’d Toboso’s princess,
Don Quixote’s gen’rous flame evinces:
For her, on foot, he did explore
The sable mountain o’er and o’er,
Through many a weary field did halt,
And all through Rozinante’s fault.
Hard fate! that such a dame should die
In spite of him and chivalry;
That he whose deeds e’en stones proclaim,
Should mourn a disappointed flame!
CAPRICHOSO, A MOST INGENIOUS ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, IN PRAISE OF
ROZINANTE, THE RENOWNED STEED OF DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA.
On a proud trunk of Adamant,
Whose bloody branches smell’d of war,
La Mancha’s frantick wight did plant
His standard glitt’ring from afar.
There hung his arms; there gleam’d his sword,
That wont to level, hack, and hew;
Yet shall the wond’ring muse afford
For new exploits, a stile that’s new.
Let Gaul of Amadis be proud,
Greece boast the champions she hath bore;
Don Quixote triumphs o’er the crowd
Of all the warlike knights of yore:
For neither Gaul nor Greece can vie
With fam’d La Mancha’s chivalry.
Ev’n Rozinante wears the bay;
Let Brilladore and Bayard bray[126].
BURLADOR, AN ARGAMASILLAN ACADEMICIAN, ON SANCHO PANZA.
SONG.
Here Sancho view of body small,
But great in worth, in action clear,
The best and simplest squire of all
The world e’er saw, I vow and swear.
And earl he surely might have been,
Had not this knavish age of brass,
With insolence and envious spleen,
Conspir’d against him and his ass;
That ass, on which he gently trotted
At gentle Rozinante’s tail;
Vain man, with flatt’ring hope besotted,
How, in a dream, thy prospects fail!
CACHIDIABLO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, ON THE SEPULTURE OF DON
QUIXOTE.
EPITAPH.
On Rozinante’s back
The knight that whilome travell’d
Thro’ highway, path, and track,
Is here bemir’d and gravell’d:
And eke as stiff as he,
The block of Sancho Panza,
A trusty squire, perdie!
As ever mortal man saw.
TIQUITOCK, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, ON THE SEPULTURE OF DULCINEA DEL
TOBOSO.
Here lies Dulcinea, once so plump,
But now her fat all melts away;
For death, with an inhuman thump,
Has turn’d her into dust and clay.
Of a true breed she surely sprung,
And wanted not external grace;
Quixote’s heart with love she stung,
And shone the glory of her race.
These were all the verses which could be read; the rest being
worm-eaten, were delivered to an academician, that he might attempt to
unravel their meaning by conjecture. This task we understand, he has
performed with infinite pains and study, intending to publish them to
the world, in expectation of the third sally of Don Quixote.
‘_Forse altri canterà con miglior plettro._’
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
Footnote 125:
Persons hired to whip themselves on such occasions.
Footnote 126:
The horse of Orlando Furioso was called Brigliadoro; as Bayardo was
the name of the steed belonging to Ruggiero, the second, if not the
first hero in Ariosto’s incomparable poem.
VOLUME THE THIRD.
PART II.
PREFACE.
Heavens! with what eagerness must thou be waiting for this prologue,
courteous reader, whosoever thou art, gentle or simple, in hopes of
finding it replete with resentment, reproaches, and revenge, against the
author of the Second Don Quixote; him, I mean, who, it is reported, was
engendered at Tordesillas, and brought forth in Tarragona. But, truly, I
have no intention to give thee that satisfaction: for, although injuries
may awaken indignation in vulgar breasts; mine, I hope, will always be
an exception to that rule. Thou wouldst be glad, perhaps, to find me
bellowing upon him the epithets of ass, blockhead, and insolent coxcomb;
but such low revenge never once entered my imagination: his own
conscience will sufficiently chastise him; let him therefore chew the
cud of remorse, and digest it if he can. I own, I cannot help feeling
the unjust reproach when he taxes me with lameness and old age, as if it
had been in my power to retard the lapse of time; or that I had been
maimed in some tavern-brawl, and not on the most glorious occasion that
ever the past or present age beheld, or posterity can ever hope to see.
If my wounds do not brighten in the eyes of every spectator, they are at
least esteemed by those who know where they were acquired[127]; and who
thinks that a soldier who falls in battle makes a much more noble
appearance than he who saves himself by flight. This opinion is so
rooted within my own breast, that, were such an impossibility proposed
and effected, I would rather be lame as I am, with the share I had in
that stupendous action, than sound of body, without the honour of having
been there. The wounds that appear in a soldier’s countenance and bosom,
are so many stars to guide the rest of mankind to the haven of honour,
and the desire of honest praise; and it ought to be observed, that an
author does not write with his grey hairs, but according to the dictates
of his understanding, which is usually improved by years and experience.
I perceive also, that he calls me envious; and, as if I were utterly
ignorant, is at the pains to describe the nature of envy; though I
protest of the two kinds, I only harbour that which is pure, virtuous,
and noble. This being the case, as it undoubtedly is, I have not the
least inclination to inveigh against any priest, especially one who
bears the office of familiar to the holy inquisition; and if what he
says be advanced in behalf of him whose cause he seems to espouse, he is
altogether mistaken, in my opinion, of that person, whose genius I
adore: I admire his works, together with his continual occupation in the
practice of virtues; but I am actually obliged to this honourable
author, for saying that my novels[128] are more satirical than
exemplary, though he owns they are good of their kind; for, without
being exemplary, they cannot possibly be good.
I suppose, gentle reader, thou art by this time of opinion, that I walk
with great circumspection, and scrupulously confine myself within the
bounds of modesty, conscious that it is inhuman to heap affliction on
the afflicted; and that this gentleman’s must needs be very great, since
he dares not appear in the open field, and in the face of Heaven, but
conceals his name, and dissembles his country, as if he had been guilty
of high treason: tell him, therefore, in my name, if ever thou shouldst
chance to find him out, that I do not at all think myself injured by
what he has done, for well do I know, what temptations the devil spreads
before us; and that one of his most effectual snares, is to make a man
believe that he has capacity to write a book, by which he shall obtain
an equal share of money and reputation. In confirmation of what I say, I
will beg the favour of you to tell him a short story.
There was in Seville, a certain madman seized with the most diverting
whim that ever entered the brain of a lunatick. He used to walk with a
hollow cane, pointed at one end; and whenever he met with a dog in the
street, or in any other place, he clapped his foot on one of the
creature’s hind-legs, pulled up the other with his hand, and applying,
as well as he could, the pipe to his posteriors, instantly blew him up
as round as a ball. This operation being performed, he clapped him twice
on the belly, and dismissed the patient, saying, very gravely, to the
mob that never failed to gather round him, ‘Gentlemen, I suppose, now,
you think it is an easy matter to blow up a dog!’ In like manner, I say,
‘I suppose your worship thinks it an easy matter to write a book.’ If
this story should not be to his liking, be so good, friendly reader, as
to tell this other, which also relates to a dog and a madman.
There was another ideot in Cordova, who had a trick of carrying upon his
head a piece of marble, or heavy stone; and, as often as he perceived
any dog off his guard, he would approach him slily, and let it fall
plump upon his head. This was no joke to the poor dog, who used to run
barking and howling the length of three whole streets, before he
ventured to look behind. But, among others, he one day happened to
discharge his burden on a cap-maker’s favourite dog; down went the stone
upon his head, and the injured beast set up the howl: the master seeing
what passed, was filled with indignation, snatched up his measure, and
sallying out upon the lunatick, did not leave a whole bone in his skin;
saying, at every blow he bestowed, ‘Dog! rascal! use my spaniel in this
manner! Did not you see, barbarous villain, that my dog was a spaniel!’
Thus repeating the word spaniel a great many times, he beat the
aggressor into jelly.
The madman being documented, sneaked off, and kept his chamber a whole
month; at the end of which, he returned to his former pastime, with a
greater stone than ever, and coming up to a dog that lay asleep,
considered him with great attention, but was afraid of discharging the
stone, saying, ‘’Ware spaniel!’ In short, all the dogs he afterwards met
with, whether curs or mastiffs, were in his opinion spaniels; so that he
never ventured to repeat his experiment.——Now this may be the fate of
our historian, who will not chuse to open the flood-gates of his wit
again, in composing books, which, if bad, are harder than stone.
Tell him, likewise, that I value not his threats a farthing, when he
says that his performance will deprive me of bread; but answer him with
a quotation from the famous interlude of the Perendenga: ‘To four and
twenty, live, my lord, and Christ be with us all.’ Long live the great
Count de Lemos, whose well-known Christian generosity supports me
against all the strokes of adverse fortune; and long life to the
transcendent charity of the most illustrious archbishop of Toledo, Don
Bernardo de Sandoval y Rojas; if there was not one printing-press in the
whole world, or if more books were published against me than there are
letters in the couplets of Mingo Rebulgo; these two princes, unsolicited
by any adulation or other kind of praise on my part, but purely out of
their own benevolence, have been pleased to honour me with their
countenance and favour, in which I think myself infinitely more happy
and rich, than if I had been conducted to the highest pinnacle of
fortune, in the ordinary way. Honour may be enjoyed by a poor, but never
by a vicious man; nobility may be clouded by indigence, but never
altogether obscured; for virtue, shining by its own internal light, even
through the inconveniencies and crannies of poverty, will recommend
itself to the esteem of high and princely minds, and of consequence
obtain their favour and protection. Thou needest say no more to him; nor
will I give thee any farther trouble, except to observe, that thou art
to consider this second part of Don Quixote as a work of the same
artificer, and composed of the same materials with the first, in which I
present the knight at full length; and, in short, exhibit him dead and
buried; that no man, for the future, may presume to raise fresh evidence
against him; those already examined being sufficient for the purpose.
The more so, as a man of honour has already given an account of his
ingenious follies, without any intention to resume the subject; for
there may be too much even of a good thing; and the scarcity of those
things which are in themselves indifferent, often brings them into some
degree of estimation. I had almost forgot to tell thee, that thou mayest
expect the Persiles, which I am now finishing, together with the second
part of Galatea.
Footnote 127:
The battle of Lepanto.
Footnote 128:
Novales Exemplares.
APPROBATION.
By order of Signior Doctor Gutierrez de Cetina, vicar-general of the
city of Madrid, where his majesty keeps his court, I have perused the
second part of the sage knight, Don Quixote de La Mancha, written by
Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra; in which I can find nothing unworthy of a
zealous Christian, or deviating from that respect which is justly due to
good example and moral virtue. On the contrary, the performance contains
much erudition and profitable amusement; not only in the well-supported
sequel of his design, to extirpate those vain and lying books of
chivalry, which had already too far spread their infection; but also in
the purity of his Castilian language, unadulterated with insipid
affectation, which every man of sense abhors; and in his manner of
correcting the vicious, who generally feel the point of his satire. Yet
he so wisely observes the laws of Christian rebuke, that the patient
labouring under the infirmity which he intends to cure, may, in such
sweet and palatable medicine, even without his own knowledge, or the
least hindrance and loathing, swallow down an effectual detestation for
vice; so that he will find himself at once delighted and reformed, in
consequence of an art which is known to few. There are many authors, who
not knowing how to blend and mix instruction with delight, have seen all
their tedious labours miscarry; because, not being able to imitate
Diogenes, as a learned philosopher, they have presumed licentiously, not
to say obscurely, to mimick him as a cynic, giving ear to slander, and
inventing things that never happened, by which means they enlarge the
vicious capacity of those whom their harsh reproofs stigmatize; and,
perhaps, strike out new paths of lewdness hitherto unknown; so that
instead of reformers, they become teachers and abettors of vice. In this
manner they grow hateful to men of sense, and lose all their credit, if
they had any, with the people, who refuse to encourage their writings;
while the vicious are rather hardened than amended by their rash and
imprudent corruption; for the knife and caustick are not proper for all
kinds of tumours, some of which are more successfully treated by soft
and gentle remedies, by the application of which, the experienced and
learned physician often attains his end of discussing them; a period
much more eligible than that which is obtained by the barbarity of
steel.
The writings of Miguel de Cervantes have met with a very different
reception, not only from our nation, but likewise from strangers; who,
as if he was something miraculous, are inflamed with the desire of
seeing the author of those books which have met with such general
applause, on account of the decency and decorum, as well as the
agreeable sweetness of his stile, in Spain, France, Italy, Germany, and
Flanders. This I can with great truth affirm, that on the twentieth and
fifth day of February, in this year of God, one thousand six hundred and
fifteen, I attended my master, his grace Don Bernardo de Sandoval y
Rojas, cardinal archbishop of Toledo, when he returned the visit of the
French ambassador, who came to treat about a double match betwixt the
princes and princesses of France and Spain; and several gentlemen of
that country, belonging to the embassy, who were equally sensible and
well-bred, as well as lovers of the Belles Lettres, in their
conversation with me and the other chaplains of the cardinal, desired to
know what books of genius were in highest esteem among us; I chanced to
mention this performance, which was then under my examination: but no
sooner did they hear the name of Miguel de Cervantes, than they began to
expatiate upon the high esteem in which France and the neighbouring
kingdoms held his productions; namely, the Galatea, which one of them
could almost repeat, with the novels, and the first part of Don Quixote.
Such were the commendations they bestowed upon them, that I offered to
introduce them to the author, whom they honoured with a thousand
demonstrations of regard. They were curious to know his age, profession,
quality, and fortune; and when I found myself obliged to tell them he
was a soldier and a gentleman, oppressed with poverty and old age; one
of them replied in these very words: ‘What! does not Spain load such a
man with riches, and maintain him out of the publick treasury?’——Another
of those gentlemen, hearing this observation, interposed, saying, with
great vivacity, ‘If necessity compels him to write, God grant that he
may never enjoy affluence; but, in being poor, enrich the world with his
works.’
I believe this will be thought rather too much for a certificate; and
some will say, that I have even encroached upon the bounds of flattery;
but the truth of my allegation disproves that suspicion, and acquits me
of the charge; besides, in this age, adulation is bestowed upon none but
those who are in a capacity of greasing the fist of the flatterer; who,
though he praises in fulsome fiction, experts to be rewarded in
substantial truth.
Madrid, Feb. 27, 1615. THE LICENTIATE MARQUES TORRES.
THE ORDINARY LICENCE.
By order and command of the lords of council, I have caused to be
examined, the book specified in this petition: which book contains
nothing to the prejudice of religion or morals; but, on the contrary, is
fraught with much lawful amusement, blended with moral philosophy;
wherefore it may be allowed to be printed.
Madrid, Nov. 5, 1615. DOCTOR GUTIERREZ DE CETINA.
APPROBATION.
By order and command of the lords of council, I have perused the second
part of Don Quixote de La Mancha, written by Miguel de Cervantes; a book
that contains nothing to the prejudice of our holy catholick faith, or
sound morals; on the contrary, much honest recreation, and agreeable
amusement, such as the ancients judged not only allowable, but
convenient for the commonwealth: even the severe Lacedemonians erected a
statue to the goddess of laughter; and the Thessalians instituted
festivals to the same power, according to Pausanias, quoted by Vossius,
lib. ii. _De signis eccles._ cap. 10. for exhilarating the melancholy,
and raising the dejected spirits; as observed by Tully in his first
book, _De Legibus_; and by the poet, who says, ‘_Interpone tuis interdum
gaudia curis._’ Which maxim hath been the guide of this author, who has
mingled fiction with truth, delight with instruction, and morals with
pleasantry; disguising the hook of reproof with the bait of sprightly
entertainment, and fulfilling the sequel of his well-executed scheme, to
depreciate and expel the books of chivalry, from the mischievous
contagion of which he hath purged these kingdoms, with admirable
diligence and dexterity. In short, it is a work worthy of that great
genius, which is the honour and ornament of our nation, and the envy and
admiration of strangers. This is my opinion, with submission, &c.
Madrid, March 17, 1615. JOSEPH DE VALDIVIELSO.
BOOK I.
CHAP. I.
OF THE BEHAVIOUR OF THE CURATE AND BARBER,
WITH REGARD TO DON QUIXOTE’S INFIRMITY.
Cid Hamet Benengeli, in the second part of this history, containing the
third sally of Don Quixote, relates that the curate and barber forbore
to visit him for a whole month, that they might not revive and recal to
his imagination the remembrance of things past; but, during all that
time, they frequently went to see the housekeeper and niece, on whom
they laid strong injunctions to cherish the knight with great care and
tenderness, and treat him with such comfortable food as should be most
agreeable to his stomach and brain, in which they reasonably supposed
that his whole disorder lay. The ladies assured them it was their chief
study, which they would prosecute with all imaginable care and
satisfaction; for they began to perceive that their master, at certain
intervals, gave tokens of being in his right wits. This information
afforded great pleasure to the two friends, who now concluded they had
acted wisely in bringing him home on the inchanted waggon, as hath been
recounted in the last chapter of the first part of this sublime and
punctual history; and determined to pay him a visit, that they might be
convinced of his amendment, which they deemed almost impossible; though
they agreed to avoid, with great care, the subject of chivalry, that
they might run no risk of ripping up the wound so lately closed.
In short, they entered his chamber, and found him sitting upon his bed,
in a waistcoat of green baize, and a red Toledan night-cap, so meagre,
shrunk, and withered, that he looked like an Egyptian mummy; he received
them very courteously, and when they enquired into the state of his
health, spoke of his indisposition and himself with great judgment and
elocution. The conversation happening to turn on what is called reasons
of state, and modes of administration, they amended certain abuses, and
condemned others, reforming one custom, and banishing another; as if
each of the three had been a new legislator, a modern Lycurgus, or
regenerated Solon; and in such a manner did they furbish up the
common-wealth, that one would have imagined they had committed it to a
forge, and brought out another quite different from that which they put
in. Don Quixote spoke on every subject that was handled, with such
discretion, as actually convinced the two examiners, that he was quite
sound, and had recovered the right exercise of his judgment; while the
niece and housekeeper, who were present all the time, thought they could
never be thankful enough to God, when they heard their master talk so
sensibly. But the curate altering his first resolution, which was to
avoid the subject of chivalry, now determined to make an experiment, by
which he should be thoroughly satisfied, whether the knight’s cure was
real or imaginary; with this view, he from one thing to another came to
mention some news from court; and among other pieces of intelligence,
said he was certainly informed that the Turk had taken the sea, with a
powerful armament, though his design was not known, nor could it be
guessed where the expected storm would burst; but that these
preparations, which keep us almost constantly in arms, had alarmed all
Christendom; and that his majesty had ordered the coasts of Naples and
Sicily, with the island of Malta, to be provided against all attempts.
To this intimation Don Quixote replied, ‘His majesty has acted like a
most prudent warrior, in providing for the safety of his dominions, that
the enemy may not find them unprepared; but, if he would take my advice,
I would furnish him with an expedient, which I believe our sovereign at
present little thinks of.’
The curate no sooner heard these words, than he said within himself,
‘Lord have mercy upon thee, poor Don Quixote! if I am not mistaken, thou
art just going to cast thyself headlong from the highest pinnacle of
madness, into the profound abyss of thy folly.’ But the barber, who
immediately adopted the same suspicion, asked the knight what that
expedient was, which he thought should be put in practice by way of
prevention; observing, that it was, perhaps, such a scheme as deserved
to be inserted in the list of those impertinent advices usually offered
to crowned heads. ‘Mine, Mr. Shaver,’ said Don Quixote, ‘will be
pertinent, not impertinent.’—‘I don’t say otherwise,’ replied the
barber; ‘I only made that observation, because experience hath shewn
that all, or the greatest part of those projects which have been offered
to his majesty, are either impossible, extravagant, or prejudicial to
the state.’—‘My scheme,’ answered the knight, ‘is neither impossible nor
extravagant; but, on the contrary, the most easy, just, brief, and
expeditious, that ever projector conceived.’—‘Methinks your worship is
very slow in delivering it, Signior Don Quixote,’ said the priest. ‘I
should not chuse,’ answered the knight, ‘to have what I say here carried
by to-morrow morning, to the ears of the lords of the council; by which
means, another may reap the credit and reward of my labour.’—‘For my own
part,’ cried the barber, ‘I here give my word, before God! never to
disclose what your worship shall impart, either to king or knave, or any
mortal man; an oath I learned in the romance of the Curate, who, in the
preface, gives the king notice of the robber that stole his hundred
ducats, and ambling mule.’—‘I am not acquainted with the story,’ said
Don Quixote, ‘but the oath is a good oath, because I am convinced that
Mr. Nicholas is an honest man.’—‘Be that as it will,’ replied the
curate, ‘I will be bound for him, and undertake, that with regard to
this affair, he shall speak no more than if he was actually dumb, on
pain of whatever penalty you shall think proper to inflict.’—‘And who
will be security for you, Mr. Curate?’ said the knight. ‘My profession,’
answered the priest, ‘by which I am bound to keep secrets.’—‘Body of
me!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘his majesty has nothing to do, but to issue a
proclamation, commanding all the knights-errant in Spain to assemble at
his court, by such a day; and although not more than half a dozen should
come, among these one may be found, who is alone sufficient to overthrow
the whole Turkish power. Pray, gentlemen, give attention, and take me
along with you; is it such a new thing, for a single knight to cut in
pieces a whole army of two hundred thousand men, as if they had but one
common throat, or were made of ginger-bread? How many histories are
there, think you, filled with such marvellous exploits? Unfortunate it
is for me, (I will not say, for any other) that the renowned Don
Belianis is not now alive, or some knight of the innumerable race of
Amadis de Gaul; for if any one of them was now living, to confront the
Turks, in good sooth, I should not chuse to farm their conquests; but
God will provide for his own people, and produce some champion, who, if
not equal in valour to former knights-errant, at least will be inferior
to none of them in point of courage[129]; Heaven knows my meaning; I
will say no more.’—‘Lack-a-day!’ cried the niece, when she heard this
insinuation, ‘I’ll be hanged, if my uncle is not resolved to turn knight
errant again.’—‘A knight-errant,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I will live and
die; and the Turks may make their descents or ascents, when they will,
with all the power they are masters of. I say again, Heaven knows my
meaning.’ Here the barber interposing, ‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I beg you
will give me leave to tell a short story of what happened at Seville; it
comes so pat to the purpose, that I have a strong inclination to relate
it.’ Don Quixote and the curate granted his request, and the rest
yielded him attention, when he began in these words.
‘There was in the mad-house at Seville, a certain lunatick, whom his
relations had sent thither on account of the defect in his judgment; he
had taken his degrees in the canon law, at Ossuna; and many were of
opinion, that if he had acquired them at Salamanca, he would not have
been a bit the wiser; this graduate, having been confined some years,
took it in his head, that he was quite well, and restored to his right
wits; and in this imagination, wrote to the archbishop, earnestly
entreating him, with many sensible arguments, to give order that he
should be extricated from the misery in which he lived; since, through
the mercy of God, he had recovered his lost judgment, though his
relations kept him still in confinement, that they might enjoy his
estate, and, in despite of truth, were resolved that he should be mad to
the day of his death. The archbishop, persuaded by the many sensible and
pathetick letters he received, ordered one of his chaplains to go to the
rector of the mad-house, and enquire into the truth of what the
licentiate alledged, and even to talk with himself, that, if he should
find him quite recovered, he might bring him away, and set him at
liberty. The chaplain obeyed the command of his grace, and the rector
assured him that the man was still mad; for although he would very often
talk like a person of excellent understanding, at the long run he
commonly broke out into folly and nonsense, as absurd as the first part
of his discourse was rational and discreet; however, he himself might
make the experiment, by conversing with the licentiate. The chaplain
accordingly went to his apartment, and talked with him a whole hour and
more, during which time the lunatick did not utter one vague or
incoherent sentence; but, on the contrary, spoke so judiciously, that
the chaplain could not help believing him quite sound of intellect;
among other things, he told him the rector was his enemy, and pronounced
him still distracted, though with lucid intervals, that he might not
lose the presents which he received from his relations; so that the
greatest cause of his misfortune was no other than his own affluent
estate, which to enjoy, his adversaries craftily pretended to doubt of
the mercy which the Lord had vouchsafed him, in re-converting him from a
beast into a man; in short, he talked so effectually as to render the
rector suspected, to prove his relations covetous and unnatural, and
himself so discreet, that the chaplain determined to carry him forthwith
to the archbishop, that his grace might be personally satisfied of the
truth. With this laudable intention, he desired the rector to order the
licentiate to be dressed with the cloaths in which he entered the house:
the rector again advised him to consider what he was about; for the
licentiate was, without all question, still distracted. But these
cautions and counsels had no effect in dissuading the chaplain from
carrying him off, and the rector seeing the archbishop’s order, was
obliged to obey; so that the licentiate received his own cloaths, which
were decent and new. Seeing himself thus diverted of the badge of his
disorder, and habited again like a person of sound intellects, he
besought the chaplain, that he would be so charitable as to allow him to
go and take leave of his companions in affliction; the other granted his
request, and said he would accompany him, in order to see the patients;
upon which they went up stairs, followed by several persons who chanced
to be then present. The licentiate, going to the gate of a cell, in
which there was a furious madman, though at that time he was calm and
quiet, said to him, “Brother, have you any commands for me? I am going
to my own house, for God of his infinite goodness and mercy, without any
desert of mine, hath been pleased to restore unto me the use of my
reason, and I am now perfectly recovered; so that there is nothing
impossible to the power of the Almighty; put, therefore, your hope and
trust in him, who, as he hath restored me to my former state, will grant
the same indulgence to you, if you confide in his protection. I will
take care to send you some cordial food, and be sure, at all events, to
eat it; for, you must know, I conclude from experience, that all our
disorder proceeds from an empty stomach, and the brain’s being filled
with wind. Take heart, brother, take heart; for despondence under
misfortune consumes the constitution, and hastens the stroke of death.”
This discourse being overheard by another lunatick, who was confined in
a cell opposite to that of the furious patient, he started up stark
naked from an old mat on which he lay, and roared aloud, “Who is that
going away so sober and so sound?” The licentiate replied, “’Tis I,
brother, who am going home, being under no necessity of tarrying longer
in this place; thanks be to Heaven for the signal favour I have
received!”—“Take care what you say, Mr. Licentiate, and let not the
devil deceive you,” answered the madman: “halt a little, stay where you
are, and spare yourself the trouble of being brought back.”—“I know that
I am perfectly recovered,” said the licentiate, “and shall, have no
farther occasion to visit the Stations[130].”—“You recovered!” cried the
other, “good! we shall see—adieu—but, I swear by Jupiter, whose majesty
I represent on earth, that, for the transgression this day committed in
Seville, by discharging you from the house, as a person of sound
judgment, I will take such vengeance as shall be a monument of wrath for
ever and ever, amen. Do’st thou not know, pitiful licentiate, that all
this is in my power, being, as I have already observed, Jove the
thunderer, who wield the flaming bolts, with which I use to threaten,
and can destroy the universe? But with one evil only will I chastise
this ignorant people; I will not suffer one drop of rain to fall upon
the city, nor its confines, nor indeed in any part of this district, for
the space of three whole years, reckoning from the day and minute in
which this dreadful menace is made. Thou free! thou sound! thou
recovered! and I mad! I distracted and confined! I will sooner hang
myself than rain one spoonful.” The by-standers were very attentive to
the vociferous exclamations of this madman, when our licentiate turning
to the chaplain, and taking him by the hand, said, “Dear Sir, give
yourself no uneasiness or concern about what he says; for if he who is
Jupiter, witholds refreshing showers from the earth, I who am Neptune,
the father and god of waters, will rain as often as I please, should
there be occasion for it, in consequence of the privilege I possess.” To
this promise the chaplain replied, “Nevertheless, Signior Neptune, it
will not be politick to incense Signior Jupiter; therefore, your worship
will be so good as to stay where you are, till some other day, when we
may have more leisure and convenience to remove you.” The rector and the
rest of the company could not help laughing, the chaplain was out of
countenance, the licentiate was stripped, and sent back to his cell; and
so ends my story.’
‘And this is the story, Mr. Barber,’ said Don Quixote, ‘which came so
pat to the purpose, that you could not help relating it? Ah, Mr. Shaver!
Mr. Shaver! he must be blind indeed, that cannot see through the bottom
of a sieve. Is it possible your worship does not know that comparisons
in point of genius, virtue, beauty, and descent, are always odious and
ill received? I, Mr. Barber, am not Neptune, god of waters; neither do I
set up for being thought a wise man, knowing that I am not so: the sole
end of my labours is to convince the world of its error, in not seeking
to renew those most happy times when the order of knight-errantry
exerted itself in full perfection; but this depraved age of ours is
unworthy of tasting that felicity which was enjoyed by those ages, when
knights-errant undertook the charge, and burdened their shoulders with
the defence of kingdoms, the protection of damsels, the relief of wards
and orphans, the chastisement of the proud, and the promotion of the
humble. The greatest part of your modern knights rustle in damasks,
brocades, and other rich and splendid attire, instead of rattling in
coats of mail; no knight now sleeps in the open field, exposed to the
inclemency of the weather, armed at all points cap-a-pee; no warrior, in
this degenerate age, sits on horseback, and without disengaging his feet
from the stirrups, but leaning upon his lance, endeavours to take as it
were a snatch of sleep, after the example of former knights-errant; no
champion, now-a-days, coming out of some dreary wood, immediately enters
another rocky wilderness, through which he reaches the barren and
deserted coast of the rough and stormy sea, where, finding in some
creek, a crazy boat without oars, sails, mast, or tackle, he intrepidly
throws himself into it, and launches out upon the implacable billows
that whirl him aloft to heaven, and then sink him to the profound abyss,
while his unshaken soul defies the storm; then, when he dreams of no
such matter, he finds himself three thousand leagues and more from the
place where he embarked, and leaping ashore on some remote and unknown
country, achieves adventures worthy to be written, not on parchment, but
on brass. But now sloth triumphs over activity, idleness over toil, vice
over virtue, arrogance over valour, and the theory over the practice of
arms, which obtained and shone resplendent in those golden ages that
produced knights-errant. Pray, tell me, who could be more honourable and
valiant than the famous Amadis de Gaul? who more discreet than Palmerin
of England? who more insinuating and pliant than Tirante the White? who
more gallant than Lifuarte of Greece? who more hacked and hacking than
Don Belianis? who more intrepid than Perion of Gaul? or, who more daring
than Felixmarte of Hircania? who more sincere than Esplandian? who more
desperate than Cirongilio of Thrace? who more brave than Rodamont? who
more prudent than King Sobrino? who more bold than Reynaldo? who more
invincible than Roldan? and who more gallant and courteous than Rugero?
from whom (according to Turpin, in his Cosmographia) the present Dukes
of Ferrara are descended. All these, with many more which I could name,
Mr. Curate, were knights-errant, and the very light and glory of
chivalry; these, or such as these, are the champions proposed by my
scheme, which, should it take place, would effectually serve his
majesty’s purpose, spare an infinite expence, and the Turk would even
tear his own beard in despair; in that case I would tarry where I am,
since the chaplain would not think fit to enlarge me; and if Jupiter, as
the barber said, would not rain, here am I ready to frustrate his
intent; this I mention, that Mr. Bason, there, may know I understand his
meaning.’—‘Verily, Signior Don Quixote,’ said Mr. Nicholas, ‘I meant no
harm, so help me God! my intention was good, and therefore your worship
ought not to be displeased.’—‘Whether I am displeased or not,’ replied
the knight, ‘I myself know best.’
Here the curate interposing, said, ‘Though I have hitherto scarce opened
my mouth, I cannot be easy under a scruple which tears and gnaws my
conscience, and which arose from what Signior Don Quixote hath just now
asserted.’—‘In greater matters, Mr. Curate may command me,’ answered the
knight; ‘out with your scruple, then; for scruples of conscience are
very uncomfortable companions.’—‘With your good permission,’ replied the
priest, ‘this it is: I can by no means persuade myself that the whole
tribe of knights-errant, whom your worship have named, were really and
truly earthly persons of flesh and blood; on the contrary, I imagine all
these things are fictions, fables, and lying dreams, recounted by men
who are awake, or rather by those who are half asleep.’—‘That,’ said Don
Quixote, ‘is another error incident to many people, who do not believe
that any such knights ever existed; and I have, on divers and sundry
occasions, endeavoured to dissipate that almost general mistake by the
light of truth. Sometimes, indeed, I have not succeeded in my attempts;
however, I have frequently gained my point, by supporting it on the
shoulders of demonstration; and truly the case is so clear, that I could
almost affirm I have with my own eyes beheld Amadis de Gaul, who was a
tall man, of a fair complexion, well furnished with a black beard, his
aspect something between mild and severe, concise of speech, slow to
anger, and soon appeased. In the same manner, methinks, I could
delineate and paint all the knights-errant that ever were recorded in
history; for, according to the ideas formed by reading these histories,
and by comparing their exploits and dispositions, sound philosophy may
discover their lineaments, statures, and complexions.’—‘Signior Don
Quixote,’ said the barber, ‘how large do you think the giant Morgante
must have been?’—‘As to the affair of giants,’ answered the knight,
‘there are different opinions; some affirming, and others denying, the
existence of any such beings: but the Holy Scriptures, which surely
cannot fail one atom in point of truth, put that affair beyond all
dispute, in relating the story of that Philistine Goliath, who was seven
cubits and an half in height; a most amazing stature! Besides, in the
island of Sicily, several thigh and shoulder-bones have been dug up, so
large as to manifest, that the persons to whom they belonged must have
been huge giants, as tall as high towers; and this can be proved by
mathematical demonstration; but, nevertheless, I will not pretend to
ascertain the size of Morgante; though I believe he was not very tall,
because I find in the history which gives a particular account of his
exploits, that he often slept under a roof: now, if there was any house
capacious enough to receive him, his magnitude could not be very
extraordinary.’—‘No, surely,’ said the curate: who, being diverted with
his extravagant assertions, asked his opinion concerning the looks and
persons of Reynaldo de Montalban, Don Orlando, and the rest of the
Twelve Peers of France, who were all knights-errant. ‘With regard to
Reynaldo,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘I will venture to say, he was broad
visaged, and of a ruddy complexion, with large rolling eyes, full of
punctilio, excessively cholerick, and a friend to robbers and vagabonds.
As for Roldan, or Rotolando, or Orlando, (for he is mentioned in history
by all these names) it is my opinion, and I affirm, that he was of a
middling stature, broad-shouldered, somewhat bandy-legged, of a dark
complexion and carrotty beard, hairy all over, with a frowning aspect,
sparing of speech, though very affable and well bred.’—‘If Roldan was
not more comely than you have represented him,’ replied the curate, ‘I
do not wonder that Angelica the Fair disdained and deserted him, for the
gallantry, mirth, and pleasantry of the little smock-faced Moor, to
whose embraces she yielded; and, surely, she was in the right, to prefer
the smoothness of Medoro to the roughness of Roldan.’—‘That same
Angelica, Mr. Curate,’ said the knight, ‘was an unsettled rambling young
woman, that longed after novelties, and left the world as full of her
impertinent actions as of the fame of her beauty. She undervalued a
thousand noblemen, a thousand valiant and discreet admirers, and
contented herself with a yellow haired page, who had neither fortune nor
reputation, but that of being grateful to his friend. The renowned
Ariosto, who sung the praises of her beauty, either not daring or not
designing to rehearse what happened to her after her base intrigue,
because he deemed it a theme not extremely honourable for his muse,
dropped her at these lines:
‘“Another bard may sing, in loftier lay,
How he obtain’d the sceptre of Cathay.”
‘And truly this was a sort of prophecy, for the poets are also called
_vates_, which in Latin signifies _diviners_, and it was plainly
verified in the event, an Andalusian bard having since that time sung in
verse her tears and lamentation, as the most famous and sublime genius
of Castile hath celebrated her beauty.’
‘Pray tell me, Signior Don Quixote,’ said the barber, ‘among all those
authors who have written in her praise, hath not some one or other
composed a satire against my Lady Angelica?’—‘I firmly believe,’ replied
the knight, ‘that if Sacripante or Roldan had been bards, they would
have made the damsel smart severely, it being natural and peculiar to
poets, who are disdained and rejected by their false mistresses, whether
real or imaginary, to revenge themselves by satires and lampoons; a
resentment altogether unworthy of generous breasts; but hitherto I have
not met with any such defamatory verses against the Lady Angelica,
though she made strange confusion in the world.’—‘That is a wonder,
indeed!’ said the curate.—When hearing the housekeeper and niece, who
had some time before quitted the company, bawling aloud in the yard,
they ran out to see what was the occasion of such noise.
Footnote 129:
Ridiculous as this scheme may seem to be, such an expedient has
actually succeeded in practice. During the captivity of John King of
France, his dominions were ravaged by above one hundred thousand
peasants, who, under the name of Jacquieers, assembled in arms to
exterminate the noblesse; and among other horrid outrages, murdered
every gentleman that fell in their way. The Duchess of Normandy and
Orleans, together with three hundred ladies of rank, retired for
protection to Meaux, where they were surrounded, and would have
actually perished by the swords of these banditti, had they not been
rescued by the Count de Foix, and the captal of Buch; who, hearing of
their distress, hastened to their relief with no more than sixty
knights; and, without hesitation, attacked that furious multitude with
such bravery and vigour, that they were soon routed and dispersed.
Footnote 130:
A certain number of churches through which they made circuits,
uttering an appointed prayer at each.
CHAP. II.
THE NOTABLE FRAY THAT HAPPENED
BETWEEN SANCHO AND DON QUIXOTE’S NIECE AND HOUSEKEEPER—WITH OTHER
DIVERTING INCIDENTS.
The history relates, that the noise which Don Quixote, the curate, and
barber heard, was occasioned by the niece and housekeeper scolding at
Sancho, who struggled to get in and see his master, while they defended
the door. ‘What does the swag-bellied lurcher want in this house?’ said
the housekeeper: ‘get you home, brother; it was you, and none but you,
that turned my poor master’s brain, enticing him from his own home, to
stroll about the highways.’ To this apostrophe Sancho replied,
‘Housekeeper of Satan! ’tis my brain that’s turned; ’twas I that was
enticed to stroll about the highways, and not thy master, for he carried
me a rambling; so that you have reckoned without your host. ’Twas he
that wheedled me from my own house, with the promise of an island, which
I expect to this good hour.’—‘Devil choak thee with islands, thou cursed
cormorant!’ cried the niece: ‘and pray what is an island; is it any
thing to eat, thou gorbellied glutton, ha?’—‘No, not to eat, but to
govern,’ answered Sancho, ‘and a fat government it is. Better than four
cities, or the places of any four of the king’s alcades.’—‘Be that as it
will,’ said the housekeeper, ‘thou shan’t set foot in this house, thou
bag of mischief, and bundle of malice! go and look after thy own family,
fatten thy hogs, and let us hear no more of these islands or oil-lands.’
The curate and barber were highly entertained with this dialogue; but
Don Quixote fearing that Sancho would open his budget, and disburden
himself of some mischievous load of folly, by blabbing things not much
to his credit, called him in, bidding the women hold their tongues, and
give him entrance. Sancho being accordingly admitted, the curate and
barber took their leave of Don Quixote, whose recovery they despaired
of, seeing him so unalterably fixed in his folly, and so wholly
possessed with the frantick spirit of knight-errantry. ‘You shall see,
neighbour,’ said the curate to the barber, ‘that when we least think of
it, this poor gentleman will make another sally.’—‘That I make no doubt
of,’ answered the barber, ‘but I don’t wonder so much at the madness of
the knight, as at the simplicity of the squire, who believes so devoutly
in this island, that I think all the invention of man could not extract
it from his skull.’—‘God mend them!’ replied the curate: ‘meanwhile, let
us keep a strict eye over their behaviour, and observe the operation of
their joint extravagance; for the madness of the master seems to have
been cast in the same mould with the foolishness of the man, and in my
opinion, the one without the other would not be worth a
farthing.’—‘True,’ said the barber; ‘and I should be glad to know what
they are now talking of.’—‘I dare say,’ replied the curate, ‘the niece
and house-keeper will give us a good account of their conversation; for
they are none of those who can resist the opportunity of listening.’
In the mean time, Don Quixote having shut himself up in his apartment
with Sancho, said, ‘It gives me much concern, Sancho, to hear thee say,
as thou dost, that I enticed thee from thy cottage, when thou knowest
that I, at the same time, quitted my own house; together we set out,
lived and travelled together; sharing the same fortune and the same
fate. If thou hast been once tossed in a blanket, I have been bruised an
hundred times; and this is the only pre-eminence I enjoyed.’—‘And that’s
but reasonable,’ replied Sancho, ‘according to your worship’s own
remark, that misfortune belongs more to knights-errant than to their
squires.’—‘There you are mistaken, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for the
Latin adage says, _Quando caput dolet, &c._’—‘Nay,’ quoth Sancho, ‘I
understand no lingo but my mother-tongue.’—‘The meaning,’ said the
master, ‘is, When the head aches, all the members are affected. I,
therefore, as thy lord and master, am thy head, and thou, as my servant,
are a part of me; so that whatever mischief has happened, or may happen
to me, ought to extend to thee likewise, in the same manner as I bear a
share in all thy sufferings.’—‘So it ought to be,’ said Sancho, ‘but
when I, as a member, was tossed in a blanket, my head sat peaceably on
the other side of the wall, and beheld me vaulting in the air, without
feeling the least uneasiness; and since the members are obliged to ache
with the head, I think it is but just that the head should ache with the
members.’—‘How canst thou affirm, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘that I
felt no pain while thou was tossed in the blanket? Say, or think so no
more; for I was, at that time, more afflicted in mind than thou in body.
‘But let us wave this subject for the present, and time will, no doubt,
offer an opportunity of considering it more maturely, and of setting
every thing to rights: and tell me, friend Sancho, how I am spoke of in
this place? What say the vulgar? What character do I bear among the
gentry? and how am I treated by the knights? What is their opinion of my
valour, exploits, and courteous behaviour? and how do they relish the
design I have undertaken of raising and restoring to the world the
long-forgotten order of knight-errantry? In short, Sancho, I desire that
thou wilt inform me of every thing thou hast heard on this subject,
without adding to the good, or subtracting from the evil; it being the
duty of faithful servants to represent the truth to their masters in its
own native form, neither exaggerated by adulation, nor diminished by any
other vain respect: and let me tell thee, Sancho, if the naked truth was
always conveyed to the ears of princes, undisguised by flattery, we
should see better days, and other æras would deserve the name of the
iron age more than the present, which would be justly looked upon as the
age of gold. Remember this advice, Sancho, and inform me with honesty
and discretion, of all that thou knowest in regard to what I have
asked.’—‘That I will with all my heart, Sir,’ answered Sancho, ‘on
condition that your worship won’t be offended with the truth, since you
desire to see it in its nakedness, just as it came to my knowledge.’—‘I
shall not be offended in the least,’ replied Don Quixote: ‘speak
therefore freely, without going about the bush.’
‘Well, then,’ said the squire, ‘in the first place, you must know that
the common people think your worship a stark-staring madman, and me a
most notorious fool: the better sort say, that, scorning the rank of a
private gentleman, you have put Don before your name, and dubbed
yourself knight, with a small garden, a few acres of land, and a doublet
clouted on both sides. The knights, forsooth, are affronted that your
small gentry should pretend to vie with them, especially those needy
squires who sole their own shoes, and darn their black hose with green
silk.’—‘That observation,’ said Don Quixote, ‘cannot affect me; for I
always wear good cloaths, and never appear patched. My doublet may,
indeed, be torn, but then it is by my armour, not by time.’—‘Touching
the valour, courtesy, adventures, and design of your worship,’ said
Sancho, ‘there are different opinions. Some say, he is mad, but a
diverting madman; others allow that he is valiant, but unlucky; a third
set observe that he is courteous, but impertinent; and in this manner we
are handled so severely, that neither your worship nor I have a whole
bone left.’—‘You see, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that whenever virtue
shines in an eminent degree, she always meets with persecution. Few or
none of the celebrated heroes of antiquity could escape the calumnies of
malice: Julius Cæsar, a most daring, wise, and valiant general, was
accused of being ambitious, and not over-cleanly in his customs or
apparel; Alexander, who by his atchievements acquired the name of Great,
was said to be a drunkard; and Hercules, renowned for his labours,
reported to have been lewd and effeminate; Don Galaor, brother of Amadis
de Gaul, was grumbled at for being excessively quarrelsome; and Amadis
himself ridiculed as an arrant whiner. Therefore, son Sancho, among so
many aspersions thrown upon such great men, I may well overlook what is
said against me; since it is no worse than what thou hast
repeated.’—‘That’s the very thing, body of my father!’ replied Sancho.
‘What, is there any thing more!’ said his master. ‘More!’ cried the
squire, ‘the tail is yet unfleaed. What you have heard is but cakes and
gingerbread; but, if your worship would know all the backbitings we
suffer, I will this moment bring hither one who can inform you of every
circumstance, without losing a crumb; for, last night, the son of
Bartholomew Carrasco arrived from Salamanca, where he has been at his
studies, and got a batchelor’s degree; and when I went to welcome him
home, he told me there was a printed book of your worship’s history, in
which you go by the name of The Ingenious Squire Don Quixote de La
Mancha; and that I am mentioned in it by my own name of Sancho Panza, as
well as my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, with other things that passed
between you and me only; at hearing of which I crossed myself through
fear, wondering how they should come to the knowledge of the
historian.’—‘You may depend upon it, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘the
author of our history must be some sage inchanter; for nothing is hid
from writers of that class.’—‘How can he be a sage inchanter,’ said
Sancho, ‘when batchelor Sampson Carrasco (for that’s the name of him who
told me) says the author of our history is called Cid Hamet
Bean-and-jelly?’—‘That name is Moorish,’ replied Don Quixote. ‘Very
like,’ said the squire; ‘for I have often heard, that the Moors are very
fond of beans and jellies.’—‘Thou must certainly be mistaken, Sancho,’
said Don Quixote, ‘in the surname of that Cid, which, in Arabick,
signifies Signior.’—‘Very possible,’ answered the squire; ‘but if your
worship desires to see the batchelor, I will bring him hither in a
twinkling.’—‘Thou wilt oblige me very much, my friend,’ said Don
Quixote; ‘for what thou hast told me has bred such doubts and suspense
within me, that I cannot eat a morsel with any satisfaction, until I am
informed of the whole affair.’—‘Then I’ll go seek him,’ replied Sancho:
who, leaving his master, went in quest of the batchelor, with whom he
returned in a little time, and a most pleasant dialogue ensued.
CHAP. III.
THE LUDICROUS CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE, SANCHO
PANZA, AND THE BATCHELOR SAMPSON CARRASCO.
Don Quixote remained extremely pensive, in expectation of the Batchelor
Sampson Carrasco, from whom he hoped to hear news of himself, in print,
according to Sancho’s information; though he could hardly persuade
himself that there could be such a history extant; the blood of his
enemies whom he had slain, being scarce, as yet, dry upon the blade of
his sword, and yet they would have his high atchievements already
recorded in printed books. He therefore imagined that some sage, either
friend or foe, had cast them off, by the power of inchantment: if a
friend, in order to aggrandize and extol them above the most
distinguished exploits of knight-errantry; if an enemy, to annihilate
and depress them beneath the meanest actions that ever were recorded of
any squire. ‘Although,’ said he, within himself, ‘the deeds of squires
are never committed to writing; and if my history actually exists,
seeing it treats of a knight-errant, it must, of necessity, be pompous,
sublime, surprizing, magnificent, and true.’ This reflection consoled
him a little; but he became uneasy again, when he recollected that his
author was a Moor, as appeared by the name of Cid; and that no truth was
to be expected from that people, who are all false, deceitful, and
chimerical. He was afraid that his amours were treated with some
indecency, that might impair and prejudice the honour of his Lady
Dulcinea del Toboso, wishing for nothing more than a true representation
of his fidelity, and the decorum he always preserved, in refusing
queens, empresses, and damsels of all ranks, thus keeping the impulse of
his passions under the rein. Tossed, therefore, and fluctuating on these
and many other fancies, he was found by Sancho and Carrasco, whom the
knight received with great courtesy.
The batchelor, though his name was Sampson, was not very big, but a
great wag, of a pale complexion and excellent understanding; he was
about the age of four and twenty; had a round visage, flat nose, and
capacious mouth, all symptoms of a mischievous disposition, addicted to
jokes and raillery; as appeared when he approached Don Quixote, before
whom he fell upon his knees, saying, ‘Permit me to kiss your most
puissant hand, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha; for by the habit of St.
Peter, which I wear, though I have received no other orders than the
first four, your worship is one of the most famous knights-errant that
ever were, or ever will be, within the circumference of the globe!
Blessed be Cid Hamet Benengeli, who wrote the history of your greatness!
and thrice blessed that curious person who took care to have it
translated from the Arabick into our mother-tongue, for the
entertainment of mankind!’ Don Quixote, raising him up, said, ‘’Tis
true, then, that there is a history of me, and that the sage who
composed it is a Moor.’—‘So true, Signior,’ said Sampson, ‘that, to my
certain knowledge, there are twelve thousand volumes of it this day in
print; let Portugal, Barcelona, and Valencia, where they were printed,
contradict me if they can. It is even reported to be now in the press at
Antwerp; and I can easily perceive, that there is scarce a nation or
language into which it will not be translated.’—‘One of the things,’
said Don Quixote on this occasion, ‘which ought to afford the greatest
satisfaction to a virtuous and eminent man, is to live and see himself
celebrated in different languages, and his actions recorded in print,
with universal approbation; I say, with approbation; because, to be
represented otherwise, is worse than the worst of deaths.’—‘In point of
reputation and renown,’ said the batchelor, ‘your worship alone bears
away the palm from all other knights-errant; for the Moor in Arabick,
and the Christian in his language, have been careful in painting the
gallantry of your worship to the life; your vast courage in encountering
dangers, your patience in adversity, your fortitude in the midst of
wounds and mischance, together with the honour and chastity of your
platonick love for my Lady Donna Dulcinea del Toboso.’
Here Sancho interposing, said, ‘I never heard my lady called Donna
Dulcinea, but simply the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; so that there the
history is wrong.’—‘That is no material objection,’ answered Carrasco.
‘No, sure,’ replied the knight. ‘But tell me, Mr. Batchelor, which of my
exploits is most esteemed in this history.’—‘As to that particular,’
said the batchelor, ‘there are as many different opinions as there are
different tastes. Some stick to the adventure of the wind-mills, which
to your worship appeared monstrous giants; others, to that of the
fulling-mills; this reader, to the description of the two armies, which
were afterwards metamorphosed into flocks of sheep; while another
magnifies that of the dead body, which was carrying to the place of
interment at Segovia: one says, that the deliverance of the
galley-slaves excels all the rest; and a second affirms, that none of
them equals the adventure of the Benedictine giants, and your battle
with the valiant Biscayner.’
Here Sancho interrupting him again, said, ‘Tell me, Mr. Batchelor, is
the adventure of the Yanguesians mentioned, when our modest Rozinante
longed for green peas in December[131].’—‘Nothing,’ replied Sampson,
‘has escaped the pen of the sage author, who relates every thing most
minutely, even to the capers which honest Sancho cut in the blanket.’—‘I
cut no capers in the blanket,’ answered Sancho; ‘but in the air, I grant
you, I performed more than I desired.’—‘In my opinion,’ said Don
Quixote, ‘there is no human history that does not contain reverses of
fortune, especially those that treat of chivalry, which cannot always be
attended with success.’—‘Nevertheless,’ resumed the batchelor, ‘some who
have read your history, say they should not have been sorry, had the
author forgot a few of those infinite drubbings which, in different
encounters, were bestowed on the great Don Quixote.’—‘But in this
consists the truth of history,’ said the squire.
Don Quixote observed, that they might as well have omitted them; for
those incidents, which neither change nor affect the truth of the story,
ought to be left out, if they tend to depreciate the chief character.
‘Take my word for it,’ said he, ‘Æneas was not so pious as Virgil
represents him, nor Ulysses so prudent as he is exhibited by
Homer,’—‘True,’ said Sampson; ‘but it is one thing to compose as a poet,
and another to record as an historian: the poet may relate or rehearse
things, not as they were, but as they ought to have been; whereas an
historian must transmit them, not as they ought to have been, but
exactly as they were; without adding to, or subtracting the least tittle
from the truth.’—‘Since this Moorish gentleman has told all the truth,’
said Sancho, ‘I don’t doubt that, among the drubbings of my master, he
has mentioned mine also; for they never took the measure of his
shoulders, without crossing my whole body: but at this I ought not to
wonder, since, as he observes, when the head aches, the members ought to
have their share of the pain.’—‘You are a sly rogue, Sancho,’ replied
Don Quixote; ‘and I find you don’t want memory, when you think proper to
use it.’—‘If I had all the mind in the world,’ said Sancho, ‘to forget
the blows I have received, the marks, which are still fresh upon my
carcase, would by no means allow me.’
‘Hold your peace, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘and don’t interrupt Mr.
Batchelor, whom I intreat to proceed; and let me know what more is said
of me in this same history.’—‘Aye, and of me too,’ cried Sancho; ‘who,
they say, am one of the principal personages of it.’—‘You mean persons,
and not personages, friend Sancho,’ said Sampson. ‘What! have we got
another reprimander of words?’ said the squire; ‘since it is come to
this, we shall never have done.’—‘Plague light on me! Sancho!’ replied
the batchelor, ‘if you are not the second person of the history; and
there are many who would rather hear you speak than the first character
in the book; though some there be also, who say you are excessively
credulous, in believing there could be any foundation for the government
of that island, which was promised to you by Signior Don Quixote, here
present.’—‘There is no time lost[132],’ said Don Quixote; ‘while thou
art advancing in years, Sancho, age will bring experience; and then thou
wilt be more qualified and fit to govern than thou art at
present.’—‘’Fore God! Sir,’ said Sancho, ‘the island which I cannot
govern with these years, I shall never govern, were I as old as
Methusalem: the mischief is, that this same island is delayed I don’t
know how; not that I want noddle to govern it.’—‘Recommend it, Sancho,’
said Don Quixote, ‘to the direction of Heaven, which does all for the
best, and may, perhaps, exceed your expectation; for not a leaf can move
upon a tree, without the permission of God.’—‘True,’ said Sampson, ‘if
it be the will of God, Sancho shall not want a thousand islands, much
less one, to govern.’—‘I have seen governors in my time,’ quoth Sancho,
‘who, to my thinking, did not come up to the sole of my shoe, and yet
they were called your lordship, and served in plate.’—‘Those were not
governors of islands,’ replied Sampson, ‘but of other governments more
easily managed; for such as govern islands ought at least to have some
grammatical knowledge.’—‘I know very well how to cram[133],’ said
Sancho; ‘but as to the matted cawl, I will neither meddle nor make,
because I don’t understand it; but leaving this government in the hands
of God, who will dispose of me the best for his own service, I am, Mr.
Batchelor, Sampson Carrasco, infinitely pleased and rejoiced that the
author of our history has spoke of me in such a manner as not to give
offence; for, by the faith of a good squire! if he had said any thing of
me, that did not become an old Christian, as I am, the deaf should have
heard of it.’—‘That were a miracle, indeed!’ answered Sampson. ‘Miracle
or no miracle,’ said Sancho, ‘let every man take care how he speaks or
writes of honest people, and not set down at a venture the first thing
that comes into his jolter-head.’
‘One of the faults that are found with the history,’ added the
batchelor, ‘is, that the author has inserted in it a novel, intitled,
The Impertinent Curiosity. Not that the thing itself is bad, or poorly
executed, but because it is unseasonable, and has nothing to do with the
story of his worship Signior Don Quixote.’—‘I’ll lay a wager,’ cried
Sancho, ‘that this son of a cur has made a strange hodge-podge of the
whole.’—‘Now I find,’ said the knight, ‘that the author of my history is
no sage, but some ignorant prater, who, without either judgment or
premeditation, has undertaken to write it at random, like Orbaneja the
painter of Ubeda, who being asked what he painted, answered, “Just as it
happens;” and when he would sometimes scrawl out a misshapen cock, was
fain to write under it in Gothick letters, “This is a cock;” and my
history being of the same kind, will need a commentary to make it
intelligible.’—‘Not at all,’ answered Sampson, ‘it is already so plain,
that there is not the least ambiguity in it; the very children handle
it, boys read it, men understand, and old people applaud it: in short,
it is so thumbed, so read, so well known by every body, that no sooner a
meagre horse appears, than they say, “There goes Rozinante!”, but those
who peruse it most, are your pages; you cannot go into a nobleman’s
antichamber where you won’t find a Don Quixote, which is no sooner laid
down by one, than another takes it up, some struggling, and some
intreating for a sight of it; in fine, this history is the most
delightful and least prejudicial entertainment that ever was seen; for
in the whole book there is not the least shadow of a dishonourable word,
nor one thought unworthy of a good Catholick.’—‘To write otherwise,’
said Don Quixote, ‘were not to publish truth, but to propagate lyes; and
those historians who deal in such, ought to be burnt like coiners of
false money; but I cannot imagine what induced the author to avail
himself of novels and stories that did not belong to the subject, when
he had such a fund of my adventures to relate: he, doubtless, stuck to
the proverb, So the gizzard is crammed, it matters not how[134]; for
truly, had he confined himself to the manifestation of my reveries, my
sighs, my tears, my benevolence, and undertakings, he might have
compiled a volume larger, or as large, as all the works of Tostatus
bound together[135]. Really, Mr. Batchelor, according to my
comprehension, it requires great judgment, and a ripe understanding, to
compose histories, or indeed any books whatever; for to write with
elegance and wit, is the province of great geniuses only. The wittiest
person in the comedy is he that plays the fool; for he must be no
simpleton who can exhibit a diverting representation of folly. History
is a sacred subject, because the soul of it is truth; and where truth
is, there the divinity will reside: yet there are some who compose and
cast off books, as if they were tossing up a dish of pancakes.’
‘There is no book so bad,’ said the batchelor, ‘but you may find
something good in it.’—‘Doubtless,’ replied the knight; ‘but it
frequently happens, that those who have deservedly purchased and
acquired great reputation by their writings, lose it all, or at least
forfeit a part of it, in printing them.’—‘The reason,’ said Sampson,
‘is, that printed works are perused with leisure, consequently their
faults easily observed; and the greater the reputation of the author is,
the more severely are they scrutinized: men celebrated for their genius,
great poets, and illustrious historians, are, for the most part, if not
always, envied by those whose pleasure and particular entertainment
consists in criticising the works of others, without having obliged the
world with any thing of their own.’—‘That is not to be wondered at,’
said Don Quixote; ‘for there are many theologists who make but a poor
figure in the pulpit, and yet are excellent in discerning the faults and
superfluities of those who preach well.’—‘That is all true, Signior Don
Quixote,’ said Carrasco; ‘and I could wish that those censurers were
either a little more compassionate, or something less scrupulous, than
to insist upon such blemishes of the work they decry, as may be compared
to little spots in the sun, and as _aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus_,
consider how long the author watched, in order to display the light of
his performance, with as little shade as possible. Perhaps, too, those
things which disgust them are no other than moles, that sometimes add to
the beauty of the face on which they grow; and therefore I affirm, that
he who publishes a book runs an immense risk; because it is absolutely
impossible to compose such an one as will please and entertain every
reader.’—‘I believe few will relish that which treats of me,’ said the
knight. ‘Quite the contrary,’ answered Sampson; ‘for, as _stultorum
infinitus est numerus_, the number of those who are delighted with your
history is infinite; though some accuse the author’s memory as false or
faulty, because he has forgot to tell who the thief was that stole
Sancho’s Dapple, of whom there was not a word mentioned: we can only
infer from the history, that he was stolen; and by-and-by we find the
squire mounted on the same beast, without knowing how he was retrieved.
They say, likewise, that he has omitted telling what Sancho did with
those hundred crowns which he found in the portmanteau, in Sierra
Morena; and which are never mentioned though many people desire to know
what use he made of them; and this is one of the chief defects in the
work.’
‘Mr. Sampson,’ answered the squire, ‘I am not in an humour at present to
give accounts and reckonings of that affair; for I feel a certain
qualmishness in my stomach, and if I don’t recruit it with a couple of
draughts of old stingo, I shall be in most grievous taking[136]; I have
the cordial at home, and my dame waits for me; but when I have filled my
belly, I will return and satisfy your worship, and all the world, in
whatever they shall desire to ask, both with regard to the loss of my
beast, and the spending of the hundred crowns.’ So, without expecting a
reply, or speaking another word, he hied him home, while Don Quixote
desired and intreated the batchelor to stay and do penance with him. The
batchelor accepted the invitation, and stayed; a pair of pigeons was
added to the knight’s ordinary; he talked of nothing but chivalry at
table, and Carrasco encouraged the discourse. The repast ended, they
took their afternoon’s nap, Sancho returned, and the former conversation
was renewed.
Footnote 131:
_Pedir cotufas en el golfo_, signifies to look for tartuffles in the
sea; a proverb applicable to those who are too sanguine in their
expectations, and unreasonable in their desires.
Footnote 132:
_Aun ay sol en las bardas._ There is still sun-shine on the wall, i.
e. It is not yet too late.
Footnote 133:
Finding it impossible to translate the original pun or blunder, I have
substituted another in its room, on the word Grammatical, which I
think has at least an equally good effect.
Footnote 134:
The original is, ‘_De paja, y di beno, el jergonelleno_;’ i. e. ‘The
bed is filled, though it be with hay and straw.’
Footnote 135:
Alphonsus Tostatus, bishop of Avila, was said to have known every
thing that could be known. He made a figure at the council of Basil;
wrote twenty-seven volumes; and dying in the fortieth year of his age,
was interred in the church of Avila, with this epitaph:——_Hic stupor
est mundi, qui scibile discutit omne._
Footnote 136:
In Spanish, _Me pondra en la espina de Santa Lucia_; i. e. ‘Will put
me on St. Lucia’s thorn:’ applicable to any uneasy situation.
CHAP. IV.
IN WHICH SANCHO PANZA SATISFIES THE DOUBTS,
AND ANSWERS THE QUESTIONS OF BATCHELOR SAMPSON CARRASCO;
WITH OTHER INCIDENTS WORTHY TO BE RECITED AND KNOWN.
Sancho returning to his master’s house, resumed the former conversation,
to gratify Mr. Sampson, who said he wanted to know when, in what manner,
and by whom his ass had been stolen; ‘You must know, then,’ said he,
‘that very night we fled from the holy brotherhood, and got into the
Brown Mountain, after the misventuresome adventure of the galley-slaves,
and the corpse that was carrying to Segovia, we took up our quarters in
a thicket, where my master and I, being both fatigued, and sorely
bruised in the frays we had just finished, went to rest, he leaning upon
his lance, and I lolling upon Dapple, as if we had been stretched upon
four feather-beds; I, in particular, slept so sound, that the thief,
whosoever he was, had an opportunity of coming and propping me up with
four stakes, fixed under the corner of my pannel, on which I was left
astride; so that he slipped Dapple from under me, without my perceiving
it in the least.’—‘And this is no difficult matter, nor new device,’
said Don Quixote; ‘for the same thing happened to Sacripante at the
siege of Albraca, where, by this contrivance, his horse was stolen from
between his legs by the famous robber Brunelo[137].’—‘When morning
came,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘I no sooner began to stretch myself, than the
stakes gave way, and down I came to the ground with a vengeance; I
looked for my beast, and finding he was gone, the tears gushed from my
eyes, and I set up a lamentation, which, if the author of our history
has not set down, you may depend upon it, he hath neglected a very
excellent circumstance; a good many days after this mischance, as I
chanced to be travelling with my lady the Princess Micomicona, descrying
a person riding towards me in the habit of a gypsy, I immediately knew
my own ass, and discovered the rider to be Gines de Passamonte, that
impostor and notorious malefactor, whom my master and I delivered from
the galley-chain.’
‘The error lies not in that part of the history,’ replied the batchelor,
‘but consists in the author’s saying that Sancho rode on the same ass,
before it appears that he had retrieved him.’—‘As so that affair,’ said
the squire, ‘I can give you no satisfactory answer; perhaps it was an
oversight in the historian, or owing to the carelessness of the
printer.’—‘Doubtless it was so,’ replied Sampson; ‘but what became of
those hundred crowns? were they laid up or laid out?’—‘I laid them out,’
answered Sancho, ‘in necessaries for my own person, my wife, and
children; and those crowns were the cause of my gossip’s bearing
patiently my ramblings and rovings in the service of my lord and master
Don Quixote; for if, after such a long absence, I had come home without
my ass, and never a cross in my pocket, I might have expected a welcome
the wrong way. Now, if you have any thing else to ask, here I am ready
to answer the king in person; and it matters not to any person, whether
I did or did not bring them home, or whether I spent them or lent them;
for if the blows I have received in our peregrinations were to be repaid
with money, rated at no more than four maravedis a piece, another
hundred crowns would not quit one half of the score; therefore, let
every man lay his hand upon his heart, and not pretend to mistake an
hawk for a hand-saw[138]; for we are all as God made us, and a great
many of us much worse.’
‘I will take care,’ said Carrasco, ‘to apprize the author of the
history, that if it should come to another edition, he may not forget to
insert what honest Sancho observes, as it will not a little contribute
to raise the value of the work.’—‘Mr. Batchelor,’ said the knight, ‘did
you, in reading it, perceive any thing else that ought to be
amended?’—‘There might be some things altered for the better,’ replied
Carrasco; ‘but none of such consequence as those already
mentioned.’—‘And pray,’ resumed Don Quixote, ‘does the author promise a
second part?’—‘Yes,’ said Sampson, ‘but he says he has not yet found it,
nor does he know in whose possession it is; so that we are still in
doubt, whether or not it will see the light: on that account, therefore,
and likewise because some people say, that second parts are never good,
while others observe, that too much already hath been written concerning
Don Quixote, it is believed that there will be no second part; though
there is a a third sort more jovial than wise, who cry, “Quixote for
ever! let the knight engage, and Sancho Panza harangue; come what will,
we shall be satisfied.”’—‘And how does the author seem inclined?’ said
the knight. ‘How?’ answered Carrasco, ‘to set the press a-going, as soon
as he can find the history, for which he is now searching with all
imaginable diligence; thereto swayed by interest, more than by any
motive of praise.’—‘Since the author keeps interest and money in his
eye,’ said Sancho, ‘it will be a wonder if he succeeds; for he’ll do
nothing but hurry, hurry, like a taylor on Easter-eve; and your works
that are trumped up in a haste, are never finished with that perfection
they require; I would have Mr. Moor take care, and consider what he is
about; for my master and I will furnish him with materials, in point of
adventures and different events, sufficient to compose not only one, but
a hundred second parts. What! I suppose the honest man thinks we are now
sleeping among straw; but let him lift up our feet, and then he will see
which of them wants to be shod; all that I shall say is, if my master
had taken my advice, we might have been already in the fields,
redressing grievances, and righting wrongs, according to the use and
custom of true knights-errant.’
Scarce had Sancho pronounced these last words, when their ears were
saluted by the neighing of Rozinante, which Don Quixote considered as a
most happy omen, and determined in three or four days to set out on his
third expedition; accordingly, he declared his intention to the
batchelor, whose advice he asked with regard to the route he should
take. Sampson said, that in his opinion, he ought to direct his course
towards the kingdom of Arragon, and go to Saragossa, where, in a few
days, was to be held a most solemn tournament on the festival of St.
George; there he would have an opportunity of winning the palm from the
Arragonian knights, which would raise his reputation above that of all
the champions upon earth: he applauded his design as a most valiant and
honourable determination, and begged he would be more cautious in
encountering dangers, because his life was not his own, but the property
of all those who had occasion for protection and succour in distress.
‘That is the very thing I repose, Mr. Sampson,’ said the squire; ‘for my
master thinks no more of attacking a hundred men in arms, than a hungry
boy would think of swallowing half a dozen pippins[139]. Body of the
universe! Mr. Batchelor, if there are times for attacking, there are
also seasons for retreating; the cry must not always be “St. Jago!
charge, Spain[140]!” especially as I have heard, and, if I remember
aright, my master himself has often observed, that valour lies in the
middle, between the extremes of cowardice and rashness; this being the
case, I would not have him fly without good reason, nor give the assault
when he is likely to be overpowered by numbers; but, above all things, I
give my master notice, that if he carries me along with him, it shall be
on condition that he fight all the battles himself, and I be obliged to
do nothing, but tend his person, that is, take care of his belly, and
keep him sweet and clean; in which case, I will jig it away with
pleasure[141]; but to think that I will put hand to sword, even against
base-born plebeians with cap and hatchet, is a wild imagination: for my
own part, Mr. Sampson, I do not pretend to the reputation of being
valiant, but of being the best and loyalest squire that ever served a
knight-errant; and if my master Don Quixote, in consideration of my
great and faithful services, shall be pleased to bestow upon me one of
those many islands which his worship says will fall in his way, I shall
very thankfully receive the favour; and even if he should not keep his
word, here stand I, simple as I am, and one man must not depend upon
another, but trust in God alone; besides, the bread I eat, without a
government, mayhap will relish better than the dainties of a governor;
and how do I know but the devil may, in these governments, raise some
stumbling-block, over which I shall fall and beat out my grinders?
Sancho I was born, and Sancho will I die; but, nevertheless, if by the
favour of Providence, I could fairly and softly, without much risk or
anxiety, obtain an island, or some such matter, I am not such a ninny as
to throw it away; for, as the saying is, When the heifer is offered, be
ready with the rope; and, When good fortune comes to thy door, be sure
to bid it welcome.’
‘Brother Sancho,’ said the batchelor, ‘you have spoke like a professor;
but for all that, put your trust in God, and Signior Don Quixote, who
instead of an island, will give you a whole kingdom.’—‘The one as likely
as the other,’ answered Sancho; ‘though I dare venture to assure Signior
Carrasco, that the kingdom, which my master shall bestow upon me, will
not be put into a rotten sack; for I have felt my own pulse, and find
myself in health sufficient to rule kingdoms and govern islands, as I
have, upon many other occasions, hinted to my master.’—‘Consider,
Sancho,’ said the batchelor, ‘that honours often change the disposition;
and, perhaps, when you come to be governor, you will not know the mother
that bore you.’—‘That may be the case,’ answered the squire, ‘with those
who were born among mallows; but not with me, who have got four inches
of old christian suet on my ribs; then if you come to consider my
disposition, you will find I am incapable of behaving ungratefully to
any person whatever.’—‘God grant it to be so,’ said the knight; ‘but
this will appear when you arrive at the government, which methinks I
have already in mine eye.’
He then intreated the batchelor, if he was a poet, to favour him with a
copy of verses on his intended parting from his mistress Dulcinea del
Toboso, and desired that every line might begin with a letter of her
name, so that the initials being joined together, might make Dulcinea
del Toboso. Carrasco, though he owned he was not one of the famous poets
of Spain, who were said to be but three and a half[142], promised to
compose such an acrostick as he desired, which, by the bye, he foresaw
would be no easy task, because the name consisted of seventeen letters,
and if he should make four stanzas of four lines each, one must be left
out; or should they be composed of five, called decimas or roundelays,
three letters would be wanting to compleat the number; however, he would
endeavour to sink one letter as much as he could, so that in four
stanzas the name Dulcinea del Toboso should be included. ‘That must be
done, at all events,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for if the name be not plain
and manifest, no woman will believe that she was the subject of the
poem.’ This affair being thus settled, as also the time of their
departure, which was fixed at the distance of eight days, Don Quixote
charged the batchelor to keep it secret, especially from the curate, Mr.
Nicholas, his niece, and housekeeper, that they might not obstruct his
honourable and valiant determination. Carrasco, having promised to
observe this caution, took his leave of the knight, whom he begged to
favour him on every occasion, with an account of his good or evil
fortune; and Sancho went home, to provide every thing necessary for
their expedition.
Footnote 137:
As related in the famous poem of Orlando Inamorato, composed by
Boyardo, of which the Orlando Furioso of Ariosto is the continuation.
Footnote 138:
In the original, ‘Black for white.’
Footnote 139:
Literally, _badeas_, a kind of water melon.
Footnote 140:
This is the cry uttered by the Spaniards when they charge in battle.
Footnote 141:
_Baylar el agua delante_, is a phrase applicable to those who do their
duty with alacrity, taken from the practice of watering the courts in
Spain, an office which the maids perform with a motion that resembles
dancing.
Footnote 142:
Alonzo de Ercilla, author of the Auraucana; Juan Rufo de Cordova,
author of the Austriada; Christopher Verves de Valentia, author of the
Monserratte; and as for the half, Cervantes in all probability meant
himself.
CHAP. V.
OF THE SAGE AND PLEASANT DIALOGUE BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA
AND HIS WIFE TERESA PANZA,
WITH OTHER INCIDENTS WORTHY TO BE MOST HAPPILY RECORDED.
The translator says he looks upon this chapter as apocryphal, because it
represents Sancho Panza speaking in a stile quite different from that
which might be expected from his shallow understanding, and making such
ingenious observations, as he thinks it impossible he should know; but
he would not leave it out, that he might punctually perform the duty of
a faithful translator, and therefore proceeds in these words.
Sancho returned to his own house in such high spirits, that his wife
perceived his gaiety at the distance of a bow shot, and could not help
saying, ‘What is the matter, friend Sancho, that you seem so joyful?’ To
this question the squire answered, ‘An it pleased God, wife, I should be
very glad if I were not so joyful as I seem to be.’—‘Truly, husband,’
replied Teresa[143], ‘I don’t understand you; and cannot conceive what
you mean, by saying you should be very glad, an it pleased God, you were
not so joyful; for, simple though I be, I am always glad with what makes
me joyful.’—‘Mark me, Teresa,’ said the squire, ‘I am rejoiced, because
it is determined that I shall return to the service of my master Don
Quixote, who is going to make a third sally in quest of adventures, and
I must accompany him in his expedition; for so my destiny will have it,
together with the comfortable and lively hope of finding another hundred
crowns like those I have expended: on the other hand, sorry am I to part
with thee and my children; and if God would permit me to eat my bread
dry-shod at home, without dragging me over clifts and cross-paths; (and
this might be done at a small expence, if he would only say the word) it
is plain that my joy would be more firm and perfect; whereas that which
I feel at present, is mingled with the melancholy thoughts of leaving
thee, my duck; wherefore I justly said I should be glad, an it pleased
God, I were less joyful.’—‘Verily, Sancho,’ said his wife, ‘ever since
you made yourself a member of knight-errantry, you talk in such a
round-about manner, that there is no understanding what you say.’—‘Let
it suffice,’ answered the squire, ‘that I am understood by God, who is
the understander of all things; and there let it rest: meanwhile, take
notice, gossip, it will be convenient for you to tend Dapple for these
two or three days with special care; let his allowance be doubled, that
he may be enabled to carry arms; and look out for the pannel and the red
of the tackle, for we are not going to a wedding, but to traverse the
globe, and give and take dry blows with your giants, dragons, and
hobgoblins, and hear nothing but hissing, roaring, bellowing, and
bleating; and all this would be but flowers of lavender, were it not our
doom to encounter with Yanguesians and inchanted Moors.’—‘I very well
believe that squires-errant do not eat the bread of idleness,’ replied
Teresa; ‘and therefore, husband, I shall continually pray to our Lord,
to deliver you from such misfortunes.’—‘I tell thee, wife,’ said Sancho,
‘if I did not expect to see myself in a little time governor of an
island, I should drop down dead upon the spot.’—‘By no means, dear
husband,’ cried Teresa, ‘Let the hen live, though she have the pip; and
I hope you will live, though the devil run away with all the governments
upon earth; without a government did you come from your mother’s womb;
without a government have you lived to this good hour; and without a
government shall you go or be carried to your grave, in God’s own time:
there are many in the world who have no governments, and yet, for all
that, they live and are numbered among the people. Hunger is the best
sauce, and as that is never wanting among the poor, they always relish
what they eat; but take care, Sancho, if you come to a government, that
you do not forget me and your children: consider, Sanchico has already
fifteen good years over his head, and that it is time for him to go to
school, if in case his uncle the abbot has a mind to breed him to the
church: consider too, that your daughter Mary Sancha, will not break her
heart if we marry her, for I am much mistaken if she does not long for a
husband, as much as you do for a government; and the short and long of
it is, you had better have your daughter ill buckled as a wife, than
well kept as a concubine.’
‘Take my word for it,’ answered Sancho, ‘if by the blessing of God I
come to any sort of government, I intend, my dear, to match Mary Sancha
so high, that nobody shall come near her, without calling her, _your
ladyship_.’—‘Never think of that, Sancho!’ cried Teresa, ‘match her with
her equal, which will be more prudent than to raise her from clogs to
pattens, from good fourteen-penny hoyden grey, to farthingales and
petticoats of silk, and from _Molly_ and _thou_, to _Donna_ and _my lady
such-a-one_; the girl’s head would be quite turned, and she would be
continually falling into some blunder, that would discover the coarse
thread of her home-spun breeding.’—‘Shut that foolish mouth of thine,’
said Sancho; ‘in two or three years practice, quality and politeness
will become quite familiar to her; or, if they should not, what does it
signify? Let her first be a lady, and then happen what will.’—‘Meddle,
Sancho, with those of your own station,’ replied Teresa, ‘and seek not
to lift your head too high; but remember the proverb that says, When
your neighbour’s son comes to the door, wipe his nose, and take him in.
It would be a fine thing, truly, to match our Mary with a great count or
cavalier, who would, when he should take it in his head, look upon her
as a monster, and call her country wench, and clod-breaker’s and
hemp-spinner’s brat; that shall never happen in my life time, husband;
it was not for that I brought up my child; do you find a portion, and as
to her marriage, leave that to my care; there is Lope Tocho, old John
Tocho’s son, a jolly young fellow, stout and wholesome, whom we all
know, and I can perceive that he has no dislike to the girl; besides, he
being our equal, she will be very well matched with him; for we shall
always have them under our eye, and the two families will live together,
parents and children, sons-in-law and grandsons, and the peace and
blessing of God will dwell amongst us; wherefore you shall not match me
her in your courts and grand palaces, where she will neither understand
nor be understood.’—‘Hark ye, you beast and yoke-fellow for Barrabas!’
replied Sancho, ‘why wouldst thou now, without rhime or reason, prevent
me from matching my daughter, so as that my grand-children shall be
persons of quality? remember, Teresa, I have often heard my elders and
betters observe, He that’s coy when fortune’s kind, may after seek but
never find. And should not I be to blame, if, now that she knocks at my
door, I should bolt it against her? Let us, therefore, take the
advantage of the favourable gale that blows.’
It was this uncommon stile, with what Sancho says below, that induced
the translator to pronounce the whole chapter apocryphal.
‘Can’t you perceive, animal, with half an eye,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘that
I shall act wisely, in devoting this body of mine to some beneficial
government that will lift us out of the dirt, and enable me to match
Mary Sancha according to my own good pleasure: then wilt thou hear
thyself called Donna Teresa Panza, and find thyself seated at church
upon carpets, cushions, and tapestry, in despite and defiance of all the
small gentry in the parish; and not be always in the same moping
circumstances, without increase or diminution, like a picture in the
hangings: but no more of this; Sanchica shall be a countess, though thou
shouldst cry thy heart out.’—‘Look before you leap, husband,’ answered
Teresa: ‘after all, I wish to God this quality of my daughter may not be
the cause of her perdition; take your own way, and make her dutchess or
princess, or what you please, but I’ll assure you, it shall never be
with my consent or good will; I was always a lover of equality, my dear,
and can’t bear to see people hold their heads high without reason.
Teresa was I christened, a bare and simple name, without the addition,
garniture, and embroidery of Don or Donna; my father’s name is Cascajo,
and mine, as being your spouse, Teresa Panza, though by rights I should
be called Teresa Cascajo: but as the king minds, the law binds; and with
that name am I contented, though it be not burdened with a Don, which
weighs so heavy, that I should not be able to bear it; neither will I
put it in the power of those who see me dressed like a countess or
governor’s lady, to say, “Mind Mrs. Porkfeeder; how proud she looks! it
was but yesterday she toiled hard at the distaff, and went to mass with
the tail of her gown about her head, instead of a veil: but now,
forsooth, she has got her fine farthingales and jewels, and holds up her
head as if we did not know her.” If God preserve me in my seven or five
senses, or as many as they be, I shall never bring myself into such a
quandary: as for your part, spouse, you may go to your governments and
islands, and be as proud as a peacock; but as for my daughter and me, by
the life of my father! we will not stir one step from the village; for,
The wife that deserves a good name, stays at home as if she were lame;
and, The maid must be still a doing, that hopes to see the men come a
wooing. You and Don Quixote may therefore go to your adventures, and
leave us to our misventures; for God will better our condition, if we
deserve his mercy; though truly I cannot imagine who made him a Don; I
am sure, neither his father nor grandfather had any such title.’—‘I tell
thee, wife,’ replied the squire, ‘thou hast certainly got some devil in
that carcase of thine; the Lord watch over thee, woman! what a deal of
stuff hast thou been tacking together, without either head or tail? What
the devil has your Cascajos, jewels, proverbs, and pride, to do with
what I have been saying? Heark ye, you ignorant beast, for such I may
call thee, as thou hast neither capacity to understand my discourse, nor
prudence to make sure of good fortune when it lies in thy way, were I to
say, that my daughter shall throw herself from the top of a steeple, or
go strolling about the world, like the Infanta Donna Uraca, thou wouldst
have reason to contradict my pleasure; but if, in two turnings of a ball
and one twinkling of an eye, our good fortune should lay a title across
our shoulders, and raising thee from the stubble, set thee in a chair of
state, under a canopy, or lay thee upon a sofa, consisting of more
velvet almohadas[144], than there are Moors in all the family of the
Almohadas in Morocco; wherefore wouldst not thou consent, and with me
enjoy the good-luck that falls?’—‘I’ll tell thee wherefore, husband,’
replied Teresa, ‘because, as the saying is, What covers, discovers thee;
the eyes of people always run slightly over the poor, but make an halt
to examine the rich; and if a person so examined was once poor, then
comes the grumbling and the slandering; and he is persecuted by
back-biters, who swarm in our streets like bees.’
‘Give ear, Teresa, and listen to what I am going to say,’ answered
Sancho: ‘for mayhap thou hast never heard such a thing in all the days
of thy life; and I do not now pretend to speak from my own reflection,
but to repeat the remarks of the good father who preached last Lent in
our village. He said, if I right remember, that all objects present to
the view, exist, and are impressed upon the imagination, with much
greater energy and force, than those which we only remember to have
seen.’ (The arguments here used by Sancho, contributed also to make the
translator believe this chapter apocryphal; because they seem to exceed
the capacity of the squire, who proceeded thus:) ‘From whence it
happens, that when we see any person magnificently dressed, and
surrounded with the pomp of servants, we find ourselves invited, and, as
it were, compelled to pay him respect; although the memory should, at
that instant, represent to us some mean circumstances of his former
life; because that defect, whether in point of family or fortune, is
already past and removed, and we only regard what is present to our
view; and if the person, whom fortune hath thus raised from the lowness
of oblivion to the height of prosperity, be well-bred, liberal, and
courteous, without pretending to vie with the ancient nobility, you may
take it for granted, Teresa, that nobody will remember what he was, but
reverence what he now is, except the children of Envy, from whom no
thriving person is secure.’—‘I really do not understand you,’ said
Teresa: ‘you may do what you will; but seek not to distract my brain
with your rhetorick and harranguing, for if you be revolved to do what
you say—’ ‘You must call it resolved, woman, and not revolved,’ cried
Sancho. ‘Never plague yourself to dispute with me, husband,’ answered
Teresa: ‘I speak as God pleases, and meddle not with other people’s
concerns. If you are obstinately bent upon this same government, I
desire you will carry your son Sancho along with you, and from this hour
teach him the art of that profession; for it is but reasonable that the
sons should inherit and learn the trade of their fathers.’—‘As soon as I
have obtained my government,’ said Sancho, ‘I will send the money for
him by the post, as by that time I shall have plenty; for there are
always people in abundance that will lend to a governor who has no money
of his own; and be sure you cloath him in such a manner as to disguise
his present condition, and make him appear like what he is to be.’—‘Send
you the money,’ answered Teresa, ‘and I will dress him up like any
branch of palm[145].’—‘Well, then,’ said Sancho, ‘we are agreed about
making our daughter a countess——’ ‘That day I behold her a countess,’
cried the wife, ‘I shall reckon her dead and buried; but, I tell you
again, you may use your pleasure: for we women are born to be obedient
to our husbands, though they are no better than blocks.’
So saying, she began to weep as bitterly as if she had actually seen her
daughter laid in her grave. Sancho consoled her, by saying, that
although she must be a countess, he would defer her promotion as long as
he could. Thus ended the conversation, and the squire went back to Don
Quixote to concert measures for their speedy departure.
Footnote 143:
Sancho’s wife has already been mentioned under the names of Juana and
Mary, and now she is called Teresa.
Footnote 144:
Almohada signifies a cushion.
Footnote 145:
Alluding to the bough that is adorned and carried in procession on
Palm Sunday.
CHAP. VI.
OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE,
HIS NIECE, AND HOUSEKEEPER,
BEING ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT CHAPTERS OF THE WHOLE HISTORY.
While this impertinent conversation passed between Sancho Panza and his
wife Teresa Cascajo, Don Quixote’s niece and housekeeper were not idle;
for, collecting from a thousand symptoms that their master wanted to
give them the slip a third time, and return to the exercise of his
unlucky knight-errantry, they endeavoured, by all possible means, to
divert him from his extravagant design; but all they could say was like
preaching to the desart, or hammering cold iron. However, among many
other arguments, the housekeeper said to him, ‘As I hope to be saved,
dear master, if your worship will not settle at home in your own house,
but are resolved to stray about the mountains and vallies, like a
troubled ghost, in quest of what you term adventures, but what I call
mischances, I will complain in person, and raise up my voice to God and
the king, that they may apply some remedy to your disorder.’ To this
declaration, the knight replied, ‘Mrs. Housekeeper, how God will accept
of thy complaints I know not; neither can I guess in what manner his
majesty will answer thy petition: this only I know, that if I were king,
I would excuse myself from answering that infinite number of impertinent
memorials which are daily presented; for one of the greatest of the many
fatigues that attend royalty, is that of being obliged to listen and
reply to all petitions; therefore I would not have his majesty troubled
with any affair of mine.’—‘Pray, Sir,’ said the housekeeper, ‘are there
no knights at court?’—‘Yes, there are many,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘and
it is reasonable, that there should be always a good number in
attendance to adorn the court, and support the pomp and magnificence of
majesty.’—‘Would it not be better, then, for your worship,’ replied the
matron, ‘to be one of that number, and serve your king and master
quietly and safely at court?’—‘You must know, good woman,’ said Don
Quixote, ‘all knights cannot be courtiers; neither can or ought all
courtiers to be knights errant: there ought to be plenty of both; and
though we are all knights, there is a great difference between the one
sort and the other; your courtiers, without crossing the thresholds of
their own apartments, travel over the world, in maps, gratis, and never
know what it is to suffer either heat, cold, hunger, or thirst, in their
journey; whereas, we real knights-errant measure the whole globe with
our own footsteps, exposed night and day, on horse-back and a-foot, to
the summer’s sun and winter’s cold, and all the inclemencies of the
weather; we not only seek to see the picture, but the person of our foe,
and on all emergencies and occasions attack him, without paying any
regard to the trifling rules of challenges; whether, for example, his
sword and lance be shorter or longer than our own; whether he wears
about him any relick or secret coat of mail; or whether the sun and wind
be equally divided; with other ceremonies of that nature, which are
usually observed in duelling, and which, though I know them punctually,
thou art little acquainted with: thou must also know, that a good
knight-errant, though he sees ten giants, whose heads not only touch,
but overtop the clouds, with legs like lofty steeples, and arms
resembling the masts of vast and warlike ships; while each eye, as large
as a mill-wheel, beams and burns like a glass furnace, is by no means
confounded or abashed; but, on the contrary, with genteel demeanour, and
intrepid heart, approaches, assaults, and, if possible, vanquishes and
overthrows them in a twinkling, though they are armed with the shell of
a certain fish, said to be harder than adamant; and instead of a sword,
use a keen scymitar of damasked steel, or a huge club, armed with a
point of the same metal, as I have seen on a dozen different occasions.
All this I have mentioned, good woman, that thou mayest see what
difference there is between knights of different orders; and every
prince ought, in reason, to pay greater respect to his second, or rather
this first species of knights-errant, among whom, as we read in history,
there have been some who were the bulwarks not only of one, but of many
kingdoms.’
‘Ah, dear Sir,’ cried the niece, interrupting him, ‘consider that all
those stories of knights-errant are nothing but lyes and invention; and
every one of the books that contain them deserves, if not to be burnt,
at least to wear a _san benito_[146], or some other badge, by which it
may be known for an infamous perverter of virtue and good sense.’—‘By
the God that protects me!’ cried the knight, ‘wert thou not undoubtedly
my niece, as being my own sister’s child, I would chastise thee in such
a manner, for the blasphemy thou hast uttered, that the whole world
would resound with the example. How! shall a pert baggage, who has
scarce capacity enough to manage a dozen lace bobbins, dare to wag her
tongue in censuring the histories of knights-errant? What would Signior
Amadis say to such presumption? But, surely, he would forgive thy
arrogance; for he was the most humble and courteous knight of his time,
and besides the particular champion and protector of damsels: but thou
mightest have been heard by another who would not treat thee so gently;
for all are not affable and well-bred; on the contrary, some there are
extremely brutal and impolite. All those who call themselves knights,
are not entitled to that distinction; some being of pure gold, and
others of baser metal, notwithstanding the denomination they assume. But
these last cannot stand the touchstone of truth: there are many
plebeians, who sweat and struggle to maintain the appearance of
gentlemen; and, on the other hand, there are gentlemen of rank who seem
industrious to appear mean and degenerate; the one sort raise themselves
either by ambition or virtue, while the other abase themselves by
viciousness or sloth; so that we must avail ourselves of our
understanding and discernment, in distinguishing those persons, who,
though they bear the same appellation, are yet so different in point of
character.’—‘Good God!’ said the niece, ‘that your worship should be so
learned, that even, if need were, you might mount the pulpit, or go a
preaching in the streets, and yet remain in such woeful blindness and
palpable folly, as to persuade the world that you are a valiant and
vigorous righter of wrongs, when you are old, feeble, and almost
crippled with age; but, above all things, to give yourself out for a
knight, when you are no such thing; for, though rich gentlemen may be
knighted, poor gentlemen, like you, seldom are.’
‘There is a good deal of truth in what thou hast observed, cousin,’
replied Don Quixote; ‘and I could tell thee such things, concerning
families, as would raise thine admiration; but these I suppress, that I
may not seem to mix what’s human with what’s divine. Take notice,
however, my friends, and be attentive to what I am going to say: all the
families in the world may be reduced to four kinds, which are these; one
that, from low beginnings, hath extended and dilated to a pitch of power
and greatness; another, that from great beginnings hath continued to
preserve and maintain its original importance; a third, that from vast
beginnings hath ended in a point, diminishing and decaying from its
foundation, into an inconsiderable point like that of a pyramid, which
in respect of its base, is next kin to nothing; a fourth, and that the
most numerous, had neither a good foundation, nor reasonable
superstructure, and therefore sinks into oblivion, unobserved; such are
the families of plebeians and ordinary people. The first, that from low
beginnings hath mounted to power and greatness, which it preserves to
this day, is exemplified in the house of Ottoman, that from an humble
shepherd, who gave rise to it, attained that pinnacle of grandeur on
which it now stands; the second sort of pedigree, that without
augmentation hath preserved its original importance, is exhibited in the
persons of many princes, who are such by inheritance; and support their
rank without addition or diminution, containing themselves peaceably
within the limits of their own dominions; of those who, from illustrious
beginnings, have dwindled into a point, there are a thousand examples in
the Pharaohs and Ptolemeys of Egypt, the Cæsars of Rome, with all the
tribe, if they may be so called, of our Median, Assyrian, Persian,
Greek, and Barbarian princes, monarchs, and great men. All these
families and states, together with their founders, have ended in a very
inconsiderable point; since, at this day, it is impossible to trace out
one of their descendants; or, if we could, he would be found in some
base and low degree. I have nothing to say of the plebeians, who only
serve to increase the number of the living, without deferring any other
fame or panegyrick. From what I have said, I would have you infer, my
precious wise-acres, that there is a great confusion of pedigrees; and
that those only appear grand and illustrious, whole representatives
abound with virtue, liberality, and wealth: I say, virtue, liberality,
and wealth; because the vicious great man is no more than a great
sinner; and the rich man without liberality, a mere covetous beggar; for
happiness does not consist in possessing, but in spending riches; and
that not in squandering them away, but in knowing how to use them with
taste. Now a poor knight has no other way of signalizing his birth, but
the practice of virtue, being affable, well-bred, courteous, kind, and
obliging; a stranger to pride, arrogance, and slander; and, above all
things, charitable; for, by giving two farthings chearfully to the poor,
he may shew himself as generous as he that dispenses alms by sound of
bell: and whosoever sees him adorned with these virtues, although he
should be an utter stranger to his race, will conclude that he is
descended of a good family. Indeed, it would be a sort of miracle to
find it otherwise; so that praise is always the reward of virtue, and
never fails to attend the righteous. There are two paths, my children,
that lead to wealth and honour: one is that of learning, the other that
of arms; now I am better qualified for the last than for the first; and
(as I judge from my inclination to arms) was born under the influence of
the planet Mars; so that I am, as it were, obliged to chuse that road,
which I will pursue in spite of the whole universe: you will therefore
fatigue yourselves to no purpose, in attempting to persuade me from that
which Heaven inspires, fortune ordains, reason demands, and, above all
things, my own inclination dictates; knowing, as I do, the innumerable
toils annexed to knight errantry, I am also well acquainted with the
infinite benefits acquired in the exercise of that profession. I know
the path of virtue is very strait, while the road of vice is broad and
spacious. I know their end and issue is different: the wide extended way
of vice conducts the traveller to death; while the narrow toilful path
of virtue leads to happiness and life—not that which perisheth, but that
which hath no end; and I know, as our great Castilian poet observes—
‘“By these rough paths of toil and pain,
Th’ immortal feats of bliss we gain,
Deny’d to those who heedless stray
In tempting pleasure’s flow’ry way.”’
‘Ah! woe is me!’ cried the cousin, ‘my uncle is a poet too! he knows
every thing, and can do every thing: I’ll lay a wager, if he should turn
bricklayer, he could build a house like any cage.’—‘I do assure thee,
niece,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘if those knightly sentiments did not
wholly engross my attention, there is not a thing on earth that I could
not make, nor a curiosity that should not go through my hands,
especially bird-cages and tooth-picks.’
Here the conversation was interrupted by a knocking at the gate; which,
as they found upon enquiry, was made by Sancho; whose presence was no
sooner intimated, than the housekeeper ran away to hide herself that she
might avoid the sight of him whom she abhorred: the niece, therefore,
opened the door, and his master came out to receive him with open arms;
then, shutting themselves up together, another dialogue passed, no ways
inferior to the former.
Footnote 146:
A dress put upon convicted hereticks.
CHAP. VII.
OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE;
WITH OTHER SURPRIZING INCIDENTS.
The housekeeper seeing that her master and Sancho were locked up
together, immediately guessed the subject of the conversation; and
imagining, that the result of this confutation would be a third sally,
she put on her veil, and full of trouble and anxiety, went in quest of
the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, thinking, that as he was a well spoken
man, and her master’s new friend, he might persuade him to lay aside
such an extravagant design: accordingly, she found him taking a turn in
his own yard, and fell upon her knees before him, in a cold sweat,
occasioned by her vexation. Carrasco seeing her appear with such marks
of sorrow and consternation, said, ‘What is the matter, Mrs.
Housekeeper? what hath befallen you? something seems to have harrowed up
your very soul!’—‘Nothing at all, dear Mr. Sampson,’ cried the
housekeeper, ‘only my master is breaking out; he is certainly breaking
out!’—‘How breaking out?’ said Sampson; ‘is any part of his body
unsound?’—‘Where should it break out,’ replied the other, ‘but through
the gate of his madness? My meaning, dear batchelor of my soul! is, that
he is going to make another sally, (and that will be the third)
searching up and down the world for what he calls adventures, though I
cannot imagine why they should have that name[147]: the first time, he
returned so battered and bruised, that they were fain to lay him across
an ass, like a sack of oats, because he could not sit upright; the
second time, he was brought home in a waggon, stretched and cooped up in
a cage, in which he imagined himself inchanted, in such a woeful plight,
that he could scarce be known by the mother that bore him, so lank and
meagre, with his eyes sunk into the lowest pit of his brain; so that
before I could bring him into any tolerable degree of strength, I
expended more than six hundred new-laid eggs, as God and all the world
know, as well as my hens, that will not suffer me to tell a lye.’—‘That
I verily believe,’ said the batchelor; ‘your hens are so good, plump,
and well bred, that they would rather burst than say one thing, and mean
another. Well, then, Mrs. Housekeeper, nothing else hath happened,
neither have you met with any other misfortune, but the apprehension of
what your master Don Quixote will do?’—‘Nothing else,’ said she. ‘Give
yourself no trouble then,’ resumed the batchelor, ‘but go home a-God’s
name, and get ready something hot for my breakfast; and in your way,
repeat St. Apollonia’s prayer, if you can; I will follow in a little
time, and then you shall see wonders.’—‘Dear heart!’ cried the
housekeeper, ‘St. Apollonia’s prayer, say you? that I should repeat if
my master had the tooth-ach; but, lack-a-day! his distemper lies in his
skull.’—‘I know what I say,’ answered Sampson: ‘take my advice, Mrs.
Housekeeper, and do not pretend to dispute with me; for I would have
thee to know that I am a batchelor of Salamanca; there’s no higher
batcheleering than that.’ She accordingly moved homeward, while Sampson
went to communicate to the curate that which will be in due time
disclosed.
While Don Quixote and Sancho were closeted together, there passed
between them a conversation which the history recounts with great
punctuality and truth. ‘Signior,’ said the squire, ‘I have at length
traduced my wife to consent that I shall attend your worship wheresoever
you please to carry me.’-‘Say reduced, and not traduced, Sancho,’
replied the knight. ‘I have once or twice, if my memory serves me,’ said
Sancho, ‘intreated your worship not to correct my words, if you
understand my meaning; and when you can’t make it out, I desire you
would say, “Sancho,” or “devil, I don’t understand thee:” then if I fail
in explaining myself, you may correct me as much as you please; for I am
so fossile.’—‘I do not understand thee now,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘nor can
I comprehend what thou wouldst be at, in saying I am so fossile.’—‘So
fossile!’ said the squire; ‘that is, whereby as how I am just so.’—‘Nay,
now thou art more and more unintelligible,’ replied the knight. ‘If your
worship does not understand me now,’ answered Sancho, ‘I know not how to
express it; for I am already at my wit’s end, and Lord have mercy upon
me.’—‘O! now I conceive thy meaning,’ said the knight; ‘thou wouldst say
thou art so docile, gentle, and tractable, as to comprehend every thing
I say, and retain whatsoever I shall teach thee.’—‘I’ll lay a wager,’
said the squire, ‘that from the beginning, you knew my meaning by my
mumping, but wanted to confound me by leading me into a thousand more
blunders.’—‘It may be so,’ said the knight; ‘but in reality, what says
Teresa?’—‘Teresa,’ answered Sancho, ‘says I must be sharp with your
worship. Fast bind, fast find; He that shuffles does not always cut; and
that, A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush: now I know that A
wife’s counsel is bad, but he that will not take it is mad.’—‘So say I,’
replied Don Quixote; ‘proceed, friend Sancho, you speak like an oracle
to-day.’—‘Why then the case is this,’ resumed Sancho; ‘your worship very
well knows we are all mortal, here to-day, and gone to-morrow; for the
lamb goes as fast as the dam; and no man in this world can promise
himself more hours of life than God is pleased to grant him; because
death is deaf, and when he knocks at the door of life is always in a
hurry, and will not be detained either by fair means or force, by
sceptres or mitres, as the report goes, and as we have often heard it
declared from the pulpit.’—‘All this is very true,’ said the knight;
‘but I cannot guess what you drive at.’—‘What I drive at,’ answered
Sancho, ‘is, that your worship would appoint me a certain monthly salary
for the time I shall serve you, to be paid out of your estate; for I do
not chuse to depend upon recompences that come late, or low, or never.
God will protect me with my own. In short, I would know what I have to
trust to, whether little or much; for, The hen clucks though but on one
egg; Many littles make a mickle; and, He that is getting aught, is
losing nought. True it is, if it should happen, which I neither believe
nor expect, that your worship can give me that island you have promised
me so long; I am not so greedy or ungrateful, but that I will suffer my
rent to be appraised, and my salary deducted in due portion[148]’.—‘To
be sure, friend Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘all portions ought to be
proportioned.’—‘I understand you,’ replied the squire, ‘I should have
said proportion instead of portion; but that is of no signification,
since my meaning is comprehended by your worship.’—‘Aye, and so
thoroughly comprehended,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that I have penetrated into
the inmost recesses of thy thoughts, and perceive the mark at which
those innumerable shafts of thy proverbs are aimed. Look you, Sancho, I
would appoint thee a salary, if I could find in any history of
knights-errant, one precedent, by which I might discover, or have the
least glimpse of what they used to give monthly or yearly; but I have
carefully perused all, or the greatest part or those histories, and
cannot remember to have read, that any knight-errant ever paid a certain
salary to his squire. I only know that all of them trusted to favour,
and when it was least in their thoughts, provided their masters chanced
to be fortunate, they found themselves rewarded with an island or
something equivalent, and at least were honoured with rank and title. If
with these hopes and expectations, you are willing to return to my
service, do it a-God’s name; but if you think I will unhinge and deviate
from the ancient customs of chivalry, you are grievously mistaken:
wherefore, friend Sancho, you may go home again, and declare my
intention to your wife Teresa; and if she is pleased, and you are
willing to depend upon my favour, _bene quidem_; if not, let us shake
hands and part: while there are peas in the dove-house, I shall never
want pigeons; and remember, my child, that it is better to be rich in
hope than poor in possession; and that a good claim is preferable to bad
pay. I talk in this manner, Sancho, to show that I can pour forth a
volley of proverbs as well as you; and finally, I must and will give you
to understand, that if you do not chuse to serve me on those terms, and
share my fortune, whatsoever it may be, I pray God may prosper and make
a saint of you; for my part, I shall not want squires more obedient and
careful, though less troublesome and talkative than your worship.’
When Sancho heard this firm resolution of his master, the sky began to
lour, and down flagged the wings of his heart in a moment: for he had
believed that the knight would not set out without him for all the
wealth in the world. While he thus remained pensive and dejected, in
came Sampson Carrasco, followed by the niece, who was very desirous to
hear with what arguments he would dissuade her uncle from going again in
quest of adventures. Sampson, who was a notable wag, no sooner entered,
than embracing the knight, as at first, he pronounced with an audible
voice, ‘O flower of knight-errantry, resplendent sun of arms, thou glory
and mirrour of the Spanish nation! may it please the Almighty, of his
infinite power, that if any person or persons shall raise any impediment
to obstruct thy third sally, they may never extricate themselves from
the labyrinth of their desires, or accomplish what they so unjustly
wish!’ Then turning to the duenna, ‘Mrs. Housekeeper,’ said he, ‘you
need not now repeat St. Apollonia’s prayer; for I know it is the precise
determination of the stars, that Signior Don Quixote shall again execute
his new and lofty plan: and I should greatly burden my confidence if I
forbore to intimate, and desire, that this knight will no longer withold
and detain the force of his valiant arm, and the virtue of his heroick
soul; because, by his delay he retards the righting of wrongs, the
protection of orphans, the honour of maidens, the favour of widows, the
support of wives, with many other things of that nature, which regard,
concern, depend upon, and appertain, to the order of knight-errantry.
Courage! Signior Don Quixote, beautiful and brave; may your worship and
grandeur set out before to morrow morning; and if any thing be wanting
to forward your expedition, here am I, ready to make it good with my
person and fortune; and, if need be, to serve your magnificence in
quality of squire; an office in the execution of which I should think
myself extremely happy.’
Don Quixote hearing this proffer, turned to Sancho, saying, ‘Did not I
tell thee, Sancho, that I should not want for squires? Take notice who
it is that offers to attend me; who, but the unheard of batchelor
Sampson Carrasco; the perpetual darling and delight of the court-yards
belonging to the Salamancan schools; sound of body, strong of limb, a
silent sufferer of heat and cold, hunger and thirst, and endued with all
those qualifications which are requisite in the squire of a
knight-errant: but Heaven will not permit me, for my own satisfaction,
to break and demolish this pillar of learning, this urn of sciences, and
to hew down such an eminent branch of the liberal arts. No, let this new
Sampson stay at home, and honour the place of his nativity, together
with the grey hairs of his ancient parents; while I make shift with any
sort of squire, since Sancho will not vouchsafe to go along with me.’
‘Y—yes, I do vouchsafe!’ cried Sancho, blubbering; ‘it shall never be
said of me, dear master, that when the victuals were eaten up, the
company sneaked off; I am not come of such an ungrateful stock; for all
the world, and especially my own townsmen, know what sort of people the
Panzas were, of whom I am descended; besides, I have perceived, and am
sensible, by many good works, and more good words, that your worship is
actually inclined to do for me; and if I have haggled more than enough
about my wages, it was to please my wife, who, if she once takes in hand
to persuade me to any thing, no cooper’s adze drives the hoops of a
barrel as she drives at her purpose, until she hath gained it; but,
after all, a man must be a man, and a woman a woman: now I being a man
every inch of me, when or wheresoever I please to shew myself, (that I
cannot deny) I am resolved to be master in my own house, in spite of the
devil, the world, and the flesh; and therefore your worship has no more
to do but prepare your will, with the codicil, so as that it cannot be
rebuked; and then let us take our departure, that we may not endanger
the soul of Mr. Sampson, whose conscience, he says, prompts him to
persuade your worship to make a third sally through the world; and here
I promise again to serve your worship faithfully and lawfully, as well
as, and better than, all the squires that ever attended the
knights-errant, either in past or present time.’
The batchelor was astonished at hearing the manner and conclusion of
Sancho’s speech; for although he had read the first part of his master’s
history, he never believed him so diverting as he is there represented;
but now, hearing him talk of the will and codicil that could not be
rebuked, instead of revoked, he was convinced of the truth of what he
had read, and confirmed in the opinion of his being one of the most
solemn simpletons of the present age; saying, within himself, two such
madmen as the master and his squire are not to be paralleled upon earth.
In fine, Don Quixote and Sancho were reconciled, and embraced each
other; and, in consequence of the opinion and assent of the great
Carrasco, whom they looked upon as an oracle, it was determined that
they should depart in three days, during which they would have time to
provide themselves with necessaries for the journey, and find a compleat
helmet for the knight, who insisted upon carrying one along with him
into the field. Sampson, accordingly, undertook to accommodate him,
saying he could command an helmet that was in possession of a friend of
his; though the brightness of the metal was not a little obscured by the
rust and mould which it had contracted.
Innumerable were the curses which were vented against the batchelor by
the housekeeper and niece, who tore their hair, and scratched their
faces; and like the hired mourners, formerly in use, lamented the
departure, as if it had been the death of their master. But Sampson’s
view in persuading him to another sally, was to execute a design which
he had concerted with the curate and barber, as will appear in the
sequel. In short, during those three days, Don Quixote and Sancho
furnished themselves with every thing they thought they should have
occasion for; the squire pacified his wife, the knight appeased his
niece and housekeeper; and on the evening of the fourth day, without
being perceived by any living soul but the batchelor, who insisted upon
accompanying them half a league out of town, they set out, and took the
road to Toboso; Don Quixote mounted on his trusty Rozinante, and Sancho
throned upon his old friend Dapple, with a pair of bags well lined with
belly-timber, and a purse of money, which his master deposited in his
hands, in case of accidents in their expedition.
Sampson, embracing the knight, intreated him to write an account of his
good or evil fortune, that he might congratulate or sympathize with him,
as the laws of friendship require. Don Quixote assured him, he would
comply with his request; the batchelor returned to the village, and the
other two pursued their way towards the great city of Toboso.
Footnote 147:
The original, _ventura_, signifies good luck as well as adventures.
Footnote 148:
I have substituted this play upon the word proportion, in lieu of
Sancho’s blundering on _rata_.
CHAP. VIII.
AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE,
IN HIS JOURNEY TO VISIT HIS MISTRESS DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO.
‘Blessed be the Almighty Ala,’ saith Cid Hamet Benengeli, in the
beginning of this chapter; and this benediction he repeats three times,
in consequence of finding Don Quixote and Sancho in the field again;
observing, that the readers of this agreeable history may assure
themselves that, from this period, the exploits of the knight and his
squire begin. He therefore persuades them to forget the former
adventures of our sage hero, and fix their attention upon those which
are to come; and which now begin in the road to Toboso, as the others
took their origin in the field of Montiel; and truly his demand is but
reasonable, considering the fair promise he makes. Thus, therefore, he
proceeds.
Scarce had Sampson left Don Quixote and Sancho by themselves, when
Rozinante began to neigh, and Dapple to bray most melodiously; a
circumstance which was looked upon by both our adventurers as a
fortunate signal and most happy omen; though, to deal candidly with the
reader, the brayings of the ass exceeded in number the neighings of the
horse; from whence Sancho concluded, his fortune would surmount and
overtop that of his master. But whether or not he founded his belief on
his knowledge in judicial astrology, I cannot determine, the history
being silent on that subject; yet certain it is he had been heard to say
when he stumbled or fell, that he wished he had not stirred over his own
threshold; for nothing was to be got by a stumble or fall but a torn
shoe, or broken bone; and truly, simple as he was, he had some reason
for making that observation.
‘Friend Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘the night is so far advanced, that
we shall not be able to reach Toboso by day-light; yet thither I am
determined to go, before I engage in any other adventure, that I may
receive the benediction and good leave of the peerless Dulcinea, by the
help of which I shall certainly atchieve, and happily perform, the most
perilous exploits; for nothing in this life exalts the valour of
knights-errant so much as the favour of their mistresses.’—‘I am of the
same way of thinking,’ replied the squire; ‘but I believe your worship
will find some difficulty in seeing her in a proper place for courtship,
or indeed for receiving her blessing, unless she throws it over the
pales of the yard through which I saw her for the first time, when I
carried the letter that gave an account of the folly and mad pranks I
left your worship committing in the heart of the brown mountain.’—‘Didst
thou then actually imagine,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that those were the
pales of a yard, over or through which thou sawest that paragon of
gentleness and beauty? Certainly they could be no other than galleries,
arcades, or corridores, such as belong to rich and royal palaces.’—‘It
may be so,’ answered Sancho, ‘but either my memory fails me very much,
or to me they seemed no better than the pales of a farmer’s yard.’—‘Be
that as it will,’ resumed Don Quixote, ‘thither we will go, and at any
rate get sight of her; for be it through pales, windows, crannies, or
the rails of a garden, so the least ray of that sun of beauty reach mine
eyes, it will enlighten my understanding, and fortify my heart in such a
manner, that I shall remain the unequalled phœnix of valour and
discretion.’—‘Truly, Sir,’ said the squire, ‘when I saw that same sun of
my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, it was not so bright as to send forth any
rays at all; but the case was, the wheat that her ladyship was
winnowing, as I told you before, raised such a cloud of dust about her,
as quite darkened her countenance.’—‘Wilt thou still persist, Sancho,’
replied the errant, ‘in saying, thinking, believing, and affirming, that
my mistress Dulcinea was employed in such a mean office, so wide of all
that is or ought to be practised by persons of rank, who are created and
reserved for other exercises and amusements, that denote their quality
at the distance of a bow-shot. Thou seemest to forget, O Sancho! those
verses of our poet, in which he paints the labours that in their
chrystal bowers engrossed the four nymphs, who, raising their heads
above the waves of their beloved Tagus, sat down to work in the verdant
meadow those rich and silken webs, which, as the ingenious poet
describes, were with gold and pearls adorned and interweaved. In this
manner my mistress must have been employed when thou sawest her; but
some wicked inchanter, envious of my happiness and fame, converts and
perverts every thing that yields me pleasure, into shapes and figures
different from its real appearance; and in that history of my
atchievements which they say is printed, if the author be some sage who
is an enemy to my success, I am afraid he hath confounded one thing with
another, and clogged every fact with a thousand falsehoods; straying
from his subject, to recount actions quite foreign to the skilful detail
of a true history! O envy! thou root of infinite mischief, and
canker-worm of virtue! The commission of all other vices, Sancho, is
attended with some sort of delight; but envy produces nothing in the
heart that harbours it but rage, rancour, and disgust.’—‘So say I,
master,’ answered Sancho: ‘and I suppose, in this legend or history of
us, which Batchelor Carrasco says he has seen, my reputation goes like a
jolting hackney-coach, and is tossed about, as the saying is, like a
tennis-ball; though in good faith, I never spoke an ill word of any
inchanter whatsoever; nor am I rich enough to stir up envy in any living
soul: true it is I am a little waggish, and have a small spice of
knavery at bottom; but all this is crowned and covered with the broad
cloak of my simplicity, which is always natural and never affected; and
if there was nothing else but my believing, as I always do firmly and
sincerely, in God, as well as in all that is owned and believed by the
holy Roman catholick church; and my being a mortal enemy, as I certainly
am, to the Jews, the historians ought to have mercy upon me, and use me
tenderly in their writings: but let them say what they will, I naked was
born, and naked remain; and if I lose nothing, as little I gain: though,
provided I see myself mentioned in a book, and circulate through the
world from hand to hand, I don’t value what they can say of me a fig’s
end.’
‘That observation,’ said Don Quixote, ‘puts me in mind of what happened
to a famous poet of this age, who having composed a severe satire
against the court ladies, omitted to insert one in particular, by name,
so that it was doubtful whether or not she was implied in any part of
the performance. The lady, thus neglected, complained to the poet,
asking what he had seen in her character unworthy of being described
among the rest, and desiring him to enlarge the satire, that she might
be included in the supplement, or look to himself. The author complied
with her request, lashing her in terms not fit to be named; and she was
perfectly well satisfied with the fame of being infamous. Of a piece
with this ambition was that reported of the shepherd, who set fire to
the celebrated temple of Diana, reckoned one of the wonders of the
world, with no other view than to render his name immortal; and although
there was a severe edict, prohibiting all persons whatever from making
mention of his name, either by word or writing, that he might not
accomplish his aim, it is very well known at this day, that his name was
Erostratus. This likewise bears an affinity to that occurrence which
passed at Rome, between that great emperor Charles the Fifth, and a
certain knight. The emperor went to visit the famous temple of the
Rotunda, which was of old called the Pantheon, but is now more happily
named the Church of All-Saints, the most entire edifice that remains of
heathen Rome, and which most of all evinces the grandeur and
magnificence of its founders. It is built in the shape of half an
orange, of a vast extent, and very well lighted, though it has but one
window, or rather a round lanthorn at its top, from whence the emperor
considered the inside of the structure, being attended by a Roman
knight, who described the excellence and ingenious contrivance of that
vast and memorable work; and, after they had descended, said to him,
“Sacred Sir, a thousand times was I seized with an inclination to clasp
your majesty in my arms, and throw myself down from the lanthorn, in
order to eternize my name.”—“I thank you,” replied the emperor, “for
having resisted such a wicked suggestion, and henceforward will never
give you an opportunity of repeating such a proof of your loyalty; avoid
my presence, and never presume to speak to me again.” But,
notwithstanding this severe command, he conferred upon him some
extraordinary favour. My meaning, Sancho, is, that the desire of fame is
a most active principle in the human breast. What dost thou imagine was
the motive that prevailed on Horatius to throw himself from the bridge,
armed at all points, into the depth of the river Tyber? what induced
Mutius to burn his hand and arm? what impelled Curtius to dart himself
into the flaming gulph which opened in the midst of Rome? what prompted
Cæsar to pass the Rubicon, in spite of all the unfavourable omens that
appeared? and, to give you a more modern instance, what consideration
bore the ships, and left on shore, encompassed with enemies, those
valiant Spaniards in the new world, under the conduct of the most
courteous Cortez? All these, and many other great and various exploits,
are, were, and shall be performed, in consequence of that desire of
fame, which flatters mortals with a share of that immortality which they
deem the merited reward of their renowned atchievements: although we
catholick Christian knights-errant ought to pay greater attention to
that glory which is to come, and eternally survives within the etherial
and celestial mansions, than to the vanity of that same, which is
obtained in this present perishable state, and which, considered in its
longest duration, must end at length with the world itself, which hath
its appointed period. Wherefore, Sancho, our works must not exceed the
limits prescribed by the Christian religion which we profess. We must,
in slaying giants, extirpate pride; get the better of envy by
benevolence and virtue; resist anger with patience and forbearance;
conquer gluttony and sloth by temperance and watchfulness; luxury and
lewdness by our fidelity to those whom we constitute mistresses of our
inclination; and idleness by travelling through all parts of the world
in quest of opportunities to evince ourselves not only Christians, but,
moreover, renowned knights. Thus, Sancho, thou seest the means of
acquiring that superlative praise which produces fame and reputation.’
‘All that your worship hath hitherto said,’ replied the squire, ‘I
understand perfectly well; but, for all that, I wish you would dissolve
me one doubt, which hath this moment struck me in the noddle.’—‘Thy
meaning is resolve, Sancho,’ said the knight: ‘in good time, out with
it, and I will give thee satisfaction, as far as my own knowledge
extends.’—‘Tell me, then, Signior,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘where now are all
those Julys and Augusts, and adventuresome knights who died so long
ago?’—‘The Heathens,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘are doubtless in hell; and
the Christians, if they were good catholicks, either in purgatory or in
heaven.’—‘Right,’ said the squire; ‘let us next enquire, if the tombs
that contain the bodies of that sort of gentry are lighted with silver
lamps; or the walls of their chapels adorned with crutches, winding
sheets, periwigs, legs, and eyes, made of wax; if not, pray in what
manner are they adorned?’ To this question Don Quixote answered, that
the sepulchres of the heathen heroes were, for the most part, sumptuous
temples; the ashes of Julius Cæsar were placed upon the top of a stone
pyramid, of vast dimensions, still to be seen at Rome, under the name of
St. Peter’s obelisk; the emperor Adrian’s tomb was a building as large
as a good village, formerly called Moles Adriani, but at present the
Castle of St. Angelo; and Queen Artemisia buried her husband Mausolus in
a monument, that was accounted one of the seven wonders of the world;
but none of these sepulchres, nor any other belonging to the heathens,
were adorned with shrouds, offerings, or marks, to denote the sanctity
of the persons there buried. ‘So I perceive,’ said Sancho; ‘and now tell
me, whether it be more meritorious to slay a giant, or raise up the dead
to life again?’—‘The answer is plain,’ replied the knight; ‘it is more
meritorious to re-animate the dead.’—‘Then I have caught you fairly,’
cried the squire; ‘he who revives the dead, restores sight to the blind,
straightens the crooked, heals the sick; before whose tomb the lamps
continually burn, whose chapels are filled with devout people who adore
his relicks upon their knees; I say, he shall have more fame in this
world, and that which is to come, than all the heathen emperors and
knights-errant that ever lived have left or will leave behind them.’—‘I
am very sensible of the truth of what you alledge,’ answered the knight.
‘Now this same, this grace, this prerogative, or what you call it,’
resumed the squire, ‘is veiled in the bodies and relicks of the saints;
and with the approbation and licence of our holy mother church, they
have their lamps, tapers, shrouds, crutches, pictures, periwigs, eyes,
and legs, whereby the devotion of the people is increased, and their own
Christian fame promulgated; the bodies and relicks of saints are carried
upon the shoulders of kings, who kiss the very fragments of their bones,
with which they enrich and adorn their most precious altars and
oratories.’—‘What wouldst thou have me infer from all this?’ said Don
Quixote. ‘My meaning,’ replied Sancho, ‘is, that we should turn saints
immediately, and so with the greater dispatch acquire that fame which we
are in search of; and pray take notice, Signior, it was but yesterday,
or t’other day, as one may say in comparison, that they canonized and
beatified two bare-footed friars; and people now think it a great
happiness to be allowed to touch and kiss the iron chains with which
they girded and tormented their poor bodies; and which are in greater
esteem than the sword of Orlando, which, as the report goes, is kept in
the armoury of our lord the king, whom God in Heaven bless: wherefore,
dear master, it is better to be an humble friar of any order whatever,
than the most valiant knight that ever breathed; for, with God, two
dozen of disciplines will more avail than as many thousand back-strokes,
whether they be bestowed on giants, dragons, or hobgoblins.’—‘All this
is very true,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘but we cannot all be friars; and
various are the paths by which God conducts the good to Heaven. Chivalry
itself is a religious order, and some that were knights are now saints
in glory.’—‘True,’ resumed the squire, ‘but I have often heard it
observed, that there are more friars than knights in Heaven.’—‘The
reason,’ said the knight, ‘is, because there is a greater number of
monks than of the other order.’—‘And yet there are many knights-errant,’
replied the squire. ‘There is, indeed, a good number,’ answered Don
Quixote; ‘but very few that deserve the name.’
In this, and other such discourse, they passed that night and the
following day, without encountering any thing worthy of being mentioned;
a circumstance that chagrined our knight not a little. Next day,
however, in the twilight, they descried the great city of Toboso; at
sight of which Don Quixote’s spirits were exhilarated, and Sancho’s
depressed, because he did not know where to find the house of Dulcinea,
whom he had never seen, neither had his master ever beheld this peerless
princess; so that the one suffered perturbation from the desire of
seeing her, and the other because he had not seen her; and, indeed,
Sancho could not contrive how to manage the affair, when his master
should send him to Toboso. In fine, Don Quixote resolved to enter the
city in the dark; and with this view they tarried in a grove of oaks,
not far from the gate, till the night was advanced; then entered the
town, where they met with things which amount to things indeed.
CHAP. IX.
WHICH CONTAINS WHAT YOU WILL SEE IN THE PERUSAL OF IT.
It was midnight, or thereabout, when Don Quixote and Sancho, leaving
their covert, entered the city of Toboso, which was then in profound
silence, all its inhabitants being asleep, and lying with outstretched
legs, as the saying is. The night was clear, though Sancho wished it
otherwise, that in the darkness he might find an excuse for his
imposition; and nothing was heard in the whole town but the barking of
dogs, which thundered in Don Quixote’s ears, and very much disturbed
the heart of Sancho; yet, from time to time, they were saluted by the
braying of asses, the grunting of hogs, and the mewing of cats; which
different notes being augmented by the stillness of the night, were
considered as ill omens by the enamoured knight, who nevertheless said
to his squire, ‘Son Sancho, lead on to the palace of Dulcinea, whom,
perhaps, we shall find awake.’—‘Body of the sun!’ cried Sancho, ‘what
palace should I lead to? when I saw her highness she was in a very
small cottage.’—‘Then she must have been retired,’ answered the
knight, ‘to some small apartment of her castle, to divert herself with
her damsels, according to the use and custom of princesses and ladies
of rank.’—‘Signior,’ said the squire, ‘since your worship, in spite of
all that I can say, will have my Lady Dulcinea’s house to be a castle,
is this an hour to find the gate open? and will it be decent for us to
throw the whole family into confusion and uproar, by making a racket,
and demanding entrance, at this time of night? Do you think we are
going to a bawdy-house, like your fornicators, who rap and knock, and
enter at any hour of the four and twenty?’—‘First of all, let us
fairly find the castle,’ replied the knight, ‘and then I will tell
thee what is to be done; and take notice, Sancho, for either mine
eye-sight fails me, or that great shadowy building before us is the
palace of Dulcinea.’—‘Advance, then,’ answered Sancho, ‘perhaps it may
be so; and yet, though I should see it with mine eyes, and touch it
with my hands, I will believe it as much as I believe it is now twelve
o’clock at noon.’
Don Quixote, however, proceeded; and having gone about two hundred
paces, came up with the building that produced the shadow, and
perceiving it an high steeple, found it was no castle, but in reality
the principal church in town. ‘We are arrived at the cathedral, Sancho,’
said he. ‘So I perceive,’ replied the squire, ‘and God grant we be not
arrived at our graves! for it is no good sign to be strolling about
church-yards at these hours: besides, I have already told your worship,
(if my memory serves me right) that my lady’s house stands in a blind
alley.’—‘The curse of God light on thee, for a blockhead as thou art!’
cried Don Quixote; ‘where didst thou ever hear of castles and royal
palaces, built in blind alleys?’—‘Signior,’ answered Sancho, ‘every
country has its own customs; and perhaps it is the custom here, in
Toboso, to raise palaces and grand edifices in blind alleys; I therefore
humbly beseech your worship to let me search all the streets and alleys
I shall meet with; and who knows but in some corner I may light on this
same castle, which I wish the dogs had devoured, before it had brought
us to such perplexity and confusion?’—‘Talk respectfully, Sancho, of
those things that appertain to my mistress,’ said the knight; ‘let us
spend our holiday in peace, and not throw the helve after the
hatchet.’—‘Well, I will be pacified,’ answered the squire; ‘though how
can I endure your worship should expect that I who have seen my lady’s
house but once, should know it always, and even find it out in the
middle of the night, when you yourself are at a loss, though you must
have seen it a thousand times?’—‘You distract me, Sancho,’ cried Don
Quixote; ‘heark ye, heretick, have not I told you a thousand times, that
in all the days of my life, I never saw the peerless Dulcinea, nor ever
crossed the threshold of her palace, being only enamoured by hearsay,
and the great reputation of her beauty and discretion?’—‘I hear your
worship say so now,’ replied Sancho; ‘and tell you in my turn, that if
you have not seen her, no more have I.’—‘That is impossible,’ resumed
the knight; ‘at least, you told me you had seen her winnowing wheat,
when you brought back an answer to the letter with which I sent you to
her habitation.’—‘Truly, Signior, you must not depend upon that,’
answered Sancho; ‘for you must know, my seeing her, and bringing back
the answer, was also upon hearsay; and I am as incapable of giving any
account of the Lady Dulcinea, as I am of pulling the moon by the nose.’
‘Sancho! Sancho!’ said Don Quixote, ‘there is a time for jesting, and a
time when jokes are very unseasonable; though I say I have never seen or
spoke with the mistress of my soul, there is no reason for thy making
the same declaration, which thou knowest is so contrary to the truth.’
While they thus conversed together, they perceived a person passing that
way with a couple of mules; and by the noise of a plough-share, which
they dragged along, justly concluded that he was a peasant who had risen
before day to go to labour: they were not mistaken; it was actually a
labourer, who went along singing the ballad of Ronscevalles[149]; which
the knight no sooner heard, than he exclaimed, ‘Let me die, Sancho! if
any thing lucky will befal us to-night; don’t you hear what that peasant
is singing?’—‘Yes,’ said Sancho; ‘but what has the defeat at
Ronscevalles to do with our affair? If he had sung the ballad of
Calaynos, it would have been the same thing with regard to our good or
evil fortune.’
Don Quixote said to the peasant, who was by this time come-up, ‘Can you
tell me, honest friend, and the blessing of God attend you, in what part
of this city stands the palace of the peerless princess Donna Dulcinea
del Toboso?’—‘Signor,’ answered the young man, ‘I am a stranger, and
have been but a few days in town, in the service of a rich farmer, whose
lands I till; but in that house that fronts you live the curate and
sexton of the parish, and either or both can give your worship an
account of that same princess, for they keep a register of all the
inhabitants of Toboso, though I believe, there is no such thing as a
princess in the whole place: there are, indeed, many ladies of fashion,
and every one may be a princess in her own house.’—‘She whom I ask for
must be one of these,’ said the knight. ‘It may be so,’ answered the
peasant; ‘but I shall be overtaken by the morning.’ So saying, he drove
on his mules, without waiting for any more questions.
Sancho, seeing his matter in suspence, and over and above dissatisfied,
‘Signior,’ said he, ‘day begins to break, and it will not be altogether
convenient to let the sun find us here in the street: we had better quit
the city, and look out for some wood in the neighbourhood, where your
worship may enjoy the cool shade; and I will return by day, and search
every hole and cranny in Toboso for this house, castle, or palace of my
lady, and it will be very unfortunate, indeed, if I cannot find it; and
if I have the good luck, to meet with her ladyship, I will tell her
where and how I have left your worship, in expectation of her contriving
some means whereby you may visit her, without any prejudice to her
honour and reputation.’—‘Sancho,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘thou hast uttered
a thousand sentences within the compass of a few words: the counsel thou
hast given me I relish, and most willingly receive. Come, my son, let us
go in quest of some thicket, where I may embower myself, while thou
shalt return to seek, see, and talk with my mistress, from whose
courtesy and discretion I hope to receive more than miraculous favours.’
Sancho burned with impatience to see his master fairly out of town, that
he might not detect the falshood of the answer which he pretended to
bring from Dulcinea, while he remained in the Brown Mountain: he
therefore pressed him to depart, and about two miles from the city they
found a thicket or wood, where Don Quixote took up his residence, while
Sancho went back to commune with Dulcinea; and, in the course of his
embassy, met with adventures that demand new credit and fresh attention.
Footnote 149:
Like our Chevy Chase.
CHAP. X.
GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF THE STRATAGEM WHICH SANCHO PRACTISED,
IN ORDER TO INCHANT THE LADY DULCINEA
—WITH OTHER CIRCUMSTANCES EQUALLY LUDICROUS AND TRUE.
The author of this stupendous history, when he comes to relate what is
contained in this chapter, says, he would have willingly passed it over
in silence, because he was afraid that it would not be believed; for
here the madness of Don Quixote soars to the highest pitch of
extravagance that can be imagined, and even by two bow shots, at least,
exceeds all credit and conception: yet, notwithstanding this jealousy
and apprehension, he has recounted it in the same manner as it happened,
without adding to the history, or detracting one tittle from the truth,
undervaluing the risk he runs of being deemed apocryphal: and surely he
was in the right; for truth may bend, but will never break, and always
surmounts falshood, as oil floats above water. Wherefore he proceeds in
the narrative, saying—
Don Quixote having taken his station in the forest, grove, or wood, near
to the great city of Toboso, ordered Sancho to go back to town, and not
return to his presence before he should have spoken to his mistress, and
begged, in his name, that she would be pleased to grant an interview to
her captive knight, and deign to bestow upon him her blessing, through
which he might expect the most happy issue to all his attempts and
enterprizes.
The squire, having undertaken to execute this command, and to bring back
as favourable an answer as he had brought the first time; ‘Go, my son,’
said the knight, ‘and be not confounded when you find yourself beamed
upon by that resplendent sun of beauty, which is the object of your
enquiry: happy thou, above all the squires that ever lived! Be sure to
retain in thy memory every circumstance of thy reception; observe if she
changes colour, while thou art delivering my message; if she is
discomposed, and under confusion at the mention of my name; whether she
sinks upon her cushion, or happens at the time to be seated under the
rich canopy of her authority; if she be standing, take notice whether or
not she sometimes supports herself on one foot, sometimes on the other;
and if she repeats her answer more than once, changing it from kind to
harsh, from sour to amorous; and if she lifts up her hand to adjust her
hair, although it be not disorderd; finally, son, mark all her gestures
and emotions; and if thou bringest me an exact detail of them, I shall
be able to divine her most abstruse sentiments, touching the concerns of
my passion: for know, Sancho, if thou art still to learn, among lovers,
the least gesticulation in their external behaviour, while the
conversation turns upon their amours, is, as it were, a messenger that
brings a most certain account of what passes within the soul. Go,
friend, and enjoy thy fate, so much more favourable than thy master’s;
and return with much more success than that which I dread and expect in
this cruel solitude, where I now remain.’—‘I go,’ replied Sancho, ‘and
will return in a twinkling; therefore, good your worship, do encourage
that little heart of yours, which, at present, must be no bigger than a
hazle-nut; and consider, as the saying is, A stout heart flings
misfortune; Where you meet with no hooks, you need expect no bacon; and
again, The hare often starts, where the hunter leasts expects her. This
I observe, because, though we did not find the palace and castle of my
lady in the night; now that it is day, I hope to stumble upon it, when I
least expect to see it; and if so be I once catch it, let me alone with
her.’—‘Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘God grant me better fortune in my
desires than you have in the application of the proverbs you utter.’
This was no sooner said, than Sancho switching Dapple, quitted the
knight, who remained on horseback, resting his legs upon his stirrups,
and leaning upon his lance, his imagination being engrossed by the most
melancholy suggestions. Here let us leave him, and proceed with Sancho
Panza; who, parting from his master, in equal perplexity and confusion,
no sooner found himself clear of the wood, than looking back, and
perceiving that Don Quixote was not in sight, he alighted from his ass,
and sitting down at the root of a tree, began to catechise himself in
these words: ‘Brother Sancho, be so good as to let us know, where your
worship is going? Are you in search of some stray beast?—No, truly!—What
then is your errand?—Why, really, I am going in search of a thing of
nought, a princess, God wot! and in her, the sun and the whole heaven of
beauty. And, pray, where may you expect to meet with this that you
mention, Sancho?—Where, but in the great city of Toboso.—Well, and by
whose order are you going upon this enquiry?—By order of the renowned
knight Don Quixote de La Mancha, the righter of wrongs, who gives thirst
to the hungry, and food to those that are dry.—All this is mighty well;
but do you know the house, Sancho?—My master says, it must be some royal
palace, or stately castle.—But have you never once seen this same
princess?—Neither I nor he ever set eyes on her.—And do you think it
will be well bestowed, if the inhabitants of Toboso, getting notice that
you are come with an intention to wheedle away their princesses, and
disturb their dames, should break every bone of your skin, and grind
your ribs to a paste, with pure cudgelling?—Verily they would not be
much to blame, unless they considered, that I do nothing but execute my
master’s command, and being only a messenger, am not in fault.—Never
trust to that, Sancho; for the Manchegans are as cholerick as
honourable, and will not suffer themselves to be tickled by any person
whatever. Ecod! if you are once smoked, you will come but scurvily
off.—Bodikins! since that be the case, why should I plague myself,
seeking a cat with three legs, for another man’s pleasure?—Besides, you
may as well seek for a magpye in Rabena, or a batchelor in Salamanca, as
for Dulcinea in Toboso.—The devil, and none but the devil, has sent me
on this fool’s errand!’
The result of this soliloquy was another, that broke out in these words:
‘There is a remedy for every thing but death, under whose yoke we must
all pass, will we nill we, when this life is at an end. This master of
mine, as I have perceived by a thousand instances, is mad enough to be
shackled among straw; and truly I am not much behind him in folly; nay,
indeed, I am more mad than he, seeing I serve and follow him, if there
be any truth in the proverb that says, Tell me your company, and I will
tell you your manners: and the other, Not he with whom you was bred, but
he by whom you are fed. Now he being, as he certainly is, a madman; aye,
and so mad as for the most part to mistake one thing for another,
affirming white to be black, and black to be white; as plainly appeared
when he took the windmills for giants, the mules of the friars for
dromedaries, the flocks of sheep for opposite armies; and a great many
other things in the same stile: I say, it will be no difficult matter to
make him believe the first country-wench I shall meet with to be his
mistress Dulcinea; and if he boggles at swallowing the cheat, I will
swear lustily to the truth of what I affirm; and if he swears also, I
will swear again; and if he is positive, I will be more positive; so
that come what will, my obstinacy shall always exceed his. Perhaps, by
this stubborn behaviour, I shall get rid of all such troublesome
messages for the future; when he finds what disagreeable answers I
bring; or perhaps, which I rather believe, he will think that one of
those inchanters, who, he says, bear him a grudge, hath transmographied
her shape, in order to vex and disquiet him.’
Sancho having found out this expedient, was quite calm and satisfied in
his mind, and thinking he had brought the business to a good bearing,
remained where he was till the evening, that Don Quixote might think he
had sufficient time to execute his orders, and return. Everything
succeeded so well to his wish, that when he got up to mount Dapple, he
descried three country wenches riding from Toboso, towards the place
where he stood, upon three young he or she asses, for the author does
not declare their sex; though in all likelihood they were of the female
gender, as your village maidens commonly ride upon she-asses; but this
being a circumstance of small importance, we shall not give ourselves
any trouble to ascertain it.
In short, Sancho no sooner perceived the wenches, than he rode back at a
round trot to his master, whom he found sighing bitterly, and pouring
forth a thousand amorous complaints; the knight seeing him arrive,
‘Well, friend Sancho,’ said he, ‘is this day to be marked with a white
or black stone?’—‘Your worship,’ answered the squire, ‘had better mark
it with red ochre, like the titles on a professor’s chair, that it may
be seen the better by those who look at it.’—‘At that rate,’ replied Don
Quixote, ‘thou bringest me good news.’—‘So good,’ answered Sancho, ‘that
your worship has nothing to do but to mount Rozinante, and gallop into
the plain, where you will see my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso and two of her
damsels coming this way to pay you a visit.’—‘Gracious God!’ cried the
knight, ‘what is that you say, friend Sancho? Take care how you deceive
me! endeavouring, by feigned joy, to enliven my real sadness.’—‘What
should I get by deceiving your worship?’ said the squire. ‘Besides, you
can easily be satisfied of the truth of what I say. Make haste, Signior,
come and see our mistress the princess, arrayed and adorned; in short,
as she ought to be; her damsels and she are all one flame of gold; all
covered with pearls, diamonds, rubies, and brocade, more than ten hands
deep; their hair flowing loose about their shoulders, like so many
sun-beams waving with the wind; and moreover they are mounted on three
pied belfreys, that it would do one’s heart good to see
them.’—‘Palfreys, you mean, Sancho,’ said the knight. ‘There is no great
difference,’ answered the squire, ‘between palfreys and belfreys; but,
be that as it will, they are the finest creatures one would desire to
see, especially my Lady Dulcinea, who is enough to stupify the five
senses.’—‘Come, then, my son,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘and as a gratuity
for bringing this piece of news, equally welcome and unexpected, I
bestow upon thee the spoils of the first adventure I shall atchieve; and
if thou art not satisfied with that recompence, I will give unto thee
the foals that shall this year be brought forth by my three mares, which
thou knowest we left with young upon our town common.’—‘I stick to the
foals,’ cried the squire, ‘for as to the spoils of our first adventure,
I question whether or not they will be worth accepting.’
By this time, they were clear of the wood, and in sight of the three
country-maidens; when the knight lifting up his eyes, and surveying the
whole road to Toboso, without seeing any thing but them, began to be
troubled in mind, and asked Sancho if the ladies had got out of town
when he left them. ‘Out of town?’ said Sancho. ‘What! are your worship’s
eyes in the nape of your neck, that you don’t see them coming towards
us, glittering and shining like the sun at noon?’—‘I see nobody,’
replied the knight, ‘but three country-wenches riding upon asses.’—‘God
deliver me from the devil!’ cried the squire, ‘is it possible that three
belfreys, or how-d’ye-call-ums, white as the driven snow, should appear
no better than asses in your worship’s eyes? By the Lord! I’ll give you
leave to pluck off every hair of my beard if that be the case.’—‘Then I
tell thee, Sancho,’ said his master, ‘they are as certainly he or
she-asses as I am Don Quixote, and thou Sancho Panza; at least, so they
seem to me.’—‘Hold your tongue, Signior,’ replied Sancho, ‘and never
talk in that manner, but snuff your eyes, and go and make your reverence
to the mistress of your heart, who is just at hand.’
So saying, he advanced towards the damsels, and alighting from Dapple,
seized one of their beasts by the halter; then fell upon his knees
before the rider, to whom he addressed himself in this manner: ‘Queen,
princess, and duchess of beauty, will your highness and greatness be
pleased to receive into grace and favour your captive knight, who sits
there stupified to stone, utterly confounded and deprived of pulse, at
seeing himself in presence of your magnificence; I am Sancho Panza his
squire, and he is the perplexed and down trodden knight Don Quixote de
La Mancha, alias the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.’
[Illustration: Don Quixote Worships His Lady.]
By this time Don Quixote having placed himself on his knees, by Sancho,
gazed with staring eyes and troubled vision, upon the object which the
squire called queen and princess; and perceiving nothing but a
country-wench’s visage, and that none of the most agreeable, for it was
round and flat-nosed, he remained in the utmost confusion and surprize,
without daring to open his lips. The other two damsels were equally
astonished at seeing a couple of such different figures kneeling before
their companion, whom they had detained; but she, breaking silence,
pronounced in a most ungracious and resentful manner, ‘Get out of the
way, and let us pass, for we are in a hurry.’ To this apostrophe Sancho
replied, ‘O princess and universal Lady of Toboso! do not your
magnificent bowels yearn, to see upon his marrow-bones before your
sublimated presence, the very pillar and prop of knight-errantry?’ One
of the other two hearing this pathetick remonstrance, bauled aloud,
‘Would I had the currying that ass’s hide of thine: mind, forsooth, how
your small gentry come and pass their gibes upon us country-folks; as if
we could not give them as good as they bring. Go about your business,
friend, and leave us to mind our’n, and so God b’w’ye.’
Here the knight interposing, said, ‘Rise, Sancho, I can plainly perceive
that fortune, not yet tired of persecuting me, hath barred every avenue
by which any comfort could arrive at the miserable soul that this
carcase contains: and thou! the essence of every thing that is desirable
in nature, thou sum of human perfection, and sole remedy of this
afflicted heart, by which thou art adored! although that malicious
inchanter, my inveterate enemy, hath spread clouds and cataracts before
mine eyes, to them and them only changing and transforming thy
unequalled beauty into the appearance of a poor country-wench; if he
hath not also altered my figure into that of some frightful spectre
horrid to thy view, deign to look upon me with complacency and love;
because thou mayest perceive by this submissive posture I have assumed,
even before thy person thus disguised, the humility with which my soul
adores thy charms.’—‘You may go kiss my grannam,’ cried the damsel; ‘I’m
a fine Madam, truly, to hear such gibberish; we should be more obliged
to you if you would get out of our way, and let us go about our own
affairs.’
Sancho accordingly quitted his hold, leaving her free to go whither she
would, and highly pleased with the issue of his stratagem. The
supposititious Dulcinea no sooner found herself at liberty, than
pricking her palfrey with a goad which was in the end of a stick she had
in her hand, the creature galloped, across the field with great speed,
and feeling the application more severe than usual, began to plunge and
kick in such a manner, that my lady fell to the ground. Don Quixote
perceiving this accident, ran with great eagerness to raise her up, and
Sancho made haste to adjust and gird on the pannel, which had got under
the ass’s belly. This affair being set to rights, the knight went to
lift his inchanted mistress in his arms, and placed her on her seat
again; but she, starting up from the ground, saved him that trouble;
for, retreating a few paces backwards, she made a small run, and
clapping both hands upon the crupper, leaped upon the pannel as nimble
as a falcon, seating herself astride like a man.
‘By St. Roque!’ cried Sancho, ‘my lady mistress is as light as a hawk,
and can teach the most dextrous horseman to ride; at one jump she has
sprung into the saddle, and, without spurs, made her palfrey fly like
any zebra: and truly, her damsels are not a whit behind; for they go
scouring along as swift as the wind.’ This was actually true; for
Dulcinea was no sooner remounted than the other two trotted after her,
and at last disappeared, after having gone more than half a league, at
full speed, without once looking behind them.
Don Quixote followed them with his eyes, until they vanished; then
turning to his squire, ‘Sancho,’ said he, ‘thou seest how I am
persecuted by inchanters, and mayest perceive how far the malice and
grudge they bear me extends; seeing they have deprived me of the
pleasure I should have enjoyed at the sight of my mistress in her own
beauteous form. Surely, I was born to be an example of misery; the very
mark and butt for all the arrows of misfortune; nay, thou art also to
observe, Sancho, that those traitors were not contented with a simple
metamorphosis of my Dulcinea, but have transformed and changed her into
the base and homely figure of that country-wench; robbing her, at the
same time, of that which is so peculiar to ladies of fashion, I mean,
that sweet scent which is the result of their living among flowers and
perfume; for know, my friend, when I went to lift Dulcinea upon her
palfrey, as thou sayest it was, though to me it seemed neither more nor
less than a she-ass, I was almost suffocated and poisoned with a whiff
of undigested garlick!’
‘O ye miscreants!’ cried Sancho, ‘O ye malicious and mischievous
inchanters! would to God, I could see you all strung by the gills, like
so many haddocks! much you know, much you can, and much more will you
still be doing. Was it not enough, ye knaves, to change the pearls of my
lady’s eyes into a couple of cork-tree galls, and her hair of shining
gold into the bristles of a red cow’s tail; and, in short, so
transmography every feature of her countenance; without your meddling
with the sweetness of her breath, by which they might have discovered
what was concealed beneath that bark of homeliness: though, to tell the
truth, I saw not her homeliness but beauty, which was exceedingly
increased by a mole upon her upper lip, something like a whisker,
consisting of seven or eight red hairs, like threads of gold, as long as
my hand.’—‘According to the correspondence which the moles of the face
have with those of the body,’ said Don Quixote, ‘Dulcinea must have just
such another on the brawny part of her thigh, of the same side; but
hairs of such a length are, methinks, rather too long for moles.’—‘I do
assure your worship,’ answered Sancho, ‘they seemed as if they had come
into the world with her.’—‘I very well believe what you say, my friend,’
replied the knight; ‘for nature hath bestowed nothing on Dulcinea but
what is perfectly finished; wherefore, if thou hadst seen an hundred
such moles, in her would they be so many moons and resplendent stars:
but tell me, Sancho, that which you adjusted, and which to me seemed a
pannel, was it a plain pad or a side-saddle?’—‘It was a great
side-saddle,’ answered the squire, ‘so rich that half the kingdom would
not buy it.’—‘And why could not I see all this!’ said the knight. ‘I say
again, Sancho, and will repeat it a thousand times, that I am the most
unfortunate of men.’
The rogue Sancho, finding his master so dextrously gulled, and hearing
him talk in this mad strain, could scarce refrain from laughing in his
face: in fine, a good deal more of this sort of conversation having
passed between them, they remounted their beasts, and took the road to
Saragosa, where they expected to arrive time enough to be present at the
solemn festival yearly celebrated in that famous city; but before they
accomplished their journey, they met with adventures, which, for their
variety, novelty, and greatness, deserve to be read and recorded, as in
the sequel.
CHAP. XI.
OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFEL THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE,
WITH THE CART OR WAGGON CONTAINING THE PARLIAMENT OF DEATH.
Don Quixote jogged along exceedingly pensive, his thoughts being
engrossed by the scurvy trick which the inchanters had played him, in
transforming his mistress Dulcinea into the disagreeable figure of a
country-wench; and he could not conceive what remedy he should find for
restoring her to her former shape. So much was he absorbed in this
reflection, that he insensibly dropped the reins upon the neck of
Rozinante, who being sensible of the liberty he enjoyed, at every two
steps turned aside to take a pluck at the inviting pasture with which
those fields abounded. At length Sancho Panza rouzed him from this fit
of musing, saying, ‘Signior, melancholy was not made for beasts, but for
men; and yet if men encourage melancholy too much, they become no better
than beasts; good your worship, be contented, mind what you’re about,
take hold of Rozinante’s reins, rouze up, awake, and shew that gaiety
which all knights-errant ought to have. What the devil is the meaning of
all this faint-heartedness? Sure you don’t know whether we are here or
in France! let Satan rather run away with all the Dulcineas upon earth;
for the health of one single knight is of more value than all the
inchanted persons or transformations that ever were known.’—‘Peace,
Sancho,’ cried Don Quixote, with a voice that was none of the faintest,
‘Peace, I say; and utter not such blasphemies against that inchanted
lady, of whose disgrace and misfortune I am the sole cause: for, from
the envy of my wicked foes, her mischance hath sprung.’—‘So I say,’
answered Sancho; ‘for, He that hath seen her before, let him look at her
now, and her fortune deplore.’—‘Well mayest thou make that observation,
Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘seeing thou sawest her in the full perfection
of her beauty; as the inchantment did not extend so far as to disturb
thy vision, or conceal her charms from thy view. No! against me alone,
and my longing eyes, was the force of its poison directed! Yet,
nevertheless, Sancho, I cannot help observing, that you made but an
indifferent picture of her beauty; for if I rightly remember, you
likened her eyes to pearls; now, eyes resembling pearls, are more
peculiar to dead whitings than to living beauties; and, in my
conjecture, Dulcinea’s must be rather like green emeralds, arched over
with two celestial rainbows: those pearls, therefore, must be compared
to her teeth, which, without doubt, you have mistaken for her
eyes.’—‘Nothing more likely,’ answered the squire, ‘for I was as much
confounded by her beauty as your worship by her ugliness; but let us
recommend this whole business to God, who fore-ordains every thing that
is to happen in this vale of tears; in this evil world of ours, where
scarce any thing is to be had, without a mixture of falshood, knavery,
and sin. One thing, dear Sir, of all others, gives me the greatest pain;
and that is, to think what method is to be fallen upon, when your
worship, after having vanquished some giant or knight, shall command him
to go and present himself before the beauty of the Lady Dulcinea, where
will this poor giant, or this poor miserable object of a vanquished
knight, find out the person to whom he is sent? Methinks I see them
strolling up and down, and gaping about thro’ the streets of Toboso, in
quest of my Lady Dulcinea; and if they should stumble upon her in their
way, they would no more know her than they would know my
father.’—‘Sancho,’ resumed Don Quixote, ‘perhaps the inchantment will
not extend so far as to disguise Dulcinea to the eyes of those
vanquished giants and knights who shall present themselves before her;
and in one or two of the first whom I shall conquer and send thither, we
will make the experiment, commanding them to return and give me an
account of what shall happen to them, with regard to that
affair.’—‘Truly, Signior,’ said Sancho, ‘I heartily approve of your
worship’s scheme; because, by this artifice, we will soon learn what we
want to know; and if so be that she is only concealed from your worship,
you are the most unfortunate person of the two; for as my Lady Dulcinea
enjoys good health and satisfaction, we will comfort ourselves, and make
the best of a bad bargain, going about in quest of adventures, and
leaving the rest to time, who is the best physician for these and other
greater calamities.’
Don Quixote would have replied, but was prevented by the appearance of a
sort of waggon that crossed the road, full of the strangest figures that
can be imagined, and conducted by a frightful dæmon that drove the
mules. The cart being altogether open, without tilt or cover, the first
figure that struck the eyes of Don Quixote, was Death itself in human
shape; next to which appeared an angel with broad painted wings; on one
side, stood an emperor with a crown (seemingly) of gold, upon his head;
and hard by Death, was the god Cupid, with his bow, quiver, and arrows,
but without the bandage on his eyes; there was likewise a knight armed
cap-a-pee, except that he wore neither helmet nor head-piece, but a hat
adorned with a plume of variegated feathers. Besides these, there were
other personages of different countenance and dress; so that the whole
groupe appearing of a sudden, discomposed our hero a little, and filled
the heart of Sancho with fear; but Don Quixote soon recollected himself,
and rejoiced, because he looked upon it as some new and perilous
adventure. On this supposition, and with an effort of courage capable of
encountering the greatest danger, he placed himself before the wain, and
with a loud and threatening voice, pronounced, ‘Driver, coachman, devil,
or whatsoever thou art, tell me straight, whither thou art going, and
who those people are whom thou drivest in that carriage, which looks
more like Charon’s bark than any modern vehicle.’ The devil stopping his
waggon very courteously, replied, ‘Signior, we are players belonging to
the company of Angulo el Malo, and have, this morning, which is the
octave of Corpus Christi, been representing, in a village on the other
side of yon hill, the piece called the Parliament of Death, which we are
going to act over again, this very evening, in that other village now in
sight; we therefore travel in our habits, to save ourselves the trouble
of undressing and dressing anew; this young man plays the part of Death,
that other represents an angel; the woman, who is the author’s wife,
acts the queen; he with the plume of feathers is our hero; the emperor
you may distinguish by his gilded crown; and I am the devil, which is
one of the best characters in the performance, for I myself am the chief
actor of this company. If your worship is desirous of knowing any thing
else concerning our affairs, question me freely, and I will answer with
the utmost punctuality, for being a devil I understand every thing.’
‘By the faith of a knight-errant!’ said Don Quixote, ‘when I first
descried the waggon, I thought myself on the eve of some great
adventure; and now I affirm, that a man ought to examine things with
more senses than one, before he can be assured of the truth; proceed, my
honest friends, a God’s name, in order to exhibit your entertainment,
and if I can serve you in any respect, you may command my endeavours,
which shall be heartily and freely exerted for your advantage; for, from
my childhood, I have been a great lover of masques and theatrical
representations.’
While this conversation passed between them, they chanced to be
overtaken by one of the company, dressed in motley, hung round with a
number of morrice-bells, with a pole in his hand, to the end of which
were tied three blown ox-bladders. This merry-andrew advancing to Don
Quixote, began to fence with his pole, beating the ground with his
bladders, and skipping about, so that his bells rung continually: till
at length Rozinante, being disturbed at the uncommon apparition, took
the bridle between his teeth; and the knight being unable to restrain
him, began to gallop across the plain with more nimbleness than could
have been expected from the bones of his anatomy. Sancho seeing his
master in danger of falling, leaped from Dapple, and ran with all
dispatch to give him all possible assistance; but before he came up, the
knight was overthrown close by Rozinante, who had come to the ground
with his lord; and this was the usual end and consequence of all his
frolicksome adventures. Scarce had Sancho quitted his beast, to run to
the assistance of his master, when the bladder shaking devil jumped upon
Dapple, and began to belabour him with his rattle; so that being
frightened at the noise, rather than with the smart of the application,
he took to his heels, and flew towards the village where they intended
to perform. Sancho seeing, at the same time, the career of Dapple, and
his master’s fall, scarce knew which of these misfortunes he ought first
to remedy; but at length, as became a loyal servant and trusty squire,
his love for his master prevailed over his tenderness for the beast;
though every time he saw the bladders railed aloft, and discharged upon
Dapple’s buttocks, he felt the pangs and tortures of death, and would
rather have received every thwack upon the apple of his own eye than
have seen it fall upon the least hair of his ass’s tail.
In this state of perplexity and tribulation, he arrived at the place
where Don Quixote lay in a very indifferent plight, and helping him to
mount Rozinante, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘the devil has run away with
Dapple.’—‘Which devil?’ cried the knight. ‘He with the bladders,’
answered the squire. ‘I will retrieve him,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘even
if he should conceal him in the darkest and deepest dungeon in hell;
follow me, Sancho, the waggon moves slowly, and the mules shall atone
for the loss of Dapple.’
‘There is no occasion for putting ourselves to that trouble,’ said the
squire: ‘good your worship, be pacified! for I see the devil has quitted
my ass, and returned to the rest of his crew.’
This observation was actually true; Dapple and his new rider had come to
the ground, in imitation of the knight and Rozinante: upon which the
devil trudged on foot to the village, and the ass returned to his right
owner. ‘For all that,’ said Don Quixote, ‘it will not be amiss to punish
the troop for that devil’s incivility, though it should be in the person
of the emperor himself.’—‘I hope your worship’s imagination will harbour
no such thoughts,’ answered Sancho; ‘take my advice, and never meddle
with players, who are a set of people in such high favour with the
publick, that I have known an actor taken up for two murders, and yet
’scape scot-free: your worship must know, that being the ministers of
mirth and pleasure, they are favoured, protected, assisted, and esteemed
by every body; especially if they belong to the king’s company, or to
some grandee; in which case all, or most of them, look like princes in
their manners and dress.’—‘Nevertheless,’ replied the knight, ‘that
farcical devil shall not escape unpunished, or applaud himself for what
he has done, though all mankind should appear in his favour.’
So saying, he rode towards the waggon, which was by this time pretty
near the village, and called aloud, ‘Stay, my merry men; halt a little,
and I will teach you how to treat the asses and cattle belonging to the
squires of knights-errant.’ Don Quixote hallooed so loud as to be heard
and understood by the people in the waggon, who judging, by his words,
the intention of the speaker, Death instantly jumped out of the cart,
and was followed by the Emperor, the Devil-driver, and the Angel, with
the Queen and Cupid in their train; in short, the whole company armed
themselves with stones, and, drawing up in order of battle, stood
without flinching, to receive the assailant at point of pebble.
The knight perceiving them arranged in such a formidable squadron, their
arms lifted up in a posture that threatened a powerful discharge of
stones, checked Rozinante, and began to consider in what manner he
should attack them, with least hazard to his person. During this pause,
Sancho came up, and seeing him bent upon a assaulting such a
well-compacted brigade, ‘It will be the height of madness,’ said he, ‘to
attempt any such adventure; consider, dear Sir, that there is no kicking
against the pricks; and that there is no armour upon earth sufficient to
defend your body from such a shower, unless your worship could creep
into a bell of brass; you ought also to remember, that it favours more
of rashness than of true valour, for one man to attack a whole army, in
which Death and emperors fight in person, being aided and assisted both
by good and evil angels; and if that consideration will not prevail upon
you to be quiet, you ought to be diverted from your purpose, by knowing
certainly, that among all those enemies in the appearances of kings,
princes, and emperors, there is not so much as one single
knight-errant.’—‘Now, indeed,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘thou hast hit upon
the sole reason that can and ought to dissuade me from my determined
design; I neither can nor ought to draw my sword (as I have told thee,
on many other occasions) against any person who hath not received the
honour of knighthood; to thee, Sancho, it belongs, if so thou art
inclined, to take vengeance for the injury done to Dapple, while I from
hence will assist and encourage thee with salutary advice.’—‘Signior,’
answered the squire, ‘there is no occasion to take vengeance of any
person whatever; for it is not the part of a good Christian to revenge
the wrongs he hath suffered: besides, I will prevail upon my ass to
leave the affair to my inclination, which is to live peaceably all the
days that Heaven shall grant me in this life.’—‘Since that is thy
determination,’ replied the knight, ‘honest Sancho, discreet Sancho,
christian and sincere Sancho, let us leave these phantoms, and go in
quest of adventures more dignified and substantial; for this country
seems to promise a great many, and those very extraordinary too.’
He accordingly turned his horse, Sancho went to catch Dapple, while
Death, with his whole flying squadron, returned to their waggon, and
proceeded on their journey. Thus was the dismal adventure of the waggon
of Death happily terminated by the wholesome advice which Sancho Panza
gave to his master; who next day met with another equally surprizing, in
the person of an enamoured knight-errant.
CHAP. XII.
OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE THAT HAPPENED TO THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE,
IN HIS ENCOUNTER WITH THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRROURS.
The night that followed the rencounter with Death, Don Quixote and his
squire passed among some tall and shady trees; the knight, by Sancho’s
persuasion, having eaten of what was found in the store that Dapple
carried. During this meal, Sancho said to his master, ‘What a fool
should I have been, Signior, if I had chosen, by way of gratification,
the spoils of your worship’s first adventure, instead of the three
foals? Verily, verily, a bird in hand is worth two in the bush.’—‘But,
for all that,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘hadst thou suffered me to attack
them, as I intended, thou wouldst have enjoyed among the spoils the
emperor’s golden crown, with Cupid’s painted wings, which I would have
stripped off against the grain, and put into thy possession.’—‘The
sceptres and crowns of your stage emperors are never made of pure gold,
but of tin or tinsel,’ replied the squire. ‘True,’ said the knight, ‘the
ornaments of comedy ought not to be rich and real, but feigned and
artificial, like the drama itself, which I would have thee respect,
Sancho, and receive into favour, together with those who represent and
compose it; for they are all instruments of great benefit to the
commonwealth, holding, as it were, a looking-glass always before us, in
which we see naturally delineated all the actions of life; and no other
companion whatever represents to us more lively what we are, and what we
ought to be, than comedy and her attendants; for example, hast thou
never seen a play acted, in which kings, emperors, popes, knights,
ladies, and many other characters, were introduced? One acts the
ruffian, another the sharper, a third the merchant, a fourth the
soldier, a fifth the designing fool, and a sixth the simple lover; but
the play being ended, and the dresses laid aside, all the actors remain
upon an equal footing.’—‘Yes, I have seen all this,’ answered Sancho.
‘Then the very same thing,’ said the knight, ‘happens in the comedy and
commerce of this world, where one meets with some people playing the
parts of emperors, others in the characters of popes; and, finally, all
the different personages that can be introduced in a comedy; but when
the play is done, that is, when life is at an end, Death strips them of
the robes that distinguished their stations, and they become all equal
in the grave.’—‘A brave comparison!’ cried Sancho, ‘though not so new
but I have heard it made on divers and sundry occasions as well as that
of the game of chess, during which every piece maintains a particular
station and character; and when the game is over, they are all mixed,
jumbled, and shaken together in a bag, like mortals in the
grave.’—‘Sancho,’ resumed the knight, ‘every day you become less simple
and more discreet.’—‘Yes,’ said the squire, ‘some small portion of your
worship’s discretion must needs stick to me; as lands which are, in
their own nature, sapless and barren, being well dunged and cultivated,
come to yield excellent fruit. My meaning is, that your worship’s
conversation hath fallen like dung upon the barren desart of my
understanding, which being cultivated by the time of my service and
communication, will, I hope, produce blessed fruit, such as shall not
disgrace, nor stray from the path of that good breeding which your
worship hath bestowed on my narrow capacity.’
Don Quixote could not help smiling at the affected terms in which Sancho
delivered himself, though what he said of his own improvement was
actually true; for at certain times he talked to admiration; and yet
when he attempted to argue, or speak in a polite stile, his efforts
always, or for the most part, ended in precipitating himself from the
pinnacle of simplicity to the depth of ignorance; his chief talent
laying in his memory, which never failed to furnish him with proverbs
that he lugged into his discourse, whether they were pat to the purpose
or not, as may be seen and observed through the whole course of this
history.
In this, and other such conversation, the greatest part of the night
elapsed, when Sancho began to be inclined to let fall the portcullices
of his eyes, as he termed it, when he wanted to go to sleep: he
therefore unpannelled Dapple, to let him graze among the rich pasture
with which the place abounded; but Rozinante’s saddle he would not
remove, in consequence of his master’s express order, which was never to
unsaddle his steed while they were in the field, or did not sleep under
cover; it being an ancient established custom, observed by all knights
errant, in these cases, to take the bridle out of the horse’s mouth, and
hang it upon the pummel of the saddle, but to leave the saddle itself
untouched. This expedient was accordingly performed by Sancho, who
turned Rozinante loose with Dapple; and between these two animals such a
strict reciprocal friendship subsisted, that, according to tradition
from father to son, the author of this true history wrote particular
chapters on this very subject; but, in order to preserve the decency and
decorum which belongs to such an heroick composition, omitted them;
though sometimes he seems to neglect this precaution, and writes, that
these two friends used to approach and scrub each other most lovingly;
and after they had rested and refreshed themselves, Rozinante would
stretch his head more than half a yard over Dapple’s neck, while the two
were wont to stand in this posture, with their eyes fixed upon the
ground, three whole days together; at least, till they were parted, or
compelled by hunger to go in quest of sustenance; nay, it is confidently
reported, that the author had compared their mutual attachment to the
friendship of Nisus or Euryalus, or that which subsisted between Pylades
and Orestes. If this be the case, we may with admiration conceive how
firm the fellowship of those two pacifick animals must have been; to the
utter confusion of mankind, who so little regard the laws of friendship
and society, according to the common saying, ‘there is no trust in
profession; the staff will turn into a spear[150],’ and, as the song
goes, ‘the modes of the court so common are grown, that a true friend
can hardly be met.’ Let no man imagine the author went out of his road,
in comparing the friendship of brutes with that of the human species;
for men have received valuable hints, and learned many things of
importance from beasts, such as the clyster from storks, gratitude and
the use of vomits from dogs, vigilance from the crane, foresight and
frugality from the ant, honesty from the elephant, and loyalty from the
horse.
In fine, Sancho went to sleep at the root of a cork-tree, and Don
Quixote began to slumber under an oak; but being in a very little time
awaked by a noise behind him, he started up, and employing both eyes and
ears to distinguish whence it proceeded, he perceived two men on
horseback, one of whom, letting himself drop, as it were, from the
saddle, said to the other, ‘Alight, my friend, and unbit the horses; for
this place seems to abound with pasture for them, and with silence and
solitude, which are the necessary food of my amorous thoughts.’ He had
no sooner pronounced these words, than he threw himself upon the ground,
and his armour rattled as he fell, furnishing Don Quixote with a
manifest proof of his being a knight-errant: he therefore approached
Sancho, who was asleep, and shaking him by the arm, with no small
difficulty, brought him to himself; saying, in a low voice, ‘Brother
Sancho, here is an adventure.’—‘God grant it may be a good one,’
answered the squire; ‘and pray, Signior, whereabouts may her ladyship
be?’—‘Where?’ said Don Quixote, ‘turn thine eyes this way, and behold
lying upon the grass a knight-errant, who, by what I have already
observed, cannot be over and above easy in his mind? for I saw him throw
himself upon the ground, with evident marks of vexation, and heard his
armour clatter in his fall.’—‘But how has your worship found that this
is an adventure?’ replied the squire. ‘I will not positively say that it
is altogether an adventure,’ answered the knight, ‘but rather the
beginning of one: for thus they usually commence: but hark! he seems to
tune a lute or rebeck, and by his hawking and hemming, I suppose he is
going to sing.’—‘In good faith, it is even so,’ said Sancho, ‘and he
must be some knight-errant in love.’—‘All knights-errant are so,’
resumed Don Quixote; ‘but let us listen, and by the thread of his song,
discover the clue of his thoughts; for, From the abundance of the heart
the tongue speaketh.’
Sancho would have made some reply, but was prevented by the voice of the
Knight of the Wood, which was neither very sweet nor disagreeable; and,
listening with surprize, they heard him sing the following song:
I.
‘Subjected to thy sov’reign will,
Ah, cruel maid! my fate decree:
The sentence, tho’ inhuman, still
Shall never be declin’d by me.
II.
‘Say, that my death thy joy would move,
My breath with freedom I’ll resign—
Or wouldst thou listen to my love,
The God himself shall whisper mine.
III.
‘This heart, thy vassal whilst I live,
Like ductile wax, and diamond hard,
Thy stamp will yieldingly receive,
And keep th’ impression unimpair’d.’
The Knight of the Wood finished this complaint with an ‘Ah!’ that seemed
to be heaved from the bottom of his soul, and soon after exclaimed, in a
sorrowful tone, ‘O thou most beautiful and ungrateful woman upon earth!
is it possible, that the most serene Casildea de Vandalia has doomed
this her captive knight to consume and exhaust himself in continual
peregrinations, in harsh and rugged toils? Is it not enough that I have
established the fame of thy beauty above all comparison, by the extorted
confession of all the knights of Navarre, Leon, Tartesia, Castile, and
finally of La Mancha?’
‘Not so, neither,’ cried Don Quixote, interposing; ‘for I, who am of La
Mancha, never made any such acknowledgment; neither could I, or ought I,
to make a confession so prejudicial to the beauty of my own mistress:
therefore, Sancho, this knight must certainly be disordered in his
judgment; but let us listen, perhaps he will explain himself.’—‘Very
like,’ answered the squire, ‘he seems to be in the humour of complaining
for a whole month.’
But this was not the case; for the Knight of the Wood, hearing people
talk so near him, proceeded no farther in his lamentation, but starting
up, called with a courteous and sonorous voice, ‘Who is there? are you
of the number of the happy or afflicted?’—‘Of the afflicted,’ replied
Don Quixote.—‘Come hither, then,’ resumed the stranger, ‘and depend upon
it you will find the very essence of sorrow and affliction.’
Don Quixote hearing him speak in such civil and pathetick terms, went
towards him, with Sancho at his back, when the complaining knight took
him by the hand, saying, ‘Sit down, Sir knight, for that you are one of
those who profess knight-errantry, I am convinced by finding you in this
place, accompanied by solitude and the dews of night, which are the
peculiar companions of those who belong to our order.’
To this address Don Quixote replied, ‘I am a knight of that order you
mention; and though melancholy, mischance, and misfortune, have taken up
their habitation in my soul, they have not been able to banish from it
that compassion which I feel for the unhappy. From the soliloquy you
just now uttered, I gather that your misfortunes are of the amorous
kind; I mean, that they proceed from the passion you entertain for that
beautiful ingrate whom you named in your complaint.’ While this
conversation passed, they sat down together upon the grass, with all the
marks of amity and good fellowship, as if at break of day they had not
been doomed to break each other’s head. ‘Perchance, Sir Knight,’ said
the stranger, ‘you are in love?’—‘By mischance I am so,’ answered Don
Quixote, ‘though the vexation that proceeds from well placed affection
ought rather to be deemed a benefit than misfortune.’—‘True,’ said the
Knight of the Wood, ‘if our judgment and reason are not disturbed by
disdain, which, if exerted severely, seems a-kin to revenge.’—‘I never
was disdained by my mistress,’ replied Don Quixote. ‘No, indeed,’ (cried
Sancho, who stood hard by) ‘my lady is as meek as a lamb, and as soft as
butter.’
The stranger knight asked if that was his squire; and the other
answering in the affirmative, ‘I never saw a squire,’ said he, ‘that,
like him, durst intrude upon his master’s conversation; at least, I can
say so much for mine, who, though as tall as his father, was never known
to open his lips, when I was engaged in discourse.’—‘In good faith!’
cried Sancho, ‘I have spoke, and will speak again, before as good a man
as—but let that rest—the more you stir it, the more it will——.’
Here the other squire took hold on Sancho by the arm, saying, ‘Let you
and I go somewhere, and talk our bellies-full, in our own way, and leave
our masters at liberty to recount their amours; for sure I am, the night
will be spent before they are done.’—‘With all my heart,’ replied
Sancho, ‘and I will tell your worship who I am, that you may see whether
or not I am qualified to be ranked among your talking squires.’ They
accordingly retired together, and between them passed a conversation
every bit as merry as that of their masters was grave.
Footnote 150:
As the original quotation is a fragment that will not complete the
sense, I have taken the liberty to make the allusion altogether
English.
CHAP. XIII.
IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE WOOD—WITH A
SAGE, UNCOMMON, AND AGREEABLE DIALOGUE, THAT PASSED BETWEEN THE TWO
SQUIRES.
The knights and their squires being thus parted, the first entertained
each other with the story of their loves, while the last indulged
themselves with a reciprocal account of their own lives: but the history
first of all records the conversation of the domesticks, and then
proceeds to relate what passed between the masters. The squires,
therefore, having chosen a situation at a convenient distance from the
knights, he of the wood accosted Sancho in these words: ‘Signior, this
is a troublesome life that we squires to knights-errant lead; in good
soothe, we earn our bread with the sweat of our brows, which is one of
the curses that God denounced against our first parents.’—‘It may also
be said,’ replied Sancho, ‘that we earn it with the frost of our bodies;
for no creatures on earth suffer more heat and cold than the miserable
squires of knight-errantry; and even that would be more tolerable, if we
had any thing good to eat; for, Hearty fare lightens care, as the saying
is; but we often pass a whole day, nay sometimes two, without ever
breaking our fast, except upon the winds of heaven.’—‘All this,’ said
the other, ‘may be endured, with the hope of reward; for if the
knight-errant is not extremely unfortunate, his squire must, in a very
little time, see himself recompensed with the handsome government of
some island, or with the possession of a profitable earldom.’—‘For my
own part,’ answered Sancho, ‘I have already told my master, that I shall
be satisfied with the government of an island, which he has been so
noble and generous as to promise me, divers and sundry times.’—‘And I,’
said the stranger, ‘am contented with a canonship, which my master has
already bespoke for me, on account of my faithful services.’—‘It seems,
then, your master must be an ecclesiastical knight,’ replied Sancho,
‘seeing he can provide for his squire in the church: but as for mine, he
is a mere layman; though I remember, that certain very wise persons (and
yet, I believe, not very honest at bottom) advised him to procure for
himself an archbishoprick; but he would be nothing but an emperor: and I
was then in a grievous quandary, for fear he should take it in his head
to be of the church; in which case, I should not have been qualified to
hold a benefice; for your worship must know, though I look like a man, I
am no better than a beast at church-matters.’—‘Verily,’ said he of the
wood, ‘your worship mistakes the matter quite; your governments of
islands are not at all desirable; some are vexatious, some are beggarly,
others attended with much melancholy and fatigue; in short, the most
creditable and orderly brings along with it a load of care and
inconvenience, that lies heavy on the shoulders of the unhappy person
whose lot it is to bear it: it would be abundantly better for us to
undergo this accursed slavery, to return to our own homes, and there
amuse ourselves with more agreeable pastime; such, for example, as
hunting or fishing; for what squire is there on earth, so poor as to
want a horse, a couple of hounds, and a fishing-rod, wherewith to
entertain himself at his own habitation?’
‘For my own part,’ answered Sancho, ‘I want none of these
conveniencies: true it is I have not a horse, but then I am in
possession of an ass, which is worth my master’s steed twice over. God
let me never see a joyful Easter, if I would truck with him for four
bushels of barley to boot; you may laugh, if you will, at the price I
set upon Dapple, (for that is the colour of my beast;) then, I should
never be in want of hounds; for there are plenty, and to spare, in our
town, and you know nothing is so relishing as to hunt at another’s
expence.’—‘Really and truly, Signior Squire,’ resumed the stranger, ‘I
am fully resolved and determined to quit these knights-errant, with
all their crazy pranks, and betake myself to my own town, where I will
bring up my children; for, thank God, I have three, like as many
oriental pearls.’—‘And I have a couple,’ said Sancho, ‘that may be
presented to the pope in person; especially my daughter, whom I breed
up to be a countess, by the blessing of God, though it be contrary to
her mother’s inclination.’—‘And of what age may this young lady be,
whom you are breeding for a countess?’ said the squire of the wood.
‘Fifteen years, or thereabouts,’ answered Sancho; ‘but she is as tall
as a spear, fresh as an April morn, and strong as a porter.’—‘These
are qualifications not only for a countess, but even for the nymph of
the greenwood-tree,’ said the other: ‘ah, the whoreson baggage! what a
buxom jade she must be.’ Sancho, nettled at this epithet, replied,
‘She is no whore, neither was her mother before her; nor shall either
of them be so, an please God, whilst I live: so I think you might talk
more civilly; for, considering your worship has been bred among
knights-errant, who are, as it were, courtesy itself, methinks your
words might be better chosen.’—‘How little are you acquainted with the
nature of commendation, Signior Squire?’ answered he of the wood.
‘Don’t you know, that when any cavalier, at a bull-feast, wounds the
bull dextrously, or when any person behaves remarkably well, the
people exclaim, “How cleverly the son of a whore has done it?” and
that which looks like reproach, is on such occasions a notable
commendation. Take my word, Signior, you ought to renounce all
children, if their behaviour does not entitle the parents to such
praise.’—‘I do renounce them,’ answered Sancho; ‘at that rate, and for
that reason, your worship may call my wife and daughter as many whores
as you please; for both in word and deed, they richly deserve the
name; and that I may see them again, I beseech God to deliver me from
this mortal sin, which will be the case, if he delivers me from this
dangerous employment of squire, which I have incurred a second time,
being seduced and enticed by a purse of one hundred ducats, which I
found one day in the midst of the Brown Mountain; and the devil
continually sets before mine eyes, here and there and every where, a
bag full of doubloons, which, at every step, methinks I have fast in
my clutches, hugging it in my arms, and carrying it home to my own
house, where I purchase mortgages and estates, and live like any
prince; and while I please myself with these notions, I bear, without
murmuring, all the toils and fatigues I undergo, in the service of the
wiseacre my master, who, I know, is more of a madman than a knight.’
‘So that, according to the proverb,’ replied the stranger, ‘Covetousness
bursts the bag. But if you talk of wiseacres, there is not a greater in
the universe than my master, who is one of those concerning whom people
say, He is burdened like an ass, with another man’s load; for truly he
is turned mad, that another knight may turn wise, and is going about in
quest of that which, when he hath found it, may hit him in the
teeth.’—‘And pray, is he in love?’ said Sancho. ‘Yes,’ replied the
other, ‘he is enamoured of one Casildea de Vandalia, the most fickle
dame that ever was seen; but her cruelty is not the foot that he halts
upon at present: he has got other crotchets of greater importance
grumbling in his gizzard, which ere long will more plainly
appear.’—‘There is no road so smooth,’ resumed Sancho, ‘but you’ll meet
with rubs and hollows in it. Other people use beans, but I boil whole
kettles full. Madness is always more accompanied and followed after,
than discretion: but if it be true, as it is commonly alledged, that
company in affliction lessens the weight of it, I shall comfort myself
by reflecting that your worship serves a master who is as distracted as
mine.’—‘Distracted, I grant you,’ said he of the wood, ‘but valiant, and
still mere mischievous than valiant or distracted.’—‘That is not the
case with my master,’ replied Sancho, ‘he has nothing at all mischievous
about him; on the contrary, is as dull as a beetle, and knows not what
it is to harm man, woman, or child, or to harbour the least malice, but
seeks to do good unto all mankind. A child may persuade him that it is
night at noon; and, indeed, for that very simplicity, I love him as my
own bowels, and cannot find in my heart to leave him, notwithstanding
all the mad pranks he is guilty of.’—‘But for all that, Signior and
brother of mine,’ said the stranger, ‘if the blind lead the blind, they
are both in danger of falling into the ditch. We had much better retire
fair and softly, and return to our own habitations; for they who go in
search of adventures do not always find them to their liking.’
About this time Sancho began to hawk a kind of dry spitting; which being
observed by the charitable squire of the wood, ‘Methinks,’ said he, ‘we
have talked till our tongues cleave to the roofs of our mouths; but I
have got something that will agreeably moisten them, at my saddle-bow.’
He accordingly got up, and going aside to his horse, soon returned with
a large leathern bottle of wine, and a pye half a yard long: and this is
really no exaggeration; for it contained a whole fed rabbit, so large,
that when Sancho felt it, he took it for a whole goat or a large kid at
least, crying, as soon as he perceived it, ‘How! does your worship
usually carry such provision as this about with you?’—‘What d’ye think?’
answered the other; ‘d’ye take me for a hackney squire[151]? I carry a
better cupboard on my horse’s crupper than e’er a general on his march.’
Sancho fell to, without staying for intreaty, and swallowed, in the
dark, huge mouthfuls, with as much ease as if it had been flummery,
saying between whiles, ‘Yes, indeed, your worship is a true and loyal
squire, well dammed and gristed, as the saying is, grand and magnificent
withal, as plainly appears from this banquet, which, if it did not come
hither by the art of inchantment, at least seems so to have done; this
is not the case with such an unlucky poor devil as me, who carry nothing
in my bags but a piece of cheese hard enough to knock out a giant’s
brains, accompanied by three or four dozen of carrobes, and as many
hazle-nuts; thanks to the niggardliness and opinion of my master, and
the rule he observes, by which knights-errant must maintain and support
themselves with nothing but dried fruits, and the herbs of the
field.’—‘In good faith, brother!’ resumed he of the wood, ‘my stomach
was not made for your sweet thistle, wild pear, and mountain roots; let
our masters please themselves with their own opinions and rules of
chivalry, and live according to their meagre commands; for my own part,
I always carry some cold pasty, happen what will, and this bottle
hanging at my saddle-bow, which I love so devoutly, that I kiss and
embrace it almost every minute.’ So saying, he handed it to Sancho, who
lifting it up to his mouth, stood gazing at the stars a whole quarter of
an hour, and when his draught was out, he hung his head on one side,
pronouncing with a long sigh, ‘Ah, whoreson! how catholick it is!’—‘You
see now,’ said he of the wood, hearing Sancho’s whoreson, ‘how you have
praised the wine, by giving it such a title.’—‘I am sensible,’ replied
Sancho, ‘and confess that it is no disparagement to any body to be
called the son of a whore, when it is understood in the way of
commendation; but tell me, Signior, by the life of what you best love,
is not this wine from Cividad Real?’
‘You have an excellent taste,’ answered he of the wood, ‘it comes from
no other part, I’ll assure you; and has, moreover, some good years over
its head.’—‘Let me alone for that,’ said Sancho, ‘you’ll never catch me
tripping in the knowledge of wine, let it be never so difficult to
distinguish; is it not an extraordinary thing, Signior Squire, that I
should have such a sure and natural instinct in the knowledge of wine,
that give me but a smell of any kind whatever, and I will tell you
exactly its country, growth, and age, together with the changes it will
undergo, and all other circumstances appertaining to the mystery? But
this is not to be wondered at; for, by my father’s side, I had two
kinsmen who were the most excellent tasters that La Mancha hath known
for these many years; as a proof of which, I will tell you what once
happened to them. A sample of wine was presented to them out of a
hogshead, and their opinions asked concerning the condition and quality;
that is, the goodness or badness of the liquor to which it belonged; one
of them tasted it with the tip of his tongue, the other did no more than
clap it to his nose; the first said the wine tasted of iron, the other
affirmed it had a twang of goats leather; the owner protested that the
pipe was clean, and the contents without any sort of mixture that could
give the liquor either the taste of iron, or the smell of goats leather:
nevertheless, the two famous tasters stuck to the judgment they had
given; time passed on, the wine was sold, and when the pipe came to be
cleaned, they found in it a small key, tied to a leathern thong. By this
your worship may perceive, whether or not one who is descended from such
a race, may venture to give his opinion in cases of this
nature.’—‘Therefore, I say,’ replied the stranger, ‘that we ought to
quit this trade of going in quest of adventures, and be contented with
our loaf, without longing for dainties; let us return to our own
cottages, where God will find us, if it be his blessed will.’—‘I will
serve my master till he arrives at Saragossa,’ said Sancho, ‘and then we
shall come to a right understanding.’
In fine, the two honest squires talked and drank so copiously, that
sleep was fain to tie up their tongues, and allay their drought, which
it was impossible to remove; each, therefore, grasping the bottle, which
by this time was almost empty, fell asleep, with the morsel half chewed
in his mouth. In this situation we will leave them for the present, and
relate what happened between the knight of the wood, and him of the
rueful countenance.
Footnote 151:
Literally, ‘a squire of wool and water,’ an allusion to a custom among
the Spaniards, who sometimes have domesticks to attend them to mass,
and sprinkle them with holy water: these are generally shabby fellows,
who have very poor appointments.
CHAP. XIV.
WHEREIN THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE WOOD IS CONTINUED.
In the course of the conversation that passed between the two knights,
the history relates, that he of the wood said to Don Quixote, ‘Finally,
Sir Knight, you must know, my destiny, or rather my choice, led me to
place my affection on the peerless Casildea de Vandalia. I call her
peerless, because she has no equal, either in point of stature, quality,
fortune, or beauty. Now this lady, in return for all my virtuous
inclination and amorous desires, like the stepmother of Hercules,
employs me in many various toils and dangers, promising at the
conclusion of each, that with the next my cares shall be finished; but
thus she goes on, stringing one labour to another, without number, and I
know not which will be the last that is to produce the accomplishment of
my wishes. At one time she commanded me to go and challenge that famous
giantess of Seville, called Giralda[152], who is so valiant and strong,
(her body being made of brass) and who, without shifting her station, is
the most changeable and fickle female in the whole world. I came, saw,
and conquered; fixing her motionless to one point, for during a whole
week, the wind blew from the north. Another time, she ordered me to
weigh the ancient figures called the Valiant Bulls of Guisando[153]; an
enterprize more suitable to porters than to knights; nay, she even
commanded me to throw myself headlong into the gulph of Cabra, an
adventure equally new and dangerous, and bring to her a particular
account of what is contained in that dark and deep abyss. I fixed the
inconstant Giralda, weighed the bulls of Guisando, precipitated myself
into the gulph, and brought to light the secrets of its abyss; and yet
my hopes are dead; ah, how dead! while her cruelty and disdain are still
alive; ah, how much alive! In short, to conclude, she ordered me to
traverse all the provinces of Spain, and compel every knight-errant in
the kingdom to confess that she is preferable, in point of beauty, to
all the women upon earth; and that I am the most valiant and amorous
knight in the world. In consequence of this command, I have travelled
over the greatest part of Spain, and vanquished many knights who have
presumed to contradict my assertion: but I value and applaud myself
chiefly for having conquered in single combat, that so renowned knight
Don Quixote de La Mancha, and made him confess that my Casildea is more
beautiful than his Dulcinea. Now, in that single conquest, I deem myself
superior to all the knights in the universe; for that same Don Quixote
hath vanquished all his cotemporaries; and I, in conquering him, have
transferred and conveyed to my own person all his honour, glory, and
reputation; the victor being always honoured in proportion to the fame
of his vanquished foe; wherefore, the innumerable atchievements of the
said Don Quixote are placed to my credit, as if they were the effects of
my own personal prowess.’
Don Quixote was astonished at hearing the knight of the wood talk in
this manner, and was a thousand times tempted to give him the lye; nay,
‘You lye,’ was at the very tip of his tongue; but repressing his
indignation as well as he could, that he might make the stranger’s own
tongue convict him of falshood, he replied very calmly, ‘That your
worship, Sir Knight, may have vanquished the greatest part of the
knights-errant in Spain, and even in the whole world, I do not pretend
to question; but that you have conquered Don Quixote de La Mancha, I
doubt very much; perhaps it might be another who resembles him, though
there are few such.’—‘How! not conquer him?’ cried he of the wood; ‘now,
by yon canopy of Heaven, under which we sit, I engaged, overcame, and
subjected that very individual Don Quixote; he is a tall, meagre,
long-legged, lanthorn-jawed, stalking figure; his hair inclining to
grey, his nose hooked and aquiline, with long, straight, black,
mustachios; in his excursions he assumes the name of the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance; and is attended by a peasant called Sancho Panza,
who serves him in quality of squire; he presses the loins, and governs
the reins of a famous steed hight Rozinante; and, in fine, he avows, as
the mistress of his heart, one Dulcinea del Toboso, formerly known by
the name of Aldonza Lorenzo; in like manner, my own mistress, whose name
is Casildea, being a native of Andalousia, is now distinguished by the
appellation of Casildea de Vandalia. If all these proofs are not
sufficient to evince my veracity, here is my sword, which shall make a
convert of incredulity itself.’
‘Have a little patience, Sir Knight,’ said Don Quixote, ‘and give ear
unto what I am going to say. You must know, that same Don Quixote you
mention, is the dearest friend I have upon earth; so that I may say, I
love him as well as my own individual person; now your description of
him is so punctual and exact, that I should never doubt but he is
actually the person you have vanquished, did I not see with my eyes,
and, as it were, feel with my hands, the impossibility of the fact; and
yet, as divers inchanters are his enemies, particularly one who
persecutes him incessantly, some one among them may have assumed his
figure, and allowed himself to be overcome, in order to defraud the
knight of that fame which his gallant exploits had collected and
acquired through the whole known world; in confirmation of this
conjecture, I must also tell you, that about two days ago, those
perverse inchanters transformed the shape and person of the beautiful
Dulcinea del Toboso, into that of a mean and plebeian country-wench; so
that Don Quixote must have also undergone a transformation. And if all
this is not enough to ascertain the truth of what I say, here is Don
Quixote himself, who will maintain it by force of arms, on horseback or
on foot, or in any shape you please.’
So saying, he started up, and grasping his sword, stood waiting for the
resolution of the Knight of the Wood, who with great deliberation
replied; ‘A good paymaster needs no pawn, Signior Don Quixote; he who
could vanquish you when you was transformed, may well hope to reduce you
in _propria persona_; but as it is unseemly for knights to perform their
exploits in the dark, like robbers and ruffians, let us wait for day,
that the sun may shine upon our works; and let this be the condition of
our combat, that the vanquished shall comply with the will of the
victor, and do every thing that he shall desire, provided his commands
be such as a knight-errant can decently obey.’
Don Quixote assured him, that he was extremely well satisfied with the
condition and proviso; upon which they went in quest of their squires,
who were found snoring in the very same attitudes in which sleep had
surprized them. They wakened, and ordered them to get their horses
ready; for by sun-rise they intended to engage in a most unparalleled
and bloody single combat. Sancho was astonished and confounded at this
piece of news; despairing of his master’s safety, when he recollected
what the other squire had told him concerning the valour of the knight
of the wood. The two squires, however, without pretending to make any
words, went to look for their cattle, and found the three steeds, with
Dapple, (for they had smelled each other out) very sociably met
together. While they were thus employed, ‘Brother,’ said he of the wood
to Sancho, ‘you must know that it is customary with your warriors of
Andalousia, when they are godfathers in any quarrel, not to stand idle,
with their arms across, while their godsons are engaged. This I hint, by
way of apprising you that, while our masters are at it, we must exchange
a few dry blows too.’—‘That custom, Signior squire,’ answered Sancho,
‘may pass current with those ruffians and warriors you mention; but that
it prevails among the squires of knights-errant, I can by no means
believe; at least, I have never heard such a custom mentioned by my
master, who knows all the ordinances of chivalry by rote. Besides,
granting it to be fact, and expressly ordained, that the squires must go
to loggerheads while their masters are engaged; I will by no means
comply with it, but pay the penalty incurred by peaceable squires, which
I am sure cannot exceed a couple of pounds of wax; and that will not
cost me so much as the pence I should expend in the cure of my head,
which I should lay my account with having split and divided into two
halves; and moreover, it is impossible that I should fight, because I
have got no sword, and never wore one in my born days.’—‘I know a very
good remedy for that inconvenience,’ said the stranger: ‘here are a
couple of linen bags, of the same size; you shall take one, and I the
other, and play away upon each other with equal arms.’—‘With all my
heart,’ answered Sancho; ‘that sort of exercise will serve to dust our
jackets, without hurting our skin.’—‘Not quite so neither,’ resumed the
other, ‘for that the bags may not flap in the air, we will clap into
each half a dozen clear smooth pebbles, of equal weight and magnitude;
so that we may thwack one another without hurt or damage.’—‘Body of my
father,’ cried Sancho, ‘mind what sable furrs and flakes of carded
cotton he would line the bags withal, to prevent them from grinding our
skulls, and making a paste of our bones! Hark ye, master of mine, I’ll
have nothing to do with them, though they were fluffed with balls of
silk; let our masters fight as they shall think proper, but for our
parts, let us drink and live quietly; for old father Time will take care
to rid us of our lives, without our seeking occasions to throw them away
before the appointed season, at which, being ripe, they drop off of
their own accord.’
‘But, for all that,’ replied he of the wood, ‘we must have a bout, if it
should not last half an hour.’—‘By no means,’ said Sancho; ‘I shall not
be so uncivil and ungrateful as to have any difference, let it be never
so small, with a person at whose cost I have both eaten and drank:
besides, who the devil do you think can fight in cool blood, without any
sort of anger or provocation?’—‘I know how to remove that objection,’
resumed the stranger: ‘before we begin the battle, I will come up fair
and softly, and give your worship two or three such hearty boxes on the
ear, as will lay you flat at my feet, and awaken your choler, though it
should sleep sounder than a dormouse.’—‘Against that expedient,’
answered Sancho, ‘I know another twice as good: for I will lay hold on a
good cudgel, and before your worship comes to awaken my choler, give
your own such a lullaby of dry beating, that it shall never wake but in
the next world, where you’ll have reason to know that I am not a man who
will suffer his nose to be handled by any person whatsomever; wherefore,
let every one look to his own affairs. Though it would be the wisest
course for every man to let his own choler lie still and sleep: for
nobody knows the heart of his neighbour, and some who go out for wool,
come home quite shorn. God himself bestowed his blessing upon peace, and
curse upon contention; for if a cat that is confined, provoked, and
persecuted, turns into a lion, the Lord knows what I, who am a man, may
turn into: I therefore, Signior Squire, give your worship notice, that
all the mischief and damage which shall proceed from our quarrel, must
be charged to your account.’—‘Mighty well,’ replied the stranger, ‘we
shall see what is to be done, when God sends us morning.’
Now a thousand kinds of painted birds began to warble from the trees,
and in their various and sprightly notes seemed to welcome and salute
the fresh and joyous morn, which already, through the gates and
balconies of the east, disclosed her beauteous visage; while from her
hair distilled an infinite number of liquid pearls, in which delicious
liquor the herbs being bathed, seemed to sprout and rain a shower of
seed-pearl upon the earth. The willows shed savoury manna, the fountains
laughed, the brooks murmured, the woods rejoiced, and the meadows
adorned themselves at her approach.
But scarce had the light of day rendered objects distinguishable, when
the first thing that presented itself to the eyes of Sancho Panza was
the nose of his brother squire, which was so large as almost to
over-shadow his whole body. It is actually said to have been of
excessive magnitude, crooked in the middle, and studded all over with
warts of a mulberry colour, like the fruit called berengena; and it hung
down two fingers breadth below his mouth. The size, colour, warts, and
curvature of this feature, rendered the face so frightful and deformed,
that Sancho no sooner beheld it than he began to shake in every limb,
like a child troubled with convulsions; and resolved, in his heart, to
endure two hundred buffetings, before his choler should be awaked, so as
to fight with such a hobgoblin.
Don Quixote surveying his antagonist, found his vizor already down, and
closed in such a manner as effectually concealed his face; but he
perceived him to be a muscular man, of a middling stature. Over his arms
he wore a loose coat or cassock, to all appearance of the finest cloth
of gold, powdered with a number of small moons formed of the brightest
looking-glass, which had a most magnificent, gay, and shewy effect. Over
his helmet waved a great quantity of green, yellow, and white plumes;
and his lance, which leaned against a tree, was excessively long and
large, armed with above a hand’s breadth of pointed steel. All these
particulars were observed and considered by Don Quixote, who concluded,
from what he saw and observed, that the said knight must be a person of
Herculean strength. Nevertheless, far from being afraid, like Sancho
Panza, he, with the most gallant intrepidity, thus addressed himself to
the Knight of the Mirrours: ‘I entreat you, by your courtesy, Sir
Knight, if your eager desire of fighting hath not destroyed that
quality, to lift up your beaver a little, that I may see whether or not
the grace of your countenance corresponds with the gallantry of your
demeanour.’—‘Signior cavalier,’ replied he of the looking-glasses,
‘whether you are victor or vanquished in this enterprize, you will have
time and opportunity more than sufficient to consider my visage: my
reason for not satisfying your desire at present, is, that I should deem
it a notable injury to the beautiful Casildea de Vandalia, to spend so
much time as it would take to lift up my beaver, before I compel you to
confess what you know I pretend to maintain.’—‘Yet, while we mount our
steeds,’ said Don Quixote, ‘you may easily tell me if I am that same Don
Quixote whom you pretend to have overcome.’—‘To that question I answer,’
said he of the mirrours, ‘that you are as like the knight I overcame, as
one egg is like another; but as you say you are persecuted by
inchanters, I will not venture to affirm whether or not you are the same
person.’—‘That is enough,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘to convince me that you
are mistaken: nevertheless, to persuade you beyond all possibility of
doubt, let us have recourse to our horses, and in less time than you
would have taken to lift your beaver, if God, my mistress, and my arm
avail me, I shall see your face; and you will see I am not that
conquered Don Quixote whom you suppose me to be.’
Thus breaking off the conversation, they mounted their horses; and Don
Quixote turned Rozinante, in order to take a sufficiency of ground for
returning to encounter his antagonist, while he of the mirrours took the
same precaution. But the first had not proceeded twenty paces when he
was called back by the other, and the two meeting again half way, ‘Take
notice, Sir Knight,’ said he of the looking glasses, ‘the condition of
our combat is, that the conquered, as I have already observed, must be
at the discretion of the conqueror.’—‘I know it,’ answered Don Quixote,
‘provided the commands imposed upon the vanquished be such as do not
transgress the bounds of chivalry.’—‘So I understand the conditions,’
answered he of the mirrours.
At that instant the strange nose of the squire presented itself to the
eyes of Don Quixote, who was no less astonished than Sancho at the
sight; insomuch that he took him for some monster, or new-fashioned man,
such as are not commonly found in this world. Sancho, seeing his master
set out, in order to take his career, would not stay alone with nozzle,
being afraid, that one flirt of such a snout in his face would determine
the quarrel, and lay him stretched along the ground, either through fear
or the severity of the blow, he therefore ran after his master, and
laying hold of one of Rozinante’s stirrups, when he saw him ready to
turn, ‘I beseech your worship, dear master,’ cried he, ‘before you turn
to begin the combat, help me in climbing this cork-tree, from whence I
may behold, more to my liking than from the ground, your worship’s
gallant encounter with that same knight.’—‘I rather believe, Sancho,’
said Don Quixote, ‘that thy motive for clambering up is to see the
bull-fight from a scaffold, without any danger to thyself.’—‘The truth
is,’ answered Panza, ‘the outrageous nose of that squire fills me with
such astonishment and affright, that I dare not tarry along with
him.’—‘It is such indeed,’ replied the knight, ‘that were I any other
than what I am, I should be feared at its appearance: come, therefore,
and I will help thee to ascend to the place you mention.’
While Don Quixote stopped until Sancho should get up into the cork-tree,
the Knight of the Mirrours took as much ground as he thought necessary,
and imagining that Don Quixote had done the same, without waiting for
sound of trumpet, or other signal, he turned his horse, which was not a
whit superior to Rozinante, either in fleetness or appearance, and at
his full speed, which was a middling trot, rode forwards to encounter
his antagonist; but seeing him busy in the exaltation of Sancho, he
pulled in the reins, and halted in the middle of his career; a
circumstance that gave infinite joy to his steed, which was already so
tired, that he could not move another step. Don Quixote perceiving his
enemy approaching with such speed, drove his spurs stoutly into the
meagre flanks of Rozinante, and made him spring forwards in such a
manner, that the history says, this was the only occasion on which he
was ever known to gallop; for, at all other times, his swiftest pace was
no other than a downright trot; and with this hitherto unseen fury he
arrived at the spot where the Knight of the Mirrours sat, thrusting his
spurs rowel-deep into the sides of his horse, without being able to move
him one finger’s breadth from the place where he had made his halt. In
this confusion and dilemma Don Quixote found his antagonist embroiled
with his horse, and embarrassed with his lance, which, either through
want of knowledge or of time, he had not as yet fixed in the rest. Our
Manchegan, who never minded these incumbrances, safely, and without the
least danger to his own person, encountered him of the mirrours with
such vigour, as to bring him, very much against his inclination, to the
ground, over the crupper of his horse, with such a fall, that he lay
without sense or motion, to all appearance bereft of life.
Sancho no sooner saw him unhorsed, than sliding down from the cork-tree,
he ran down to his master, who having alighted from Rozinante, stood
over the Knight of the Mirrours, untying his helmet, in order to see,
whether or not he was actually dead, and to give him air, in case he
should be alive. Then it was he saw—who can relate what he saw, without
creating admiration, wonder, and affright in those who hear it! He saw,
says the history, the very face, the very figure, the very aspect, the
very physiognomy, the very effigies, the very perspective of the
batchelor, Sampson Carrasco; and this he no sooner beheld, than raising
his voice, he cried, ‘Come hither, Sancho, and behold what thou shalt
see, but not believe; quick, my child, and contemplate the power of
magick: here thou wilt see what those wizards and inchanters can do.’
Sancho accordingly approached, and seeing the face of batchelor
Carrasco, began to cross and bless himself a thousand times.
Mean while, the overthrown knight, giving no signs of life, Sancho said
to Don Quixote, ‘In my opinion, master, right or wrong, your worship
should thrust your sword through the jaws of this miscreant, who seems
to be the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, and in him, perhaps, you may slay
one of those inchanters who are your enemies.’—‘That is no bad advice,’
said the knight, ‘for the fewer enemies the better.’ So saying, he drew
his sword, in order to put in execution the advice and counsel of
Sancho, when the squire belonging to the Knight of the Mirrours, came up
without his frightful nose, and cried aloud, ‘Take care what you do,
Signior Don Quixote; he who lies at your feet is your friend the
batchelor Sampson Carrasco, and I am his squire.’
Sancho seeing him without his original deformity, ‘And the nose?’ said
he. ‘I have it here,’ replied the other; who putting his hand in his
right side-pocket, pulled out a paste-board nose, covered with varnish,
such as we have already described. Sancho having considered him more and
more attentively, broke out into a loud exclamation of wonder, crying,
‘Blessed virgin watch over me! Sure this is not my neighbour and gossip
Tommy Cecial?’—‘The very same,’ answered the unsnouted squire, ‘Thomas
Cecial I am, your own friend and gossip, Sancho Panza, and I will
presently tell you by what round-about conduits, tricks, and mischievous
stories, I have been brought hither: in the mean time, supplicate and
beseech your master’s worship not to treat, maltreat, wound, or slay,
the Knight of the Looking-glasses, who now lies at his feet; for,
without all doubt, he is no other than our townsman, the inconsiderate
and ill-advised batchelor Sampson Carrasco.’
About this time, the Knight of the Mirrours came to himself; and Don
Quixote perceiving he had recovered the use of his senses, clapped the
point of his naked sword to his throat, saying, ‘Knight, you are a dead
man, if you do not instantly confess that the peerless Dulcinea del
Toboso excels your Casildea de Vandalia, in beauty; and in the next
place, you must promise, (provided you escape with life from this
contention and overthrow) to go to the city of Toboso, and present
yourself before her, in my name, that she may dispose of you according
to her good pleasure; and if she leaves you at your own disposal, you
shall return in quest of me; for the tracks of my exploits will serve as
a guide to conduct you to the place where I shall be, and give me an
account of what hath passed between you; these conditions being
conformable to what we agreed upon before the combat, and not deviating
from the customs of knight-errantry.’—‘I confess,’ said the vanquished
knight, ‘that the clouted dirty shoe of the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso,
excels the dishevelled, though shining locks of Casildea: I promise to
go and return from her to your presence, and give you a full and
particular detail of what you demand.’—‘You must, in like manner,
confess and believe,’ added Don Quixote, ‘that the knight whom you
overcame neither was nor could be Don Quixote de La Mancha, but some
other who resembled him; as I confess and believe, that although you
appear to be the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, you are not really he, but
another cloathed in his appearance, with which my enemies have invested
you, in order to arrest my arm, and restrain the impetuosity of my rage,
so as that I may bear the glory of my conquest with moderation.’—‘I
confess, judge, and perceive, in all respects, as you believe, judge,
and perceive,’ answered the discomfited knight; ‘and I beseech you to
allow me to rise, if the severity of my fall, which hath put me in a
miserable plight, will permit me to get up.’
He was accordingly assisted in rising, by Don Quixote and his own squire
Tommy Cecial, from whose person Sancho could not withdraw his eyes,
while he asked a thousand questions; the answers to which manifestly
shewed, that he was really and truly the individual Tommy Cecial, whom
he pretended to be; but the apprehension which Sancho had conceived,
from what his master said touching the inchanters, who had metamorphosed
the Knight of the Mirrours into the Batchelor Carrasco, hindered him
from giving credit to the truth of what he saw with his own eyes.
Finally, both master and man remained under the influence of that
deception, while he of the mirrours, with his squire, in exceeding bad
humour and evil plight, took his leave of Don Quixote and Sancho, to go
in quest of some place where he might beplaister and besplinter his
ribs. Don Quixote and Sancho returned to the prosecution of their
journey; in which the history leaves them, to explain the mystery of the
knight of the looking-glasses and his snouted squire.
Footnote 152:
A brass statue on a steeple at Seville, serving for a weather-cock.
Footnote 153:
These are stone statues of bulls, erected by the Romans at Guisando, a
town in Castile; all the inscriptions are effaced, except the name of
A. Quintus Cæcilius, Consul II.
CHAP. XV.
WHICH GIVES AN ACCOUNT AND INFORMATION
OF THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRROURS AND HIS SQUIRE.
Don Quixote went on his way rejoicing; he gloried, he triumphed in the
importance of his conquest, imagining the knight of the mirrours to be
the most redoubtable of all knights that had yet ever appeared; and what
afforded him likewise great matter of comfort was, that this knight,
having engaged himself by the ties of honour, from which he could not
deviate, without forfeiting his title to the order, he conceived hopes
of hearing soon from Dulcinea, and of being certainly informed whether
the inchantment of that princess still continued; though, indeed, it
happened, that he and the knight of the mirrours thought, at that time,
differently upon this subject; inasmuch as the latter was solely intent
upon thinking how he should repair the damage done to his carcase.
And here the historian informs his readers, that when Sampson Carrasco
advised Don Quixote to resume the profession of knight-errantry, it was
in consequence of mature consultation between him, the curate, and the
barber, when they deliberated upon the means of keeping him in peace and
quiet at home, so that his brains, for the future, should not be
disturbed in pursuit of those wild extravagances; the result of which
was, that the only way to cure the frenzy of this unhappy man, was at
present not to check his ungovernable obstinacy, but to humour it, and
encourage him to go out again, as they saw it was impossible to prevent
him; that Sampson should arm himself, and take an opportunity of meeting
and challenging him, as a knight-errant; that he should settle the terms
with him, that the vanquished should be at the disposal of the
conqueror; that, in consequence of this agreement, Don Quixote, when
overcome, (which they looked upon as a matter of little doubt and
difficulty) should be ordered to return home, and not to pass the bounds
of his own village for the space of two years, without the good-will and
permission of the other; that, no doubt, this he would religiously
comply with, as not daring to violate the laws of the order; and that
there might be hopes, he would either in that space of time be naturally
cured of those extravagant follies, or they might find out some method
of diverting his mind from the farther pursuit of them. Carrasco
undertook the affair very readily; and this Thomas Cecial, an intimate
friend and companion of Sancho, and a queer sort of fellow, proffered
his service to go upon the expedition, in the quality of squire. Sampson
got himself accoutred in the manner you have read, and Cecial appeared
in the terrors of that tremendous paste-board nose, to disguise himself
from Sancho; and being thus equipped, they followed him so close, that
they were very near coming up with him at the adventure of the waggon of
Death; they met him however in the wood, where ensued what the attentive
reader must already be acquainted with; and where, had it not been for
Don Quixote’s heated imagination, which hurried him into the belief that
the batchelor was not the batchelor Signior Sampson Carrasco, would have
been effectually stopped in the progress of his university degrees, and
would not even have found a nest where he expected a flight of sparrows.
Thomas Cecial, finding the unhappy success that attended their
undertaking, said, ‘Mr. Carrasco, I cannot in my conscience see why we
ought to complain; it is one thing to undertake, but another thing to
finish: we looked upon Don Quixote as mad, and ourselves as hugely wise;
but, behold the end! we take our march back again, both from a fool’s
errand, and you most handsomely drubbed to boot, while he pursues his
journey in safety and triumph; and I should really be curious to know
which is the greatest fool, he who is made so by nature, or he who makes
himself one?’—‘There is this difference,’ replied the batchelor,
‘between a natural and a wilful fool; that the former will always remain
so, the latter may cease to be so when he has a mind.’—‘As that is the
case,’ said Thomas, ‘I think I have been a monstrous fool in coming here
to attend you as your squire; and therefore, that I may be so no longer,
I will this instant hie me to my own habitation.’—‘In that particular,
you may do what seems good unto you,’ replied Sampson; ‘but as for me, I
see not the place of my dwelling, until I shall have taken bodily
vengeance upon Don Quixote: ’tis not now from motives of charity or
benevolence; no, ’tis revenge, and the anguish of my ribs, that prompt
me to persevere in attempting the work of his reformation.’
They entertained one another in this manner, till they came to a
village, where they had the good fortune to find a bone-setter, who put
the batchelor’s ribs somewhat to rights; and Cecial took the route for
his own village, leaving Carrasco deep in his meditations, projecting
schemes of revenge. In due time, the history will again mention him;
but, at present, let us share with Don Quixote in the transports of his
joy.
CHAP. XVI.
WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE WITH A GRAVE GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA.
Don Quixote, as we have observed, went on his way, glorying in his
success. From that day, he dated himself the most renowned and
invincible of all knights that had ever yet gone through a course of
labours on this our earth: he looked upon all dangers, all difficulties
that possibly could come in his way, as already vanquished, already
overcome: he now valued not a rush the machinations of the most powerful
inchanters. The very traces of former misfortunes, those drubbings out
of number he had undergone, in discharging the functions of knighthood,
were now quite obliterated from his memory. He thought no more of the
shower of stones which had so sorely afflicted his jaw-bones, nor the
mortifying ingratitude of the galley-slaves; nor did he think any more
of the pack-staves of the Yanguesian carriers, who had the hardiness to
make his sides resound like the dusting of a carpet: in short, the idea
he conceived of his own felicity was so great, that, ‘Could I,’ said he
to himself, ‘but accomplish the great point of delivering my celestial
princess from the power of inchantment, I should not envy the glory that
ever was or will be purchased by any knight in the universe.’
He was lost in these reveries, when Sancho interrupted him: ‘Signior,
you will hardly believe what a fool I am; but it is an actual truth,
that I cannot keep myself from thinking on that horrid and unmeasurable
nose of my neighbour Tom Cecial.’—‘And dost thou really believe,’
replied the other, ‘that the Knight of the Mirrours was Sampson
Carrasco; and that thy old companion, Thomas Cecial, was his
squire?’—‘As to that affair, I can say nothing to it,’ answered Sancho;
‘only one thing I am positive in, that no one but himself could have
given me such an account of my house, my wife, and my children; and as
to his face, when that nose was slipt off, it was the very individual
face of Thomas Cecial, just as I have beheld it many a time, when we
were next door neighbours in our village: and as for his voice, I will
take my oath, it is the same to a tittle.’—‘Come, Sancho,’ said Don
Quixote, ‘let us reason coolly upon this head: what probability is
there, that Sampson Carrasco should come, as a knight-errant, armed
cap-a-pee, to offer me combat? Am I his enemy, or did I ever give him
occasion to bear resentment against me? Do you imagine I am his rival,
or that he has entered into the profession of chivalry, as envying the
glory I have acquired by arms?’—‘But then, Sir,’ answered Sancho, ‘what
account can we give of the resemblance of that same knight and his
squire to Sampson Carrasco, and my old friend Thomas Cecial? And if it
be inchantment, as your worship says, were there no other two in the
world but them whose likeness they could assume?’—‘It is all design,’
answered the other; ‘and the contrivance of those cursed inchanters that
persecute me, who easily foreseeing I should be victorious in the
combat, changed the form of the vanquished knight into that of the
batchelor, that the friendship I have for him might check the fury of my
sword, and shield him against the effects of my just indignation; and by
that means save the life of him who by treachery and artifice had
attempted to take away mine. But what farther proof need there be of the
power of those inchanters, to change the appearance of human
countenances, the fair into the deformed, and the deformed into the
fair, than what thou thyself hast lately found by certain experience?
Thou, who not two days since beheld the peerless Dulcinea in all the
charms and lustre of perfect beauty, while at the same time she appeared
to me an ugly rustick wench, with bleared eyes, and stinking breath; and
doubtless, if the wicked magician could effect such a diabolical
inchantment as that, it is not to be wondered at, if he did the like by
Carrasco and Thomas Cecial, to rob me of the glory of my victory:
however, this is my consolation, that the prowess of my arm hath
prevailed against my enemy, whatever shape he has assumed.’—‘It is God
alone who knows the truth of all things,’ answered Sancho: who, well
knowing that the transformation of Dulcinea was the effect of his own
inchantments, upon that account was not quite convinced by his master’s
arguments; but durst not mutter the least word, lest something should
have dropped from him, by which he might have betrayed himself.
While they were discoursing in this manner, a gentleman, mounted in the
jockey-fashion, on a fine flea-bitten mare, came up with them, dressed
in a riding-coat of fine green cloth, faced with murry-coloured velvet,
and a hunting-cap of the same; his furniture of a piece, murry-coloured
and green; he had a belt of green and gold, at which hung a Moorish
scymitar, and his buskins were wrought in the same manner; his spurs
were not gilt, but so finely varnished with green, that as they were
more of a piece with the rest of his dress, they looked better than if
they had been pure gold. When this gentleman overtook them, he saluted
them with great politeness, and was spurring on, in order to pass them,
when Don Quixote calling to him, said, ‘Signior, if you are not in
haste, and are a going this way, I should be exceeding glad to join
company with you.’—‘Sir,’ answered the other, ‘I should not have been in
such haste to pass you, but was afraid your horse might be unruly, in
the company of my mare.’—‘If that be all,’ answered Sancho, ‘you may
stop your mare when you please, with great safety; ours is the most
sober and most discreet horse in the world, and has more breeding than
ever to let his naughtiness get the better of him upon such occasions,
and never transgressed in this particular but once, and then my master
and I both suffered severely in the flesh for it: I say once more, your
worship may stop; for if your mare was served up in a dish, our steed
would not so much as smell to her.’ Upon this assurance, the gentleman
stopped, and looked with amazement at the air and appearance of Don
Quixote, who rode without his helmet, which hung like a wallet before
Sancho, at the pummel of his ass’s pannel; and, on the other hand, Don
Quixote beheld him with no less attention, conceiving him to be some
person of figure and distinction. The traveller seemed to be a man about
fifty; he had some, though few, grey hairs; his features were sharp, and
in his looks appeared neither levity nor moroseness: in short, his
appearance bespoke him a man of consequence. He looked with a kind of
astonishment at Don Quixote, as having never beheld such a phænomenon
before; the lankness of the horse, and the tall stature of the person
that rode him, the sepulchral meagreness of his aspect, his solemn
gravity, the strangeness of his armour, all together forming such a
composition as perhaps had never before been seen in that country.
Don Quixote observed with what attention the traveller considered him;
and, by the surprize he saw him in, guessing what he wanted to know, as
he was himself the very flower of civility, and of excessive
complaisance, he was resolved to be beforehand with him, and save him
the trouble of asking any question: ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘I am not at all
surprized to find, that with amazement you contemplate this my
appearance, so new to you, and so different from that of other mortals;
but your wonder will cease, when I have told you that I am of the
fraternity of those knights whom people distinguish by the title of
adventure-hunters. I have left my native home, mortgaged my all, bid
adieu to ease and pleasure, and cast myself upon fortune, to dispose of
me as she shall think proper; my design being to awaken the lost and
decayed spirit of knight-errantry: it is now some time since I entered
upon the resolution of accomplishing this aim, during which period I
have suffered a variety of fortune, tossed about from one adventure to
another, sometimes triumphant, at other times not so successful, until I
have in a great measure fulfilled my design, having relieved many
disconsolate widows, afforded protection to many distressed damsels, and
been of aid and assistance to divers married women and fatherless
children, the true duty and intent of our order; so that, by numberless
exploits becoming a Christian hero, I am now celebrated in print through
almost all the nations of the habitable globe. Thirty thousand copies of
my renowned history are already in the hands of the publick; and if
Heaven does not think proper to put a stop to it, in all likelihood
there will be a thousand times as many more. In one word, Sir, I am Don
Quixote de La Mancha, otherwise stiled the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance; and though I own it is illiberal to sound one’s own
praises, yet am I sometimes obliged to do it; but then, never unless
when no one is by to do it for me; so that, Signior, after what I have
told you, neither my lance nor my shield, my horse nor my squire, the
wanness of my countenance, nor the lankness of my person, and all my
whole composition together, ought any more to affect you with surprize,
since you know the profession I am of, and the order I belong to.’
There Don Quixote stopped to give the traveller an opportunity of reply;
but he was so long before he opened his mouth, that it seemed as if he
could make no answer; however, after a long pause, ‘Sir Knight,’ said
he, ‘you was not mistaken, when, by the surprize you saw me in, you
guessed the desire I had to be informed; but I am still as much
surprized as ever, and though what you say may be right, that my knowing
who you are ought to have made my wonder cease, it is yet far from
having that effect upon me. Can it be possible, that there are indeed
now in the world knights-errant really existing, and that there are
published accounts of real adventures? I should never have once dreamed
that there was such a thing upon earth as any one who assisted married
women and orphans, relieved widows, and protected damsels, if I had not
had this opportunity of being convinced by now seeing you; and Heaven be
praised, that this noble history of your real and glorious atchievements
is in print, as it must efface and discredit those numberless romances
about knights-errant, who never had being, and with which the world was
so pestered and abused, to the apparent corruption of the mind of the
readers, and the discredit of real and true history.’—‘As to that
circumstance, Sir, there is much to be said, and you must not be too
rash in believing, that the histories of knight errantry are all
fable.’—‘Is there any one,’ answered the traveller, ‘who makes a doubt
of it?’—‘I do, for one,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘but we will drop that
subject for the present, as I doubt not but, if we continue any time
travelling together, I shall be able, by the blessing of God, to
convince you of your error, and to shew you that you are prejudiced only
by the number of those who have entertained a notion, that such accounts
are fictitious.’
These last words of Don Quixote gave the gentleman in green a suspicious
idea of his understanding: he had a notion that he must be disordered in
his senses, and was expecting some other proof of it; but, without
entering into farther discourse, Don Quixote desired his companion to
let him know who he was, as he himself had given an account of his life
and situation. To which request the gentleman replied, ‘Sir Knight of
the Rueful Countenance, I am a gentleman born in a village where, if it
pleases God, we shall all dine to-day; my fortune is better than
moderate, and my name Don Diego de Miranda. I pass my time chearfully,
with my wife, my children, and my friends; my usual diversions are
fishing and hunting; but I neither keep hounds nor hawks; all I have are
some decoy-partridges and a good ferret. My library consists of about
some six dozen of Spanish and Latin books; some are books of history,
others of piety; for as to books of chivalry, I have not yet allowed
them to come under my roof: I am more inclined to the reading of profane
than religious authors, if the subjects they treat of are of an innocent
nature, if the stile is engaging, and the incidents affecting and
surprizing: but, indeed, Spain produces mighty few performances of this
sort. I live in terms of good neighbourhood with all about me; sometimes
I go to their houses, sometimes I invite them to mine; my table is neat
and clean, and sufficiently affluent, without extravagance. I slander no
one, nor do I allow backbiters to come near me; my eyes pry not into the
actions of other men, nor have I any impertinent curiosity to know the
secrets of their lives. I go to mass every day, and the poor man
partakes of my substance; I make no ostentation in the good I do, that I
may defend myself against the attacks of hypocrisy and vain-glory, well
knowing, that the best fortified heart is hardly proof against these sly
deceivers. As far as I have an opportunity, I am a reconciler of
differences among my neighbours: I particularly pay my devotions to the
blessed Mother, and have an entire dependance on the mercies of God our
Saviour.’
Sancho had listened with uncommon attention to what the gentleman in
green said; and this discourse seemed to him of such exalted piety and
virtue, that he immediately conceived such a man must be endowed with
the power of working miracles: fully persuaded of the truth of this
supposition, he threw himself off his ass, ran up to the gentleman,
seized his right stirrup, and with a heart overflowing with devotion,
and eyes full of tears, fell a kissing his feet. Which humility, when
the traveller perceived, ‘What is the matter, friend,’ said he; ‘what is
the meaning of these embraces?’—‘Pray let me alone,’ said Sancho; ‘for
in my life before, excepting your worship, did I never know a saint
mounted on horseback.’—‘I have no title to be thought so,’ answered the
gentleman; ‘on the contrary, I am a miserable sinner; but the simplicity
of your behaviour, my friend, shews, that you yourself must be a very
good man.’ Upon this declaration Sancho quitted him, and again remounted
Dapple, having by his behaviour unbended the solemn gravity of his
master into a smile, and increased the wonder of Don Diego.
Don Quixote then made enquiry into the number of children he had,
informing him at the same time, that the ancient sages, who were not
enlightened with the knowledge of the true God, reckoned the gifts of
fortune and nature, abundance of friends and encrease of dutiful
children, as constituting part of the supreme happiness. ‘Sir,’ answered
Don Diego, ‘I have one son; and if I had none, should, peradventure,
think myself happier than I am; not that he is very bad, but because he
does not come up to what I would wish him to be. He is now eighteen
years of age, six of which he has spent at Salamanca, studying Greek and
Latin; and when I would have had him apply to something else, I found
him so dipt in poetry, if that deserves the name of science, that I
could not prevail upon him to take to the study of the law, which was
what I wanted he should do; nor would he apply to divinity, the first
and noblest of all sciences. I was desirous to make him the honour and
ornament of his family, as we live in an age, and under a monarch, where
useful and virtuous learning is so amply recompensed: for what is
learning without virtue; no better than pearls on a dunghill! He will
spend whole days in examining whether such a verse in Homer’s Iliad be
expressed with propriety, whether such an epigram of Martial is to be
construed into a lewd sense or not, and whether such a verse in Virgil
will bear this or that meaning. In a word, these authors, with Horace,
Persius, Juvenal, and Tibullus, engross the whole of his time and
conversation. As to the modern authors of his own country, he seems to
have no great relish for them, though, notwithstanding his seeming
disregard, he is now busied in making a kind of commentary upon four
verses, which, I believe, are designed as a subject for a prize in the
schools.’
To this information, the other answered, ‘Signior, children are to be
considered as part of the bowels of the parents, and be they good or
bad, we must treat them as such, and cherish them accordingly. It is
incumbent upon parents to lead them betimes into the paths of decency
and virtue, to instil into them sound principles, and train them up in
Christian discipline, that by these means they may be the stay of their
declining years, and an honour to their own descendants. I am not
against using persuasion to incline them either to the study of this or
that science, but look upon using force as altogether unwarrantable;
more especially as the young gentleman does not study in view of getting
his livelihood, he being so fortunate as to have that secured by
inheritance: then I think he should be indulged in pursuing whatever his
genius or inclination mostly prompts him to; and though in poetry there
is more pleasure than utility, it generally does honour to the person
who has a vein for it. I liken poetry to a young, tender, and beautiful
virgin, whom many other virgins, that is, all the other sciences, are
assiduous to ornament, enrich, and embellish; now as she makes use of
them all, so likewise does she reflect a lustre upon them all. But then
this tender virgin is not to be handled roughly; she is not to be
dragged through the streets, exposed in publick places, or stand as a
prostitute at the gates of palaces. She is a kind of alchemy of such
rare virtue, that whoever knows the nature of her composition may change
her into pure gold of inestimable value: whoever would keep her must
narrowly look after her; she must not be indulged in the indecency of
obscene satire, nor allowed to run into insipid sonnets; and though she
may enjoy the profits arising from heroick poetry, weeping tragedy, or
laughing comedy, yet the muse must not be venal; no buffoons must have
any thing to do with her, and she must be kept sacred from the
unhallowed multitude, who neither know nor esteem those hidden treasures
she carries about her. And think not that by the multitude I only mean
the common rank of men; no, under that class I number all who are
strangers to real knowledge, be they peers or be they princes. But,
whoever is possessed of those qualifications I have been mentioning, and
with them attempts the study and execution of poetry, I say, his name
will be famous and held in veneration wherever politeness extends its
influence. As to what you say of your son’s not esteeming the poetry of
his own country, I don’t think he is quite right in that opinion, and
for this reason: the mighty Homer did not write in Latin, because he was
a Greek; nor Virgil in Greek, for the same reason that he was a Roman;
and, in general, every one of the ancient poets wrote in the language of
his own country, and did not seek for another to clothe the majesty of
his ideas. As this is the case, I think it should be a prevailing maxim
in all countries; nor should we undervalue the German poet for writing
in his own language, nor the Castilian, nor even the Biscayan, for
writing in his; but, perhaps, your son does not dislike Spanish poetry,
but Spanish poets, as being destitute of the knowledge of other
languages or sciences, that might contribute to cultivate, assist, and
enliven their own natural genius; and even this prejudice might be
carried too far; for the maxim that a poet is born with his talent, is
certainly just; that is, a real poet comes forth a poet into the world,
and with this natural endowment, implanted in him by his Creator,
produces, without the help of study or cultivation, such things as
verify that of the poets when they say, “_Est Deus in nobis._” One so
born a poet, if he cultivates his genius by the assistance of art, must
be much better, nay, greatly preferable to him who, without natural
fire, attains to the knowledge of the rules only; for it is obvious,
that as art does not exceed nature, but serves to polish and bring it to
perfection, so art assisting nature, and nature so assisted by art, form
the accomplished poet. To conclude, Signior, my advice is, that your son
should be allowed to follow the bent of his own inclination; and as he
must be already an exceeding good scholar, having mastered the learned
languages, which may be looked upon as having mounted the first steps in
his progress to the seat of the sciences, by the assistance of that
knowledge he will be able, without more help, to climb to the top of
human literature, which as much adorns and sets off a gentleman as a
mitre does a bishop, or the long robe the counsel learned in the law. If
you find him writing satires injurious to private characters, burn his
works and rebuke him; but if he composes discourses, that comprehend for
their subject of satire vice in general, as Horace did with so much
elegance, then commend him: for, though it be unlawful to mark and
single out particular persons, it is allowable to write against
particular vices; for example, to write against envy, or to lash the
envious, and so of others. Here are some poets, indeed, who, rather than
baulk their fancy of saying a smart thing, will risk being sent to the
isles of Pontus. As the manners, so will the verses be; if the former
are chaste, the latter will be so likewise. Writing is the interpreter
of the mind, which will always produce what is consonant to its own
native conceptions; and when kings, and the great men of the earth, once
see this wonderful gift of poetry employed on subjects of wisdom,
virtue, and dignity, they bestow marks of honour, esteem, and
munificence upon the poet; they crown him from the leaves of that tree,
which is proof against the glancing thunderbolt, emblematically
denoting, that such as wear that crown ought to be secure against all
hurt or offence.’
The traveller wondered so much at Don Quixote’s discourse, that he began
to be staggered in his mind, whether he was a madman or not. But as this
conversation did not altogether hit Sancho’s taste, he had, in the midst
of it, gone out of the road, to beg a little milk of some shepherds who
were milking ewes hard by; and the gentleman in green, who seemed very
fond of the good sense and ingenious conversation of Don Quixote, was
going to renew their dialogue, when the Don, suddenly lifting up his
eyes, saw a carriage with the king’s colours meeting them upon the road,
and taking this for some new adventure, called to Sancho to bring his
helmet. Sancho, hearing the voice of his master, left the shepherd in
great hurry, and mounting Dapple, arrived where Don Quixote was, to whom
there happened a very terrible and tremendous adventure.
CHAP. XVII.
WHICH SETS BEFORE THE READER THAT HIGHEST AND MOST EXALTED PINNACLE,
WHICH THE INCREDIBLE MAGNANIMITY OF DON QUIXOTE EVER DID,
OR EVER COULD ARRIVE AT—WITH THE HAPPY ISSUE OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE
LIONS.
The history then proceeds to inform us, that when Don Quixote called
upon Sancho to bring him his helmet, he, Sancho, was deep in bargain
with the shepherds about some curds; and finding himself summoned in
such violent haste by his master, was at a prodigious loss what to do
with them, for he had paid for them, and could not bear the thoughts of
losing his purchase: in this extremity he had recourse to his master’s
helmet, in which he safely stowed them, and hugging himself in this
lucky thought, away he trotted to receive the commands of his lord and
master, who desired him to deliver his helmet; ‘For,’ said he, ‘if I
know aught of adventures, that which I descry yonder will prove such a
one as will oblige me to have recourse to arms.’
Don Diego, upon hearing this declaration, looked about him every where,
but could discover nothing, except a carriage coming towards them, with
two or three flying flags, by which he guessed the carriage might be
loaded with some of the king’s money, and mentioned this observation to
Don Quixote, who minded not what he said, his brain wandering so upon
adventures, that every thing must be one, and nothing but a series of
one adventure upon the back of another; he therefore answered the
gentleman to this effect; ‘Sir, forewarned and fore-armed is half the
day; I am not now to learn that I have enemies of all kinds, visible and
invisible, neither know I the time, the place, the hour, nor under what
appearance they will attack me.’ With these words, turning about, he
demanded his helmet of Sancho; who not having time to disengage the
curds from it, was obliged to deliver it, with that lining in the
inside, to his master, who took it, and without farther examination,
clapped it in a great hurry upon his head, which pressing and squeezing
the curds, the whey began to ooze down his beard; and this circumstance
so startled him, that he called out to Sancho, ‘What can this mean? Is
my skull softening, or my brains melting, or do I sweat from head to
foot? Surely, this I can say, that if I do sweat, it is not through
fear, though I am fully persuaded this will prove a most terrible
adventure. If you have got any thing, let me have it to wipe me; for
this deluge of sweat blinds my eyes.’ Sancho replied not, but gave him a
cloth, and with it sent up his thanks to the Almighty, that his master
had not found out what it was. Don Quixote, after rubbing himself, took
off his helmet, to see what it was that sat so cool upon his head, and,
perceiving something white and clotted, put it to his nose, and snuffed
at it; ‘By the life of my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso,’ cried he, ‘thou
hast put curds into my helmet, thou traitor, thou ill-bred squire!’ To
which apostrophe, Sancho answered with great unconcern and tranquillity,
‘If they are curds, let me have them to eat; but the devil ought rather
to eat them, for I am sure it must be he who put them there. I offer to
defile your worship’s helmet! in good troth, I can perceive, by the help
of that understanding God has given me, that I am not without my
inchanters too, who are at me, as a sort of member and limb of your
worship; and I’ll be sworn, have put that nastiness there, to instigate
your worship to wrath against me, and stir up your worship to anoint my
ribs in the manner your worship was wont to do. But this time they have
missed their aim I trow, as I can depend upon the just sentence of my
master, who will easily weigh with himself, that I had neither curds,
cream, nor any such stuff; and that, if I had, it was more likely I
should have crammed them into my own guts than put them into his
worship’s helmet.’—‘All this is possible,’ cried Don Quixote: and all
this the other gentleman saw, and saw with astonishment, more especially
when our hero, after having cleaned his head, beard, chops, and helmet,
clapped the latter upon his skull, and fixing himself in his seat, tried
whether or not his sword could be easily drawn; then grasping his spear,
‘Now,’ cried he, ‘happen what will happen, here am I, determined for the
combat, should the prince of the evil spirits set himself in battle
array against me.’
By this time the carriage with the streamers was come up, attended only
by the driver (who rode one of the mules) and a man who sat upon the
fore-part of it. Don Quixote wedged himself directly in their way, and
called out, ‘Whither, my brethren, are you bound? what carriage is this?
what does it contain? what ensigns are those displayed?’ To which
interrogations the waggoner replied, ‘The carriage itself belongs to me,
and within are two savage lions, which the general of Oran sends to
court to his majesty: the streamers are the ensigns of our lord the
king, to shew that what is here contained belongs to the crown.’—‘Are
these lions large?’ answered Don Quixote.—‘So large,’ replied the man,
who sat on the fore-part of the waggon, ‘that lions of a more monstrous
size never came from Barbary into this kingdom. I am their keeper, and
have had several under my charge before now, but never any so big as
they: there is a male and female; the he is in the first cage, and the
female in the other; they are now ravenous with hunger, having had no
food to-day, and therefore I must entreat you to get out of the way, as
we must make haste to the place where they are to be fed.’ To which
intreaty, Don Quixote answered with a half smile, ‘What are your lion
whelps to me, and at this time of day too! are lion whelps brought
against me! I’ll make those who sent them hither—yes, by the holy God!
I’ll make them see whether I am a man to be scared by lions. Come,
honest friend, get off; and as you are their keeper, open the cages and
turn them out; for, in the midst of this plain, will I make the savage
beasts of the wilderness know who Don Quixote de La Mancha is, in
defiance of the inchanters who have sent them against me.’
‘Aha!’ said Don Diego to himself, ‘I think our Knight of the Rueful
Countenance has now given us a pretty incontestable sample of what he
is; these curds have certainly soaked his skull, and suppurated his
brains.’ Then Sancho came up to Diego, and said, ‘For God’s sake,
Signior, take care that my master’s worship does not encounter these
lions, or belike we shall all of us be tore to pieces.’—‘What!’ answered
he, ‘is your master then really so much out of his wits, that you
believe and dread he will engage these savage monsters?’—‘He is not out
of his wits,’ replied Sancho, ‘but prodigious bold.’
‘I’ll make him give over,’ answered the other; then going up to Don
Quixote, who was pressing the keeper to open the cages, he said,
‘Signior, gentlemen of the order of knights-errant ought to go upon
adventures that have a probability of success, not such as are quite
desperate; for that courage which is almost temerity, savours rather of
madness than true fortitude. Besides, these lions do not come with any
hostile design against you; no, they think of nothing less; they are
going to be presented to the king, and as they are on their way to
court, I think they should not be stopped in their journey.’—‘Pray, good
Signior,’ said Don Quixote, ‘if you will please to get away from hence,
and look after your ferrets and decoy-partridges, do, and leave every
one to mind his own business: this is my business, and it behoves me to
know whether or not these lions come against me.’ Then turning to the
keeper, ‘Sirrah,’ said he, ‘if you do not immediately open the cages, I
swear by the living God, I will this instant pin you to the place where
you sit.’
The carter seeing the obstinate resolution of this armed phantom, who
addressed him, begged for the sake of charity, he would let him take off
his mules, and get with them out of danger, before the lions were
uncaged, ‘For should my cattle be slain,’ said he, ‘I am undone for
ever, having nothing to depend upon for bread but this cart and these
mules.’—‘Man of little faith,’ said Don Quixote, ‘alight; take off thy
mules, and do what thou wilt; but thou shalt quickly see thou hast
laboured in vain, and that thou mightest have spared thyself this
unnecessary trouble.’
The carter then got off, and unharnessed in great hurry, and the keeper
spoke aloud, ‘I call all present to witness that I am forced against my
will, to open the cages, and let loose the lions; and I here declare,
that this gentleman is chargeable with, and answerable for, all the harm
they shall do, as also for my salary and perquisites over and above. And
now, gentlemen, pray take care of yourselves, and get out of the way;
for, as to me, I know they will do me no harm.’ Don Diego again urged
him to forbear attempting so extravagant an action, alledging it was
tempting of God, to think of going about such a desperate undertaking.
The other replied, that he knew what he did, and Don Diego once more
desired him to think well of what he was about, as he was certain that
he deceived himself. ‘Signior,’ said Don Quixote, ‘if you do not care to
be a spectator of what you think will be a tragical adventure, set spurs
to your mare, and provide for your own safety.’ Sancho, upon this
intimation, fell a blubbering, and earnestly besought him not to think
of entering upon this adventure; ‘For, in companion of this,’ said he,
‘the windmills, the terrible adventure of the fulling-mill hammers, nay,
all the exploits your worship has performed during the course of your
life, are but custards and puff-paste. Consider, Sir,’ continued he,
‘that there can be no inchantment in this cage; I myself have peeped
through the cage, and there I saw the claw of a real living lion; and
sure I am, that the beast that owns such a claw must be bigger than a
mountain.’—‘Be he large or small,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘thy fear would
magnify him to the bigness of one half of the globe. Be gone, leave me:
if I die, you know our old agreement; repair to Dulcinea. I say no
more!’ He spoke several other things, which shewed he was determined on
what he was about, and that all attempts to dissuade him were in vain.
Don Diego would willingly have stopped him; but had neither weapons nor
armour equal to the other’s, and, besides, did not think it prudent to
engage with a man who was frantick; for, by this time, he was convinced
that Don Quixote was so in all respects; who still pressing the keeper,
and repeating his threats, Don Diego clapped spurs to his mare, Sancho
applied his heels to Dapple, the carter put forward his mules, and all
endeavoured to get as fast out of the way as they could, before the
beasts were let loose. Sancho deplored the fate of his master, who he
believed was just going to be sacrificed by the lions: he bewailed his
own hard fortune, and cursed the hour when he thought of serving him
again; however, amidst the intenseness of his grief, he ceased not to
punch and jog on his ass, that he might get from the cart as fast as
possible. The keeper seeing that these runaways were now safe at a
sufficient distance, renewed his expostulations with Don Quixote, who
said, ‘I hear you, friend; but give yourself no more trouble with
arguments or entreaties, it will all signify nothing; and therefore I
desire you will make haste.’
While the keeper protracted the time in opening the first grate, Don
Quixote considered with himself, whether he had best alight for the
combat, or continue on the back of Rozinante; and determined, at last,
to fight on foot, lest his steed might take fright at the sight of the
lions. Accordingly, he leaped upon the ground, threw away his lance,
braced his shield, and drew his sword; in which attitude, approaching
with great steadiness, he placed himself just before the cart,
recommending himself, with great devotion, first to the protection of
the Almighty, and then to his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso.
[Illustration: Don Quixote Braves the Lions.]
We must observe, that at this place the author of this history breaks
out into pathetick exclamations, expressing himself to this purpose: O
Don Quixote de La Mancha! renowned for fortitude, brave beyond human
expression; thou mirrour, in which all heroes of the earth may
contemplate their own perfections! thou second and other Don Manual de
Leon, glory and ornament of Spanish knights! how shall I find words
worthy to relate this matchless atchievement: by what power of argument
shall I make it gain credit among future generations? for what encomiums
ever so exalted, even beyond the hyperbole, can there be but what thou
deservest? On foot thou stood’st, collected within thy magnanimous self,
with a sword far from being sharp, with a shield far from bright and
shining; there, I say, didst thou stand waiting and expecting two of the
fiercest lions that were ever yet engendered in the dens of Libya. I
want words wherewithal to embellish thy great atchievements: let thy own
exploits, then, be the harbinger of thy praises, O heroick Manchegan!
The author here breaks off his exclamation, and proceeds in the recital
of the history, saying,—
The keeper seeing Don Quixote fixed in this posture, and finding himself
under a necessity of letting loose the he-lion, to avoid the resentment
of this enraged and intrepid hero, flung the door of the first cage
open, where the lion appeared lying, of a monstrous bigness and
terrifying aspect: he immediately turned himself round in the cage, put
out one of his paws, and stretching himself at full length yawned and
gaped with great composure, and then, with a tongue of about half a yard
long, cleaned his face and eyes; after which he thrust his head out of
the cage, and stared around him with eyes like firebrands; a sight
sufficient to have struck a damp into the most intrepid heart: but Don
Quixote only fixed his eyes attentively upon him, wishing for the minute
he would leap out of the cart, that he might engage and cut him in
pieces; to such an unaccountable degree had his frenzy worked up his
disturbed imagination. But the lion, naturally generous, and more
inclinable to be gentle than rough, heeded not his bravadoes or
flourishing: on the contrary, after having looked around him, as we have
observed, turned about, and shewing our hero his backside, with great
composure and tranquillity, laid himself down again to rest; which
circumstance Don Quixote perceiving, ordered the keeper to rouze him by
blows, and oblige him to come forth. ‘Nay, that I wont,’ answered he;
‘for, should I enrage him, he would immediately tear me to pieces: come,
Sir Knight, be contented with what you have done, which is all that can
be expected from any man’s courage, and give over tempting fortune any
more. The door of his cage is open, and he may come forth, or not, as he
pleases; but as he has not come out now, he will not all day. The
intrepidity of your worship’s valour is sufficiently vouched; I
apprehend the bravery of no combatant needs do more than challenge his
adversary, and await him in the field; and if the enemy won’t meet him,
the imputation of cowardice lies with him, and the crown of victory
devolves upon the other.’—‘You say true,’ said Don Quixote; ‘shut the
door, my friend, and let me have, under your hand, in the best manner
you are able to draw it, a certificate of what you have now seen; for I
think it is highly fitting mankind should know that you opened the
lion’s cage; that I waited for him, and he came not out; and that I
waited for him again, and he came not out, and that again he laid
himself down. I am not bound to do any more; so inchantments avaunt, and
God prosper truth, justice, and noble chivalry! shut the door therefore,
and I will wave a signal for those who have run off to return, and have
an account of this action from your own mouth.’
The keeper obeyed; and Don Quixote clapping upon the point of his lance
the cloth Sancho had given him to wipe off the curds, called out to them
who were still pursuing their flight, and at every step, all in a body,
turning about their heads, and Don Diego leading them on; but Sancho
chancing to espy the signal of the linen cloth, ‘I’ll be bound to be
crucified,’ said he, ‘if my master has not got the better of the lions;
for he now calls to us.’ They all stopped, and perceived it was Don
Quixote who made the sign; upon which the violence of their terrors
somewhat abated, and they approached nearer and nearer by degrees, till
they could distinctly hear the voice of Don Quixote calling to them; at
last they came back to the cart, and Don Quixote said to the carter,
‘Harness your mules again, my friend, and go on in your journey; and,
Sancho, give him and the keeper two crowns of gold, as a recompence for
the time I have detained them.’—‘That I will most willingly do; but
where are the lions, dead or alive?’ Then the keeper very
circumstantially, and dividing his discourse with great propriety, gave
an account of the issue of this adventure, exaggerating with all his
might, and all the power of rhetorick he could muster up, the courage of
Don Quixote: ‘At sight of whom,’ said he, ‘the lion, overawed, would
not, or rather durst not, venture out of the cage, though I held the
door open a considerable time; and that, upon remonstrating to the great
knight, that it was tempting of God to provoke the lion so far as to
oblige him to come out by force, as he wanted him to have done, and was
going to make him do whether he would or not, his honour had suffered
the cage-door to be shut.’—‘Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘what dost thou
think now; can inchantments avail aught against true courage? they may,
indeed, and with ease, stand in the way of my good fortune; but of
valour and resolution they never can deprive me.’ Sancho gave the crowns
to the people; the carter harnessed his mules, and the keeper kissed Don
Quixote’s hand for his liberality, and promised, when he arrived at
court, he would give an account of this heroick atchievement to his
majesty himself. ‘Should the king,’ said Don Quixote, ‘perchance enquire
who performed it, tell him it was the Knight of the Lions; for I am
determined, that, from this time forward, the title I have been hitherto
distinguished by, of Knight of the Rueful Countenance, shall be changed,
bartered, and sunk, into that of Knight of the Lions; and in this
alteration I imitate the example of knights-errant of old, who, as they
pleased, altered their designations as it best suited their purposes.’
The carriage went forward, Don Quixote, Sancho, and the traveller in
green, pursued their journey; and during all this time, Don Diego de
Miranda was so attentive to remark and observe the actions of Don
Quixote, that he had not opened his mouth; but looked upon him as a man
whose good sense was blended with a strange sort of madness: the reason
was, he knew as yet nothing of the first part of his history; had he
read that, his amazement at the knight’s words and actions would have
vanished, as it would have cleared up to him the nature of his frenzy;
but as he knew not that, he was at times divided in his opinion,
sometimes believing him in his senses, and at other times thinking him
frantick; because what he spoke was sensible, consistent, and genteelly
expressed; but his actions discovered all the symptoms of wildness,
folly, and temerity. ‘For what greater sign of disorder,’ said he to
himself, ‘can there be, than for a man to clap on a helmet full of
curds, and then take it into his head that some magician had liquified
his skull; and what more certain proof of foolhardiness and wild frenzy,
than for a person, in spite of all that can be said to him, to resolve
to engage lions?’
Don Quixote interrupted these reflections and soliloquy of his
fellow-traveller, by saying, ‘Signior Don Diego de Miranda, I don’t
doubt but that in your judgment I must pass for an extravagant madman;
and, indeed, no wonder; for, to be sure, my actions would seem to
declare me such: but, at the same time, I must beg leave to say to you,
that I am not so disordered, or so bereft of understanding, as to you I
may have seemed. The gay cavalier, who in burnished armour, before the
ladies, prances over the lists, makes a gallant appearance! the
adventurous knight too shews off to great advantage, when in the midst
of the spacious square, in view of his prince, he transfixes the furious
bull. And a noble appearance make those knights, who, in military
exercises, or such like, are the life, spirit, and even honour of their
prince’s court. But a much more noble figure than all these makes the
knight-errant, who, in the solitudes of the desart, through the almost
impervious passages of the forest, and over the craggy mountains, goes
in quest of perilous adventures, to bring them to a successful issue,
and that only to obtain glory, honour, and an immortal name. A
knight-errant, I say, makes a more glorious appearance, when he assists
the widow in some solitary plain, than the courtier knight, when he
lavishes his gallantry on a town-lady. All cavaliers have their
different spheres, in which they act; let the courtier pay his
attendance to the ladies, adorn the court of his prince with the
splendor of his equipage, entertain gentlemen of inferior fortunes with
the hospitality of his sumptuous table; let him propose matches of
different exercise, and direct the justs and tournaments; let him shew
himself splendid, liberal, and munificent; and, above all, approve
himself a good Christian: in acting thus, he will discharge the duties
that belong to him. But for the knight-errant, let him explore the most
hidden recesses of the universe, plunge into the perplexities of the
labyrinths; let him, at all times, not be afraid of even
impossibilities; in the barren, wasteful wilderness, let him defy the
scorching rays of the solstitial sun, and the piercing chillings of the
nipping frost. Lions must not frighten him, phantoms must not terrify
him, nor dragons dismay him; for, in searching after such, engaging with
and getting the better of all difficulties, consists his true and proper
occupation. It being my fortune, then, to be of this last order, I
cannot, consistent with that, avoid engaging in whatever I deem to be
part of the duty of my calling; and for these reasons, though I knew,
that encountering the lions was in itself an act of the greatest
temerity, yet it immediately belonged to my profession: I am very
sensible that true fortitude is placed between the two extremes of
cowardice and fool-hardiness; but then, it is better valour should mount
even to an over-daring hardiness, than be debased to pusillanimity; for,
as the prodigal is more likely to become truly generous than the miser,
so will the over-courageous sooner be brought to true valour, than the
coward to be courageous at all; and in undertaking adventures, I assure
you, Don Diego, it is much better to overdo than underdo, and much
better does it sound in the ear of him to whom it is related, that a
knight is daring and presumptuous, than that he is pusillanimous and
faint-hearted.’
‘Signior Don Quixote,’ answered Diego, ‘I think all you have said is
consonant to the rule of right reason; and I am of opinion, that if the
laws and statutes of true chivalry were lost, they would be found
deposited and faithfully recorded in your breast: but if you please, we
will put on, for it grows late; let us get towards my house and village,
that you may have some rest, and taste of some refreshment after your
late fatigue, which, if it does not weary the body, must be heavy upon
the mind, the labours of which often affect the body likewise.’—‘I
accept of your invitation, Don Diego,’ said the other, ‘as a favour and
mark of politeness.’ And hastening forward a little quicker than they
had done before, they arrived about two in the afternoon at the
habitation of Diego, on whom Don Quixote bestowed the appellation of the
Knight of the Green Surtout.
END OF BOOK I. PART II.
BOOK II.
CHAP. I.
OF WHAT BEFEL DON QUIXOTE
AT THE CASTLE OR HOUSE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GREEN SURTOUT—WITH OTHER
OUT-OF-THE-WAY MATTERS.
Don Quixote found that Diego’s house, like the houses of most country
gentlemen, was large and roomy, with the arms of the family over the
great gates, cut out in rough stone; the buttery was in the yard, the
cellar was under the porch, and around were placed divers jars, which
jars being of the manufactory of Toboso, recalled the memory of the
metamorphosed and inchanted Dulcinea; upon which, without reflecting
what he said, or before whom he poured out his sighs and tears: ‘O
dearest pledges,’ said he, ‘which now I find in bitterness of sorrow,
but sweet and ravishing when Heaven’s high will ordained it so. O jars
of Toboso, which have recalled into my mind the dear idea of my greatest
sorrow!’ This exclamation was overheard by the young poet, Diego’s son;
who, along with his mother, had come down to receive Don Quixote. Both
mother and son were struck with his uncouth figure, and he, alighting
from Rozinante, with great good breeding, begged leave to kiss the
lady’s hand. To which intreaty Don Diego added, ‘Madam, receive with
your usual politeness, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha, knight-errant,
whom I here introduce to you as a gentleman of the brightest parts and
most intrepid courage of any in the world.’ Donna Christina (for that
was the lady’s name) received him with all the marks of respect and
esteem, and Don Quixote overpaid them in polite and mannerly
acknowledgments; the same kind of intercourse passed between him and the
young scholar, whom he took by his conversation to be a gentleman of
vivacity and acuteness.
The author here minutely describes Don Diego’s house, gives an inventory
of the furniture usually contained in the house of a rich country
gentleman: but the translators of this history have thought it
adviseable not to mention these and such other particular matters, as
being rather foreign from the main scope of this history, in which truth
has more energy than needless and languid digressions.
Don Quixote was conducted into a hall, where Sancho disarmed him; after
which, he remained in his other accoutrements, a pair of wide walloon
breeches, and a shamoy-leather doublet, stained with the rust of his
armour; his band was collegian, neither starched nor laced; his buskins
of the colour of dates, and his shoes of waxed leather; he girded upon
his thigh his trusty sword, which hung at a belt of seal’s skin, for it
is believed he had been for some years troubled with an imbecility in
his loins; and over all these was a long cloak of good grey cloth; but,
before he stirred any farther, he applied to his face five or six
pitchers (the precise number not being exactly ascertained) of fair
water, which, nevertheless, still ran off exhibiting a whey colour; and
it was undoubtedly owing to the irregular appetite of Sancho, and his
having made the bargain for these nasty curds, that his master was now
scoured so white and so clean. In this equipment, as here described, and
with a gallant air and address, Don Quixote walked into another hall,
where the young gentleman of the house was waiting to receive and
entertain him, till dinner should be got ready; for as to the Lady Donna
Christina, she was busy in ordering matters so, upon the arrival of this
noble guest, as to let it be seen she knew what reception to give those
who came to visit under her roof.
While Don Quixote was unarming, Don Lorenzo (that was the name of
Diego’s son) took the opportunity of that leisure time to ask his
father, who that knight was he had brought home to them; ‘For,’ said he,
‘his name and his uncouth figure, and your telling us, at the same time,
that he is a knight-errant, puzzle both my mother and me
prodigiously.’—‘I know not,’ said Don Diego, ‘what answer to make you;
all I can say is, I never saw a madman act more frantickly, and have
heard him talk so very sensibly, as gave the lye to all his actions: but
I would have you enter into conversation with him, and sound the depth
of his understanding; you have sense enough, and therefore I would have
you form a judgment of him according to your own observation; to say the
truth, I myself am more inclined to believe him distracted than
otherwise.’
Upon this intimation, Don Lorenzo went to entertain Don Quixote, as we
have mentioned; who, among other discourse, said to Lorenzo, ‘Signior
Don Diego de Miranda, your father has been pleased to inform me a little
of your great genius and good judgment, and particularly that you are a
great poet.’—‘A poet, in some sense, I may be,’ said Lorenzo; ‘but a
great one did I never so much as dare even in my own imagination to
think myself. True it is, I am a little fond of poetry, and of reading
the good poets; but don’t at all for that reason merit the title my
father is pleased to bestow upon me.’—‘I love your reserve,’ said Don
Quixote: ‘for poets are usually far removed from modesty, each thinking
himself the greatest in the world.’—‘No rule holds universally,’
answered Lorenzo, ‘and there may be one who is really a great poet, and
yet does not think himself so.’—‘There must be very few such,’ answered
the other; ‘but pray, Sir,’ continued he, ‘what verses are those you are
about, which your father says make you so anxious and studious? for, if
it be commenting upon some theme, I know somewhat of the art of
paraphrasing, and should be glad to see what your performance is; and if
they are designed as a poetical prize, let me advise you to obtain the
second, for the first is decreed in view of interest, or in favour of
the great quality of some person; but merit carries the second: so that,
according to the general practice of our universities, the third becomes
the second, and the first the third; but, notwithstanding this
acceptation, the name of the first makes a great shew.’—‘So far,
surely,’ said Lorenzo to himself, ‘this gentleman shews no signs of a
disturbed understanding; but we’ll go on.—Your worship, I presume, has
been long at the schools; pray, Sir, what sciences have you addicted
yourself to?’—‘That of knight-errantry,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘a science
equally sublime as your poetry; and, in my humble opinion, even mounted
a few steps above it.’—‘That science,’ answered Lorenzo, ‘I am hitherto
a stranger to; it has not yet come within the extent of my
knowledge.’—‘It is a science,’ answered the other, ‘that includes in
itself virtually, most, if not all the other sciences in the world; for
he who professes it must be a civilian, and know the laws both of
distributive and communicative justice, to determine, with equity and
propriety, what lawfully and properly belongs to every individual: he
must be a good divine and casuist, that he may, with clearness and
precision, defend the principles of the Christian faith, which he
professes, as often as he shall be required so to do: he ought to be a
physician, and particularly a botanist, that, in the midst of desarts
and wildernesses, he may know those herbs that are of efficacy in curing
wounds; for a knight-errant cannot at every turn have recourse to a
surgeon. He ought to be an astronomer, to distinguish by the stars the
time of the night, together with the climate and part of the globe on
which he chances to be: he must be learned in the mathematicks, for
which he will frequently have occasion; and besides being adorned with
all the theological and cardinal virtues, he ought to descend to other
minute branches of science. I say, for example, he must know how to swim
like an herring, to shoe an horse, to mend a saddle and bridle; and,
returning to what we have observed above, he must preserve his fealty to
God and his mistress; he must be chaste in thought, decent in speech,
liberal in action, valiant in exploits, patient in toil, charitable with
the needy; and finally, an asserter of truth, even though the defence of
it should cost him his life. Of all these great and small qualities is a
good knight-errant composed; so that Signior Don Lorenzo may judge,
whether it be a snivelling science which is learned and professed by a
knight-errant: and whether it may not be compared with the sublimest
which are taught in colleges and schools.’—‘If that be the case,’
replied Don Lorenzo, ‘I affirm, that it has the advantage over all
others.’—‘How!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘if that be the case!’—‘What I would
say,’ resumed Lorenzo, ‘is, that I doubt whether there ever were or are
knights-errants adorned with so many virtues.’—‘I have often said what I
am now going to repeat,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘that the greatest part
of the world believes there never were knights-errant; and, in my
opinion, if Heaven does not work a miracle to prove that they both did
and do exist, whatever trouble may be taken will fail of success, as I
know by repeated experience. I will not, therefore, spend time at
present, in refuting and rectifying the error in which you and many
others are involved; but my intention is to pray that Heaven will
extricate you from your mistake, and give you to understand how
advantageous and necessary knights-errant have been to the world in past
ages, and how useful they might be to the present, were it the custom to
solicit their assistance: but, now, for the sins of mankind, idleness,
sloth, gluttony, and extravagance, prevail and triumph.’ Here Don
Lorenzo said within himself, ‘Now hath our guest given us the slip; but,
nevertheless, he is a whimsical madman, and I should be an idle fool, if
I thought otherwise.’
In this place their discourse was interrupted by a call to table; and
Don Diego asked his son, what he had fairly extracted from the genius of
his guest. To this question he replied, ‘All the best physicians and
writers that the world contains, will not extract him fairly from the
blotted sheet of his madness; but he is a party-coloured maniack, full
of lucid intervals.’ They sat down to eat, and their repast was such as
Don Diego had said upon the road he was wont to bestow upon his friends
whom he invited, neat, plentiful, and savoury; but what yielded more
satisfaction to Don Quixote, was the wonderful silence that prevailed
over the whole house, which in this particular resembled a monastery of
Carthusians.
The cloth being removed, grace said, and hands washed, Don Quixote
earnestly desired that Don Lorenzo would repeat the verses designed for
the literary contest; and the young gentleman answered, ‘Rather than
appear one of those authors, who when they are requested to rehearse
their works, refuse to grant the favour, and on the other hand, disgorge
them upon those who have no inclination to hear them; I will repeat my
gloss, from which I expect no reward, as I composed it solely with a
view to exercise my genius.’—‘It was the opinion of an ingenious friend
of mine,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that no man ought to fatigue himself in
glossing upon verses; because, as he observed, the gloss could never
come up to the text; and very often, or indeed almost always, the gloss
was foreign to the original proposition; besides, the laws of the gloss
were extremely narrow, restricting the paraphraser from the use of
interrogations; and, “Said he,” or, “I will say;” as well as from
changing verbs into nouns, and altering the sentiment; with other ties
and shackles incurred by those who try their fortune in this way, as you
yourself undoubtedly know.’—‘Verily, Signior Don Quixote,’ cried Don
Lorenzo, ‘I am very desirous of intrapping your worship in false Latin;
but it is not in my power, for you slip through my fingers like an
eel.’—‘I do not know,’ answered the knight, ‘what you mean by saying I
slip through your fingers.’—‘I will explain myself some other time,’
replied Don Lorenzo; ‘mean-while, your worship will be pleased to hear
the paraphrase and the text, which run thus—
‘THE TEXT.
‘Could I the moments past renew,
Though fate should other joys deny;
Or bring the future scenes to view
In time’s dark womb that rip’ning lie.
‘THE GLOSS.
‘As all things perish and decay;
So did that happiness I mourn,
On silent pinion fleet away;
Ah! never—never to return.
At Fortune’s feet forlorn I lie:
Would she again propitious strew
Her favours, who more blest than I,
_Could I the moments past renew_!
‘No pleasure, palm, or wreathe I claim,
No wealth or triumph seek to find;
For all my wish, and all my aim,
Is to retrieve my peace of mind.
Ah, Fortune! thy returning smile
Would change to bliss my destiny,
And ev’ry gloomy thought beguile,
_Though fate should other joys deny_.
‘Fond wish! impossible and vain;
No pow’r on this terrestrial ball
Can Time’s unwearied foot detain,
Or his accomplish’d flight recall.
He forward flies, nor looks behind;
And those miscarriage will pursue,
Who hope this fugitive to bind,
_Or bring the future scenes to view_.
‘Perplex’d with hopes and fears I live,
Tho’ death at once would ease my pain;
What folly, then, for me to grieve,
Who can that easy cure obtain?
No! yet a wiser course I’ll steer,
Resolv’d my fortune still to try,
Until those happier days appear,
_In time’s dark womb that rip’ning lie_.’
Don Lorenzo no sooner concluded his paraphrase, than Don Quixote
starting up, took the young gentleman by the right-hand, and raising his
voice even almost to a halloo, pronounced, ‘Now, by the Heaven of
heavens! noble youth, you are the best poet in the world, and deserve to
be crowned with laurel, not by Cyprus or Gaeta, as an author said, whom
God pardon, but by the academy of Athens, did it now subsist, and by
those of Paris, Bologna, and Salamanca, which are still in being. Heaven
grant, that those judges who deny you the first prize, may be transfixed
by the arrows of Apollo, and that the Muses may never deign to cross the
thresholds of their doors. Signior, let me hear, if you please, some of
your more majestick verses, that I may be thoroughly acquainted with the
pulse of your admirable genius.’ Is it not diverting to observe, that
Don Lorenzo was pleased with the applause of Don Quixote, although he
considered him as a madman? O influence of flattery, how far dost thou
extend! and how unlimited are the limits of thy agreeable jurisdiction!
This truth is verified in the behaviour of Lorenzo; who, in compliance
with the desire and intreaty of the knight, repeated this sonnet, on the
fable or story of Pyramus and Thisbe.
SONNET.
Fair Thisbe’s charms what bulwarks could withstand!
They pierc’d e’en to her gallant lover’s soul;
And Cupid hasten’d from the Cyprian strand,
To view the narrow paths by which they stole.
Here silence spoke; and through that narrow breach,
Which e’en the timid voice durst not essay,
Th’ intrepid souls to perfect union stretch:
Inspir’d, impower’d, by love’s almighty sway.
Th’ ill-fated pair to death untimely came,
With flow’ry pleasure’s tempting bait intic’d:
By the same poignard, monument, and fame,
At once destroy’d, enclos’d, immortaliz’d.
‘Blessed be God!’ cried Don Quixote, when he had heard the sonnet of Don
Lorenzo, ‘that amidst the infinite number of consumptive poets that now
exist, I have found one consummate, as your worship has plainly evinced
yourself, by the art and execution of those stanzas.’
The knight was sumptuously regaled in the house of Don Diego, for the
space of four days; at the expiration of which he thanked his
entertainer for the noble treatment he had received from his
hospitality, and begged leave to depart; for as it did not become
knights-errant to devote much time to ease and banquetting, he was
desirous of fulfilling the duty of his profession in seeking adventures,
with which he understood that country abounded, and in which he hoped to
employ the time till the day of the tournament of Saragossa, whither he
was bound; but, first of all, he was resolved to enter the cave of
Montesinos, about which so many strange stories were recounted all over
that neighbourhood, that he might investigate and discover the origin
and real springs of the seven lakes of Ruydera. Don Diego and his son
applauded the glorious design, and desired he would supply himself with
whatever their house or fortune could afford; for they would, with the
utmost good-will, perform that service, which they equally owed to his
personal valour and honourable profession. At length arrived the day of
his departure, as joyful to the knight as dismal and unfortunate to
Sancho Panza, who had lived so much at his ease amidst the plenty of Don
Diego’s house, that he could not without reluctance return to the hunger
that prevails in dreary forests, and to the poverty of his ill provided
bags, which, however, he now took care to fill and stuff with what he
thought most necessary for his occasions.
At parting, Don Quixote addressing himself to Don Lorenzo, ‘I know not,’
said he, ‘whether I have already told your worship, but if I have, let
me now repeat the intimation, that when you are inclined to take the
shortest and easiest road to the inaccessible summit of the temple of
fame, you have no more to do, but to leave on one side the path of
poetry, which is pretty narrow, and follow that of knight-errantry,
which, though the narrowest of all others, will conduct you to the
throne of empire, in the turning of a straw.’ With this advice did the
knight, as it were, sum up the process of his madness; which, however,
was still more manifest in this addition: ‘Heaven knows what pleasure I
should feel in the company and association of Don Lorenzo, whom I would
teach, by my own example, to spare the fallen, and trample the haughty
under foot; virtues annexed to the order I profess: but as his tender
years do not require such tutorage, nor would his laudable exercises
permit him to pursue my steps, I shall content myself with assuring his
worship, that being a poet, he may certainly acquire renown, if he will
conduct himself rather by the opinion of others, than his own; for no
parent ever thought his own off-spring ugly, and this prejudice is still
more strong towards the children of the understanding.’
Both father and son admired anew the strange medley of Don Quixote’s
discourse, in which so much discretion and madness were jumbled
together; and were astonished at the wilfulness and obstinacy with which
he was so wholly bent upon the search of his misadventurous adventures,
that constituted the very aim of all his desires. Nevertheless, they
repeated their offers of service and civility, and with the good leave
of the lady of the castle, Don Quixote and Sancho set out on Rozinante
and Dapple.
CHAP. II.
IN WHICH IS RECOUNTED
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD—WITH OTHER TRULY DIVERTING
INCIDENTS.
A little way Don Quixote had travelled from the habitation of Don Diego,
when he was joined by two persons dressed like ecclesiasticks, or
students, and a couple of labouring men mounted upon asses; behind one
of the students was a bundle wrapped up in green buckram, seemingly
consisting of some linen and two pair of coarse thread stockings; while
the other was encumbered with nothing but a couple of new black
fencing-foils, with their buttons. The countrymen carried other things,
which discovered and gave notice, that they were on their return from
some great town, where they had made a purchase, and were bringing it
home to their own village; and they, as well as the students, were
seized with that admiration which was incident to all those who for the
first time beheld Don Quixote; indeed, they burned with curiosity to
know what sort of a creature he was, so different in appearance from
other men.
The knight saluted them courteously, and understanding their road was
the same route that he designed to follow, made a proffer of his
company, at the same time begging they would slacken their pace, as the
beasts travelled faster than his horse. In order to facilitate their
compliance with his request, he briefly told them who he was, made them
acquainted with his office and profession, which was chivalry, and
observed that he was going in quest of adventures, through all parts of
the world; giving them to understand, that his proper name was Don
Quixote de La Mancha, and his appellative the Knight of the Lions.
All this information was Greek or gibberish to the countrymen, but not
to the students, who immediately discovered the weakness of Don
Quixote’s brain; nevertheless, they beheld him with admiration, and one
of them, in a respectful manner accosted him thus: ‘If your worship, Sir
Knight, follows no determined road, as those who go in quest of
adventures seldom do, be so good as to accompany us, and you will be an
eye-witness of one of the most splendid and opulent weddings that ever
was celebrated in La Mancha, or in many leagues around.’
When Don Quixote asked if it was the marriage of any prince, which he so
highly extolled, the other replied, ‘It is no other than the bridal of a
farmer and a country maid; he the richest of all this neighbourhood, and
she the comeliest that ever man beheld. The preparations are new and
extraordinary; for the marriage is to be celebrated in a meadow
adjoining to the village of the bride who, by way of excellency, is
called Quiteria the Beautiful, and the bridegroom is known by the
appellation of Camacho the Rich; she is but eighteen, and he turned of
twenty, to that they are extremely well matched; though some curious
persons, who remember all the pedigrees in the world, are pleased to
say, that her family has in that respect the advantage of Camacho’s: but
now-a-days these circumstances are altogether overlooked; for wealth is
able to repair a number of flaws. In a word, Camacho is liberal, and has
taken it in his head to overshadow and cover the whole meadow in such a
manner, that the sun will find some difficulty in penetrating, so as to
visit the verdant plants with which the ground is adorned. He has
likewise bespoke choice dancers, both with swords and morrice-bells; for
there are people in the village who can jingle and snap to perfection;
not to mention your shoe-slappers, a power of whom are summoned to the
nuptials: but none of those things I have mentioned, or of a great many
circumstances I have left untold, are likely to render the marriage so
memorable as the behaviour which is on this occasion expected from the
rejected Basilius.
‘This Basilius is a neighbouring swain, and townsman of Quiteria, and
there is nothing but a partition wall between his house and that of her
parents, whence Cupid took occasion to renew the long forgotten loves of
Pyramus and Thisbe, for Basilius became enamoured of Quiteria, even from
his tender years, and she smiled upon his passion with all manner of
honourable indulgence; insomuch that the love of the two children,
Basilius and Quiteria, furnished entertainment and discourse for the
whole village. As their age increased, Quiteria’s father resolved to
forbid Basilius the usual access he had to his house; and, to free
himself from all sorts of jealousy and suspicion, proposed a match
between his daughter and the rich Camacho, thinking it would not be so
well to give her away to Basilius, to whom fortune had not been so kind
as nature; though, to tell the truth, without envy or affection, he is
the most active young man we know, an expert pitcher of the bar, an
excellent wrestler, and great judge of hand-ball: he runs like a deer,
leaps nimbler than a goat, plays at nine-pins as if he used inchantment,
sings like a sky lark, touches the guittar so as to make it perfectly
speak, and handles a foil like the best fencer in the world.’—‘For that
sole accomplishment,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘the young man deserves not
only to be married to the beautiful Quiteria, but even to Queen Ginebra
herself, were she now alive, in spite of Sir Lancelot, and all those who
should endeavour to oppose the match.’—‘Let my wife alone for that,’
said Sancho Panza, who had hitherto travelled in silent attention; ‘she,
good woman, would have every body match with his equal, sticking to the
old proverb, that says, Let every goose a gander chuse. What I would
willingly see is the marriage of this worthy Basilius; for he has
already got my good-will, with that same lady Quiteria; and God grant
them peace and plenty, and rest their souls in heaven—[his meaning was
quite the reverse]—who prevent lovers from marrying according to their
inclinations.’—‘If that was always the case,’ replied Don Quixote,
‘parents would be deprived of that election and jurisdiction they
possess, to marry their children when and how they shall think proper;
and if every daughter was at liberty to indulge her own inclination in
the choice of an husband, one would perhaps chuse her father’s servant,
and another place her affection upon some gaudy coxcomb, whom she might
chance to see passing along the street, even though he should be a
disorderly ruffian: for love and affection easily blind the eyes of the
understanding, which are so necessary towards the settlement of one’s
condition in life; and as we are apt to commit very important mistakes
in the article of matrimony, it requires great caution, as well as the
particular favour of Heaven, to succeed in the choice of a wife. A
prudent man, who is resolved to undertake a long journey, will, before
he sets out, endeavour to find a safe, quiet, and agreeable
fellow-traveller. Then why should not the same pains be taken by the man
who is going to travel through the whole journey of life? especially in
the choice of a companion for bed, board, and every other purpose for
which the wife is subservient to the husband; a man’s own wedded wife is
not like a commodity which being once bought may be bartered, exchanged,
or returned, but is an inseparable appendage that lasts for life.
‘Marriage is a noose, into which if the neck should happen to slip, it
becomes inexplicable as the Gordian knot, and cannot be undone till cut
asunder by the scythe of death. Much more could I add upon this subject,
if I were not prevented by the desire I have to know whether Mr.
Licentiate has any thing farther to entertain us with, relative to the
history of Basilius.’ To this hint the other (call him scholar,
batchelor, or licentiate) replied, ‘I have not any thing material to
add, but that from the time he understood Quiteria was to be married to
Camacho the Rich, he was never seen to smile, or heard to speak
consistently: he is thoughtful and melancholy, talks to himself; all
which are undoubtedly symptoms of a disordered mind. He scarce either
eats or sleeps; and what little he does eat is fruit; when he sleeps at
all it is upon the bare ground, and in the open air, like the beasts of
the field. He every now and then looks up to heaven; at other times,
like one stupid, fixes his eyes on the ground, and seems as if he was a
cloathed statue, with the drapery flowing to the gales of the wind: in a
word, he gives such indications of a fatal passion, that we believe for
certain, when Quiteria to-morrow pronounces the Word “Yes,” she will in
that seal the sentence of his death.’
‘God will order things better,’ said Sancho, ‘for he inflicts the wound,
and will also perform the cure. No one knows what may happen; there are
a great many hours between this and to-morrow, and in one hour, even in
a moment, down comes the house; I have myself seen sun-shine and rain at
the same time; a man goes to bed well at night, but cannot bestir
himself next morning. Let me know, the best of ye, if any man can brag
of having put a spoke in fortune’s wheel? No one, to be sure; and
between the Yes and No of a woman, I would not venture to thrust the
point of a pin, and that for a weighty reason, because there would-not
be room for it; if you will only allow me one thing, that Quiteria loves
Basilius, I’ll yet engage to give him a wallet-full of good-luck; for I
have been told, that love wears a pair of spectacles, which spectacles
make copper look like gold, and poverty appear to be riches, and specks
in the eyes to seem pearls.’—‘A curse on thee!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘what
is it thou wouldst be at! once thou art set in to stringing thy
proverbs, none but Judas, with whom wish thou wert, can have patience to
hear thee out! Say, animal, what knowest thou about spokes or wheels, or
any other thing whatsoever?’—‘O! since you do not understand me,’
answered the squire, ‘no wonder you think it nonsense what I say; but
that signifies nothing: I understand myself, nor have I said many
nonsensical things yet, only your worship always plays the cricket upon
my words and actions.’—‘God confound thee, thou confounder of all
language!’ said Don Quixote. ‘Cricket! I suppose thou meanest
critick.’—‘As to that matter, Sir,’ said Sancho, ‘be not too severe upon
me; you know I was neither bred at court, nor studied at Salamanca, to
know when I am right in the letter of a word; and as I hope for mercy
from God, I think it unreasonable to expect that, the Sayagues[154]
should speak in the same manner as the Toledans; though, for that
matter, there are Toledans who are not more nice than other folks at the
work of speaking properly.’—‘Very true,’ said the licentiate, ‘for how
should a man, whose business is in the tan yards, and in the
Zocodover[155], speak so good language as they who do nothing but walk
from morning to night in the cloysters of the cathedral? and yet they
are all Toledans; on the other hand, purity, propriety, elegance, and
perspicuity, are to be found among polite people of sense; though they
be natives of Majalahonda; I say people of sense, because so great a
number of people are not so, and sense is the foundation of good
language, assisted by custom and use. I must tell you, gentlemen, it has
pleased God, for my sins, that I have studied the canon-law at
Salamanca, and I pique myself a little on being able to converse in
clear, easy, and expressive language.’—‘If you had not piqued yourself
more upon your dexterity at these good-for-nothing foils you carry about
with you, than upon your knowledge in languages, instead of lagging the
hindmost, you might have been at the head of your class,’ said the other
student. ‘I tell you, Mr. Batchelor, that you are the most prejudiced
man in the world, in that respect, for treating dexterity at the sword
as a matter of no signification.’—‘It is no prejudice with me, it is a
confirmed opinion and truth,’ replied Corchuelo; ‘and if you please to
make the experiment, I will convince you. You carry foils now along with
you, and an opportunity offers; I’ll shew you that I have nerves and
strength, backed with such courage as will prove sufficient to
demonstrate to you that my opinion is not the effect of prejudice; get
off your ass, and try your measured distances, your wheelings, your
longes, and art of defence; and I’ll engage, with only the plain rustick
skill I have, to make you see the stars at noon-day; for I trust under
God, the man is yet unborn who can make me turn my back; nor have I met
with any man whom I will not oblige to give ground.’—‘As to turning your
back, or not turning your back, that is none of my business,’ replied
the master of the science; ‘though it is not impossible but that the
first spot you fix your foot on may prove your burying-ground: I mean,
it is possible you may be left dead there, for slighting the noble
science of defence.’—‘That we shall see presently,’ replied Corchuelo,
jumping hastily upon the ground, and snatching with great fury one of
the foils, which the other carried upon his ass.
Here Don Quixote cried out, ‘Not so, by heavens! I will be umpire of
this fencing-match, and judge of this long-controverted dispute.’ So
saying, he alighted from Rozinante, and grasping his lance, planted
himself in the very middle of the road, just as master licentiate, in a
masterly posture and regular advances, was making towards Corchuelo, who
ran at him with fire, as the saying is, flashing from his eyes; while
the two country fellows, without dismounting, sat still as spectators of
this most deadly tragedy. Corchuelo assailed him every way with high
strokes, low strokes, back-strokes, cuts, thrusts, flashes out of
number, and as thick as hail; in short, he fell upon the licentiate like
an enraged lion, but was checked a little in the career of his fury by a
smart push in the mouth from the licentiate’s foil, who made him kiss
the button, though with less devotion than if it had been a relick. In a
word, the licentiate, by skilful and well-planted thrusts, counted the
buttons of his cassock, and went through it so often, that it hung in
rags like the tails of the polypus: twice was Corchuelo’s hat struck
off; and so spent was he, that in rage and spite, and furious choler, he
flung the foil into the air with so much force, that one of the
countrymen, who went to fetch it, being a kind of scrivener, declared
upon oath, that it went near three quarters of a league; which affidavit
being preserved, has been, and is, a testimony to demonstrate that art
prevails over strength.
Corchuelo, quite tired out, sat down; and Sancho going up to him, ‘Mr.
Batchelor,’ said he, ‘if you will be ruled by me, from henceforth
challenge no one to fence, but dare them to wrestle and pitch the bar,
since now you are of a proper age and strength for that exercise; for I
have heard say of these fencers, that they can thrust you the point of a
sword through the eye of a needle.’—‘I am now convinced,’ answered
Corchuelo, ‘and am taught by experience a truth I could not otherwise
have believed.’
So getting up, he went and embraced his adversary, and they were now
better friends than ever. The company not being willing to wait for the
scrivener, who was gone after the foil, imagining he might be too long
absent, resolved to put forward as fast as they could, that they might
arrive early at Quiteria’s village, whither they were all going. As they
travelled on their way, the licentiate demonstrated to them the
excellencies of the noble science of defence, by such convincing
arguments, drawn from the nature of truth and mathematical certainty,
that every one was convinced of the usefulness of the science; and
Corchuelo particularly was made a convert, and entirely cured of his
obstinacy.
The night was just fallen, and before they came to the village, it
seemed as if something like a heaven full of an infinite number of
bright stars was between them and it; they likewise heard an harmonious
but mixed sound of flutes, tambourines, psalters, cymbals, drums, and
bells. As they came nearer, they perceived the boughs of an arbour,
which was made on one side of the entrance into the village; and this
all flaming with lights, which were not in the least disturbed by the
wind; for the evening was so calm, that there was not a breath of air,
so much as to move a leaf upon a tree. But the life and spirit of the
wedding consisted in the musicians, who in bands ranged up and down that
delightful place, some singing, some dancing, and others playing upon
the different instruments. In a word, it looked as if joy and delight
were sporting and playing through this meadow: a great many were
employed in raising scaffolds, that they might view from them more
commodiously the plays and dances which were to be in that place, to
solemnize the nuptials of Camacho the Rich, and the obsequies of
Basilius. Don Quixote refused to enter the village, though both the
batchelor and the countryman invited him: but he pleaded what he thought
a sufficient excuse, the custom of knights-errant to sleep in fields and
forests, rather than in towns, though under gilded roofs; and therefore
he turned a little aside, grievously against the will of Sancho, who had
not yet forgotten the good lodgings he had enjoyed in the house of Don
Diego.
Footnote 154:
Poor people that live about Zamora.
Footnote 155:
Zocodover, a square in Toledo, like Smithfield, where cattle are sold.
CHAP. III.
AN ACCOUNT OF THE WEDDING OF CAMACHO THE RICH, AND WHAT HAPPENED TO
BASILIUS THE POOR.
The fair Aurora had hardly allowed Phœbus time to dry up the liquid
pearls that hung upon his golden locks, when Don Quixote shaking from
his limbs the drowsy fetters of sloth, got upon his legs, and called to
Sancho Panza, who lay stretched along, and snoring; which situation his
master seeing, before he awaked him, broke out into this soliloquy:
‘Happy thou, and blessed beyond the fate of other mortals, who, neither
envying nor envied, sleepest sound, with unconcern of soul! Inchanters
neither persecute, nor inchantments terrify thee: sleep on, I say again,
and a hundred times more I say, sleep on; no jealousies on account of a
mistress torture thee with perpetual watchings, no anxious cares of
paying debts awake thee, no solicitude how thou must to-morrow provide
for thyself and little ones breaks in upon thy slumbers. Ambitious views
create thee no disquiet, nor the vain pomp of this empty world occasions
thee any disturbance; thy concern is centered within the bounds of
taking care of thy ass; for, as to taking care of thy person, that is
laid upon my shoulders, a charge and burden that both nature and custom
have laid upon masters; the servant sleeps, while the master is awake,
and thinking how he shall maintain him, advance him in life, or do him
some service. The uneasiness that arises from seeing the heavens as it
were hard as brass, locked up, and refusing rain to cherish the earth,
brings no anxiety upon the servant, but upon the master; who, in the
days of dearth and famine, is bound to provide for him who served him in
the time of abundant and plentiful harvest.’
To all this effusion Sancho answered not one word, for he was fast
asleep, nor would have waked when he did, but that his master jogged him
with the butt-end of his lance. He waked yawning and drowsy; and turning
his face every way, ‘Umph!’ said he, ‘from yonder shady bower, if my
nostrils deceive me not, proceeds rather the steam and savour of broiled
rashers of bacon, than the fragrance of thyme and jessamine. O’ my
conscience! weddings that begin in this savoury manner, must needs, in
truth, be magnificent and abundant.’—‘Thou epicure,’ said Don Quixote,
‘have done, and let us go see this wedding, and what will be the fate of
the slighted Basilius.’—‘Let his fate be as it pleases,’ quoth Sancho;
‘what, he poor and marry Quiteria! A pretty fancy truly, for one not
worth a groat to think of matching so high; ’tis my opinion, a man who
is poor ought to bless God for what he finds, and not be diving to find
truffles at the bottom of the sea. I’ll lay a limb that Camacho can
cover this same Basilius from head to foot with sixpenny pieces; and if
this be so, as it certainly is, Quiteria would be a pretty lady of a
bride, indeed, to refuse all the fine cloaths and fine things that, I
warrant you, Camacho has given her already, and can give her still more;
and to prefer, instead of them, a pitch at the bar truly, and a pass at
the foils, which, it seems, make up Basilius’s riches. Go into a tavern
for a pint of wine, and see if they will take a pitch of the bar, or a
clever push of the foils, in lieu of the reckoning; as for your
abilities, and your refinements, and graces, that will bring in none of
the ready; Count Dirlos may have them for me: but when they happen to
take their resting-place on a man who has wherewithal, O then, I wish no
better than that my life may shew off as well as they do. Upon a good
foundation a good house may be raised, and the very best bottom and best
foundation of any is wealth.’—‘Oh!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘have done; have
done with this harangue: I do from my soul believe, if one would but
suffer thee to go on, thou wouldst lose both thy eating and sleeping in
talking.’—‘Was your worship possessed of a good memory,’ replied Sancho,
‘you would remember certain articles stipulated between us, before we
sallied forth upon this expedition; one of which was, that I was to talk
as much as I pleased, provided it was not scandal against my neighbour,
or derogating from your worship’s authority; and I imagine that nothing
I have hitherto said is a breach of this agreement.’—‘I remember no such
agreement,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but, allowing it to be so, it is my
pleasure you should give over, and come attend me; for now the
instruments we heard last evening send their chearing sounds through the
vallies; and beyond all doubt the nuptials will not be put off to the
sultry heat of the noon-day, but be solemnized in the fresh cool of the
morning.’
Sancho did as he was commanded, and putting on Rozinante’s saddle and
Dapple’s pannel, they both mounted, and gently walked their beasts into
the artificial shade. The first object that presented itself to the eyes
of Sancho, was an entire bullock spitted whole, upon an elm, roasting by
a fire of wood of the size of a middling mountain, and round it six
pots, but not such pots as are cast in common moulds, for they were half
jars, and each of them contained a whole shamble of meat; whole sheep
found room in them, and were stowed as commodiously as if they had been
so many pigeons. There was an innumerable quantity of cased hares; and
ready-plucked fowls that hung about the branches of the trees, ready to
be swallowed up in these receivers; and an infinite number of wild-fowl,
with vast quantities of venison, were likewise hanging about the trees,
for the air to cool them. Sancho himself told above threescore skins,
which, as it was afterwards discovered, were full of rich wines, every
skin containing above twenty-four quarts. Loaves of the whitest bread
were piled up like heaps of wheat on a threshing-floor; and such a
quantity of cheese ranged in the form of bricks, as seemed a wall; two
cauldrons of oil, larger than a dyer’s vat, were ready for frying their
fritters and pancakes; and when fried, they took them out with strong
peels, and dipped them in another pot that stood by full of prepared
honey. The cooks, men and women, amounted to above fifty, clean,
good-humoured, and all busy; in the belly of the roasting bullock were
sewed a dozen sucking pigs, to make it tender and savoury. Spices of all
sorts, which seemed to have been bought by wholesale and not by retail,
stood in a vast chest. In short, the preparations for the wedding were
indeed in a rustick taste, but in such plenty and profusion as might
have feasted an army.
Sancho looked at every thing, attentively considered each particular,
and was in raptures with the whole. But his whole heart and affections
were chiefly captivated by the flesh pots; out of them he would have
been glad, with all his heart, to have filled about a moderate barrel.
Then the wine-skins made his bowels yearn; and after these the contents
of the frying-pans, if vessels of such immoderate size may be so called.
He could hold out no longer; it was not in the power of his nature to
contain himself; therefore up he went to one of the cooks, who was busy,
and addressing himself to him with a humble and hungry air, begged that
he might be permitted to sop a luncheon of bread in one of the pots. To
which request the cook replied, ‘Hunger does not preside over this day,
thanks be to Camacho the Rich; e’en alight, and see if thou canst find
any where a ladle, and skim out a fowl or two, and much good may it do
thy good heart.’—‘I see no ladle,’ laid Sancho. ‘God forgive me all my
sins!’ cried the cook, ‘what a poor helpless thing thou art! stay.’ So
saying, he laid hold of a kettle, and dipping it at once into one of the
half-jar pots, brought up three pullets, and a couple of geese. ‘Here,’
said he, ‘eat; make a breakfast of this scum, and see if you can stay
your stomach with it till dinner-time.’—‘I have nothing to put it in,’
said Sancho. ‘Then take ladle and all,’ replied the cook; ‘for Camacho’s
riches and good fortune are sufficient to supply every thing.’
While Sancho Panza passed his time in this manner, Don Quixote was
attentive in observing about a dozen of countrymen, who entered in at
one side of this spacious arbour, mounted upon beautiful mares, each of
them accoutred with rich and gay caparisons, and hung round with little
bells. They were clad in holiday apparel, and coursed round the meadow
in a body, and, in regular careers, several times, with a joyous Moorish
shout, flourishing, and crying out, ‘Long live Camacho and Quiteria, he
as rich as she is fair, and she the fairest of the universe.’ Which
exclamation, Don Quixote hearing, said within himself, ‘It is evident
they never have beheld the beauty of my Dulcinea del Toboso; had they
ever been blessed with a sight of her transcendant charms, they would be
more sparing in their praises of this their Quiteria.’
Some time after there entered, at different parts of the arbour,
different sets of dancers; one of whom consisted of twenty-four sword
dancers, all of them clean, well-made, jolly swains, clad in fine white
linen, and white handkerchiefs embroidered with silk of various colours.
One of those who were mounted upon the mares asked a youth, who led the
band of the sword-dancers, whether any of his companions had received
any hurt? ‘As yet,’ replied the other, ‘we are all safe and sound,
thanks be to God, no one is wounded!’ and immediately upon that mixed
among his companions with so many twistings and windings, and with such
dexterity, that though Don Quixote had been used to behold such dances,
he never saw any he approved so much. Another dance likewise pleased him
prodigiously; that was another chorus of twelve most beautiful damsels,
of such an age, that none appeared under fourteen, nor did any seem to
be quite eighteen; they were all clad in green stuff of Cuenca, their
locks were, some plaited, some flowing loose, and all so fine and
flaxen, as to rival those of Phœbus himself, and crowned with garlands
of roses, of jessamine, and of woodbine. This beautiful bevy was led up
to the dance by a venerable old man and an ancient matron, both more
airy and agile than could be expected from their years. A bagpipe of
Zamora was their musick, and with modesty in their looks and
countenances, and lightness of foot, they danced and tripped it away the
prettiest in the world. After these, entered an emblematick dance of
eight nymphs divided into two bodies: the God of Love led one, and
Interest the other; Cupid with his wings, his bow, his quiver, and
arrows; Interest clad in gold, and silk of rich and various colours. The
nymphs, attendants on Cupid, had their names displayed in white
parchment, and capital letters on their backs: the first was named
Poetry, the second Discretion, the third Pedigree, the fourth Bravery.
The attendants on Interest were likewise characterised: the first was
Liberality, the second Bounty, the third Treasure, the fourth Quiet
possession. The whole masque was preceded by a wooden castle, drawn by
savages, clad in ivy and hemp dyed green, and so savage they looked,
that they had almost frightened Sancho. On the front and on each of the
four sides of this machine were inscribed these words, ‘The Castle of
Discretion.’ Four able musicians played on the tabor and the pipe.
Cupid, who began the dance, after he had made two movements, lifted up
his eyes, and bent his bow against a damsel that stood upon the
battlements of the castle, to whom he pronounced this address—
‘I am the God whose pow’r extends
Thro’ the wide ocean, earth, and sky;
To my soft sway all nature bends,
Compell’d by beauty to comply.
Fearless, I rule, in calm and storm,
Indulge my pleasure to the full,
Things deem’d impossible perform,
Bestow, resume, ordain, annul.’
Having repeated these stanzas, he shot an arrow to the top of the
castle, and retired to his station. Then Interest advanced, and
performed other two movements; after which the tabors were silent, and
the power rehearsed these lines—
‘My pow’r exceeds the might of Love;
For Cupid bows to me alone,
Of all things fram’d by Heav’n above,
The most respected, sought, and known.
My name is Interest, mine aid
But few obtain, though all desire;
Yet shall thy virtue, beauteous maid,
My constant services acquire.’
Interest retiring, was succeeded by Poetry; who, after having performed
his motions like the rest, fixed his eyes upon the lady of the castle,
and said—
‘Let Poetry, whose strain divine
The wond’rous pow’r of song displays,
His heart to thee, fair nymph, consign,
Transported, in melodious lays;
If haply, thou wilt not refuse
To grant my supplicated boon,
Thy fame shall, wafted by the muse,
Surmount the circle of the moon.’
Poetry disappearing, Liberality advanced from the side of Interest, and,
after several movements, repeated these lines—
‘My name is Liberality,
Alike beneficent and wise,
To shun wild prodigality,
And sordid avarice despise:
Yet, for thy favour lavish grown,
A prodigal I mean to prove;
An honourable vice, I own,
But giving is the test of love.’
In this manner, all the figures of the two squadrons advanced and
retired, every one performing his movements, and repeating his verses,
some of which were elegant, and others foolish enough; but those we have
inserted were all that Don Quixote could retain, although his memory was
very tenacious: then mixing all together in the dance, they winded and
turned with great ease, grace, and agility. Cupid, in passing, shot
arrows at the castle, while Interest battered it with round gilded
earthen pots: at length, after the dance had continued a good while,
this last pulled out a large purse made of Roman cat skin, to all
appearance full of money, and throwing it at the castle, the boards
seemed to be disjointed by the blow, and immediately fell asunder,
leaving the damsel quite discovered and defenceless; then Interest, with
the figures of his train, advancing, and throwing a great gold chain
about her neck, seemed bent upon taking and dragging her into captivity.
This design being perceived by Cupid and his partisans, they made an
effort to release her, and all their motions were performed by the sound
of the tabors, to which they danced and capered in concert. Then the
savages interposing, and effecting an accommodation, refitted and
rejoined the boards of the castle with admirable dispatch, the damsel
enclosed herself anew; and thus the dance was finished, to the infinite
satisfaction of the spectators.
Don Quixote asked one of the nymphs, what author had contrived and
composed this entertainment; and being told it was the production of the
parson, who had a rare noddle for such conceits, ‘I’ll lay a wager,’
said he, ‘that this same batchelor or curate is more a friend of Camacho
than of Basilius; and that he is better acquainted with satire than
prayer; for he has very artfully interwoven in this mask the talents of
Basilius, and the wealth of his rival.’ Sancho Panza overhearing this
observation, ‘My cock is the king,’ said he; ‘and I hold fast by
Camacho.’—‘Then am I convinced,’ replied the knight, ‘that Sancho is one
of those low-born peasants, who cry, “Long life to the conqueror.”’—‘I
know not,’ resumed the squire, ‘what sect I am of; but this I know
perfectly well, that I shall never skim from the flesh pots of Basilius,
such a delicate scum as this that I have taken from the boilers of
Camacho.’ With these words, he produced the kettle full of geese and
pullets, and seizing a bird, began to eat with great glee and
satisfaction; saying, in defiance of the talents possessed by Basilius,
‘Thou art worth just as much as thou hast, and hast just as much as thou
art worth. There are only two families in the world, as my grannum was
wont to observe, the Have-somethings and the Have-nothings: though she
always stuck to the former; and now-a-days, my good master, we are more
apt to feel the pulse of property than of wisdom. An ass with golden
trappings, makes a better appearance than a horse with a pack saddle.
Therefore, I say again, I hold fast by Camacho, the plentiful scum of
whose pots contains geese, hares, and conies; while that of Basilius, if
it comes to hand, or even if it should only come to the feet, is no
better than dish-washings.’
‘Sancho,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘hast thou finished thy harangue?’—‘It
shall be finished,’ replied the squire, ‘as I see your worship is
displeased with it; though, if your disgust had not fallen in the way, I
had cut out work enough for three days.’—‘Grant Heaven,’ said the
knight, ‘that I may see thee dumb before I die!’—‘At the rate we
follow,’ answered Panza, ‘before your worship dies, my mouth will be
crammed with clay, and then I may chance to be so dumb, that I shall not
speak another word to the end of the world, or at least till the day of
judgment.’—‘Even should that be the case,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I say
unto thee, O Sancho! thy silence will never counterbalance what thou
didst, dost, and wilt say, during the course of thy life; moreover,
according to the nature of things, the day of my death will happen
before thine; so that I have no hope of ever seeing thee silent, even
while thou art drinking or sleeping, and that is the greatest favour I
could expect.’
‘In good sooth, Signior,’ said the squire, ‘there is no trusting to Mrs.
Ghostly, (I mean, death) who gobbles up the goslin as well as the
goose[156]; and as I have heard our curate observe, tramples down the
lofty turrets of the prince, as well as the lowly cottage of the swain.
That same lady who is more powerful than coy, knows not what it is to be
dainty and squeamish; but eats of every thing, and crams her wallet with
people of all nations, degrees, and conditions; she is none of your
labourers that take this afternoon’s nap, but mows at all hours, cutting
down the dry stubble as well as the green grass; nor does she seem to
chew, but rather swallows and devours every thing that falls in her way;
for she is gnawed by a dog’s hunger that is never satisfied; and though
she has no belly, plainly shews herself dropsical, and so thirsty as to
drink up the lives of all the people upon earth, just as one would
swallow a draught of cool water.’—‘Enough, friend Sancho,’ cried the
knight, interrupting him in this place; ‘keep thyself well, now thou art
in order, and beware of stumbling again; for, really, a good preacher
could not speak more to the purpose than thou hast spoken upon death, in
thy rustick manner of expression; I say unto thee, Sancho, if thy
discretion was equal to thy natural parts, thou mightest ascend the
pulpit, and go about teaching and preaching to admiration.’—‘He is a
good preacher who is a good liver,’ answered Panza; ‘and that is all the
divinity I know.’—‘And that is sufficient,’ said the knight; ‘yet I
shall never understand or comprehend, as the fear of God is the
beginning of wisdom, how thou, who art more afraid of a lizard than of
thy Maker, should be so wise?’—‘Signior,’ replied Sancho, ‘I desire your
worship would determine in your own affairs of chivalry, without taking
the trouble to judge of other people’s valour or fears; for my own part,
I am as pretty a fearer of God as one would desire to see in any
neighbour’s child; wherefore, I beseech your worship, let me discuss
this same scum; for every thing else is idle chat, of which we shall be
able to give a bad account in the other world.’ So saying, he renewed
his attack upon his kettle, with such keen appetite as awakened that of
his master, who would certainly have joined in the assault, had not he
been prevented by that which we must now relate.
Footnote 156:
In the original there is a play upon the words Descarnado, Cordero,
and Carnero, which I have endeavoured to imitate, by substituting
goose in the room of mutton, which is the literal meaning of the text.
CHAP. IV.
WHICH CONTINUES TO TREAT OF CAMACHO’S WEDDING, AND OTHER INCIDENTS.
While Don Quixote and Sancho were engaged in the conversation related in
the preceding chapter, they heard a great noise and shouting, raised by
a company mounted on mares, galloping in full cry, to meet the young
couple; who came surrounded by a thousand kinds of instruments, and
accompanied by the curate, the relations, and all the creditable people
of the neighbouring villages, in their holiday cloaths. Sancho, seeing
the bride, exclaimed with marks of admiration, ‘I ’faith! she looks more
like one of your gay court-dames, than a plain country-maid. Now, by the
biggest beads of my rosary! instead of a tin brooch[157], her breast is
bedizened with rich coral, and her hoyden-grey is turned into
thirty-piled velvet; and, body o’me! the trimming is not of white linen,
but of silk and sattin: then handle me her hands, set off with what?
jewels of jet? No! let me never thrive, if they an’t decked with rings
of gold! aye, and of massy gold, paved with pearls as white as a curd,
every one of which is worth a Jew’s eye. O the whoreson baggage! and
such hair! if it is not false, I never saw any so long, and so fair in
my born-days. Do but mind how buxom, straight, and tall she is, and see
whether she may not be compared to a moving palm-tree, loaded with
clusters of dates; for nothing can be more like the gewgaws and toys
that hang from her hair and neck. By my salvation! the damsel is well
covered, and might pass through all the banks of Flanders.’ Don Quixote,
though he smiled at the rustick praises of his squire, owned that,
exclusive of his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, she was the most
beautiful female he had ever seen.
Nevertheless, the fair Quiteria was paler than usual; and this change of
complexion must have been owing to the bad night which brides always
pass in adorning themselves for the approaching day of their nuptials.
The company repaired to a theatre erected at one side of the meadow, and
ornamented with carpets and boughs, where the ceremony was to be
performed, and from whence they were to see the masques and other
diversions; and they had just arrived at the place when their ears were
saluted with a noise behind them, and a voice that pronounced, ‘Stay a
little, hasty and inconsiderate people.’—In consequence of this address,
they turned about, and perceived it was uttered by a man cloathed in a
loose black coat, interspersed with crimson flames, crowned, as they
soon perceived, with a chaplet of funeral cypress, and holding in his
hand a truncheon of uncommon size. As he approached, he was known to be
the gallant Basilius; at sight of whom they were surprized, and waited
in suspence to see the issue of his exclamation, dreading some mischance
from such an unseasonable visit. At length, wearied and breathless, he
came up to the bride and bridegroom, and thrusting in the ground his
staff that was pointed with steel, he fixed his eyes upon Quiteria, and
with a pale aspect and hoarse quavering voice, pronounced these words:
‘Thou well knowest, ungrateful Quiteria, that, according to the holy
faith we profess, thou canst not espouse another husband while I am
alive; nor art thou ignorant, that while I waited until time and
diligence should meliorate my fortune, I never sought to deviate from
that decorum which thy honour required I should preserve; yet thou,
disburdening thyself of all the obligations which thou owest to my
honest passion, hast made another person master of what is justly mine;
a man whose wealth is not only subservient to his good fortune, but even
renders him superlatively happy; which happiness, that he may enjoy to
the full (not that I think he deserves it, but because it is the will of
Heaven to bestow it) I will, with my own hands, remove the impossibility
or inconvenience that may obstruct it, by taking myself out of the way.
Long live, long live Camacho the Rich, with Quiteria the Ungrateful, to
enjoy many quiet and happy years; and death be the portion of the poor
Basilius, whose poverty clipped the wings of his fortune, and laid him
in an untimely grave.’
So saying, he laid hold of the staff which he had stuck in the earth,
and drew from it a middling tuck, which was concealed in it as in a
scabbard; then fixing that which may be called the hilt on the ground,
he threw himself, with great activity and resolution, upon the point,
which in an instant came out bloody at his shoulder, leaving the unhappy
youth weltering in gore, and stretched upon the ground, transfixed with
his own weapon. His friends immediately ran to his assistance, pierced
with affliction at his misery and lamentable fate; and Don Quixote,
dismounting, flew to his relief, held him in his arms, and found that he
had not as yet expired. They were inclined to withdraw the tuck; but the
curate, who was present, gave his opinion that it should not be
withdrawn before he had confessed himself, because his death would be
the immediate consequence of pulling out the weapon. Meanwhile, Basilius
recovering a little, said, in a faint and piteous tone, ‘Ah, cruel
Quiteria! wouldst thou, in this last and fatal agony, bestow upon me thy
hand in marriage, I should deem my rashness exculpated, seeing by that I
should acquire the happiness of calling thee my own.’ The curate,
hearing this address, exhorted him to employ his attention upon the
health of his soul, rather than upon such carnal pleasures, and
earnestly pray to God to pardon his sins, and in particular this last
desperate determination. To this remonstrance Basilius replied, that he
would by no means confess, until Quiteria should first grant him her
hand, a favour which would set his heart at rest, and give him spirits
to undergo his confession.
Don Quixote hearing the petition of the wounded man, declared, in an
audible voice, that Basilius requested nothing but what was just and
reasonable, and besides very practicable; and that Signior Camacho’s
honour would suffer no more, in wedding Signora Quiteria as the widow of
Basilius, than in receiving her from her father’s own hands; for here
nothing was required but the monosyllable of assent, which could have no
other effect than the trouble of pronouncing it, as the bridal bed must
also be the tomb of such a marriage. Camacho heard the whole, which kept
him in such confusion and suspence, that he knew not what to say or do:
but the friends of Basilius were so clamorous in soliciting him to
consent to Quiteria’s giving her hand in marriage to the hapless youth,
whose soul would otherwise perish in despair, that he was persuaded, and
as it were compelled to say, that if his bride would grant that favour,
he should be satisfied, as it would only for a moment delay the
accomplishment of his desires. Immediately they surrounded Quiteria,
whom with tears, intreaties, and other pathetic remonstrances, they
pressed to give her hand to poor Basilius; but she, more obdurate than
marble, and more inflexible than a statue, neither could, would, or
desired to answer one word; nor would she have made the least reply, had
not the curate desired her to come to a speedy determination, for the
soul of Basilius being already between his teeth, would not afford long
time for hesitation.
Then the beautiful Quiteria, without speaking one syllable, but
seemingly disordered, sad, and sorrowful, advanced to the place where
Basilius lay, with his eyes already fixed, breathing short and thick,
murmuring the name of Quiteria, and, to all appearance, dying rather
like an heathen than a Christian. The bride at length approaching, and
kneeling before him, desired by signs he would hold out his hand: then
Basilius unfixing his eyes, and stedfastly gazing upon her, ‘O
Quiteria!’ said he, ‘thou art become kind at a time when thy kindness
must serve as a sword to finish my unfortunate life; seeing I have not
strength enough left to obtain that glory which thou wouldst confer in
calling me thine; or to suspend the grief that comes so fast to cover
mine eyes with the dismal shades of death. What I request, O fatal star
of my destiny! is, that thy consent to this exchange of vows may not be
a mere compliment to deceive me anew; but that thou wilt confess and
declare there is no restraint upon thy inclination, while thy hand is
given and delivered to me as thy lawful husband, for it would be cruel
to use deceit and dissimulation with one in such extremity, who has
always behaved to thee with such sincerity and truth.’ Having pronounced
these words, he fainted away, so that all the bye-standers thought his
soul would forsake his body in that swoon: but when he retrieved the use
of his faculties, Quiteria, all-blushing with modesty, took hold of his
right hand, saying, ‘No force upon earth would be sufficient to biass my
will; and therefore, with all the freedom of inclination, I give thee my
hand as thy lawful wife, and receive thine on the same terms, if thou
bestowest it with the same good will, undisturbed and unconfounded by
the calamity into which thou hast been hurried by thy own precipitate
conduct.’—‘I do,’ answered Basilius, ‘without either disorder or
confusion; but, on the contrary, with all the clearness of understanding
with which Heaven hath thought proper to endow me, I give and deliver
myself for thy true and faithful husband.’—‘And I take thee for such,’
replied Quiteria, ‘whether thou mayest live many years, or now be
hurried from mine arms to the grave.’—‘Considering how desperately this
spark is wounded,’ said Sancho Panza, ‘methinks he talks woundily: make
him lay aside his courtship, and mind his soul, which seems to be in his
tongue rather than between his teeth.’
The hands of Basilius and Quiteria being joined, the tender-hearted
curate, with tears in his eyes, pronounced the nuptial benediction, and
fervently prayed, that God would grant forgiveness and repose to the
soul of the bridegroom; who no sooner perceived the ceremony was
performed, than he nimbly sprung upon his legs with incredible activity,
withdrew the tuck which was sheathed in his body, to the admiration of
the by-standers; some of whom, being more simple than curious, began to
cry aloud, ‘A miracle! a miracle!’ But Basilius replied, ‘No miracle! no
miracle! but sheer industry! nothing but industry!’ The curate,
confounded and astonished, ran up to feel the wound with both his hands,
and found that the blade, instead of passing through the body of
Basilius, had run through an iron tube fitted to the part, and full of
blood, which, as they afterwards understood, was prepared so as to
retain its fluidity: in a word, the curate and Camacho, with almost all
the company, found themselves fairly out-witted. The bride, however,
expressed no mortification at the deceit: on the contrary, hearing
somebody observe that such a marriage, obtained by fraud, could not be
valid, she said she confirmed it anew. From which circumstance every one
concluded that the stratagem had been contrived and executed with her
privity and consent. This supposition enraged Camacho and his adherents
to such a degree, that they referred their revenge to the prowess of
their hands, and, unsheathing a great many swords, assaulted Basilius,
in whose favour almost an equal number were instantly produced. Don
Quixote taking the lead on horseback, well armed with his lance and
shield, made the whole company give ground; while Sancho, who had no
delight or comfort in such exploits, retired to the jars from which he
had extracted his agreeable scum, looking upon that place as a sacred
sanctuary and respected retreat. The knight exclaimed, in an audible
voice, ‘Forbear, gentlemen, forbear: it is unjust to revenge the
grievances of love; for, in this particular, love and war are the same;
and, as in the last, it is lawful and customary to use feints and
stratagems against the enemy; so likewise in amorous contests and
competitions, all sorts of tricks and contrivances, are allowed in
attaining the accomplishment of the lover’s desire, provided they do not
tend to the disparagement or dishonour of the beloved object. Quiteria
was fated to Basilius, and Basilius to Quiteria, by the just and
favourable determination of Heaven. Camacho is rich, and may purchase
his pleasure when, where, and how his inclination shall require: whereas
Basilius has but this one poor sheep, of which he ought not to be
deprived by any person how powerful soever he may be; for those whom God
hath joined, no man shall put asunder; and he who attempts it must first
pass through the point of this lance.’ So saying, he brandished it with
such strength and dexterity, as filled the hearts of those who did not
know him with fear and consternation; and the disdain of Quiteria made
such a deep impression upon the imagination of Camacho, that he shook
her from his heart in an instant; so that the persuasions of the curate,
who was a prudent and well-meaning priest, pacified and quieted him and
his partizans, who, in token of peace, sheathed their weapons, blaming
the inconstancy of Quiteria more than the contrivance of Basilius; and
Camacho himself observed, that if she loved Basilius before marriage,
the same love would have continued after it; and that he had more reason
to thank Heaven for having lost, than he should have had for obtaining
such an help-mate.
Camacho, and those of his train, being thus consoled and appeased, the
friends of Basilius took no step to disturb their peace; and Camacho the
Rich, in order to shew how little he resented or thought of the trick
which had been played him, desired that the entertainments might proceed
as if he was really to be married: but Basilius with his bride and
followers refusing to partake of them, set out in a body for the place
of his habitation; for the poor, who are virtuous and discreet, will
always find people to honour, attend, and support them, as well as the
rich with all their parasites and companions. In consequence of their
earnest intreaty, they were accompanied by Don Quixote, whom they
esteemed as a prodigy of valour and integrity; and nothing was cloudy
but the soul of Sancho, when he found it impossible to enjoy the
splendid banquets and diversions of Camacho, that lasted till night: he
therefore, in a fretful and melancholy mood, followed his master, who
joined the troop of Basilius; leaving behind the flesh-pots of Egypt,
although he still retained them in his fancy; and the half-finished scum
of his kettle inhanced the glory and abundance of the benefit he had
lost; so that, pensive, sullen, and sad, yet without hunger or
dismounting from Dapple, he silently trudged after the heels of
Rozinante.
Footnote 157:
The patina was a small consecrated plate which the Spanish women,
especially those of an inferior rank, wore upon their breasts.
CHAP. V.
IN WHICH IS RECOUNTED THE VAST ADVENTURE OF THE CAVE OF MONTESINOS,
IN THE HEART OF LA MANCHA, WHICH WAS HAPPILY ATCHIEVED
BY THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE.
Great and manifold were the treats and particulars of respect, paid to
Don Quixote by the new-married couple, who thought themselves greatly
obliged by the readiness he had shewn to defend their cause, and looked
upon his discretion to be equal to his valour; indeed, they esteemed him
a perfect Cid in arms, and a Cicero in elocution. Honest Sancho regaled
himself three days at their expence, during which it was known that the
contrivance of the fictitious wound had not been communicated to
Quiteria, but was hatched by the ingenuity of Basilius himself, in hope
of meeting with that success which, as we have seen, he actually
attained; true it is, he confessed he had imparted his design to some of
his friends, that they might, in case of necessity, favour his
intention, and facilitate the execution of his deceit.
‘Whatsoever hath virtue for its ultimate aim,’ said Don Quixote,
‘neither can or ought to be called deceit; and surely no aim can be more
excellent than the union of two lovers in the holy bands of marriage.’
He observed, that the greatest enemy of love is hunger and necessity;
for love is altogether sprightly, joyous, and satisfied, especially when
the object of desire is in possession of the lover, whose fierce and
declared adversaries are want and inconvenience. He made these
observations with a view to persuade Signior Basilius to quiet the
exercise of those talents he possessed, which, though they acquired
reputation, would not earn a farthing of money, and to employ his
attention in augmenting his estate by legal and industrious means, that
never fail the prudent and the careful. The poor man of honour (if a
poor man can deserve that title) possesses, in a beautiful wife, a
jewel; and when that is taken away, he is deprived of his honour, which
is murdered: a beautiful and chaste woman, whose husband is poor,
deserves to be crowned with laurel and palms of triumph; for beauty
alone attracts the inclinations of those who behold it, just as the
royal eagle and soaring hawk stoop to the savoury lure; but if that
beauty is incumbered by poverty and want, it is likewise attacked by
ravens, kites, and other birds of prey; and if she who possesses it
firmly withstands all these assaults, she well deserves to be called the
crown of her husband. ‘Take notice, dearest Basilius,’ added the knight,
‘it was the opinion of a certain sage, that there was but one good wife
in the whole world; and he advised every husband to believe she had
fallen to his share, and accordingly be satisfied with his lot. I myself
am not married, nor hitherto have I entertained the least thought of
changing my condition; nevertheless, I will venture to advise him who
asks my advice, in such a manner, that he may find a woman to his wish:
in the first place, I would exhort him to pay more regard to reputation
than to fortune; for a virtuous woman does not acquire a good name,
merely by being virtuous, she must likewise maintain the exteriors of
deportment, for the honour of the sex suffers much more from levity and
freedom of behaviour in publick, than from any private misdeeds. If thou
bringest a good woman to thy house, it will be an easy task to preserve
and even improve her virtue; but, shouldst thou chuse a wife of a
different character, it will cost thee abundance of pains to mend her;
for it is not very practicable to pass from one extreme to another: I do
not say it is altogether impossible, though I hold it for a matter of
much difficulty.’
Sancho hearing these remarks, said to himself, ‘This master of mine,
whenever I chance to utter any thing pithy or substantial, will say I
might take a pulpit in hand, and travel through the world, teaching and
preaching to admiration; now, I will say for him, that when he begins to
string sentences, and give advice, he might not only take one pulpit in
hand, but even a couple on each finger, and stroll about the
market-towns. Wit, whither wouldst thou? May the devil fetch him for a
knight-errant! he knows but every thing. I thought for certain, he could
be acquainted with nothing but what relates to his chivalries; but he
pecks at every thing, and throws his spoonful in every man’s dish.’
His master overheard him murmuring in this manner, and asking what he
grumbled at, ‘I don’t grumble,’ answered Sancho, ‘I was only saying to
myself, I wished I had heard those remarks of your worship before I
married; in which case I might now, perhaps, remark in my turn, “The
loosened ox is well licked.”’—‘What, is Teresa such a bad wife?’ said
the knight. ‘Not very bad,’ answered the squire, ‘but then she is not
very good; at least, not so good as I could wish.’—‘You are in the
wrong, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘to disparage your wife, who in effect
is the mother of your children.’—‘As to that matter,’ replied Sancho,
‘we are not at all in one another’s debt; for she can disparage me fast
enough, especially when she takes it in her head to be jealous, and then
Satan himself could not endure her.’
In a word, they stayed three days with the new-married couple, during
which they were treated and served like the king’s own person; and here
Don Quixote desired the nimble-wristed licentiate to provide him with a
guide to direct his steps to the cave of Montesinos, which he had a
longing desire to explore, that he might investigate with his own eyes
the truth of those wonderful stories that were reported of it through
the whole neighbourhood. The licentiate promised to accommodate him with
a first cousin of his own, a famous student deeply read in books of
chivalry, who would willingly conduct him to the very mouth of the cave,
and point out the lakes of Ruydera, so famous not only in the province
of La Mancha, but also through the whole kingdom of Spain; and he
likewise observed, that he would find his conversation very
entertaining; for he was a lad who knew how to compose books for the
press, and even dedicate them to princes. At length this cousin arrived
upon an ass big with foal, whose pannel was covered with a piece of
tawdry tapestry or carpet: Sancho saddled Rozinante, put Dapple in
order, stowed his wallet, which was reinforced by the cousin’s, likewise
very well stored; then recommending themselves to God, and taking leave
of the company, they set out, chusing the shortest road to the famous
cave of Montesinos.
While they travelled along, Don Quixote addressing himself to the
student, asked what was the nature and quality of his exercises,
studies, and profession? To this question the other answered, that his
profession was humanity; and that his exercise and study consisted in
composing books for the press, of great emolument, and no less
entertainment to the publick; that one of them was intitled, The Book of
Liveries, in which he had described seven hundred and three liveries,
with their colours, mottos, and cyphers: ‘From these,’ said he, ‘your
courtiers may extract and assume such devices as will suit their
fancies, in times of festivity and rejoicing, without going about
begging from any person whatever, or cudgelling their brains, as the
saying is, in order to invent what will suit their several desires and
dispositions; for I insert those that will fit the jealous, the
disdained, the forgotten, and absent, so exactly, that the just will far
exceed the number of the Gentiles, I have likewise finished another
book, which I propose to call, The Metamorphoses; or, The Spanish Ovid;
of an invention equally new and agreeable; for there, in imitation of
Naso, I give a burlesque description and history of the Giralda of
Seville, the Angel of La Madalina, the Conduit of Vecinguerra at
Cordova, the bulls of Guisanda, the Sierra Morena, the Fountains of
Leganitos, and the Levapies of Madrid, not forgetting those of the
Piojo, the Golden Pipe, and the Priora, with their allegories,
metaphors, and transformations, which at once surprize, instruct, and
entertain. I have a third performance, which I denominate, The
Supplement to Polydore’s Virgil, which treats of the invention of
things, and is a work of great study and erudition; for many things of
great importance, which Polydore has omitted, I examine and explain in a
most elegant stile: he, for example, has forgot to let us know who was
the first person troubled with a defluxion or rheum, and who was first
anointed for the cure of the French distemper: now these two questions I
resolve in the most accurate manner, upon the authority of above five
and twenty authors; so your worship will perceive whether I have
laboured to good purpose, and composed a book that will be useful to the
world in general.’
Sancho having listened very attentively to this narration, ‘Tell me,
Signior,’ said he, ‘so may God lend an helping hand to the printing of
your books; tell me, if you know, and surely you know every thing, who
was the first man that scratched his own head? for my own part, I firmly
believe it must have been our father Adam.’—‘Certainly,’ answered the
student; ‘for Adam without doubt had a head, and hair upon it; now that
being the case, and he being the first man in the world, he must have
scratched it sometimes.’—‘I am of the same opinion,’ resumed Sancho;
‘but now, pray tell me who was the first tumbler!’—‘Verily, brother,’
resumed the scholar, ‘I cannot determine that point until I shall have
studied it, and study it I will, upon my return to the place where I
keep my books; so that I shall satisfy you the next time we meet, for I
hope this will not be the last time of our meeting.’—‘Then I desire you
will give yourself no trouble about the matter,’ said Sancho; ‘for I
have already found out the solution of my question: know, Signior, that
the first tumbler must have been Lucifer, who, when he was thrown and
rejected from heaven, came tumbling down to the bottomless
pit.’—‘Friend,’ cried the student, ‘you are certainly in the
right.’—‘That question and answer,’ said Don Quixote, ‘is none of thy
own; thou must have learned them from some other person, Sancho.’—‘Hold
your tongue, Signior,’ replied the squire: ‘for, in good faith! if I
begin to question and answer, I shall not have done till morning: yes,
as to the matter of asking like a fool, and answering like a simpleton,
I have no occasion to crave the assistance of my neighbours.’—‘Thou hast
said more than thou art aware of,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘for some
people there are who fatigue themselves in learning, and investigating
that which, when learned and investigated, is not worth a farthing
either to the memory or understanding.’
In this and other such relishing discourse they passed that day, and at
night took up their lodging in a small village, from whence, as the
scholar told the knight, the distance to the cave of Montesinos did not
exceed a couple of leagues; and he observed, that if Don Quixote was
really determined to explore the cavern, it would be necessary to
provide ropes, by which he might be lowered down to its bottom. The
knight said, that although he should descend to the abyss, he would see
the bottom, for which purpose he purchased about a hundred fathoms of
rope. Next day, about two o’clock in the afternoon, they arrived at the
cave, and found the mouth broad and spacious, though overgrown with
thorns, weeds, brambles, and brakes, so thick and intricate, that it was
almost quite covered and concealed; at sight of the place all three
alighted; the student and Sancho immediately began to fasten the rope
strongly about the knight, and while they were thus employed in cording
and girding him, Sancho addressing himself to the adventurer, ‘Dear
master,’ said he, ‘consider what your worship is about; seek not to bury
yourself alive, and to be used like a bottle of wine, let down to cool
in some well; for it neither concerns nor belongs to your worship to be
the surveyor of that pit, which must be worse than a dungeon.’—‘Tie the
knot, and hold thy tongue, friend Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘for
such an enterprize as this was reserved for me alone.’ Then the guide
interposing, ‘I intreat your worship, Signior Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘to
consider attentively and examine, as it were, with a hundred eyes, every
circumstance within this cave, where, perhaps, there may be things which
I shall insert among my transformations.’—‘The cymbal,’ answered Sancho,
‘is in the hands that can play it to the utmost nicety.’
This discourse having passed, and the ligature being made, not over the
knight’s armour but his doublet, ‘We have been guilty of an
inadvertency,’ said Don Quixote, ‘in coming hither unprovided with a
small bell, which, had it been tied to me with the same cord, would,
with its sound, have given you notice, as I descended, of my being
alive; but, as it is now impossible to be accommodated, I commit myself
to the hands of God, who will conduct me.’ Then falling upon his knees,
he in a low voice preferred a prayer to Heaven, beseeching God to assist
and crown him with success, in this seemingly perilous and new
adventure. His ejaculation being finished, he pronounced, in a loud
voice, ‘O! thou mistress of my deeds and motions, the most resplendent
and peerless Dulcinea del Toboso! if the prayer and petition of this thy
adventurous lover can possibly reach thine ears, I conjure thee, by thy
unheard-of beauty, to grant my request, which is no other than that thou
wouldst not now deny me thy favour and protection, when I stand so much
in need of both; for I am just upon the brink of darting, plunging, and
ingulphing myself into the profound abyss that opens wide before me, on
purpose that the world may know there is nothing so impossible that I
will not attempt and execute, under the wings of thy favour.’
So saying, he approached the pit, where he found it would be
impracticable to slip down, or make way for entering, without the
strength of arms and back-strokes: he therefore, unsheathing his sword,
began to lay about him, and mow down the bushes that grew around the
mouth of the cave, out of which an infinite number of huge crows and
daws, affrighted at the noise and disturbance, sallied forth with such
force and velocity, as laid the knight upon his back; and had he been as
superstitious as he was a good catholick, he would have looked upon this
irruption as a bad omen, and excused himself from visiting the bowels of
such a dreary place; at length he rose, and seeing that the flight of
crows, and other birds of night, was now over, (for a number of bats had
likewise come forth) he put the rope into the hands of Sancho and the
scholar, desiring them to lower him down to the bottom of that dreadful
cavern, which when he entered, Sancho gave him his benediction, and
making a thousand crosses over him, exclaimed, ‘God and the Rock of
France, together with the Trinity of Gaeta, be thy guides, thou flower,
and cream, and scum of knights-errant: there thou goest, bully of the
globe, heart of steel, and arm of brass! I say again, God be thy guide,
and bring thee back safe, sound, and without deceit, to the light of
this life, which thou art now forsaking to bury thyself in that
obscurity.’ Almost the same prayer and deprecation was uttered by the
scholar; while Don Quixote called aloud for rope, and afterwards for
more rope, which they gave him by little and little. By that time the
voice, which ascended through the windings and turnings of the cave,
ceased to vibrate on their ears, they had already uncoiled the hundred
fathoms, and were inclined to hoist him up again, as they had no more
cord to spare: they stayed, however, about half an hour, at the
expiration of which they began to pull up the rope, which seemed to have
no weight attached to it, and came up with such ease, that they imagined
the knight was left below; a supposition, in consequence of which the
squire wept most bitterly, while he pulled with great eagerness in order
to discover the truth; but when they had coiled up about four-score
fathoms they felt the weight again, and were exceedingly rejoiced:
finally, at the distance of ten fathoms, they distinctly perceived Don
Quixote; to whom Sancho addressed himself, saying, ‘Dear master, I wish
your worship an happy return; we began to think you had tarried below to
breed.’
To this welcome the knight answered not a word. When they had pulled him
up, they perceived his eyes were shut, and that, to all appearance, he
was fast asleep; then he was laid upon the ground, and untied, but still
he did not awake: however, by dint of turning, jogging, shaking, and
moving, they, after some time, brought him to himself, when yawning
hideously as if he had awoke from a profound and heavy sleep, he looked
around with amazement, and pronounced, ‘God forgive you, friends, for
having withdrawn me from the most delightful prospect and agreeable life
that ever mortal saw or enjoyed: in effect, I am now fully convinced,
that all the pleasures of this life fleet away like a shadow or dream,
or fade like the flowers of the field. O unfortunate Montesinos! O
deeply wounded Durandarte! O hapless Belerma! O weeping Guadiana! and
you forlorn daughters of Ruydera, who by your waters shew the copious
floods of tears that fall from your beauteous eyes!’
The scholar and Sancho hearing these words, which Don Quixote seemed to
heave with immense pain from his very entrails, begged he would explain
the meaning of what he had said, and inform them of what he had seen in
that infernal gulph. ‘Infernal, call you it?’ said the knight; ‘pray
give it a better epithet, for that it surely does deserve, as you will
presently perceive.’ Then he desired they would give him something to
eat, for he was excessively hungry; and they, spreading the carpet upon
the grass, produced the buttery of their bags, when all three sitting
around them, in love and good fellowship, made one meal serve for supper
and afternoon’s luncheon, which being finished, and the cloth taken
away, ‘My sons,’ said Don Quixote, ‘let no man stir, but listen with
your whole attention to that which I am going to rehearse.’
CHAP. VI.
OF THE WONDERFUL INCIDENTS RECOUNTED BY THE EXTRAVAGANT DON QUIXOTE,
WHO PRETENDED TO HAVE SEEN THEM IN THE PROFOUND CAVE OF MONTESINOS;
FROM THE GREATNESS AND IMPOSSIBILITY OF WHICH
THIS ADVENTURE HAS BEEN DEEMED APOCRYPHAL.
It might be about four o’clock in the afternoon, when the sun retiring
behind a cloud, so as to emit a scanty light and temperate rays, gave
Don Quixote an opportunity of relating coolly and comfortably to his two
illustrious hearers the particulars he had seen in the cave of
Montesinos; and he accordingly began to recite what follows.
‘About twelve or fourteen fathoms below the mouth of this dungeon, there
is a concavity on the right hand, wide enough to contain a large waggon
with its cattle, and illuminated by a small stream of light that
descends through corresponding cracks and crannies, which open at a
distance on the surface of the earth: this spacious cavity I perceived,
when I was tired and out of humour at finding myself hanging and
descending by a rope, through that dark and dreary dungeon, without
knowing any certain and determined way; I therefore resolved to enter
it, and repose myself a little, and called to you to leave off lowering
the rope, until I should give you farther notice; but I suppose you did
not hear me, so that I gathered up the cord you let down, and making it
into an heap or coil, sat down upon it in a very pensive mood, to
consider how I should descend to the bottom, having no person to support
my weight. While I sat musing on this misfortune, I was all of a sudden
overpowered by a most profound sleep, and without dreaming of the
matter, or knowing how, or wherefore, I awoke, and found myself in the
midst of the most beautiful, charming and delightful meadow that nature
could create, or the most fertile imagination conceive. I rubbed and
wiped my eyes, so as to see that far from sleeping I was broad awake:
nevertheless, I felt my head, and fumbled in my bosom, in order to be
assured, whether it was really my identical self or some unsubstantial
phantom and counterfeit; but the touch, the reflection, and connected
discourse I held with myself, concurred to convince me, that I was the
same at that time as I find myself at present. Then was my view regaled
with a sumptuous palace or castle, with walls and battlements of clear,
transparent chrystal, and two large folding gates, which, opening, there
came forth, advancing towards me, a venerable old man, clad in a long
cloak of purple baize, that trailed upon the ground: his shoulders and
breast were girded with a collegiate scarf of green sattin; his head was
covered with a black Milan cap; and his beard, white as the drifted
snow, descended to his middle. He wore no arms, but held in his hand a
rosary of beads as large as walnuts; though the tens were as big as
ostrich-eggs; and his deportment, air, gravity, and dignified presence,
filled me with surprize and veneration. Coming up to me, the first thing
he did was to hug me closely in his arms; then he said, “Long, very
long, most valiant knight Don Quixote de La Mancha, have we, who are
inchanted in these solitudes, expected thy arrival, that thou mayest
inform the world of what is contained and concealed in this profound
cavern, which is called the cave of Montesinos; an adventure hitherto
reserved on purpose to be atchieved by thy invincible heart and most
stupendous courage. Follow me, illustrious Signior, and I will shew thee
the wonders that lie hid in this transparent castle, of which I am
governor and perpetual warder, as being that identical Montesinos, from
whom the cavern takes its name.” No sooner had he told me who he was,
than I asked if it was true, what the world above related of him,
namely, that he had, with a small dagger, cut out the heart of his great
friend Durandarte, and carried it to the Lady Belerma, according to his
own desire, while he was in the agonies of death. He answered, every
circumstance was true, except that of the dagger; for it was neither a
dagger, nor small in its dimensions, but a polished poignard as sharp as
an awl.’
Here Sancho interposing, observed, that such a poignard must have been
made by Raymond de Hozes of Seville. ‘I do not know who was the maker,’
said the knight, ‘but it could not be that sword-cutler; for Raymond de
Hozes was living t’other day; whereas many years are elapsed since the
battle of Roncesvalles, where that misfortune happened; but this enquiry
is of no importance; nor does it disturb or alter the truth and evidence
of the story.’—‘No, surely,’ cried the scholar, ‘pray good your worship
Don Quixote proceed; for I listen to your narration with infinite
pleasure.’—‘And I feel no less in recounting it,’ answered the knight.
‘Well, then, the venerable Montesinos led me into the chrystalline
palace, where, in a low hall, cool beyond conception, and lined with
alabaster, stood a monument of marble of exquisite workmanship, upon
which I perceived a knight lying at full length, I do not mean a statue
of bronze, marble, or jasper, such as we commonly see on other tombs,
but a man of real flesh and bones; he held his right-hand, which being
muscular and hairy, denoted the great strength of the owner, over the
region of the heart; and before I had time to ask any questions,
Montesinos seeing me astonished, and gazing attentively at the
sepulchre, “This is my friend Durandarte,” said he, “the flower and
mirrour of all the valiant and enamoured knights of his time: here he is
kept inchanted as well as myself, and many others of both sexes, by
Merlin, that French inchanter, who is said to have been begotten by the
devil; though, for my own part, I believe he is not really the devil’s
son, but that, according to the proverb, He knows one point more than
the devil. How, or for what reason he inchanted us, nobody knows, but
time will discover the mystery; and, in my opinion, that time is not far
off: what surprizes me is, I know as certainly as the sun shines, that
Durandarte breathed his last in my arms, and after he was dead, I with
my own individual hands took out his heart, which must certainly have
weighed a couple of pounds; for, according to the observation of
naturalists, the man who has a large heart is endowed with more valour
than he whose heart is of smaller dimensions: this being the case, and
the knight certainly dead, how comes he, even at this day, to sigh and
complain, from time to time, as if he was actually alive?”
‘He had no sooner pronounced these words, than the wretched Durandarte
cried, in a loud voice, “O cousin Montesinos! the last favour I
requested of you, was, that when my soul should quit my body, you would
extract my heart either with poignard or dagger, and carry it to
Belerma.” The venerable Montesinos, hearing this apostrophe, kneeled
before the piteous knight, and with tears in his eyes, replied,
“Already, Signior Durandarte, my dearest cousin! already have I executed
what you commanded me to perform, on that unlucky day of our defeat: I
extracted your heart as well as I could, without leaving the smallest
particle of it in your breast; I wiped it with a laced handkerchief, and
set out with it full gallop for France, after having first committed you
to the bosom of the earth with such a flood of tears as was sufficient
to bathe and wash my hands of the blood they had contracted by raking in
your bowels; and as a surer token, dear cousin of my soul! at the first
place I reached, in my way from Roncesvalles, I sprinkled your heart
with a little salt, that it might not acquire a bad smell, and continue,
if not quite fresh, at least tolerably sweet, until it could be
presented to the Lady Belerma, who, together with you and me, and your
squire Guadiana, the duenna Ruydera, her seven daughters, and two
nieces, and many others of your friends and acquaintance, have been long
inchanted in this place by the sage Merlin; and although five hundred
years are elapsed, not one of us is dead; though we have lost Ruydera
with her daughters and nieces, who, by weeping, are, through the
compassion of Merlin, converted into so many lakes, which, in the world
above, and in the province of La Mancha, are called the Lakes of
Ruydera; the Seven Sisters belong to the king of Spain, and the Two
Nieces to the knights of a very holy order, called St. John. Your squire
Guadiana bewailing likewise your misfortune, was changed into a river of
the same name, which, when it reached the surface of the earth, and saw
the sun of the other sky, was so grieved at the thoughts of leaving you,
that he sunk down into the bowels of the globe; but, as it was not
possible for him to resist his natural current, he from time to time
rises up, shewing himself to the sun, and to the nations: he receives a
reinforcement from the waters of the forementioned lakes, with which,
and many others that join his stream, he enters Portugal in majesty and
pomp. Nevertheless, wheresoever he runs, he discovers a sullen
melancholy, and does not pique himself upon breeding within his channel
fish of dainty relish and esteem; but only such as are coarse and
unsavoury, and widely different from those of the golden Tagus. What I
now say, my dear cousin, I have often expressed, and as you make no
reply, I conclude you either do not hear or do not give credit to my
words: a circumstance which, as Heaven doth know, overwhelms me with
affliction. I will at present make you acquainted with one piece of
news, which, if it does not alleviate your sorrow, can surely, in no
shape, tend to its augmentation. Know then, here stands in your presence
(open your eyes and behold him) that great knight of whom so many things
have been prophesied by the sage Merlin; that Don Quixote de La Mancha,
I say, who has renewed, and, with greater advantages than in times past,
raised again from oblivion the long forgotten chivalry, by the means and
favour of whom, perhaps, we ourselves may be disenchanted; for great men
such great achievements are reserved.”—“And if that should not be the
case,” replied the afflicted Durandarte, in a faint and languid tone;
“and if that should not be the case, cousin, I say, patience, and
shuffle the cards.” Then turning himself upon one side, he relapsed into
his usual silence, without speaking another word.
‘At that instant, hearing a great noise of shrieks and lamentations,
accompanied by doleful sighing and dismal sobbing, I turned about, and
saw through the chrystal walls into another apartment, through which a
procession passed, consisting of two flies of most beautiful damsels in
mourning, with white turbans on their heads, in the Turkish manner; in
the rear of these came a lady, for such, by her stately demeanour, she
seemed to be, cloathed like the rest in black, with a veil so full and
long that it kissed the ground: her turban was twice as large as the
largest of the others, her eye brows met above her nose, which was
flattish; her mouth was large, but her lips retained the colour of
vermillion; her teeth, which she sometimes disclosed, were thin and
ill-set, though white as blanched almonds; and in her hand she held a
fine linen cloth, in which, as near as I could guess, was an heart so
dried and shrivelled, that it seemed to be of perfect mummy. Montesinos
gave me to understand, that all those of the procession were domesticks
of Durandarte and Belarma, inchanted in that place, together with their
lord and lady; and that the last who carried the heart in the napkin,
was Belerma herself, who, with her damsels, never failed to appear in
that procession four days in the week, and sung, or rather howl, dirges
over the body, and the woeful heart of his cousin: and that, if she now
seemed a little homely, or not quite so beautiful as fame reported her,
the change proceeded from the bad nights and worse days she passed in
that state of inchantment, as I might perceive in her large wrinkles and
wan complexion; nor did that yellowness and those furrows proceed from
any irregularity in the monthly disorder incident to women; for many
months and even years had passed since she had the least shew of any
such evacuation; but solely from the anguish of her heart, occasioned by
that which she holds incessantly in her hand, and which renews and
recalls to her memory the misfortune of her ill-fated lover: had it not
been for that mischance, scarce would she have been equalled in beauty,
sprightliness, and grace, even by the fair Dulcinea del Toboso,
celebrated as she is not only in this country, but also through the
whole universe.
‘“Softly, Signior Don Montesinos,” said I, interrupting him at the
period, “be so good as to tell your story as it ought to be told; for
you know all comparisons are odious, and therefore there is no occasion
to compare any person with another; the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso is
what she is, and the Lady Donna Belerma is likewise what she is and has
been, and there let the matter rest.” To this remonstrance he replied,
“Pardon me, Signior Don Quixote; I confess I have been to blame, and
egregiously erred, in saying, the Lady Dulcinea would scarce equal the
Lady Belerma; seeing, my having known by certain guesses that your
worship is the knight of Dulcinea, was sufficient to have induced me to
bite off my tongue, rather than compare her with any thing but Heaven
itself.” Such satisfaction from the great Montesinos allayed the disgust
that my heart received in hearing Belerma compared with my mistress.’
‘I marvel much,’ said Sancho, ‘that your worship did not fall upon the
old hunks, and break every bone in his skin; aye, and pull his beard in
such a manner as not to leave one single hair.’—‘By no means, friend
Sancho,’ answered the knight, ‘it would not have become me to behave in
that manner; for we are all obliged to respect our seniors, although
they are not knights; but more especially those who are really of that
quality, and besides in a state of inchantment. This I know full well,
that there was nothing left unpaid on either side, in the course of the
questions and answers that passed between us.’
Here the scholar, interposing, ‘I cannot conceive,’ said he, ‘Signior
Don Quixote, how your worship, in such a short time as that you have
spent below, could see so many things, and ask and answer such a number
of questions.’—‘How long is it since I descended?’ said the knight.
‘Little more than an hour,’ replied the squire. ‘That’s impossible,’
resumed Don Quixote; ‘for night fell, and morning dawned, and darkness
and light succeeded each other three times; so that, by my reckoning, I
must have remained three days in those sequestered shades, which are
hidden from our view.’—‘My master must be in the right,’ said Sancho,
‘for as all those things have happened by inchantment, perhaps what
appeared but one hour to us, might seem three days and nights to your
worship.’—‘It may be so,’ answered the knight. Then the student asking
if his worship had eaten any thing in all that time, ‘I have not tasted
one mouthful,’ said he, ‘nor had I the least sensation of hunger.’—‘And
do those who are inchanted, eat?’ resumed the scholar, ‘They do not
eat,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘nor do they void the larger excrements,
though, it is supposed, that their nails, beards, and hair, are always
growing.’
Here Sancho desired to know, if ever those inchanted gentry enjoyed the
benefit of sleep. To which interrogation his master replied, ‘No,
surely; at least, in those three days that I passed among them, neither
they nor myself once closed an eye.’—‘Here then,’ said the squire, ‘we
may conveniently trust in the proverb, Tell me your company, and I’ll
tell you your manners. While your worship keeps company with inchanted
people, who are always fasting and watching, it is no great wonder if
you neither eat nor sleep while you are among them; but really, Signior,
your worship must forgive me, if I say, that of all you have told us,
God take me, I was going to say the devil, if I believe one
circumstance.’—‘How!’ cried the scholar, ‘then Signior Don Quixote must
have lyed: who even if we could entertain such a supposition, has not
had time to compose and contrive such a number of fables.’—‘I do not
believe that my master tells lies,’ answered Sancho. ‘What, then, is thy
conception?’ said the knight. ‘I conceive,’ replied Sancho, ‘that
Merlin, or those magicians who have inchanted the whole rabble which
your worship hath seen and discoursed with below, have likewise stuffed
your noddle or memory with all that nonsense which you have already
recounted, as well as what you have left untold.’—‘That might be the
case,’ said Don Quixote, ‘but I assure you it is not so at present; for
what I have recounted I saw with my own eyes, and touched with my own
hands. But, what wilt thou say, when I now tell thee, that among an
infinite number of other wonderful things, which I shall relate
hereafter in the course of our travels, as they do not all belong to
this place, Montesinos shewed me three country-wenches, leaping and
skipping like so many goats through those delightful plains; and scarce
had I set eyes on them, when I recognize them to be the peerless
Dulcinea, and those two individual young women, with whom we spoke in
the neighbourhood of Toboso. When I asked Montesinos if he knew them, he
answered in the negative, but said he took them to be some inchanted
ladies of quality; for they had appeared but a few days in that meadow;
nor ought I to wonder at that circumstance, forasmuch as in the same
place there were many ladies of the past and present age, inchanted in
different and strange forms; among whom he recollected Queen Ginebra and
her duenna Quintanona, who was skinker to Lancelot, when he came from
Britain.’ Sancho, hearing his master talk in this manner, was ready to
run distracted, or burst with laughing; for, knowing the truth of the
feigned inchantment of Dulcinea, of which indeed he himself had been the
author and evidence, he was convinced beyond all doubt, that his master
was stark-staring mad; and in that persuasion exclaimed, ‘In evil hour,
accursed season, and unlucky day, my dear master, did your worship go
down to the other world; and in a mischievous moment did you meet with
Signior Montesinos, who has sent you back in such a woeful condition.
Well was your worship here above, in your sound judgment, such as God
had bestowed upon you, saying sentences, and giving counsel at every
turn, and not as at present, venting a heap of the greatest nonsense,
that was ever conceived.’—‘I know thee too well, Sancho,’ answered Don
Quixote, ‘to mind what thou sayest.’—‘And I, in like manner,’ replied
the squire, ‘know you too well to regard what you say: wound me, or
confound me, or kill me if you will, for what I have said, and what I
mean to say, if your worship does not mend and correct your own
speeches; but, now we are at peace, pray tell me how or by what token
you came to know our lady mistress, and if you spoke to her, what answer
she made?’
‘I knew her again,’ replied the knight, ‘by the same cloaths she wore
when thou thyself didst shew her to my astonished eyes; I likewise
addressed myself to her, but she answered not a syllable; on the
contrary, she turned about, and fled so swiftly, that an arrow would not
have overtaken her: nevertheless, I wished to follow, and would
certainly have pursued her, had not Montesinos advised me not to fatigue
myself; for it would be to no purpose, and besides, it was time for me
to return to the light above. He likewise told me, that, in process of
time, he would give me notice in what manner he, Durandarte, Belerma,
and all the rest, in those sequestered shades, were to be disenchanted.
But what of all I saw and observed gave me the greatest pain was this;
while I was engaged in this conversation with Montesinos, one of the
hapless Dulcinea’s companions came up to me, unperceived, and with tears
in her eyes, thus accosted me, in a low and whimpering voice: “My Lady
Dulcinea Del Toboso kisses your worship’s hands, and begs your worship
will be pleased to let her know how your worship does; moreover, being
in great necessity, she supplicates your worship, in the most earnest
manner, to be pleased to lend her, upon this her new cotton under
petticoat, half a dozen rials, or any small matter your worship can
spare, which upon her honest word, shall be restored in a very short
time.” This message filled me with surprize and concern; and turning to
the sage, “Is it possible, Signior Montesinos,” said I, “that people of
condition are exposed to necessity, in a state of inchantment?” To this
question he replied, “Take my word for it, Signior Don Quixote de La
Mancha, that which we call necessity is known in all states, extending
to all conditions, prevailing among every class of people, and not even
sparing those who are inchanted; and since Signora Dulcinea Del Toboso
sends to beg these six rials, and the pledge seems to be well worth the
money, you had better let her have them; for she must certainly be in
great trouble.”—“The pledge I will not touch,” said I, “nor indeed can I
comply with her request; for I have not above four rials!” which I gave
her; and these were the very individual pieces which I received from
thee, Sancho, t’other day, in order to give away in charity to the poor
I might meet with on the road, “Sweet-heart,” said I, “tell your lady
that her distress affects me to the very soul, and I wish I were as rich
as Fouckar[158] to remove it; let her know, that I neither can, nor will
enjoy health while deprived of her agreeable presence and improving
conversation; and that I fervently and earnestly beg her goodness will
be pleased to indulge with her company, this her captive servant and
afflicted knight. Tell her also, that, when least she dreams of any such
matter, she shall hear that I have made a vow, like that which was sworn
by the Marquis of Mantua, to revenge his cousin Valdovinos; when he
found him at the last gasp, in the middle of the mountain; namely, that
he would not eat from off a table-cloth, together with some whimsical
additions, until he should have revenged his death; and, in like manner,
I will swear never to be quiet, but traverse the seven divisions of the
globe, more punctually than did the infant Don Pedro of Portugal[159],
until she be restored to the upper world.”—“All that and much more you
owe to my lady,” said the damsel; who, taking the rials instead of
curtseying, cut a caper in the air two yards high.’
‘O holy God!’ cried Sancho, with a loud voice, ‘is it possible that
those inchanters and enchantments should have such power to change the
good sense of my master into such nonsensical madness! O Signior,
Signior! for the love of God, look to yourself, have some respect for
your own honour, and give no credit to those vanities, which have
diminished and disturbed your senses.’—‘Thy regard for me, Sancho, makes
thee talk in that manner,’ answered the knight: ‘and as thou art not
experienced in the events of this world, every thing that is uncommon,
to thee seems impossible; but the time will come, as I have already
observed, when I shall recount some circumstances which I saw below,
that will compel thee to believe what I have now related, the truth of
which neither admits of dispute or reply.’
Footnote 158:
Fouckar was a very rich merchant of Augsburg, and a great favourite of
Charles V. who owed him a very considerable sum. It is reported of
him, that when the emperor lodged at his house, in his return from
Tunis, the fire in his chamber was of cinnamon, and his landlord
lighted it with his imperial majesty’s own obligation, thereby
cancelling an immense debt. The wealth of these traders, for there
were two brothers, became proverbial, and it was usual to say of any
very opulent person, ‘He is as rich as a Fouckar.’
Footnote 159:
This was the great patron of the Portuguese discoveries along the
coast of Africa to the Cape of Good Hope.
CHAP. VII.
IN WHICH ARE RECOUNTED A THOUSAND FOOLERIES,
EQUALLY IMPERTINENT,
AND NECESSARY TO THE TRUE UNDERSTANDING OF THIS SUBLIME HISTORY.
He who translated this sublime history from the original, composed by
its first author Cid Hamet Benengeli, says, that coming to the chapter
which treats of the adventure of the cave, he found this observation
written on the margin in the handwriting of the said Hamet.
‘I cannot conceive or persuade myself that the valiant Don Quixote
literally saw and heard all that is recounted in the foregoing chapter,
for this reason: all the adventures in which he has hitherto been
engaged, are feasible and likely to have happened; but this of the cave
I can by no means believe true, in any circumstance, because it is so
wide of all reason and probability; then to suppose that Don Quixote
would tell lyes, he that was the truest gentleman and most noble knight
of his time! it is not possible! He certainly would have suffered
himself to be shot to death, rather than deviate one tittle from the
truth; besides, I consider that he explained and recounted the adventure
so circumstantially, that he could not be supposed to have contrived
extempore such a large concatenation of extravagances; but, after all,
should the adventure seem apocryphal, the blame cannot be laid to my
door, and therefore I give it to the publick without affirming it either
to be true or false. Reader, if thou hast discernment, thou mayest judge
for thyself; for it is neither my duty, nor is it in my power to do
more: though it is held for certain, that the knight, on his death-bed,
retracted the whole, saying he had invented the story because it seemed
to agree and quadrate with those adventures he had read in his books.’
Then the Arabian proceeds in his history to this effect.
The scholar was equally astonished at the presumption of Sancho Panza
and the forbearance of his master, and concluded that the satisfaction
he derived from having seen his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, even
though inchanted, had produced that milkiness of temper, which was now
so remarkable; had not this been the case, Sancho’s freedom and remarks
were such as would have brought a wooden shower upon his shoulders; for
he was downright impertinent to his master, to whom the student thus
addressed himself: ‘For my own part, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha, I
look upon this as the happiest journey I ever performed; for, in the
course of it, I have made four valuable acquisitions. In the first
place, I have gained the acquaintance of your worship, which I deem a
piece of singular felicity. Secondly, I have been made acquainted with
what is locked up and contained in the cave of Montesinos, together with
the Metamorphoses of Guadiana, and the Lakes of Ruydera; transmutations
that will aptly fill a place in the Spanish Ovid which I have in hand.
Thirdly, I have discovered the antiquity of card-playing, which, at
least, must be as old as the time of Charlemagne, as may be gathered
from the words which your worship heard Durandarte pronounce, when, at
the end of that long harangue of Montesinos, he awoke and said,
“Patience, and shuffle the cards.” For that phrase and manner of
speaking he could not have learned during his inchantment; but
certainly, when he was alive and well in France, during the reign of the
said Charlemagne: and this investigation comes pat to the purpose, for
the other book which I am composing; I mean, the Supplement to Polydore
Virgil, on the invention of antiquities; for I take it for granted, he
has forgot to insert in his book the discovery of card-playing, which I
will now explain, and doubtless it will be a very material circumstance,
especially when confirmed by such a grave and authentick evidence as
Signior Durandarte. Fourthly and lastly, I have now ascertained the
source of the Guadiana, hitherto unknown among the nations.’
‘You have indeed good reason to be satisfied,’ replied the knight; ‘but
I should be glad to know, if, by God’s assistance, you should obtain a
licence for printing those books, (which is a matter of doubt with me)
to what patron you intend they should be dedicated?’—‘There are plenty
of lords and grandees in Spain,’ answered the scholar, ‘to whom they may
be dedicated.’—‘But a very few,’ said Don Quixote; ‘not but that a great
many deserve dedications, but because few will receive them, that they
may not lay themselves under the obligation of making such a recompence
as may seem due to the labour and courtesy of authors: one prince,
indeed, I know, who supplies the defect of the rest with such
advantages, that if I durst presume to describe them, I might perhaps
excite envy in many noble hearts. But let that circumstance rest till a
more convenient season; and, in the mean time, let us endeavour to find
some place where we may procure a night’s lodging.’—‘Not far from
hence,’ replied the student, ‘is an hermitage where lives an anchorite,
who is said to have been a soldier, and bears the character of being a
good Christian, and moreover a very discreet and charitable man:
adjoining to the hermitage is a little house, built by the labour of his
own hands, which, though narrow, is large enough to receive
travellers.’—‘Can that same hermitage produce any poultry?’ said Sancho.
‘There are few hermitages destitute of that provision,’ answered the
knight; ‘for the anchorites of these days are not like those who dwelt
in the desarts of Egypt, cloathing themselves with palm-leaves, and
subsisting on the roots of the earth. And here I would not be understood
to extol one sort, in order to depreciate another; for the penance now
in use does not come up to the rigour and austerity of those times.
Nevertheless, they are all good, at least, so I suppose them to be be;
and even should the stream run foul, the hypocrite, who cloaks his
knavery, is less dangerous to the commonwealth than he who transgresses
in the face of day.’
This conversation was interrupted by the appearance of a man coming
towards them on foot, walking fast, and switching a mule loaded with
lances and halberts: when he came up he saluted them, and passed on at a
good pace, and Don Quixote perceiving his hurry, ‘Honest friend,’ said
he, ‘pray stop a little, for you seem to go faster than your mule could
wish.’—‘Signior,’ answered the man, ‘I cannot tarry at present, because
these arms of which I have the charge, are to be used to-morrow morning,
so that I cannot possibly stay, therefore adieu: but if you desire to
know for what purpose they were procured, at the inn which is beyond the
hermitage I have some thoughts of taking my night’s lodging, and if you
are travelling the same road, there you will find me, and there you
shall hear strange tidings; so, once more I bid you farewel.’ So saying,
he whipped up the mule in such a manner, that Don Quixote had not time
to ask another question concerning those strange tidings which he
promised to relate; but, being extremely curious, and continually
fatigued with the desire of learning novelties, he ordered his company
to set off that instant, and proceed to the inn, without touching at the
hermitage, where the scholar wished to pass the evening. In compliance
with the knight’s desire, all three mounted their beasts, and followed
the direct road to the inn, which they reached a little before the
twilight. The student, however, proposed that they should call and take
a draught at the hermitage. Sancho Panza, hearing this proposal,
immediately turned Dapple’s head towards it, being followed by Don
Quixote and the scholar: but his ill luck seemed to have ordained, that
the hermit should not be at home, as they were told by an under-hermit,
whom they found in the place. When the squire demanded a flask of his
best and dearest, he answered, that his master had no wine, but if he
chose a pitcher of his cheapest water, he should have it with all his
heart. ‘If I had chosen water,’ said Sancho, ‘there is plenty of wells
upon the road, from which I might have quenched my thirst. O the wedding
of Camacho! and the abundance of Don Diego’s house! how often shall I
lament the loss of you?’
When he had uttered this ejaculation, they quitted the hermitage, and
pushed on towards the inn; and having rode forwards a little way, they
overtook a lad who travelled the same road at his own leisure: he
carried a sword over his shoulder, that supported a bundle of cloaths,
which seemed to consist of trousers, a cloak, and shirt; for he wore a
velvet jacket with some slips of sattin, and the shirt hanging out; he
had silk stockings, and square-toed shoes in the court fashion; his age
seemed to be about eighteen or nineteen; he had a sprightly countenance,
and an agility in his person; he amused himself in singing couplets to
beguile the fatigue of travelling, and when they overtook him, had just
finished one, which the student remembered to have run in this strain.
‘To the wars my necessity drags me away,
But if I had money at home I would stay.’
The first who accosted him was Don Quixote, saying, ‘You travel very
light, young gentleman; pray, good now, whither may you be going?’ To
this interrogation the youth replied, ‘I travel so light on account of
poverty, and the heat of the weather; and I am going to the wars.’—‘The
heat may be a very good reason,’ resumed the knight; ‘but how should
poverty be the cause of your travelling in that manner?’—‘Signior,’
answered the youth, ‘I carry in this bundle a pair of velvet
trunk-breeches, fellows to this jacket, which if I wear out in the
country, they will do me no credit in town, and I have not wherewithal
to purchase a reinforcement; for this reason, therefore, and the benefit
of the free air, I travel as you see me, until I get up with some
companies of foot, which are quartered at a town about twelve leagues
from hence; there I shall inlist among them, and there will not be
wanting some baggage-waggon, in which I may proceed to the place of
embarkation, which they say is to be Carthagena; and I would much rather
have the king for my lord and master, and serve him in his wars, than be
the lacquey of some scoundrel at court.’—‘And have you obtained any
post?’ said the scholar. ‘Had I served a grandee of Spain, or some
person of quality,’ replied the youth, ‘I should certainly have got
something of that kind; for this is the advantage of being in good
service, that a man is frequently preferred from the back of his
master’s chair to a pair of colours, a company, or some handsome
provision: but it was my unhappy fate to be always in the service of
poor idle rascals, or foreigners, who give such a miserable and
consumptive allowance of board-wages, that one half was expended in the
starching of a ruff; and it would be looked upon as a miracle, if any
such page adventurer should obtain a tolerable provision.’—‘And pray,
friend,’ said Don Quixote, ‘is is possible, that during all the years
you have been in service, you never had a livery?’—‘Yes,’ answered the
page, ‘I have had two; but, as he who quits a convent before he
professes, is stripped of his habit, and obliged to resume his own
cloaths, so was I served by my masters, who, after having transacted the
business that brought them to court, returned to their own homes, and
took back the liveries, which they had given me out of mere
ostentation.’
‘A very scandalous espilocheria[160], indeed, as the Italians call it,’
said Don Quixote; ‘but, notwithstanding, you may think yourself very
happy in having left the court with such a laudable intention; for there
is nothing upon earth more productive of honour and profit, next to the
service of God, than the service of the king, our natural lord and
master; especially in the exercise of arms, by which more honour, if not
more wealth, is acquired than by learning itself; for, as I have divers
and sundry times observed, although a greater number of families has
been raised by learning than by arms, yet those founded upon arms rise,
I don’t know how, above their fellows, with a kind of natural splendor,
by which all others are outshone; and what I am now going to say, I
desire you will lay up in your remembrance, for it will be of much
comfort and utility to you, in the midst of all your sufferings: never
entertain a thought of what adversity may happen, for the worst is
death; and provided it comes with honour, it is the greatest happiness
to die. Julius Cæsar, that valiant emperor of Rome, being asked which
was the most agreeable death, answered, “That which is sudden,
unexpected, and unforeseen:” and though this reply savoured of the
pagan, ignorant of the knowledge of the true God, nevertheless, with
regard to his being freed from the pangs of human infirmity, he said
well; for supposing you should be slain in the first action or skirmish,
either by a cannon ball, or the explosion of a mine, what does it
signify? we must all die, and there is an end to the whole; and,
according to Terence, a dead soldier, who falls in battle, makes a much
nobler appearance than one who lives by running away: the good soldier
acquires reputation in proportion to the obedience he pays to his
captain, or those who have a right to command him; and pray, take
notice, child, a soldier had much better smell of gunpowder than of
civet; and if old age overtake you in that noble employment, though you
should be covered over with wounds, paralytick, or lame, it can never
overtake you without such honour as poverty cannot diminish; especially
now, that provision is to be made for the maintenance and relief of old
disabled soldiers; for it is not reasonable that they should be treated
like negro slaves, to whom, when they are old and incapable of service,
their masters often give their freedom, driving them from their houses,
and under the title of liberty, leaving them still slaves to hunger,
which nothing but death can dispel. This is all I have to say at
present; therefore get up and ride behind me to the inn, where I shall
treat you with a supper, and in the morning you may pursue your journey,
which I pray God may be as fortunate as your intention is good.’
The page excused himself from riding behind the knight, though he
embraced his invitation to supper at the inn; and Sancho said within
himself, ‘Lord comfort thee for a master! Is it possible that a man who
can utter so many good things, should affirm that he has seen all that
impossible nonsense which he has told of the cave of Montesinos! But,
time is the trier of all things.’
In such discourse they arrived at the inn, just as it grew dark, and
Sancho was not a little rejoiced to find that his master took it to be a
real inn, and not a castle, according to his usual whims. They had
scarcely entered, when Don Quixote enquired of the landlord about the
man with the lances and halberts, and understood he was in the stable,
providing for the accommodation of his beast; an example which was
followed by the student and Sancho, who preferred Rozinante to the best
manger and stall of the whole stable.
Footnote 160:
A knavish trick.
CHAP. VIII.
IN WHICH IS SET FORTH THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, AND THE DIVERTING
ATCHIEVEMENT OF THE PUPPETS, WITH THE MEMORABLE RESPONSES OF THE
DIVINING APE.
Don Quixote would not stay till his bread was baked, as the saying is,
so impatient was he to hear and know the strange tidings that were
promised by the arms-carrier, in quest of whom he forthwith went to the
place where the landlord said he was; and having found him, desired he
would by all means gratify him with a circumstantial account of those
things he had mentioned on the road. ‘The account of my strange
tidings,’ answered the man, ‘I shall give when I am more at leisure, and
not at work as I am at present: if your worship will give me time to
take care of my beast, I will tell you such things as you will be
surprized to hear.’—‘They shall not be delayed on that account,’ said
the knight, ‘for I myself will lend you an helping hand.’ He accordingly
winnowed the corn and cleaned the manger; so that the man, induced by
his humility, could do no less than grant his request, with good will:
sitting down, therefore, in a hollow of the wall, close by Don Quixote,
who, with the scholar, page, Sancho Panza, and the inn-keeper, composed
his council and audience, he began to relate what follows.
‘You must know, gentlemen, that in a village at the distance of four
leagues and a half from this inn, it came to pass, that a certain
alderman, through the craft and malice of a servant wench, which I have
not time to explain, lost an ass; and though the said alderman used all
possible means to find him, he found it impossible to succeed: fifteen
days had the ass been missing, according to publick fame and report,
when the owner was, in the market-place, accosted by another alderman of
the same town, who said, “Hansel me for my good news, neighbour; your
beast has appeared.”—“That I will, neighbour, and heartily,” answered
the other; “but let us know where he has appeared.”—“Upon the mountain,”
replied the finder: “I saw him this morning, without pack-saddle or any
sort of furniture; and so lean, that it was piteous to behold him. I
would have driven him before me, and brought him home; but he is so wild
and shy, that when I went near him, he took to his heels, and ran into
the most concealed part of the mountain: if you chuse it, we two will go
in quest of him; stay till I house my own beast, and I’ll return
presently.”—“I shall be much obliged to you,” said he of the strayed
ass; “and I shall endeavour to repay you in the same coin.” With these
very circumstances, and in the self-same manner that I relate the affair
to you, it is told and related by all those who have entered into the
true spirit of the case.
‘In conclusion, the two aldermen walked hand in hand to the mountain,
and coming to the place and spot where they expected to find the ass,
they found him not; nor could they get one glimpse of him, although they
searched all about, over and over. Perceiving that he was not likely to
appear, “Heark ye, neighbour,” said the alderman who had seen him,
“there is a contrivance come into my head, by which we shall certainly
discover this animal, even though he should be concealed in the bowels
of the earth, much more if he is in this mountain; and that is this, I
have a marvellous knack at braying, and if you have any turn that way,
you may conclude the business is done.”—“Any turn, neighbour!” cried the
other: “by the Lord! I will not yield in point of braying to the best
man alive, not even to an identical ass,”—“We shall see presently,”
answered the second alderman; “for my intention is that you should go to
one side of the mountain, and I to the other, so as to walk round it
quite, and every now and then you shall bray, and I will bray; and it
cannot be but that the ass will hear, and answer, if he is on this
mountain.” To this proposal the owner replied, “Neighbour, it is an
excellent scheme, and worthy your great genius.” So parting, according
to agreement, it came to pass that both brayed almost at the same time,
and each being deceived by the other’s braying ran forward in hopes of
finding the ass; when perceiving their mistake, “Neighbour,” said the
loser, “is it possible that was not my ass which brayed just now?”—“No:
it was I,” answered the other. “Agad, then,” cried the owner, “there is
not the least difference, in point of braying, between you and an ass!
for in my life did I never hear or see such a resemblance.”—“That
compliment and approbation,” answered the contriver, “would be much
better bestowed upon yourself than upon me, neighbour; for by the God
that made me, you would give two heats of advantage to the biggest and
best brayer in Christendom; for the sound you produce is deep, sonorous,
within proper time and compass, and the falls frequent and sharp; in a
word, I own myself overcome, and yield you the palm and banner of that
rare talent.”—“By the mass!” said the owner, “I will from henceforward
have a higher opinion of my own ability, and believe I know something,
since I really possess such a gift; for although I always thought I
brayed tolerably well, I never imagined I excelled so much as you say I
do.”—“I therefore tell you,” replied the other, “that many rare talents
are lost in this world; and that they are ill-bestowed on those who
cannot turn them to advantage.”—“Ours,” said the owner, “except in such
cases as this, that we have now in hand, can be but of little service,
and even in this God grant it may turn to account.”
‘After these mutual compliments they parted a second time, and began to
bray again; but still they were deceived, and met as before, until, by
way of counter-signal, from which they might know one another, they
agreed to bray twice in a breath: accordingly they doubled their
brayings, and encompassed the whole mountain, without being favoured
with the least answer or sign from the strayed ass; and, indeed, no
wonder, the poor unfortunate animal did not answer; for they found him
in the remotest part of the wood, almost devoured by the wolves. The
owner seeing him in this plight, “I marvelled much,” said he, “that he
did not answer, for had he been alive and heard you, he must have brayed
again, else he had been no ass; but as I have had the pleasure of
hearing you bray so melodiously, neighbour, I think my trouble well
bestowed, even although I have found him dead.”—“’Tis in good hands,
neighbour,” replied the other; “for in chanting the clerk is not a whit
inferior to the curate.”
‘Having made these mutual remarks, they returned to the village, equally
hoarse and disconsolate, and recounted to their friends, neighbours, and
acquaintance, what had happened to them, in their searching for the ass,
extolling one another to the skies for the talent of braying; so that
every circumstance of the story was related among the neighbouring
villages; and the devil, who is never at rest, but always glad of an
opportunity to sow discord and scatter quarrels, raising lyes in the
wind, and huge chimeras from little or no foundation, so ordered
matters, that the people of the other villages, when they saw any person
belonging to our town, began to bray, as if to hit him in the teeth with
the braying of our aldermen. The story was taken up by the boys, which
was all one as if he had fallen into the hands and mouths of all the
devils in hell, and the braying was circulated from one town to another
in such a manner, that the natives of the village of Braywick are as
well known and distinguished as a Blackmore from a Spaniard; and this
joke has become so serious, that our townsmen have frequently gone forth
in arms and regular order to give battle to the jokers, without any
regard to king or rook, or fear or shame; I believe that tomorrow or
next day, the men of Braywick will take the field once more against the
people of another village within two leagues of us, who are our chief
persecutors; and that we may be well provided for the occasion, I have
purchased the lances and halberts, you have seen. Now these are the
strange tidings which I said I would relate; and if you do not think
them so, I have no other worth your hearing.’
Thus the honest man concluded his story; and at that instant came into
the house, a man cloathed in a doublet, breeches, and hose of
shamoy-leather, who said with a loud voice, ‘So ho, Mr. Landlord! have
you got any lodging for the fortune-telling ape, and the puppet-shew of
the deliverance of Melisendra?’—‘Odd’s bodikins!’ cried the inn-keeper,
‘Master Peter here! we shall have rare doings i’faith.’ We forgot to
observe that the left-eye, and half of the cheek of this Master Peter
was covered with a patch of green silk, from whence it was supposed all
that side of the face laboured under some infirmity. Be that as it will,
the innkeeper proceeded, saying, ‘Welcome, good Master Peter; but where
is the ape and the puppet-shew? for I see neither.’—‘They are at hand,’
answered the owner of the shamoy-suit; ‘but I came before to know
whether or not we could have lodging.’—‘The Duke D’Alva himself should
be turned out to make room for Master Peter,’ said the landlord; ‘bring
hither your ape and your shew, for there is company in the house that
will pay for a sight of them.’—‘In good time, then,’ replied the wearer
of the patch. ‘I will lower the price, and think myself well paid, if
they defray the expence of my lodging; meanwhile, I’ll go and lead
hither the cart that contains my puppets and my ape.’
So saying, he went out; and Don Quixote enquiring who this Master Peter
was, with the puppet-shew and ape, the landlord replied, ‘This is a
famous puppet-shew man, who had long travelled through La Mancha and
Arragon, representing the story of Melisendra, who was delivered by the
famous Don Gayferos, one of the most entertaining and best represented
histories which have been for many years seen in this kingdom; he
likewise carries along with him an ape of the rarest talent that ever
was known among apes, or conceived among men: for if you ask any
question, it listens attentively to what you say, then leaping upon his
master’s shoulders, and clapping its mouth to his ear, it gives an
answer, which Master Peter immediately explains. Of things that are past
it says much more than of those that are to come, and though it does not
hit the truth exactly in every thing, it errs but seldom; so that we are
inclined to believe it is inspired by the devil. Every question costs a
couple of rials, provided the ape answers; I mean, supposing the master
answers for the ape, after it has whispered in his ear; wherefore,
Master Peter is thought to be woundy rich: indeed, he is a gallant man,
as they say in Italy, an excellent companion, and lives the pleasantest
life in the world; he talks as much as any six, and drinks more than a
dozen, and all at the expence of his tongue, his ape, and his
puppet-shew.’
Just as he spoke these words, Master Peter returned with the cart that
contained the puppets and the ape, which was a very large animal,
without a tail; his buttocks were like felt, but not ugly withal; and
Don Quixote no sooner beheld him than he asked, ‘Pray, Mr.
Fortune-teller, what have we got in the net? what fortune awaits us?
Behold, here are my two rials.’ So saying, he ordered Sancho to give
them to Mr. Peter; who answered in the name of the ape, ‘Signior, this
animal gives no response or intelligence concerning what is to come; he
is only acquainted with the past, and knows something of the
present.’—‘Rabbit it!’ cried Sancho, ‘I would not give a doit to be told
of the past; for who knows that better than myself; and to pay for being
informed of what I know, would be downright folly; but since he knows
the present, here are my two rials; and tell me, good your apeship, how
my wife Teresa Panza is at present employed?’ Master Peter refused to
take the money; saying, ‘I will not receive a premium per advance, until
it is preceded by service.’ Then clapping his hand twice upon his left
shoulder, the ape with one skip, leaped upon it, and laying its mouth to
his ear, began to mow and chatter with great eagerness; having made this
motion, which continued as long time as one would take in repeating the
creed, with another skip he leaped upon the ground. Immediately Master
Peter, with infinite hurry, threw himself on his knees before Don
Quixote, and hugging his shins, exclaimed, ‘These legs I embrace, as I
would embrace the pillars of Hercules, O thou celebrated reviver of the
already forgotten order of knight-errantry! thou never enough to be
applauded cavalier Don Quixote de La Mancha; the soul of the dejected,
the prop of the falling, the shield of those that are fallen, the staff
and comfort of all the unhappy!’ Don Quixote was alarmed, Sancho
thunderstruck; the scholar surprized, the page confounded, the Braywick
carrier amazed, the landlord astonished, and, in a word, admiration
prevailed among all those who heard the words of the shewman; while he
proceeded, saying, ‘And thou, worthy Sancho Panza, the best squire of
the bravest knight in the universe, be merry and rejoice; for thine
agreeable helpmate Teresa is in good health, and this very moment
employed in dressing a pound of flax; by the same token, there stands at
her right-hand a broken mouthed pitcher, containing a good sup of wine,
with which she comforts herself while she is at work.’—‘That I can
easily believe,’ answered Sancho; ‘for she is a rare one, and if she was
not a little given to jealousy, I would not exchange her for the
giantess Andandona, who, as my master says, was a very proper and
compleat housewife; and truly my Teresa is one of those who will live to
their heart’s content, even though their heirs pay for it.’
‘I am now convinced,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that he who reads and travels
much, will see and learn a great deal. This observation I make, because
no arguments would have been sufficient to persuade me, that there are
apes in the world endowed with the gift of divination, as I have this
day seen with my own eyes; for I am the very Don Quixote named by that
good animal, which, however, has expatiated rather too much in my
praise; but be that as it may, I give thanks to God, who bestowed upon
me a mild and compassionate disposition, ever inclined to do good to all
mankind, and harm to no person whatever.’—‘If I had money,’ said the
page, ‘I would ask Signior Ape, what will be the success of my present
perigrination?’ To this hint, Master Peter, who had rose from his
prostration, replied, ‘I have already told you, that this creature does
not answer for what is to come; if he did, your want of money would be
no objection; for, in order to to serve Don Quixote here present, I
would willingly forfeit all the interested views in the world; and now,
as in duty bound, I will, for his amusement, set up my shew, and divert
all the people in the house, without fee or reward.’ The landlord,
hearing this declaration, was rejoiced beyond measure, and pointed out a
proper place for the exhibition of his entertainment, which was prepared
in a twinkling.
Don Quixote was not very well satisfied with the divinations of the ape,
as he did not think it natural for such an animal to divine, in things
either past, present, or to come; and, therefore, while Master Peter was
busy in setting up his shew, he retired, with his squire, to a corner of
the stable, where they could confer together without being overheard,
and spoke to this effect: ‘Hark ye, Sancho, I have considered this
wonderful talent of the ape; and, according to my notion, this same
Master Peter, its owner, must certainly have made a secret or express
pact with the devil.’—‘Nay, if it be the devil’s pack,’ answered Sancho,
‘it must be a very dirty pack; but what signifies such a pack to Master
Peter?’—‘Sancho,’ replied the knight, ‘you do not understand my meaning;
what I would say is, that he must certainly have made some concert with
the devil who hath infused this talent into the ape, by which he gains
his livelihood; and when he becomes rich, he must yield him his soul,
which is the aim of that universal enemy of mankind; and what confirms
me in this opinion, is, that the ape answers no questions but such as
regard the past and present time: now, the devil’s understanding reaches
no farther; what is to come he knows only by conjecture, and that not
always; for it is the attribute of God alone to know times and seasons;
to him there is neither past nor future, but all things are ever present
to his eyes. This being the case, as doubtless it is, the ape certainly
speaks from the inspiration of the devil; and I am surprized it hath not
been accused and examined by the holy office, which would soon discover
by virtue of whom it presumes to divine; for surely this ape is no
astrologer, nor did he or his master ever raise, or were capable of
raising, those figures called judicial, which are now so common in
Spain, that every pitiful little hussy, page, and even cobler, has the
impudence to raise an horoscope, as readily as a knave of trumps, from
the ground, ruining and disgracing, by their ignorance and falsities,
the wonderful truth of that noble science. One lady I myself know, who
having enquired of one of those pretenders, whether a little bitch she
had would have puppies, how many, and of what colour they would be; Mr.
Astrologer, after having raised his figure, replied, that the bitch
would bring forth three puppies, one of a green, another of carnation,
and a third of a mixed colour, provided the bitch would take the dog
between the hours of eleven and twelve at noon or night, on Saturday or
Monday. Notwithstanding this prediction, the bitch died in three days of
a surfeit; and yet Mr. Figure-caster was still esteemed in the place a
most infallible astrologer, as almost all those fellows
are.’—‘Nevertheless,’ answered Sancho, ‘I wish your worship would desire
Master Peter to ask his ape, if what happened to your worship in the
cave of Montesinos is really true; as for my own part, begging your
worship’s pardon, I cannot for the blood of me help thinking it was all
a flam and a lye, or at least no better than a dream.’—‘It may be so,’
replied Don Quixote: ‘But I will take thy advice; for truly, I myself
have some sort of scruples about the matter.’
Here he was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Peter, who came to tell
him that the shew was ready, and invite him to come and see it; for it
would be well worth his trouble. Then the knight imparted his
sentiments, desiring he would ask the ape whether or not certain
incidents that happened in the cave of Montesinos, were dreams or
realities, for to him the whole seemed to be a mixture of both, Master
Peter, without answering one word, went and brought the ape into the
presence of Don Quixote and Sancho, and thus accosted it: ‘Look ye, Mr.
Ape, this knight wants to know, whether certain things that happened to
him in a place called the cave of Montesinos be true or false.’ Then
making the usual signal, the creature leaped upon his left-shoulder, and
seemingly whispered something in his ear. In consequence of this
communication, ‘The ape,’ said Master Peter, ‘declares, that part of
what your worship saw and underwent in that same cave is false, and part
is likely to be true; and this, and nothing else, is all he knows
touching that interrogation: but if your worship desires to be farther
informed he will next Friday answer all the questions you can ask; at
present his virtue has left him, and will not return till Friday, as I
have already observed.’—‘Signior,’ said Sancho to his master, ‘did not I
always affirm your worship should never make me believe that all, or
even the half of those accidents you pretended to have met with in the
cave was true?’—‘The event will shew,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘for there
is nothing that time, the discoverer of all things, will not bring to
light, even though it should be hidden in the bowels of the earth. Let
that suffice for the present; and now we will go and see the puppet-shew
of honest Master Peter, which I really believe will be productive of
some novelty.’—‘Of some!’ cried master Peter: ‘my shew is productive of
sixty thousand. Why, I tell your worship, Signior Don Quixote, there is
nothing equal to it in the whole world; but, _Operibus credite & non
verbis_: let us begin presently; for it grows late, and we have a great
deal to do, to say, and to shew.’
In consequence of this request, Don Quixote and Sancho repaired to the
place where the puppet-shew was set up, and set forth with a great
number of little wax-lights, which made a most resplendent appearance.
Master Peter withdrew within the curtain, in order to play the figures
of the piece; and on the outside sat a boy, who was his servant, to
interpret and explain the mysteries of the shew, holding a wand, with
which he pointed out the puppets as they entered. All the people of the
inn being seated, some fronting the stage, and Don Quixote with Sancho,
the page and the scholar, accommodated with the best places, the
dragoman began to pronounce that which will be heard and seen by those
who will take the trouble to read or peruse the following chapter.
CHAP. IX.
IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE DIVERTING ADVENTURE OF THE PUPPET-SHEW;
WITH OTHER MATTERS REALLY ENTERTAINING ENOUGH.
Universal silence prevailed among Tyrians as well as Trojans; that is,
all the spectators of the shew sat in silent expectation, suspended as
it were on the mouth of him who was appointed to expound the wonders of
the piece; when their ears were saluted with the sound of attabals,
trumpets, and artillery, that issued from behind the scene; and this
noise being soon over, the boy thus began in an audible voice: ‘This
true history, which will now be represented before the honourable
company, is literally extracted from the French chronicles and Spanish
ballads, which may be heard every day repeated in the streets by man,
woman, and child. It exhibits the manner in which Signior Don Gayferos
accomplished the deliverance of his spouse Melisendra, who was a captive
in Spain, detained by the Moors in the city of Sansuenna, which was
formerly the name given to what we now call Saragossa; and pray,
gentlemen, take notice, Don Gayferos is playing at tables, according to
the old song:
‘“Now Gayferos, at tables playing,
Of Melisendra thinks no more.”
‘And that personage who next appears, with a crown on his head and a
sceptre in his hand, is the emperor Charlemagne, the supposed father of
Melisendra, who, vexed at the indolence and carelessness of his
son-in-law, comes forth to chide him; and observe with what vehemence
and keenness he seems to scold; one would imagine he intended to give
him half a dozen raps on the pate with his sceptre; nay, some authors
say that he actually did bestow them, aye, and that with very good-will:
after having said abundance of things concerning the risk his honour
would run, if he did not effect the deliverance of his spouse, he is
reported to have added these words, “I have said enough, look to it.”
Behold, gentlemen, how the emperor turns about and walks off, leaving
Don Gayferos in a fume, who, in the impatience of his anger, throws away
the tablet and pieces, and calls hastily for his armour, desiring his
cousin Orlando to lend him his sword Durindana. Don Orlando will not
comply with his request; but offers to attend him in his difficult
enterprize: however, the provoked hero will not accept of his offer; on
the contrary, he says his own single arm is sufficient to deliver his
wife, even though she were concealed in the profoundest centre of the
earth. So saying, he goes in to arm, that he may be able to set out with
all expedition. Gentlemen, turn your eyes to the tower that appears
yonder, and suppose it one of the towers belonging to the castle of
Saragossa, now called Aljaferia. That lady who stands in the balcony in
the Moorish dress is the peerless Melisendra, who from thence hath often
cast her longing eyes towards the road to France, and consoled herself
in her captivity, by thinking on the city of Paris and her valiant lord.
Observe likewise a new incident, the like of which perhaps you have
never seen before: don’t you see that Moor stealing along silently and
softly, step by step, with his finger on his mouth, behind Melisendra?
Now mind how he prints a kiss in the very middle of her lips, and with
what eagerness she spits, and wipes them with the sleeves of her shift,
lamenting aloud, and tearing, for anger, her beautiful hair, as if it
had been guilty of the transgression. Behold, now, that venerable Moor
in yon gallery; he is Marsilius, the king of Sansuenna, who, having
perceived the insolence of the Moor, although he was his own relation,
and a great favourite, orders him to be apprehended, and carried through
the principal streets of the city, with the criers before, and the rods
behind, with which he is to receive two hundred stripes; and here you
shall see the sentence executed, almost as soon as the crime is
committed; for among the Moors there is no copy of a writ, trial, or
delay, as in our courts of justice.’
Here Don Quixote interposing, said, with a loud voice, ‘Boy, boy, follow
your story in a right line, without falling into curves and crosses; for
there is not so much proof and counter-proof required to bring truth to
light.’—‘Sirrah,’ cried Mr. Peter, from the curtain, ‘none of your
vagaries, but follow that gentleman’s counsel, which is good and
wholesome; sing your plain song, without counterpoints; for you may spin
your thread so fine as to break it.’—‘I shall obey your orders,’
answered the boy, who proceeded, saying—
‘That there figure a horseback, wrapped up in a cloak of Gascony, is the
very individual Don Gayferos, to whom his only lady, by this time
revenged of the presumptuous and enamoured Moor, talks with more seeming
composure from the battlements of the tower, supposing him to be some
traveller, and between the two passeth the whole discourse and
conversation, recorded in the ballad, which says,
‘“Sir knight, if you to France do go,
For Gayferos enquire:”
‘together with what follows, which I shall not at present repeat,
because prolixity engenders disgust. Let it suffice that you see how
Gayferos discovers himself, and that we learn from the joyful gestures
of Melisendra, that she recognizes her husband; especially as we now see
her let herself down from the balcony, in order to get a-horseback
behind her loving spouse; but as ill luck would have it, the border of
her under petticoat has caught hold of one of the iron spikes of the
balcony, and there she hangs dangling, without being able to reach the
ground: but you see how compassionate Heaven brings relief in the most
pressing emergencies; for Don Gayferos comes to her assistance, and
without minding whether or not the rich petticoat may be torn, seizes
his lady, and by main force brings her to the ground; then with one
jerk, sets her upon the crupper of his horse, astride like a man,
bidding her hold fast, and throw her arms around his neck, so as to
cross them on his breast, that she may be in no danger of falling; for
my Lady Melisendra was not used to ride in that manner: you likewise
perceive how the horse, by his neighing, expresses the satisfaction he
feels in carrying the valiant and beautiful burden of his lord and
mistress. You see how they turn about, and quitting the city, take the
road to Paris, with equal eagerness and joy. Go in peace, ye peerless
pair of faithful lovers; may you arrive in safety at your desired
country, without fortune’s raising any obstruction to your happy
journey; and may the eyes of your friends and kindred behold you enjoy
in peace all the days of your life, which I hope will exceed the age of
Nestor!’ Here Mr. Peter interposing again, called aloud, ‘None of your
flourishes, sirrah; seek not to entangle yourself, for all affectation
is naught.’ The interpreter, without answering a syllable, went on in
this manner. ‘There were not wanting some idle eyes which nothing can
escape, and they, perceiving the descent and flight of Melisendra, gave
notice of it to king Marsilio, who straight gave orders for sounding to
arms: and behold the hurry and commotion of the city, occasioned by the
sound of bells that ring in every minaret.’
‘It cannot be,’ cried Don Quixote. ‘In what regards the bells, Mr. Peter
is guilty of an impropriety; for the Moors use no bells, but attabals or
kettle-drums, and a kind of dulcimers, like those belonging to our
waits; so that the circumstance of ringing bells in Sansuenna is a
downright absurdity.’ Mr. Peter hearing this observation, left off
ringing and answered, ‘Signior Don Quixote, your worship must not mind
such trifles, nor seek for that perfection which is not to be found. How
many plays do you see every day represented, full of impropriety and
absurdities? yet they happily run their career, and are heard, not
simply with applause, but even with universal admiration. Proceed, boy,
and let people talk; for, provided I fill my pocket, I don’t care if
there should be more improprieties than there are atoms in the
sun.’—‘You are in the right,’ replied the knight; and thus the boy went
on:
‘Behold what a number of resplendent cavalry marches out of the city in
pursuit of the two catholick lovers: what a sound of trumpets, tinkling
of dulcimers, and rattling of drums and kettle-drums! I am afraid they
will overtake and bring them back tied to their horse’s tail, and that
would be a most dismal spectacle.’
Don Quixote seeing such a number of Moors, and hearing this uproar,
thought it was incumbent upon him to assist the fugitives; and therefore
starting up, he pronounced with a loud voice, ‘Never, while I breathe,
will I consent that such an injury should be done in my presence to a
knight so famous, daring, and enamoured, as is Don Gayferos: desist, ye
base-born plebeians; seek not to follow and punish him, but face me in
battle, if you dare.’ With these words and actions he unsheathed his
sword, and springing up to the puppet shew, began with incredible
agility and fury to lay about him among the Moorish puppets, demolishing
some, beheading others, maiming this, and hacking that; and in the
course of this exercise, he fetched such a back-stroke, that had not Mr.
Peter stooped and squatted down with great expedition, he would have
sliced off his head as easily as if it had been made of ginger-bread.
This unfortunate shew-man exalting his voice, ‘Hold, for the love of
God! Signior Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘and take notice, that those whom
you overthrow, kill and destroy, are not real Moors, but poor, harmless,
little figures of paste; consider, sinner that I am! you are ruining me,
by depriving me of my livelihood.’ Notwithstanding this remonstrance,
the knight continued to play away in a perfect shower of back-strokes,
fore strokes, outside and inside, that fell as thick as hail; so that in
less than a couple of credos, he brought the whole shew to the ground,
all the tackle and figures being hewed down and dismembered; king
Marsilio himself sorely wounded, and the crown, together with the head
of the emperor, cleft in twain. The whole audience was involved in
confusion; the ape fled to the roof of the house, the scholar trembled,
the page was seized with consternation, and Sancho Panza himself
overwhelmed with terror and dismay; for, as he swore after the hurricane
subsided, he had never before seen his master in such a frantick rage.
The puppet-shew being thus entirely demolished, Don Quixote became a
little more composed, saying, ‘I wish I had before me, at this very
moment, those who either do not, or will not believe that knights-errant
are of any benefit or service to mankind, that they might see what would
have become of the worthy Don Gayferos, and the beautiful Melisendra,
had not I been present on this occasion; certainly, by this time, they
would have been overtaken by these dogs, who would have done them some
grievous injury: let knight-errantry, therefore, live and flourish above
all things upon the face of the earth.’—‘In a happy hour let it live,’
cried Mr. Peter in a languid tone, ‘and let me die, who am so
unfortunate, that I may say with king Rodrigo, “Yesterday I was lord of
Spain, and now there is not one battlement I can call my own.” Half an
hour, yea not half a minute is elapsed, since I saw myself in possession
of kings and emperors; my stables, coffers, and bags, were filled with
an infinite number of horses and other gay particulars, and now I find
myself quite desolate and abased, poor and beggarly, and, which is worst
of all, deprived of my ape, who in good faith will make my teeth sweat,
before he returns to me his lawful master; and all this misfortune I
have suffered from this here Sir Knight, who is said to protect orphans,
rectify wrongs, and perform other charitable actions; but, in me alone,
his generous intention has failed; blessed and praised be the highest
Heavens above! In a word, the Knight of the Rueful Figure is he by whom
I and mine are disfigured and undone.’
Sancho Panza melted at this piteous lamentation: ‘Do not weep, Mr.
Peter,’ said he, ‘do not whine so piteously, or thou’lt break my heart,
for I’d have thee know, my master Don Quixote is such a catholick and
scrupulous Christian, that provided he be convinced of having done thee
wrong, he knows how to make amends, and will satisfy and repay thee with
double interest.’—‘If Signior Don Quixote,’ replied the shew-man, ‘will
make some atonement for the deeds by which he has undone me, I shall
rest satisfied, and his worship’s conscience will be at peace; for that
man cannot expect salvation who withholds the effects of his neighbour
against his will, and refuses to make restitution.’—‘You are in the
right,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but as yet I do not know that I withhold any
of your effects, Mr. Peter.’—‘How! none of mine?’ cried the shew-man,
‘and these unfortunate remains that lie extended on the hard and barren
pavement, were they not thus scattered and annihilated by the invincible
force of that redoubted arm? to whom but me did their unhappy bodies
belong? and with what but them did I procure a comfortable
subsistence?’—‘Now,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘I am fully convinced of what I
have on divers occasions believed; namely, that those inchanters, by
whom I am persecuted, take pleasure in presenting realities to my view,
and then changing and metamorphosing them into such figures and forms as
they chuse to bestow: believe me, gentlemen, to me every thing that has
passed appeared a true and literal concurrence of real facts; and the
figures represented seemed to be really and truly the very individual
persons of Melisendra, Don Gayferos, Marsilio, and Charlemagne: in
consequence of that belief, my wrath was provoked; and, in order to
fulfil the function of a knight-errant, I resolved to favour and assist
the fair fugitive; in the execution of which resolve, I have done what
you see. If the exploit has turned out contrary to my expectation, the
blame ought not to lie with me, but with those miscreants, by whom I am
persecuted: nevertheless, as I have committed an error, although it did
not proceed from malice aforethought, I stand by my own award condemned
in costs; let Mr. Peter make out his own bill of the figures that are
demolished, and I promise it shall be paid on the spot, in good and
lawful current coin of this kingdom.’ The shew-man hearing this
declaration, made a profound bow, saying, ‘I expected no less from the
unheard-of Christianity of the valiant Don Quixote de La Mancha, the
unflinching auxiliary and support of the whole tribe of needy and
forlorn vagabonds: Mr. Landlord and the great Sancho shall act as
moderators and appraisers between your worship and me, with regard to
what the injured figures are or might be worth.’
The innkeeper and squire having undertaken this office, Mr. Peter lifted
up the headless Marsilio king of Saragossa, saying, ‘You see how
impossible it is to reinstate the king in his former situation; and,
therefore, with submission to better judgments, I think I must be
allowed four rials and an half, on account of his death and final
perdition.’ The knight desiring him to proceed, ‘Then,’ said he, ‘for
this dreadful gash from top to bottom,’ (taking up the cloven emperor
Charlemagne) ‘I cannot be thought exorbitant, if I demand five rials and
a quarter.’—‘That’s no small matter,’ said Sancho. ‘Nor a great deal too
much,’ replied the landlord. ‘Split the difference, and set him down at
five rials.’—‘Let him have the whole five and a quarter,’ said Don
Quixote; ‘for in such a notable misfortune, a quarter more or less is a
mere trifle. And pray, dispatch, Mr. Peter, for it is now supper-time,
and I begin to feel some symptoms of a keen appetite.’—‘For that figure
without a nose, and deprived of one eye, which is the beautiful
Melisendra,’ proceeded Peter, ‘I demand two rials and twelve
maravedis.’—‘The devil’s in’t,’ cried the knight, ‘if Melisendra is not
by this time, with her husband, at least upon the frontiers of France;
for the horse on which they were mounted, seemed to fly rather than
tread the ground; so that there is no reason for your selling me a cat
instead of a coney; that is, in presenting me with a noseless
Melisendra, when, in all probability, that lady is now enjoying herself
at leisure with her husband in France. God give every man joy of his
own, Mr. Peter, and let us all endeavour to walk tightly and rightly!
and now you may proceed.’ Mr. Peter perceiving Don Quixote beginning to
warp and return to his old bias, resolved to be even with him, and with
that view said, ‘This cannot be Melisendra, but must be one of her
waiting-women, for whom I shall think myself very well paid, and rest
satisfied with threescore maravedis.’ In the same manner did he set
prices on many other maimed figures, so that, after they were moderated
by the two arbitrators to the satisfaction of both parties, the whole
sum amounted to forty rials and three quarters, which being disbursed by
Sancho, Mr. Peter demanded another brace of rials for the trouble he
should have in catching the ape. ‘Let him have them, Sancho,’ said Don
Quixote, ‘not for catching the ape but the juice of the grape[161]; and
I would now give two hundred as a reward to any person who would certify
that the Lady Donna Melisendra, and her lord Don Gayferos, are now safe
among their friends in France.’—‘No person upon earth can resolve that
question sooner or better than my ape,’ replied Mr. Peter; ‘but the
devil himself cannot catch him at present, though I imagine hunger and
affection will compel him to return to me some time to-night; and if God
will send us a new day, we shall see what can be done.’ In time, the
hurricane of the puppet-shew being quite blown over, the whole company
supped together in peace and good fellowship, at the expence of Don
Quixote, who was liberal to excess.
Before day-break, the lance and halbert carrier set out for his village,
and early in the morning the scholar and the page came to take their
leave of Don Quixote, the first intending to return to his own home, and
the other to pursue his journey, for the comfort of which the knight
made him a present of a dozen rials. Mr. Peter, having no inclination to
re-involve himself in any sort of dispute with Don Quixote, to whose
disposition he was no stranger, arose before the sun, and packing up the
remains of his puppets, together with his ape, sallied forth also in
quest of farther adventures. The innkeeper, who knew not Don Quixote,
was equally astonished at his madness and liberality. Finally, Sancho
paid him handsomely, by his master’s order, and the two bidding him
farewel about eight o’clock in the morning, left the inn, and betook
themselves to the road, in which we will leave them, having now a proper
opportunity to recount other incidents appertaining and necessary to the
illustration of this famous history.
Footnote 161:
In the original there is a miserable pun upon the words Mono and Mona,
the first of which signifies an ape, and the other drunkenness.
CHAP. X.
IN WHICH THE READER WILL DISCOVER WHO
MR. PETER AND HIS APE WERE—TOGETHER WITH
DON QUIXOTE’S BAD SUCCESS IN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE,
WHICH DID NOT AT ALL TURN OUT ACCORDING TO HIS WISH AND EXPECTATION.
Cid Hamet, author of this sublime history, begins this chapter with
these words: ‘I swear, as a Catholick Christian:’ and upon this
occasion, the translator observes, that Cid Hamet being a Moor, as he
certainly was, in swearing as a Catholick Christian, means no more than
that, as a Catholick Christian, when he makes oath, swears he will speak
the truth, and nothing but the truth, in like manner he would adhere to
it, as a Catholick Christian adheres to his oath, in what he intended to
write concerning Don Quixote, especially in disclosing the mystery of
Mr. Peter and the fortune-telling ape, whose talent attracted the
admiration of all that country. He then proceeds to observe, that he who
has read the first part of this history, cannot but remember that same
Gines de Passamonte, whom, together with his fellow-slaves, Don Quixote
set at liberty near the Brown Mountain; a benefit for which he was ill
thanked, and worse requited, by that mischievous and immoral crew. This
Gines de Passamonte, whom Don Quixote called Ginesillo de Parapilla, was
the very thief who stole Sancho’s Dapple; and as, through the fault of
the printers, neither the time nor the manner of that conveyance is
described, in the first part of the book, many people ascribed this
error of the press to want of memory in the author: but, in short,
stolen he was, by Gines, even while Sancho was sitting sleeping on his
back, by means of the same contrivance and expedient that was used by
Brunelo, who, while Sacripante lay at Albraça, withdrew his horse from
between his legs; and Sancho afterwards retrieved him, as we have
already related. Gines, then, afraid of being overtaken by justice, that
was in quest of him, to chastise him for his numberless tricks and
transgressions, which were so manifold and remarkable as to fill a large
volume of his own composing, resolved to remove himself into the kingdom
of Arragon, to cover his left eye with a patch, and profess the
occupation of playing puppets, and performing tricks of legerdemain,
which he understood to great perfection; he afterwards happened to fall
in company with some Christians just delivered from bondage in Barbary,
of whom he purchased that ape, which he taught to leap upon his
shoulder, at a certain signal, and whisper, or seem to whisper in his
ear. Having so far succeeded, before he entered any place with his
puppet-shew and ape, he took care to inform himself at the next village,
or of any person whom he could conveniently pump, of the particular
accidents that had happened at that place, with all their circumstances,
which he retained by dint of a tenacious memory. The first thing he did,
was to represent his puppet-shew, the subject of which he extracted
sometimes from one story, and sometimes from another; but it was always
full of mirth and entertainment, and well known; and this being ended,
he propounded the talents of his ape; telling the audience that he could
disclose the past and present; but with regard to the future, he
pretended to no knowledge: for every response he demanded two rials,
though sometimes he afforded them cheaper, just as he felt the pulse of
his consulters; and as he sometimes came to families, the anecdotes of
which he knew, even though they would spend no money upon questions, he
would make the signal to the ape, and then say he had communicated this
and that circumstance, which tallied exactly with what had really
happened. By these means he acquired the credit of infallibility, and
drew the whole country after him; at other times, as he had abundance of
cunning and penetration, he would answer in such a manner, that the
responses agreed perfectly well with the questions; and there being
nobody to hamper him, by enquiring and sifting into the bottom of this
pretended divination of the monkey, he found means to make monkeys of
all his followers, and fill his bags at the same time. As soon as he
entered the inn, he knew Don Quixote and Sancho, and this recognition
enabled him to excite the admiration of the knight, squire, and all the
by-standers: but his art would have cost him dear, had Don Quixote
lowered his hand a little, when he decapitated king Marsilio, and
destroyed his whole cavalry, as we have related that adventure in the
preceding chapter.
[Illustration: Don Quixote Meets the Soldiers.]
So much for Mr. Peter and his ape; and now returning to Don Quixote de
La Mancha, we must observe, that after having departed from the inn, he
resolved, in the first place, to visit the banks of the river Ebro, and
all the circumjacent country, before he should enter the city of
Saragossa, as the length of time between this period and the tournaments
permitted him to make such an excursion. With this resolution he
proceeded in the road, through which he travelled two days, without
encountering any thing worth relating, until on the third, as he
ascended a rising ground, his ears were saluted with a mighty noise of
kettle-drums, trumpets, and muskets, which he at first imagined might
proceed from some company of soldiers marching that way; in order,
therefore, to view them, he spurred up Rozinante, and when he reached
the top of the rising ground, saw below, as near as he could guess,
above two hundred men, equipped with different kinds of arms, such as
lances, cross-bows, partisans, halberts, pikes, a few muskets, and a
great number of targets. He rode down the hill, and drew so near this
squadron, that he could distinguish their colours, and observe their
devices, particularly a banner or pendant of white sattin, on which was
painted to the life, an ass of the small Sardinian breed, with his head
raised, his mouth open, and his tongue lolling out as if in the very act
and attitude of braying, and surrounded by this motto, in capital
letters—
‘It is no children’s play,
When brother bailiffs bray.’
From this symbol Don Quixote gathered, that those people belonged to the
village of Braywick; and this discovery he communicated to Sancho, whom
he likewise made acquainted with the motto of the standard; observing,
at the same time, that he, by whom they were informed of the adventure,
had committed a mistake, in saying the brayers were aldermen; for,
according to this couplet, they must have been bailiffs. To this
observation, Sancho replied, ‘Signior, in that circumstance, there is
nothing to be mended; for those who were aldermen when they brayed,
might very well in time come to be bailiffs of the corporation,
consequently they may be mentioned with both titles; especially as it is
of small signification to the truth of the story, whether the brayers
were aldermen or bailiffs, provided they really conjunctly and severally
did bray, for a bailiff is as likely to bray as an alderman.’
Finally, conjecturing and understanding that the people who were
ridiculed had come forth to fight those who had ridiculed them, and
carried the joke beyond the bounds of reason and good neighbourhood, Don
Quixote approached their line of battle, to the no small chagrin of
Sancho, who was never fond of interposing on such occasions; and they
were immediately received by the whole squadron, who believed the knight
was come to espouse their quarrel. Then Don Quixote lifting up his
visor, with graceful ease and courteous demeanour, advanced to the
standard of the ass, where he was environed by the chiefs of the army,
who gazed at him with that admiration incident to all those who beheld
him for the first time. The knight perceiving them looking at him so
attentively, without speaking or asking any question, resolved to take
advantage of their silence, and breaking his own, began in this manner,
with an audible voice, ‘Worthy gentlemen, I beg, in the most earnest
manner, that you will not interrupt a discourse I intend to make until
you perceive it becomes insipid and disgusting; in which case, I will,
upon the least sign, put a seal upon my lips, and a gag upon my tongue.’
All the spectators assured him, he might say what he pleased, and they
would willingly give him the hearing; so that, thus licensed, he
proceeded to this effect: ‘I, gentlemen, am a knight-errant, whose
exercise is that of arms, and whose profession is to assist the needy,
and favour those who want favour and protection. Some days ago I was
informed of your disgrace, and the motives which have induced you to arm
at every turn, in order to take vengeance on your enemies: and having
once and again revolved your affairs in my mind, I find that, according
to the laws of duel, you are in the wrong to suppose yourselves
affronted: for no individual can affront a whole community, unless they
are accused of treason by the lump, because the person guilty of the
said treason is not known, consequently cannot be challenged by himself.
Of this practice, we have an instance in Don Diego Ordonnez de Lara, who
challenged the whole town of Zamorano, because he did not know that
Velido Dolfos alone was the traitor who had slain his king; he therefore
defied the whole body of inhabitants, and to the whole body of them did
the answer and revenge belong: though, indeed, Signior Don Diego
bordered upon extravagance, and exceeded the bounds of defiance; for he
had not sufficient reason to challenge the dead, the water and the
bread, or those who were yet unborn, as well as other minute matters
therein set forth: but let that pass. When choler once is born, the
tongue all curb doth scorn[162]; I mean, a bridle to restrain it. This
being the case, then, that one single person cannot affront an entire
kingdom, province, city, society, or corporation, it plainly appears,
that you have no just cause to come forth, in order to take vengeance
for that which was not really an affront: for it would be a good joke,
indeed, if the inhabitants of a town called Clockwell, should take it in
their heads, at every turn, to slay every person that might ask, “What
is’t o’clock[163]?” Or if the cheesemongers, fruiterers,
whalebone-sellers, soap-boilers, and those of other names and
appellations that are in the mouth of every boy, and hacknied among the
vulgar; I say, it would surely be a good joke, if all those people, who
are distinguished by their different callings, should be ashamed and
incensed at such simple provocations, and be always making sacbuts of
their swords, in every trifling quarrel: no, no; God neither likes, nor
will suffer such unjustifiable revenge. Prudent men, and well-ordered
commonwealths, ought to take up arms, unsheathe their swords, and risque
their persons, lives, and fortunes, for four causes only: Firstly, to
defend the Catholick faith; secondly, in self-defence, which is
justified by the laws of God and nature; thirdly, in behalf of one’s
honour, family, and fortune; and fourthly, in the service of his
majesty, when he is engaged in a just war: and if we should add a fifth
cause (which, indeed, ought to be ranked as a second) it is the defence
of one’s country. To these principle causes may be annexed some others,
both just and reasonable, which may oblige us to have recourse to arms;
but to take them up for childish trifles, and things that are rather
subjects of laughter and diversion than of serious revenge, seems to
denote a total defect of reason and discretion; especially as unjust
vengeance (and surely no vengeance can be just) is diametrically
opposite to that holy law we profess, by which we are enjoined to do
good to our enemies, and love those by whom we are abhorred: a command
which, though seemingly difficult, is not really hard to be observed,
except by those who have less of God than of this world, and more of the
flesh than of the Spirit; for Jesus Christ, the true God and true man,
who never lyed, who neither was nor is capable of falshood, as being our
eternal Lawgiver, tells us, that his yoke is easy, and his burden is
light: therefore, he would not impose a command which we could not
possibly fulfil; and consequently, good gentlemen, you are obliged by
laws divine and human, to be appeased.’
At his period, Sancho said within himself, ‘The devil run away with me,
if this master of mine is not a downright theologister! at least, if he
is not, no two eggs were ever more alike.’ Don Quixote having taken
breath a little, and finding the audience still attentive, was inclined
to prosecute his harangue, and would certainly have pursued the subject,
had not he been prevented by the archness of Sancho, who, during his
master’s pause, took it in hand, saying, ‘My master, Don Quixote de La
Mancha, who, at one time, went by the name of the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance, but is at present called the Knight of the Lions, is a very
learned gentleman, that understands Latin and Castilian like a perfect
batchelor of arts. In all his sermons and exhortations, he proceeds like
a very able soldier, as having all the laws and ordinances of what you
call duel, at his finger’s end; therefore, you have no more to do but
let yourselves be guided by his counsel; and if you go wrong, the blame
shall lie upon my shoulders; especially, as he hath already told you
that it is mere madness to be angry without any cause but that of a
man’s braying. I remember, when I was a boy, I brayed whensoever and
wheresoever I pleased, without lett or molestation; aye, and so prettily
and naturally, that I was always answered by all the asses of the
common; yet, for all that, I did not cease to be the son of my parents,
who were most worthy people; and though, for this talent, I was envied
by more than enow of the gravest folks in the parish, I valued not their
envy two farthings: and, that you may see I speak nothing but the truth,
wait a little, and give me the hearing; for the art of braying is like
that of swimming, which, when once learned, is never forgot.’
So saying, he clapped his fingers to his nostrils, and began to bray so
stoutly, that all the neighbouring vallies re-echoed the sound. But one
of those who stood next him, supposing the squire made himself merry at
their expence, lifted up a pole that was in his hand, and bestowed it
upon him with such good will, that Sancho, in spite of his efforts, came
to the ground.
Don Quixote, seeing his squire so roughly handled, attacked the
aggressor lance in hand; but such a number of people interposed, that he
found it impossible to take vengeance: on the contrary, perceiving a
cloud of stones ready to pour upon him, and being threatened by a vast
number of presented cross-bows and muskets, he wheeled Rozinante about,
and galloped off as fast as the steed could carry him; recommending
himself heartily to the protection of God, that he might be delivered
from that danger; and in the apprehension that some ball would enter at
his shoulder, and make its exit through his breast, he held in his
breath, at every step, in order to know whether or not he was wounded.
But those who composed the squadron, being satisfied with his flight,
did not shoot after him; and as for Sancho, they laid him across upon
his beast, as soon as he recovered the use of his senses, and allowed
him to follow his master; not that he was able to manage the ass; but
Dapple followed the footsteps of Rozinante, from whom he could not bear
to be parted, though but for a moment. The knight having rode a good
way, turned his horse’s head, and seeing Sancho following, waited for
his coming up, as he perceived nobody attempted to pursue him.
The warriors of Braywick kept their ground till night, and as their
adversaries did not think proper to give them battle, returned to their
own town with joy and satisfaction; and had they known the ancient
custom of the Greeks, they would have erected a trophy on the spot.
Footnote 162:
Literally, ‘When choler quits the mother, the tongue has then no
father.’
Footnote 163:
I have ventured to deviate a little from the precise meaning of the
original, which the reader will own to be very insipid when he reads
the literal translation: ‘For it would be good, if the inhabitants of
the town of Reloxa,’ (signifying a watch, or clock) ‘should, at every
turn, slay those that call them so.’
CHAP. XI.
OF THINGS RELATED BY BENENGELI, WHICH HE WHO READS THEM ATTENTIVELY,
WILL KNOW.
When a brave man flies, he must have discovered some odds or foul play;
and it is the business of prudent captains, to reserve themselves for
better occasions. This maxim was verified in Don Quixote, who, by giving
way to popular fury, and the evil intention of that incensed squadron,
took to his heels, and without paying the least regard to Sancho, or the
danger in which he left him, moved off to such a distance as he judged
sufficient for his own security. He was followed by Sancho lying across
the ass, as we have already observed, who, by that time he was brought
up to his master, had just recovered the use of his senses, and fell
from Dapple at the feet of Rozinante, all battered and bruised, and in
an agony of pain.
The knight dismounting to search his wounds, no sooner perceived he was
sound from head to foot, than he thus accosted him in an angry tone: ‘In
evil hour, you must understand braying, sirrah! Where did you learn it
was convenient to talk of halters in the house of a man that was hanged?
To the tenor of braying what bass could you expect but the basting of a
cudgel? You have reason to thank God that, instead of receiving a
benediction with a pole, you have not been crossed with a scymitar.’—‘I
am at present in no condition to answer,’ said Sancho; ‘for methinks I
talk through my shoulders: let us mount and depart from this place, and
I shall make an end of my braying; though I shall never be weary of
telling as how knights-errant run away, and leave their honest squires,
beaten to chaff and pounded to cinders, in the power of their
enemies.’—‘There is a wide difference between flying and retreating,’
answered Don Quixote; ‘for you must know, Sancho, that valour which is
not founded on the base of discretion, is termed temerity or rashness;
and the achievements of a rash person ought to be ascribed rather to
good fortune than courage. I own, therefore, I have retreated, but not
fled; and in so doing have imitated a great number of valiant chiefs,
who reserved themselves for more dignified occasions: and of these
instances histories are full; but I omit rehearsing them at present,
because the recital would be of no advantage to thee, or entertainment
to myself.’
By this time, Sancho being set upon his ass again by Don Quixote, who
likewise mounted Rozinante, they jogged along softly, in order to
shelter themselves in a grove that appeared at the distance of a quarter
of a league; and the squire, every now and then heaving up a most
profound ‘Ah!’ accompanied with piteous groans, his master desired to
know the cause of such bitter ejaculations. To which question the squire
replied, that from the extremity of his rump to the nape of his neck, he
felt such intolerable pain as was like to deprive him of his senses.
‘The cause of that pain,’ said Don Quixote, ‘must doubtless be this; as
the pole or staff by which you have suffered was long and large, it
extended over the whole back, comprehending all those parts that now
give you pain; and if it had reached still farther, the pain would have
been more extensive.’—‘’Fore God,’ cried Sancho, ‘your worship has taken
me out of a huge uncertainty, and resolved the doubt in delicate terms.
Body o’me! was the cause of my pain so mysterious, that there was a
necessity for telling me, I feel pain in those parts that were
cudgelled? Had my shins ached, there might have been some reason for
guessing at the cause of their aching; but, surely, there is no great
witchcraft required to tell me that my back aches, because it was
crossed with a quarter staff! In good faith, Sir Master of mine, Our
neighbour’s care hangs by a hair. Every day I see more and more how the
land lies, and how little I have to expect from keeping your worship’s
company; for if you left me to be cudgelled at this time, we shall, upon
a hundred different occasions, return to our late blankettings and other
such toys; and though this misfortune has fallen upon my shoulders, they
next may light upon my eyes. Abundantly better should I have done, but I
am such a barbarian, that in all the days of my life, I never did well;
I say again, abundantly better should I have done, had I returned to my
house, my wife, and my children, and maintained and brought them up with
what Providence should please to bestow, rather than fag after your
worship in this manner, through roadless roads, and pathless paths,
drinking bad liquor and eating worse food; then, when I come to
sleep—“Brother squire, measure out seven feet of ground; and if you
chuse to be more at your ease, take as much more, for the ladle is in
your own hand, and lay yourself out to your heart’s desire.” Would to
God I could see the first man who meddled with knight-errantry burnt to
a cinder; at least the first booby who chose to be squire to such
wiseacres as all former knights-errant must have been! Of the present, I
say nothing; as your worship is one of the number, I hold them in
respect, because I am sensible, that in speeching and understanding, you
know a point more than the devil himself.’
‘I would venture to lay a good wager, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that
now, while you are permitted to speak without the least hindrance, you
feel no pain in any part of your body. Proceed, child, and out with
every thing that comes into your head, or tarries at your tongue’s end;
for, provided you are free from pain, I shall convert into pleasure that
disgust which proceeds from your folly and impertinence; and if you are
so much bent upon returning to your house, your wife and your family,
God forbid that I should oppose your resolution. You have some of my
money in your hands; recollect how long it is since we set out on this
my third sally; then reckon what you might and should have earned
monthly, and be your own paymaster.’—‘When I worked for Thomas Carrasco,
father of Batchelor Sampson, who is your worship’s acquaintance,’
answered Sancho, ‘I earned two ducats a month, besides my victuals: with
your worship I know not what I can earn; though well I know that the
squire of a knight-errant has a much more troublesome office than that
of a farmer’s servant; for, in fact, we who serve husbandmen, let us
work never so hard through the day, and happen what will, have a hot
supper out of the pot at night, and lie in a good bed, which I have
never enjoyed since I have been in your worship’s service, except for
that short space of time that we stayed in the house of Don Diego de
Miranda; and bating the good cheer I found among the scum of Camacho’s
kettle, and my eating, drinking, and sleeping, at the habitation of
Basilius; all the rest of the time I have slept on the hard ground,
under the cope of heaven, exposed to what you call the inclemencies of
the weather, living upon cheese-pairings and crusts of bread, and
drinking cold water, sometimes from the brooks and sometimes from the
springs we met with in the publick roads through which we travelled.’
‘Allowing,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that all you have mentioned is true, how
much more do you think I ought to give you than that which you received
from Thomas Carrasco?’—‘With the addition of two rials a month,’ replied
Sancho, ‘I shall think myself well paid, that is, with regard to my
wages; but, as to some satisfaction for your worship’s word and promise
of making me a governor of an island, methinks it would be but fair and
honest to add six rials more; and then, altogether will come to
thirty.’—‘Very well reckoned,’ answered the knight; ‘now, according to
the tale of wages you have mentioned, calculate fairly and exactly what
I am indebted to you, for the five and twenty days that are elapsed
since our departure from our own village, and, as I said before, be your
own paymaster.’—‘Body o’me!’ cried Sancho, ‘your worship is quite out in
your reckoning; for in regard to the promise of the island, we must
compute from the day in which your honour made the said promise to this
blessed hour.’—‘How long, then, has that same promise been made?’ said
Don Quixote. ‘If my memory does not fail me,’ answered the squire, ‘it
must be above twenty years, a few days over or under.’ Here, the knight
slapping his forehead with his hand, began to laugh heartily, saying,
‘Why, my stay in the Sierra Morena, with the whole course of our
peregrinations, has scarce employed two months: and wilt thou say I have
promised thee that island these twenty years? Now I perceive thy
intention is to keep, in lieu of wages, all my money that is in thy
hands; and if that be the case, and thou really lookest upon it with an
eye of desire, I give thee the whole sum from this moment, and much good
may it do thee; for, provided I find myself rid of such a wretched
squire, I shall think myself happy, though poor and pennyless. But, tell
me, thou prevaricator of all the squirely ordinances of chivalry! where
hast thou seen or read that any squire of a knight-errant ever presumed
to bargain with his master touching a certain monthly salary for his
service? Launch out, launch out! you ruffian, vagabond, and hobgoblin!
for such you are; launch out, I say, into the _mare magnum_ of chivalry;
and if you find that any squire ever attempted to say, or even to think,
what thou hast here uttered, I will give thee leave to nail the passage
on my forehead, and pinch the sign of the four nipples on my face, by
way of additional mortification. Turn immediately the reins of the
halter of your ass, and return to your house, your wife, and your
family; for one step farther thou shalt not travel with me. O bread
ill-bestowed! O promise misapplied! O wretch that favoured more of the
beast than of the man! At this juncture, when I was on the eve of
raising thee to such a station as would have ennobled thee, even in
spite of thy wife, thou seekest to leave me! Now thou art going away,
when I had firmly and unalterably resolved to make thee lord of the best
island in the universe! In a word, as thou thyself hast observed upon
other occasions, An ass’s mouth was not made for honey, &c. An ass thou
art, an ass wilt thou be; aye, and thou wilt die like an ass, when the
course of thy life is finished; for I am convinced that thy days will
reach their utmost period, before thou shalt learn and know what a beast
thou art!’
Sancho looked woefully at his master, while he poured forth these
reproaches, from which the squire felt such compunction, that the tears
started in his eyes; and he replied in a faint, whimpering tone, ‘My
good master, I confess that, in order to be really and truly an ass, I
want nothing but a tail, which, if your worship will furnish me with, I
shall think it well bestowed, and serve you as a beast of burden all the
days of my life. Good your worship, forgive and look upon my green years
with compassion, and consider that I know very little; and if I speak a
great deal of nonsense, it does not proceed from malice but infirmity;
and Those who sin and kiss the rod, find favour in the sight of God.’—‘I
should have been surprized, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘if thou hadst not
seasoned thy discourse with some proverbial expression. Well, then, for
the present, I forgive thee, in hope of thy amendment, and on condition
that thou wilt not henceforward betray such a sordid and selfish
disposition, but endeavour to enlarge thy heart, fortify and encourage
thy mind, to wait the accomplishment of my promises; which, though it
may not speedily happen, is nevertheless far from being impossible?’
Sancho said he would do his endeavour, and follow his advice, even
though he should gather strength from feebleness.
Then they betook themselves to the covert of the grove, where the knight
accommodated himself at the root of an elm, and the squire retreated to
the foot of a beech; for these and other such trees never want feet,
though they are always destitute of hands. Sancho passed the night in
great trouble; for the cold air augmented the pain of his bruises;
whereas, Don Quixote amused himself with his incessant meditations.
Nevertheless, both master and man gave way to the operations of sleep,
and at the approach of morn, prosecuted their way to the banks of the
renowned Ebro, where they were involved in an adventure that will be
recounted in the succeeding chapter.
CHAP. XII.
OF THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE INCHANTED BARK.
By dint of travelling at a very deliberate pace for the space of two
days after they quitted the grove, Don Quixote and Sancho arrived at the
river Ebro, the sight of which afforded infinite pleasure to the knight,
who eagerly contemplated the amenity of its banks, the transparency of
its water, the tranquillity of its course, and the abundance of its
chrystal stream, the joyous prospect of which renewed in his remembrance
a thousand amorous thoughts, that chiefly turned upon what he had seen
in the cave of Montesinos; for, although Master Peter’s ape had
declared, that part of those circumstances was true, and part of them
false, he inclined more to the belief that they were altogether real;
while Sancho, on the contrary, looked upon the whole detail as one
continued lye.
As they jogged on in this manner, their view was saluted by a small
boat, without oars, or any other tackle, close to the river-side, and
made fast to a tree that grew on the bank. Don Quixote looking around
him, without perceiving any living soul, alighted immediately from
Rozinante, commanding Sancho to quit the back of Dapple, and tie both
beasts securely to the trunk of a poplar or willow that grew upon the
spot. When the squire desired to know the cause of this sudden descent
and ligation, ‘You must know, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘that this
vessel is here on purpose, without a possibility of any other design, to
call and invite me to embark, that I may be conveyed to the succour of
some knight, or other necessitous personage of high degree, who must
certainly be involved in some dire disaster; for this is the very spirit
of books of chivalry, and the practice of those inchanters concerning
whom they treat, who, when any knight in distress cannot be delivered by
their art, but solely by the prowess of another errant, though perhaps
at the distance of two or three thousand leagues or more, they snatch
him up in a cloud, or provide him with a vessel, in which he embarks,
and in the twinkling of an eye he is transported either through the air,
or by sea, to the place where his assistance is required: this bark,
therefore, O Sancho, is brought hither for the like purpose, as sure as
it is now day; and before the day be spent, take and secure Dapple and
Rozinante together, and let us commit ourselves to the direction of God;
for even the barefooted Carmelites shall not dissuade me from
embarking.’—‘Since that is the case,’ answered Sancho, ‘and your worship
is resolved at every turn to plunge into these (I know not whether I
should call them mad) vagaries, I have nothing to do but bow and obey;
according to the proverb, If you obey the commands of your lord, you may
sit as a guest at his board. Nevertheless, in order to disburden my
confidence, I must give your worship notice, that in my opinion this
same bark has nothing to do with inchanted people, but belongs to some
fishermen of this river, in which they catch the best shads in the
world.’
This remonstrance was made while he tied the cattle, which he could not
leave to the protection of inchanters, without being grieved to the very
soul. But the knight exhorted him to banish his anxiety on account of
the animals, which would be carefully maintained and protected by the
same sage destined to transport their riders through roads and regions
of such longitude. ‘I do not understand what you mean by logickhood,’
said the squire; ‘for I never heard such a word before in the whole
course of my life.’—‘By longitude I mean, length,’ answered the knight,
‘but I do not at all wonder that thou shouldst not understand the word;
for thou art not obliged to be acquainted with the Latin tongue, like
some arrogant people who pretend to knowledge of which they are entirely
ignorant.’—‘The beasts are now secured,’ said Sancho, ‘what is next to
be done?’—‘What!’ replied Don Quixote, ‘but to cross ourselves and weigh
anchor; I mean to embark, and cut the rope by which the vessel is made
fast.’
So saying, he leaped on board, whither he was followed by Sancho, and
the fastening being cut, the boat edged gently off from the bank. The
squire seeing himself about two fathoms from the shore, began to
tremble, in the apprehension of perishing; but nothing gave him more
pain than hearing Dapple raise his voice, and seeing Rozinante struggle
for his freedom. ‘Now, Dapple,’ said he to his master, ‘brays for grief
at our departure; and Rozinante strives to get loose, that he may throw
himself into the water and swim after us!—Farewel, my dearly beloved
friends, peace be with you, and may the madness that parts us be
converted and undeceived, that we may be restored to your agreeable
company.’
Then he began to weep so bitterly, that the knight exclaimed, in a tone
of rage and vexation, ‘Of what art thou afraid, cowardly miscreant!
wherefore dost thou weep, thou heart of butter! who persecutes, who
molests thee, thou soul of a garret-mouse! or what wants dost thou
suffer, beggarly wretch, rolling as thou art in the very bowels of
abundance! art thou, peradventure, travelling, barefoot over the Riphean
mountains! No: seated like an archduke upon a convenient bench, thou art
softly conveyed by the gentle current of this delicious river, from
which in a little time we shall launch into the wide and extended ocean:
but, indeed, we must have already entered the open sea; aye, and sailed
at least seven or eight hundred leagues; and, if I had here an astrolabe
to take the elevation of the pole, I would tell thee exactly what way we
have made; though either I have little skill, or we have already passed,
or will pass in a very little time, the equinoctial line, that divides
the globe into two equal parts.’—‘And how far shall we have gone when we
come to that same line your worship mentions?’ said Sancho. ‘A great
way,’ replied the knight; ‘for, of three hundred and sixty degrees,
comprehending the whole terraqueous globe, according to the computation
of Ptolemy, who was the greatest cosmographer ever known, we shall have
traversed one half when we reach the equinoctial line.’—‘’Fore God!’
cried Sancho, ‘your worship has brought a set of rare witnesses to prove
the truth of what you say, Copulation and Kiss-me-gaffer, with the
addition of Tool-i’me, or some such name[164].’ Don Quixote laughed at
Sancho’s blunders, upon the computation of the cosmographer Ptolemy;
adding, ‘You must know, Sancho, that one of the signs by which those who
embark at Cadiz for the East Indies, know they have passed the
equinoctial, is the total destruction of vermin among the passengers and
seamen: so that not one louse remains alive, or can be had in the whole
ship, even though you should give its weight in gold; thou mayest
therefore slip thy hand along thy thigh, Sancho, and if thou canst catch
any thing alive, our doubt will be resolved; but if there is nothing to
be found, we must certainly have passed the line.’—‘I can hardly believe
it,’ answered the squire; ‘but, however, I will do as your worship
desires; though there is no necessity for trying those experiments; for
I can see with my own eyes, that we have not moved five yards from the
bank, no, nor have we driven two yards below the cattle; for there stand
Rozinante and Dapple, in the very spot where they were left; and taking
aim as I do now, I vow to God, we do not move or go at the pace of a
pismire.’—‘Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘perform the investigation I have
mentioned, and give thyself no trouble about any other circumstance; for
thou dost not know the meaning of colours, lines, parallels, zodiacks,
eclipticks, poles, solstices, equinoxes, planets, constellations,
points, and measures, that compose the spheres celestial and
terrestrial. Wert thou acquainted with these, or even a part of them,
thou wouldst distinctly perceive what parallels we have crossed, what
signs we have seen, and what constellations we have left, and are now
leaving behind us. I therefore repeat my request, that thou wouldst
examine and go afishing upon thyself; for I am persuaded thou art clean
and smooth as a sheet of white paper.’
Sancho, in compliance with his desire, slipped down his hand softly, and
felt about his left ham; then raising his head, and looking at his
master, ‘Either the experiment is false,’ said he; ‘or we have not
reached the place your worship mentioned, by many leagues.’—‘What!’ said
the knight, ‘hast thou found something?’—‘Aye, more than one something,’
answered the squire: who snapped his fingers, and afterwards washed them
in the river, along the current of which the boat glided softly, without
the assistance of any secret power, or concealed inchanter, being
conveyed by nothing but the stream, which then ran with a smooth and
gentle course.
In this manner they proceeded, when they discovered some large mills,
built in the middle of the river, which Don Quixote no sooner perceived,
than he addressed himself to Sancho, in an exalted voice: ‘Behold, my
friend, yonder appears the city, castle, or fortress, that contains some
oppressed knight-errant, queen, infanta, or princess in distress, for
whose relief I am brought hither.’—‘What the devil does your worship
mean by a city, fortress, or castle!’ cried the squire; ‘don’t you see
these are mills, built in the river, for grinding wheat?’—‘Peace,
Sancho,’ replied the knight, ‘although they appear to be mills, they are
in reality edifices of a very different nature: I have already told
thee, that all things are transformed and changed by the power of
inchantment; I do not mean that they are really changed in any
circumstance but appearance, as we have been taught by woeful experience
in the transformation of Dulcinea, the sole refuge of my hope.’
By this time, the boat being sucked into the middle of the stream, so as
to move considerably faster than at first, was perceived by the millers,
who seeing it advancing to the indraught of the wheels, came suddenly
out in a body, with long poles, to stop its motion; and as their faces
and cloaths were be-powdered with meal, they made a frightful figure,
while they exclaimed, with great vociferation, ‘You devils of men! where
are you going: are you mad; to come and drown yourselves, or be ground
to pieces by the wheels?’
Don Quixote, hearing this address, ‘Did not I tell thee, Sancho,’ said
he, ‘that we had arrived at the scene in which I must exert the prowess
of mine arm? Behold, what felons and assassins come forth to try my
valour; behold what a number of hobgoblins range themselves against me;
behold, I say, what horrid physiognomies appear to scare and overawe us;
but you shall presently see what will happen. Ye ruffians!’ Then,
starting up, he began to threaten and revile them, exclaiming aloud, ‘Ye
scum, ye scoundrels, ill-intentioned and worse-advised! release, I
charge you, and restore to the full fruition of freedom, the person whom
ye keep confined and oppressed in that fortress or gaol, let him be high
or low, or of what rank and quality soever he may be; for I am Don
Quixote de La Mancha, otherwise intitled the Knight of the Lions,
destined by the appointment of Heaven above, to bring this adventure to
an happy issue.’
So saying, he unsheathed his sword, and brandished it in the air, in
defiance of the millers, who hearing this rhapsody without understanding
it, began to employ their poles, in order to turn aside the boat, which
by this time had entered the current and canal of the wheels. As for
Sancho, he fell upon his knees, and prayed devoutly that Heaven would
deliver him from such imminent danger; and his deliverance was
accordingly effected by the alertness and dexterity of the millers, who
pushed back the boat with their poles; yet not without oversetting the
vessel; so as that the knight and his squire were soused over head and
ears in the water. It was well for Don Quixote that he could swim like a
goose; nevertheless, the weight of his armour sunk him twice to the
bottom, and had not the millers thrown themselves into the river, and
weighed them up by main strength, it might have been said, ‘Here Troy
once stood[165].’
They were no sooner dragged ashore, rather drenched than dead of
drought, than the squire, humbling himself upon his knees, again
clasping his hands and lifting up his eyes to Heaven, uttered a very
fervent petition to God, that he might be from thenceforward delivered
from the frantick projects and mad attempts of his master. This
ejaculation was scarce finished, when they were joined by the fishermen
who were owners of the boat, which was crushed to pieces by the
mill-wheels; and they perceiving the wreck, began to strip Sancho, and
demand indemnification of his master, who, with great tranquillity, as
if nothing at all had happened told the millers and fishermen that he
would pay for the bark with the utmost chearfulness, on condition that
they would release, without ransom or security, the person or persons
whom they detained in durance and oppression within the castle.
‘What does the madman mean by persons and castles?’ answered one of the
millers; ‘wouldst thou carry off the customers that bring grist to our
mills, forsooth?’—‘Enough,’ said Don Quixote within himself, ‘I might as
well preach to the desart, as attempt, by intreaties, to prevail upon
such miscreants to do any virtuous action. In this adventure there must
certainly be two powerful inchanters engaged on opposite sides, one of
whom baffles the designs of the other; by one I was provided with a
bark, and his antagonist overturned me in the water. Lord mend us! the
world is nothing but a continual warfare of opposite machinations and
deceit; for my own part, I can do no more.’ Then raising his voice, and
fixing his eyes upon the mills, ‘Friends,’ cried he, ‘whosoever you are
who lie confined within that prison, forgive me, that for my misfortune,
as well as yours, it is not in my power to extricate you from your
distress; for some other knight the adventure must be reserved.’ Having
pronounced this apostrophe, he compounded with the fishermen, for whose
boat he paid fifty rials, which Sancho disbursed with great reluctance,
saying, ‘Two such boatfuls will sink our whole stock to the bottom.’
The fishermen and millers gazed with admiration at those two figures, so
different in appearance from other men; and as they could by no means
understand the meaning and tendency of Don Quixote’s discourse, and the
questions he asked, they looked upon them as madmen, and went away. The
millers retreated to their mills; the fishermen betook themselves to
their cottage; the knight and squire, like beasts, returned to their
beasts; and thus ended the adventure of the enchanted bark.
Footnote 164:
As it is altogether impossible, in a translation, literally to
preserve the low humour arising from blunders upon words or sounds, I
have been obliged to substitute an equivalent jingle, in the room of
_puto_, _gafo_ and _meon_, which are Spanish words, signifying, a a
_whore_, a _catamite_, and a _piss-a-bed_: so that Sancho, deceived by
the affinity of these sounds to _computo_, _cosmographa_, and
_Ptolemeo_, thought he had reason to say his master had produced a
fair set of evidences.
Footnote 165:
In allusion to the speech that Virgil puts in the mouth of Panthus
Othryades, who says to Æneas,
——_fuit Ilium, et ingens_
_Gloria Teucrorum!_
CHAP. XIII.
OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND A FAIR HUNTRESS.
In a melancholy plight did the knight and squire reach the place where
their cattle stood; indeed, they were both sufficiently out of humour,
especially Sancho, who was cut to the soul by the incroachment upon
their capital, which to him was as precious as the apple of his eye. At
length, they mounted, in the most profound silence, and departed from
the banks of that famous river; Don Quixote buried as it were amidst the
meditations of his love, and Sancho immersed in those of his preferment,
which at that time seemed to be at a weary distance; for maugre all his
simplicity and folly, he could easily perceive that all, or the greatest
part of his master’s actions, proceeded from frenzy and distraction; he
therefore resolved to take an opportunity of retreating abruptly to his
own house, without expostulation, or the ceremony of taking leave. But
fortune ordained that things should fall out quite contrary to his
apprehensions.
Next day, at sun-set, as they came out of a wood, Don Quixote extending
his view over a delightful green meadow, perceived some people at the
farther end of it; and as he proceeded, saw they were hawkers:
approaching still nearer, he observed among them a gay lady, mounted
upon a palfrey or beautiful pad as white as the driven snow, adorned
with green furniture and a saddle of silver; the lady was likewise
dressed in a rich habit of the same colour, as fine as finery itself. On
her left-hand she carried a hawk, a circumstance from which the knight
concluded she was some lady of high rank, and mistress of all the rest;
nor was he mistaken. On this supposition, therefore, he said to his
squire, ‘Make haste, son Sancho, go and tell that lady of the palfrey
and hawk, that I, the Knight of the Lions, send my respects to her
exceeding beauty; and that, with her good leave, I will go and pay my
compliments in person, and make her a tender of my service to the utmost
of my power, in whatever she shall please to command; but keep a guard
upon your tongue, Sancho, and beware of thrusting in some of your
proverbs, while you deliver my embassy.’—‘To be sure, you have found me
a deadly thruster,’ answered the squire, ‘that you give me such warning!
as if this were the first time in my life, that I have carried embassies
to ladies of high rank and augmentation.’—‘Except that which you carried
to the Lady Dulcinea,’ said the knight, ‘I do not know that ever you
carried another; at least while in my service.’—‘That’s true,’ replied
Sancho, ‘but a good paymaster never wants bail; and a dinner is easily
got, where there is plenty of meat for the pot: what I mean is, that
there is no occasion to tell me or advertise me of any thing; for I am
never out, and have a sort of a smack of every thing.’—‘I believe it,
Sancho,’ said Don Quixote; ‘go in peace, and God be your guide.’
The squire setting out accordingly, at a good rate, and spurring Dapple
beyond his natural pace, came up with the fair huntress; then alighting
and kneeling before her, ‘Beautiful lady,’ said he, ‘yonder knight,
called the Knight of the Lions, is my master, and I am this squire,
known at my own home by the name of Sancho Panza; and that same Knight
of the Lions, though formerly of the Rueful Countenance, sends me to beg
your grandeur would be pleased to allow him purposely, courteously, and
consentingly, to come and gratify his desire, which is no other, as he
says, and I believe, than to serve your exalted beauty and hawkingship;
and in so doing, your excellency will do a thing that will redound to
your own advantage, and from which he will receive the most notorious
honour and satisfaction.’
‘Worthy squire,’ replied the lady, ‘assuredly you have delivered your
embassy with all the circumstances that such embassies require; pray
rise, for it is not reasonable, that the squire of such a great
knight-errant as he of the Rueful Countenance, whose character is well
known in these parts, should remain in that posture; rise, friend, and
go tell your master, that he shall be extremely welcome to command the
services of me and the duke my husband, at our country-house in the
neighbourhood.’ Sancho arose, equally astonished at the beauty,
good-breeding, and affability, of this worthy lady: but he was still
more surprized at what she said concerning the well-known character of
the Knight of the Rueful Countenance; for if she did not give him the
appellation of the Lions, it was because he had but lately assumed that
epithet. ‘Pray, tell me, brother squire,’ said the duchess, whose title
is not known, ‘is not your master the person whose history is printed
under the name of the sage Hidalgo Don Quixote de La Mancha, who
professes himself the admirer of one Dulcinea del Toboso?’—‘The very
same, my lady,’ answered Sancho, ‘and I myself am that very squire of
his who is mentioned, or ought to be mentioned, in that history, by the
name of Sancho Panza, unless they have changed me in the cradle, I mean,
in the press.’—‘I am extremely glad to hear it,’ replied the duchess;
‘go, brother Sancho, and tell your master, that he is well met, and
welcome to my estate; and that nothing could give me more pleasure than
his arrival.’
Sancho, in an excess of joy, occasioned by this agreeable answer,
returned, and recounted to his master all that this lady of rank had
said, extolling to the skies, in his rustick phrase, her exceeding
beauty, good-humour, and politeness. The knight chose one of his
genteelest attitudes, fixed himself well in his stirrups, adjusted his
vizor, quickened Rozinante, and with an agreeable air, advanced to pay
his respects to the duchess; who, while he approached, ordered her
husband to be called, and communicated the curious embassy. As they had
read the first part of the history, from which they learned the
extravagant humour of Don Quixote, they waited with infinite pleasure,
and the most eager desire of being acquainted with the original, fully
determined to gratify his humour in every thing, and treat him all the
time he should stay with them, as a real knight-errant; that is, with
all the ceremonies described in those books of chivalry they had read,
and to which, indeed, they were greatly attached. Meanwhile, Don Quixote
approaching with his beaver up, made a motion to alight, and Sancho made
haste to hold the stirrup; but he was so unfortunate, that in
dismounting from Dapple, he slipped his foot through the noose of the
stirrup rope, in such a manner, that he could not possibly disentangle
himself, but continued hanging with his face and part of his body on the
ground. The knight, who never alighted without his assistance, imagining
that Sancho, as usual, held the stirrup, threw himself off with a swing,
and the saddle, which must have been very ill girted, and he, came to
the ground together; not without great disgrace, and a thousand curses
which he muttered between his teeth against the unfortunate Sancho,
whose leg was still in the stocks.
The duke, seeing their distress, ordered his huntsman to assist the
knight and squire; and they lifted up Don Quixote, who was very much
bruised by the fall; nevertheless, he advanced as well as he could, with
a limping pace, and kneeled before this noble pair: but the duke would
by no means allow him to remain in that posture; on the contrary,
alighting from his horse, he ran to embrace the knight, saying, ‘I am
heartily sorry, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, that the first
time you touch my ground, you should be so unlucky; but the carelessness
of squires is often the cause of greater misfortunes.’—‘This accident,
valiant prince,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘cannot possibly be deemed a
misfortune, though I had been plunged into the profound abyss; for even
from thence should I have been raised and extricated by the glory of
seeing your grace. My squire, whom God confound! is more ready at
untying his tongue, in order to utter malicious insinuations, than at
tying and securing the girth of a saddle; but whether fallen or exalted,
afoot or on horseback, I shall always be devoted to your service, and
that of my Lady Duchess, your grace’s worthy consort, the dignified
queen of beauty, and universal princess of politeness’—‘Softly, my good
Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha,’ said the duke, ‘where my Lady
Dulcinea del Toboso reigns, no other beauty deserves applause.’
By this time Sancho Panza had disentangled himself and come up, and
interposing in the discourse, before his master could make any reply,
‘It cannot be denied,’ said he, ‘but must always be affirmed, that my
Lady Dulcinea del Toboso is extremely beautiful: but the hare starts
where she is least expected; for I have heard it said, that the power
called Nature is like a potter, who, if he can make one beautiful
vessel, can in like manner make two, three, aye, and a hundred; this, I
observe, because, in good faith, my Lady Duchess comes not a whit behind
my Lady Mistress Donna Dulcinea del Toboso.’ Don Quixote turning to the
duchess, ‘Your grace must know,’ said he, ‘that no knight-errant upon
earth has such a prattling and free-spoken squire as mine; and he will
certainly verify my words, if your highness shall be pleased to make use
of my service for a few days.’—‘I have the better opinion of honest
Sancho, for his being free-spoken,’ answered the duchess: ‘that is a
sign of his discretion; for pleasantry and wit, Signior Don Quixote, as
your worship very well knows, do not love to dwell in a reserved
disposition; and therefore, since honest Sancho is frank and
free-spoken, I from henceforth set him down as a man of
discretion.’—‘And loquacity,’ added the knight. ‘So much the better,’
said the duke; ‘for a great deal of wit cannot be expressed in a few
words; and that we may not spend more time in them, come, renowned
Knight of the Rueful Countenance——’ ‘Of the Lions, your highness must
call him,’ cried Sancho; ‘the Rueful Countenance is no more.’—‘Of the
Lions let it be then,’ continued the duke; ‘I say, come, Sir Knight of
the Lions, to a castle I have in this neighbourhood, where you shall
meet with that reception which is due to a person of your fame and
character, and that respect which I and the duchess always pay to the
knights-errant who favour us with their company.’
By this time Sancho having replaced and secured Rozinante’s saddle, Don
Quixote bestrode that famous steed; and the duke mounting a beautiful
courser, they rode towards the castle, on each side of the duchess, who
desired Sancho to keep close to her; for she took infinite pleasure in
hearing his conceits. Indeed, the squire did not need intreaty, but
mingling among the three, made a fourth in the conversation, to the
unspeakable satisfaction of their graces, who thought themselves
extremely fortunate in having an opportunity of entertaining, at their
castle, such a knight-errant, and such an erring squire.
CHAP. XIV.
WHICH TREATS OF MANIFOLD IMPORTANT SUBJECTS.
Sancho rejoiced exceedingly at seeing himself, as he thought, a
favourite with the duchess; for being a staunch well-wisher to good
cheer, he imagined he should find the same abundance in the castle,
which prevailed in the houses of Don Diego and Basilius, and always took
by the forelock every occasion of living at his ease. The history then
relates, that before they reached the castle or pleasure-house, the duke
riding on before, directed his servants how to behave to Don Quixote;
who no sooner arrived at the gate with the duchess, than two lacquies or
grooms came forth, clad in long trailing morning-gowns of fine crimson
sattin, and lifting him off, said, without being heard or perceived,
‘Your highness must go and help my Lady Duchess to dismount.’ The knight
took the hint, and a dispute of compliments passed between them on the
subject; but, at length, the obstinacy of the duchess prevailed; for she
would not quit her palfrey, or alight, except in the arms of the duke,
saying, she was not worthy to load such an excellent knight with such an
useless burden; at last, the duke came out to perform the office, and
when they entered the court-yard, they were met by two beautiful
damsels, who threw a mantle of the finest scarlet over Don Quixote’s
shoulders, and the corridores were instantly crouded with servants of
both sexes, who exclaimed aloud, ‘Welcome, thou flower and cream of
knights-errant!’ while all, or the greatest part of them, emptied
bottles of sweet water upon him and their graces, to the admiration of
Don Quixote, who now, for the first time, was sure and satisfied of his
being a real, and not a fantastick knight-errant, because he saw himself
treated as the knights of former ages whose histories he had read.
Sancho quitted Dapple, and betaking himself to the duchess, entered the
castle; where, however, his confidence upbraiding him for having left
his beast alone, he made up to a reverend duenna, who with others had
come out to receive the duchess, and accosting her in a soft voice,
‘Signora Gonçalez,’ said he, ‘or what’s your name, Madam?’—‘My name is
Duenna Rodrigues de Grijalva,’ answered the gentlewoman; ‘what are your
commands, brother?’—‘I wish you would do me the favour, good Madam,’
replied the squire, ‘to go to the castle-gate, where you will find a
dapple ass of mine, and be so good as either to send or lead him to the
stable; for the poor creature is a little timorous, and cannot bear to
be alone, by any manner of means.’—‘If the master be as wise as the
man,’ cried the duenna, ‘we have brought our pigs to a fine market; get
you gone, brother, with a vengeance to you, and those who brought you
hither, and take care of your ass with your own hands; the duennas of
this house are not used to such employment.’—‘But, for all that,’ said
Sancho, ‘I have heard my master, who is a perfect mine of history, tell
us how, when Lancelot came from Britain, ladies tended his own person,
and duennas took care of his horse; now, with respect to my ass, I
declare I would not exchange him for Signior Lancelot’s courser.’—‘Hark
ye, friend,’ replied the duenna, ‘if you are a jack-pudding, keep your
jokes for a proper place, where they may turn to account; from me you’ll
get nothing but a fig for them.’—‘Very well,’ said the squire, ‘I’ll
answer for its ripeness; your worship won’t lose your game by a short
reckoning.’—‘You whoreson,’ cried the duenna, in a violent rage,
‘whether I am old or not, I must render an account to God, and not to
such a garlick-eating rascal as you.’
This address she pronounced in such an audible voice, that she was
overheard by the duchess; who, turning about, and seeing her woman in
such wrath and trepidation, asked, with whom she was in such passion.
‘With this honest fellow, here,’ answered the duenna; ‘who has earnestly
desired me to go and house an ass of his, that stands at the
castle-gate, telling me, forsooth, as an example, that the same
employment was undertaken by some ladies, who took care of one Lancelot,
while the duennas looked after his horse; and to crown the compliment,
he tells me I am old.’—‘I, myself,’ said the duchess, ‘would construe
that into the greatest affront that could be given.—Take notice, friend
Sancho, that Donna Rodriguez is in the prime of her youth; and that the
veil she wears is more for authority and custom, than on account of her
years.’—‘Accursed be those I have to live,’ cried the squire, ‘if I
spoke to her for that reason; but, only for the great affection I bear
to my ass, whom I thought I could not recommend to a more charitable
person than Signora Donna Rodriguez.’ Don Quixote overhearing all that
passed, ‘Is that proper discourse for this place, Sancho?’ said he.
‘Signior,’ replied the squire, ‘every man must speak of his wants where
he finds them; here I thought of Dapple, and here I talked of him; and
if he had come into my head in the stable, there too he should have been
honourably mentioned.’ Here the duke interposing, ‘Sancho is very much
in the right,’ said he, ‘and must not be blamed for what he has said;
Dapple shall have no more to do but ask and have as much provender as he
can eat; for that Sancho may be quite easy in that respect, for his
beast shall be treated like his own person.’
This conversation, which was extremely agreeable to all, except Don
Quixote, brought them to the top of the stair-case: and the knight being
conducted into an apartment, hung with the richest tissue and brocade,
was unarmed, and attended by six sprightly damsels, well instructed by
the duke and duchess in the particulars of behaviour which they were to
observe towards Don Quixote, in order to convince him that he was
treated in all respects like a knight-errant. Thus disarmed, he remained
in his strait breeches and shamoy doublet, so long, so lank, so lean,
with his lanthorn jaws kissing each other, that if the damsels had not
been very careful in preserving their gravity, according to the precise
orders they had received, they must certainly have burst with laughing
at sight of such an uncouth figure. They desired he would allow them to
undress and shift him; but he would not assent to this proposal, saying
that knights-errant ought to be as remarkable for decency as for valour:
he therefore bade them deliver the shirt to Sancho, with whom shutting
himself up in a chamber, furnished with a magnificent bed, he was
immediately undressed and shifted. Then being alone with his squire,
‘Tell me,’ said he, ‘thou modern buffoon and ancient blockhead! was it
thy province to dishonour and affront a venerable duenna, so worthy of
reverence and respect! Was that a time to think of Dapple? or couldst
thou imagine those noble persons would neglect the cattle belonging to
guests whom they treated with such elegance? For the love of God,
Sancho; set a guard upon thy tongue, and behave so as that people may
not discover, by the thread, the coarse country web of which thou art
woven: consider, sinner as thou art, that the matter is respected in
proportion to the discretion and good-breeding of his servants; and this
is one of the great advantages which noblemen have over people of
inferior rank: dost thou not consider, thou plague to thyself, and
vexation to me! that if they perceive thee to be a base-bred clown or
blundering fool, they will take me for some cheating impostor or knight
of the post! No, no, Sancho, shun and avoid those inconveniences; for he
who sets up for a merry-andrew, falls at the first stumble into a
disgraced buffoon: bridle thy tongue, therefore, consider and ruminate
well, before the words issue from thy mouth; and remember that we are
now arrived at a place from whence by the favour of God, and the valour
of mine arm, we shall depart, bettered three, nay, five-fold, both in
fortune and in fame.’ Sancho promised, with repeated assurances, that he
would rather stitch up his mouth, or bite off his tongue, than utter one
word that should not be pat to the purpose, and well considered,
according to his command; and that he might make himself perfectly easy
on that score, for by him it should never be discovered who they were.
Don Quixote having dressed himself, girded on his sword, thrown the
scarlet mantle over his shoulders, and covered his head with a cap of
green velvet, which he received from the damsels, came forth thus
equipped, into the great hall, where he found the maidens placed in two
equal rows, furnished with the implements for hands-washing, which they
administered with profound respect and abundance of ceremony: then came
the major-domo, attended by twelve pages, to conduct him to the table
where their graces waited for him; he was accordingly surrounded by
these domesticks, and led with great pomp and majesty into another hall,
in which appeared a table, nobly decorated, with four covers. The duke
and duchess came to the door to receive him, attended by one of those
grave ecclesiasticks who govern the families of noblemen; who being of
no birth themselves, know not how to direct those who are; who seek to
measure the grandeur of the great by the narrowness of their own souls;
and, in attempting to make their pupils œconomists, convert them into
downright misers: such, I say, was the grave clergyman who came out to
receive Don Quixote, with the duke and duchess. After a thousand
courteous compliments, they walked on each side of him to the table,
where the duke complimented him with the upper end; and though he
refused that honour, they importuned him so much, that he was obliged to
comply; the clergyman sitting opposite to him, and the duke and duchess
taking their places at the sides.
Sancho, who was present at all this ceremony, being confounded and
astonished at the honours which were paid to his master, and perceiving
the formality and entreaties that passed between his grace and Don
Quixote, about sitting at the head of the table, intruded himself, as
usual, into the discourse, saying, ‘With your honour’s leave, I’ll tell
you a story of what happened in our village, with respect to the
upper-hand in sitting.’
Scarce had he pronounced these words, when the knight began to tremble
with apprehensions that he was going to utter some absurdity; but the
squire seeing and understanding the cause of his matter’s trepidation,
‘Signior,’ said he, ‘Your worship needs not be afraid that I shall
misbehave, or say, something that is not to the matter in hand; for I
have not forgot the advice I just now received from your worship, about
speaking a little or a great deal, to the purpose, and not to the
purpose.’—‘I know nothing at all of the matter,’ answered the knight;
‘say what thou wilt, so thou sayest it quickly.’—‘Well then,’ replied
Sancho, ‘what I am going to say, is true, for my master Don Quixote,
here present, would not suffer me to tell a lye.’—‘As for me,’ said Don
Quixote, ‘you may lye as much as you please, without lett or
molestation: but I advise you to consider well what you are about to
say.’—‘I have it so well considered and reconsidered, that I am as safe
as he that has the repique in hand, as will appear in the
performance.’—‘Your graces will do well,’ said Don Quixote, ‘to order
the servants to turn out this madman, who will commit a thousand
blunders.’—‘By the life of the duke!’ cried the duchess, ‘I will not
part with my good friend Sancho, for whom I have a very great respect,
because I know him to be a person of wit and pleasantry.’—‘Pleasant may
all the days of your holiness be, for your good opinion, of my deserts,’
said the squire; ‘though God knows, they are but slender enough:
however, my story is this.
‘There was an invitation given by a gentleman of our town, who was both
rich and well born, as being come of the Alamos of Medina del Campo, and
married to Donna Mencia de Quinones, daughter of Don Alonzo de Maranon,
Knight of the Order of St. Jago, who was drowned in the Herradura, and
occasioned a quarrel some years ago in our village, in which, if I am
not mistaken, my master Don Quixote was concerned; but this I know, mad
Tom, the son of old Balvastro the blacksmith, was hurt on that
occasion.—Now, Sir Master of mine, is not this God’s truth; speak upon
your worship’s honour, that these noble persons may not look upon me as
a chattering lyar?’—‘Hitherto,’ said the clergyman, ‘I take you to be a
chatterer rather than a lyar; but I know not what I shall take you for
in the sequel.’—‘Thou hast produced so many witnesses and tokens,’
replied the knight, ‘that I cannot but say thy story looks like truth;
proceed, however, and shorten thy tale, for thou art in the way of
lengthening it out for the space of two whole days.’—‘He shall not
shorten it,’ said the duchess, ‘if he consults my entertainment; but, on
the contrary, tell it in his own way, though it should not be finished
in six days; for should it hold out so long, they will be some of the
pleasantest I ever passed.’
‘Well, then, my masters,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘that same gentleman, whom I
know as well as I know these two hands, for it is not above a bow-shot
from his house to mine; invited a farmer, who, though not rich, was a
very honest man.’—‘Dispatch, brother,’ cried the priest, interposing,
‘for at this rate, your story will reach to the other world.’—‘It will
hardly go half so far, an it please God,’ answered the squire; who thus
proceeded: ‘So, as I was saying, the farmer going to the house of the
gentleman inviter, who is now dead, God rest his soul! by the same token
they say he died like an angel; for my own part, I was not present at
his death, having gone a reaping to Tembleque.’—‘As you hope to live,
son,’ cried the ecclesiastick, ‘return quickly from Tembleque, and
finish your story, without staying to inter the gentleman, unless you
have a mind to bury us all?’—‘Well, to come to the point,’ replied
Sancho; ‘when the two came to be seated at table. Methinks I see them
now more than ever.’ The duke and duchess were infinitely pleased with
the disgust which the reverend ecclesiastick expressed at the tedious
and circumstantial manner in which the squire related his story, while
Don Quixote was almost consumed by shame and indignation. ‘I say,
moreover,’ resumed Sancho, ‘that the two, as I have already observed,
coming to sit down at the table, the farmer obstinately refused to take
the upper-end, according to the desire of the entertainer; while the
gentleman on the other hand as obstinately insisted upon his compliance,
alledging that he ought to be master in his own house; but the farmer,
who piqued himself upon his politeness and good-breeding, still
persisted in his refusal, until the gentleman, growing angry, took him
by the shoulders, and thrust him into the seat, saying, “Know, Mr.
Chaff-thresher, that wheresoever I sit, I shall always be at the head of
the table.” Now this is my tale, and I really believe it was brought in
pretty pat to the purpose.’
Don Quixote’s brown face was speckled with a thousand different colours
at this recital: and their graces restrained their laughter, that he
might not be quite abashed at the sarcastick insinuation of his squire.
To change the discourse, therefore, and prevent Sancho from uttering any
other such dangerous contents, the duchess addressing herself to the
knight, asked, when he had heard from the Lady Dulcinea; and if he had
lately sent her any presents from the great number of giants and robbers
whom he must have vanquished. To this interrogation the knight replied,
‘My misfortunes, Madam, though they had a beginning, will never have an
end. Giants I have vanquished; felons and robbers I have sent; but where
must they find her, inchanted and transformed as she is, into the most
homely country wench that can be imagined!’—‘This I know,’ said Sancho
Panza: ‘to me she seemed the most beautiful creature in the whole world;
at least, in point of nimbleness and leaping, she would get the better
of a professed rope-dancer.—In good faith, my Lady Duchess, she skipped
from the ground upon her ass, like a perfect cat.’—‘What! have you seen
her inchanted, Sancho?’ said the duke. ‘How! I seen her?’ replied the
squire: ‘who the devil but I was the first that fell upon the plot of
the inchantment: to be sure she was as much inchanted as my father.’
The ecclesiastick hearing them talk of giants, felons, and inchantments,
began to imagine that this must be the Don Quixote de La Mancha, whose
history the duke took such delight in reading, that he had often
reprehended his grace for being so mad as to read such nonsense; and
being now confirmed in his suspicion, he said to the duke, in a very
cholerick tone, ‘Signior, your excellency is accountable to Heaven for
the actions of that poor man. That Don Quixote, or Don Driveller, or
what’s his name, would not, I imagine, be such a fool, if your
excellency did not administer fuel and encouragement to his madness and
folly.’ Then addressing himself to the knight, ‘And pray, Mr. Wiseacre,’
said he, ‘who has stuffed your brain with the ridiculous conceit of your
being a knight-errant, conquering giants, and apprehending robbers?
Return, in good hour, (for in good hour I advise you) return to your own
house, educate your children, if you have any, take care of your own
concerns, and leave off strolling about the country, sucking the wind,
and exposing yourself to the laughter of those who do, and those who do
not, know your infirmity. Where, in evil hour, did you find that there
are, or ever were, knights-errant? Where did you ever see giants in
Spain, caitiffs in La Mancha, or inchanted Dulcineas, with all that
tribe of absurdities that are recounted as your adventures?’
Don Quixote, who listened attentively to the discourse of this venerable
person, no sooner perceived he had left off speaking, than forgetting
the respect he owed the duke and duchess, he started up, and with ireful
aspect and glowing visage, replied——But the reply deserves a chapter for
itself.
CHAP. XV.
CONTAINING DON QUIXOTE’S REPLY TO HIS REPROVER;
WITH OTHER SERIOUS AND DIVERTING INCIDENTS.
Don Quixote starting up, and trembling from head to foot, like
quicksilver, thus accosted the ecclesiastick, with an eager, yet
faultering tongue: ‘The place and presence in which I am, and the
respect which I always had and still have for the function you profess,
withold and tie up the hands of my just resentment; for these reasons,
as well as because I know what all the world knows, that gownmen and
women make use of no weapons but their tongues, I will, with mine,
fairly engage your reverence, of whom I might have expected good advice,
rather than infamous reproach; as wholesome and well-meant reproof
requires far other circumstances, and ought to be conveyed in gentler
terms: at least, a rebuke in publick, delivered with such asperity, has
exceeded all the bounds of Christian reprehension, the beginning of
which ought to be mild rather than severe; nor is it just to call the
delinquent in plain terms, a wiseacre and a fool, without knowing the
nature of the fault for which he is reprehensible. But, pray tell me,
reverend Signior, for which of the absurdities you have noted in my
behaviour, do you condemn and reproach me, bidding me return to my own
house, to take care of my family, my wife and children, without knowing
whether I have either wife or children? What then! is there nothing
required but to enter a house at random, in order to lead the master by
the nose; and shall a narrow-minded pedant, on the strength of having
taught a few pupils to read Latin, though he has seen no more of the
world than what may be contained in twenty or thirty leagues of
district, presume abruptly, without permission, to give laws to
chivalry, and judge of knights-errant? Is it a vain undertaking then, or
is the time misspent, which we employ in travelling about the world, not
in quest of its delights, but its adversities, by which good men ascend
the throne of immortality? Had I been counted a fool by knights, or
people of fashion, birth, or generosity, I should have deemed myself
irreparably affronted; but my being regarded as a madman by book-worms
who never entered or trod the paths of chivalry, I value not a farthing;
a knight I am, and a knight I shall die according to the pleasure of the
Almighty. Some chuse the spacious field of proud ambition; others take
that of base and servile adulation; a third set follow the paths of
deceitful hypocrisy; and a fourth proceed in that of true religion; but
I, by the influence of my stars, pursue the narrow track of
knight-errantry, for the exercise of which, I undervalue fortune in the
chace of honour. I have assisted the aggrieved, redressed wrongs,
chastised the insolent, overcome giants, and overthrown hobgoblins. I am
enamoured, for no other reason but because it is necessary that
knights-errant should be in love; and this being the case, I am not a
vicious libertine, but a chaste platonick admirer. My intention I always
direct to a worthy aim, namely, to do good unto all men, and harm to no
creature.—Whether or not he who thinks, acts, and speaks in this manner,
deserves to be called a fool, let your graces determine?’
‘Well argued, master!’ cried Sancho: ’‘Fore God! your worship needs say
no more in behalf of your own character; for there is no more to be
said, thought, or insisted upon; especially as that gentleman denies,
and he certainly has denied, that there either are, or ever were,
knights-errant in this world; so that he knows nothing at all of the
matter!’—‘Brother,’ replied the priest, ‘belike you are that Sancho
Panza, to whom they say your master has promised an island?’—‘Yes, I
am,’ said the squire, ‘and I hope I deserve it as well as another. I am
one of whom you may say, Keep good company, and you’ll learn good
manners; and, I ask not where you was hatched, but where you was
watched. And again, Well sheltered shall he be, who leans against a
sturdy tree. Now I have leaned against a good master, and accompanied
him many months, and will learn to be just such another as himself; and
if God pleases, and he live and I live, he will not want governments to
give, nor I islands to govern.’—‘No, surely, friend Sancho,’ said the
duke, ‘for I myself, in the name of Signior Don Quixote, will confer
upon you the government of an odd island, and that not inconsiderable,
which is in my possession.’—‘Fall upon your knees, Sancho,’ cried Don
Quixote, ‘and kiss his excellency’s feet, for the honour he has done
you.’ Sancho did as he was desired: and the ecclesiastick no sooner saw
the ceremony performed, than he rose from table in a violent passion,
saying, ‘By the habit which I wear, I affirm, that your excellency is as
mad as these poor sinners: what wonder that they should be frantick,
when people who are in their senses canonize their phrenzy! Your
excellency may enjoy their company by yourself; for while they remain in
this house, I shall stay in my own, and excuse myself from reproving
what I cannot remedy.’ Without farther speech, or eating another
mouthful, he went away abruptly, in spite of all their graces could say
to detain him. Indeed the duke said not much; for he was hindered by the
laughter which the priest’s impertinent indignation had produced;
however, as soon as he could resume his gravity, he addressed himself to
Don Quixote in these words.
‘Sir Knight of the Lions, your worship has made such an ample reply,
that nothing farther remains to be done, by way of satisfaction for
that, which though it may seem an affront, falls by no means under that
denomination; for neither the female sex nor the clergy, can give
affronts, as your worship so very well knows.’—‘Undoubtedly,’ answered
the knight; ‘and the reason is, because those persons who cannot
receive, are not capable of giving an affront. Women, children, and
ecclesiasticks, as they cannot defend themselves when attacked, so
neither can they be affronted: for there is this difference between an
injury and affront, as your excellency well knows; an affront comes from
a person who is capable of giving an affront, and when it is given,
maintains it; whereas, an injury may come from any quarter, unattended
by an affront. For example, a man walking carelessly in the street, is
assaulted and cudgelled by ten armed persons, against whom he draws his
sword, and behaves like a man of honour; but he is overpowered by the
number of his antagonists, and prevented from executing his intention,
which is to revenge the wrong; this man is injured, not affronted. A
truth which we will confirm by another example: A man comes and strikes
another, whose back is turned, and then betakes himself to his heels;
and the other pursues, though he cannot overtake the fugitive. The man
so struck received an injury, but no affront, because an affront ought
to be maintained. If he who gave the blow, though it was done by
stealth, in a cowardly manner, had drawn his sword, and stood facing the
enemy, he who received the blow would have been both injured and
affronted: injured, because he was surprized; and affronted, because he
who gave the blow maintained it by keeping his ground. And therefore,
according to the punctilios of honour, I may be injured but not
affronted; for women and children do not feel those things; they can
neither fly nor stand their ground: and the same rule holds good with
those who are consecrated to the service of religion. Now these three
classes of mankind are destitute of offensive and defensive weapons; and
though nature obliges them to stand in their own defence, yet they can
offend nobody: and albeit I just now said I might be injured, I now
affirm it cannot be in any shape; for he who cannot receive, much less
can he give an affront. For which reasons I ought not to resent, nor do
I resent, the reproaches of that honest man; I only wish he had staid a
little, until I should have convinced him of his error, in thinking and
saying, there never were, nor are, knights-errant upon the face of the
earth; an asseveration which might have turned to his prejudice, had it
been overheard by Amadis, or any one of his infinite progeny.’—‘I’ll
take my corporal oath,’ cried Sancho, ‘that they would have given a
back-stroke that would have laid him open from top to toe, like a
pomegranate or ripe melon: they were a rare set to endure such tickling.
By my holy-dame! I am well assured, that if Reynaldos of Montalvan had
heard this manikin’s discourse, he would have given him such a slap in
the mouth, that he should not have spoke another word in three long
years. No, no! let him meddle with them, and he’ll see how well he’ll
escape out of their clutches.’ The duchess had well-nigh died with
laughing at this speech of Sancho; who, in her sentiment, was a more
diverting madman than his master, and a great many people at that time
were of the same way of thinking.
Finally, Don Quixote was appeased, dinner ended, and the cloth being
taken away, in came four damsels, one of them with a silver ewer,
another with a flask of the same metal, a third with a couple of very
fine white towels over her arm, and a fourth with her arms bare up to
the elbow, and in her white hands, for doubtless they were white, a wash
ball of Neapolitan soap. She who carried the ewer, approaching with a
genteel carriage, and modest assurance, thrust it under the beard of Don
Quixote, who, without speaking one word, wondered at this ceremony; from
which he concluded, that it was the custom of the country to wash
beards, instead of hands: he therefore stretched out his chin as far as
he could, and immediately the flask began to rain; the damsel with the
soap-ball lathered him with great expedition, raising flakes of snow,
(for the suds were as white) not only upon the beard, but also over the
whole face of the obedient knight, insomuch that he was obliged to shut
his eyes in their defence; while the duke and duchess, who were not in
the secret, sat impatiently waiting to see the issue of this ablution.
The young she-barber having raised the lather as high as her hand,
pretended the water was spent, and bade the damsel of the flask go for a
fresh supply, and Signior Don Quixote would have patience till her
return. He accordingly waited with patience, exhibiting the strangest
and most ludicrous figure that ever was conceived, to the view of
numerous spectators, who seeing half a yard of neck more than moderately
brown, two eyes shut, and his beard covered with lather, had need of
great discretion to restrain their laughter, and it was a wonder they
could smother it at any rate. As for the damsels concerned in the joke,
they kept their eyes fixed on the ground, without daring to look at the
duke and duchess, who were at once agitated by mirth and indignation;
and did not know, whether they should resolve upon chastising their
presumption, or rewarding them for the pleasure they received in seeing
the knight in such an attitude. At length the damsel returning with more
water, they finished the ablution of Don Quixote; then she who carried
the towels having wiped and dried him with great composure, all four at
once made a most profound curtsey, and were going away. But the duke,
fearing the knight would smell the joke, called to the damsel of the
ewer, saying—‘Come hither, and wash me too, and be sure you have water
enough.’ The girl being very handy and acute, obeyed without hesitation,
placed the ewer under his grace’s chin, and when he was well washed,
lathered, wiped, and dried, they dropped their curtsies and retired. It
was afterwards known, the duke had sworn within himself, that if they
should have refused to serve him in that manner, he would have chastised
them for their assurance; but they prudently escaped a scouring, by
scouring his grace.
Sancho having attentively considered this ceremony of cleansing—‘God’s
mercy!’ said he within himself, ‘is it the custom in this country to
wash the squire’s beard as well as the knight’s? For God and my own
conscience knows, I have need of such purification; and if they would
give me the touch of a razor, the benefit would still be the
greater.’—‘What is that you mutter, Sancho?’ said the duchess. ‘I say,
my lady,’ answered the squire, ‘I have always heard it said, that in the
courts of other princes, when the cloth is taken away, water for the
hands is brought in, but not suds for the beard; so that the longer we
live, the more we learn: yet it is also observed, that he who lives much
time will bear much misfortune; though to undergo such a purification as
this may pass for a pleasure rather than a toil.’—‘Give yourself no
concern, friend Sancho,’ said the duchess, ‘for I will order my maids
not only to wash, but also to lay you a-bucking, should it be
necessary.’—‘I shall be satisfied with the lathering of my beard,’
replied the squire; ‘at least for the present, and God will ordain what
is to happen in the sequel.’ The duchess turning to the
major-domo—‘Remember,’ said she, ‘what honest Sancho desires, and
gratify his inclination with the utmost punctuality.’ This domestick
promised that Signior Sancho should be obeyed in all things; and
returning to dinner with the squire, left their graces and Don Quixote
sitting at the table, discoursing on many and various subjects, though
all of them related to chivalry and the exercise of arms.
The duchess entreated the knight, who seemed to possess such a tenacious
memory, to delineate and describe the beauty and deportment of the Lady
Dulcinea del Toboso, who, she concluded, from what fame had proclaimed
of her charms, must be the fairest creature, not only in the whole
world, but even in La Mancha. Don Quixote sighing, at her grace’s
request—‘If,’ said he, ‘I could take out my heart, and lay it before
your highness in a plate, upon this table, I should save my tongue the
trouble of saying what is almost inconceivable, for in it your
excellency would see her picture at full length: but why should I now
attempt to delineate and describe circumstantially the particular charms
of the peerless Dulcinea? A burden worthy of other shoulders than mine,
and a task which ought to employ the pencils of Parrhasius, Timanthes,
and Apelles, together with the chissel of Lysippus, to exhibit her image
on canvas, brass, and marble, as well as the Ciceronian and Demosthenian
eloquence to sound her praise.’—‘What does Signior Don Quixote mean by
Demosthenian,’ said the duchess, ‘which is a word I never heard before
in the whole course of my life.’—‘Demosthenian eloquence,’ answered the
knight, ‘has the same signification as the eloquence of Demosthenes, and
Ciceronian means that of Cicero; for these two were the greatest orators
in the whole world.’—‘Certainly,’ said the duke, ‘and you exposed
yourself by such an interrogation: nevertheless, Signior Don Quixote
would give us infinite pleasure, could he be prevailed upon to describe
that beauty which, even in a sketch or rough draught, would certainly
appear such as might excite envy in the most beautiful women of the
creation.’—‘I would assuredly comply with your grace’s desire,’ replied
the knight, ‘were not her idea blotted from my remembrance, by the
misfortune which hath lately befallen her; a misfortune which induces me
to bewail rather than describe her; for your highness must observe, that
when I went some time ago to kiss her hands and receive her benediction,
consent, and licence, for this my third sally, I found her quite
otherwise than I expected; I found her enchanted and transformed from a
princess into a country wench, from beauty into deformity, from an angel
into a dæmon, from a delicious perfume into a pestilential vapour, from
the pink of compliment into the most clownish dialect, from light into
darkness, from a sedate young lady into a rustick romp, and finally,
from Dulcinea del Toboso into a Sayago[166] drab.’—‘God protect us!’
cried the duke with a loud voice, ‘who can have done such mischief to
the world, in robbing it of that beauty by which it was delighted, that
good humour by which it was entertained, and that modesty which did it
honour?’—‘Who?’ answered the knight; ‘who could it be, but one of the
malignant and envious tribe of enchanters, by whom I am persecuted? That
accursed race, brought into the world on purpose to obscure and
annihilate the exploits of the good, and to illustrate and extol the
deeds of the wicked. Persecuted I have been by enchanters, persecuted I
am by enchanters, and enchanters will persecute me, until I and all my
lofty feats of chivalry are plunged into the abyss of oblivion: nay,
they injure and wound me in that part where they know my feeling is most
acute; for to deprive a knight-errant of his mistress, is to rob him of
the eyes with which he sees, the sun by which he is enlightened, and the
support by which he is maintained. I have many times said, and now I
repeat the observation, that a knight-errant without a mistress, is like
a tree without leaves, a building without cement, and a shadow without
the substance by which it is produced.’
‘There is no more to be said,’ replied the duchess; ‘nevertheless, if we
are to believe the history of Signior Don Quixote, which has lately been
ushered into the world, with the general applause of the different
nations that compose it, we must conclude (if I right remember) that
your worship never saw the Lady Dulcinea, and that there is no such
person in being; but that it is only a fantastical mistress, begot and
born in your imagination, which hath decked her with all the graces and
perfection that fancy could conceive.’—‘Much may be said on that
subject,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘God knows whether or not there is such
a person as Dulcinea in the world, whether she is fantastical or not
fantastical; for these things are not to be too nicely investigated: for
my own part, I neither begat nor bore my mistress, although I
contemplate her with that admiration which is due to a lady, in whom are
concentered those qualities that ought to render her renowned throughout
the whole world, such as beauty without blemish, gravity without pride,
tenderness with chastity, affability from courtesy, courtesy from
good-breeding; and, finally, dignity from birth, because nobleness of
blood reflects an additional splendor upon beauty, and shews it to
greater perfection than that which we find, among the fairest of those
who are meanly born.’—‘Your observation is extremely just,’ said the
duke: ‘but Signior Don Quixote must give me leave to mention what the
history of his adventures, which I have read, obliges me to declare;
namely, that though we grant there may be a Dulcinea, either in or out
of Toboso, and that she may be beautiful to excess, as your worship has
described her, yet, in respect to pedigree, she is by no means on a
footing with the Orianas, the Alastrajareas, Madasimas, together with
the rest of that class, which occurs so often in those histories that
are so familiar to your worship.’
‘To that observation I can answer,’ said the knight, ‘that Dulcinea is
the daughter of her own works; that good qualities ennoble the blood,
and that a virtuous person of low descent ought to be more esteemed than
a vicious man of high degree; especially as Dulcinea possesses
qualifications which may raise her to the throne of a crowned and
sceptered queen; for the merit of a virtuous and beautiful woman is
sufficient to work still greater miracles, and virtually, though not
formally, contains within itself still greater advantages.’—‘Signior Don
Quixote,’ said the duchess, ‘every thing you say is spoken with
deliberation, and, according to the proverb, you proceed with the
plummet in your hand: henceforth I shall firmly believe, and make my
whole family, even the duke himself, should there be occasion, believe,
that Dulcinea is living at this day in Toboso; that she is beautiful,
high born, and in all respects worthy to be served and admired by such a
knight as Signior Don Quixote; and that is the highest compliment that
can be bestowed. But I cannot help forming a scruple, and entertaining a
kind of grudge against Sancho Panza: the scruple arises from a
particular of the history, importing, that the said Sancho found the
Lady Dulcinea winnowing a sack of wheat, when he carried a letter to her
from your worship, by the same token it is said to have been red wheat;
a circumstance that makes me doubt the nobleness of her pedigree.’
To this remark Don Quixote replied—‘Madam, your highness must know that
all or the greatest part of the incidents that happen to me, deviate
from the ordinary limits of those adventures which occur to other
knights-errant, either conduced by the inscrutable will of destiny, or
effected by the malice of some envious enchanter; and it is a
circumstance well known of all or the greatest part of renowned
knights-errant, that one possessed the virtue of being proof against
enchantment, another of being invulnerable, which was the case of the
famous Orlando, one of the Twelve Peers of France, who, as it is
recorded, could not be wounded in any other place but the sole of his
left foot, and even there, with no other weapon than the point of a
large pin; so that Bernardo del Carpio, who slew him at the battle of
Roncesvalles, perceiving that he could make no impression upon him with
steel, lifted him off the ground, and strangled him between his arms, in
imitation of the manner in which Hercules destroyed Anteus, that
ferocious giant said to be the son of Earth. What I would infer from
what I have said, is, that I too may have some of these virtues centered
in my person, though not that of being invulnerable, for I have been
frequently convinced by experience, that my flesh is very tender, and by
no means impenetrable; nor that of being proof against enchantment, for
I once found myself cooped up in a cage, in which the whole world would
not have had strength enough to inclose me, without the additional power
of enchantment; but since I freed myself from that confinement, I am apt
to believe that no other will ever interrupt the course of my
adventures; and, therefore, those enchanters, seeing that their wicked
arts will not take effect upon my own person, revenge themselves on
those things to which my affection is chiefly attached, and endeavour to
deprive me of life, by persecuting that of Dulcinea, for whom alone I
live. I therefore am persuaded, that when my squire delivered my
message, they had converted her into a coarse country wench, employed in
such a mean exercise as that of winnowing wheat: but I have already
said, that it could not be red wheat, nor indeed any sort of wheat, but
oriental pearls; and as a proof of this asseveration, I must tell your
highnesses, that when I lately went to Toboso, I could by no means find
Dulcinea’s palace; and the day following, while my squire Sancho beheld
her in her own figure, which is the fairest in the whole world, to me
she seemed a rustick and homely country wench, without any thing
sensible in her conversation; whereas she is in fact the very pink of
discretion and good sense. Now, since I myself neither am, nor, in all
probability, can be enchanted, she is the person enchanted, offended,
changed, perverted, and transformed, and in her my enemies have taken
vengeance upon me; so that, for her, I shall live in perpetual
affliction, until I see her restored to her former state; all this I
have observed, that nobody may scruple about what Sancho said of her
sifting and winnowing; for, since they have transformed her in my view,
no wonder they should change her form in his. Dulcinea is a person of
birth and fashion, one of the genteel families of Toboso, which are very
numerous, ancient and noble; and certainly no small part of these
qualifications falls to the share of the peerless Dulcinea, on whose
account the place of her nativity will become famous and renowned in
future ages, as Troy is become famous by Helen, and Spain by Cava,
though with a better title and nobler fame. On the other hand, I must
inform your graces, that Sancho Panza is one of the most pleasant
squires that ever served a knight-errant: sometimes his simplicity is so
arch, that to consider whether he is more fool or wag, yields abundance
of pleasure; he hath roguery enough to pass for a knave, and absurdities
sufficient to confirm him a fool; he doubts every thing, and believes
every thing; and often, when I think, he is going to discharge nonsense,
he will utter apophthegms that will raise him to the skies; in a word, I
would not exchange him for any other squire, even with a city to boot;
and therefore I am in doubt whether or not it will be expedient to send
him to that government which your grace has been so good as to bestow
upon him; although I can perceive in him a certain aptitude for such an
office; so that, when his understanding is a very little polished, he
will agree with any government, like the king with his customs; for we
know by repeated experience, that great talents and learning are not
necessary in a governor, as there are a hundred at least, who govern
like _jerfaulcons_, though they can hardly read their mother tongue;
provided their intention is righteous, and their desire to do justice,
they will never want counsellors to direct them in every transaction,
like your military governors, who being illiterate themselves, never
decide without the advice of an assessor. I shall advise him corruption
to eschew, but never quit his due: and inculcate some other small
matters that are in my head, which, in process of time, may redound to
his own interest, as well as to the advantage of the island under his
command.’
Thus far the conversation had proceeded between their graces and Don
Quixote, when they heard a number of people talking, and a great noise
in the palace, and presently Sancho entered the hall in a fright, tucked
with a dish-clout by way of bib, and followed by several boys, or rather
scullions and other small gentry, one of whom brought a tray full of
water, which, by its colour and filth, appeared to be dish-washings,
pursuing and persecuting the poor squire, and struggling to thrust it
under his chin; while another, with the same earnestness, endeavoured to
lather his beard. ‘What is the matter, fellows?’ cried the duchess,
‘what is the matter? What designs have you upon that worthy gentleman?
Hah! don’t you consider he is governor elect?’ To this apostrophe, the
barber scullion replied—‘The gentleman won’t suffer himself to be washed
according to the custom and manner practised upon my Lord Duke and his
own master.’—‘Yes, I will,’ cried Sancho in a violent passion, ‘but it
must be with whiter towels, clearer suds, and cleaner hands; for surely
there is not such a difference between me and my master, as that he
should be washed with angel water, and I drenched with devil’s lye. The
customs of different countries, and the fashions of princely courts, are
no farther good than as they are agreeable; but this here custom of
lathering is worse than the exercise of disciplinants[167]. My beard is
clean enough, and needs no such scrubbing; and if any man pretends to
lather me, or touch a hair of my head, (my beard I mean) saving this
honourable presence, I’ll drive my fist in his scull; for these
ceremonies of soap scouring look rather like making game than making
welcome.’ The duchess was ready to burst with laughing at the rage and
remonstrance of Sancho: but Don Quixote was not extremely well pleased,
to see his squire tucked up with such a dirty cloth, and surrounded with
so many sons of the kitchen; he therefore, making a low bow to the duke
and duchess, by way of asking their permission to speak, thus addressed
himself to the scullions, in a solemn tone—‘So ho, you gentlemen
cavaliers! I desire your worships will let the young man alone, and
return to the place from whence you came, or go whithersoever you
please; my squire is as cleanly as another, and those trays are as unfit
for him as a narrow-necked bottle: take my advice, therefore, and let
him alone; for neither he nor I understand such impertinent jokes.’ Here
Sancho, taking the word out of his master’s mouth, proceeded,
saying—‘No, no, let them perform their clumsy joke, which I shall bear
as sure as it is now night! let them fetch a comb, or what they will, to
curry this beard, and if they catch any thing that should give offence
to cleanliness, they shall shear me against the hair.’
At this period, the duchess still laughing—‘Sancho Panza,’ said she, ‘is
certainly in the right in all that he has said, and will be in the right
in all that he shall say; he is already clean enough, and as he
observes, has no occasion to be washed; and if he does not like the
custom of the place, he shall follow his own inclination[168]; besides,
you ministers of cleanliness have been extremely remiss and negligent,
not to say presumptuous, in bringing to such a personage and such a
beard, trays, wooden troughs, and dishclouts, instead of ewers and
golden basons, and towels of the finest holland: but the case is, you
are base-born miscreants, and like caitiffs as you are, cannot forbear
shewing the grudge you bear to the squires of knights errant.’ The whole
scullion ministry, as well as the major-domo, who came in with them,
believed her grace was actually in earnest, and sneaked away in great
shame and confusion, after having untied the dishclout from the neck of
Sancho, who seeing himself delivered from that imminent danger, went and
fell upon his knees before the duchess, saying—‘From great ladies great
benefits are expected; and this that I have now received from your
grace, I can in no other shape repay, than in wishing I were dubbed a
knight-errant, that I might spend all the days of my life in the service
of such a noble and exalted lady; a peasant I am, and Sancho Panza by
name, with a wife and family, and serve in quality of a squire; and if
in any of these respects I can serve your highness, I shall be more
speedy in obeying than your grace in laying your commands.’—‘Sancho,’
replied the duchess, ‘it plainly appears that you have learned
politeness in the school of courtesy itself; I say, it plainly appears,
that you have been bred up at the feet of Don Quixote, who is the cream
of compliment, and flower of ceremony, or, as you term it, Sarah-money:
long life and prosperity to such a master and such a pupil; one the
north-pole of knight-errantry, and the other the very star of squirish
fidelity. Rise, friend Sancho, and I will remunerate your politeness, by
prevailing upon my Lord Duke to perform his promise of the government
with all possible dispatch.’
Here the conversation being broke off, the knight retired to take his
afternoon’s nap[169], and the duchess desired Sancho, if he was not very
much disposed to sleep, to go and pass the evening with her and her
women, in a very cool and pleasant apartment. Sancho told her, that
although it was really his custom to sleep for four or five hours every
afternoon in the heat of summer, yet, for the satisfaction of her
grace’s goodness, he would that day strive, with all his might, to keep
himself awake, and obey her commands in all things: he accordingly
attended her steps; while the duke gave fresh directions for treating
Don Quixote as a real knight-errant, without deviating one tittle from
the stile in which the ancient knights are said to have been
entertained.
END OF BOOK II. PART II.
Footnote 166:
Sayago is a district in the kingdom of Leon, the inhabitants of which
were extremely poor, and very meanly cloathed.
Footnote 167:
In Spain and Italy there is, upon every Holy Thursday, a procession of
disciplinants, or people who do penance in sackcloth, carrying a
flambeau in one hand, and in the other a scourge, with which they
belabour their own shoulders, in such a manner, that the very street
is sometimes coloured with their blood: some of these disciplinants,
however, are mere hypocrites, who under their sackcloth wear women’s
stay’s, buff jackets, and even plates of tin; so that they are often
detected from the sound of the stroke: and at Rome nothing is more
common than to hear the people who accompany these devotees, call out,
according to the report of the application, ‘_Guipponi di
Buffalo!—Busti di Donna!_ and _Corrazini di Latta!_’
Footnote 168:
‘_Su alma en su palma._’ The original expression literally signifies,
‘His soul is in his hand,’ i. e. ‘He is at his own discretion.’
Footnote 169:
In Spain the people always retire after dinner, and sleep till six
o’clock, whence the afternoon’s nap is called _siesta_.
BOOK III.
CHAP. I.
OF THE PLEASANT CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN THE DUCHESS,
HER WOMEN, AND SANCHO PANZA;
WORTHY TO BE READ AND REMEMBERED.
The history then relates, that Sancho did not sleep that afternoon; but,
according to his promise, went, eating all the way, into the apartment
of the duchess, who took great delight in hearing his conversation, and
desired him to sit close by her on a joint-stool, though the squire, out
of pure good-breeding, begged to be excused; but her grace told him, he
should sit as governor, and speak as squire, for in both capacities he
deserved the individual seat of the champion Cid Roy Dias.
[Illustration: Sancho Panza and the Duchess and Her Ladies.]
Sancho, shrugging up his shoulders, obeyed and took his place,
surrounded by all the damsels and duennas, who listened with profound
silence and attention. Nevertheless, the duchess was the first who began
the discourse, saying—‘Now that we are by ourselves, unheard by any
body, I must entreat Mr. Governor, to resolve certain doubts of mine,
produced by the printed history of the great Don Quixote; one of which
doubts is this: as honest Sancho never saw Dulcinea, I mean, the Lady
Dulcinea del Toboso, nor conveyed to her the letter of Signior Don
Quixote, which remained with the memorandum book in Sierra Morena, how
durst he feign an answer, and pretend that he found her winnowing wheat,
a circumstance altogether ridiculous and untrue, so much to the
prejudice of the peerless Dulcinea’s reputation, and so ill becoming the
station and fidelity of a trusty squire?’
Without making any immediate answer to this interrogation, Sancho rose
from his seat, and moving softly on his tiptoes, with his body bent, and
a finger on his lips, examined the whole apartment, lifting up and
looking behind the tapestry; and this scrutiny being made, returned to
his stool, and replied—‘Now, my Lady Duchess, that I am assured there is
no skulker listening, and that we are not overheard by any but this good
company, I will, without fear or trembling, answer all the questions of
your grace; and first and foremost, I will own, I look upon my master
Don Quixote as an incurable madman; although sometimes he says things,
which, to my thinking, and in the opinion of all who hear them, are so
sensible and well-directed, that even Satan himself could not mend them:
nevertheless, I am really and truly, and without any scruple, fully
persuaded within myself, that he is downright distracted. Now as I am
possessed with this notion, I venture to make him believe any story,
without either head or tail, like that of the answer to his letter, and
another trick that I played him six or eight days ago, which is not yet
recorded in the history; I mean, the enchantment of Donna Dulcinea,
which I palmed upon him, though it was a tale as wild and uncertain as
the hills of Ubeda[170].’
The duchess desired he would recount that enchantment or deception; and
he accordingly related it exactly as it happened, to the no small
entertainment of the hearers; but when he was about to proceed in his
discourse, her grace interposing, said—‘From this recital of honest
Sancho, a scruple has started in my mind, and whispers me in the ear,
since Don Quixote de La Mancha is so lunatick, crazy, and mad, and his
squire Sancho Panza, who knows his infirmity, nevertheless serves and
follows him, and even depends upon his vain promises; the said squire
must, without all doubt, be more crazy and mad than his master; and if
this be the case, as it certainly is, it would be no great sign of
wisdom in you, my Lady Duchess, to bestow an island on such a governor;
for how will he be able to govern other people, who cannot govern
himself?’
‘’Fore God, my lady,’ cried the squire, ‘your scruple starts in the
right place; and I beg your ladyship will let it speak out in its own
way, for I know it speaks truth. Had I been wise, I should have left my
master long ago; but this was my fate and my misventure: I cannot do
otherwise, but follow him I must. We are of the same town; I have eaten
of his bread; I have an affection for him; he returns me his love, and
has given me his colts; but, above all, I am constant and faithful, and
therefore nothing can possibly part us but the sexton’s shovel. If your
highness does not chuse to perform your promise of the island, God made
me of a less matter, and perhaps your refusal may turn out to the ease
of my conscience; for maugre all my madness, I understand the proverb
that says, The pismire found wings to her sorrow: and perhaps Sancho the
Squire may get sooner to heaven than Governor Sancho; There’s as good
bread baked here as in France; and By night all cats are grey; and sure,
The man his lot may rue, who has not broke his fast by two; Between man
and man the maw cannot differ a span; and, as the saying is, With hay or
with straw we’ll fill up the craw; The little birds of the field have
God for their steward and shield; Four yards of coarse Cuenca stuff are
warmer than as much of fine Segovia serge; When we leave this world and
are laid in the ground, the Lord goes in as narrow a path as his
labourer; and, The pope’s body takes up no more room than the sexton’s;
for though the one be higher than the other, When we go to the pit, we
must lie snug, and make it fit; or, We shall be obliged to find room,
though scanty is the tomb: and so good night. Wherefore, I say again, if
your grace will not give me the island, because I’m a fool, I shall be
so wise as not to break my heart at the disappointment; and I have often
heard, that the devil skulks behind the cross; It is not all gold that
glitters; and that, From his oxen, his yokes, and his ploughs, Bamba the
husbandman was raised to the throne of Spain; and that from his riches,
pastime, and embroidery, Rodorigo was taken to be devoured by serpents,
if the rhimes of old ballads do not lye.’
Here Donna Rodriguez the duenna, who was one of the hearers,
interposing, ‘Wherefore should they lye?’ said she, ‘for the ballad says
as how they thrust King Rodorigo all alive into a tomb full of toads,
lizards, and snakes; and two days after, he was heard to cry with a weak
and doleful voice, “Now they eat me! now they gnaw the part in which I
sinned so heinously!” And therefore the gentleman is in the right to say
he would rather be a husbandman than a king, to be devoured by vermin.’
The duchess could neither help laughing at the simplicity of her duenna,
nor admiring the discourse and proverbs of Sancho, to whom she
replied—‘Honest Sancho very well knows whatsoever a knight promises must
be fulfilled, even though it should cost him his life; now, my lord and
husband the duke, though no errant, is, nevertheless, a knight; and
therefore will perform his promise of the island, in spite of all the
envy and malice of the world; let Sancho, then, be of good cheer; for
when he least thinks of the matter, he will see himself seated in the
saddle of his island and dominion, and grasp his government, which he
would not exchange for one of superfine brocade; but I charge him to
mind how he governs his vassals, who, I give him notice, are all people
of honest parents and approved loyalty.’
‘With respect to their being happy under my government,’ said the
squire, ‘you need not give me any thing in charge; for I am naturally
charitable and compassionate towards the poor; and, From him who can
knead and bake, it is not easy to steal a cake. By my salvation, they
shall not pass false dice upon me! I am an old dog, not to be taken in
with, “Come hither, poor Tray[171].” I know how to snuff my peepers upon
proper occasions; nor will I consent to walk with cobwebs in my eyes;
for I know where the shoe pinches. This I observe, because the righteous
shall always have the benefit of my heart and hand, but the wicked shall
have neither foot nor footing. In my opinion, every governor must have a
beginning in the art and mystery of government, and perhaps, in a
fortnight’s administration, I shall lick my fingers after the office,
and know as much of the matter as I do of day-labour, to which I was
bred.’
‘Sancho,’ said the duchess, ‘you are certainly in the right; for no man
was ever a scholar at his birth; and bishops are made of men, and not of
blocks, but to return to our former discourse about the inchantment of
the Lady Dulcinea; I take it for an absolute certainty, and not a bare
asseveration, that Sancho’s scheme of deceiving his master, and making
him believe that the country wench was Dulcinea, whom the knight could
not know, because she was inchanted; I say, this scheme was altogether
the invention of one of those inchanters who persecute Don Quixote; for
I know, from very good authority, that the village maiden who skipped
upon the ass, was really and truly the individual Dulcinea del Toboso;
and that Sancho, in thinking himself the deceiver, was, in fast, the
person deceived: a truth of which we ought no more to doubt, than of
things we never saw; for Signior Sancho Panza must know, that here also
we have friendly inchanters, who, out of real regard, impart to us every
thing that passes, truly and distinctly, without circumlocution or
deceit; and therefore, Sancho may believe me, when I affirm, that the
jumping wench was, and is, Dulcinea del Toboso, who is as much inchanted
as the mother that bore her; and when we dream of no such thing, we
shall see her in her own shape, and then Sancho will be undeceived.’
‘There is nothing more likely,’ cried the squire; ‘and now I am apt to
believe my master’s account of the cave of Montesinos, where he saw my
Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, dressed in the same manner that I described,
when I inchanted her for my own amusement. Now, the whole affair must
have been quite the reverse, as your ladyship observes; for it cannot be
supposed that my ignorant pate could contrive, in an instant, such an
ingenious stratagem; nor can I think my master such a fool, as upon my
weak and meagre persuasion, to believe such an improbable device; but
for all that, my lady, your goodness ought not to take me for an
evil-minded person, seeing a blockhead, like me, is not obliged to bore
into the designs and knavery of abominable inchanters. I contrived the
scheme, in order to escape the displeasure of my master Don Quixote, and
not with any design to do him hurt; and if it has turned out otherwise,
there’s a Judge in heaven who knows the heart.’—‘Very true,’ answered
the duchess; ‘but tell me now, Sancho, the story of the cave of
Montesinos, which I shall be extremely glad to hear.’
Then Sancho Panza recounted every circumstance of that adventure, as it
hath been already related; and her grace having heard the whole—‘From
this incident,’ said she, ‘we may infer, that since the great Don
Quixote says he beheld in that place the same country wench whom Sancho
saw in the neighbourhood of Toboso, it could be no other than Dulcinea,
and that the inchanters of this country are very officious, and
extremely curious.’—‘This I will venture to say,’ replied Panza, ‘that
if my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso is really inchanted, ’tis her own loss,
and that it is no business of mine to enter the lists with my master’s
enemies, who are certainly both wicked and numerous. True it is, she I
saw was a country-wench, for such I took her, and such I judged her to
be. If that was Dulcinea, it ought not to be laid to my charge, nor am I
to be blackened for that reason; yet I must be lugged in, at every bawdy
house bench, with “Sancho said this; Sancho did that; Sancho went, and
Sancho came!” as if Sancho were just such as they would please to make
him, and not the very same Sancho Panza who has already travelled all
the world over in books, as I have been informed by Samson Carrasco, who
is, at least, a batcheleering person of Salamanca; and such people
cannot tell an untruth, except when it comes into their heads, or will
turn to their account; wherefore, nobody has any right to meddle with
me; and seeing I live in good repute, and I have heard my master say, A
good name is better than tons of wealth, even shove me into this
government, and they shall see marvellous things; for he who has been a
good squire, will never become a bad governor.’
‘All that honest Sancho has uttered,’ said the duchess, ‘is Catonian
wisdom, or at least the very essence of Michael Verino[172],
_Florentibus occidit annis_. In a word, to speak in his own stile, A
good drinker is often found under a rusty cloak.’—‘In sober truth, my
Lady,’ answered Sancho, ‘I never in my life drank out of malice; from
thirst I might, for I have not the least spice of hypocrisy in my belly;
I drink when I chuse it, and even when I would rather be excused,
because I am desired so to do, that I may not seem shy or ill-bred; for
sure he must have an heart of marble who can refuse to pledge a friend;
for though I put on my shoes, I will not defile them; especially, as the
squires of knights-errant usually drink water, as they are always
strolling through forests, woods, and meadows, and over rocks and
mountains, without finding the smallest charity of wine, even though one
should offer to purchase it with an eye.’—‘I believe what you say,’
answered the duchess: ‘at present Sancho may go to rest; and we shall
afterwards talk more at large upon these subjects, and take order that
with all convenient dispatch he may be, to use his own words, shoved
into that same government.’
Sancho kissed his hands again, and begged her grace would be so good as
to give directions about the entertainment of Dapple, who was the light
of his eyes. When she asked, what he meant by Dapple—‘My ass,’ replied
the squire, ‘whom, rather than use the vulgar term, I call Dapple: when
I first came to the castle, I desired Madam Duenna here to take care of
him; and truly she was as much affronted as if I had called her ugly and
old; though I think it would be more natural and proper for duennas to
look after cattle, than to regulate rooms of state. God’s my life! what
a spite a gentleman of our town had to these waiting-gentlewomen.’—‘He
must be some ill-bred clown,’ said Donna Rodriguez the duenna; ‘for had
he been a gentleman of birth, he would have exalted them above the horns
of the moon.’—‘Enough, for the present,’ resumed the duchess: ‘hold your
tongue, Donna Rodriguez, and let Signior Panza make himself perfectly
easy, and leave me to take special care of Dapple, whom, as being a
moveable appertaining to Sancho, I will place him above the apple of
mine eye.’—‘The stable is a place good enough for him,’ answered the
squire; ‘for neither he nor I are worthy of being placed for one moment
above the apple of your highness’s eye; and I will as soon consent to
his being disposed of in that manner, as I would to drive a dagger in my
breast; for although, as my master says, in point of courtesy, one ought
to lose the game by a card too much, rather than by a card too little;
in respect to asses, and the apple of an eye, one ought to proceed
cautiously with the compass in his hand, and measure as he goes.’
‘Sancho may conduct him to his government,’ said the duchess, ‘and there
entertain him to his heart’s content; nay, even infranchise him from all
labour.’—‘Your grace, my Lady Duchess, needs not think much of that,’
replied the squire; ‘for I have seen more than one or two asses go to
governments; and therefore it will be no new practice if I carry Dapple
to mine.’
This remark renewed the laughter and satisfaction of the duchess, who
having dismissed him to his repose, went to communicate the conversation
to the duke; and this noble couple contrived and gave directions about
the execution of a pleasant joke upon Don Quixote, which should turn out
a famous incident, and be conformable in all respects to the stile of
chivalry; in which they invented a number, with such propriety and
discretion, that they are counted the best adventures contained in this
important history.
Footnote 170:
This is an expression proverbially applied to any story that is vague,
inconsistent, or of dubious authority; for the hills of Ubeda make an
extensive chain, the different parts of which are differently
denominated, from the different countries or districts through which
it extends; so that the whole is not easily ascertained.
Footnote 171:
In the original, ‘And thoroughly understand “_Tus, tus_”’; which is an
expression in Spain, to wheedle a cur.
Footnote 172:
A young Florentine, of great genius, who died in the seventeenth year
of his age, and was lamented by all the poets of his time.
CHAP. II.
WHICH GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF THE INFORMATION RECEIVED,
TOUCHING THE MEANS FOR DISINCHANTING
THE PEERLESS DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO:
ONE OF THE MOST RENOWNED ADVENTURES OF THIS BOOK.
Great was the satisfaction which the duke and duchess received from the
conversation of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza; and being confirmed in
their design of practising some jokes, which should bear a faint shadow
and appearance of adventures, they took the hint for a very
extraordinary contrivance, from the knight’s account of what had
happened to him in the cave of Montesinos: but what mostly excited the
admiration of the duchess, was the amazing simplicity of Sancho, who was
by this time brought to believe, as an infallible truth, the inchantment
of Dulcinea, though he himself was the only inchanter and projector of
that whole stratagem. Their graces having given directions to the
servants, touching the execution of the scheme they had laid, at the end
of six days they went forth to hunt the wild boar, with as great an
apparatus of hunters and spearmen as used to attend the king in person.
Don Quixote was presented with a hunting suit, and Sancho received
another of superfine green cloth; but the knight excused himself from
accepting the present, observing that, in a few days, he should be
obliged to resume the rugged exercise of arms, and therefore could not
encumber himself with baggage and wardrobes; as for the squire, he took
that which was offered to him, without scruple, intending to sell it
with the first opportunity.
On the morning of the appointed day, Don Quixote armed himself at all
points, Sancho put on his green suit, and mounting Dapple, which he
would not exchange for the best steed in the stable, mingled among the
troop of hunters: the duchess came forth very gaily caparisoned, and the
knight, out of pure courtesy and good breeding, would have held the
reins of her palfrey; but the duke would not consent to his performing
such an office. At length they arrived at a wood, between two very high
mountains, where the disposition being made, the toils set, and the
people distributed in their different posts, the hunt began with a vast
noise of hallooing and crying, and nothing could be distinctly heard for
the barking of the dogs and the sound of the horns. The duchess
alighted, and with a pointed boar-spear in her hand, took post in a
place through which she knew the wild beasts were used to come; the duke
and Don Quixote likewise dismounting, posted themselves on each side of
her grace, while Sancho stayed in the rear, without parting from Dapple,
whom he durst not quit, lest some misfortune should happen to that
darling beast.
Scarce had they set foot on ground, and taken their stations, supported
by a number of servants, when they beheld a monstrous boar baited by the
dogs and pursued by the hunters, running towards them, gnashing his
teeth and tusks, and foaming at the mouth. The knight no sooner
perceived this savage, than bracing his shield and unsheathing his
sword, he advanced to receive him; while the duke did the same with his
boar-spear; but the duchess would have been the foremost of the three,
had she not been restrained by her lord. Sancho alone seeing this
furious animal, forsook his friend Dapple, and running full speed, in
order to climb a lofty oak, found his endeavours altogether ineffectual;
for having surmounted one half of the ascent, the branch on which he
stood struggling to gain the top, unfortunately gave way, and in
falling, he was caught by another stump of the tree, so that he hung
dangling in the air, without being able to reach the ground. Perceiving
himself thus suspended, that his green suit was torn, and supposing that
if the wild boar should come up, he would be able to seize him as he
hung, he began to utter such doleful cries, and roar so hideously for
assistance, that all those who heard his clamour, without seeing his
situation, actually believed he was in the jaws of some savage beast. At
length the tusky boar being pierced and killed by the number of spears
that opposed him, Don Quixote turned about his head, in consequence of
Sancho’s cries, by which he recognized his faithful squire, whom he saw
hanging from the oak, with his head downwards, and hard by he perceived
Dapple, who did not forsake him in his calamity: and Cid Hamet observes,
that he very seldom saw Sancho without Dapple, or Dapple without Sancho,
such was the friendship and fidelity subsisting between them. Don
Quixote immediately advanced and unhooked Sancho; who finding himself
delivered, and fairly placed upon firm ground, examined the rent in his
hunting-suit, which grieved him to the soul; for in that dress he
thought he had obtained an invaluable inheritance.
About this time they laid the mighty boar across a sumpter mule, and
covering him with sprigs of myrtle and rosemary, carried him in triumph,
as the spoils of victory, to a large field-tent, pitched in the middle
of the wood, where they found the cloth ready laid, and the table
furnished with such a grand and sumptuous entertainment as well bespoke
the wealth and magnificence of the founder. Sancho presenting to the
duchess the skirts of his torn suit—‘If,’ said he, ‘this had been hare
or sparrow-hunting, my coat would have been secure from this unlucky
accident; for my own part, I do not know what pleasure there is in
attacking an animal, which, if he can once fasten his tusks on you, will
deprive you of life. I remember to have heard people sing an old ballad,
that says—
‘“May bears upon thy carcase feed,
As erst on Fabila they did.”’
‘That was a Gothick king,’ said Don Quixote, ‘who in going to the chace,
was devoured by a bear.’—‘That is the very thing I say,’ replied the
squire, ‘I would not have kings and noblemen run themselves into such
dangers, for the enjoyment of a diversion which, in my opinion, hardly
deserves the name, as it consists in murdering a poor beast that never
committed any crime.’—‘There, Sancho, you are mistaken,’ said the duke,
‘for the exercise of hunting wild-beasts is of all others the most
necessary and suitable to kings and noblemen. The chace is a picture of
war, comprehending schemes, feints, and stratagems, for taking advantage
of the enemy; by this we are enabled to endure extreme cold and
excessive heat, to contemn ease and undervalue sleep; our bodies acquire
strength, and our limbs agility; in a word, it is an exercise that
affords pleasure to numbers, and does prejudice to none; and what
renders it superior to all others is, that it cannot be enjoyed by every
body, like all the other kinds of sport, except hawking, which is also
peculiar to sovereigns and persons of rank; you must therefore alter
your opinion, Sancho, and when you are governor, employ yourself in the
chace, which you will find of incredible service.[173]’—‘Surely, that
cannot be,’ answered the squire; ‘a good governor will stay at home, as
if he had a broken bone. It would look rarely indeed, if, when people
fatigued with a journey, come to visit him upon business, he should be
taking his diversion upon the hills; in that case the government would
go to wreck. In good faith, my lord, such pastime is more proper for
idle folks than for governors: I intend, God willing, to amuse myself
with a game at cards at Easter, and with nine pins on Sundays and
holidays; for as to these chaces or cases, they neither suit my
condition, nor agree with my confidence.’—‘God grant Sancho may behave
as he says he will,’ replied the duke; ‘but there is a wide difference
between saying and doing.’—‘Let it be as wide as it pleases,’ cried
Sancho. ‘A good paymaster needs no pawn; God’s blessing is better than
early rising; and, The belly is carried by the feet, and not the feet by
the belly; I mean, that with God’s assistance, and a righteous
intention, I shall certainly be able to govern like any goshawk; aye,
aye, let them thrust their fingers in my mouth, and they shall see
whether or no I can bite.’
‘The curse of God, and all his saints, light on thee, accursed babbler!’
cried Don Quixote: ‘will that day never come, as I have often said, when
I shall hear thee speak sensibly and distinctly, without lugging in old
saws?—My Lord and Lady Duchess, I entreat your graces to let that madman
alone; otherwise he will grind your souls, not between two but two
thousand proverbs, dragged in as much to the purpose, and as seasonably
as I wish God may give him health, or me protection, if I desire to hear
them.’—‘The proverbs of Sancho Panza,’ said the duchess, ‘though more in
number than those of the Greek commentator, are not the less to be
esteemed for the conciseness of the apophthegms. I can safely say for
myself, that they give me much more pleasure than I should receive from
others, though better culled and more suitable to the occasion.’
In the midst of this and other such savoury conversation, they quitted
the tent, to examine some snares they had laid; in which amusement the
day was soon elapsed, and was succeeded by the night, which did not
appear so serene and composed as it might have been expected at the
season of the year, which was midsummer, but along with it came a
certain _darkness visible_, which greatly assisted the design of the
duke and duchess. When the night, therefore, began to fall, a little
after the twilight, all of a sudden the four quarters of the wood seemed
to be on fire, and here and there, and every where, they heard an
infinite number of cornets and other warlike instruments, as if a great
number of cavalry had been marching through the wood; so that the light
of the flames, and the sound of those warlike instruments, dazzled and
astonished the eyes and ears of the bye-standers, and indeed of all the
people in the wood. This noise was succeeded by innumerable _lelilles_,
or cries used by the Moors in battle; the trumpets and clarions exalted
their brazen throats, the drums rattled, and the fires resounded all
together, in such a continued and alarming concert, that the man must
have been utterly devoid of all sense who did not lose it in consequence
of such confusion and uproar. The duke was confounded, the duchess
amazed, Don Quixote astonished, Sancho Panza affrighted; and, finally,
even those who were let into the secret, seemed to be seized with
consternation, which produced among them a most dreary silence.
During this pause, came a postillion dressed, like a devil, and instead
of a cornet, blew an unmeasurable horn, which yielded an hoarse and
dreadful sound. ‘Holla! brother courier,’ cried the duke, ‘who are you?
where are you going? and what troops are those that seem to march across
the wood?’ To these interrogations the courier replied, in a dismal,
hollow tone—‘I am the devil, going in quest of Don Quixote de La Mancha;
those who follow are six troops of inchanters, who bring upon a
triumphant car the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso inchanted, accompanied
by the gallant Frenchman Montesinos, to instruct Don Quixote in a
certain method for disinchanting the said Lady Dulcinea.’—‘If you were
the devil,’ answered the duke, ‘as you say you are, and your figure
seems to declare, you would have distinguished that same knight Don
Quixote de La Mancha, who now stands before you.’—‘’Fore God! and upon
my conscience,’ cried the devil, ‘I did not see him; for my thoughts are
so much distracted by different avocations, that I had forgot the
principal aim of my coming.’—‘Without doubt,’ said Sancho, ‘that devil
must be an honest man, and a good Christian, otherwise he would not
swear, ’Fore God, and on my conscience! Now I am fully convinced that
there must be some worthy people even in hell.’
Then the courier, without alighting, fixed his eyes upon Don Quixote,
and pronounced—‘To thee, the Knight of the Lions (and would I might see
thee in their clutches) am I sent by the unfortunate though valiant
knight Montesinos, who commanded me to desire, in his name, that thou
wouldst wait on the very spot where I should find thee, because he
brings along with him one Dulcinea del Toboso, in order to communicate
what will be necessary towards her disinchantment; and as this message
was the sole cause of my coming, there is no cause that requires my
longer stay. Devils like me be with thee, and good angels guard that
noble pair!’ So saying, he sounded his dreadful horn, and rode off,
without waiting for the least reply.
This address renewed the astonishment of all present, especially of
Sancho and Don Quixote; of Sancho, because, in despite of truth, he saw
they were resolved that Dulcinea should be inchanted; and of Don
Quixote, because he could not be certain of the truth of what had
happened to him in the cave of Montesinos. While he was wrapped in these
meditations, the duke accosted him, saying—‘Signior Don Quixote, do you
intend to wait?’—‘Wherefore not?’ replied the knight; ‘here will I wait,
courageous and intrepid, though all hell should come to assault
me.’—‘Then, for my part,’ cried Sancho, ‘if I see another devil, and
hear another horn like that which passed, I should as soon wait here as
in Flanders.’
About this time the night being more advanced, a number of lights began
to gleam through the wood, like the dry exhalations of the earth that
glide through the air, and are mistaken by ignorant people for shooting
stars: their fears were likewise invaded by a frightful sound, like that
occasioned by the massy wheels of waggons drawn by oxen; an harsh and
grating noise, from which the very bears and wolves (if any chance to be
in the way) are said to fly with terror. This uproar was succeeded by
another more terrible than all the rest; for all at once, at the four
corners of the wood, there really seemed to be four encounters or
battles: in one place was heard the horrid din of cannon; in another a
vast number of muskets were fired; here resounded the cries of the
combatants; there the Moorish _lelilles_ were repeated with vast
vociferation. In a word, the cornets, horns, bugles, clarions, trumpets,
drums, artillery, and musketry, but, above all, the dismal noise of the
cars, formed all together such a confused and horrible concert, that Don
Quixote was obliged to recollect his whole courage, in order to bear it
without emotion; but Sancho’s heart died within him, and down he came in
a swoon upon the train of the duchess, who received him as he fell, and
with marks of great concern, ordered her servants to throw water in his
face: in consequence of this application, he recovered, just as one of
the waggons with the creaking wheels came up to the place where they
stood. It was drawn by four lazy oxen, wholly covered with black
trappings, with a large lighted taper tied to each horn, and in the
waggon was raised a lofty seat, on which sat a venerable old man, with a
beard as white as snow itself, that flowed down below his middle, and a
large loose garment of black buckram; for the waggon being stuck full of
lights, it was easy to observe and distinguish every thing that it
contained. It was conducted by two ugly devils clad also in buckram,
with such hideous features, that Sancho no sooner saw them than he shut
his eyes, that they might not encounter such frightful objects. This
carriage being come up, the venerable senior rose up from his lofty
seat, and pronounced aloud—‘I am the sage Lirgandeo.’ He said no more;
and the waggon proceeded. Another carriage followed in the same manner,
with another old man inthroned, who ordering the waggon to stop, said
with a voice as solemn as the first—‘I am the sage Alquife, the great
friend of Urganda the unknown.’ And so the carriage proceeded. Then a
third approached in the same stile: but he who possessed this throne,
instead of being old like the others, was a robust man of a very
disagreeable aspect, who rising from his seat, like the other two,
exclaimed in a more hoarse and diabolical tone—‘I am the inchanter
Arcalaus, the mortal enemy of Amadis de Gaul, and his whole race.’ And
so the carriage passed on; but when they had proceeded a little way, the
three waggons halted, then ceased the dismal creaking of the wheels, and
no other sound was heard but that of an agreeable musical concert, which
rejoiced the heart of Sancho, who took it as a good omen, and in that
persuasion said to the duchess, from whom he had not budged an hair’s
breadth—‘My Lady Duchess, where there is musick there can be no
harm.’—‘As little should we expect any harm where there is light and
illumination,’ answered the duchess. ‘And yet,’ replied the squire, ‘we
may be easily burnt by such torches and bonfires as these,
notwithstanding all the light and illuminations they produced; but
musick is always a sign of joy and feasting.’—‘Time will shew,’ said Don
Quixote, who overheard the conversation; and he said well, as will
appear in the following chapter.
Footnote 173:
Literally, ‘And you shall see it will be worth a loaf that will serve
a hundred.’
CHAP. III.
BEING A CONTINUATION OF WHAT WAS IMPARTED TO DON QUIXOTE,
TOUCHING THE MEANS FOR DISINCHANTING
DULCINEA—WITH AN ACCOUNT OF OTHER SURPRIZING INCIDENTS.
Moving to the sound of this agreeable musick, came one of those
carriages, called triumphal cars, drawn by six grey mules, covered with
white linen, and upon each was mounted a penitent of light[174], clad
also in white, with a large lighted wax taper in his hand. The car was
twice, nay thrice as large as the carriages which had passed, and the
tops and sides were occupied by twelve other penitents as white as snow,
with their lighted tapers: a sight that excited equal terror and
surprise. Seated on a lofty throne appeared a nymph, habited in robes of
silver tissue, bespangled with innumerable leaves of gold brocade; so
that her dress, if not rich, was extremely gaudy; her face was covered
with a delicate and transparent veil of fine tiffany, the plaits of
which could not conceal the beauteous features of a young lady; and the
number of lights enabled the spectators to distinguish her charms and
her age, which seemed to be turned of seventeen, but under twenty. Close
by her appeared a figure clad in what is called a robe of state, that
reached to his feet; and his head was muffled in a black veil. The cart
had no sooner come opposite to the duke and duchess and Don Quixote,
than the musick of the waits, the harps, and lutes, ceased all at once;
then this figure rising, threw aside his robe, and taking off the veil,
disclosed to view the horrible and incarnate form of death; at sight of
which Don Quixote was startled, Sancho overwhelmed with fear, and the
duke and duchess exhibited some affected marks of consternation.
This living death standing upright, began, with a languid voice and
tongue, but half awake, to repeat the following address—
‘I Merlin am, by histories bely’d.
That represent the devil as my fire:
A falshood sanction’d by the lapse of time.
I am the prince of magick, in whose breast
The Zoroastrick science lies intomb’d:
The rival of invidious Time, whose wings
Still seek to shade and darken all exploits
Atchiev’d by the illustrious errant knights,
For whom my friendship glows, and ever glow’d.
‘Tho’ all my fellows of th’inchanting tribe,
The magi and magicians, ever nurs’d
A disposition barbarous and harsh,
Mine still was tender, gentle, and humane,
A friend to all the various race of man.
In the profoundest cave of gloomy Dis,
Where my industrious spirit was employ’d
In forming mystick characters and spells,
Mine ears were wounded with the wailing cries
Of fam’d Dulcinea, that matchless fair.
‘I learn’d her strange inchantment, and condol’d
Her transformation from a gentle nymph
To the vile figure of a rustick wench.
And hundred thousand volumes I perus’d,
Fraught with the dark and diabolick art;
Then in the horrible and ghastly trunk
Of this dry skeleton my soul enclosed:
And now I come on purpose to impart
An easy remedy for her mishap.
‘O thou! the glory of all knights who wear
Impervious coats of mail and adamant;
Thou light and lanthorn, path, and north, and guide
Of all who quit the drowsy joys of sloth,
And starting from the lazy down, embrace
Th’ intolerable use and exercise
Of rude, unwieldy, sanguinary arms:
To thee I speak, great chief, whose valiant deeds
So far transcend the loudest blast of fame.
‘Quixote, for courage and discretion fam’d,
La Mancha’s mirrour, and the star of Spain,
In order to recover and restore
Thy peerless mistress to her former state,
Sancho, thy faithful squire, must undergo
Three thousand and three hundred stripes, apply’d
To his posteriors, passively expos’d;
And he himself must wield the pliant scourge
And start, and smart, and tingle with the pain.
Thus stands th’ irrevocable doom pronounc’d
By the fell authors of her dire mischance;
And on this errand, gentles, am I come.’
‘I vow to God!’ cried Sancho at this period, ‘not to mention three
thousand, I will as soon give myself three stabs with a dagger as three
single stripes with a scourge. Now, devil take such ways of
disenchanting! I cannot conceive what my buttocks have to do with
inchantments. Before God! if Signior Merlin can find no other method for
disinchanting my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he may e’en go enchanted to
her grave.’—‘Hark ye, Don Garlick-eating rustick,’ said Don Quixote, ‘I
shall take and tie you to a tree, naked as your mother bore you, and not
to mention three thousand three hundred, give you six thousand six
hundred lashes, so well laid on, that three thousand three hundred
twitches shall not pull them off; and answer me not a syllable, or I
will tear thy soul from thy body.’
Merlin hearing this declaration—‘Not so, neither,’ said he; ‘the lashes
to be received by honest Sancho must be voluntary, not upon compulsion,
and at his own leisure, for there is no time fixed for the final
execution; nevertheless, he is so far indulged, that he may be quit for
one half of the stripes, provided he will allow the other half to be
inflicted by another hand, though it may chance to be a little
weighty.’—‘No man’s hand shall touch my flesh! neither another’s, nor my
own, nor weighty nor unweighed. What a plague! did I, forsooth, bring my
Lady Dulcinea into the world, that my backside must suffer for the
transgression of her eyes? My master, indeed, who is a part of her, and
is continually calling her his life, his soul, his sustenance and
support, may, and ought to lash himself for her sake, and take with all
dispatch the necessary steps for her disenchantment; but for me to
scourge my own body, I denounce it!’
Scarce had Sancho uttered this remonstrance, when the embroidered nymph
who sat by Merlin’s spirit, rising up, took off her transparent veil,
and disclosing a face, which to all the spectators seemed more than
exceedingly beautiful, addressed herself in these words directly to
Sancho Panza, with a masculine assurance, and a voice that was not
extremely melodious—‘O ill-conditioned squire! thou soul of a pitcher,
heart of cork, and bowels of flinty pebbles! hadst thou been commanded,
thou nose-slaying caitiff, to throw thyself down from a lofty tower;
hadst thou been desired, thou enemy of human species, to swallow a dozen
of toads, twice the number of lizards, and three dozen of snakes; hadst
thou been urged to murder thy wife and children with some sharp and
ruthless scymitar, it would not have been strange to see thee shy and
fearful; but to make such objections to three thousand three hundred
stripes, which there is scarce a naughty boy that does not receive every
month, astounds, astonishes, and affrights the compassionate bowels of
all this audience, as well as of all those who shall hear it in the
future course of time. Turn, O miserable, hard-hearted animal! turn, I
say, thy mulish goggle eyes upon these balls of mine that emulate the
glittering stars, and see how they weep, thread by thread, and skein by
skein, creating trenches, paths, and furrows, through the delightful
meadows of my cheeks! Wilt thou not relent, thou crafty and malicious
monster, at seeing me, in the flower of my age, (for I am still in my
teens, being no more than nineteen, which is one year short of twenty)
consume and pine within the bark of a homely rustick wench? in which
form if I do not now appear, it is owing to the particular favour of
Signior Merlin, who has indulged me so far, that my beauty might melt
thy savage heart; for the tears of afflicted beauty soften rocks to
cotton, and transform tygers into gentle lambs. Chastise, chastise,
obdurate beast, that brawny beef of thine; arouze that slothful spirit
which inclines thee to nothing but to gorge and regorge thy voracious
maw, and set at liberty the beauty of my face; and if, for my sake, thou
wilt not mollify thyself, and listen to any reasonable terms, at least
relent in favour of that poor knight who stands forlorn at thy elbow; I
mean, thy master, whose soul I now can see traversed in his throat, not
above ten fingers breadth from his lips, waiting for nothing but thy
kind or rigorous reply, in consequence of which it will either leap out
of his mouth, or retire to his stomach.’
Don Quixote hearing these words, felt his throat, and turning to the
duke, ‘By Heaven! my lord,’ said he, ‘Dulcinea has spoke truth; for here
do I feel my soul traversed in my throat, like the nut of a cross-bow.’
When the duchess asked what Sancho said to that circumstance, ‘I say,’
replied the squire, ‘what I have said already, that the whipping I
denounce.’—‘You must call it renounce,’ said the duke, ‘and not
denounce.’—‘I would your grace would let me alone,’ answered Sancho,
‘this is no time for me to mind niceties and letters, more or less; for
I am so confounded at those stripes which I am to receive, or execute
upon myself, that I neither know what I am saying or doing: yet I should
be glad to know where my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso learned that manner of
asking favours. She comes to desire me to tear open my flesh with a
horse-whip, and calls me soul of a pitcher, obdurate beast, and a whole
rigmarole of villainous names, which the devil may suffer for me! What a
plague, is my flesh made of brass; or is it any thing to me, whether she
is disinchanted or no? What baskets of white linen, shirts, caps, and
socks, (though I wear none) does she bring to soften me? Nothing but
abuse upon abuse; without remembering the proverb, that says, An ass
loaded with gold will skip over a mountain. A generous gift the rock
will rift. We must fervently pray, and hammer away. I will give thee, is
good; but, Here, take it, is better. Then, my master, who ought to lead
me fair and softly by the hand, and persuade me with gentle words to
whip myself into wool and carded cotton, declares, forsooth, that if he
should once take me in hand, he will tie me naked to a tree, and double
the allowance of stripes. These angry gentlemen ought to consider it is
not only a squire, but a governor whom they desire to flog himself, as
if it was no more than drinking after cherries. Let them learn, let them
learn, with a vengeance, how to entreat and beg with good-breeding; for
all seasons are not the same; and a man is not always in good-humour;
here am I ready to burst with vexation to see the rent in my green coat,
and they must needs come and desire me to whip myself with good will,
when, God knows, I am as far from doing it with good will, as I am from
turning Turk[175].’
‘Nevertheless, friend Sancho,’ said the duke, ‘if your heart does not
become softer than a ripe fig, you shall finger no government of mine.
It would be a fine scheme, indeed, if I should send to my islanders a
cruel, flinty-hearted governor, who would not melt at the tears of
damsels in affliction; nor at the entreaties of wise, imperious, ancient
sages and inchanters! In a word, Sancho, you must either consent to whip
yourself, or be whipped, or lay aside all thoughts of being a
governor.’—‘My good lord,’ replied the squire, ‘will not they give me
two days to consider and determine what will be for the best?’—‘By no
means,’ cried Merlin: ‘on this very spot, and this very instant, the
business must be discussed; otherwise Dulcinea will return to the cave
of Montesinos, and the appearance of a country-wench; whereas, if you
comply, she will, in her present form, be transported to the Elysian
fields, where she must reside until the number of the stripes be
accomplished.’
‘Go to, honest Sancho,’ said the duchess, ‘pluck up your spirits, and
behave like a grateful squire that has eaten the bread of Signior Don
Quixote, who is intitled to the service and acknowledgments of us all,
by his amiable disposition and sublime chivalry. Say Aye, my son, to
this same flagellation, and let the devil fetch the devil; leave fear to
the coward; for a stout heart quails misfortune, as you very well know.’
To these exhortations Sancho made no reply; but addressing himself to
Merlin, with his usual extravagance, ‘Good, your worship, pray tell me,
Signior Merlin, the meaning of one thing: a certain courier devil came
here with a message to my master, from Signior Montesinos, desiring him
to stay in this place until he should come up; for he would teach him a
way to disinchant my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; and hitherto we have seen
no such person?’ To this interrogation Merlin replied, ‘That devil,
friend Sancho, is an ignorant blockhead, and a very great knave. I sent
him hither in quest of your master; not with a message from Montesinos,
but from myself; for Montesinos is still in his cave, planning, or
rather expecting his disinchantment, the worst of which is still to
come; but if he owes you any thing, or you have any business to transact
with him, I will bring you face to face wherever you shall appoint. In
the mean time, dispatch, and give your consent to this discipline;
which, I assure you, will greatly redound to the advantage both of your
soul and body: to your soul, from the charity of the undertaking; and to
your body, as I know you are of a florid complexion, and will be the
better for losing a little blood.’
‘What a number of leeches have we got in this world!’ said Sancho; ‘the
very inchanters are physicians; but since every body says so, although I
cannot perceive it myself, I am content to give myself three thousand
three hundred lashes, on condition that I may give them when and where I
shall think proper, without being confined to any certain time, or rate
of allowance; and I will endeavour to discharge the debt as soon as
possible, that the world may enjoy the beauty of the Lady Dulcinea del
Toboso, since, contrary to my former belief, she appears to be really
beautiful. I likewise covenant that I shall not be obliged to fetch
blood with the scourge, and that in case I should chance to be whipped
by the officers of justice[176], every lash so received shall enter into
the tale: Item, lest I should commit a mistake in the number, Signior
Merlin, who knows every thing, shall take care to reckon them, and give
me to understand how far I have fallen short, or exceeded the appointed
score.’—‘There will be no occasion to apprize you of the overplus,’ said
Merlin; ‘for as soon as the number shall be compleated, the Lady
Dulcinea will be disinchanted, and come, out of pure gratitude, to
return thanks, and even a recompence to the charitable Sancho for his
good work. You need not, therefore, make any scruple about the superplus
or the deficiency; nor will Heaven allow me to defraud any person, even
of a single hair.’—‘A God’s name, then,’ cried Sancho, ‘I consent in my
tribulation; I say, I accept of the penance on the conditions
aforesaid.’
Scarce had Sancho pronounced these last words, when the musick of the
waits began to play again, and an infinite number of muskets were
discharged, while Don Quixote, hanging about Sancho’s neck, imprinted a
world of kisses on his cheeks and forehead; the duke and duchess, and
all the by-standers, expressed the utmost pleasure, the car began to
move, and the beauteous Dulcinea, in passing, bowed to their graces, and
made a profound curtsy to Sancho.
About this time the chearful smiling morn advanced; the flowerets of the
field, with heads erect, diffused their fragrance; and the liquid
chrystal of the rills murmuring among the variegated pebbles, went
sliding on to pay its tribute to the rivers, that waited to receive
their customary dues: the joyous earth, the splendid firmament, the
buxom air, and light unclouded; each singly, and all together joined,
prognosticated plainly, that the day, which trod upon Aurora’s skirts,
would be serene and fair. The duke and duchess, extremely well satisfied
with the chace, as well as with the ingenious and fortunate execution of
their design, returned to the castle, with full intention to perform the
sequel of their jest, than which no real adventure could have given them
more delight.
Footnote 174:
_Disciplinante de lux_, is a cant phrase, applied to those who are
exposed to publick shame.
Footnote 175:
Literally, _cacique_, which was the appellation given to Indian
princes.
Footnote 176:
The other translators have interpreted _mosqueo_ into a fly-flap,
which is undoubtedly one of his meanings; but as it likewise signifies
flagellation at the cart’s tail, I have taken it in this last
acceptation, which, I think, heightens the humour of the passage.
CHAP. IV.
WHICH GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF THE PERILOUS AND INCONCEIVABLE
ADVENTURE OF THE AFFLICTED DUENNA,
ALIAS THE COUNTESS TRIFALDI—
TOGETHER WITH A LETTER WHICH SANCHO PANZA WROTE TO HIS WIFE TERESA
PANZA.
The duke’s steward was a man of humour and ingenuity, who acted the part
of Merlin, and adjusted all the apparatus of the foregoing adventure;
for he composed the verses, and directed a page to represent Dulcinea;
finally, under the auspices of his lord and lady, he projected another
of the most agreeable and strange fancy that could possibly be
conceived.
Next day the duchess asking Sancho if he had begun the task of the
penance, which he was to undergo for the disinchantment of Dulcinea, he
answered in the affirmative, and said, he had that same night given
himself five lashes; but when she enquired about the instrument with
which they were inflicted, he owned they were applied with his hand.
‘That is rather clapping than lashing,’ replied her grace; ‘and I take
it for granted, the sage Merlin will not be content with such delicacy;
it will be absolutely necessary that honest Sancho should make a scourge
of briars, or use a switch that will make him feel it; for learning is
not acquired without pain, and the liberty of such an high-born lady as
Dulcinea is not to be purchased for a trifle.’ To this remonstrance
Sancho replied, ‘I wish your grace would lend me some convenient whip,
or ragged rope’s end, which would do the business without giving me a
great deal of pain; for I would have your grace to know, that although I
am a labouring man, my flesh has more of the cotton than the mat weed in
it; and there is no reason that I should destroy myself for another’s
advantage.’—‘In good time be it,’ answered the duchess; ‘to-morrow
morning I will give you a scourge that will fit you to an hair, and
agree as well with the tenderness of your flesh, as if it was its own
brother.’
This affair being adjusted, ‘My lady,’ said Sancho Panza, ‘your highness
must know I have writ a letter to my wife Teresa Panza, giving an
account of all that hath befallen me since we parted: here it is in my
bosom, and wants nothing but a superscription. I wish your grace, in
your great understanding, would read it; for, in my mind, it smacks of
the governor; I mean, of the manner in which governors ought to
write.’—‘And who was the inditer?’ said the duchess. ‘Who should indite
it, sinner that I am, but myself!’ answered the squire. ‘Did you
likewise write it yourself?’ replied her grace. ‘I did not so much as
think of any such matter,’ said Sancho; ‘for the truth is, I can neither
read nor write, though I know very well how to set my mark.’—‘Let us see
this epistle,’ quoth the duchess, ‘in which, I dare say, you have
displayed the quality and extent of your understanding.’
Then Sancho pulling an open letter from his bosom, the duchess took and
read it to this effect.
SANCHO’S LETTER TO HIS WIFE TERESA PANZA.
‘If I have been finely lashed, I have been well mounted; If I have
obtained a good government, it has cost me a good whipping. This,
Teresa, thou wilt not now understand, but shalt learn some other
opportunity. Know, Teresa, I am determined thou shalt ride in a
coach, which is a resolution pat to the purpose; for any other way
of travelling is fit for none but cats. A governor’s lady you shall
be, and I would fain see the best of them tread upon thy heels. I
have sent thee a green hunting suit, which was a present from my
Lady Duchess. Make it up into a petticoat and jacket for our
daughter. My master Don Quixote, as I have heard in this country, is
a sensible madman, and a diverting fool, and I myself am nothing
short of him in these respects. We have been in the cave of
Montesinos, and the sage Merlin has pitched upon me to disinchant
the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, who in your parts is called Aldonza
Lorenzo; with three thousand three hundred stripes, lacking five,
which I am to give myself, she will be as much disinchanted as the
mother that bore her. Thou shalt not mention a syllable of this to
any person whatsoever; for if you go to seek advice about your own
concerns, one will say it is white, and another swear ’tis black.’
A few days hence I shall set out for my government, whither I go
with a most outrageous desire of getting money; and I am told, this
is the case with all new governors. I will feel the pulse of it, and
give thee notice whether or no thou shalt come and live with me.
Dapple is in good health, and sends his most hearty commendations: I
believe I shall not forsake him even if they should make me the
Grand Turk. My Lady Duchess kisses thy hand a thousand times: return
the compliment with two thousand; for, as my master says, Nothing is
so reasonable and cheap as good manners. It has not pleased God that
I should stumble upon another portmanteau with a hundred crowns, as
heretofore; but let that give thee no uneasiness, my dear Teresa,
for he is safe who has good cards to play; and what is amiss will
come out in the washing of this same government. One thing, I own,
gives me great concern: I am told, that if once I taste it, I shall
be apt to eat my fingers; and should that be the case, it will be no
cheap bargain; though the lame and the paralytick enjoy a sort of
canonry in the alms they receive. Wherefore, one way or another,
thou wilt certainly be rich and fortunate. The Lord make thee so, as
he very well may, and preserve for thy service thy husband the
governor.
‘SANCHO PANZA.
‘From the Duke’s Castle, July 20, 1614.’
The Duchess having read the letter to an end, ‘In two circumstances,’
said she, ‘the honest governor is a little out of the way. First, in
saying or insinuating, that the government was bestowed upon him, in
return for the stripes he must undergo; whereas he knows, and cannot
deny, that when my Lord Duke promised him the island, nobody thought of
any such thing as stripes in the world: Secondly, he discovers an
avaricious disposition, and I should not like to see him a skin flint;
for greediness bursts the bag, and a covetous governor will do very
ungoverned justice.’—‘I did not write with that intention,’ answered the
squire: ‘and if your ladyship thinks this is not a proper letter, there
is nothing to do but tear it and write another, which perhaps will be
still worse, if it be left to my own numbskull.’—‘No, no,’ cried the
duchess, ‘this will do very well, and must be shewn to the duke.’
Accordingly, repairing to a garden, where they were to dine that day,
she communicated Sancho’s epistle to the duke, who perused it with
infinite pleasure. Here they went to dinner, and after the cloth was
taken away, and they had entertained themselves a good while with the
savoury conversation of Sancho, their ears were suddenly invaded with
the dismal sound of a fife and a hoarse unbraced drum: all the company
were startled at this confused, martial, and melancholy musick,
especially Don Quixote, whose emotion would not allow him to sit quiet.
With regard to Sancho, all that can be said is, that he was driven by
fear to his usual shelter, the sides or skirts of the duchess: for the
sound they heard was really and truly horrible and dreary. In the midst
of this confusion and surprize, which took hold on all present, they saw
two men enter the garden, in mourning-cloaks, so large and long that
they trailed upon the ground. These figures were employed in beating two
large drums, which were likewise covered with black, and they were
accompanied by a fifer as black and dismal as themselves, and followed
by a personage of gigantick stature, rolled rather than cloathed in a
cassock of the blackest hue, furnished with a train of unmeasurable
length. Over this cassock, his body was girded and crossed with a broad
black belt, from which depended an immense scymitar, with hilt and
sheath of the same sable colour. His face was covered with a black,
transparent veil, through which appeared a huge and bushy beard as white
as snow; and in walking he kept time to the sound of the drums, with
great gravity and composure. In a word, his tallness, his demeanour, his
melancholy dress, and his attendants, were sufficient to surprize, and
did surprize, all those who beheld him, without knowing the nature of
the scheme. With the said solemnity of personification he advanced in
order to kneel before the duke, who, with the rest of the company,
received him standing; but his grace would by no means hear his address
until he rose. The prodigious spectre complied with his desire and stood
upright; then unveiling his face, and displaying the largest, whitest,
thickest, and most stupendous beard that ever human eyes beheld, he
fixed his eyes upon the duke, and in a grave, sonorous voice, extracted
and discharged from his ample and dilated chest, pronounced, ‘Most high
and mighty prince, I am Trifaldin of the Snowy Beard, squire to the
Countess Trifaldi, otherwise distinguished by the appellation of the
afflicted duenna: from her I bring a message to your grace, requesting
that your magnificence would be pleased to give her leave and
opportunity to enter and declare in person her mishap; which is the
strangest and the newest that ever the most hapless imagination could
conceive; and first of all, she wants to know if the valiant and
invincible knight Don Quixote de La Mancha now resides within your
castle; for in quest of him, she is come a-foot and fasting from the
kingdom of Candaya to these your territories: a circumstance which might
and ought to be deemed a miracle, or at least effected by the power of
inchantment. She is now at the gate of this fortress or pleasure-house,
and only waits for your permission to come in.’
So saying, he hemmed; and with both hands stroaking his beard from top
to bottom, waited with great composure for the duke’s reply, which was
this: ‘Worthy Squire Trifaldin of the Snowy Beard, many days are passed
since we have been apprized of the misfortune of my Lady Countess
Trifaldi, on whom the inchanters have intailed the epithet of the
afflicted duenna; well may you, stupendous squire, desire her to come
in; and here is the valiant knight Don Quixote de La Mancha, from whose
generous disposition she may securely promise herself all manner of aid
and protection; and you may likewise give her to understand, in my name,
that if my assistance be necessary, it shall not be wanting; for I think
myself obliged to grant it, as being a knight, to which title is annexed
and belongs, that maxim of assisting the fair-sex with all our might,
especially widowed, reduced, and afflicted duennas, like her ladyship.’
Trifaldin hearing this declaration, bent his knee to the ground, and
making a signal to the fifer and drums to repeat the same note, and
resume the same pace with which they entered, he retired from the
garden, leaving the whole company astonished at his presence and
deportment.
Then the duke turning to Don Quixote, ‘In a word, renowned knight,’ said
he, ‘it is not in the power of all the clouds of ignorance and malice to
conceal or obscure the light of valour and of virtue. This observation I
make, because your excellency has been scarce six days in this castle,
when, the melancholy and afflicted come in quest of you from the most
distant and sequestered countries, not in coaches or on dromedaries, but
a-foot and fasting, confident of finding in that most valiant arm the
remedy and cure of their toils and misfortunes: thanks to your
illustrious exploits, which pervade and encircle the whole habitable
globe.’
‘My Lord Duke,’ replied the knight, ‘I wish that same pious
ecclesiastick was here at present; he, who at your grace’s table, the
other day, expressed so much ill-will and such an inveterate grudge to
knights-errant, that he might see with his own eyes whether or not such
knights are of any service in this world; or at least, be fully
convinced that the distressed and disconsolate, overwhelmed with
extraordinary woes, and enormous misfortunes, do not go for redress to
the houses of learned men, to the mansions of parish priests, nor to the
knight who never dreamed of going beyond the limits of his own estate;
nor to the idle courtier, who would rather enquire about news, that he
might have the pleasure of repeating and retailing them, than endeavour
to perform actions and exploits for others to perpetuate and record: the
redress of grievances, the support of the necessitous, the protection of
damsels, and the consolation of widows, are found in no set of people
more than in knights-errant; that I am one of these, I return infinite
thanks to Heaven, and shall cheerfully undergo whatever danger and
disgrace may befall me in the course of such an honourable exercise. Let
this duenna approach, and beg what boon she shall desire, I will commit
her cause to the strength of my arm, and the intrepid resolution of my
aspiring soul.’
CHAP. V.
IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE AFFLICTED DUENNA.
The duke and duchess were exceedingly rejoiced to see Don Quixote’s
behaviour correspond so well with their design. Sancho interposing, ‘I
wish,’ said he, ‘this Madam Duenna may not throw some stumbling-block in
the way of my government; for I have heard an apothecary of Toledo, who
talked like any goldfinch, observe, that nothing good could happen where
duennas interfered. Lord help us! what a spite that same apothecary had
to the whole tribe; from whence I conclude that seeing duennas of all
qualities and degrees whatsoever are offensive and impertinent, what
must those be who are afflicted, which they say is the case with this
Trifaldis[177], or three-tailed countess? for, in my country, skirts and
tails, and tails and skirts, are the same thing.’—‘Hold your tongue,
friend Sancho,’ said Don Quixote: ‘this lady, who is come in quest of me
from remote countries, cannot be one of those to whom the apothecary
alluded, especially as she is a countess; and when ladies of that rank
serve as duennas, it must be under queens and empresses; for in their
own houses they are honoured with the title of Ladyship, and have other
duennas in their service.’
To this remark Donna Rodriguez, who was present, replied, ‘My lady
duchess has duennas in her service, who might have been countesses, had
it pleased fortune; but the law’s measure is the king’s pleasure; and
let no body speak disrespectfully of duennas, especially of those who
are ancient and maidens; for although I am not of that class, I can
easily perceive and comprehend the advantage a maiden duenna has over
one that is a widow: and he that undertakes to hear us, will have no
easy talk to perform.’—‘And yet, for all that,’ replied Sancho, ‘if my
barber’s word may be taken, you duennas require so much to be shorn,
that—You had better not stir the porridge though it stick to the
pot.’—‘The squires are always our enemies,’ answered Donna Rodriguez:
‘they are imps of the antichamber, who are every minute making a jest of
us; and except when they are at prayers, which is not often the case,
their whole time is spent in back-biting, disinterring our bones, and
interring our reputation. But let met tell those moving blocks, that, in
spite of all they can do, we will live in the world, aye, in noble
families, though we should die of hunger, and clothe our delicate or
indelicate bodies with a black shroud, as they cover or shade a dunghill
with tapestry on a day of procession. In good faith! if I were allowed,
and the time required it, I could demonstrate not only to those who are
now present, but likewise to the whole world, that there is no kind of
virtue which does not center in a duenna.’—‘I believe there is reason,
and a great deal of reason, in what the worthy Donna Rodriguez
observes,’ said the duchess; ‘but she must wait for a proper opportunity
to appear in behalf of herself and other duennas, and confute the ill
opinion of that malicious apothecary, as well as to eradicate those
sentiments from the breast of the mighty Sancho Panza.’ To this remark
the squire replied: ‘Since the fumes of a governor have expelled the
vapours of a squire, I value not all the duennas upon earth a fig’s
end.’
They would have proceeded with this duennian conference, had not they
heard again the sound of the fife and drums, which announced the
entrance of the afflicted duenna. The duchess asked the duke, if it
would be proper to advance and receive her, as she was a countess and
person of quality. ‘With regard to her being a countess,’ said Sancho,
before the duke could reply, ‘it would be right for your graces to go
and receive her; but in respect to her being a duenna, I think you
should not move a step.’—‘Who taught thee to interfere in such matters?’
said Don Quixote. ‘Who, Signior?’ replied Sancho, ‘I interfere, because
I am qualified to interfere, as a squire who has learned all the
punctilios of courtesy in the school of your worship, who is the most
courteous and best-bred knight that ever the province of courtesy
produced; and in these matters, as I have heard your worship observe,
the game is as often lost by a card too many as one too few; but a word
to the wise is sufficient.’—‘It is even so as Sancho has remarked,’ said
the duke; ‘let us first see a specimen of the countess, and from that
sample consider what courtesy she deserves.’
At that instant the fifer and drummers entered as before:—and here the
author concludes this short chapter, in order to begin another with the
sequel of the same adventure, which is among the most remarkable of the
whole history.
END OF THE THIRD VOLUME.
Footnote 177:
_Faldis_, in Spain, signifies skirts.
VOLUME THE FOURTH.
PART II.
BOOK III.
CHAP. VI.
IN WHICH IS RECOUNTED THE MISFORTUNE OF THE AFFLICTED DUENNA.
In the rear of those melancholy musicians, about a dozen duennas,
divided into two files, began to enter the garden, clad in loose
mourning-gowns, seemingly of milled stuff, with white veils of fine
muslin, so long that nothing but the borders of the gowns were seen.
After these came the Countess Trifaldi, led by her Squire Trifaldin of
the Snowy Beard, and cloathed in a robe of the finest black serge,
which, had it been napped, would have displayed grains as large as the
best Martos garavances[178]. The tail or skirt, or whatsoever it is
called, was divided into three parts, supported by three pages, who were
likewise in mourning, making a remarkable mathematical figure, with the
three acute angles formed by the three divisions, a circumstance from
which all who saw this divided train, concluded that from hence she was
called the Countess of Trifaldi, as if we should say, the Countess of
Three Skirts: and this is what Benengeli affirms for truth: observing,
that her proper appellation was, the Countess de Wolf, because her
country produced a great number of those animals; and if it had been
famous for foxes, she would have been called, my Lady Fox; for it is the
custom in those countries, for people of fashion to take their
denomination from the thing or things with which their estates chiefly
abound; but this countess, in order to favour the fashion of her train,
laid aside the name of Wolf, and assumed that of Trifaldi.
The twelve duennas and their lady advanced at a procession-pace, their
faces covered with white veils, though not transparent like that of the
Squire Trifaldin; on the contrary, they were so close that nothing
appeared through them. When the whole duennian squadron appeared, the
duke and duchess, Don Quixote, and all those who beheld the procession,
stood up; and the twelve duennas halting, made a lane through which the
afflicted lady advanced, without quitting the hand of Trifaldin, while
their graces and Don Quixote went forwards about a dozen steps to
receive her: then she kneeled upon the ground, and with a voice that was
coarse and rough, rather than smooth and delicate, pronounced this
address: ‘I beg your graces will be pleased to wave all this courtesy to
your humble valets—I mean, your handmaid[179]—Indeed, I am so
overwhelmed with affliction, that I can hardly return a rational answer;
for my strange and unheard-of misfortune hath hurried away my
understanding, I know not whither, though it must be at a great
distance, because the more I seek, the farther I am from finding
it.’—‘He must be deprived of it all together, my Lady Countess,’
answered the duke, ‘who could not discover your worth from the
appearance of your person, which, without farther enquiry, is deserving
of the whole cream of courtesy, and the very essence of polite
ceremony.’
So saying, he presented his hand, and raising her up, seated her in a
chair close by the duchess, who likewise received her with great
respect. Don Quixote was silent, and Sancho ready to burst with
curiosity to see the faces of the Countess Trifaldi and some of her
duennas; but he could not possibly gratify his desire, until they
unveiled themselves of their own free will and motion. Every body was
hushed, expecting who would put an end to the general silence, which the
afflicted countess broke in these words: ‘Confident I am, O powerful
lord, most beautiful lady, and most sagacious bystanders, that my most
wretchedness will find a reception equally placid, generous, and
dolorous, within your valorous bosoms; for such it is, as were enough to
soften marble, melt the diamond, and mollify the steel of the most
obdurate heart; but before it appears in the parade of your hearing, not
to say your ears, I would I were certified whether or not the
perfectionatissimo Knight Don Quixote de La Manchissima, and his
Squirissimo Panza, are in this groupe, circle, or assembly?’ Before any
other person could reply, ‘Panza,’ cried Sancho, ‘is here, and likewise
Don Quixotissimo; and therefore, most dolorous duennissima, you may say
what you think properissimo; for we are all ready and promptissimos to
be your servantissimos.’ Then Don Quixote rising and addressing himself
to the afflicted duenna, ‘If your misfortunes, distressed lady,’ said
he, ‘can derive any remedy or redress from the valour or strength of any
knight-errant, here are mine, which, though feeble and defective, shall
be wholly exerted in your behalf. I am Don Quixote de La Mancha, whose
office it is to assist the necessitous of all degrees: and this being
the case, as it really is, you have no occasion, Madam, to bespeak
benevolence, and seek after preambles: but only to rehearse your
misfortunes plainly and without circumlocution, and they shall be heard
by those who, though perhaps unable to redress, will at least condole
them.’
The afflicted duenna, hearing this declaration, attempted to throw
herself at the feet of Don Quixote; nay, even executed the attempt, and
struggling to embrace them, exclaimed, ‘O invincible knight, I prostrate
myself before these feet and legs, which are the bases and supporters of
knight-errantry; suffer me to kiss these feet, on whose footsteps the
cure of my misfortune solely depends. O valiant errant! whose real
exploits outstrip and obscure the fabulous feats of all the Amadises,
Belianises, and Esplandians——’
Then turning from the knight, and seizing Sancho by the hand, ‘And O!’
said she, ‘thou loyallest squire that ever served knight-errant, in the
past or present age, whose virtue exceeds in length the beard of this my
domestick Trifaldin, well mayest thou boast that, in attending the great
Don Quixote, thou dost attend in epitome, the whole tribe of knights
that ever handled arms on this terrestrial ball; I conjure thee, by thy
own most faithful benevolence, to be my intercessor with thy master,
that he may instantly favour me, the most humble and unfortunate
countess that ever was born.’
To this address Sancho replied, ‘Whether my virtue, my lady, be as long
and broad as your squire’s beard, is of very little signification; so
that my soul be bearded and whiskered when it leaves this life, which is
the main point, I care little or nothing for beards here below. But,
without all this coaxing and begging, I will desire my master, who, I
believe, has a respect for me, especially now that I am become necessary
in a certain affair, to favour and assist your ladyship to the utmost of
his power: your ladyship may therefore unpack, and recount your griefs,
that all of us may understand the nature of your misfortune.’
The duke and duchess were ready to burst with laughing at this dialogue;
for they knew the drift of the adventure, and were extremely well
pleased with the acuteness and dissimulation of the Countess Trifaldi,
who seating herself again, began her story in these words:
‘Of the famous kingdom of Candaya, situated between the great Trapobana
and the South Sea, two leagues beyond Cape Comorin, Donna Maguncia was
queen, as widow of King Archipiela, her lord and husband, in which
marriage they begat and procreated the Infanta Antonomasia, heiress of
the crown, which said Infanta Antonomasia was bred and brought up under
my care and instruction; for I was her mother’s most ancient and
principal duenna. And it came to pass, in process of time, that the
young Antonomasia attained the age of fourteen, with such perfection and
beauty as nature could not exceed. Nay, we may even say that discretion
itself was but a girl, compared to her, who was equally discreet and
beautiful, and surely she was the most beautiful creature upon earth,
and is so still, if the invidious fates and hard-hearted sisters have
not cut short the yarn of her life: but surely they have not, for Heaven
would not permit such mischief to be done on earth, as to tear the green
cluster from the most beautiful vine that ever soil produced. Of this
beauty, which my coarse tongue can never extol, an infinite number of
noblemen, natives as well as strangers, became enamoured. Among these, a
private knight belonging to the court had the presumption to raise his
thoughts to the heaven of such perfection, confiding in his youth, his
gallantry, his various talents and accomplishments, and the facility and
felicity of his wit; for, I must tell your graces, if you are not
offended at the subject, that he touched the guittar so nicely as to
make it speak; besides, he was a poet, a great dancer, and could make
bird cages so curiously, that he might have earned his bread by that
employment, had he been reduced to want. Such a number of natural gifts
and qualifications was enough to overthrow a mountain, much more a
delicate young maiden; but all his gaiety and gallantry, his gifts and
graces, would have availed little or nothing against the fortress of my
charge, if the treacherous ruffian had not practiced means to reduce me
first. The base robber and lewd vagabond began by cultivating my
good-will, and corrupting my taste, that, like a disloyal governor, I
might deliver up the keys of the fort which I guarded. In a word, he
flattered my understanding, and obtained my consent, by presenting me
with some jewels and trinkets; but what chiefly contributed to lay me on
my back, were some couplets which I heard him sing one night while I
stood at a rail that looked into an ally where he was, and which, to the
best of my remembrance, were to this effect—
‘“A thousand shafts from my sweet foe
Are launch’d unerring to my heart;
Yet must I not reveal the smart,
And silence aggravates my woe!”
‘I thought the turn of the rhime was as smooth as pearls, and his voice
as sweet as sugar-candy; and, since that time, seeing the mischief that
hath befallen me, through these and other such verses, I have often
thought, that wise and well-regulated commonwealths ought to expel the
poets, according to the advice of Plato; at least your lascivious
writers who compose couplets, not like those of the Marquis of Mantua,
that entertain and draw tears from women and children; but your pointed
conceits, which, like agreeable thorns, prick, as it were, the very
soul, and wound like lightning, leaving the garment whole and untouched.
Another time he sung the following stanza—
‘“Come, gentle death, so soft and sly,
That thy approach I may not see;
Lest I rejoice to such degree,
That I shall not have pow’r to die.”
‘And other tags and couplets of the same kidney; which, when written,
confound, and when chanted, inchant; for when they condescend to compose
a sort of verse in fashion at that time in Candaya, called roundelays,
they produce a kind of palpitation in the soul, a titillation of good
humour, an agitation in the nerves, and finally, a tremulous motion,
like that of quicksilver, in all the senses. Therefore, I repeat it to
this honourable company, that such dangerous rhymers ought to be
banished to the isle of lizards: yet, they are not so much to blame, as
the simple wretches who applaud, and the boobies who believe them. If I
had adhered to the duty of a good duenna, I should not have been moved
by his serenading concerts, nor believed the truth of these
expressions—“In death I live; in frost I burn; in fire I shiver; in
despair I hope; though I depart I still remain;” and other
impossibilities of the same strain, with which their works abound. When
they promise the phœnix of Arabia, the crown of Ariadne, the locks of
Apollo, the pearls of the South Sea, the gold of Tyber, and the balsams
of Pancaya, they give the greatest latitude to their pens; for it costs
them but a small matter to promise what they have neither inclination
nor ability to perform.—But, woe is me! ah, wretched creature! whither
am I straying? What madness or despair thus hurries and prompts me to
rehearse the faults of other people! me, who have so much to say of my
own infirmities. Woe is me again, unhappy woman! Not by his verses, but
my own simplicity, was I vanquished: it was not his musick that softened
me; but my own levity, inadvertency, and ignorance, opened the way, and
cleared the path, for the passage of Don Clavijo, which is the name of
the said knight; and therefore, I being the go-between, he was once and
often admitted into the chamber of the (by me, and not by him) misled
Antonomasia, under the title of her lawful spouse; for, sinner as I am,
without being her husband, he should not have come near enough to touch
the sole of her slipper. No, no, marriage must go before in every
business of that kind, where I am concerned! the only misfortune in this
affair, was the inequality between Clavijo, who was but a private
knight, and the Infanta Antonomasia, who, as I have already said, was
heiress of the kingdom. For some time, the plot was covered and
concealed in the sagacity of my circumspection, until I perceived a
small protuberance daily increasing in the belly of my Antonomasia,
whose fears obliged us to lay our three heads together; and the result
of our consultation was, that before the misfortune should come to
light, Clavijo should demand Antonomasia in marriage, before the
vicar-general, by virtue of a contract signed by the infanta, which was
indited by my ingenuity, in such strength of terms as Samson himself
could not break. The scheme was accordingly executed; the vicar perused
the contract, and confessed the princess, who owned the whole affair,
and was committed to the care of a very honourable alguazil of the
court.’
Here Sancho interposing, ‘So then,’ said he, ‘there are alguazils of the
court, poets and roundelays in Candaya as well as in Spain? I swear, I
think the world is every where the same! but I beg your ladyship, Madam
Trifaldi, would dispatch; for it grows late, and I die with impatience
to know the end of this long-winded story.’—‘I will comply with your
request,’ answered the countess.
Footnote 178:
A kind of pea that grows at Martos, a town in the province of
Andalusia.
Footnote 179:
This blunder is much more natural in the Spanish _criado_ for
_criada_; but, as in the English language, the gender is not
distinguished by the termination, I have been obliged to substitute
the words varlet and handmaid. Varlets were the servants of yeomen,
though formerly squires were known by that appellation.
CHAP. VII.
IN WHICH THE LADY TRIFALDI PROCEEDS
WITH HER MEMORABLE AND STUPENDOUS STORY.
Every word that Sancho uttered gave as much pleasure to the duchess as
pain to Don Quixote; who having imposed silence on the squire, the
afflicted duenna thus proceeded: ‘At length, after innumerable questions
and replies, as the infanta continued still in her story without
variation, the vicar pronounced sentence in favour of Don Clavijo, whom
he declared her lawful husband; a circumstance that so deeply affected
Queen Maguncia, mother to the Infanta Antonomasia, that we buried her in
three days.’—‘Not before she was dead, I hope,’ said Sancho. ‘No,
certainly,’ replied Trifaldin; ‘for in Candaya, people do nor bury the
living, but the dead.’—‘And yet, Signior Squire,’ said Sancho, ‘we have
seen a person in a swoon buried for dead: and in my opinion, Queen
Maguncia ought to have swooned rather than died; for while there is life
there is hope, and the infanta’s slip was not so great as to oblige her
to take on so much. Had the young lady buckled with her own page, or any
other servant in the family, as I have heard many others have done, the
mischief would not have been easily repaired; but to marry such a
genteel, accomplished knight, as the countess hath described——verily,
verily, although it was indiscreet, the indiscretion was not so great as
people may imagine; for, according to the maxims of my master, who is
here present, and will not suffer me to tell a lye, as learned men are
created bishops, so may knights, especially knights-errant, be created
kings and emperors.’—‘Thou art in the right, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote,
‘for a knight-errant, with two fingers-breadth of good fortune, is the
very next in promotion to the greatest lord in the universe.—But, pray,
afflicted lady, proceed; for I guess the bitter part of this hitherto
agreeable story is still to come.’—‘How! the bitter part to come?’
replied the countess; ‘aye, and so bitter, that in comparison with it,
gall and wormwood are sweet and savoury.
‘Well, then, the queen being really dead, and not in a swoon, was
buried; but scarce was she covered with the mould, and scarce had we
pronounced the long and last farewel, when, _Quis talia fando, temperet
a lacrymis?_ all of a sudden, above the tomb, appeared upon a wooden
horse the giant Malambruno, Maguncia’s first cousin, who, exclusive of
his cruel disposition, was an inchanter, and by his diabolical art, in
order to revenge his relation’s death, and chastise the presumption of
Don Clavijo, together with the folly of Antonomasia, fixed them both
inchanted on Maguncia’s tomb, after having converted her into a monkey
of brass, and him into a frightful crocodile of some unknown substance;
between them is a plate of metal, displaying an inscription in the
Syrian language, which being translated into the Candayan, and
afterwards into the Castilian tongue, contains this sentence: “These two
presumptuous lovers will not recover their pristine form, until the
valorous Manchegan shall engage with me in single combat; for his
stupendous valour alone, the fates have reserved this unseen adventure.”
This metamorphosis being effected, he unsheathed a vast unmeasurable
scymitar, and twisting his left hand in my hair, threatened to slit my
windpipe, and slice off my head. I was confounded, my voice stuck in my
throat, and I remained in an agony of fear: nevertheless, I made one
effort, and in a faultering accent and plaintive tone, uttered such a
pathetick remonstrance as induced him to suspend the execution of his
rigorous revenge. In fine, he ordered all the duennas of the palace
(there they are) to be brought into his presence, when, after having
exaggerated our fault, reviled the disposition of duennas, their wicked
schemes and contrivances, and accused them all of the crime of which I
alone was guilty, he said he would not punish us with instant death, but
with a more tedious penalty, by which we should suffer a civil and
continued death. He had no sooner done speaking, than that very moment
and instant, we all felt the pores of our faces open, and the whole
surface tingle as if pricked with the points of needles; then clapping
our hands on the part, every one found her visage in the condition which
you shall now behold.’
So saying, the afflicted duenna and her companions, lifting up their
veils, disclosed so many faces overgrown with huge beards, red, black,
white, and party-coloured; at sight of which, the duke and duchess were
amazed, Don Quixote and Sancho confounded, and all present overwhelmed
with astonishment; as for the countess, she pursued her story in these
words.
‘In this manner were we punished by the felonious and ill-designing
Malambruno, who covered the smoothness and delicacy of our faces with
the roughness of these bristles; and would to Heaven he had rather
struck off our heads with his unmeasurable scymitar, than obscured the
light of our countenances with this frightful bush; for if this
honourable company will but consider, and in speaking what I am now
going to say, I wish I could turn my eyes into fountains; but the
consideration of our misfortune, and the oceans they have already
rained, have drained them as dry as beards of corn; and, therefore, I
must speak without tears: I say then, whither can a duenna go with a
beard upon her chin? What father or mother will condole her disgrace? or
who will give her the least assistance? for if, when her face is
smoothed and martyred by a thousand cosmetick slops and washes, she can
scarce find one who will favour her with affection, what must she do
when her face becomes a perfect coppice of brushwood? O ye wretched
duennas! my companions dear! in an unlucky minute did we see the light,
and in an hapless hour were we engendered by our fathers!’
So saying, she pretended to faint away.
CHAP. VIII.
OF CIRCUMSTANCES APPERTAINING AND RELATING TO THIS ADVENTURE AND
MEMORABLE STORY.
Verily, and in good truth! all those who take pleasure in reading such
histories, ought to manifest their gratitude to its first author Cid
Hamet, for his curiosity in recounting the most trivial incident,
without neglecting to bring to light the least circumstance, how minute
soever it may be. He describes the thought, discloses the fancy, answers
the silent, explains doubts, discusses arguments, and finally displays
the very atoms of the most curious disposition. O celebrated author! O
happy Don Quixote! O renowned Dulcinea! O facetious Sancho Panza! may
you flourish conjunctly and severally to the end of time, for the
entertainment and pastime of mankind in general!
The history relates, that Sancho seeing the Afflicted faint away, ‘Now,
by the faith of man!’ cried he, ‘and by the pedigree of all the Panzas
my forefathers! never did I hear or see, nor did my master recount, or
indeed conceive, such an adventure as this!—A legion of devils confound
thee for a giant and inchanter, accursed Malambruno! couldst thou find
no other method to punish these sinners, but by clapping beards to them?
Would it not have been better, at least it would have been more for
their advantage, to cut off half their noses, even though they should
snuffle in their speech, than to encumber them with beards? I’d lay a
wager, too, that they have not wherewithal to pay a barber.’—‘What you
say is very true,’ replied one of the dozen; ‘we have not wherewithal to
be trimmed, and therefore some of us, by way of œconomy, make use of
sticking plaister, which being applied to our faces, and plucked off
with a jerk, leave us as sleek and smooth as the bottom of a marble
mortar; for, although there are women in Candaya who go from house to
house, taking of the hair, arching the eyebrows, and composing slipslops
for the use of the fair-sex, we who belonged to her ladyship would never
admit them into the family, because, for the most part, they are persons
who having ceased to be principals, exercise the occupation of
procuresses; and therefore, if we are not redressed by Signior Don
Quixote, we must e’en carry our beards to the grave.’—‘If I do not
redress your whiskers,’ cried the knight, ‘I will leave mine among the
Moors!’
Here the Countess Trifaldi recovering, ‘Valiant knight,’ said she, ‘the
tingling of that promise reached mine ears while I lay in a swoon, and
hath been the cause of my recovering and retrieving the use of all my
senses; therefore, renowned errant, and invincible knight, I again
entreat you, to put your gracious promise in execution.’—‘In me there
shall be no delay,’ replied Don Quixote: ‘consider then, my lady, and
tell me what I am to do; my mind is perfectly disposed for your
service.’—‘The case is this, then,’ answered the afflicted duenna: ‘from
hence to the kingdom of Candaya, if you go by land, you must travel five
thousand leagues, it may be one or two more or less; but if you go
through the air, in a right line, you measure no more than three
thousand two hundred and twenty-seven. You must likewise know,
Malambruno told me, that whenever fortune should furnish me with our
deliverer, he would send him a steed that should be much better and less
vicious than any of your return post-horses, as being the very
individual wooden-horse upon which the valiant Peter carried off the
fair Magalona: he is governed by a peg in his forehead, that serves
instead of a bridle; and he flies so swiftly through the air, that one
would think he was transported by all the devils in hell. This steed,
according to ancient tradition, was contrived by the Sage Merlin, and he
lent him to his friend Peter, who, by means of such conveyance,
performed incredible journies, and stole, as I have observed, the fair
Magalona, who sat behind him, and was transported through the air, to
the astonishment of all those who gaped after her from the earth. Yet he
would lend him to none but his particular favourites, or such as would
pay him a handsome price; we do not know that he was ever mounted from
the days of the great Peter to the present time. Malambruno, by dint of
art, has got, and keeps him in his possession, making use of him in his
journies, which he performs in an instant, from one part of the world to
another; now here, to-morrow in France, and next day in Peru: and there
is one great advantage in this horse, he neither eats nor sleeps, nor
costs any thing in shoeing, and ambles through the air without wings in
such a manner, that the rider may hold a cup full of water in his hand
without spilling a single drop, his motion is so smooth and easy; for
which reason, the fair Magalona delighted much in taking the air upon
his back.’—‘As for his going smooth and easy,’ said Sancho, ‘there is my
Dapple, whom (though he does not go through the air, but along the
ground) I will match against all the amblers that ever the earth
produced.’ All the company laughed at this observation, and the
afflicted duenna proceeded; ‘Now, this horse, if Malambruno is actually
disposed to put an end to our misfortune, will be herein less than half
an hour after it is dark: for he told me the signal by which I should be
certain of having found the knight I was in quest of, would be his
sending the horse thither with all convenient dispatch.’—‘And pray,’
said Sancho, ‘how many persons will this horse carry?’—‘Two,’ replied
the Afflicted; ‘one upon the saddle, and the other upon the crupper, and
these are commonly the knight and the squire, when there is no damsel to
be stolen.’—‘I should be glad to know, afflicted Madam,’ resumed the
squire, ‘what is the name of that same horse?’—‘His name,’ answered the
Afflicted, ‘is not like that of Bellerophon’s horse, which was called
Pegasus; nor does it resemble that which distinguished the steed of
Alexander the Great, Bucephalus; nor that of Orlando Furioso, whose
appellation was Brilladoro; nor Bayete, which belonged to Reynaldo de
Montalban; nor Frontino, that appertained to Rugiero; nor Bootes, nor
Peritoa, the horses of the sun; nor is he called Orelia, like that steed
upon which the unfortunate Rodrigo, last king of the Goths, engaged in
that battle where he lost his crown and life.’—‘I will lay a wager,’
cried Sancho, ‘that as he is not distinguished by any of those famous
names of horses so well known, so neither have they given him the name
of my master’s horse Rozinante; a name which, in propriety, exceeds all
those that have been named.’—‘Very true,’ replied the bearded countess;
‘nevertheless, it fits him very well; for he is called Clavileno
Aligero[180], an appellation that suits exactly with his wooden
substance, the peg in his forehead, and the swiftness with which he
travels; so that, for his name, he may be brought in competition even
with the famous Rozinante.’—‘The name pleases me well enough,’ said
Sancho; ‘but what sort of bridle or halter must be used in managing
him?’—‘I have already told you,’ answered Trifaldi, ‘that by turning the
peg, the knight who rides can make him travel just as he pleases, either
mounting through the air; or else sweeping, and, as it were, brushing
the surface of the earth; or lastly, sailing through the middle region,
which is the course to be sought after and pursued, in all
well-concerted enterprizes.’
‘I should be glad to see this same beast,’ replied the squire; ‘but to
think that I will mount him, either in the saddle or in the crupper, is
all the same thing as to look for pears upon an elm. A fine joke,
i’faith! I can scarce keep the back of my own Dapple, though sitting
upon a pannel as soft as sattin, and they would now have me get upon a
crupper of board, with out any pillow or cushion. By the Lord! I have no
intention to bruise myself, in order to take off the beard of any person
whatsoever; let every beard be shaved according to the owner’s fancy:
for my own part, I have no notion of accompanying my master in such a
long and tedious journey; for surely I have no concern in the shaving of
beards, whatever I may have in the disinchantment of Dulcinea.’—‘Indeed,
you have, my friend,’ answered Trifaldi; ‘aye, and so much, that without
your presence I believe we shall do no good.’—‘In the king’s name!’
cried Sancho, ‘what have squires to do with the adventures of their
masters? What! are they to run away with all the reputation, and we to
undergo all the trouble? Body o’me! would your historians but mention,
that such a knight atchieved such and such an adventure, with the
assistance of his Squire What-d’ye-call-um, without whom he could not
possibly have finished the exploit; but, they drily relate, as how Don
Paralipomenon of the Three Stars, finished the adventure of the six
goblins, without even naming the squire who was present all the time, no
more than if there was not such a person in the world: I therefore say
again to this honourable company, that my master may go by himself, and
good luck attend him; but, for my own part, I will stay where I am, and
keep my Lady Duchess company; and peradventure, at his return, he may
find my Lady Dulcinea’s business well forwarded; for I intend, at my
idle and leisure hours, to whip myself to such a tune, that not a single
hair shall stand before me.’
‘But, for all that,’ said the duchess, ‘honest Sancho, you must attend
him, should there be occasion, for you will be solicited by the
righteous; and surely it would be a great pity, that the faces of these
gentlewomen should continue overshadowed with hair, merely for your
needless apprehension.’—‘I say again, in the king’s name!’ cried Sancho,
‘if this charity should be of any benefit to release maidens or
parish-children, a man might venture to undergo some trouble; but to
take such pains in order to rid duennas of their beards! a plague upon
the whole generation! I had rather see them all bearded from the highest
to the lowest, tag, rag, and bobtail.’—‘Friend Sancho,’ said the
duchess, ‘you are on bad terms with duennas, and very much infected with
the opinion of that apothecary of Toledo; but, in good sooth, you are
very much in the wrong: there are duennas in my house, who might serve
as patterns of virtue; and here stands Donna Rodriguez, who would not
suffer me to say otherwise.’—‘Your excellency may say what you please,’
answered Rodriguez; ‘but God knows the truth of all things, and good or
bad, bearded or smooth, we duennas were born of our mothers, as well as
other women; since, therefore, God sent us into the world, he knows for
what, and in his mercy do I put my trust, and not in the beard of any
person whatsoever.’
‘’Tis very well, Signora Rodriguez, Madam Trifaldi, and you ladies of
her company,’ said Don Quixote; ‘Heaven, I hope, will look upon your
misfortunes with propitious eyes, and Sancho will chearfully obey my
orders; let Clavileno come, so as that I may once see myself engaged
with Malambruno, and confident I am, that no razor can shave your
ladyships with more facility than my sword should find in shaving the
giant’s head from his shoulders; for though God permits the wicked to
prosper, it is but for a time.’ The afflicted duenna hearing this
declaration, exclaimed, ‘Now, may all the stars of the celestial regions
shed their benign influence upon your worship, most valiant knight,
infusing courage into your soul, and crowning your atchievements with
prosperity, that you may be the shield and support of this our slighted
and depressed duennian order, abominated by apothecaries, grumbled at by
squires, and jeered by pages! now, ill betide the wretch, who, in the
flower of her youth, would not rather take the veil than become a
duenna. Unfortunate duennas that we are! for, though we may be descended
in a direct male line from Hector of Troy, our ladies will not fail to
throw “Thou” in our teeth, even if they thought they should be crowned
for it. O thou giant Malambruno! who, though an inchanter, art always
punctual in thy promises, send hither the peerless Clavileno, that our
disaster may be done away; for, if our beards continue until the
dog-days begin, woe be unto us!’
Trifaldi pronounced these words in such a pathetick strain, as brought
tears from the eyes of all the by standers, and even filled Sancho’s to
the brim; so that he resolved in his heart, to accompany his master to
the utmost limits of the earth, provided his attendance should be
necessary towards shearing the wool of those venerable countenances.
Footnote 180:
Or, in English, ‘Wooden Peg the Winged.’
CHAP. IX.
OF CLAVILENO’S ARRIVAL—AND THE CONCLUSION
OF THIS PROTRACTED ADVENTURE.
Meanwhile, night came on, and along with it the time fixed for the
arrival of the famous steed Clavileno, whose delay began already to
afflict Don Quixote; for he looked upon the detention of the horse, as a
sign that he himself was not the knight for whom the adventure was
reserved, or that Malambruno was afraid to engage with him in single
combat. But, lo! all of a sudden, four savages, clad in green ivy,
entered the garden, bearing on their backs a green wooden horse, which
being placed on the ground, one of the number pronounced, ‘Let him who
has courage mount this machine.’—‘For my own part,’ said Sancho, ‘I do
not mount; for neither have I courage, nor am I a knight.’ But the
savage proceeded, saying, ‘Let the squire, if he has one, occupy the
crupper; and he may confide in the valiant Malambruno; for, except the
sword of that giant, no other steel or malice shall offend him; and the
knight has no more to do, but to turn this peg upon his neck, and he
will carry them through the air to the place where Malambruno waits for
their arrival; but lest the height and sublimity of the road should turn
their heads, their eyes must be covered until such time as the horse
shall neigh, for that will be the signal of their having performed the
journey.’ This intimation being given, they left the horse, and retired
to the place from whence they came, with great solemnity.
The afflicted duenna no sooner beheld the steed, than addressing herself
to Don Quixote, with tears in her eyes, ‘Valiant knight,’ said she,
‘Malambruno’s promise is made good: here stands the horse, our beards
are still growing, and each of us, nay, every hair upon our chins,
supplicate thee to shave and shear them, since there is nothing else
required but to mount with thy squire, and happily begin your
journey.’—‘That will I do, my Lady Countess Trifaldi,’ replied Don
Quixote, ‘with good will, and hearty inclination; nor will I delay the
expedition, by spending time in furnishing myself with a cushion, or
even in putting on my spurs, so impatient I am to see your ladyship and
those duennas quite smooth and shaven.’—‘That will I not do,’ cried
Sancho, ‘neither with hearty nor heartless inclination, nor in any
manner of way; and if the shaving cannot be performed without my
mounting upon the crupper, my master must look for another squire to
attend him, and these ladies must find another method for smoothing
their faces; for I am no wizard, to take delight in flying through the
air: and pray, what would my islanders say, should they know their
governor was riding upon the wind? Moreover, it being three thousand and
so many more leagues from hence to Candaya, should the horse be tired,
or the giant out of humour, we may spend half a dozen years in
returning; and by that time, the devil an island or islander in the
whole world will know my face. It is a common saying, that Delay breeds
danger; and, When the heifer you receive, have a halter in your sleeve.
The beards of these ladies must therefore excuse me: I know St. Peter is
well at Rome; my meaning is, I find myself very well in this mansion,
where I am treated with such respect, and from the master of which I
expect so great a favour as that of being made a governor.’ To this
remonstrance the duke replied, ‘Friend Sancho, the island I have
promised is neither floating nor fugitive, but its roots are so deeply
fixed in the bowels of the earth, that three good pulls will not remove
or tear it away; and, as you are sensible, I know there is no kind of
office of any importance that is not obtained by some sort of bribe,
more or less, the present I expect for the government is, that you will
attend your master, Don Quixote, in crowning and accomplishing this
memorable adventure; and, whether you return upon Clavileno with that
dispatch which his speed seems to promise; or, by the cruelty of adverse
fortune, you come back in the habit of a pilgrim, begging on foot, from
house to house, and from one inn to another; you shall, nevertheless, at
your return, find your island where you left it; and your islanders
actuated by the same desire of receiving you as their governor, which
they have always indulged; and as for my inclination, it can never
change; for, to entertain the least doubt of my sincerity, Signior
Sancho, would be a notorious injury to the attachment I feel for your
service.’—‘Enough, my lord,’ cried Sancho: ‘I am a poor squire, and
cannot bear such a load of courtesy; let my master mount, and my eyes be
covered; recommend me to God; and let me know whether, while we travel
through those altitudes, I may call upon the name of the Lord, or
implore the protection of his angels.’ To this interrogation, the
countess replied, ‘You may recommend yourself to God, or to whom you
will; for Malambruno, though an inchanter, is nevertheless a Christian,
and performs his inchantments with great sagacity and caution, nor does
he intermeddle in any person’s affairs.’—‘Well, then,’ cried Sancho,
‘God, and the most Holy Trinity of Gaeta, be my guide and
protection!’—‘Since the memorable adventure of the fulling-mills,’ said
Don Quixote, ‘I have never seen Sancho so infected with fear, as upon
this occasion; and, if I were as much addicted to superstition as some
people are, his pusillanimity would produce some compunction in my soul:
but, come hither, Sancho; for, with the permission of that noble pair, I
would speak two words with you in private.’
Then taking his squire aside into a tuft of trees, and grasping both his
hands, ‘You see, brother Sancho,’ said he, ‘the long journey that awaits
us; and God knows when we shall return, and what leisure or convenience
our business may allow; I therefore beg thou wilt now retire to thy
apartment, on pretence of fetching some necessaries for the road, and,
in the twinkling of a straw, inflict upon thyself some five hundred of
those three thousand three hundred lashes for which thou art engaged,
and they shall stand good in the account; for, when a thing is once
began, it is almost as good as half finished.’—‘Before God!’ cried
Sancho, ‘your worship must be out of your senses; this is just as they
say, You see me in a hurry, and ask me to marry. Now, when I am going to
ride upon a wooden crupper, would your worship have me afflict my
posteriors? Verily, verily, your worship was never more out of the way;
at present, let us proceed and shave those duennas, and at our return, I
promise to your worship, on the faith of my character, to quit my score
with such dispatch, that your worship shall be satisfied; and I’ll say
no more.’—‘Well, then,’ answered the knight, ‘I will console myself,
honest Sancho, with that promise, which I really believe thou wilt
perform; for, surely, though thy head be but green, thy heart is true
blue.’—‘Green,’ said Sancho; ‘my head is not green, but black; but even
though it were pye-bald, I would perform my promise.’
After this short dialogue they returned, in order to take horse; then,
the knight addressing himself to the squire, ‘Sancho,’ said he, ‘suffer
yourself to be hoodwinked, and get up: he who sends for us from such
distant regions, can have no intention to deceive us, because he could
reap no glory from having deceived those who depended on his sincerity;
and, although the event may turn out contrary to my expectation, the
glory of having undertaken such an exploit no malice whatsoever can
impair.’—‘Come, then, Signior,’ cried the squire, ‘for the beards and
tears of those ladies are so imprinted in my heart, that I shall not
swallow a mouthful to do me good, until I see them restored to their
original smoothness. Get up, Signior, and hoodwink yourself first: for,
if the crupper is to be my seat, it is plain that you must mount first
into the saddle.’—‘You are in the right,’ replied Don Quixote; who,
pulling an handkerchief from his pocket, desired the afflicted duenna to
fasten it round his eyes, which, however, were no sooner covered, than
he took off the bandage, saying, ‘If I remember aright, I have read in
Virgil, of the Trojan Palladium, a wooden horse offered to the goddess
Pallas, the bowels of which horse were filled with armed men, who
afterwards occasioned the total destruction of Troy; and, therefore, it
will not be amiss, first of all, to examine the belly of
Clavileno.’—‘There is no occasion,’ said the afflicted duenna; ‘for I am
certain that Malambruno has neither treachery nor malice in his heart:
your worship, Signior Don Quixote, may therefore mount, without the
least apprehension; and if any mischief befal you, lay it at my door.’
The knight reflecting that any hesitation about his personal safety
would be a disparagement to his valour, mounted Clavileno without
farther altercation, and tried the peg, which turned with ease; and his
legs hanging down at full length, for want of stirrups, he looked like a
figure in some Roman triumph, painted or wrought in Flemish tapestry.
Then Sancho, very slowly, and much against his will, crept up behind,
and seating himself as well as he could upon the crupper, found it so
hard and uneasy, that he begged the duke would order him to be
accommodated with some cushion or pillow, though it should be taken from
my Lady Duchess’s sopha, or some page’s bed; for the crupper of that
horse seemed to be made of marble rather than of wood.
Here Trifaldi interposing, assured him that Clavileno would bear no kind
of furniture or ornament; but said he might sit sideways like a woman,
in which attitude he would not be so sensible of the hardness. Sancho
took her advice, and saying adieu, allowed his eyes to be covered; but,
afterwards pulling up the bandage, and looking ruefully at all the
people in the garden, he, with tears in his eyes, besought them to
assist him in that extremity with a brace of Paternosters, and as many
Ave Marias, as God should provide somebody to do as much for them in
like time or need.
Don Quixote hearing this apostrophe, ‘How now, miscreant!’ said he, ‘are
you brought to the gallows, or in the last agonies of death, that you
make use of such intreaties? Dispirited and cowardly creature! Art not
thou seated in the very same place which was occupied by the fair
Magalona, and from which she descended, not to her grave, but to the
crown of France, if history speaks truth? And I, who sit by thy side,
surely may vie with valiant Peter, who pressed the self same back now
pressed by me. Shroud, shroud thine eyes, thou animal without a soul,
and let not those symptoms of fear escape thy lips, at least in my
presence.’—‘Hoodwink me then,’ answered Sancho, ‘and since I must
neither recommend myself, nor be recommended, to the protection of God,
what wonder is it, if I am afraid we shall meet with some legion of
devils, who will treat us according to the Peralvillo law[181]?’
Their eyes being covered, and Don Quixote perceiving he was fixed in his
seat, turned the peg; and scarce had his finger touched this rudder,
when the whole bevy of duennas, and all that were present, raised their
voices, crying, ‘Heaven be thy guide, valorous knight! God be thy
protection, intrepid squire!—Now, now, you rise and cut the liquid sky
more swiftly than an arrow; now, you begin to astonish and confound all
those who gaze upon you from this earthly spot!—Hold fast, valiant
Sancho, for we see thee totter; beware of falling: to fall from such an
height would be more fatal than the fall of that aspiring youth whose
ambition prompted him to drive the chariot of the sun his father.’
Sancho, hearing this exclamation, crept closer to his master, and
hugging him fast in his arms, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘how can we be so high
as those people say we are, seeing we can hear them speak as well as if
we were within a few yards of them?’—‘You must not mind that
circumstance,’ answered the knight; ‘for these incidents and flights
being all together out of the ordinary course of things, you may hear
and see what you please, at the distance of a thousand leagues: but do
not squeeze me so hard, lest I tumble from my seat. I really cannot
imagine what it is that disturbs and affrights thee; for I swear, in all
the days of my life, I never bestrode a horse of a more easy pace:
indeed, he goes so smoothly, that I can hardly feel him move. Dispel thy
fear, my friend, for truly the business goes on swimmingly, and we sail
right afore the wind.’—‘You are certainly in the right,’ answered
Sancho; ‘for on this side, there blows as fresh a gale as if I was
fanned with a thousand pair of bellows.’
Nor was he much mistaken in his conjecture; for the wind that blew was
actually produced by one of those machines: so well had the adventure
been contrived by the duke and duchess, and, their steward, that nought
was wanting to render it compleat. Then the knight feeling the same
breeze, ‘Without doubt,’ said he, ‘we must be arrived at the second
region of the air, in which hail and snow are produced; meteors, thunder
and lightning, are engendered in the third region: if we continue to
mount at this rate, we shall in a very little time reach the region of
fire; and I know not how to manage this peg, so as to put a stop to our
rising, and prevent our being scorched to a cinder.’
In the midst of this conversation their faces were warmed with some tow
that was kindled for the purpose, at the end of a long pole, and Sancho
feeling the heat, ‘Let me perish!’ cried he, ‘if we are not now come to
that same habitation of fire; for a great part of my beard is already
singed; and I am resolved to uncover my eyes, that I may see whereabouts
we are.’—‘By no means,’ answered the knight: ‘remember the true story of
the licentiate Toralva, who being mounted on a cane, was conveyed
through the air, with his eyes shut, by the devils: in twelve hours he
arrived at Rome, and alighted on the tower of Nona, which is in one of
the streets of that city, whence he beheld the whole tumult, assault,
and death, of the constable of Bourbon; and before morning he had
returned to Madrid, where he gave an account of that transaction. He
likewise affirmed, that while he travelled through the air, the devil
bade him open his eyes, and he saw himself so near the body of the moon,
that he could have touched it with his hand; but he durst not look
towards the earth, lest his head should have turned giddy. Let us not,
therefore, uncover our eyes, Sancho; he in whose charge we are will give
a good account of us; and, perhaps, we are now at the very point of our
elevation, from whence we shall come souse upon the kingdom of Candaya,
as a faker or jerfaulcon darts down upon an heron with a force
proportioned to his rise: and, although it seems to us no more than half
an hour since we set out from the garden, you may depend upon it we have
travelled an immense way.’—‘As to that matter, I am quite ignorant,’
said Sancho: ‘this only I know, that if Madam Magallanes or Magalona
took pleasure in sitting upon this crupper, her flesh must not have been
very tender.’
All this dialogue of the two heroes was overheard by the duke and
duchess, and the rest of the company in the garden, to whom it afforded
extraordinary entertainment: at length, desirous of finishing this
strange and well-concerted adventure, they set fire to Clavileno’s tail
with some lighted flax; his belly being filled with squibs and crackers,
he instantly blew up with a dreadful explosion, and Don Quixote, with
his squire, came to the ground more than half singed. By this time the
whole bearded squadron, with my Lady Trifaldi, had vanished from the
garden, and all the rest of the company were stretched upon the ground
as in a trance. Don Quixote and Sancho getting on their feet, in a very
indifferent condition, and looking all around, were astonished to find
themselves in the same garden from which they took their flight, and to
see such a number of people extended along the grass: but their
admiration was still more increased, when at one corner of the garden
they beheld a huge lance fixed in the ground, and tied to this lance, by
two cords of green silk, a smooth, white skin of parchment, on which was
the following inscription in large golden letters:
‘The renowned knight Don Quixote de la Mancha has finished and atchieved
the adventure of the Countess Trifaldi, alias the afflicted Duenna, and
her companions solely by his having undertaken the enterprize.
‘Malambruno is wholly satisfied and appeased; the chins of the duennas
are smooth and clean; their Majesties Don Clavijo and Antonomasia are
restored to their original form: and when the squirely flagellation
shall be accomplished, the white dove will be delivered from the
pestilential talons of her persecutors, and find herself within the arms
of her beloved turtle; for such is the decree of the sage Merlin, the
prince and prototype of all enchanters.’
Don Quixote having read this scroll, at once comprehended the meaning,
which related to the disinchantment of Dulcinea, and returning a
thousand thanks to Heaven for his success in having finished such a
mighty exploit with so little danger, and reduced to their pristine form
the faces of those venerable duennas who had disappeared, he went
towards the place where the duke and duchess still lay intranced, and
pulling his grace by the arm, ‘Courage! courage, my noble lord!’ said
he; ‘all is over now; the adventure is finished, without damage to the
barrier, as will plainly appear by the inscription of yonder scroll.’
The duke seemed to recover gradually, like one waking from a profound
sleep; his example was followed by the duchess, and all the rest who lay
along the garden; and they exhibited such marks of fear and
astonishment, that even almost to themselves, that seemed to have
happened in earnest which they had so well acted in jest. The duke
having read the inscription with his eyes half shut, ran with open arms
to embrace Don Quixote, calling him the most worthy knight that any age
had ever produced: while Sancho went looking about for the afflicted
matron, to see if her beard was quite gone, and whether her face,
without hair, was as beautiful as her gallant deportment seemed to
promise. But he was told, that as Clavileno descended in a flame from
the sky, the whole squadron of duennas, with Trifaldi at their head, had
vanished, and their faces smack-smooth as if they had been clean shaven.
Then the duchess asking, how it had fared with Sancho in his long
journey, the squire replied, ‘As for me, my lady, I perceived, as my
master told me, that we flew threw the region of fire, and I felt a
strong inclination to have a peep; but my master would not consent, when
I begged his permission to uncover my eyes; nevertheless, I, who have a
sort of a chip of curiosity, and an eager desire to know what I am
forbid to enquire about fair and softly, without being perceived by any
living soul, pulled down upon my nose the handkerchief that covered my
eyes, and by these means had a glimpse of the earth, which seemed no
bigger than a grain of mustard, and the men that walked upon it almost
as little as hazle nuts; so you may guess how high we must have soared
by that time.’
To this asseveration the duchess answered, ‘Have a care, friend Sancho;
from what you say, it appears that it could not be the earth, but the
men walking upon it, whom you saw: for if the earth appeared like a
grain of mustard, and every man as big as a nut, it clearly follows,
that one man must have covered the whole earth.’—‘Very true,’ said
Sancho; ‘but, for all that, I had a side-view, by which I discovered the
whole globe.’—‘Take notice, Sancho,’ resumed the duchess, ‘it is
impossible to see the whole of any thing by a side-view.’—‘I know
nothing of views,’ replied the squire; ‘this only I know, your ladyship
ought to consider, that as we flew by inchantment, so might I, by
inchantment, see the whole earth, and all the men upon it, in any sort
of view whatsoever: and if your ladyship will not believe me in that, no
more will you believe me when I tell you, that pushing up the
handkerchief towards my eye-brows, I found myself within a hand’s
breadth and a half of heaven, which I’ll assure your ladyship upon oath
is very huge; and it came to pass, that our road lay close to the seven
nanny-goats[182]: now, I having been a goatherd in my youth, before God
and my conscience! I no sooner set eyes on them, than I was seized with
the inclination to divert myself a little with the pretty creatures, and
if I had not done it, I believe I should have burst for vexation. Come
on then, what does me I? but, without saying a word to any living soul,
not even to my master, fairly and softly slide down from Clavileno, and
sport with the nannies, which are like violets and lilies, for the space
of three quarters of an hour, and all that time the horse did not budge
a step from the place.’
‘And while honest Sancho diverted himself with the goats,’ said the
duke, ‘how was Signior Don Quixote entertained?’ To this interrogation
the knight replied, ‘As all these adventures and incidents are out of
the ordinary course of nature, we are not to wonder at what Sancho has
told; for my own part, I can safely affirm, that I neither shoved up nor
pulled down the bandage, nor did see either heaven, or earth, or sea, or
land. True it is, I perceived we passed through the region of the air,
and even bordered upon the region of fire, but that we travelled beyond
it I cannot believe; for the fiery region being between the sphere of
the moon and the utmost region of the air, we could not reach that
firmament in which are placed the seven nannies, as Sancho calls them,
without being scorched to death; and seeing we are not scorched, either
Sancho lyes, or Sancho dreams.’—‘I neither lye nor dream,’ cried the
squire; ‘let them ask the marks of the nanny-goats, and by my answers
you will perceive whether or not I speak truth.’—‘Describe them, then,
Sancho,’ said the duchess. ‘Two of them,’ replied Sancho, ‘are green,
two carnation, two blue, and one motley.’—‘This is a new breed,’ said
the duke; ‘in our region of earth there are no such colours; I mean,
among the nanny-goats.’—‘That is very plain,’ replied the squire; ‘there
must be some difference between the goats of heaven and those upon
earth.’—‘Pray, tell me, Sancho,’ said his grace, ‘didst thou see never a
he-goat among those females[183]?’—‘No, my lord,’ answered the squire;
‘I have been told none of those pass beyond the horns of the moon.’
They did not chuse to interrogate him farther about his journey; for
they concluded that Sancho was in a fair way to travel through all the
heavens above, and tell the news of each, though he had never stirred
from the garden.
Finally, thus ended the adventure of the afflicted duenna, which
afforded a fund for laughter to the duke and duchess, not only at that
time, but during the whole course of their lives; as well as matter for
Sancho to relate, had he lived whole centuries.
Don Quixote coming to the squire, whispered in his ear, ‘Hark ye,
Sancho; since you would have us believe what you say, touching the
things you saw in heaven, I desire the like credit from you with regard
to those things I saw in the cave of Montesinos: that’s all.’
Footnote 181:
Equivalent to Abington law; in consequence of which, a criminal is
first executed, and then tried. Peralvillo is a village near Ciuidad
Real, in Castile, where the officers of the holy brotherhood execute
robbers taken _in flagrante_, who require no trial. Hence the phrase,
‘_La justicia de Peralvillo, que aborcado el hombre, le baze la
Pesquisa_.’ i. e. ‘Peralvillo law, which begins the process after the
man is hanged.’
Footnote 182:
In Spain, the Pleiades are vulgarly called _cabrillas_, i. e.
nanny-goats.
Footnote 183:
There is a kind of pleasantry in this question of the duke, which
cannot be translated; for the Spanish word, _cabron_, signifies a
cuckold, as well as an he-goat.
CHAP. X.
CONTAINING DON QUIXOTE’S INSTRUCTIONS TO SANCHO PANZA,
BEFORE HE SET OUT FOR HIS GOVERNMENT—
WITH OTHER WELL WEIGHED INCIDENTS.
The duke and duchess were so well pleased with the diverting and happy
success of the adventure of the afflicted duenna, that they resolved to
proceed with the jest, seeing what a proper subject they had to make it
pass for earnest. Having, therefore, communicated their scheme and
instructions to their servants and vassals, touching their behaviour to
Sancho in his government of the promised island; on the day succeeding
the flight of Clavileno, the duke desired him to prepare and make
himself ready to set out for his government, as the islanders already
longed for him as much as for May showers.
Sancho, having made his obeisance, ‘Since my descent from heaven,’ said
he, ‘and since from its lofty summit I have viewed the earth, and found
it of such small extent, my desire of being a governor is much
moderated; for what grandeur can there be in reigning over a grain of
mustard-seed? or what dignity and empire in governing half a dozen of
mortals no bigger than filberts? for the whole earth seemed to contain
nothing more. If your lordship would be pleased to bestow upon me a
small trifling space in heaven, though it should not be above half a
league, I would more gladly receive it than the best island in the
world.’—‘You must consider, friend Sancho,’ replied the duke, ‘that I
have it not in my power to give away any part of heaven; no, not a
nail’s breadth, these favours and benefits are in the gift of God alone.
What is in my power, I freely give you; namely, a good island, right and
tight, round and well-proportioned, above measure fertile, and so
abounding with all good things, that if you mind your hits, you may with
the riches of earth purchase the opulence of heaven.’—‘Well, then,’
cried Sancho, ‘let this island be forthcoming, and I will struggle hard,
but I shall be such a governor that in spite of knaves, I may go to
heaven; and take notice, it is not from avarice that I desire to quit my
cottage, and raise myself to a footing with my betters; but solely to
taste and try what it is to be a governor.’—‘Nay, if once you taste it,’
said the duke, ‘you will be ready to eat your fingers after the
government; for nothing is so delicious as to command and be obeyed;
certain I am, that when your master shall come to be an emperor, as will
doubtless be the case, considering the current of his affairs, it will
not be in the power of any person upon earth to tear it from him, and he
will sorely grieve, and heartily rue the time he has lost before his
advancement to such an imperial station.’—‘Indeed, my lord,’ replied
Sancho, ‘I imagine it must be a very pleasant thing to govern, even
though it should be but a flock of sheep.’—‘May I be buried with you,
Sancho, but you know every thing!’ answered the duke; ‘I hope you will
turn out such a governor as your judgment and sagacity seem to promise:
but here let that matter rest; and take notice, that tomorrow morning
you must set out for the government of the island; and this evening you
shall be accommodated with a convenient dress, and all other necessaries
for your departure.’—‘They may dress me as they will,’ said the squire;
‘but, be that as it may, I shall still be Sancho Panza.’—‘True,’ replied
the duke; ‘but the garb ought always to be suited to the dignity and
function of the profession; for it would be a great impropriety in a
lawyer to appear in the dress of a soldier, or in a soldier to wear
canonicals; you, Sancho, must wear an habit that shall partly bespeak
the gown, and partly the sword; for in the island which I have bestowed
upon you, letters and arms are both necessary.’—‘As for letters,’
answered Sancho, ‘I am but indifferently stored, as I am even ignorant
of the a, b, c; but, provided I remember my Christ-cross, I shall be
sufficiently qualified for a good governor. With regard to arms, I shall
use those that may be put into my hand, until I can stand no longer, and
God be my shield!’—‘With such an excellent memory,’ said the duke,
‘Sancho can never fall into the least mistake.’
Here they were joined by Don Quixote, who understanding the subject of
their conversation, and the short space allotted to Sancho to prepare
for his departure, took the squire by the hand, with the duke’s
permission, and led him to his apartment, in order to instruct him how
to behave in his office. Having entered the chamber, he locked the door,
and obliging Sancho to sit down by him, spoke to this effect, in a grave
and solemn tone.
‘I return infinite thanks to Heaven, friend Sancho, for having ordained,
that, before I myself have met with the least success, good fortune hath
gone forth to bid thee welcome. I, who had balanced the remuneration of
thy service in my own prosperity, find myself in the very rudiments of
promotion; while thou, before thy time, and contrary to all the laws of
reasonable progression, findest thy desire accomplished. Other people
bribe, solicit, importune, attend levees, intreat, and persevere,
without obtaining their suit; and another comes, who, without knowing
why or wherefore, finds himself in possession of that office to which so
many people laid claim; and here the old saying is aptly introduced, A
pound of good luck is worth a ton of merit. Thou, who in comparison to
me, art doubtless an ignorant dunce, without rising early, or sitting up
late, or, indeed, exerting the least industry; without any pretension
more or less, than that of being breathed upon by knight-errantry, seest
thyself created governor of an island, as if it was a matter of
moonshine. All this I observe, O Sancho, that thou mayest not attribute
thy success to thy own deserts; but give thanks to Heaven for having
disposed matters so beneficially in thy behalf, and then make thy
acknowledgments to that grandeur which centers in the profession of
knight-errantry. Thy heart being thus predisposed to believe what I have
said, be attentive, O my son, to me, who am thy Cato, thy counsellor,
thy north pole, and guide, to conduct thee into a secure harbour, from
the tempestuous sea into which thou art going to be engulphed; for great
posts, and offices of state, are no other than a profound gulph of
confusion.
‘In the first place, O my son, you are to fear God: the fear of God is
the beginning of wisdom; and if you are wise you cannot err.
‘Secondly, you must always remember who you are, and endeavour to know
yourself; a study of all others the most difficult. This self knowledge
will hinder you from blowing yourself up like a frog, in order to rival
the size of an ox; if, therefore, you succeed in this learning, the
consideration of thy having been a swineherd, will, like the peacock’s
ugly feet, be a check upon thy folly and pride.’—‘I own, I once kept
hogs, when I was a boy,’ said Sancho; ‘but after I grew up, I quitted
that employment, and took care of geese; but I apprehend that matter is
not of great consequence, for all governors are not descended from the
kingly race.’—‘No, sure,’ answered the knight; ‘and, for that reason,
those who are not of noble extraction, ought to sweeten the gravity of
their function with mildness and affability; which, being prudently
conducted, will screen them from those malicious murmurs that no station
can escape. Rejoice, Sancho, in the lowness of your pedigree, and make
no scruple of owning yourself descended from peasants; for nobody will
endeavour to make you blush for that of which they see you are not
ashamed; and value yourself more upon being a virtuous man of low
degree, than upon being a proud sinner of noble birth. Innumerable are
those, who, from an humble stock, have risen to the pontifical and
imperatorial dignity; a truth which I could prove by so many examples,
that you would not have patience to hear them.
‘Take notice, Sancho, if you chuse virtue for your medium, and pique
yourself upon performing worthy actions, you will have no cause to envy
noblemen and princes; for blood is hereditary, but virtue is acquired;
consequently, this last has an intrinsick value, which the other does
not possess.
‘This being the case, as undoubtedly it is, if peradventure any one of
your relations should come to visit you in your island, you must not
discountenance and affront him; but, on the contrary, let him be kindly
received and entertained; and, in so doing, you will act conformably to
the will of Heaven, which is displeased at seeing its own handy work
despised; and perform your duty to the well-concerted rights of nature.
‘If you send for your wife, (and, indeed, those who are concerned in
governing ought not to be long without their helpmates) take pains in
teaching, improving, and civilizing her; for all that a sagacious
governor can acquire, is very often lost and squandered by a foolish
rustick wife.
‘If, perchance, you should become a widower, a circumstance that may
possibly happen, and have it in your power to make a more advantageous
match, you must not chuse such a yoke-fellow as will serve for an
angling-hook, fishing-rod, or equivocating hood[184]; for verily I say
unto thee, all that a judge’s wife receives must be accounted for at the
general clearance, by the husband, who will repay fourfold after death
what he made no reckoning of during life.
‘Never conduct yourself by the law of your own arbitrary opinion, which
is generally the case with those ignorant people who presume upon their
own self-sufficiency.
‘Let the tears of the poor find more compassion in thy breast, though
not more justice, than the informations of the rich.
‘Endeavour to investigate the truth from among the promises and presents
of the opulent, as well as from the sighs and importunities of the
needy.
‘When equity can, and ought to take place, inflict not the whole rigour
of the law upon the delinquent; for severity is not more respected than
compassion, in the character of a judge.
‘If ever you suffer the rod of justice to be bent a little, let it not
be warped by the weight of corruption, but the bowels of mercy.
‘If ever you should have an opportunity to judge the process of your
enemy, recal the attention from the injury you have received, and fix it
wholly upon the truth of the case.
‘In another man’s cause, be not blinded by private affection; for the
errors thus committed are generally incurable; or, if they admit of
remedy, it will be greatly at the expence of your fortune and credit.
‘If a beautiful woman should come to demand justice, withdraw your eyes
from her tears, and your hearing from her sighs, and deliberate at a
distance upon the substance of her demand, unless you have a mind that
your reason should be overwhelmed by her complaint, and your virtue
buried in her sighs.
‘Abuse not him in word whom you are resolved to chastise in deed; for to
such a wretch, the pain of the punishment will be sufficient, without
the addition of reproach.
‘In judging the delinquents who shall fall under your jurisdiction,
consider the miserable object man, subject to the infirmities of our
depraved nature; and, as much as lies in your power, without injury to
the contrary party, display your clemency and compassion; for although
all the attributes of God are equally excellent, that of mercy has a
better effect in our eye, and strikes with greater lustre than justice.
‘If you observe and conduct yourself by these rules and precepts,
Sancho, your days will be long upon the face of the earth; your fame
will be eternal, your reward compleat, and your felicity unutterable;
your children will be married according to your wish; they and their
descendants will enjoy titles; you shall live in peace and friendship
with all mankind: when your course of life is run, death will overtake
you in an happy and mature old age, and your eyes will be shut by the
tender and delicate hands of your posterity, in the third or fourth
generation.
‘The remarks I have hitherto made, are documents touching the decoration
of your soul; and now you will listen to those that regard the ornaments
of the body.’
Footnote 184:
The phrase, _No quiero de tu capilla_, alludes to the practice of
friars, who, when charity is offered, hold out their hoods to receive
it, while they pronounce a refusal with their tongues.
CHAP. XI.
OF THE SECOND SERIES OF INSTRUCTIONS WHICH DON QUIXOTE GAVE
TO SANCHO PANZA.
Who that had heard this discourse of Don Quixote, would not have taken
him for a person of sound judgment, and excellent disposition? but, as
we have oftentimes observed, in the progress of this sublime history,
his madness never appeared except when the string of chivalry was
touched; and on all other subjects of conversation, he displayed a clear
and ready understanding; so that every minute his works discredit his
judgment, and his judgment his works. But, in this second set of
instructions communicated to Sancho, he discovered great ingenuity, and
raised his madness and discretion to a most elevated pitch.
Sancho listened with the utmost attention, and endeavoured to retain his
advice, like a man who desired to preserve it, as the infallible means
to promote the happy birth of that government with which he was so far
gone. Don Quixote then proceeded in these terms.
‘With respect to the government of your person and family, Sancho: in
the first place, I charge you to be cleanly, and pare your nails; and do
not let them grow, like some people whose ignorance teaches them that
long nails beautify the hand, as if that additional excrement which they
neglect to cut, were really and truly the nail; whereas, it more nearly
resembles the talons of a lizard-hunting wind-whiffer, and is a most
beastly and extraordinary abuse.
‘You must never appear loose and unbuttoned; for a slovenly dress
denotes a disorderly mind; unless that looseness and negligence be the
effect of cunning, as we suppose to have been the case with Julius
Cæsar.
‘Examine sagaciously the profits of your place, and if they will afford
livery to your servants, let it be rather decent and substantial, than
gay and tawdry; and be sure to divide it between your servants and the
poor. For example, if you can clothe six pages, put three in livery, and
clothe as many poor boys; and then you will have pages for Heaven as
well as earth: now, this is a method of giving livery, which the
vain-glorious could never conceive.
‘Abstain from eating garlick and onions, lest your breath should
discover your rusticity.
‘Walk leisurely, speak distinctly, but not so as to seem delighted with
your own discourse; for all affectation is disagreeable.
‘Dine sparingly, and eat very little at supper; for the health of the
whole body depends upon the operation of the stomach.
‘Be temperate in drinking; and consider, that excess of wine will
neither keep a secret nor perform a promise.
‘Beware, Sancho, of chewing on both sides of your mouth, as well as
eructing before company.’—‘I do not understand what you mean by
eructing,’ said the squire. ‘By eructing,’ answered the knight, ‘I mean
belching; which though one of the most expressive, is at the same time
one of the most vulgar terms of our language; therefore, people of taste
have had recourse to the Latin tongue, saying “To eruct,” instead of “To
belch,” and substituting eructations in the room of belchings; and
though some people may not understand these terms, it is of small
importance; for time and use will introduce and render them
intelligible; and this is what we call enriching the language, over
which the practice of the vulgar has great influence.’—‘Truly, Signior,’
said Sancho, ‘one of the advices and good counsels which I intend to
remember, must be that of not belching; for it is a fault of which I am
very often guilty.’—‘Eructing, Sancho, and not belching.’ replied Don
Quixote. ‘Eructing it shall be henceforward,’ answered the squire; ‘and
I will take care that it shall not be forgotten.’
‘Moreover, Sancho, you must not intermingle so many proverbs with your
discourse; for, although proverbs are short sentences, you very often
bring them in by the head and shoulders, so preposterously, that they
look more like the ravings of distraction than well-chosen apothegms.’
‘That defect God himself must remedy,’ said Sancho; ‘for I have more
proverbs by heart, than would be sufficient to fill a large book; and,
when I speak, they croud together in such a manner, as to quarrel for
utterance; so that my tongue discharges them just as they happen to be
in the way, whether they are or are not to the purpose: but I will take
care henceforward, to throw out those that may be suitable to the
gravity of my office; for, Where there’s plenty of meat, the supper will
soon be compleat. He that shuffles does not cut. A good hand makes a
short game; and, It requires a good brain, to know when to give and
retain.’—‘Courage, Sancho,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘squeeze, tack, and
string your proverbs together, here are none to oppose you. My mother
whips me, and I whip the top. Here am I exhorting thee to suppress thy
proverbs, and in an instant thou hast spewed forth a whole litany of
them, which are as foreign from the subject as an old ballad. Remember,
Sancho, I do not say that a proverb, properly applied, is amiss; but to
throw in, and string together, old saws, helter skelter, renders
conversation altogether mean and despicable.
‘When you appear on horseback, do not lean backwards over the saddle,
nor stretch out your legs stiffly from the horse’s belly, nor let them
hang dangling in a slovenly manner, as if you was upon the back of
Dapple; for some ride like jockies, and some like gentlemen.
‘Be very moderate in sleeping; for he who does not rise with the sun,
cannot enjoy the day; and observe, O Sancho! Industry is the mother of
prosperity; and Laziness, her opposite, never saw the accomplishment of
a good wish.
‘The last advice which I shall now give thee, although it does not
relate to the ornament of the body, I desire thou wilt carefully
remember; for, in my opinion, it will be of as much service to thee, as
any I have hitherto mentioned; and this it is: Never engage in a dispute
upon pedigree, at least, never compare one with another; for in all
comparisons, one must of consequence be preferred to the other; and he
whom you have abased will abhor you; nor will you ever reap the least
return from him whom you have extolled.
‘Your garb shall consist of breeches and stockings; a full waistcoat,
with skirts and hanging sleeves, and a loose coat; but never think, of
wearing trunk hose, which neither become gentlemen nor governors.
‘This is all that occurs to me at present, in the way of advice; but, in
process of time, my instructions shall be proportioned to thy occasions,
provided thou wilt take care to communicate, from time to time, the
nature of thy situation.’
‘Signior,’ said Sancho, ‘I plainly perceive that all the advices you
have given me, are sound and good, and profitable; but of what
signification will they be, if I forget them all? Indeed, as for the
matter of not letting my nails grow, or marrying another wife, in case I
should have an opportunity, it will not easily slip out of my brain; but
as to those other gallimawfries, quirks, and quiddities, I neither do
retain them, nor shall I ever retain more of them than of last year’s
rain; and therefore, it will be necessary to let me have them in
writing; for, though I myself can neither read nor write, I will give
them to my confessor, that he may repeat and beat them into my noddle,
as there shall be occasion.’
‘Ah, sinner that I am!’ exclaimed Don Quixote, ‘what a scandal it is for
governors to be so ignorant, that they can neither read nor write! Thou
must know, Sancho, that for a man to be totally devoid of letters, or
left-handed, argues either that he was descended from the very lowest
and meanest of people, or that he was so wicked and stubborn, that good
example and judicious precept have had no effect upon his mind or
understanding. This is a great defect in thy character, and I wish thou
wouldst learn, if possible, to write thy name.’—‘I can sign my name very
well,’ answered Sancho; ‘for, during my stewardship of the brotherhood,
I learned to make such letters as are ruddled into packs, and those they
tell me stood for my name; besides, I can feign myself lame of my
right-hand, and keep a secretary to sign in my room; so that there is a
remedy for every thing but death. And I having the cudgel in my hand,
will make them do as I command; for he whose father is mayor—you
know—and I shall be a governor, which is still better——Let them come and
see, but not throw their squibs or slanders at me: otherwise they may
come for wool and go home shorn. The house itself will tell, if God
loves its master well. A rich man’s folly is wisdom in the world’s eye:
now, I being rich as being governor, and liberal withal, as I intend to
be, nobody will spy my defects. Make yourself honey, and a clown will
have flies. You are worth as much as you have, said my grannam; and,
Might overcomes right.’
‘O! God’s curse light on thee,’ cried Don Quixote: ‘threescore thousand
devils fly away with thee and thy proverbs! A full hour hast thou been
stringing them together, and every one has been like a dagger to my
soul. Take my word for it, these proverbs will bring thee one day to the
gallows! for these, thy vassals will deprive thee of thy government, or
at least enter into associations against thee. Tell me, numscull, where
didst thou find this heap of old saws? or how didst thou learn to apply
them, wiseacre? It makes me sweat like a day-labourer, to utter one
proverb as it ought to be applied.’—‘’Fore God, Sir master of mine,’
replied Sancho, ‘your worship complains of mere trifles. Why the devil
should you be in dudgeon with me for making use of my own? I have no
other fortune or stock, but proverbs upon proverbs; and now there are no
less than four at my tongue’s end, that come as pat to the purpose as
pears in a basket; but, for all that, they shall not come forth; for,
sagacious silence is Sancho.[185]’—‘That thou art not, Sancho,’ said the
knight; ‘far from being sagaciously silent, thou art an obstinate and
eternal babbler. Nevertheless, I would fain hear those four proverbs
that are so pat to the purpose; for I have been rummaging my whole
memory, which I take to be a good one, and not a proverb occurs to my
recollection.’—‘What can be better than these?’ replied the squire:
‘Never thrust your thumb between another man’s grinders; and to, Get out
of my house! what would you with my wife? there is no reply: Whether the
stone goes to the pitcher, or the pitcher to the stone, ’ware pitcher.
Now all these fit to a hair. Let no man meddle with a governor or his
substitute; otherwise he will suffer, as if he had thrust his finger
between two grinders; and even if they should not be grinders, if they
are teeth, it makes little difference: then, to what a governor says,
there is no reply to be made, no more than to, Get out of my house! what
would you with my wife? and as to the stone and the pitcher, a blind man
may see the meaning of it: Wherefore, let him who spies a mote in his
neighbour’s eye, look first to the beam in his own, that people may not
say of him, The dead mare was frighted at the flay’d mule; and your
worship is very sensible that a fool knows more in his own house than a
wise man in that of his neighbour.’—‘There, Sancho, you are mistaken.’
answered Don Quixote; ‘a fool knows nothing either in his own or his
neighbour’s house; because no edifice of understanding can be raised
upon the foundation of folly. But here let the subject rest: if thou
shouldest misbehave in thy government, thine will be the fault and mine
the shame; I console myself, however, in reflecting that I have done my
duty in giving thee advice, with all the earnestness and discretion in
my power; so that I have acquitted myself in point of promise and
obligation. God conduct thee, Sancho, and govern thee in thy government,
and deliver me from an apprehension I have, that thou wilt turn the
island topsy turvy; a misfortune which I might prevent, by discovering
to the duke what thou art, and telling him all that paunch and
corpulency of thine is no other than a bag full of proverbs and
impertinence.’
‘Signior,’ replied Sancho, ‘if your worship really thinks I am not
qualified for that government, I renounce it from henceforward forever.
Amen. I have a greater regard for a nail’s breadth of my soul, than my
whole body; and I can subsist as bare Sancho, upon a crust of bread and
an onion, as well as governor on capons and partridges; for, While we
sleep, great and small, rich and poor, are equal all. If your worship
will consider, your worship will find, that you yourself put this scheme
of government into my head; as for my own part, I know no more of the
matter than a bustard; and if you think the governorship will be the
means of my going to the devil, I would much rather go as simple Sancho
to Heaven, than as a governor to hell fire.’
‘Before God!’ cried the knight, ‘from these last reflections thou hast
uttered, I pronounce thee worthy to govern a thousand islands. Thou hast
an excellent natural disposition, without which all science is naught:
recommend thyself to God, and endeavour to avoid errors in the first
intention; I mean, let thy intention and unshaken purpose be, to deal
righteously in all thy transactions; for Heaven always favours the
upright design. And now let us go in to dinner; for I believe their
graces wait for us.’
Footnote 185:
Instead of _saintly_.
CHAP. XII.
GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF THE MANNER IN WHICH
SANCHO WAS CONDUCTED TO THE GOVERNMENT,
AND A STRANGE ADVENTURE THAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE.
The original of the history, it is said, relates that the interpreter
did not translate this chapter as it had been written by Cid Hamet
Benengeli, who bewails his fate in having undertaken such a dry and
confined history as that of Don Quixote; which obliged him to treat of
nothing but the knight and his squire, without daring to launch out into
other more grave and entertaining episodes and digressions. He
complained, that to be thus restricted in his hand, his pen, and his
invention, to one subject only, so as to be obliged to speak through the
mouths of a few persons, was an insupportable toil, that produced no
fruit to the advantage of the author; and that in order to avoid this
inconvenience, he had in the first part used the artifice of some
novels, such as the Impertinent Curiosity, and the Captive, which were
detached from the history, although many particulars there recounted are
really incidents which happened to Don Quixote; and, therefore, could
not be suppressed. It was likewise his opinion, as he observes, that
many readers being wholly ingrossed with the exploits of Don Quixote,
would not bestow attention upon novels, but pass them over either with
negligence or disgust, without adverting to the spirit and artifice they
contain: a truth which would plainly appear, were they to be published
by themselves, independent of the madness of Don Quixote, and the
simplicities of Sancho. He would not therefore insert in the second part
any novels, whether detached or attached; but only a few episodes that
seem to spring from those very incidents which truth represents; and
even these, as brief and concise as they could possibly be related: and
since he includes and confines himself within the narrow limits of
narration, though his abilities and understanding are sufficient to
treat the whole universe, he hopes that his work will not be
depreciated; and begs he may receive due praise, not for what he has
written, but for what he has left unwrit. Then the history proceeds in
this manner.
In the evening that succeeded the afternoon on which the knight
admonished his squire, he gave him his admonitions in writing, that he
might find some person to read them occasionally; but, scarce had Sancho
received, than he dropped them by accident, and they fell into the hands
of the duke, who communicated the paper to the duchess, and both admired
anew the madness and ingenuity of Don Quixote. Revolving to prosecute
the jest, they, that very evening, dismissed Sancho with a large retinue
to the place, which he supposed to be an island; the execution of the
whole scheme being left to the sagacity of the duke’s steward, who was a
person of great humour and discretion; for without discretion there can
be no humour. He it was who acted the part of the Countess Trifaldi,
with that pleasantry above related. Thus qualified, and in consequence
of the instructions he received from their graces touching his behaviour
to Sancho, he had performed his part to admiration. It happened, then,
that Sancho no sooner beheld the said steward, than he traced in his
countenance the very features of Trifaldi; and turning to his master,
‘Signior,’ said he, ‘the devil may fly away with me from this spot where
I stand, as an honest man, and a believer, if your worship will not
confess that the face of the duke’s steward here present, is the very
same with that of the afflicted duenna!’ Don Quixote, having attentively
considered the steward’s countenance, replied, ‘There is no occasion for
the devil’s running away with thee, Sancho, either as an honest man or a
believer; (indeed, I cannot guess thy meaning) for, sure enough, this
steward’s face is the very same with that of the afflicted duenna; but,
nevertheless, the steward and the duenna cannot possibly be the same
person: that would imply a downright contradiction, and this is no time
to set on foot such enquiries, which would entangle us in the maze of
inextricable labyrinths. Believe me, friend, we ought to beseech the
Lord very earnestly to deliver us from those two evils of wicked
wizzards, and vile inchanters.’—‘But this is no joke,’ answered Sancho;
‘for I heard him speak a little while ago, and methought the very voice
of Trifaldi sounded in mine ears. At present, however, I will hold my
tongue; but, nevertheless, I will keep a strict eye over him from
henceforward, in order to discover some other mark either to destroy or
confirm my suspicion.’—‘Do so, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote; ‘and be sure
to send me notice of the discoveries thou shalt make in this particular,
as well as of every thing that shall happen to thee in the course of
thine administration.’
At length Sancho departed with a numerous attendance; he was dressed
like a gownman, with a long cloak of murrey-coloured camblet, and a cap
of the same stuff: he rode upon a mule, with short stirrups; and was
followed by Dapple, who, by the duke’s express order, was adorned with
rich trappings of flaming silk; so that the governor from time to time
turned about his head to contemplate the finery of his ass, with whose
company he was so well content, that he would not have exchanged it for
that of the German emperor.
At parting, he kissed the hands of the duke and duchess; and asked the
benediction of his master, which was given with tears, and received with
a whimper.
Courteous reader, suffer honest Sancho to depart in peace and happy
time, and lay thy account with two bushels of laughter, which will
proceed from thy knowing how he behaved himself in office; and in the
mean time, attend to what befel his master this very night; an incident
which, if it cannot excite thy laughter, will, at least, induce thee to
grin like a monkey; for the adventures of Don Quixote must be
celebrated, either with mirth or admiration.
It is related, then, that Sancho was no sooner gone than his master
became solitary; and had it been possible, would have revoked the
commission, and deprived him of his government; but the duchess being
apprized of his melancholy, desired to know the cause, observing, that
if it proceeded from Sancho’s absence, there was plenty of squires,
duennas, and damsels, in the family, who should serve him to the
satisfaction of his utmost wish. ‘True it is, my Lady Duchess,’
replied Don Quixote, ‘I feel the absence of Sancho; but that is not
the principal cause of my seeming sadness; and of all the generous
proffers of your excellency, I chuse to accept nothing but the
good-will with which they are made; for the rest, I humbly beg your
excellency will consent, and permit me to wait upon myself in my own
apartment.’—‘Truly,’ said the duchess, ‘that must not be; Signior Don
Quixote shall be served by four of my damsels, as beautiful as
roses.’—‘With regard to me,’ answered the knight, ‘they will not be
roses, but thorns to prick my very soul; and, therefore, I will as
soon fly as permit them, or any thing like them, to enter my chamber.
If your grace would continue to bestow your favours, which, I own, I
do not deserve, suffer me to be private, and make use of my own doors,
that I may raise a wall between my passions and my chastity; a custom
which I would not forego for all the liberality which your highness is
pleased to display in my behalf; and, in a word, I will rather sleep
in my cloaths than consent to be undressed by any person
whatsoever.’—‘Enough, enough, Signior Don Quixote,’ answered her
grace; ‘you may depend upon it, I shall give such orders, that not
even a fly, much less a damsel, shall enter your apartment; I am not a
person to discompose the decency of Signior Don Quixote, among whose
virtues, I perceive, that of decorum shines with superior lustre. Your
worship may dress and undress yourself alone, after your own fashion,
when and how you please, without lett or impediment; for in your
chamber you will find every utensil suited to those who sleep under
lock and key, without being obliged to open upon any necessary
occasion. Long live the great Dulcinea del Toboso, and may her fame be
extended around the whole circumference of the earth, seeing she is
worthy to be beloved by a knight of such valour and chastity; and may
propitious Heaven infuse into the heart of Sancho Panza, our governor,
a promptitude to finish his flagellation, that the world may soon
re-enjoy the beauty of such an excellent lady!’ To this compliment the
knight replied; ‘Your highness hath spoken like yourself; for from the
mouths of such benevolent ladies nothing evil can proceed; and
Dulcinea will be more fortunate, and more renowned through the world,
by your grace’s approbation, than by all the applause of the greatest
orators upon earth.’
‘Well then, Signior Don Quixote,’ answered the duchess, ‘it is now
supper time, and the duke probably stays for us; let us go and sup,
therefore, that you may be a-bed betimes; for your journey to Candaya
was not so short, but that it must have fatigued your worship in some
measure.’—‘Madam,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I feel no sort of weariness;
and I swear to your excellency, that in my life I never crossed a better
or easier going steed than Clavileno; nor can I conceive what should
induce Malambruno to deprive himself of such a light and gentle
carriage, by burning it without scruple or hesitation.’—‘As to that
particular,’ said the duchess, ‘we may suppose, that repenting of the
injury he had done to the countess and her company, as well as to other
people, and being sorry for the mischief he must certainly have produced
as a wizzard and inchanter, he resolved to destroy all the instruments
of his art; as the principal of these, which gave him the greatest
uneasiness, because it has transported him from place to place in his
operations, he burned Clavileno, that by means of his ashes, and the
trophy of the parchment, the valour of Don Quixote might be eternized.’
The knight made fresh acknowledgments of her grace’s politeness, and
after supper retired to his apartment, without suffering any person to
accompany or minister unto his occasions; so much was he afraid of
meeting with trials, which might provoke or compel him to forego the
chastity and decorum which he had hitherto preserved for his mistress
Dulcinea, ever schooling his imagination with the exemplary virtue of
Amadis, the flower and mirrour of knight-errantry.
Having locked the door behind him, he undressed himself by the light of
two wax tapers; and in the course of this occupation (O misfortune, ill
decreed to such a personage!) forth broke—not a volley of sighs, or any
thing else to discredit the purity of his politeness, but about two
dozen of stitches in one stocking; which, being thus torn, resembled a
lattice: a mishap which was the source of extreme affliction to our
worthy Signior; who, on this occasion, would have given an ounce of
silver for a drachm of green silk, for his stockings were of that
colour.
Here Benengeli exclaims, ‘O poverty, poverty! I know not what should
induce the great Cordovan poet to call thee an holy unfrequented gift.
I, though a Moor, am very sensible, from my correspondence with
Christians, that holiness consists in charity, humility, faith, poverty,
and obedience; yet, nevertheless, I will affirm, that he must be holy
indeed, who can sit down content with poverty, unless we mean that kind
of poverty to which one of the greatest saints alludes, when he says,
“Possess all things as not possessing them,” and this is called
spiritual poverty. But thou second poverty, which is the cause I spoke
of, why wouldst thou assault gentlemen of birth rather than any other
class of people? Why dost thou compel them to cobble their shoes, and
wear upon their coats one button of silk, another of hair, and a third
of glass? Why must their ruffs be generally yellow and ill starched?’
(By the bye, from this circumstance we learn the antiquity of ruffs and
starch[186].) But, thus he proceeds: ‘O wretched man of noble pedigree!
who is obliged to administer cordials to his honour, in the midst of
hunger and solitude, by playing the hypocrite with a toothpick, which he
affects to use in the street, though he has eat nothing to require that
act of cleanliness; wretched he! I say, whose honour is ever apt to be
startled, and thinks that every body, at a league’s distance, observes
the patch upon his shoe, his greasy hat, and thread-bare cloak, and even
the hunger that predominates in his belly!’
All these reflections occurred to Don Quixote when he tore his
stockings; but he consoled himself for the misfortune, when he perceived
that Sancho had left behind him a pair of travelling-boots, which he
resolved to wear next day: finally, he crept into bed, where he lay
pensive and melancholy, as well for the absence of Sancho, as for the
irreparable misfortune of his stocking, which he would have gladly
mended, even with silk of a different colour; one of the greatest marks
of misery which a gentleman can exhibit in the course of his tedious
poverty. After having extinguished the lights, he found the weather so
hot that he could not sleep: he therefore arose again, and opened the
casement of a great window that looked into a fine garden; then it was,
that perceiving and hearing people walking and talking together, he
began to listen attentively, while those below spoke so loud that he
heard the following dialogue.
‘Do not, O Emerencia, press me to sing; for well thou knowest, that from
the moment this stranger entered the castle, and mine eyes beheld his
merit, instead of singing, I can do nothing but weep; besides, my lady’s
sleep is rather slight than profound; and I would not for all the wealth
in the world, that her grace should find us here. Moreover, suppose she
should still sleep on, without waking, vain would be my song, unless it
should awake, and attract the attention of this new Æneas, who is
arrived in my territories, in order to leave me forlorn.’—‘Let not these
suppositions have any weight with you, my dear Altisidora,’ replied
another voice; ‘the duchess is doubtless asleep, and every body in the
house, except the lord of your heart, and watchman of your soul, who
must certainly be awake, for I just now heard him open the casement in
his apartment; sing, therefore, my disastrous friend, in a low, sweet,
and plaintive tone, to the sound of thy harp; and should the duchess
overhear us, we will lay the blame upon the heat of the weather.’—‘That
is not the cause of my hesitation, O Emerencia,’ replied Altisidora;
‘but, I am afraid that my song will disclose the situation of my heart,
and I myself be censured by those who never felt the almighty power of
Love, as a light and liquorish damsel; but, come what will, better have
an hot face than an heavy heart.’ At that instant an harp was
ravishingly touched, and Don Quixote hearing the sound, was struck with
amazement; for his imagination was instantly filled with an infinity of
similar adventures of rails and gardens, serenades, courtships and
swoonings, which he had read in his vain books of chivalry; and he
concluded that some damsel of the duchess was enamoured of him, but that
modesty compelled her to keep her inclinations secret. Possessed of this
notion, he began to be afraid of his virtue: but he resolved, in his own
mind, to hold out to the last; and, recommending himself, with all his
soul and spirit, to his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, determined to
listen to the song. With a view, therefore, to let them know he was
there, he pretended to sneeze, a circumstance which not a little pleased
the damsels, who desired nothing so much as that Don Quixote should hear
them. Then the harp being tuned, Altisidora, after a flourish, began the
following ditty.
SONG.
‘O Thou! who now a-bed,
In Holland sheets are laid,
And sleep’st from night till morn,
Untouch’d by care and scorn;
The knight of greatest worth
La Mancha e’er brought forth;
More chaste an hundred fold,
Than pure Arabian gold;
O hear an hapless maid
By cruel love betray’d!
The flame of thy two suns
Hath scorch’d her to the bones!
Thou seeking thy own foe,
Hast found another’s woe:
Thou gav’st the wound, and sure
Wilt not refuse the cure.
O tell me, valiant youth,
(So God shall prosper truth)
Wast thou in desarts bred,
Or among mountains fed?
Did serpents give thee suck,
On some bleak barren rock,
Deep in the wild recess
Of forest or morass?
Dulcinea fat and fair,
May boast her shape and air,
That in subjection hold
A tyger fierce and bold:
Her fame shall live in stanza,
From Ebro to Arlanza,
From Tagus to Henarez,
From Seine to Manganarez,
Would I her place could fill,
I’d give her for good will,
My gayest petticoat
With golden fringes wrought,
How happy then should I
In thine embraces lie!
Or on some cushion loll,
And scratch thy valiant poll.
Such joys are far above
The merits of my love;
Let me, then, bending low,
With rapture kiss thy toe.
What presents would be made,
Of sattin and brocade!
I’d give thee shoes and socks,
Silk hose with silver clocks;
Of cash uncounted sums,
And pearls as big as plums;
So precious, each would sell
As perfect nonpareil.
Manchegan Nero, say,
Dost thou, aloof, survey
The flames that rage and smart
Within my love-sick heart?
A maid I vow and swear,
Young, tender, and sincere;
As yet I have not seen
The borders of fifteen.
My sides are not awry,
Nor lame, nor blind, am I:
My locks with ribbands bound,
Like lilies, sweep the ground:
My nose is flat, ’tis true,
And eke my mouth askew;
But teeth as topaz fine,
Compleat my charms divine;
My voice, as you may hear,
Is tuneful, sweet, and clear;
My temper soft and good,
If rightly understood.
These beauties all so clever,
Are yielded to thy quiver,
And I who tell my story,
Am call’d Altisidory.’
Here ended the song of the hapless Altisidora; and here began the horror
of the courted Don Quixote; who, fetching a heavy sigh, said within
himself—‘What an unfortunate errant am I, whom no damsel can behold
without being enamoured of my person! and how hapless is the peerless
Dulcinea del Toboso, who cannot enjoy my incomparable constancy, without
a rival! Queens, what would you have? Empresses, why do you persecute
her beauty? Damsels of fifteen, why do you molest such virtue? Leave,
leave, I say, that wretched lady, to taste, enjoy, and triumph, in the
lot which love hath decreed her, by subduing my heart, and captivating
my soul. Take notice, enamoured tribe, that to Dulcinea alone I am sugar
paste, but flint to all the rest of her sex: to her I am honey; but gall
and bitterness to such as you. In my eye, Dulcinea alone is beauteous,
wise, gay, chaste, and well-born; but all others are homely, foolish,
idle, and of humble birth. To be her slave, and her’s alone, nature has
thrown me into the world; Altisidora may weep or sing; and that lady may
despair, on whose account I was pummelled in the castle of the inchanted
Moor; Dulcinea’s I am resolved to be, boiled or roasted, neat, chaste,
and well-bred, in spite of all the witchcraft upon earth.’ So saying, he
shut the casement with a flap, and retired to bed, in as much anxiety
and concern as if some great misfortune had befallen him. There, then,
we will leave him for the present, as we are summoned by the mighty
Panza, who is impatient to begin his famous administration.
Footnote 186:
Cervantes has been frequently caught napping, and here in particular:
How could this be any proof of the antiquity of ruffs, when the
adventure happened after the first part of Don Quixote was published?
But, perhaps, this is no other than an ironical animadversion upon the
trifling discoveries of antiquarians.
CHAP. XIII.
GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF THE MANNER IN WHICH SANCHO PANZA
TOOK POSSESSION OF HIS ISLAND, AND BEGAN HIS ADMINISTRATION.
O Thou! perpetual explorer of the antipodes, torch of nature, eye of
Heaven, and agreeable motive for wine-cooling jars, Thymbrius here,
Phœbus there, archer in one place, physician in another, father of
poetry, and inventor of musick; thou who always risest, but never
settest, although thou seemest to set. Thee I invoke, O sun! by whose
assistance man is by man engendered; thee I implore, that thou would’st
favour and enlighten the obscurity of my genius, and enable me to write
with precision an account of the great Sancho Panza’s administration:
for, without thy aid, I find myself lukewarm, feeble, and confused.
To begin, then: Sancho, with his whole retinue, arrived at a town
containing about a thousand inhabitants, one of the best in the duke’s
possession; which they told Sancho was called the Island Barataria,
either because the name of the place was really Barataria, or because he
had very cheaply purchased the government[187]. When he reached the
gates of the town, which was walled, the magistrates came forth to
receive him, the bells were set a ringing, and the inhabitants, with
expressions of universal joy, conducted him with vast pomp to the great
church, in order to return thanks to Heaven for his safe arrival; then,
with some ridiculous ceremonies, they delivered to him the keys of the
town, and admitted him as perpetual governor of the Island Barataria.
The equipage, matted beard, corpulency, and diminutive stature of the
new governor, furnished food for admiration to every body who did not
know the juggle of the contrivance; aye, and even to those acquainted
with the mystery, who were not a few. In fine, they carried him from the
church to the town-hall, and placing him upon the bench, the duke’s
steward addressed himself to the governor in these words: ‘It is an
ancient custom in this famous island, my lord governor, that he who
comes to take possession of it is obliged to answer some difficult and
intricate question that shall be put to him, and by his response the
inhabitants feel the pulse of their new governor’s genius, according to
which they rejoice or repine at his arrival.’ While the steward
pronounced this address, Sancho was contemplating a number of large
letters written upon the wall that fronted his tribunal, and as he could
not read, he desired to know the meaning of that painting on the wall.
‘In that place, my lord,’ replied the steward, ‘is written and recorded,
the day on which your excellency has taken possession of this island,
for the inscription runs, On such a day and such a month, Signior Don
Sancho Panza took possession of this island, and long may he enjoy the
government thereof.’—‘And whom do they call Don Sancho Panza?’ said the
governor. ‘Who, but your excellency,’ answered the steward; ‘for this
island never saw any other Panza than him who sits on that
tribunal.’—‘Take notice, then, brother,’ replied Sancho, ‘that Don
belongs not to me, nor did it ever belong to any of my generation.
Simple Sancho is my name; so was my father called, and so my
grandfather; and they were all Panzas, without addition of Don or Donna;
and I begin to imagine there are as many Dons as stones in this island;
but no more of that: God knows my meaning; and peradventure, if my
government lasts above three days, I shall weed out these Dons, which,
from their swarms, must be as troublesome as vermin. But pray, Mr.
Steward, proceed with your question, which I shall answer to the best of
my understanding, whether the townsmen should repine or not repine.’
At that instant two men entered the hall, one in the habit of a
labouring man, and the other a taylor with shears in his hand, who,
approaching the bench, ‘My lord governor,’ said he, ‘this countryman and
I are come before your lordship about an affair which I am going to
explain. This honest man comes yesterday to my shop—for, saving your
presence, I am an examined taylor, God be praised! and putting a remnant
of cloth in my hand, “Gaffer,” said he, “is there stuff enough here to
make me a cap?” I having handled the piece, replied, “Yes.” Now he
supposing, as I suppose, and to be sure it was a right supposition, that
I wanted to cabbage part of the stuff, grounding his suspicion on his
own deceit, and the bad character of us taylors, desired I would see if
there was enough for two caps; and I, guessing his thoughts, answered,
“Yes.” And so my gentleman, persisting in his first and evil intention,
went on adding cap to cap; and I proceeded to answer Yes upon Yes, until
the number increased to five caps. This very moment he called for them;
and when I produced them, he not only refused to pay me for my work, but
even demanded that I should either restore the cloth, or pay him the
price of it.’—‘Is this really the case, brother?’ said Sancho. ‘Yes, my
lord,’ replied the countryman; ‘but I beg your lordship would order him
to shew what sort of caps he has made.’—‘With all my heart,’ cried the
taylor; who immediately pulling out his hand from under his cloak,
produced five small caps fixed upon the tops of his four fingers and
thumb; saying, ‘Here are the five caps which this honest man desired me
to make; as I shall answer to God and my own conscience, there is not a
scrap of the stuff remaining; and I am willing to submit the work to the
inspection of the masters of the company.’ All the people in court
laughed at the number of caps, and the novelty of the dispute, which
Sancho having considered for a few moments, ‘Methinks,’ said he, ‘this
suit requires no great discussion, but may be equitably determined out
of hand: and therefore my determination is, that the taylor shall lose
his work, and the countryman forfeit his cloth; and that the caps shall
be distributed among the poor prisoners, without farther hesitation.’
If the sentence he afterwards passed upon the herdsman’s purse excited
the admiration of the spectators, this decision provoked their laughter:
nevertheless, they executed the orders of their governor, before whom
two old men now presented themselves, one of them having a cane, which
he used as a walking-staff. The other making up to the governor, ‘My
lord,’ said he, ‘some time ago, I lent this man ten crowns of gold, to
oblige and assist him in an emergency, on condition that he should pay
them upon demand; and for a good while I never asked my money, that I
might not put him to greater inconvenience in repaying than that which
he felt when he borrowed the sum; but as he seemed to neglect the
payment entirely, I have demanded the money again and again, and he not
only refuses to refund, but also denies that I ever lent him the ten
crowns; or, if I did, he says he is sure they were repaid: now, I having
no witnesses to prove the loan, nor he evidence of the re-payment, for
indeed they never were repaid, I entreat your lordship to take his oath;
and if he swears the money was returned, I here forgive him the debt, in
the presence of God.’—‘What have you to say to this charge, honest
gaffer with the staff?’ said Sancho. ‘My lord,’ replied the senior, ‘I
confess he lent me the money; and since he leaves the matter to my oath,
if your lordship will lower your rod of justice, I will make affidavit,
that I have really and truly returned, and repaid the sum I borrowed.’
The governor accordingly lowering his wand, the defendant desired the
plaintiff to hold his cane until he should make oath, because it
incumbered him; then laying his hand upon the cross of the rod, he
declared that the other had indeed lent him those ten crowns which he
now demanded; but that he, the borrower, had returned them into the
lender’s own hand, and he supposed he dunned him in this manner, because
he had forgot that circumstance. This oath being administered, the great
governor asked what farther the creditor had to say to the allegation of
the other party. And he answered, that doubtless the defendant had spoke
the truth; for he looked upon him as an honest man, and a good
Christian; and that as he himself must have forgot the particulars of
the payment, he would never demand it from thenceforward. Then the
defendant, taking back his cane, and making his obeisance, quitted the
court; while Sancho seeing him retire in this manner, and perceiving the
resignation of the plaintiff, hung down his head a little, and laying
the fore-finger of his right-hand on one side of his nose, continued in
this musing posture for a very small space of time: then, raising his
head, he ordered them to call back the old man with the staff, who had
retired: he was accordingly brought before Sancho; who said to him,
‘Honest friend, lend me that staff, I have occasion for it.’—‘With all
my heart, my lord,’ replied the elder, reaching it to the judge: then
Sancho took and delivered it to the plaintiff, saying: ‘Now, go your
ways, a God’s name! you are fully paid.’—‘How, my lord!’ said the old
man, ‘is this cane then worth ten crowns of Gold?’—‘Yes,’ replied the
governor, ‘otherwise I am the greatest dunce in nature: and now it shall
appear, whether or not I have a noddle sufficient to govern a whole
kingdom.’ So saying, he ordered the cane to be broke in publick; and
when, in consequence of his command, it was split asunder, ten crowns of
gold were found in the heart of it, to the astonishment of all the
spectators, who looked upon their new governor as another Solomon. When
he was asked how he could conceive that the money was in the cane, he
answered, that seeing the deponent give his staff to the other party
before he made oath, then hearing him declare that he had really and
truly returned the money; and lastly, perceiving that after his
deposition he took back the staff, it came into his head that the money
was concealed within the cane. And in this instance, we see that
governors, though otherwise fools, are sometimes directed in their
decisions by the hand of God: besides, Sancho had heard such a story
told by the curate of his village, and his memory was so tenacious, in
retaining every thing he wanted to remember, that there was not such
another in the whole island. Finally, the two old men went away: the one
overwhelmed with shame, and the other miraculously repaid; the
by-standers were astonished; and he whose province it was to record the
sayings, actions, and conduct of Sancho, could not determine in his own
mind, whether he should regard and report him as a simpleton, or a sage.
[Illustration: Governor Sancho Panza and the Woman.]
This suit being determined, a woman came into court, holding fast by a
man habited like a rich herdsman, and exclaiming with great
vociferation, ‘Justice, my lord governor, justice! which, if I find not
on earth, I will go in quest of to heaven! My lord governor of my soul,
this wicked man has forced me in the middle of a field, and made use of
my body as if it had been a dirty dishclout: alack, and a-well-a-day! he
has robbed me of that which I had preserved for three and twenty years,
in spite of Moors and Christians, natives and foreigners: and have I,
who was always as hard as a cork-tree, maintained my virtue entire, like
a salamander in the midst of flames, or wool among brambles, to be
handled by the clean hands of this Robin Goodfellow?’—‘That must be
enquired into,’ said Sancho, ‘whether the gallant’s hands be clean or
no.’ Then turning to the man, he asked what he had to say to the
complaint of that woman? To this question the culprit replied, with
great perturbation, ‘My lord, I am a poor herdsman who deal in swine,
and this morning went to market, saving your presence, with some hogs,
and the duties and extortions, and one thing and another, ran away with
almost all they were worth; and so, in my return, I lighted on this
honest damsel on the road; and the devil, who will always meddle and
make, and have a finger in every pye, yoked us together. I paid her
handsomely; but she, not satisfied, laid fast hold on me, nor would she
quit her hold until she had brought me hither: she alledges I forced
her; but, by the oath I have taken, or am to take, she lyes; and this is
the whole truth, without the least crumb of prevarication.’ Then the
governor asked if he had any money about him; and when he owned he had a
leathern purse with twenty ducats in his bosom, Sancho ordered him to
pull it out, and deliver the whole to the complainant. The man obeyed
this command with fear and trembling; the woman received this money, and
making a thousand curtsies to all the by-standers, prayed God would
preserve the life and health of my lord governor, who took such care of
damsels and orphans in necessity. So saying, she went away, holding the
purse with both hands, though not before she had examined the contents.
Scarce had she quitted the court, when Sancho said to the herdsman, who
stood with tears in his eyes, sending his heart, and many a long look
after his purse, ‘Harkye, friend! go after that woman, and take the
purse from her, either by fair means or force, and bring it hither to
me.’ This command was not imposed upon one that was either deaf or
doating; for he darted like lightning, in order to put it in execution:
while all the spectators waited in suspence to see the issue of the
suit. In a little time the parties returned, but more closely engaged,
and clinging faster together than before; she, with her petticoat tucked
up, and the purse in her lap; and he struggling, to no purpose, to take
it from her; so vigorously did she defend her acquisition, crying aloud,
‘Justice, in the name of God and his creatures! Take notice, my lord
governor, of the impudence and presumption of this miscreant, who, in
the very face of the people, and the middle of the street, wanted to rob
me of the purse which I received by your lordship’s decree.’—‘Has he
taken it from you, then?’ said the governor. ‘Taken it from me!’ replied
the wench; ‘I’ll sooner part with my life than with my purse. I should
be a precious ninny indeed! otherguise cats must scratch my beard, and
not such a pitiful muckworm as he. Pincers and hammers, mallets and
chissels, should not tear it out of my clutches; no, not the claws of a
lion; my soul and body shall rather be tore asunder.’—‘It is even so,’
said the man; ‘I submit as the weaker vessel, and own I have not
strength enough to recover my purse.’ He quitted her accordingly. Then
the governor said to the woman, ‘Come hither, my virtuous and spirited
dame; let me see thy purse.’ Which, when she delivered it, he restored
to the man; and turning to the wench, who was too forceful to be forced,
‘Sister of mine,’ quoth he, ‘if you had exerted the same vigour and
perseverance, or even half so much, in preserving your chastity, as you
have shewn in defending the purse, the force of Hercules would not have
forced you. Be gone, a-God’s name! be gone, I say, with a vengeance, and
never more appear in this island, or within six leagues of it, on pain
of receiving two hundred stripes. Be gone immediately, you chattering,
shameless impostor!’ The woman, terrified at his menaces, sneaked off,
hanging her head, and discontented; and the governor spoke to the man in
these words: ‘Honest friend, get you home with your money, in the name
of God; and unless you are inclined to lose it again, from henceforward
avoid all temptations to yoke with any woman whatsoever.’
The herdsman thanked him as sheepishly as he could, and went away, and
the audience were struck with admiration afresh, at the judgment and
decisions of their new governor; every circumstance of which being
recorded by his historiographer, was immediately communicated to the
duke, who waited for the account with the utmost impatience.
But here let honest Sancho rest a little; for we are summoned in all
haste by his master, who is greatly disturbed by the musick of
Altisidora.
Footnote 187:
_Barato_, signifies cheap.
CHAP. XIV.
OF THE DREADFUL CONSTERNATION, AND CATTISH CONCERT,
TO WHICH DON QUIXOTE WAS EXPOSED,
IN THE COURSE OF THE ENAMOURED ALTISIDORA’S AMOUR.
We left the great Don Quixote wrapped up in those cogitations that were
suggested by the musick of the enamoured damsel Altisidora. With these
companions he crept into bed; but, as if they had been fleas and vermin,
they would not suffer him to sleep, or indeed enjoy a moment’s repose,
especially when reinforced with the reflection of his wounded stocking.
But as time is so light and nimble, that no rub can retard his career,
he galloped along upon the hours, and soon ushered in the morning, which
was no sooner beheld by the knight, than he forsook the gentle down, and
being the reverse of lazy, dressed himself in his chamoy suit. He put on
his travelling boots to conceal the misfortune of his hose; threw his
scarlet cloak over his shoulder, cased his head in a green velvet cap
trimmed with silver, slung his trusty hanging sword in his buff-belt,
took up his large rosary, which always depended from his wrist, and with
great port and solemnity went forth into the hall, where the duke and
duchess, already dressed, stayed for him. As he passed through a
gallery, he perceived Altisidora, and the other maiden her friend, who
stood waiting for his appearance; and he was no sooner beheld by the
love-sick damsel, than she pretended to faint away; while her companion
received her in her arms, and with all possible dispatch began to
unclasp her bosom. The knight seeing her fall, approached the place
where they were, saying, ‘I know whence these accidents proceed.’ And
the companion replied, ‘I do not know whence; for Altisidora is the
healthiest damsel of the whole family, and I never knew her so much as
fetch a sigh from the first minute of our acquaintance. Ill betide all
the knights-errant in the world, if they are all so shy and scornful.
Signior Don Quixote, I wish your worship would leave the place; for this
poor girl will not come to herself while you stand here.’ To this
entreaty the knight replied, ‘Be so good, Madam, as to order a lute to
be left in my apartment; and, at night, I will, to the best of my power,
console this unfortunate damsel: for a speedy explanation in the
beginning, is often an effectual cure for those who are indiscreetly in
love.’ So saying, he went away, that he might not be observed in
conference with the damsels; and scarce was he gone, when the swooning
Altisidora coming to herself, said to her companion, ‘It will be
requisite to leave the lute; for, doubtless, Don Quixote intends to
entertain us with musick, which cannot be bad if he is the performer.’
Then they went and gave an account of what had passed, and in particular
of the lute, to the duchess, who was rejoiced beyond measure, and
concerted with her lord and her women, how to execute another joke which
should be more merry than mischievous. This being accordingly contrived,
they with great glee waited for night; and it came posting along in the
same pace that brought in the day, which their graces spent in savoury
discourse with Don Quixote. On this day the duchess really and truly
dispatched one of her pages, who acted the part of the enchanted
Dulcinea in the wood, to Tereza Panza, with her husband’s letter, and a
bundle, which he had left on purpose to be sent home; and the messenger
had particular orders to bring back a circumstantial detail of every
thing that should pass between him and the governor’s lady.
This step being taken, and the hour of eleven at night arrived, Don
Quixote found a lute in his apartment; this he tuned, and having opened
the window, perceived people walking below in the garden: he immediately
ran over the strings of his instrument, making as good a prelude as he
could, then hemming and clearing his pipes, he with an hoarse, though
not untuneful voice, sung the following sonnet, which he had that very
day composed.
SONG.
‘Love, with idleness combin’d,
Will unhinge the tender mind:
But to sew, to work, and move,
Will exclude the force of love.
Blooming maids that would be married,
Must in virtue be unwearied:
Modesty a dow’r will raise,
And be trumpet of their praise.
A cavalier will sport and play
With a damsel frank and gay;
But, when wedlock is his aim,
Chuse a maid of sober fame.
Passion kindled in the breast,
By a stranger or a guest,
Enters with the rising sun,
And fleets before his race be run.
Love that come so suddenly,
Ever on the wing to fly,
Neither can or will impart
Strong impressions to the heart.
Pictures drawn on pictures, shew
Strange confusion to the view:
Second beauty find no base,
Where a first has taken place.
Then Dulcinea still shall reign
Without a rival or a stain;
Nor shall fate itself controul
Her sway, or blot her from my soul:
Constancy, the lover’s boast,
I’ll maintain, whate’er it cost.
This my virtue will refine;
This will stamp my joy divine.’
So far had Don Quixote proceeded with his song, which was overheard by
the duke and duchess, Altisidora, and almost all the people in the
castle, when all of a sudden, from the top of a corridore immediately
above Don Quixote’s window, came down a cord to which above a hundred
horse-bells were tied; and after these was discharged a whole sackful of
cats with smaller bells fastened to their tails. Such was the noise
occasioned by the tinkling of these bells, and the mewling of the cats,
that even the duke and duchess, who invented the joke, were terrified
and confounded, and Don Quixote astonished and dismayed; especially when
two or three cats chanced to enter his window, and coursed up and down
through his apartment, which seemed to be haunted by a whole legion of
devils; for they extinguished the lights, and ran to and fro,
endeavouring to escape, while the rope with the large bells was lowering
down, and pulling up incessantly; so that the greatest part of the
people in the family, who were ignorant of the scheme, listened with
fear and admiration. Then Don Quixote starting up, and unsheathing his
sword, began to fence with the window, exclaiming aloud, ‘Avaunt,
malignant enchanters! avaunt, ye wizzard crew! for I am Don Quixote de
La Mancha, against whom your whole power and malice shall not avail.’ So
saying, he laid about him among the cats, which had entered his
apartments; and they sprung towards the casement, from whence two of
them made their escape; but the third, finding itself hard pressed by
the valour and back-strokes of the knight, flew at his face, and laid
fast hold on his nose with its teeth and claws. The pain of this assault
affected Don Quixote in such a manner, that he began to roar with vast
vociferation, which being heard by the duke and duchess, who guessed the
cause of his cries, they ran instantly to his chamber, which they opened
with a master-key; and lights being brought, they found the poor knight
endeavouring with all his strength to disengage the cat from his visage.
Seeing the unequal fray, they made haste to part the combatants; when
Don Quixote called aloud, ‘Let no man part us; but leave me hand to hand
with this dæmon, this wizard, this enchanter; and I will make him
sensible of the difference between him and me, who am Don Quixote de La
Mancha.’ The cat, however, without minding his threats, stuck fast to
his nose; but, at length, the duke tore it away, and threw it out at the
window; so that the knight remained with his face like a sieve, and his
nose in no very sound condition; though he was very much dissatisfied,
that they would not suffer him to finish the engagement he had so
obstinately maintained with that felonious enchanter.
Oil of Aparicio was immediately fetched, and Altisidora herself, with
her snowy hands, applied the balsam, saying in a low voice, as she bound
up his wounds, ‘All these misadventures befal thee, hard-hearted knight,
as a punishment for thy cruelty and disdain; and God grant thy squire
Sancho may forget to scourge himself, that they so much beloved Dulcinea
may never be disenchanted, nor thou enjoy her as a wedded wife; at
least, during the life of me, by whom thou art adored.’ To all this
apostrophe Don Quixote answered not a word; but, heaving a profound
sigh, laid himself along in his bed, and thanked their graces for this
instance of their concern; not that he was afraid of such a
cattish-enchanting and bell-ringing crew, but on account of the kind
intention they had manifested in coming to his relief. As for the duke
and duchess, they left him to his repose, and went away extremely sorry
for the unfortunate issue of his joke; for they did not think Don
Quixote would have suffered so terribly by the adventure, which cost him
five days confinement in his bed, where he was engaged in another still
more diverting, which, however, the historian will not at present
recount, that he may return to Sancho Panza, who proceeded in his
administration with equal pleasantry and solicitude.
CHAP. XV.
CONTAINING A FARTHER ACCOUNT OF SANCHO’S
BEHAVIOUR IN HIS GOVERNMENT.
The history relates, that from the town-hall Sancho Panza was conducted
to a sumptuous palace, in the great hall of which was a royal table,
most elegantly furnished. When the governor entered, the waits struck
up, and four pages came forth and presented him with water for his
hands, which he received with great solemnity; then the musick ceasing,
he took his place at the upper end of the table, which was accommodated
with one seat only, and a cover for himself alone: while close by him
stood a personage, who afterwards proved to be a physician, with a rod
of whalebone in his hand. They removed a very fine white cloth that
covered the fruit and a great variety of dishes. One who looked like a
student, said grace; a page tucked a laced bib under Sancho’s chin, and
another person, who acted the part of sewer, set a plate of fruit before
the governor; but scarce had he swallowed a mouthful, when the doctor
touching the said plate with his wand, it was snatched from him in a
twinkling: the sewer presented him with another dish, which the governor
resolved to prove; but, before he could finger or taste it, the plate
being also touched by the wand, one of the pages conveyed it away with
incredible dispatch, to the amazement of Sancho, who, looking round him,
asked if he must be obliged to eat like a juggler, by slight of hand!
To this interrogation he of the wand replied: ‘My lord governor must, in
eating, conform to the use and customs of other islands where governors
reside. I, my lord, enjoy a salary as physician to the governors of this
island, and take more care of their health than of my own; studying
night and day, and considering the governor’s constitution, that I may
be able to cure him, in case he should be taken ill; but the principal
part of my office is to be present at his meals, where I allow him to
eat what I think will agree with his complexion, and restrain him from
that which I conceive will be hurtful and prejudicial to his stomach. I
therefore ordered the fruit to be removed, because it is dangerously
moist; and likewise commanded the other dish to be conveyed away,
because it is extremely hot, as containing a number of spices which
create thirst, and copious drinking drowns and destroys the radical
moisture, which is the essence of life.’—‘By that way of reasoning,’
said Sancho, ‘that there dish of roasted partridges, which seems to be
very well seasoned; will do me no harm.’ To this hint the physician
replied: ‘Of these my lord governor shall not eat while there is breath
in my body.’—‘And pray for what reason?’ said the governor. ‘Because our
master Hippocrates, the north star and luminary of physic, expressly
says, in one of his aphorisms, “_Omnis saturatio mala, perdix autem
pessima_;” that is, All repletion is bad, but that with partridge worst
of all.’—‘If that be the case,’ said Sancho, ‘good Mr. Doctor, pray
examine all the messes on the table, so as to point out that which will
do me least harm and most good, that I may eat without fear of
conjuration; for, by the life of the governor, and as God shall prolong
it! I am ready to die of hunger; and to deny me victuals, even though
Signior Doctor should prescribe fasting, and say a thousand things in
its praise, will, instead of preserving my health, deprive me of life
entirely.’—‘Your lordship is very much in the right,’ replied the
physician: ‘and to begin, I would not have you touch these ragoo’d
rabbits, because they are a sharp haired food: of that veal, indeed, you
might pick, a little, if it was not roasted _a la daube_; but as it is,
touch it not.’—‘The dish that smokes yonder,’ said Sancho, ‘seems to be
an _olla podrida_, and considering the variety of ingredients of which
these _ollas_ are composed, surely I cannot fail to light on something
that will be both savoury and wholesome.’—‘_Absit!_’ cried the
physician, ‘far from us be such a thought. There is not a more
pernicious nutriment upon the face of the earth: leave your _ollas_ to
canons, rectors of colleges, and country weddings; but let them never
appear upon the tables of governors, where elegance and neatness ought
to reign. The reason is clear; at all times, in all places, and by all
the learned, simple medicines are more esteemed than those that are
compound: for in the first, no mistakes can be committed; whereas, in
the other, numberless errors may take place, in the quantity and
proportion of the ingredients; but what I would advise my lord governor
to eat at present, in order to preserve and corroborate his health, is
about a hundred confected wafers, and a few thin slices of quinces,
which will sit easy on his stomach, and assist digestion.’
Sancho, hearing this prescription, threw himself backwards in his chair,
and surveying the physician from head to foot, asked in a grave and
solemn tone, ‘What was his name, and where he had studied?’ To this
question, the other replied, ‘I, my lord governor, am called Doctor
Pedro Positive de Bodewell[188], native of a place called Snatchaway, on
the right hand between Caraquel and Almodobar del Campo; and I took my
doctor’s degree at the university of Ossuna.’ To this declaration Sancho
replied, in a rage, ‘Hark ye, then, Mr. Doctor Pedro Positive de
Bode-ill, native of Snatchaway, which is on the right hand as we go from
Caraquel to Almodobar del Campo, graduate of Ossuna, get out of my
presence this instant, or by the body of the sun! I will snatch up a
cudgel, and beginning with you, employ it in such a manner as not to
leave a physician on the whole island; of those, I mean, who are
ignorant fellows. As for the learned, virtuous, and discreet members of
the faculty, I will place them on my head, in token of respect, and
honour them as things divine. But, I say again, be gone, Doctor Pedro
Positive, or positively I will take up this chair on which I sit, and
make immediate application to your skull; and, should I be called to
account for it, when I resign my government, I will exculpate myself by
proving that I have done service to God, in slaying a wicked physician,
who was a scandal to the commonwealth. Let me have something to eat,
therefore, or take back your government; for a post that will not afford
victuals, is not worth a pease-cod.’
The doctor was frightened at seeing the governor in such a passion, and
was going to snatch himself away from his presence; when, at the very
instant, their ears were saluted with the noise of a post-boy’s horn in
the street; and the gentleman sewer going to the window, informed the
governor that there was a courier arrived from my lord duke, with some
dispatches of importance. Accordingly the messenger entered the hall,
sweating, with marks of consternation in his countenance; and taking a
packet out of his bosom, delivered it into the hands of the governor,
who gave it to the steward, with orders to read the superscription,
which ran thus: ‘To Don Sancho Panza, governor of the island Barataria,
to be delivered into his own hand, or that of his secretary.’ Sancho
hearing the direction, ‘Who is my secretary?’ said he. One of the people
who were present, answered, ‘I am secretary, my lord; for I can read and
write, and am a Biscayan.’—‘Nay, with that addition,’ said Sancho, ‘you
might be secretary to the emperor himself: open this packet, and see
what it contains.’ The new-born secretary obeyed the command; and having
perused the contents, told his excellency, it was business for his
private ear. Then Sancho ordered every body to quit the place, except
the steward and gentleman sewer: accordingly the rest retired, with the
doctor at their head: and the secretary recited the letter to this
effect—
‘I have received information, Signior Don Sancho Panza, that certain
enemies of mine and of the island, intend one of these nights, to
give you a furious assault; you will therefore be vigilant and
alert, that they may not find you unprepared. I am likewise
informed, by trusty spies, that four persons in disguise have
entered the town, with intention to take away your life, as they
dread the extent of your abilities: be upon your guard, therefore,
examine every person who comes to speak with you, and taste nothing
that comes in a present. I will take care to reinforce you, should
you stand in need of assistance; meanwhile, you will act in every
thing according to the good opinion I have of your understanding.
Your friend,
‘THE DUKE.
‘From my castle, August 16th,
at 4 in the morning.’
This epistle overwhelmed Sancho with astonishment, which the rest
pretended to share; and turning to the steward, ‘What is to be done,’
said he, ‘and that immediately, is to confine Doctor Positive in a
dungeon; for if any body has a design to take away my life, he is the
man; aye, and by the most pitiful, and worst of all deaths; namely,
hunger.’—‘True’ replied the gentleman sewer; ‘and, in my opinion, your
lordship ought not to eat any of the victuals now on the table, for they
were a present from certain nuns; and, as the saying is, The devil
skulks behind the cross.’—‘That is a truth not to be denied,’ said
Sancho; ‘but, in the mean time, let me have a luncheon of bread, and
about for pounds of raisins, which cannot be poisoned: for really and
truly, I cannot live without eating; and if we must be prepared for
those battles with which we are threatened, at least let us be well fed;
for the stomach supports the heart, and not the heart the stomach. You,
secretary must write an answer to my Lord Duke; and tell him his
commands shall be obeyed to a tittle. You shall likewise make my
compliments to my Lady Duchess, beseeching her, in my name, to remember
to send an express, with my letter and bundle, to my wife Teresa Panza;
in so doing she will lay me under great obligation, and I shall take
care to be her humble servant to the utmost of my power. By the bye, you
may thrust in a How d’ye to my master Don Quixote de La Mancha, that he
may see I am not of an ungrateful leaven; you may, as a faithful
secretary, and honest Biscayan, add what you shall think proper, and
most likely to turn out to advantage. At present, take away these
things, and let me have something to eat; and I shall manage any spies,
murderers, or inchanters, that may presume to attack me or my island.’
Here he was interrupted by a page, who, coming into the hall, told him
there was a countryman without, who wanted to speak with his lordship
upon some business of the utmost importance. ‘Those people of business
are strange fellows,’ said Sancho; ‘is it possible they are so ignorant,
as not to see that this is not a proper hour for the transaction of
business? Mayhap they think, we governors and judges are not made of
flesh and blood, and therefore require no time for refreshment, any more
than if we were created of marble. As I shall answer to God! if my
government holds, (though I begin to perceive it will not be of long
duration) I will sit upon the skirts of more than one of these men of
business[189]. At present, tell that honest man to come; but, first of
all, take care that he is not one of the spies or murderers.’—‘There is
no occasion, my lord,’ answered the page; ‘for he seems to be a simple
soul, and either I am very much mistaken, or he is as honest as a
well-weighed loaf.’—‘While we are present,’ said the steward, ‘there is
nothing to fear.’—‘Mr. Sewer,’ said Sancho, ‘now that Doctor Pedro
Positive is not here, might not I eat something substantial, even though
it should be nothing better than a luncheon of bread and an
onion?’—‘This night your supper shall make amends for the defect of
dinner, so as that your lordship shall be perfectly well pleased, and
satisfied,’ replied the sewer. ‘God grant I may be so!’ quoth the
governor.
At that instant the countryman entered the hall, of a goodly presence,
and indeed one might have seen that he was an honest soul, even at the
distance of a thousand leagues. The first thing he said, was, ‘Which of
all this company is my lord governor?’—‘Who should be governor,’ replied
the secretary, ‘but he who sits in the chair?’—‘Then, I humble myself
before him,’ said the peasant; who, falling on his knees, begged leave
to kiss his lordship’s hand. This request, however, Sancho would not
grant; but ordered him to rise and explain his business. Accordingly,
the countryman getting up, ‘My lord,’ said he, ‘I am a husbandman
belonging to Miguel Turra, a place about two leagues from Cividad
Real.’—‘What! have we got another Snatchaway?’ cried Sancho: ‘proceed,
brother; for I can tell you, that I am very well acquainted with Miguel
Turra, which is not far from our own village.’—‘This here, then, is the
case, my lord,’ said the countryman; ‘by the mercy of God, I was married
in peace, and in the face of the holy Roman Catholick church; and I have
two sons now at college, the youngest of whom is to be a batchelor, and
the elder is intended for a licentiate. I am a widower; for my wife
died, or rather she was killed by a wicked physician, who gave her a
purge when she was big with child; and, had it pleased God that the
fruit of her womb had come to light, and had been a boy, I would have
bred him up a doctor, that he might not have envied his brothers, the
batchelor and licentiate.’—‘So then,’ said Sancho, ‘if your wife had not
died, or been killed, in all likelihood you should not now be a
widower.’—‘No, my lord, by no manner of means,’ answered the countryman.
‘Agad!’ cried Sancho, ‘we are in a thriving way! Pray, go on, brother;
for this is an hour more proper for sleep than for business.’—‘Well,
then,’ replied the countryman, ‘this son of mine, who is to be bred a
batchelor, became enamoured of a young lady of the same town, called
Clara Paralina[190], daughter of Andrew Paralino, a very wealthy yeoman;
and this name of Paralino does not come from their pedigree, or any
family descent; but they have acquired it, because the whole race of
them is paralitick; and so, in order to improve the sound, they are
called Paralino; though to say the truth, the young lady is a perfect
oriental pearl, and when you look at her, on her right side, seems to be
a very flower of the field; on the left, indeed, she is not quite so
amiable, being blind of an eye, which she lost in the small-pox; and
although the pits in her face are very large and numerous, her admirers
say, that these are not pits, but graves, in which the hearts of her
lovers are buried. Then she is so cleanly, that to prevent her face from
being defiled, she carries her nose cocked up, as the saying is, so that
it seems to be running away from her mouth; yet, for all that, she is
extremely beautiful, for she has a very wide mouth, and if she did not
want some ten or a dozen teeth, might pass for a very phœnix of beauty.
Of her lips I shall say nothing; but they are so thin and delicate, that
if it was the custom to reel lips, they might be made up into a skein;
but as they are of a different colour from common lips, they appear
quite miraculous; for they contain a mixture of blue, green, and orange
tawny. My lord governor will pardon me for painting so exactly the parts
of her who is to be my daughter, for I love her exceedingly, and like to
dwell upon the subject.’—‘Paint what you will,’ said Sancho; ‘for my own
part I am hugely delighted with your description, and if I had dined,
should not desire a better desert than the picture you have
drawn.’—‘That shall be always at your service,’ replied the countryman;
‘and though we are not at present known to each other, the time will
come when we shall be better acquainted. And now, my lord, if I could
describe her genteel deportment, and tall stature, you would be struck
with admiration; but that is an impossible task, because she is so
doubled and bent, that her knees touch her mouth; and yet, for all that,
one may see with half an eye, that if she could stand upright, her head
would touch the cieling; and she would have given her hand in marriage
to my batchelor before this time, if she could have stretched it out,
but it happens to be shrunk and withered; though, by the long channelled
nails, one may easily perceive the beauty of its form and texture.’
‘Very well,’ said Sancho. ‘Now, brother, let us suppose you have painted
her from head to foot; tell me what is your request, and come to the
point, without going about the bush, through lanes and alleys with a
parcel of scraps and circumlocutions.’—‘Well then, my lord,’ replied the
countryman, ‘my request is, that you would give me a letter of
recommendation to the young lady’s father, entreating him to give his
consent to the match, as the parties are pretty equal in the gifts of
fortune, and of nature; for, to say the truth, my Lord Governor, my son
is possessed, and scarce a day passes, but he is three or four times
tormented by the foul fiend; and, in consequence of having once fallen
into the fire, his face is shrivelled up like a skin of parchment, and
his eyes are bleared, and run woundily; but yet he has the temper of an
angel, and if he did not beat and buffet himself, he would be a perfect
saint.’—‘Do you want any thing else, honest friend?’ replied Sancho. ‘I
did want something else,’ said the countryman, ‘but I dare not be so
bold as to mention it: but, out it shall go; for, take or not take, it
shall never rot in my belly. Why then, my lord, I wish your lordship
would bestow three or six hundred ducats, to help to set up my
batchelor; I mean, to furnish his house; for, the truth is, the young
couple are to live by themselves, without being subject to the
peevishness of us old folks.’—‘Consider if you want any thing else,’
said Sancho, ‘and speak without bashfulness or restraint.’—‘Truly, I
want nothing else,’ replied the countryman. Scarce had he pronounced
these words, when, the governor starting up, and laying hold on the
chair that was under him, exclaimed, ‘I vow to God, you Don lubberly,
rascally rustick, if you don’t get you gone, and abscond from my
presence this instant, I will with this chair demolish your scull, you
knavish son of a whore, and painter for the devil himself; is this a
time to come and demand six hundred ducats? Where the devil should I
find them, you stinkard? or, if I had found them, why the devil should I
give them to you, you idiotical scoundrel? What a pox have I to do with
Miguel Turra, or any of the generation of the Paralino’s? Be gone, I
say, or, by the life of my Lord Duke, I’ll be as good as my word; thou
art no native of Miguel Turra, but some fiend sent from hell to torment
me. Hark ye, miscreant, I have been governor but a day and a half, and
you would have me already in possession of six hundred ducats!’
The gentleman sewer made signs to the countryman to leave the place; and
he accordingly quitted the hall, hanging his head, and seemingly afraid
that the governor would execute his threats; for the rogue acted his
part to admiration. But let us leave Sancho’s indignation to cool, and
peace attend him in his career, while we return to Don Quixote, whom we
left with his face bandaged up for the cure of his cattish wounds, which
were not healed in the space of eight days; and in that time an
adventure happened to him, which Cid Hamet promises to recount, with
that truth and punctuality he has hitherto maintained, in recording even
the most trivial and minute incidents of this authentick history.
Footnote 188:
The Spanish name is Pedro Rezio de Aguero; which, together with Tirte
Afuera, the place of his nativity, I have translated into English,
that the humour may be better understood.
Footnote 189:
The original _Ponga en pretina_, signifies, I will put in my girdle.
Footnote 190:
She is in the original called Perlerina, which I have changed into
Paralina, in order to preserve the subsequent play on the words.
CHAP. XVI.
OF DON QUIXOTE’S ADVENTURE WITH DONNA RODRIGUEZ, THE DUCHESS’S
DUENNA—AND OTHER INCIDENTS WORTHY OF ETERNAL FAME.
Exceedingly peevish and melancholy was the sore wounded Don Quixote,
with his face bandaged and marked; not by the hand of his Maker, but by
the claws of a cat; and, indeed, such misfortunes are annexed to
chivalry. Six days did he remain in his chamber, without appearing in
publick; and during this time it was, that one night, while he lay
watchful and awake, musing upon his disaster, and the persecution of
Altisidora, he heard a key turning in the door of his apartment, and
straight imagined the enamoured damsel was come to surprize his
chastity, and tempt him to forego the fidelity he owned to his mistress
Dulcinea del Toboso. On this supposition, he pronounced with an audible
voice, ‘No! the greatest beauty upon earth shall never have such an
effect as to interfere with my adoration of her, who is impressed and
engraved in the midst of my heart, and in the depth of my bowels! No, my
dear mistress! whether thou art transformed into a garlick-eating wench,
or as a nymph of the golden Tagus, art weaving webs of gold and silver
twist: whether thou art in the power of Merlin or Montesinos;
wheresoever thou mayest be, mine thou art, and wheresoever I am, I must
be thine.’ This ejaculation being uttered, just as the door opened, he
stood upright in his bed, wrapped up in a quilt of yellow silk, with a
woollen night-cap on his head, his face and whiskers being bound up; the
first, on account of the scratches he had received, and the last, in
order to preserve the buckle; and in this equipage, he appeared the most
extraordinary phantom that the imagination can conceive. His eyes were
fixed upon the door, and when he expected to see the yielding and
afflicted Altisidora enter, he beheld a most reverend duenna, with a
white hemmed veil, so long as to cover her from head to foot. Between
the fingers of her left hand she held a lighted candle’s end, and with
her right she formed a shade to keep the glare from her eyes, which were
furnished with large spectacles; and, in this trim, she came treading
very softly, and moving her feet with great tranquillity as she
advanced. Don Quixote surveyed her from his post, and marking her
silence and appearance, concluded she was some hag or sorceress, come in
that equipage to annoy him; and, in this opinion, he began to cross
himself with great eagerness and devotion. The apparition advancing to
the middle of the chamber, and lifting up its eyes, perceived the knight
busily employed in these devout precautions: if he was afraid at sight
of her, she was no less terrified at his figure; for seeing him so tall
and yellow, wrapped up in the quilt, and disfigured by the bandages, she
cried aloud, ‘O Jesus! what do I see?’ and in the surprize dropped the
candle. Finding herself now in the dark, she attempted to make her
retreat, and treading upon her own skirts in the confusion of her fear,
she stumbled and fell to the ground: while Don Quixote, sweating with
terror, began to ejaculate, ‘I conjure thee, O phantom! or whatever thou
mayest be, to tell me who thou art, and what thou would’st have. If thou
art a perturbed spirit, let me know, and I will do all that lies in my
power to give thee relief; for I am a catholick Christian, well-disposed
to befriend all mankind; and, in consequence of this disposition, I
received the order of knight-errantry, which I now profess, and the
exercise of that profession extends even so far as to give assistance to
souls in purgatory.’
The duenna, bruised as she was with her fall; hearing herself
exercised in this manner, guessed from her own fear the terrors of Don
Quixote, and in a low and plaintive tone replied, ‘Signior Don
Quixote, I am no phantom, apparition, or soul in purgatory, as your
worship seems to suppose, but Donna Rodriguez, chief duenna to my Lady
Duchess, and I come with one of those necessitous cases which your
worship is wont to remedy.’—‘Pray, tell me, Signora Donna Rodriguez,’
said Don Quixote, ‘are you come in the office of a go-between?
because, I would have you to know, that I am altogether unfit for any
such commerce, thanks to the peerless beauty of my own mistress
Dulcinea del Toboso. Finally, I say unto you, Signora Donna Rodriguez,
if you will suppress, and lay aside all amorous messages, you may go
and light your candle, and return; and we will discourse upon any
subject you shall think proper to introduce, saving, as I have already
observed, all your dainty incitements.’—‘Signior,’ answered the
duenna, ‘I carry messages for no person. Your worship is but little
acquainted with my character. Nor am I so stricken in years as to take
to those fooleries; for, God be praised! there is still some soul in
my body, and my teeth, grinders and all, are still in my head, except
a very few I have lost by the rheums that are so rife in this country
of Arragon; but, if your worship will wait a minute, I will go and
light my candle, and return in an instant, and then I shall recount my
disaster to you, as the physician of all disasters upon earth.’
So saying, she, without waiting for an answer, quitted the apartment,
where the knight waited for her, in the utmost suspence and concern;
then being assaulted by a thousand reflections upon this new adventure,
he began to think it would be very indiscreet, even so much as to dream
of exposing himself to the danger of breaking his fidelity to his own
mistress. ‘Who knows,’ said he to himself, ‘but the devil, who is
equally crafty and dextrous, intends at present to seduce me by means of
a duenna, after having in vain attempted me with empresses, queens,
duchesses, marquisses, and countesses? for I have often heard it
observed by a number of people of good understanding, that he will never
give you an high nose, if a flat nose will serve your turn, and who
knows but this solitude, opportunity, and silence, may waken those
desires in me, which are now asleep, and compel me at these years to
fall, where hitherto I never so much as stumbled? In such emergencies,
it is surely better to avoid than await the battle. And yet, I must
certainly be deprived of my senses, to talk and think at this rate; for
it is absolutely impossible, that a long, meagre, white veiled, and
spectacled duenna, should move or excite a lascivious thought in the
lewdest bosom upon earth. Is there, for example, a duenna in nature who
has a tolerable person? Is there a duenna upon this our globe who is not
wrinkled, loathsome, and impertinent? Avaunt, then, ye duennian tribe,
unfit for any human entertainment! Praise be to that lady who is said to
have had at one end of her sopha two marble duennas, with their
spectacles and bobbin cushions in the attitude of working; and these
statues fulfilled the dignity of the apartment, as well as if they had
been duennas of flesh and blood.’
So saying, he started from his bed, with intention to lock the door, and
deny admittance to Signora Rodriguez; but, before he could execute his
resolution, that lady had returned with a lighted wax taper, and seeing
Don Quixote so near her, with his quilt, bandages, night cap, or hood,
she was again affrighted, and retired backwards a couple of paces,
saying, ‘Am I safe, Sir knight? for your worship’s getting out of bed is
no great sign of virtue, methinks.’—‘Madam,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I
ought to ask you the same question; and I do accordingly ask, whether or
not I am safe from assault and ravishment?’—‘Of whom, or from whom, do
you demand that security, Sir Knight?’ said the duenna.
‘Of you, and from you, and you alone,’ answered Don Quixote: ‘for I am
not made of marble, nor you of brass; nor is it now ten o’clock in the
forenoon, but midnight, and something more, if I am not mistaken; and we
are here in a more close and secret apartment than in the cave in which
the treacherous and daring Æneas enjoyed the beautiful and
tender-hearted Dido: yet give me your hand, Madam; for I require no
other security than my own reserve and continence, together with the
appearance of that most reverend veil.’
So saying, he kissed his right-hand; and took hold of hers, which she
presented with the like ceremony.
Here Cid Hamet, in a parenthesis, swears by Mahomet, that to have seen
these two originals thus linked, and walking from the door to the bed,
he would have given the best of his two jackets.
At length Don Quixote slipped into bed, and Donna Rodriguez seated
herself in a chair at some distance from it, without quitting her
spectacles or candle; then the knight shrunk under the clothes, with
which he covered himself in such a manner that nothing but his face
appeared; and both parties having composed themselves, the first who
broke silence was Don Quixote, who accosted her in these words: ‘Now,
Madam Duenna Rodriguez, you may unrip and unload all that lies upon your
sorrowful heart and afflicted bowels; and I shall listen to your
grievances with chaste ears, and redress them with generous works.’—‘I
believe as much,’ said the duenna: ‘for, from the genteel and agreeable
presence of your worship, I could expect no other than such a christian
reply.’
‘This, then, is the case, Signior Don Quixote; although your worship now
sees me seated in this chair, in the midst of Arragon, and in the dress
of a contemptible and injured duenna, I was born in the Asturias of
Oviedo, of a family which intermarried with many of the best in that
province; but my niggardly fate, and the extravagance of my parents, who
came to untimely want, without knowing how or wherefore, drove me to the
court of Madrid, where, for the sake of peace, and in order to prevent
greater misfortunes, my parents provided me with the place of
needle-woman, in the service of a lady of quality; and, I would have
your worship to know, that in making knitting-sheaths and plain-work, no
person had ever the advantage of me in the whole course of my life. As
for my parents, after they had seen me settled in this place, they
returned to the country, and in a few years went to heaven; for they
were exceeding good catholick Christians. Meanwhile, I was left an
orphan, stinted to the wretched salary, and pitiful wages, commonly
given to such servants in great families: and so, about that time, a
squire of the house fell in love with me, though I am sure I gave him no
occasion. He was a man already well stricken in years, with a venerable
beard, and of a comely appearance, and besides, as good a gentleman as
the king, for he was a mountaineer. We did not correspond so secretly
but our intrigue came to the knowledge of my lady; who, waving all
questions and commands, caused us to be married in peace and in the face
of our holy mother the Roman catholick church. The fruit of this
marriage was a daughter, who was the death of my good fortune, if any
such I had: not that I died in child-bed; on the contrary, I was safely
and seasonably delivered; but because, soon after that event, my poor
husband died of a fright; and if I had now time to recount the manner, I
know your worship would be struck with admiration.’
Here she began to weep most bitterly, and thus proceeded: ‘Your worship,
Signior Don Quixote, will pardon me for not being able to contain
myself, for as often as I remember my unfortunate husband, mine eyes run
over. God be my comfort! with what dignity did he ride before my lady,
on a mighty mule as black as jet; for, at that time, they did not use
coaches or chairs, which, they say, are now in fashion; and the ladies
always rode behind their squires. This one circumstance, however, I
cannot help recounting, because it demonstrates the good breeding and
punctilio of my worthy spouse. One day, as he entered the street of St.
Jago, in Madrid, which is but narrow, he happened to meet a judge,
preceded by two of his officers; and my good squire no sooner beheld
him, than he turned his mule in order to attend his worship. My lady,
who sat behind him, said in a whisper, “Blockhead, what are you going to
do? Don’t you know that I am here?” while the judge, out of politeness,
stopped his horse, saying, “Pray proceed, Signior; for, it is rather my
duty to attend my Lady Donna Casilda,” that was the name of my mistress.
Nevertheless, my husband still persisted, with his cap in hand, in his
resolution to attend the judge; and my lady, enraged at his obstinacy,
pulled out a large pin, or rather, I believe, a bodkin, from her
tweezer-case, and thrust it into his loins; so that my poor man roared
aloud, and writhed his body in such a manner, that both he and my lady
came to the ground. Her two lacquies ran immediately to lift her up, and
were assisted by the judge and his officers. The whole gate of
Guadalajara, (I mean, the idle people about it) were in an uproar: my
lady came home a-foot; and my husband hastened to a surgeon, declaring
he was thrust through the bowels. His great courtesy soon became
publick, insomuch that the very children mocked him in the street; for
which reason, and because he was a little short-sighted, my lady
dismissed him from her service; and he took his dismission so much to
heart, that I am positively certain it was the cause of his death. Thus
was I left a forlorn widow, with a daughter upon my hands, who, as she
grew up, increased in beauty, like the foam of the sea. In a word, as I
had the character of being an excellent needle-woman, my Lady Duchess,
who was just then married to my Lord Duke, carried me and my daughter,
without more ado, along with her to this kingdom of Arragon; where, in
process of time, my child improved in all manner of accomplishments; she
sings like any sky lark, dances light as thought, cuts a caper as if she
was mad, reads and writes like a school-master, and casts accounts like
a miser. I say nothing of her cleanliness, for the running water is not
more pure; and if my memory does not fail me, she is now sixteen years,
five months, and three days, perhaps one over or under. In a word, this
maiden of mine captivated the son of a rich farmer, who lives in a
village not far from hence, belonging to my Lord Duke; and so, the young
couple meeting, I know not where nor how, he, under promise of marriage,
played the rogue with my daughter, and refuses to perform his promise;
and although my Lord Duke is well acquainted with the affair; for you
must know, I complained to him—not once, but divers and sundry times,
desiring he would order the young farmer to take my daughter to wife; he
lends a deaf ear to my complaint, and indeed will scarce give me a
hearing, because, forsooth, the young rogue’s father is extremely rich,
and lends him money; nay, becomes surety for him when he happens to be
in trouble; so that he will by no manner of means give him the least
umbrage or disgust. Now, dear Sir, my request is, that your worship
would undertake to redress this grievance, either by entreaty or force
of arms; for, as all the world says, your worship was born for such
purposes, to rectify wrongs, and protect the wretched. And I beg your
worship will consider the orphan state of my daughter, her gentility,
her youth, and all those good qualities which I have told you she
possesses: for in the light of Heaven, and in my own conscience, I dare
aver, that of all the damsels belonging to my Lady Duchess, there is not
one that comes up to the sole of her shoe: and though she whom they call
Altisidora, is reckoned the most sprightly and good-humoured, when
compared to my daughter, she does not come within two leagues of her;
for, your worship must know, Signior, all is not gold that glitters.
This same creature, Altisidora, has more forwardness than beauty, and
more airiness than modesty; besides, she is not over and above
wholesome; her breath has such a flavour that nobody can be near her;
no, not for a moment; and even my Lady Duchess—but, mum for that! Walls
have ears, as the saying is.’
‘What of my Lady Duchess?’ cried Don Quixote. ‘Signora Donna Rodriguez,
I conjure you tell me, by the life of my soul.’—‘Nay, if you conjure me
in that manner,’ answered the duenna, ‘I cannot help telling the truth.
Signior Don Quixote your worship has, no doubt, perceived the beauty of
my Lady Duchess; that freshness of complexion that shines like polished
steel, those cheeks of milk and crimson, with the sun on one side, and
the moon on the other, and that gaiety with which she treads, or rather
disdains the ground, seeming to diffuse health and joy wheresoever she
walks. Well, then, your worship must know, that she may thank God, in
the first place; and, secondly, two issues in her legs, that discharge
the bad humours with which the doctors say she abounds.’—‘Blessed
Virgin!’ cried the knight, ‘is it possible that my Lady Duchess should
have occasion for such sluices? I would hardly believe the bare-footed
friars, should they make the assertion; yet, since Donna Rodriguez avers
it, there is no reason to doubt, but from those issues, surely nothing
but liquid amber can flow; and, in good sooth, I am now fully convinced
that the use of issues must be a matter of great importance to the
preservation of health.’
Scarce had Don Quixote pronounced these words, when the chamber door
flew open, with a sudden slap, which surprized and disordered the duenna
to such a degree, that she dropped the candle, and in a moment the
apartment was dark as a dog’s mouth, as the saying is. Immediately, the
poor duenna felt her throat assaulted by two hands, which pressed it so
close that she could not speak: while another person, with incredible
dispatch, and in great silence, turned up her petticoats, and with
something like a flipper, began to make such application to her
posterior parts, that she was in a most piteous taking. Although Don
Quixote compassionated her case, he stirred not from his bed, as he did
not know the nature of the assault, but lay snug and silent, in great
fear that the same discipline would come round and sound to his own
carcase. Nor was his apprehension altogether groundless; for the silent
executioners having severely flogged the duenna, who durst not complain,
advanced to Don Quixote; and stripping off the sheets and the quilt,
pinched him so fast and so smartly, that he could not forbear defending
himself by dint of fist; and the whole affair was transacted in
wonderful silence. The battle having lasted about half an hour, the
phantoms vanished, Donna Rodriguez adjusted her petticoats, and groaning
over her misfortune, sneaked away, without speaking a syllable to the
knight, who remained alone, full of pains and pinches, sorrow and
confusion. And here we will leave him, burning with desire to knew who
the perverse inchanter was, who had used him in such a cruel manner; but
that secret shall be revealed in due season. Meanwhile we are summoned
by Sancho Panza; and the excellent plan of our history obliges us to
obey his call.
CHAP. XVII.
OF WHAT HAPPENED TO SANCHO PANZA, IN GOING THE ROUND OF HIS ISLAND.
We left the great governor out of humour, and enraged at the same
painting country wag, who had received his cue from the duke’s steward
and gentleman-sewer, sent thither on purpose to make merry at his
expence: nevertheless, he held out toughly against the whole
combination, Rude, and brood, and simple as he stood; and addressing
himself to all present, and among the rest to Doctor Pedro Positive,
who, after the duke’s letter was read, had returned to the hall, ‘Now,’
said he, ‘I am fully convinced that judges and governors are, or ought
to be, made of brass, so as that they may not feel the importunity of
people of business, who expect to be heard, and dispatched, at all hours
and at all seasons, come what will, attending only to their own affairs;
and if the poor devil of a judge does not hear and dispatch them, either
because it is not in his power, or it happens to be an unseasonable time
for giving audience, then they grumble and backbite, gnaw him to the
very bones, and even bespatter his whole generation. Ignorant man of
business! foolish man of business! be not in such a violent hurry; wait
for the proper season and conjuncture, and come not at meals and
sleeping time; for judges are made of flesh and blood, and must give to
nature that which nature requires, excepting myself, unhappy wretch that
I am! who cannot indulge my appetite, thanks to Doctor Pedro Positive
Snatchaway here present, who intends that I shall die of hunger, and
affirms that such a death is good living, which I pray God may fall to
the share of him and all of his kidney! I mean, bad physicians; as for
the good, they deserve palms and laurel.’
Every body who knew Sancho was struck with admiration at hearing him
talk so elegantly, and could not account for his improvement any other
way, than by supposing that posts and places of importance enlarge the
faculties of some, while they stupefy the understanding of others.
Finally, Doctor Pedro Positive Bodewell de Snatchaway promised to
indulge his excellency with a plentiful supper at night, even though he
should transgress all the aphorisms of Hippocrates. The governor rested
satisfied with this declaration, waiting for the approach of night and
supper with great impatience; and although time seemed to stand
stock-still, the wished for hour at length arrived, when they treated
him with an hachis of beef well onioned, and some calves feet not very
fresh: nevertheless, he attacked these dishes with more relish than if
he had been served with Milan godwits, Roman pheasants, Sorrento veal,
partridges of Moron, or geese of Lavajos: and, in the midst of supper,
turning towards his physician, ‘Take notice, doctor,’ said he, ‘that
from henceforth you need not take the trouble to provide dainties and
delicate dishes for me; they will only serve to unhinge my stomach,
which is used to goats flesh, cow beef, and bacon, with turnips and
onions; and, if by accident it chances to receive any of your titbits,
it contains them with loathing, and sometimes throws them up: but,
Master Sewer may bring me those dishes called _olla podridas_[191]; and
the staler they are, so much the better. In one of these he may croud
and cram all the eatables he can think of, and I will thank him for his
pains; nay, one day or other, I shall make him amends; and let no man
play the rogue with me: either we are or we are not; let us live and eat
in harmony and peace; for, when God sends the morning, the light shines
upon all. I will govern this island without favour or corruption: and
let every body keep a good look-out, and mind his own affairs; for, I
would have you to know, the devil’s in the dice[192]; and if you give me
cause, you shall see wonders—yes, yes; make yourself honey, and the
flies will bite.’
‘Assuredly, my lord governor,’ said the steward, ‘your lordship hath
said nothing but the truth; and I promise, in the name of all the
islanders of this island, to serve your lordship with perfect love,
benevolence, and punctuality: for, the agreeable sample of government
which your lordship hath given in the beginning, leaves us no room to
do, or even to conceive, any thing that shall redound to the disgust and
detriment of your honour.’—‘I believe what you say,’ replied Sancho;
‘and indeed they must be fools to think or act any otherwise. And I say
again, let the maintenance of me and my Dapple be taken care of; for
that is the main point in this business: and when the time comes, let us
go and make the round; my intention is to clear the island from all sort
of filth, such as vagabonds, idlers, and immoral people; for I would
have you to know, my friends, that your idle and lazy fellows are the
same in a commonwealth as drones in a bee-hive, that consume the honey
which the industrious labourers have made. My resolution is to protect
the farmers and handicrafts-men, maintain the prerogative of gentlemen,
reward virtue; and, above all things, respect religion and the honour of
the clergy. Tell me, my friends, what is your opinion of my plan? Does
it smack of something? or do I thresh my skull to no purpose?’—‘My lord
governor,’ said the steward, ‘your lordship speaks so much to the
purpose, that I am struck with admiration, to hear a man so illiterate
as your lordship (for I believe you do not know your letters) make so
many observations full of sagacity, and give counsel so much above every
thing that was expected from your lordship’s capacity, by those who sent
us, as well as by ourselves who are come hither. Every day produces
something new: jokes are turned into earnest, and the biters are bit.’
Night being come, and the governor having supped with the good leave of
Doctor Pedro, they prepared for going the round. Accordingly his
excellency went forth, accompanied by the steward, notary,
gentleman-sewer, and historiographer, whose office it was to record his
actions; and attended by such a number of alguazils and scriveners, as
would have formed a moderate squadron. Sancho walked in the middle with
his rod, and a goodly sight he was to see. Having traversed a few
streets, they heard the clashing of swords, upon which hastening to the
place of action, they found two men fighting, who, seeing the officers
of justice, desisted; and one of them exclaimed, ‘Help, in God’s name,
and the king’s! What, are people suffered to be robbed in this town, and
assaulted in the very middle of the street?’—‘Compose yourself, honest
friend,’ said Sancho, ‘and let me know the cause of this quarrel, for I
am governor.’ Then his adversary interposing, ‘My lord governor,’ said
he, ‘I will tell you the whole story in a few words: Your worship must
know, that this gentleman has been at play at that gaming-house over the
way, where he has won above a thousand rials, and God knows how fairly;
now, I being present, decided more than once in his favour, when the
bett was doubtful, against the dictates of my own conscience. He took up
his winning, and when I expected he would gratify me with a crown at
least, for good will, as players generally make such presents to men of
honour like me, who attend in those places, ready at all adventures to
support unreasonable demands, and prevent disturbance, he pocketed the
cash, and went away; I followed him out of humour, yet in the most
courteous manner begged he would indulge me with eight rials, as he knew
me to be a gentleman without either business or fortune; for my parents
neither bred me up to the one, nor left me the other; and the rascal,
who, by the bye, is as great a thief as Cacus, and as arrant a sharper
as Andradilla, would not give me a farthing more than four rials; so
that, my lord governor, your excellency may perceive what a shameless
and unconscionable rogue it is: but in good faith, if your lordship had
not come up, I would have made him disgorge his winning, and taught him
how to trim the balance.’ When Sancho asked what the other had to say in
his own defence, he owned that, as his adversary alledged, he had
refused to give him more than four rials, because the plaintiff had
often tasted of his bounty; and those who expect such gratifications,
ought to be thankful, and take chearfully what their benefactors bestow,
without pretending to make peremptory demands upon those who win, unless
they know them to be cheats, and that their winning is unfairly
acquired. He likewise observed, that there could be no surer mark of his
honour and fair play, than his having refused to comply with the demands
of such a rascal; for sharpers are always tributary to those lookers-on
who know their knavery. ‘The remark is certainly just,’ said the
steward: ‘how will your excellency please to dispose of these
men?’—‘What must be done, is this,’ replied the governor: ‘You, Mr.
Winner, whether you be good, bad, or indifferent, must immediately pay
to this here slash-buckler, one hundred rials; and, besides, disburse
thirty more for the use and behoof of the poor prisoners—and you, Sir,
who have neither business, fortune, or employment in this island, take
these hundred rials, and some time to-morrow banish yourself from this
island for the space of ten years, on penalty (if you disobey the
sentence) of compleating the term of your exile in the other world; for,
in that case, I will hang you on a gibbet; at least, the executioner
shall do it by my order; and let no man presume to reply, or I will
chastise him severely.’ The one disbursed, the other received the rials;
this quitted the island, that retired to his own lodgings; and the
governor, who remained on the spot, said to his followers, ‘If my power
is not very small, I will suppress those gaming-houses, which I begin to
perceive are very prejudicial to the publick.’—‘This, at least,’ said
the notary, ‘your excellency cannot suppress; for it is kept by a person
of quality, who, in the course of the year, loses a great deal more than
he gets by the cards. Against petty gaming-houses of small account,
which are productive of most mischief, and cover more crimes, your
lordship may exert your authority; but, in the houses of noblemen and
gentlemen of rank, the noted sharpers dare not put their tricks in
practice; and since the vice of gaming is become a common exercise,
better play in houses of fashion than in any publick gaming-house, into
which an unfortunate wretch is often seduced in the middle of the night,
and as it were skinned alive.’—‘Mr. Notary,’ replied the governor, ‘much
may be said on that subject.’
Here he was interrupted by the arrival of a serjeant who had fast hold
of a youth, and thus addressed himself to the governor: ‘This spark, my
lord, was coming towards us; but no sooner had a glimpse of the officers
of justice, than he turned his back, and began to scamper off as nimbly
as a fallow-deer; a sure sign of his being some sort of a delinquent: I
pursued him immediately, but should never have overtaken him, had not he
stumbled and fallen.’—‘Young man,’ said Sancho, ‘what did you run for?’
To this question the youth replied, ‘I ran, my lord, in order to avoid
the tedious interrogations of justice.’—‘What business do you
follow?’—‘I am a weaver.’—‘And what sort of stuff do you weave?’—‘Iron
heads for lances, with your honour’s leave.’—‘What! you are a small wit,
methinks, and set up for a joker! Very well, Sir, and where was you
going now?’—‘To take the air, my lord.’—‘And whereabouts do you take the
air in this island?’—‘Just where it happens to blow.’—‘Good again! your
answers are pat; and, to be sure, you are a pretty smart young fellow:
but, hark ye, youngster, I am the air that will blow in your poop, until
you are safely lodged in prison.—Here, take and order him to gaol, I
will take order that he shall sleep for one night without air.’—‘’Fore
God!’ cried the youth, ‘your honour can no more make me sleep in gaol,
than you can make me king.’—‘And wherefore cannot I make thee sleep in
gaol?’ replied Sancho; ‘is it not in my power to confine and release
thee, when and where I please!’—‘How great soever your honour’s power
may be,’ said the young man, ‘it is not sufficient to make me sleep in
prison.’—‘How! not sufficient?’ cried Sancho: ‘away with him, and let
his own eyes convince him of his mistake; and lest the gaoler should
practise his interested generosity upon him, I will fine him in two
thousand ducats, if he suffers thee to move one step from the
prison.’—‘All this is matter of mirth,’ answered the youth; ‘for the
truth is, all the people upon earth shall not make me sleep in
prison.’—‘Tell me, devil,’ said Sancho, ‘hast thou got a familiar to
release thee, and loose the chains with which I intend thou shalt be
fettered?’—‘Now, my lord governor,’ replied the youth with a graceful
air, ‘let us argue the matter, and come to the point. Suppose your
excellency should order me to be carried to gaol, to be loaded with
chains and shackles, and thrust into a dungeon, and lay an heavy penalty
upon the gaoler, in case he should allow me to escape; and lastly,
suppose he should perform his duty with all imaginable care and success;
notwithstanding all these precautions, if I have no inclination to
sleep, and can keep myself awake all night, without closing an eye, pray
tell me, is all your lordship’s power sufficient to make me sleep
against my will?’—‘No, surely,’ said the secretary; ‘and the young man
has made good his assertion.’—‘Provided always,’ said Sancho, ‘that your
defying sleep would be merely for your own pleasure, without any
intention to contradict mine.’—‘No, my lord,’ replied the youth; ‘I
never dreamt of any such intention.’—‘Then, peace be with you,’ resumed
the governor, ‘you may go and sleep at home, and God send you a sound
sleep, for I have no design to disturb your repose: but let me advise
you, never henceforth to crack a joke upon justice; otherwise you may
chance to light upon some of her ministers that will crack your scull.’
The youth went away, the governor continued his circuit; and he had not
gone far, when two serjeants brought in a person they had taken, saying,
‘My lord governor, this here person that seems to be a man, is no other
than a woman, and that not ugly neither, in man’s cloaths.’ Here they
held up two or three lanthorns, by the light of which they discovered
the face of a woman, seemingly about sixteen years of age, beautiful as
a thousand pearls, with her hair tied up in a net of green silk and
gold. Having surveyed her from head to foot, they perceived her
stockings were of flesh coloured silk, tied with garters of white
taffeta, and fringes of gold embroidery; her breeches were of green
cloth of gold; she had a loose coat of the same stuff, under which she
wore a jacket of the finest brocade; and her shoes were white, and made
like those used by men. She had no sword about her, but a very rich
dagger, and upon her fingers were a great number of valuable rings: in a
word, all who beheld the girl were struck with her appearance, though
not one of them knew her face; and the inhabitants of the town said they
could not conceive who she was. But those who concerted the jokes that
were practised upon Sancho were most struck with admiration; for this
incident and salvage was not of their contriving; and therefore they
stood in suspence, waiting to see the issue of the adventure; while
Sancho, confounded at the girl’s beauty, asked who she was, whither she
was going, and what had induced her to appear in the habit of a man.
She, fixing her eyes upon the ground, with the most engaging
bashfulness, replied, ‘My lord, I cannot disclose, in such a publick
company, what it concerns me so much to conceal. One circumstance I beg
leave to communicate: I am no thief or criminal person; but an
unfortunate young lady, compelled by jealousy to trespass upon that
decorum which is due to my honour and reputation.’
The steward hearing these words, said to Sancho, ‘My lord governor, be
so good as to bid the people retire, that this lady may disburden her
mind with more freedom.’ The governor accordingly laid his commands upon
his attendants, all of whom retired, except the steward, the gentleman
sewer, and the secretary; and the young lady, finding they were gone,
proceeded to this effect: ‘Gentlemen, I am the daughter of Pedro Perez
Mazorca, farmer of the wool in this town, who comes frequently to my
father’s house.’—‘Madam,’ said the steward, ‘this will not go down. I am
very well acquainted with Pedro Perez, and know he has neither chick nor
child, male or female; besides, you first say he is your father, and
then add, he frequently comes to your father’s house.’—‘That
circumstance I likewise took notice of,’ said Sancho. ‘Well, gentlemen,’
replied the damsel, ‘I am in such confusion, that I know not what to
say, but the truth is, I am the daughter of Diego de Llana, whom you
must all know.’—‘Aye, this goes better,’ answered the steward; ‘Diego de
Llana is my acquaintance, and a gentleman of rank and fortune; I know,
too, he has a son and daughter; though, since he was a widower, no
person in this town can pretend to say he ever saw the face of his
daughter, whom her father keeps so closely shut up, that the sun himself
has no opportunity to behold her; and yet, report says she is extremely
beautiful.’—‘True,’ said the damsel; ‘I am that very daughter, and
whether or not fame has belyed me in point of beauty, you yourselves,
gentlemen, may judge from your own observation.’ So saying, she began to
weep most tenderly.
The secretary perceiving her distress, said to the sewer in a whisper,
‘Doubtless, something of consequence must have happened to this poor
young lady, seeing a person of her quality quits her own home at such an
hour, and in such an equipage.’—‘Certainly,’ replied the other, ‘that
suspicion is confirmed by her tears.’ As for Sancho, he consoled her in
the best terms he could use, and desired that she would, without fear or
constraint, communicate what had befallen her; for they would endeavour
to remedy her disaster with great sincerity, and by all possible means.
‘This, then, is the case, gentlemen,’ answered the damsel: ‘my father
has locked me up for the space of ten years, which are elapsed since my
mother was committed to her grave: there is in the house a rich oratory
where mass is said; and, in all that time, I have seen nothing but the
sun in the heavens by day, and the moon and stars by night. I am utterly
unacquainted with the streets, squares, churches, and all mankind,
except my father, my brother, and Pedro Perez, the wool farmer, whom,
because he comes frequently to our house, I took it in my head to call
my father, in order to conceal the name of my real parent. I have been
very disconsolate for many days and months, on account of this
confinement, and his constant refusal to let me go to church; I longed
to see the world, at least the town in which I first drew breath; and I
did not think this desire transgressed the bounds of that decorum which
young women of fashion ought to preserve. When I heard of bull-feasts,
darting the javelin, and plays, I desired my brother, who is a year
younger than myself, to describe the nature of these and many other
things which I had not seen, and he gratified my desire to the utmost of
his power; but his description served only to inflame my impatience to
behold those spectacles: in a word, to cut short the account of my ruin,
I say, I desired and intreated my brother—would to God I had never
desired or intreated him!’
And here she renewed her lamentation; when the steward interposing,
‘Madam,’ said he, ‘be so good as to proceed, and finish the story of
your adventure; for your own words and tears keep us all in the utmost
suspence.’—‘I have little else to say,’ replied the damsel, ‘though a
great many tears to shed; for such irregular desires are always, without
fail, attended by such misfortunes.’
The beauty of this damsel having made an impression on the soul of the
gentleman sewer, he once more held up the lanthorn to take another view,
and the tears she let fall, he took to be seed-pearl, or the dew-drops
of the meadow; nay, his fancy even compared them to oriental pearls, and
he ardently wished that her misfortunes might not appear so great as her
sighs and lamentation seemed to indicate.
The governor being tired of the dilatory manner in which the girl told
her story, desired she would keep them no longer in suspence; for it was
late, and they had a great part of their round still to perform. Then
she, in the midst of interrupted sobbings and broken sighs, proceeded
thus: ‘My misfortune and my disaster is nothing else than this; I begged
my brother to disguise me in one of his suits, and carry me out to see
the town, some night while my father should be asleep; he, importuned by
my intreaties, complied with my request, and gave me this dress, while
he himself put on a suit of mine, which fits him to a nicety; for he has
not one hair upon his chin, and looks exactly like a very handsome girl.
This night, about an hour ago, little more or less, we sallied forth
from our own house; and conducted by our foot-boy, and our own unruly
desire, went round the whole town; but, when we wanted to return home
again, we perceived a great number of people coming up, and my brother
said, “Sister, this must be the patrole; quicken your pace, put wings to
your feet, and run after me, that they may not know who we are,
otherwise we shall be in evil taking.” So saying, he took to his heels,
and began—not to run, but to fly; but scarce had I followed him six
paces, when I fell through fear, and then came the officers of justice,
who brought me before your lordship, where, in consequence of my foolish
and rash conduct, I find myself confounded and ashamed before so much
company.’—‘So that after all, Madam,’ said Sancho, ‘no other mishap has
befallen you, nor was it jealousy that brought you from your own house,
as you alledged in the beginning of your story?’—‘Nothing else hath
happened to me, nor did I quit my own home from jealousy, but merely
from the desire of seeing the world, which extended no farther than a
wish to see the streets of this town.’
The truth of this assertion was confirmed by the arrival of two other
serjeants with her brother, whom they had taken in his flight. He had no
other cloaths but a rich petticoat, and a mantle of blue damask laced
with gold; on his head there was no cap, or any other ornament but his
own hair, which was so rich and ruddy, that it looked like ringlets of
gold. The governor, steward, and sewer, taking him aside, that he might
not be overheard by his sister, questioned him about his being disguised
in that dress; and the youth, with equal bashfulness and disorder,
repeated the same story which his sister had related, to the unspeakable
satisfaction of the enamoured sewer.
‘Gentlefolks,’ said the governor, ‘this is certainly a very childish
trick, and in giving an account of your simplicity and rashness, there
needed not all this weeping and wailing. Had you said at first, our
names are so and so, and we fell upon this contrivance to steal out of
our father’s house, merely to gratify our curiosity, without any other
design, the affair would have been at an end, and you might have spared
all this grunting and groaning.’—‘Very true,’ replied the damsel; ‘but
your honour must know, my confusion was so great, that I was not
mistress of my own behaviour.’—‘There is no harm done,’ replied Sancho;
‘let us go and see you safe home to the house of your father, who
perhaps has not missed you as yet; and henceforward be not such a baby,
or so desirous to see the world. The maid that would keep her good name,
stays at home as if she was lame. A hen and a housewife, whatever they
cost, if once they go gadding will surely be lost. And she that longs to
see, I ween, is as desirous to be seen. This is all I shall at present
say upon the subject.’
The young man thanked the governor for his intended civility in seeing
them home; and accordingly they took the road to their father’s house,
which was not far off. When they arrived at the gate, the brother threw
a pebble, at a casement, and immediately a maid-servant who sat up for
them, came down and opened the door, at which they entered, leaving all
the company in admiration at their beauty and genteel deportment, as
well as at their scheme of seeing the world by night, without going out
of the town; but this they ascribed to their tender years.
The sewer’s heart was transpierced by the charms of the sister, whom he
resolved to demand in marriage of her father the very next day,
concluding he should not meet with a denial because he was a domestick
of the duke’s. Even Sancho was seized with a whim and inclination to
make a match between the youth and his daughter Sanchica, and he
actually resolved to effectuate it in due season; taking it for granted
no man would refuse his hand to a governor’s daughter.
Thus ended the round for that night, and in two days he saw the end of
his government, which overthrew and destroyed all his designs, as will
be seen in the sequel.
Footnote 191:
_Podrida_, signifies rotten or mortified; hence the _olla podrida_ is
in French stiled _pot-pourri_.
Footnote 192:
Literally, The devil’s in Cantiliana, which is a town of Andalusia,
near Seville.
CHAP. XVIII.
WHICH DECLARES WHO WERE THE INCHANTERS AND EXECUTIONERS
THAT SCOURGED THE DUENNA,
AND PINCHED AND SCRATCHED DON QUIXOTE—
TOGETHER WITH THE EXPEDITION OF THE PAGE,
WHO CARRIED THE LETTER TO TERESA PANZA, SANCHO’S SPOUSE.
Cid Hamet, the most punctual investigator of the most minute atoms
belonging to this genuine history, says, that when Donna Rodriguez
quitted her apartment to visit Don Quixote in his chamber, another
duenna, who was her bedfellow, perceived her motions, and as all the
individuals of that class are naturally disposed to enquire, to pry, and
to smell into the affairs of their neighbours, she followed her so
softly, that honest Rodriguez knew nothing at all of the matter; and
when she saw her enter Don Quixote’s apartment, that she might conform
to the general custom of all duennas, who are much addicted to
tale-bearing, she, that instant, went and informed my Lady Duchess, that
Donna Rodriguez was in the knight’s bed-chamber; the duchess
communicated this intelligence to the duke, and asked leave to go along
with Altisidora, and see what the duenna wanted with Don Quixote: the
duke granted his permission, and the two, with great caution, treading
softly, step by step, went up so close to the chamber-door, as to
overhear every thing that was said; and the duchess hearing how
Rodriguez divulged the secret of those healing streams[193], that flowed
from her body, could not bear the duenna’s presumption, which was
equally resented by Altisidora. Exasperated, therefore, and bent upon
vengeance, they burst into the apartment, where they pinched the knight,
and flogged the duenna, as hath been already recited; for, affronts
levelled directly against the beauty and pride of the fair sex, waken
the indignation of the offended party to a great degree, and inspire her
with the desire of revenge.
The duchess recounted the adventure to the duke, who was extremely
diverted with the particulars; and her grace resolving to proceed with
her jokes, and extract entertainment from Don Quixote, dispatched the
page who had acted the part of Dulcinea, in the contrivance of the
disinchantment, which, by the bye, Sancho Panza had by this time forgot,
so much was he engrossed by the affairs of his government——the duchess,
I say, dispatched the page to Teresa Panza, with her husband’s letter,
and another from her grace, together with a rosary of rich coral in a
present.
The history relates, then, that the page, who was a very intelligent
acute young fellow, extremely well disposed to contribute to the
entertainment of his lord and lady, set out with great satisfaction for
Sancho’s native place; but, before he entered the village, he saw a
number of women washing linen in a brook, and of these he asked, if they
could inform him whereabouts lived one Teresa Panza, wife of one Sancho
Panza, squire to a certain knight, called Don Quixote de La Mancha. This
question was no sooner pronounced, than a girl, who was washing,
starting up, ‘That Teresa Panza,’ cried she, ‘is my mother; and that
same Sancho my honoured father, and that knight our master.’—‘Come,
then, young mistress,’ replied the page, ‘conduct me to your mother, for
I bring her a letter and a present from that same father of
yours.’—‘That I will do with all my heart, kind Sir,’ answered the girl;
who seemed to be fourteen years of age, over or under; and, leaving the
cloaths upon which she was at work, to one of her companions, without
putting on her cap or her shoes, for she was barefoot, and her hair hung
about her eyes, she ran before the page’s horse, saying, ‘Come along,
good Sir, our house is at this end of the village, and there you will
find my poor mother in a sorrowful taking, because she has not for many
days heard any news of my honoured father’—‘But now,’ said the page, ‘I
bring her such good news, that she will have reason to bless God for
this happy day.’ In a word, what with dancing, running, and skipping,
the wench arrived at the village; but before she entered the house, she
called aloud at the door, ‘Come out, mother Teresa, come out; pray come
out; here’s a gentleman who brings letters, and other good things, from
my good father!’
Teresa Panza hearing this exclamation, came forth spinning tow from a
distaff, with a grey petticoat, so short that it seemed to have been cut
close to the placket; a jacket of the same stuff, and an open breasted
shift; she was not very old, though seemingly turned of forty; but
strong, hale, nervous, and tough. Seeing her daughter, with the page on
horseback, ‘What is the matter, child?’ said she; ‘what gentleman is
that?’—‘The very humble servant of my Lady Donna Teresa Panza,’ replied
the page; who, throwing himself from his horse, ran with great eagerness
and humility, to kneel before Madam Teresa, saying, ‘Grant me permission
to kiss your ladyship’s hand, Madam Donna Teresa, as the legitimate and
particular consort of my Lord Don Sancho Panza, sole governor of the
island Barataria.’—‘Nay, good Sir, forbear; do not so!’ answered Teresa;
‘I am none of your court dames; but a poor country-woman, a ploughman’s
daughter; and wife to a squire-errant, but no governor.’—‘Your
ladyship,’ replied the page, ‘is the most worthy consort of the most
superlatively worthy governor; and this letter and present is an
incontestible proof of the truth of what I say.’ So saying, he instantly
pulled from his pocket the lining of coral, set in gold, and tied it
round her neck; then producing a letter, ‘This,’ said he, ‘is from my
Lord Governor, and this other with the necklace, from my Lady Duchess
who sent me hither.’
Teresa was confounded; and her daughter no less astonished, exclaimed,
‘I’ll be hanged if our master Don Quixote be not at the bottom of all
this; and surely must have given my father that same government or
countship, which he promised him so often!’—‘You are certainly in the
right,’ answered the page; ‘for it is entirely on Signior Don Quixote’s
account, that Signior Sancho is now governor of the island Barataria, as
will appear in this letter.’—‘Pray, good gentleman, read it,’ said
Teresa; ‘for though I can spin, I cannot read so much as a crumb.’—‘Nor
I, neither,’ added Sanchica; ‘but stay a moment, I’ll go and fetch one
that shall read it, either the curate himself, or the batchelor Sampson
Carrasco, who will come with pleasure to hear news of my father.’—‘There
is no occasion to fetch any person whatever,’ said the page; ‘for though
I cannot spin, I can read; and read it I shall.’ He accordingly read
Sancho’s letter from beginning to end; but as it hath been already
recited, we shall not repeat it in this place. Then he rehearsed the
other, which came from the duchess, in these words—
‘FRIEND TERESA,
‘The great talents, and excellent disposition of your husband
Sancho, induced and obliged me to beg of the duke my husband, that
he would confer upon him the government of one, among many islands
that are in his possession; and I understand he governs like any
jerfaulcon; a circumstance that affords great pleasure to me, and of
consequence to my Lord Duke; and I thank Heaven heartily, that I
have not been deceived in chusing him for that same government: for,
Madam Teresa must know, it is a very hard matter to find a good
governor in this world, and God make me as good a woman as Sancho is
a governor. I have sent you, my dear friend, a coral necklace set in
gold; and I wish, for your sake, it had been of oriental pearls;
but, He that gives, though it were but an egg, would be sorry to see
thee lame of a leg. The time will come when we shall be better
acquainted, and carry on a closer correspondence, and Heaven knows
what may come to pass. Commend me to your daughter Sanchica, and
tell her from me, to keep herself in readiness; for I mean to match
her very high, when perhaps she thinks least of the matter. I am
told your town is famous for fine large acorns; pray send me two
dozen, which I shall greatly esteem as coming from your hand. Write
me a long letter, giving an account of your health and welfare; and
if you should want any thing, you have nothing to do but open your
mouth, and it shall be measured. That God would protect you, is the
prayer of your-loving friend,
‘THE DUCHESS.’
‘La! now,’ cried Teresa, when she heard the contents of the letter,
‘what a kind, and plain, and humble lady! would I might live, and die,
and be buried among such ladies, and not your gentlewomen of this town,
who think, forsooth, because they are gentlefolks, the wind must not
touch them, and go to church in such finery as if they were perfect
queens; nay, they seem to think it a disgrace to look at a poor body;
and see here now, how this worthy lady, even though no less than a
duchess, calls me friend, and treats me as if I were her own equal; and
equal may she be to the highest steeple in all La Mancha. As to what
concerns the acorns, kind Sir, I’ll send her a whole peck, so fair and
large, that people shall come far and near to see and admire them.—For
the present, Sanchica, we must look to the entertainment of this
gentleman; let his horse be taken care of; fetch some eggs from the
stable, and cut some rashers of bacon, and let us treat him like a
prince; for the good news he has brought, and his own good countenance,
deserves every thing at our hands. In the mean time I’ll go out, and
give an account of our good fortune to my neighbours, especially our
father the curate, and Master Nicholas the barber, who are, and always
were, such friends to your father.’—‘I will do as you desire, mother,’
answered Sanchica; ‘but remember, you shall give me one half of the
string of coral; for I don’t take my lady duchess to be such a ninny as
to send the whole for your use.’—‘It is all thy own, daughter,’ replied
Teresa; ‘but thou must let me wear it a few days about my neck; for in
faith and troth, it will rejoice my poor heart.’—‘It will be still more
rejoiced,’ said the page, ‘when you see the bundle in that portmanteau,
consisting of a suit of superfine cloth, which was never wore but one
day at the hunting, by the governor, who sends it for the sole use of
Miss Sanchica.’—‘May he live a thousand years!’ cried Sanchica, ‘as well
as he that brings it, neither more nor less; and even two thousand, if
there should be occasion.’
Now Teresa going out with the letters, and the string about her neck,
went along playing with her fingers upon the paper, as if it had been a
cymbal; and casually meeting the curate and Sampson Carrasco, she began
to caper about, saying, ‘In good faith, we have no poor kindred now; we
have caught the governorship: aye, aye, pick me up the best gentlewoman
of them all, ifack! I’ll look upon her as an upstart.’—‘What is the
matter, Teresa Panza?’ said the curate; ‘What is the meaning of this
rhapsody? and what papers are these?’—‘No rhapsody at all,’ replied
Teresa, ‘but only these letters are from duchesses and governors, and
these here upon my neck are true corals; the Ave Marias and Paternosters
are of beaten gold, and I am a governess!’—‘God shield us, Teresa,’
cried the curate, ‘as we do not understand a word of what you
say!’—‘Seeing is believing,’ answered the good woman, putting the
letters into his hand; which he having read, in the hearing of Sampson
Carrasco, they looked at one another with astonishment. When the
batchelor asked who brought those letters, Teresa desired they would go
along with her to her house, and they would see the messenger, who was a
comely youth, like a perfect golden pine-tree, and had brought another
present worth twice as much. The curate taking the string of coral from
her neck, viewed and reviewed it with great deliberation; and, being
satisfied the beads were real fine coral, was again struck with
admiration, and exclaimed, ‘Now, by the habit which I wear! I know not
what to say, or what to think of these letters and presents: on one side
I see, and even feel, the worth of these corals; and on the other, I
read a letter from a duchess, who begs two dozen of acorns!’—‘Reconcile
these things if you can,’ said Carrasco; ‘but now let us go and see the
bearer of this packet, whose information will solve all these
difficulties.’
They accordingly accompanied Teresa, and found the page winnowing a
little barley for his beast, while Sanchica was employed in cutting
rashers to fry with the eggs, for the entertainment of their guest,
whose appearance and equipage gave great satisfaction to the new-comers.
After the compliments of salutation had courteously passed between them,
Sampson intreated him to tell them news of Don Quixote, as well as of
Sancho Panza; for although they had perused the letters of this last,
and of my lady duchess, they were still overwhelmed with confusion, and
could by no means comprehend the meaning of that government, especially
of an island, seeing all, or the greatest part of the islands in the
Mediterranean, belonged to his majesty. To this remonstrance the page
replied, ‘That Signior Sancho Panza is a governor, there is no sort of
doubt; but whether of an island or not, I do not pretend to decide: let
it suffice, however, that he governs a place of above a thousand
inhabitants; and with respect to the acorns, I can affirm, my Lady
Duchess is of such a frank and humble disposition, that her sending for
acorns to a countrywoman is not to be wondered at; nay, I once knew her
send and borrow a comb of one of her neighbours; for you must know,
gentlemen, the ladies of Arragon, although as noble, are not so
ceremonious and superb, as the quality of Castile, but treat their
inferiors with more frankness and familiarity.’
In the midst of this conversation, Sanchica coming in with her lap full
of eggs, addressed herself to the page, saying, ‘Pray, tell me, Signior,
does my honoured father wear trunk-hose since he was a governor?’—‘I
have not observed that particular,’ replied the page; ‘but certainly he
must.’—‘My God!’ cried Sanchica, ‘how glad I should be to see my father
with trunk hose! let me never thrive, but I have, ever since I was born,
longed to see father in laced trunk-breeches.’—‘Laced hose!’ said the
page; ‘Lord, Madam, if he lives, and his government should hold but two
months, he is in a fair way of travelling with a hood to his
riding-coat.’ The curate and batchelor could easily perceive the page
made a jest of his entertainers; but the worth of the coral beads, and
the hunting-suit which Sancho had sent, destroyed all their conjectures;
for Teresa had shewn them the green garment: nor did they fail to laugh
at the ambition of Sanchica; and their mirth was not extinguished, when
Teresa accosting the priest, ‘Mr. Curate,’ said she, ‘do pray cast your
eyes about a little, and see if any body be going to Madrid or Toledo,
that I may have an opportunity to purchase a round farthing-gale, right
and tight, fashionable and of the best sort; for truly and truly, I am
resolved to honour my spouse’s government as much as lies in my power;
aye, and if they vex me, I’ll go to court, and ride in my coach, like
all the rest, and the best of them; for she who is married to a
governor, may very well procure and maintain such a convenience.’—‘Yea,
forsooth,’ replied Sanchica; ‘and would to God it were to-day rather
than to-morrow, although those who saw me seated with my lady mother in
the coach, should say, Look, at such a one, daughter of such a
garlick-eater, how she sits and lolls in a coach, like the pope’s lady;
but let them trudge in the dirt, so I ride in my coach, with my feet
lifted off the ground: An ill year, and worse month, betide all the
envious grumblers upon earth; and, So I am warm, without and within, the
mob may laugh, and the malicious grin. Speak I to the purpose,
mother?’—‘To the purpose! yes, to be sure, daughter; and all this good
luck, and even more, was prophesied by my good man Sancho, and thou
shalt see, daughter, it will not stop until I am a countess; for good
fortune wants only a beginning, as I have often heard it observed by thy
worthy father, who is likewise the father of proverbs; When they bring
thee a heifer, be ready with the halter; When they give thee a
government, seize it a-God’s name; When they bestow a countship, lay thy
clutches upon it; and, When they throw thee some good beneficial bone,
wag thy tail, and snap at the favour; if not, sleep on, and never answer
to good fortune and preferment, when they knock at thy door.’—‘And what
do I care?’ said Sanchica, ‘let them say what they will, when they see
me exalted in all my finery, and cry, There goes Mrs. Ape, with her
buttocks cased in crape: and all the rest of that stuff.’
The curate hearing her remark, ‘I cannot believe,’ said he, ‘but that
all the family of the Panzas are born with a bag of proverbs in their
bowels; for I have never seen one of them, who does not scatter about
old saws, at all times, and in all conversations.’—‘Your observation is
very just,’ said the page; ‘for my Lord Governor Sancho utters them at
every step; and although many of his proverbs are not much to the
purpose, they nevertheless give great pleasure, and are much extolled by
my lady duchess and the duke.’—‘What! and do you still, my good Sir,’
said the batchelor, ‘affirm the truth of that government of Sancho; and
that there is actually a duchess who sends letters and presents to his
wife? For our parts, although we handle the presents, and have perused
the letters, we cannot believe the evidence of our senses, and imagine
this is one of those things which our townsman Don Quixote supposed to
have been effected by inchantment; and therefore, I own, I have an
inclination to touch and feel your person, that I may know whether you
are a fantastical ambassador, or really a man of flesh and
blood.’—‘Gentlemen,’ replied the page, ‘all that I know of the matter
is, that I am a real ambassador; that Signior Sancho Panza is
effectually a governor; and that my lord duke, and lady duchess, not
only could, but actually did, invest him with that government, in which
I hear the said Sancho Panza behaves with vast ability. Whether or not
there is any inchantment in the case, I leave you, gentlemen, to dispute
and decide among yourselves; that this is all I know of the matter, I
swear by the life of my parents, who are still alive, and whom I love
and honour with the utmost reverence of affection.’—‘What you say may be
true,’ answered the batchelor: ‘but, _Dubitat Augustinus_.’—‘Doubt as
much as you please,’ resumed the page: ‘what I have said is the naked
truth, which will always swim above falshood, like oil above water; but,
_Operibus credite & non verbis_: let one of you, gentlemen, go along
with me, and he shall see with his eyes what he will not believe upon
hearsay.’—‘I am for that jaunt,’ cried Sanchica: ‘good Sir, if you will
take me up behind you, I shall be glad to go and see my father’s
worship.’—‘The daughters of governors,’ said the page, ‘never travel
alone; but always accompanied by coaches, and litters, and a great
number of attendants.’—‘’Fore God,’ replied Sanchica, ‘I can travel upon
a she-ass as well as in a coach: you won’t find me shy or
fearful.’—‘Hold your tongue, wench,’ said Teresa: ‘you know not what you
say. The gentleman is in the right; for, Every season has its reason.
When it was plain Sancho, it was plain Sancha; but now, being governor,
my Lady——I know not if what I say be to the purpose.’—‘Madam Teresa has
said more than she is aware of,’ replied the page: ‘but, pray, let me
have some victuals, and dispatch me immediately; for I intend to return
this evening.’ To this remonstrance the curate answered, ‘Sir, you shall
come and do penance with me; for Madam Teresa has more inclination than
ability to entertain such a worthy guest.’ The page, at first, declined
the invitation; but, at length, found it was his interest to consent;
and the curate conducted him to his parsonage, with great pleasure, that
he might have an opportunity to enquire at leisure about Don Quixote and
his exploits.
The batchelor offered to write answers to Teresa’s letters; but she did
not chuse that he should intermeddle in her affairs; for she looked upon
him as a wag. She therefore gave a roll of bread, and a couple of eggs,
to a noviciate monk who could write; and he penned two letters, one for
her husband, and another for the duchess, indited by Teresa’s own
noddle, which are not the least entertaining that occur in this sublime
history, as will be seen in the sequel.
Footnote 193:
Literally, the Aranjuez of the fountains. _Fuentes_ signifies, either
fountains or issues; and _Aranjeuz_ is the name of a delightful
palace, about seven leagues from Madrid, famous for gardens and
fountains.
CHAP. XIX.
OF THE PROGRESS OF SANCHO PANZA’S GOVERNMENT—
AND OTHER SUCH DIVERTING INCIDENTS.
At length arrived the morning that succeeded the night of the governor’s
round, which the gentleman-sewer passed without sleep, so much were his
thoughts engrossed by the face, the air, and beauty of the disguised
damsel; while the steward employed the time in writing an account of
Sancho’s conduct to his lord and lady, equally astonished at his words
and actions, in which folly and discretion were strangely blended.
At last my lord governor arose, and by direction of Doctor Pedro
Positive, he was fain to break his fast with a little conserve, and four
gulps of cold water, which Sancho would have gladly exchanged for a
luncheon of bread and a bunch of grapes; but, finding himself under
compulsion, he bore his fate with grief of soul and anxiety of stomach;
Pedro Positive giving him to understand, that your slight and delicate
dishes animate the genius, consequently were most proper for persons
appointed to posts and offices of importance, in which corporal strength
cannot avail so much as the vigour of the understanding. By this sort of
sophistry Sancho was subjected to such severe hunger, that he in secret
cursed the government; aye, and him who conferred it: nevertheless, in
despight of hunger, and upon the strength of the conserve, he, that day,
sat in judgment; and the first case that occurred, was a question put by
a stranger, in presence of the steward and the rest of the assistants:
‘My lord,’ said he, ‘a certain manor is divided by a large river—I beg
your honour will be attentive; for the case is of great consequence, and
some difficulty. I say, then, upon this river is a bridge, and at one
end of it the gibbet, together with a sort of court-hall, in which four
judges usually sit, to execute the law enacted by the lord of the river,
bridge, and manor, which runs to this effect: “Whosoever shall pass over
this bridge, must first swear whence he comes, and whither he goes: if
he swears the truth, he shall be allowed to pass; but if he forswears
himself, he shall die upon the gallows, without mercy or respite.”
‘This law, together with the rigorous penalty, being known, numbers
passed, and as it appeared they swore nothing but the truth, the judges
permitted them to pass freely, and without controul. It happened,
however, that one man’s oath being taken, he affirmed, and swore by his
deposition, that he was going to be hanged on that gibbet, and had no
other errand or intention. The judges having considered this oath,
observed, if we allow the man to pass freely, he swore to a lye, and
therefore ought to be hanged according to law; and if we order him to be
hanged, after he hath sworn he was going to be suspended on that gibbet,
he will have sworn the truth, and by the same law ought to be acquitted.
I beg, therefore, to know of your honour, my lord governor, what the
judges must do with this man: for hitherto they are doubtful and in
suspense; and having heard of your lordship’s acute and elevated
understanding, they have sent me to intreat your honour, in their names,
to favour them with your opinion in a case of such doubt and intricacy.’
To this address Sancho replied, ‘Assuredly, those judges who sent you to
me, might have spared themselves the trouble; for I am a man that may be
said to be rather blunt than acute: nevertheless, repeat the business so
that I may understand it fully, and who knows but I may chance to hit
the nail on the head.’ The interrogator having repeated his story again
and again, Sancho said, ‘I think I can now explain the case in the
twinkling of two balls: and this it is: A man swears he is going to be
hanged on such a gibbet; if he actually suffers upon that gibbet, he
swore the truth, and by the enacted law ought to be allowed freely to
pass the bridge; but if he is not hanged, he swore false, and for that
reason ought to suffer upon the gibbet.’
‘The case is exactly as my lord governor conceives it,’ said the
messenger: ‘and with respect to the scope, and understanding of the
matter, there is no farther room for doubt or interrogation,’—‘I say,
then,’ replied Sancho, ‘that part of the man which swore truth, ought to
be allowed to pass; and that which told a lye, ought to be hanged; and
in this manner the terms or condition of passing will be literally
fulfilled.’
‘But, my lord governor,’ replied the questioner, ‘in that case it will
be necessary to divide the man into two parts, namely, the false and the
true; and if he is so divided, he must certainly die: therefore, the
intent of the law will be frustrated, whereas, there is an express
necessity for its being accomplished.’—‘Come hither, honest friend,’
said Sancho; ‘either I am a blockhead, or this passenger you mention has
an equal title to be hanged, and to live and pass over the bridge; for,
if the truth saves him on one side, his falshood condemns him equally on
the other. Now, this being the case, as it certainly is, I think you
must tell the gentleman who sent you hither, that as the reasons for
condemning and for acquitting the culprit are equally balanced, they
shall let him freely pass; for it is always more laudable to do good
than harm; and to this opinion I would subscribe if I could write my
name. Nor, indeed, have I spoken my own sentiment on this occasion: but
I have recollected one, among the many precepts I received from my
master Don Quixote, the night before I set out for the government of
this island; he said, that when justice was doubtful, I should chuse and
lean towards mercy; and it pleased God that I should now remember this
maxim, which falls so pat to the present purpose.’—‘So it does,’ said
the steward; ‘and I firmly believe, that Lycurgus himself, who gave laws
to the Lacedemonians could not have uttered a more sagacious decision
than that which the great Panza has pronounced. Now, let the audience
end for this morning, and I will give orders that my lord governor shall
dine to his heart’s content.’—‘That is my request,’ cried Sancho:
‘nothing but fair play; give me plenty of victuals, and let them load me
with cases and doubts, I will soon make them vanish into smoke.’
The steward kept his word; for he had a scruple of conscience in
famishing such a discreet governor; especially as he intended that night
to conclude the farce with the last joke he had a commission to execute.
Well, then, Sancho having dined that day, contrary to all the rules and
aphorisms of Doctor Snatchaway, the cloth was no sooner removed than a
courier entered with a letter from Don Quixote to the governor, who
desired the secretary to read it by himself; and then, if there was
nothing in it which required to be kept secret, to rehearse it in an
audible voice. The secretary, in obedience to his command, having
perused it in secret, ‘It may be very safely read aloud,’ said he; ‘what
Signior Don Quixote writes to your lordship, deserves to be printed, and
even displayed in golden letters. This is the purport of the letter.’
THE LETTER FROM DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA TO SANCHO PANZA, GOVERNOR
OF THE ISLAND BARATARIA.
‘FRIEND SANCHO,
‘When I expected to hear of thy negligence and impertinence, I was
informed of thy discretion, for which I have returned particular
thanks to Heaven, that can raise the poor from the dunghill, and
extract wisdom from the heart of the fool. I am told thou hast
governed like a man, and that thou art a man as if thou wert a
beast; such is the humility of thy deportment. Take notice, Sancho,
it is often convenient and necessary, for the authority of office,
to refill the humility of the heart; for the ornament of the person
invested with charges of dignity, ought to be conformable to what
these require, and not measured according to the will of an humble
disposition. Appear always well-dressed; for a maypole when
decorated loses its original appearance: not that I advise thee to
wear jewels and finery; or, as thou art a judge, to go in the habit
of a soldier; but to adorn thyself with that garb which thine office
requires, and to be always clean, and neatly dressed. In order to
acquire the good will of the people over whom thou art set, among
other things, remember two particulars; one is to be affable to
every body—but this I have mentioned upon another occasion; the
other is to procure plenty of provision; for there is nothing that
gives such vexation to the poor as hunger and dearth.
‘Do not issue a great number of ordinances, but take care that those
which are published be good; and, above all things, see they are
maintained and put in execution; for those ordinances which are not
observed, might as well be annulled, as they serve to demonstrate
that the prince who had discretion and authority to enact them,
wanted power to enforce obedience; and those laws which only
intimidate, without being put in execution, resemble the King Log of
the frogs, which at first terrified his subjects, by whom, however,
at the long run, he was despised and insulted. Be thou a father to
the virtuous, and a stepfather to the wicked. Thou must not be
always rigorous, nor always gentle; but chuse the medium between
these two extremities, in which lies the point of discretion. Visit
the prisons, the slaughter-houses, and the markets; for in such
places the presence of the governor will be of great importance.
Console the prisoners with hope of being speedily dispatched. Be a
bug-bear to butchers, for then they will use honest weights; and a
terror to market-women, for the same reason. Beware of shewing
thyself (though thou really shouldst be so, and yet I believe thou
art not) a miser, a letcher, or a glutton; for thy people, and those
who have concerns with thee, knowing the bias of thine inclination,
will batter thee from that quarter, until thou art overthrown into
the profundity of perdition. Consider and reconsider, peruse and
re-peruse, the advices and instructions which I gave thee in writing
before thy departure for thy government; and, if thou observest the
contents, thou wilt find in them a precious aid, that will alleviate
the toils and difficulties which every moment occur to governors.
Write to thy noble patrons, to evince thy gratitude; for ingratitude
is the daughter of pride, and one of the vilest sins that can be
committed; and the person who is grateful to his benefactor gives
indication that he is also grateful to God, whose benefits are so
manifold and incessant. My lady duchess dispatched a messenger with
thy hunting-suit, and another present to thy wife Teresa, and we
expect her answer every moment.
‘I have been somewhat indisposed, in consequence of a certain
cat-clawing adventure, which I lately atchieved with some
discomfiture of my nose; but that was of no consequence; for if I am
maltreated by one set of inchanters, I am protected by another. Let
me know if the steward, who is with thee, had any concern in the
adventure of the Countess Trifaldi, as thou once seemedst to
suspect; and give me an account of every thing that betides thee,
seeing the distance between us is so small. I think of leaving, in a
little time, this idle life, for which I was never designed. I am
like to be engaged in an affair, which, I believe, will bring me
into disgrace with the duke and duchess; but, although this affects
my mind, it shall not influence my conduct; for, in a word, I am
resolved to comply with the duties of my profession, rather than
with the dictates of their pleasure; in conformity with the old
saying, “_Amicus Plato, sed magis amica veritas._” I write this
sentence in Latin, because I apprehend thou hast learned that
language since thou wast a governor. I commit thee to the protection
of God, who is the fountain of all good; and am thy friend,
‘DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA.’
Sancho listened with great attention to the letter, which was applauded,
for the good sense it contained, by all the hearers; then the governor
rising from table, shut himself up in his apartment with the secretary,
in order to compose an answer to his master, without loss of time. He
desired the scribe to write what he should dictate, without the least
addition or diminution. The secretary obeyed his command, and the answer
was to this effect—
SANCHO PANZA’S LETTER TO DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA.
‘The employment of my office is so severe, that I have not time to
scratch my head, or even to pair my nails, which I, therefore, wear
so long, that God must find some remedy. This I observe, dear master
of my soul, that your worship need not be confounded because I have
not hitherto given you an account of my well or ill-being in this
government; where, by the bye, I suffer more pinching hunger than
when we two used to travel through woods and desarts.
‘My lord duke gave me notice the other day, in a letter, that
certain spies had entered the island, in order to murder me; but, as
yet, I have, discovered none, except a doctor, who has a salary in
the place, for killing all the governors that come hither. They call
him Doctor Pedro Positive, and he is a native of Snatchaway; so that
your worship may see by his name, what reason I have to fear I shall
perish by his hands. This very doctor frankly owns, that he does not
cure the distempers which are already formed, but only prevents
their formation; and the medicine he prescribes, is fasting upon
fasting, until the patient is clean skin and bone, as if a
consumption was not worse than a fever. Finally, he is killing me by
inches with hunger; and I find myself dying of pure vexation; for I
thought, in coming to this government, I should have hot meals and
cool liquor, and regale my body in Holland sheets, upon beds of
down; whereas, I am come to penance like a hermit; and as I cannot
even do that, I believe, at the long run, the devil will fly away
with me.
‘Hitherto I have neither touched fee nor fingered bribe; nor can I
conceive the reason of such proceeding; for I have been told, that
the governors who used to come to this island, even before their
entrance, always received a good sum of money, either by way of
present or loan, from the inhabitants; a custom observed in other
governments as well as in this.
‘In going the round last night, I found a very beautiful damsel in
man’s cloaths, and her brother in the dress of a woman: my
gentleman-sewer is in love with the girl, and, as he says, hath
fixed his fancy on her for a wife, and I have chosen the youth for
my son-in-law; to-day we two will communicate our thoughts to the
father of this young pair, who is one Diego de Llana, a gentleman,
and as old a Christian as one would desire.
‘I visit the markets, according to your worship’s advice; and
yesterday seeing a huckster selling new nuts, I discovered that she
had mixed with a bushel of the new, the same quantity of old nuts
that were empty and rotten; upon which I gave the whole to the
charity boys, who know very well how to separate the good from the
bad, and forbade her to enter the market for fifteen days: I was
told I had done gallantly. What I can assure your worship is, that
according to the report of this town, there is not a more wicked set
of people than those market-women; for they are all without shame,
conscience, and moderation; and, indeed, I believe the report, from
what I have seen in other corporations.
‘It gives me great satisfaction to hear that my lady duchess has
written to my wife Teresa Panza, and sent the present your worship
mentions; and I will endeavour to shew my gratitude in due season. I
beg your worship will kiss her grace’s hand, in my name, and tell
her I say, she has not thrown her favour into a rotten sack, as our
deeds shall declare. I should be sorry that your worship came to any
reckonings of disgust with my lord duke and lady duchess; for should
there be any breach between you, it is very plain the whole would
redound to my loss; and, considering the advice you gave me to be
always grateful, it would not look well in your worship to be
otherwise to those who have done you such favours, and treated you
so nobly in their castle.
‘The story of the cat-clawing I do not understand; but do suppose it
must have been one of those unlucky frays in which your worship is
often engaged with wicked inchanters; but I shall know when we meet.
‘I would fain present your worship with something, but I know not
what to send, except some clyster-pipes, which are very curiously
turned and mounted in this island; though, if my office holds, it
shall go hard but I will find something to send, either by hook or
crook. If my wife Teresa Panza should write to me, I beg your
worship will pay the postage, and forward the letter; for I am
extremely desirous to know the state of my family, my wife, and
children. And, now, the Lord deliver your worship from
evil-designing inchanters, and safely and peaceably quit me of this
government; which I very much doubt; for I believe I shall leave my
bones in it, so cruelly am I treated by Doctor Pedro Positive. Your
worship’s humble servant,
‘SANCHO PANZA THE GOVERNOR.’
The secretary having sealed this letter, dispatched it with the courier;
and those who executed the jokes upon Sancho, laying their heads
together, contrived a scheme for dismissing him from the administration.
The evening his excellency spent in making some wholesome regulations
touching the government of what he imagined to be an island. Among other
things, he ordained that there should be no monopolizers of provisions
in the commonwealth: that wine should be imported from all parts
indifferently, at the pleasure of the merchant; with this addition, that
he should declare the place from whence it came, so as that a price
might be set upon it, according to its worth, fame, and estimation: and
he who should be detected in dashing it with water, or falsifying its
name, should suffer death for the offence. He moderated the price of all
kinds of hose, and particularly that of shoes, which he looked upon as
exorbitant; he rated the wages of servants who went at full gallop in
the road of interest; he laid severe penalties upon those who should
sing lewd and lascivious ballads, by night or by day; he ordered that no
blind man should sing his miracle in couplets, without an authentick
testimony of the truth; it appearing that the greatest part of those
sung by blind persons, are false and feigned, to the prejudice of those
which are true; he made and appointed an overseer of the poor, not to
persecute, but to examine whether or not they were real objects; for
sturdy thieves and hale drunkards often screen themselves in the shade
of feigned lameness, and counterfeit sores. In a word, he made so many
good regulations, that they are hitherto preserved in the place, and
called, The Constitutions of the Great Governor Sancho Panza.
CHAP. XX.
IN WHICH IS RECORDED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND AFFLICTED,
OR SORROWFUL MATRON,
OTHERWISE CALLED DONNA RODRIGUEZ.
Cid Hamet recounts, that Don Quixote being now cured of his scratches,
began to think the life he led in the castle was altogether contrary to
the order of chivalry which he professed; and therefore he determined to
beg leave of the duke and duchess to set out for Saragossa, as the time
of the tournament approached; for there he laid his account with winning
the armour which is the reward of the victor. Accordingly, while he one
day sat at table with the duke and duchess, he began to execute his
resolution in asking leave; when behold, all of a sudden, two women, as
it afterwards appeared, entered the dining-room, covered with mourning
from head to foot. One of them approaching Don Quixote, prostrated
herself before him, and with her mouth close to his feet, uttered such
melancholy, profound, and doleful groans, as overwhelmed all the
spectators with confusion: for, although the duke and duchess imagined
it was some joke which the servants intended to perpetrate upon the
knight; yet, seeing how violently the woman sighed, groaned, and wept,
they remained doubtful and in suspense, until the compassionate Don
Quixote raised her from the ground, and intreated her to discover
herself, by taking away the veil that concealed her rueful face. She
complied with his request, and shewed herself to be what nobody believed
she was; for she displayed the individual countenance of Donna
Rodriguez, the duenna of the house, and the other mourner was her
daughter, who had been seduced by the rich farmer’s son. All who knew
her were struck with admiration, and the duke and duchess more than any
body; for, although they took her to be a fool, and a person of a soft
disposition, they did not think her folly could have risen to such acts
of extravagance. In fine, Donna Rodriguez addressing herself to the duke
and duchess, ‘I hope,’ said she, ‘your excellencies will give me leave
to communicate a little with this knight: for it is necessary I should
confer with him, that I may be safely extricated from the dilemma in
which I am involved by the presumption of an evil-minded clown.’
The duke having assured her she was at full liberty to confer with
Signior Don Quixote as much as she pleased, she directed her voice and
her countenance to the knight, saying, ‘Some days are elapsed, most
valiant knight, since I gave you an account of the wrong and treachery
which a wicked peasant has done my dearly-beloved daughter, who is this
unfortunate creature now standing before you; and you promised, in her
behalf, to redress the wrong she had suffered: but now I am informed
that you are going to depart from this castle, in quest of the happy
adventures God shall throw in your way; and therefore I could wish that
before you begin your career through those paths, you would defy this
inflexible rustick, and compel him to marry my daughter, and so fulfil
the promise he made of being her spouse, before he first yoked with her
in the way of love; for, to think my lord duke will do me justice, is
the same as to look for pears upon an elm, for the reason which I
explained to your worship in private. And upon these terms, the Lord
preserve your worship’s health, and grant us his protection.’
To this address, Don Quixote, with great gravity and stateliness of
deportment, replied, ‘Worthy duenna, moderate, or rather dry up your
tears, and spare your sighs; for here I undertake to redress the
grievances of your daughter: though it would have been better for her,
had not she so easily believed the protestations of lovers, who, for the
most part, are very ready and alert to promise, but very heavy and
backward in the performance; nevertheless, with the good leave of my
lord duke, I will forthwith set out in quest of this perfidious youth,
and having found him, defy and slay him, whensoe’er and wheresoe’er he
shall refuse to perform his promise; for the principal aim of my
profession is, to pardon the humble, and chastize the haughty; that is,
to succour the wretched, and destroy the cruel.’—‘Your worship,’ replied
the duke, ‘need not give yourself the trouble to go in quest of the
rustick who is the subject of this worthy duenna’s complaint; nor is
there any occasion for your worship’s asking my leave to challenge him
to single combat; I consider the challenge as already given; I undertake
for its being conveyed to the party, and even for its acceptance; and
promise that he shall come to answer for himself in person at this
castle, where I will furnish both with a listed field, and observe all
the conditions that are wont and ought to be observed in such
encounters; for justice shall be equally done to each, according to the
obligation that lies on all those princes who furnish lists for
combatants within the limits of their territories.’—‘With this security,
then, and the good leave of your grace,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I now,
for once, renounce my gentility, humble and adjust myself to the level
of the delinquent, making myself equal with him, that he may be entitled
and enabled to fight with me: I therefore, though in his absence,
challenge and defy him, for his wickedness in seducing this poor
creature, who was a maid, and now, through his fault, is deprived of her
maidenhead; and he shall either perform the promise he made of being her
lawful spouse, or die in default of the performance.’
So saying, he pulled off one of his gloves, and threw it into the middle
of the hall; this was taken up by the duke, who said he accepted the
challenge in the name of his vassal: he likewise appointed the time at
the distance of six days, and pitched upon the courtyard of the castle
as the field of action: then they agreed to wear the usual arms of
knights; namely, the lance, the shield, the plaited coat of mail, and
all other pieces, without the least fraud, treachery, or superstition,
to be viewed and examined by the judges of the lists.—‘But, before we
proceed,’ said the duke, ‘it will be necessary that this good duenna,
and this mistaken maid, should put the justice of their cause into the
hands of Signior Don Quixote; otherwise nothing to the purpose will be
done, nor will the challenge ever come to due execution.’
‘I do put my cause into his hands,’ replied the duenna. ‘And I too,’
cried the daughter; all in tears, and overwhelmed with shame and
confusion. The particulars of this affair being adjusted, and the duke
having determined with himself what was to be done in the family, the
mourners retired, and the duchess ordered that for the future they
should not be treated as her servants, but as ladies adventurers come to
her house to demand justice: she therefore allotted a separate apartment
to themselves, and they were attended as strangers, not without the
amazement of other servants, who could not conceive what would be the
issue of the folly and effrontery of Donna Rodriguez and her indiscreet
and unhappy daughter.
At this instant, in order to compleat the mirth of the company, and
finish their meal with more enjoyment, who should enter the hall but the
page who carried the letters and presents to Teresa Panza, the wife of
Governor Sancho Panza! The duke and duchess were extremely pleased at
his arrival, and desirous to know the particulars of his journey, about
which he was questioned accordingly. The page answered that he could not
describe them in publick, or in a few words; but begged their
excellencies would be pleased to reserve the account for their private
ear; and, in the mean time entertain themselves with these letters. So
saying, he produced two letters, and gave them to the duchess, one
superscribed in these words: ‘To my Lady Duchess of I know not what nor
where.’ And the other directed, ‘To my husband Sancho Panza, governor of
the island Barataria, whom God prosper many more years than myself.’
The duchess would not toast her cake, as the saying is, until she had
read her letter, which having opened and perused by herself, when she
perceived it might be recited aloud for the benefit of the duke and the
company, she rehearsed it with an audible voice, to this effect.
TERESA PANZA’S LETTER TO THE DUCHESS.
‘I received great satisfaction, my lady, from the letter your grace
was pleased to write to me; for, in truth, it was what I greatly
desired; the string of coral is very good, and my husband’s
hunting-suit comes not short of it. Your ladyship’s having made my
spouse Sancho a governor, has given great pleasure to all our town,
although there are some who cannot believe it, especially the curate
Mr. Nicholas, the barber, and the batchelor Sampson Carrasco; but
that gives me no trouble; for seeing it be so, as it certainly is,
let people say what they will: though, if the truth must be told,
had not the string of coral and the hunting-suit come, I should not
have believed it myself; for in our town, every body takes my
husband for a noodle, and taken as he was, from governing an herd of
goats, they cannot conceive what other government he can be good
for. The Lord make him fit for his office, and conduct him in that
way which will be most for the advantage of his children!
‘For my own part, dear lady of my soul, I am resolved, with your
honour’s leave, to bring this happy day home to my own house, and
hie me to the court, where I will loll in my coach, and burst the
eyes of a thousand people who envy my good fortune: I beg,
therefore, your excellency will tell my husband to send me money,
and let it be a round sum; for it is very expensive living at court,
where bread sells for a rial, and meat for thirty maravedis a pound;
and that is an unconscionable price. If he does not chuse that I
should go, let him give me notice in time, for my feet itch to be a
travelling; and my neighbours and gossips tell me, if I and my
daughter go to court, and appear in pomp and grandeur, my husband
will come to be known by me, more than I by him; because, when
people ask, “Who are these ladies in that coach?” one of my servants
will answer, “These are the wife and daughter of Sancho Panza,
governor of the island Barataria.” And in this manner Sancho will be
known, I shall be respected, and to Rome for every thing.
‘I was vexed to the heart that this year there was no acorn harvest
in our town; nevertheless I send your highness about half a peck,
which I gathered one by one upon the mountain, and went thither on
purpose: I could find none larger, though I wish they were as big as
ostrich eggs.
‘I hope your pomposity will not forget to write to me, and I will
take care to send an answer, giving an account of my own health, and
of every thing that may be worth mentioning from this place, where I
remain praying to our Lord that he will preserve your grace, without
forgetting me. My daughter Sanchica and my son kiss your honour’s
hand: and this is all at present from her who had much rather see
your grace, than subscribe herself, your humble servant,
‘TERESA PANZA.’
Great was the satisfaction which all the hearers received from this
letter of Teresa Panza, though the greatest share fell to the duke and
duchess; and her grace asked Don Quixote, whether or not he thought it
would be proper to open the letter directed for the governor, which she
imagined must be excellent in its kind. The knight said he would open
it, to oblige her grace; and having done so, found the contents to this
purpose.
TERESA PANZA’S LETTER TO HER HUSBAND SANCHO PANZA.
‘I received thy letter, dear Sancho of my soul, and I promise and
swear to thee, on the faith of a catholick christian, I was within
two fingers breadth of running mad with joy; and take notice,
brother, when I heard thou wast a governor, I had like to have
dropped down dead with pure pleasure; for thou knowest they say,
sudden joy kills as well as deadly sorrow: thy daughter Sanchica
scattered her water about insensibly, out of mere satisfaction: thy
hunting-suit lay before me, the string of corals sent by my lady
duchess was tied round my neck, the letters were in my hand, and the
messenger in my presence; and yet, I imagined and believed, that all
I saw and handled was a dream; for who could conceive that a
goatherd should come to be governor of islands? Thou know’st, my
friend, that my mother said, One must live long to see a great deal:
this I mention, because I hope to see more if I live longer; for I
do not intend to stop, until I see thee a farmer, or collector of
the revenue; offices which, though they carry those who abuse them
to the devil, are, in short, always bringing in the penny.
‘My lady duchess will tell thee how desirous I am of going to court:
consider of it, and let me know thy pleasure; for I will endeavour
to do thee honour there, by riding in my coach.
‘The curate, barber, batchelor, and even the sexton, cannot believe
thou art a governor, and say the whole is a deception or matter of
inchantment, like all the affairs of thy master Don Quixote. Sampson
vows he will go in quest of thee, and drive this government out of
thy head, as well as the madness out of Don Quixote’s scull: I say
nothing, but laugh in my own sleeve, look at my beads, and contrive
how to make thy hunting-suit into a gown and petticoat for our
daughter. I have sent some acorns to my lady duchess, and I wish
they were of gold: send me some strings of pearl, if they are in
fashion in thy island. The news of our town are these: the widow of
the hill has matched her daughter with a bungling painter, who came
here and undertook all sorts of brush-work; the corporation employed
him to paint his majesty’s arms over the door of the town house; he
demanded two ducats for the job, and they paid him beforehand; but
after he had laboured eight whole days, he produced nothing, and
saying he could not hit upon such trifles, returned the money; and
yet for all that, he married with the character of a good workman;
true it is, he hath already laid aside the pencil, and taken up the
spade, and goes to the field like a gentleman. Pedro de Lobo’s son
has taken orders, and shaved his head, with intention to become a
priest; and this circumstance being known by Minguilla, niece of
Mingo Silvato, she is going to sue him upon promise of marriage:
evil tongues scruple not to say she is with child by him; but this
he positively denies. This year there are no olives, nor a drop of
vinegar in the whole town. A company of soldiers marching this way,
carried off three girls belonging to the village; but I will not
tell thee who they are, because perhaps they will return, and then
there will not be wanting husbands who will take them with all their
faults. Sanchica, by making bone-lace, clears eight maravedis a day,
which she keeps in a pipkin, to be a stock to her when she grows up:
but now, that she is a governor’s daughter, thou wilt give her a
portion without her working for it. The publick fountain is dried
up. A thunder-bolt fell upon the pillory, and there may they always
light! I expect an answer to this epistle, and thy resolution about
my going to court: and so, God preserve thee more years than I have
to live, or as many; for I should not chuse to leave thee behind me
in this world. Thy faithful spouse,
‘TERESA PANZA.’
The letters were read with admiration, esteem, laughter, and applause;
and the entertainment was crowned by the arrival of the courier who
brought Sancho’s epistle to Don Quixote, which, being likewise recited
in publick, rendered the governor’s folly extremely doubtful. The
duchess retired, in order to be informed by the page of what had
happened to him in Sancho’s village; and he recounted the particulars at
large, without leaving one circumstance untold: he delivered the acorns,
together with a cheese, which Teresa vouched for excellent, and even
preferred to those of Tronchon. This the duchess received with excessive
pleasure, in the enjoyment of which we will leave her grace, and relate
in what manner concluded the government of the great Sancho Panza, the
flower and mirrour of all insulary governors.
END OF BOOK III. PART II.
BOOK IV.
CHAP. I.
OF THE TOILFUL END AND CONCLUSION OF SANCHO PANZA’S GOVERNMENT.
To think the affairs of this life will always remain in the same
posture, is a wild supposition; on the contrary, every thing goes in a
round; I mean, goes round. Spring succeeds winter, summer follows
spring, autumn comes after summer, and winter comes in the rear of
autumn; then spring resumes its verdure, and time turns round on an
incessant wheel. The life of man alone runs lightly to its end, unlike
the circle of time, without hope of renewal, except in another life,
which knows no bounds. Thus moralizes Cid Hamet, the Mahometan
philosopher; for the knowledge of the frailty and instability of the
present life, together with the eternal duration of that which we
expect, many, without the light of faith, by natural instinct have
attained. But here our author makes the observation on account of the
celerity with which Sancho’s government was finished, consumed,
destroyed, and dissolved into smoke and vapour.
This poor governor being a-bed on the seventh night of his
administration, not crammed with bread and wine, but fatigued with
sitting in judgment, passing sentence, and making statutes and
regulations; and sleep, maugre and in despight of hunger, beginning to
weigh down his eye-lids, his ears were saluted with a terrible noise of
bells and cries, as if the whole island had been going to wreck.
Sitting up in his bed, he listened attentively, in hope of comprehending
the meaning and cause of such a mighty uproar: however, he not only
failed in his expectation; but the noise of the cries and the bells
being reinforced by that of an infinite number of drums and trumpets, he
remained more terrified, confounded, and aghast, than ever. Then
starting up, he put on his slippers, on account of the dampness of the
ground; though without wrapping himself up in his morning-gown, or in
any other sort of apparel; and opening the door of his apartment, saw
above twenty persons running through the gallery, with lighted torches,
and naked swords in their hands, exclaiming aloud, and all together,
‘Arm, arm, my Lord Governor, arm! a vast number of the enemy has landed
on the island; and we are lost and undone, unless protected by your
valour and activity.’
With this clamour, fury, and disturbance, they rushed towards Sancho,
who stood astonished and perplexed at what he saw and heard, and when
they came up to the spot, one of them accosting him, ‘Arm, my lord,’
said he, ‘unless you want to perish, and see the whole island
destroyed.’—‘For what should I arm?’ replied Sancho; ‘I neither know
the use of arms, nor can I give you protection. These matters had
better be left to my master Don Quixote; who, in the turning of a
straw, would dispatch the whole affair, and put every thing in safety;
but, for me, as I am a sinner to God, I understand nothing of these
hurly-burlys!’—‘How! my Lord Governor,’ cried another, ‘what
despondence is this? Put on your armour, Signior; here we have brought
arms offensive and defensive; come forth to the market-place, and be
our guide and our general, seeing of right that place belongs to you,
as being our governor.’—‘Arm me, then, a God’s name!’ replied Sancho.
At that instant they took two large bucklers they had brought along
with them, and putting over his shirt (for they would not give him
time to clothe himself) one buckler before and another behind, they
pulled his arms through certain holes they had made in the targets,
and fastened them well together with cords, in such a manner, that the
poor governor remained quite inclosed, and boarded up as straight as a
spindle, without being able to bend his knees, or move one single
step; and in his hands they put a lance, with which he supported
himself as he stood. Having cooped him up in this manner, they desired
him to march out, and conduct and animate his people; in which case he
being the north star, their lanthorn, and Lucifer, their affairs would
be brought to a prosperous issue. ‘How should I march, unfortunate
wight that I am,’ said Sancho, ‘when my very knee pans have not room
to play, so much am I cramped by those boards, which are squeezed into
my very flesh? Your only way is to take me up in your arms, and lay me
across, or set me upright in some postern, which I will defend either
with this lance or this carcase.’—‘Come, my Lord Governor,’ replied
the other, ‘you are more hampered by fear than by your bucklers. Make
haste, and exert yourself, for it grows late; the enemies swarm, the
noise increases, and the danger is very pressing.’
In consequence of this persuasion and reproach, the poor governor
endeavoured to move, and down he came to the ground with such a fall
that he believed himself split to pieces. There he lay like a tortoise
covered with its shell, or a flitch of bacon between two trays; or,
lastly, like a boat stranded with her keel uppermost. Yet his fall did
not excite the compassion of those unlucky wags; on the contrary,
extinguishing their torches, they renewed the clamour, and repeated the
alarm with such hurry and confusion, trampling upon the unhappy Sancho,
and bestowing a thousand strokes upon the bucklers, that if he had not
gathered, and shrunk himself up, with drawing his head within the
targets, the poor governor would have passed his time but very
indifferently; shrunk as he was within that narrow lodging, he sweated
all over with fear and consternation, and heartily recommended himself
to God, that he might be delivered from the danger that encompassed him.
Some stumbled, and others fell over him; nay, one of the party stood
upon him for a considerable time, and thence, as from a watch-tower,
gave orders to the army, exclaiming with a loud voice, ‘This way, my
fellow-soldiers; for here the enemy make their chief effort! Guard this
breach; shut that gate; down with those scaling ladders; bring up the
fire-pots, with the kettles of melted pitch, rosin, and boiling oil;
barricado the streets with woolpacks!’ In a word, he named with great
eagerness, all the implements, instruments, and munition of war, used in
the defence of a city assaulted; while the bruised and battered Sancho,
who heard the din, and suffered grievously, said within himself, ‘O!
would it please the Lord that the island were quickly lost, that I might
see myself either dead or delivered from this distress!’ Heaven heard
his petition, and when he least expected such relief, his ears were
saluted with a number of voices, crying, ‘Victory! victory! the enemy is
overcome! Rise, my Lord Governor, and enjoy your conquest; and divide
the spoil taken from the foe by the valour of your invincible arm.’
The afflicted Sancho, with a plaintive voice, desired them to lift him
up; and when they helped him to rise and set him on his legs again, ‘I
wish,’ said he, ‘the enemy I have conquered were nailed to my forehead.
I want to divide no spoils; but I beg, and supplicate some friend, if
any such I have, to bring me a draught of wine; and that he will wipe me
dry of this sweat which has turned me into water.’ They accordingly
wiped him clean, brought the wine, untied the bucklers, and seated him
upon his bed, where he fainted away through fear, consternation, and
fatigue. Those concerned in the joke now began to be sorry for having
laid it on so heavy; but Sancho’s recovery moderated their uneasiness at
his swooning. He asked what it was o’clock; and they answered it was
day-break: then, without speaking another syllable, he began to dress
himself, in the most profound silence; and all present gazed upon him
with looks of expectation, impatient to know the meaning of his dressing
himself so earnestly. At length, having put on his cloaths very
leisurely, for his bruises would not admit of precipitation, he hied him
to the stable, attended by all the by-standers, where, advancing to
Dapple, he embraced him affectionately, and gave him the kiss of peace
upon the forehead, saying, while the tears trickled from his eyes, ‘Come
hither, my dear companion! my friend, and sharer of all my toil and
distress; when you and I consorted together, and I was plagued with no
other thoughts than the care of mending your furniture and pampering
your little body, happy were my hours, my days, and my years! but since
I quitted you, and mounted on the towers of pride and ambition, my soul
has been invaded by a thousand miseries, a thousand toils, and four
thousand disquiets.’
While he uttered this apostrophe, he was employed in putting the
pack-saddle on his ass, without being interrupted by any living soul;
and Dapple being equipped for the road, he made shift to mount him, with
great pain and difficulty: then, directing his words and discourse to
the steward, secretary, sewer, Doctor Pedro, and many others who were
present, ‘Make way, gentlemen,’ said he, ‘and let me return to my
ancient liberty; let me go in quest of my former life, that I may enjoy
a resurrection from this present death: I was not born to be a governor,
or to defend islands and cities from the assaults of their enemies. I am
better versed in ploughing and delving, in pruning and planting vines,
than in enacting laws, and defending provinces and kingdoms. I know St.
Peter is well at Rome—that is, every one does well in following the
employment to which he was bred; a sickle becomes my hand better than a
governor’s sceptre; and I would rather fill my belly with soup-meagre,
than undergo the misery of an impertinent physician who starves me to
death. I would much rather solace myself under the shade of an oak in
summer, and clothe myself with a sheepskin jacket in the winter, being
my own master, than indulge, under the subjection of a government, with
holland sheets, and robes of sables—God be with you, gentlemen; and pray
tell my lord duke, Naked I was born, and naked I remain; and if I lose
nothing, as little I gain. That is, I would say, Pennyless I took
possession of this government, and pennyless I resign my office; quite
the reverse of what is usually the case with governors of other islands.
Make way, therefore, and let me go and be plaistered; for I believe all
my ribs are crushed, thanks to the enemies who have this night passed
and repassed over my carcase.’
‘It must not be so, my Lord Governor,’ said Doctor Positive: ‘I will
give your worship a draught, calculated for falls and bruises, that will
instantly restore you to your former health and vigour; and with respect
to the article of eating, I promise your lordship to make amends, and
let you eat abundantly of every thing you desire.’—‘Your promise comes
too late,’ answered Sancho; ‘and I will as soon turn Turk as forbear
going. Those are no jokes to be repeated. Before God! I will as soon
remain in this, or accept of any other government, even though it should
be presented in a covered dish, as I will fly to Heaven without the help
of wings. I am of the family of the Panzas, who are all headstrong, and
if once they say Odds, odds it must be, though in fact it be even, in
spite of all the world. In this stable I leave the pismire’s wings, that
carried me up into the clouds, to make me a prey to martlets and other
birds; and now let us alight, and walk softly and securely on the
ground; and if my feet are not adorned with pinked shoes of Cordovan
leather, they shall not want coarse sandals of cord or rushes; Let ewe
and wether go together; and, Nobody thrust his feet beyond the length of
his sheet. Now, therefore, let me pass, for it grows late.’
To this address the steward replied, ‘We shall freely allow your
lordship to go, although we shall be great sufferers in losing you,
whose ingenuity, and Christian conduct, oblige us to desire your stay;
but it is well known that every governor is obliged, before he quits his
government, to submit his administration to a scrutiny; and if your
lordship will give an account of yours, during the seven days you have
stood at the helm, you may depart in peace, and God be your
guide.’—‘Nobody can call me to an account,’ said Sancho, ‘but such as
are appointed by my lord duke. Now to him am I a going, and to him will
I render it fairly and squarely; besides, there is no occasion for any
other proof than my leaving you naked as I am, to shew that I have
governed like an angel.’—‘’Fore God! the great Sancho is in the right,’
cried Doctor Positive; ‘and, in my opinion, we ought to let him retire;
for the duke will be infinitely rejoiced to see him.’
All the rest assented to the proposal, and allowed him to pass; after
having offered to bear him company, and provide him with every thing he
should want for entertainment of his person, and the convenience of the
journey. Sancho said he wanted nothing but a little barley for Dapple,
and half a cheese, with half a loaf, for himself, the journey being so
short, that he had no occasion for any better or more ample provision.
All the company embraced him, and were in their turns embraced by the
weeping Sancho, who left them, equally astonished at his discourse, as
at his resolute and wise determination.
CHAP. II.
WHICH TREATS OF MATTERS BELONGING TO THIS HISTORY, AND NO OTHER
WHATSOEVER.
The duke and duchess resolved, that the defiance which Don Quixote
breathed against their vassal for the cause already mentioned, should be
answered; and although the young man was in Flanders, whither he had
fled to avoid such a mother-in-law as Donna Rodriguez, they determined
to supply his place with a Gascon lacquey, called Tosilos, whom they
beforehand minutely instructed how to behave on this occasion.
Two days after these measures were taken, the duke told Don Quixote that
in four days his antagonist would come and present himself in the lists,
armed as a knight, and maintain that the damsel lyed by one half of her
beard, and even by every hair of it, if she affirmed that he had
promised her marriage. The knight received these tidings with great
pleasure, flattering himself he should do something to excite the
admiration of the whole family; and he thought himself extremely
fortunate in having found an opportunity of shewing this noble pair how
far the valour of his powerful arm extended. He, therefore, with great
joy and satisfaction, waited the expiration of the four days, which,
reckoned by his impatience, seemed equal to four hundred centuries.
In the mean time, let them pass, as we have already let many other
matters pass; and attend Sancho, who, between merry and sad, jogged
along upon Dapple, in quest of his master, whose company he preferred to
the government of all the islands upon earth. Well, then, he had not
travelled far from the island of his government, (for he never dreamed
of being certified whether what he governed was island, city, town, or
village) when he saw coming towards him six pilgrims, with their staves,
of that sort which begs charity by singing. So soon, therefore, as they
approached him, they made a lane; and, raising their voices together,
began to sing in their language, though Sancho understood nothing of
what they said, except the word Charity, which they distinctly
pronounced; so that he immediately conceived the meaning of their
outlandish song. Now, he being, according to the asseveration of Cid
Hamet, extremely charitable, took out of his bags and gave them the
bread and cheese with which he had been furnished, making them
understand by signs, that he had nothing else to give. They received his
benefaction chearfully, pronouncing, however, the word, ‘_Guelte_,
_Guelte_;’ to which Sancho answering—‘I really do not understand what
you want, good people:’ one of them took a purse from his bosom, and
held it up, giving him to understand they wanted money. Then Sancho
clapping his thumb to his throat, and displaying the back of his hand,
signified that he had not so much as the corner of a rial, and spurred
up Dapple, in order to make his way through the midst of them. As he
passed, one of them having considered him very attentively, laid hold on
Dapple’s halter, and clasping him round the middle, exclaimed aloud, in
very good Castilian—‘The Lord protect me! what is this I see? Is it
possible that I actually held in my arms my dear friend, and good
neighbour, Sancho Panza? Yes, doubtless; for I am neither asleep nor
drunk.’
Sancho was astonished to hear his own name, and see himself embraced by
a pilgrim, and a stranger, whom, though he silently gazed upon him with
the utmost attention, he could by no means recollect. The pilgrim
perceiving his surprize—‘Is it possible, brother Sancho Panza,’ said he,
‘that thou dost not know thy neighbour Ricote, the Moresco shopkeeper,
that lived in your town?’ Then Sancho, reviewing him with greater
attention, began to recal his features; and at length, perfectly
recognizing the Moor, he, without alighting, threw his arms about his
neck, saying—‘Who the devil could know thee, Ricote, in that disguise?
Tell me who has pilgrimized thee; and wherefore hast thou dared to
return to Spain, where, if thou art found and known, thou wilt suffer
for thy rashness?’—‘If thou wilt not discover me, Sancho, I am secure,’
replied the pilgrim; ‘for in this disguise, nobody will know me. Let us
quit the high-road, and remove to yon poplar grove, where my companions
intend to take some refreshment and repose; there thou shalt partake
with them, for they are a very good sort of people; and there I shall
have leisure to recount every thing that has befallen me since I
departed from our town, in obedience to his majesty’s proclamation,
which so severely threatened the unfortunate people of my nation; as, no
doubt, thou hast heard.’
Sancho assented to his proposal; and Ricote having spoke to the other
pilgrims, they betook themselves to the tuft of poplars, at a good
distance from the high-road. There they threw down their staves, laid
aside their rochets or mantles, so as to remain in their doublets; and
all of them appeared to be young men of genteel persons, except Ricote,
who was already advanced in years. Each had a wallet, in all appearance
well provided; at least, with incentives which provoked thirst, at the
distance of two leagues. They stretched themselves upon the ground, and
using the grass as a table-cloth, spread upon it bread, salt, knives,
nuts, crusts of cheese, and some clean bones of bacon, which, though
they could not be eaten, were in a condition to be sucked with pleasure.
They likewise produced a black dish, which they called caviere, made of
the roes of fishes, a great awakener of drought; nor did they want
olives, which, though dry and without pickles, were very savoury and
delicate; but what made the best figure in the field of this banquet,
was a bottle of wine which every pilgrim drew forth from his wallet, not
excepting honest Ricote, who, being transformed from a Moor into a
German or Teutonian, pulled out his bottle also, which in size might
have vied with all the other five. They began to eat with infinite
relish, and great deliberation, smacking their lips at every mouthful
which they took with the point of a knife, though they are but little;
then, all at once, the whole squadron together raised their arms and
bottles aloft, and joining mouth to mouth, with their eyes fixed on the
firmament, they seemed to take aim at heaven. In this manner, shaking
their heads from side to side, in token of the satisfaction they
received, they continued a good while in the act of transfusing the
contents of the bottles into their own bellies.
Sancho beheld this scene, with every part of which he was perfectly well
pleased; and, in compliance with the proverb which he very well knew,
importing, ‘When thou art at Rome, follow the fashion of Rome,’ he
begged an embrace of Ricote’s bottle, and took his aim like the rest;
nor was his satisfaction inferior to theirs. Four times did their
bottles admit of elevation; but the fifth was to no purpose: for, by
that time, they were as clean and as dry as a rush; a circumstance that
threw a damp upon the mirth which had hitherto prevailed. From time to
time each pilgrim, in his turn, shook hands with Sancho,
saying—‘Spaniard or German, all one, goot companion.’ To which
compliment Sancho replied—‘Goot companion, by the Lord!’ bursting out
into a fit of laughter which lasted a whole hour, without remembering at
that time the least circumstance of what had happened to him in his
government; for over the times and seasons of eating and drinking, care
seldom holds jurisdiction. Finally, the conclusion of the wine was the
beginning of sleep, which overwhelmed the whole company, and stretched
them along upon the table and cloth they had been using. Ricote and
Sancho were the only two who remained awake, in consequence of having
eaten more, and drank less, than their fellows: then Ricote taking
Sancho aside, they sat down at the root of a beech, leaving the pilgrims
buried in an agreeable slumber; and without stumbling in the least upon
his Moresco language, he spoke in pure Castilian to this effect.
‘Well thou knowest, O Sancho Panza, my neighbour and friend, how the
edict and proclamation which his majesty published against those of my
religion, overwhelmed us all with terror and consternation; at least,
they terrified me to such a degree, that long before the time allotted
to us for our removal from Spain, I thought the rigour of the penalty
was already executed against me and my children. I therefore resolved,
and, I think, wisely, like the man who knowing he must quit the house he
lives in, at such a time, provides himself with another to which he may
remove—I resolved, I say, to retire by myself, without my family, and go
in quest of some place to which I might carry it commodiously, without
that hurry and confusion which attended the departure of my neighbours;
for I was very well convinced, and so were all our elders, that those
edicts were not only threats, as some people said, but real laws, that
would certainly be put in execution at the appointed time: and this
truth I was compelled to believe, by knowing the base and mad designs
which our people harboured; such designs that, I verily think, his
majesty was divinely inspired to execute such a gallant resolution. Not
that we were all guilty; for some among us were firm and staunch
Christians: but they were so few in number, that they could not oppose
the schemes of those who were otherwise; and it was dangerous to nurse a
serpent in one’s bosom, by allowing the enemy to live within the house.
In a word, we were justly chastised by the sentence of banishment, mild
and gentle in the opinion of some, but to us the most terrible that
could be pronounced. In what country soever we are, we lament our exile
from Spain: for, in fine, here we were born; this is our native country;
in no clime do we find a reception suitable to our misfortunes; nay, in
Barbary, and all the other parts of Africk, where we expected to be
received, cherished, and entertained, we have been most injured and
maltreated; we knew not our happiness until we lost it; and so intense
is the longing desire which almost all of us have to return to Spain,
that the greatest part of those, and they are many, who understand the
language like me, return to this kingdom, leaving their wives and
children, unprotected abroad, such is their affection for this their
native soil; and now, I know, by experience, the truth of the common
saying, Sweet is the love of native land.
‘Leaving our town, as I have already said, I repaired to France; and,
though there we met with a civil reception, I was desirous of seeing
other countries. I, therefore, travelled into Italy, from whence I
passed into Germany, where people seemed to live with more freedom: the
natives do not pry with curious eyes into one another’s concerns; every
one lives according to his own humour; for in most parts of the empire
there is liberty of conscience. I left a house which I hired in a
village near Augsburg, and joined these pilgrims, a great number of whom
are wont to come hither yearly, on pretence of visiting the sanctuaries
of Spain, which are their Indies, as being productive of well known
advantage, and most certain gain. They traverse the whole country; and
there is not a village from which they are not dismissed with a belly
full of meat and drink, as the saying is, and a rial at least, in money;
so that at the end of their peregrination, they are above a hundred
crowns in pocket, which, being changed into gold, they conceal in the
hollow of their staves, or in the patches of their cloaks; or task their
industry in such a manner as to carry off their purchase to their own
country, in spite of the guards at the passes and gates, where they are
examined and registered.
‘My present intention, Sancho, is to carry off the money I have buried,
which being without the town, I can retrieve without danger; then I
shall write, or take a passage from Valencia, to my wife and daughter,
who, I know, are at Algiers, in order to contrive a method for
transporting them to some port of France, from whence I will conduct
them to Germany, where we will bear with resignation the will of Heaven:
for, in fine, Sancho, I am positively certain that my daughter Ricota,
and my wife Francisca Ricote, are real Catholick Christians; and, though
I myself am not entirely of that way of thinking, I have more of the
Christian than the Mussulman; and I incessantly pray to God to open the
eyes of my understanding, that I may know how to serve him in the right
way. But what excites my wonder, and baffles my penetration, is the
conduct of my wife and daughter; who have chosen to retire into Barbary,
rather than to France, where they might have lived as Christians.’
To this observation Sancho replied—‘Why, look ye, Ricote, they were not,
I suppose, at liberty to chuse for themselves, inasmuch as they were
carried off by your wife’s brother, John Tiopieyo, who, being a rank
Moor, would naturally go to the place where he himself intended to make
his abode: and, I can tell you, moreover, I believe it will be in vain
for you to go in search of what you left under ground; for we are
informed that thy wife and brother-in-law were stripped of a number of
pears, and a great deal of money, which was carried off to be
registered.’—‘That may be very true,’ said Ricote: ‘but I am certain,
Sancho, they have not touched my hoard; for I would not tell them where
it was hid, because I dreaded some misfortune: and, therefore, Sancho,
if thou wilt come along with me, and assist me in taking up and
concealing it, I will gratify thee with two hundred crowns, to relieve
thy necessities, which thou art sensible I know to be manifold.’—‘I
would comply with thy proposal,’ answered Sancho; ‘but I am not at all
covetous; were I that way inclined, I this morning quitted an employment
by which I might have been enabled to build the walls of my house of
beaten gold, and in less than six months, eat out of plate: for this
reason, therefore, and because I should think myself guilty of treason
to my king, in favouring his enemies, I will not go along with thee,
even though in lieu of promising me two hundred, thou shouldst here lay
down four hundred crowns upon the nail.’—‘And, pray, what office is this
that thou halt quitted?’ said Ricote. ‘I have quitted the government of
an island,’ replied Sancho: ‘aye, and such a one as, in good faith, you
will not find its fellow in three bow-shots.’—‘And whereabouts is this
island?’ resumed the other. ‘Whereabouts!’ cried Panza: ‘about two
leagues from hence, and it is called the Island Barataria.’—‘Spare me,
spare me, good Sancho,’ said Ricote: ‘islands are far at sea; there are
none upon the continent.’—‘How, none!’ replied Sancho: ‘I tell thee,
friend Ricote, I left it but this mornings and yesterday governed in it
at my pleasure, like a perfect sagittary; but, for all that, I resigned
my place; for I found the office of governors is very troublesome and
dangerous.’—‘And what hast thou got by this government?’ said Ricote. ‘I
have got sense enough to know that I am fit for governing nothing but a
flock of sheep,’ answered Sancho: ‘and that the wealth acquired in such
governments is got at the expence of ease, sleep, and even sustenance;
for in islands the governors must eat very little, especially if they
have physicians to watch over their health.’—‘I really do not understand
thee, Sancho,’ said Ricote: ‘but every thing thou hast spoke, to me
seems mere madness; for who would give thee islands to govern, when
there is plenty of men in the world so much more capable of governing
than thou? Keep thy own counsel, Sancho, and recollect thy judgment, and
consider whether or not thou wilt accompany me, as I proposed, to assist
me in conveying the treasure I have hid; for the sum is really so great,
it may well be called a treasure, and I will give thee wherewithal to
live, as I have already promised.’—‘I have already told thee, Ricote,
that I will not,’ answered Sancho: ‘be satisfied that by me thou shalt
not be discovered; continue thy journey in happy hour, and let me
proceed in mine: for, well I know, What’s honestly earned may be easily
lost, but ill-got wealth is ever at the owner’s cost.’—‘Well, I will not
farther importune thee,’ said Ricote: ‘but, pray tell me, Sancho, wast
thou in our village when my wife and daughter departed with my
brother-in-law?’—‘Yes, I was,’ replied Sancho: ‘and I can tell thee, thy
daughter appeared so beautiful, that all the people in town went forth
to see her, and every body owned she was the fairest creature under the
sun; she went along weeping, and embraced all her friends and
acquaintance; and begged of all that came to see her, that they would
recommend her to God, and our Lady his blessed mother. Indeed, her
behaviour was so moving, that I myself, who am no blubberer, could not
help shedding tears; and, in good sooth, many persons were very desirous
of going after, and carrying her off, in order to conceal her; but they
were diverted from that design, by the fear of acting contrary to the
king’s proclamation. He that shewed himself the most passionately fond
of her, was Don Pedro Gregorio, the young rich heir, who, thou knowest,
was said to be in love with her. After her departure, he never more
appeared in our town, and every body believed he went away in order to
carry her off; but hitherto we have had no account of his motions.’—‘I
had always a suspicion,’ said Ricote, ‘that the young gentleman was
enamoured of my daughter; but, as I confided in the virtue of Ricota,
his passion gave me no disturbance; for thou must have heard, Sancho,
that the Moorish women seldom or never engage in amorous intercourse
with old Christians; and my daughter, whose inclination, I believe,
leaned more to Christianity than to love, paid no attention to the
importunities of that young heir.’—‘God grant it may be so,’ replied
Sancho; ‘for it would have been to the prejudice of both: and now let me
depart in peace, friend Ricote; for, this night, I intend to be with my
master Don Quixote.’—‘God be thy guide, brother Sancho,’ said the Moor:
‘I see my companions are stirring, and it is time for us to make the
best of our way.’
Then the two having embraced one another, Sancho mounted Dapple, Ricote
supported himself with his staff, and in this manner they parted
different ways.
CHAP. III.
OF CERTAIN ACCIDENTS THAT BEFEL SANCHO UPON THE ROAD—AND OTHER
CIRCUMSTANCES, WHICH TO KNOW YOU NEED ONLY LOOK FORWARD.
Sancho was so long detained by Ricote, that he could not reach the
duke’s castle that day, though he was within half a league of it, and
there overtaken by the night, which was dark and close; but it being the
summer season, he was not much concerned, and retired a little from the
high-road with intention to wait patiently for morning. It was, however,
the pleasure of his niggard and unhappy fortune, that in seeking a place
proper for his accommodation, he and Dapple tumbled into a deep and very
dark pit, among a number of old buildings. In falling, he recommended
himself to God, with all his heart, in the firm persuasion that he would
not stop until he reached the bottom of the profound abyss: but this
apprehension was happily disappointed; for Dapple having descended
little more than three fathoms, touched the ground, and his rider found
himself on his beast’s back, without having sustained the least hurt of
damage. He felt his body all over, and held in his breath to know
whether he was sound or perforated in any part; and when he found
himself safe, whole, and in Catholick health, he did not fail to thank
our Lord God for his protection, as he actually thought he had been
shattered into a thousand pieces. He likewise felt about the sides of
the pit, to know if there was any possibility of being extricated
without assistance; but he found them all smooth and perpendicular,
without any projection or cranny of which he could take the least
advantage; a circumstance that greatly increased his chagrin, especially
when he heard Dapple complain in a most pathetick and lamentable tone;
and, indeed, it was no great wonder, nor did he lament out of
wantonness, for in truth he was in a very sorry condition.
It was then that Sancho Panza exclaimed—‘Alack, and a-well-a-day! how
unexpected are the accidents which, at every turn, befal those who live
in this miserable world! Who could foretel, that he who yesterday saw
himself enthroned as governor of an island, giving orders to his
servants and vassals, should to-day be buried in a dungeon, without a
soul to remedy his misfortune, or a servant or vassal to hasten to his
relief? Here I and my poor beast must perish by hunger, if we do not
give up the ghost before that period; he, in consequence of being
battered and bruised, and I, from pure sorrow and vexation. At least, I
shall not be so lucky as my master Don Quixote de La Mancha; who, when
he descended, and sunk into the cave of that same enchanted Montesinos,
was better entertained than he could have been in his own house; so that
the cloth seemed to be laid, and the bed fairly made. There he enjoyed
beautiful and agreeable visions; but here, I believe, I shall see
nothing but toads and serpents. Unfortunate wretch that I am! to what a
pass am I brought by my fantasies and folly! From this cavern (when
Heaven shall be pleased to discover them) my bones, together with those
of my honest friend Dapple, will be taken up smooth, and white, and bare
as an atomy; and, from this particular, perhaps, it will be discovered
who we are, especially by those who know that Sancho Panza never parted
from his ass, nor his ass from Sancho Panza. I say again, miserable
creatures that we are! why would not our niggard fortune allow us to die
at home, in our own country, in the midst of our friends? where, though
our misfortune would admit of no remedy, we should not have wanted
relations to grieve at our fate, and close our eyes in the last hour of
our trial!
‘O my dear companion, and my friend! how ill have I rewarded thy good
services! Forgive me, honest Dapple, and entreat fortune, in the best
terms thou canst use, to deliver us from this vexatious misery in which
we are equally involved; in which case, I promise to put a crown of
laurel upon thy head, so as that thou shalt look like a poet-laureat;
and, withal, to give thee double allowance of provender.’ In this manner
did Sancho Panza pour forth his lamentation, to which the poor beast
listened without answering one word; such was the danger and distress to
which the poor animal found himself exposed.
At length, after they had passed the whole night in miserable complaints
and lamentations, day broke; and by the light and splendor of the
morning, Sancho perceived, that of all impossibilities it was the most
impossible to free himself from that pit without assistance; so that he
began to lament afresh, and roar aloud, in hope that somebody might hear
his voice: but all his cries were uttered to the desart; for in all that
neighbourhood there was not a soul by whom he could be heard; and
therefore he gave himself up for lost. As Dapple lay with his mouth
uppermost, Sancho Panza exerted himself in such a manner as to raise his
friend upon his legs, which, by the bye, could scarce bear his weight;
and, taking a piece of bread out of his wallet, which had likewise
suffered the same unfortunate fall, gave it to the poor beast, who
received it very thankfully; and Sancho told him, as if he understood
his words—‘All ills are good, when attended with food.’ About this time
he discovered a hole at one side of the dungeon, large enough to give
passage to a man, provided he could bend his body, and creep through; to
this he hastened, and squeezing himself into it, perceived, within, a
large extensive space, the particulars of which he could distinguish;
for, through what may be termed the roof, descended a small stream of
light that illuminated the whole place, which, as he observed, dilated
and extended itself through another spacious concavity.
Sancho, having made these remarks, returned to the place where his
companion stood, and with a stone began to clear away the rubbish from
the hole, which he in a little time enlarged to such a degree that
Dapple passed with ease. Then taking the halter in his hand, he led him
forwards through that cavern, in hope of finding an exit at the other
end: and sometimes he proceeded darkling, and sometimes without one ray
of light; but always in fear and trepidation. ‘God Almighty protect me!’
said he within himself; ‘this, that is such a dismal expedition to me,
would be an excellent adventure to my master, who would look upon these
depths and dungeons as so many flower-gardens, and palaces of
Galiana[194]; and expect to pass from this distress and obscurity, into
some blooming meadow adorned with the pride of spring: whereas I, a
miserable wretch! equally impudent and poor-spirited, dread, at every
step, that another dungeon, still more deep, will suddenly open under my
feet, and swallow me up at once. We may bear, without a groan, the
misfortune that comes alone.’ In venting these ejaculations, he fancied
he had proceeded about half a league, when he perceived a kind of
confused light, like that of day, glimmering through a passage that
seemed to be the road from this to the other world.
Here Cid Hamet Benengeli, leaving the squire, returns to Don Quixote,
waiting with joy and transport for the combat in which he was to engage
with the person who had robbed the daughter of Donna Rodriguez of her
precious virtue; for he made no doubt of redressing the grievance and
disgrace which the delinquent had feloniously entailed upon the innocent
damsel.
Chancing one morning to go out, in order to improve and inure himself to
the exercise of arms, which he meant to practise in that combat to which
in a few days he must be exposed, he, in wheeling about, or giving the
charge with Rozinante, rode so near the mouth of a cavern, that if he
had not vigorously pulled in the reins, he must have plunged into it,
without all possibility of escape. He kept his seat, however, and at
length made his retreat good; then, re-approaching the hole, he, without
alighting, surveyed the depth of the cave; and, while he was thus
employed, heard loud cries issuing from below; in consequence of which,
listening with great attention, he could distinguish articulate sounds,
and distinctly understand the following exclamation: ‘So ho! above
there; is there any Christian within hearing? or any charitable
gentleman whose bowels yearn at the distress of a sinner buried alive,
and an unfortunate misgoverned governor?’
Don Quixote thought he recognized the voice of Sancho Panza, at hearing
which he was confounded and astonished; and raising his own voice as
high as he could strain—‘Who is that below,’ cried he, ‘complaining so
grievously?’—‘Who should be here, or who complain, but the bewildered
Sancho Panza, for his sins and misfortune, appointed governor of the
Island Barataria, who was formerly squire to the renowned knight Don
Quixote de La Mancha?’ When the knight heard this declaration, his
surprize redoubled, his amazement increased, and he was struck with the
notion that Sancho Panza was dead, and his soul doing penance in that
place. Swayed by this conjecture, he exclaimed—‘I conjure thee, by all
that is sacred, as a Catholick Christian, to tell me who thou art? If a
soul in punishment, let me know what I can do in thy behalf; for, as it
is my profession to savour and assist the needy of this world, so
likewise am I ready to succour and relieve the miserable objects of the
other world, who cannot relieve themselves.’—‘At that rate, and by your
worship’s discourse,’ answered the voice, ‘you should be my master Don
Quixote de la Mancha; and, indeed, by the tone of your voice, I know you
can be no other.’—‘Don Quixote I am,’ replied the knight; ‘he who
professed to aid and assist the living, as well as the dead, in their
distresses. Tell me, therefore, who thou art, by whom I am thus held in
astonishment; for if thou art my squire Sancho Panza, and hast quitted
this life, seeing the devils have not got possession of thy soul, but
through the mercy of God thou art now in purgatory, our holy mother, the
Roman Catholick Church, has prayers sufficient to deliver thee from thy
present pain; and I, for my part, will solicit them in thy behalf, as
far as my whole fortune will extend; I say, therefore, make haste, and
declare thy name and situation.’—‘I vow to God!’ answered the voice,
‘and swear by the birth of whom your worship pleases, Signior Don
Quixote de La Mancha, that I am your identical squire, Sancho Panza, and
was never yet dead in the whole course of my life, but I quitted my
government for causes and considerations which I must have more leisure
to explain. Last night I fell into this dungeon, together with Dapple,
who will not suffer me to tell an untruth; by the same token he stands
now at my back.’ One would have imagined the beast understood what his
master said; for that moment he began to bray so strenuously, that the
whole cave echoed with the sound. ‘A most unexceptionable evidence!’
cried Don Quixote; ‘I know that note as well as if I had given it birth;
and, besides, I recognize thy voice, my good Sancho. Wait a little, I
will ride to the duke’s castle, which is hard by, and bring people to
extricate thee from that dungeon into which thou hast been plunged for
thy sins and transgressions.’—‘I entreat your worship to go, for the
love of God! and return speedily; for I cannot bear to be buried here
alive; and, moreover, I am ready to die with fear!’
The knight leaving him accordingly, repaired to the castle, where he
recounted to the duke and duchess the accident which had befallen poor
Sancho, at which they were not a little surprized, though they at once
comprehended how he must have fallen by the correspondence of that
cavern which had been there time out of mind; but they could not
conceive how he should have quitted the government without giving them
notice of his coming. Finally, ropes and cables were provided, together
with a good number of people; and Dapple and Sancho Panza, though not
without a great deal of trouble, were hoisted up from dungeons and
darkness to the chearful light of day. ‘In this manner,’ said a student,
who chanced to be among the spectators, ‘should all bad governors be
dragged from their governments like that poor sinner from the profound
abyss, half dead with hunger, pale with fear, and, as I believe, without
a penny in his pocket.’ Sancho, hearing this observation, replied—‘Eight
or ten days are now elapsed, brother growler, since I assumed the reins
of government in that island, which was committed to my charge; and, in
all that time, I never once had my belly-full, even of dry bread. I have
been persecuted by physicians; my bones have been crushed by the enemy;
but I never had a bribe in view, nor did I ever receive my due. And this
being the case, as it certainly is, methinks, I have not deserved to be
dragged out in this manner; but Man projects in vain, for God doth still
ordain; Heaven knows how meet it is to grant, what every one pretends to
want; Every season has its reason; Let no man presume to think, of this
cup I will not drink; for, Where the stitch we hoped to find, not even a
hook is left behind. God knows my meaning, and that’s enough; I shall
say no more, though perhaps I could speak more plainly.’—‘Be not angry,
Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘and give thyself no concern about what
thou mayest hear, otherwise there will be no end of thy vexation;
console thyself with a good conscience, and let them say what they will;
for it is as impracticable to tye up the tongue of malice, as to erect
barricadoes in the open fields. If a governor resigns his office in good
circumstances, people say he must have been an oppressor and a knave;
and if poverty attends him in his retreat, they set him down as an idiot
and fool.’—‘For this time,’ answered Sancho, ‘I am certain they will
think me more fool than knave.’
Thus discoursing, and surrounded by a number of boys, and other
spectators, they arrived at the castle, where the duke and duchess
waited to receive them in a gallery; but Sancho would not go up stairs,
until he saw Dapple properly accommodated in the stable; for, he
observed, the poor creature had passed the preceding night in very
indifferent lodging. Then he went to pay his respects to his noble
patrons; before whom, falling on his knees—‘According to the good
pleasure of your graces,’ said he, ‘and without any merit on my side, I
went to govern your Island Barataria, which Naked I entered, and naked I
remain; and if I lose nothing, as little I gain. Whether I have governed
righteously or amiss, there are witnesses, who will declare, and say,
whatsoever they think proper, I have explained doubts, and decided
causes, though all the time half dead with hunger, because my fasting
seemed good under Doctor Pedro Positive, native of Snatchaway, the
island and governor’s physician. We were assaulted in the night by the
enemy, who put us all in great jeopardy and consternation; and the
inhabitants of the island said they were delivered, and proved
victorious, by the valour of my invincible arm; but, so may God deal
with them as they speak truth. In a word, I have, during my
administration, considered the cares and obligations that attend the
exercise of power, and found them, by my reckoning, too weighty for my
shoulders; they are neither fit burthens for my back, nor arrows for my
quiver; and, therefore, that the government might not discard me, I have
thought proper to discard the government; and yesterday I left the
island as I found it, with the same streets, houses, and roofs, which
belonged to it when I took possession. I have borrowed of no man, nor
consulted my own private gain or advantage; and, although my intention
was to make some wholesome regulations, I did not put my design in
execution, because I was afraid they would not be observed; and a law
neglected, is the same thing as one that never was enacted.
‘I quitted the island, as I have said, without any other company than
that of Dapple; I fell into a dungeon, through which I groped my way,
until this morning, by the light of the sun, I perceived a passage out
of it, though not so easy but that if Heaven had not sent my master Don
Quixote to my assistance, there I should have remained to the day of
judgment. Here, then, my Lord Duke and Lady Duchess, is your governor
Sancho Panza, who, during the ten days of his administration, has gained
nothing but so much knowledge, that he would not give a farthing to be
governor, not only of an island, but even of the whole world; and in
this opinion, kissing your graces’ feet, and imitating the game of boys,
who cry, “Leap and away,” I take a leap from the government into the
service of my master Don Quixote; for, in short, though with him I eat
my bread in terror and alarm, I at least fill my belly; and so that is
full, I care not whether it be with carrots or partridge.’
Here Sancho concluded his harangue, during which the knight was in
continual apprehension that he would utter a thousand absurdities; but
when he heard it finished with so few, he thanked Heaven in his heart;
while the duke embraced Sancho, and told him he was grieved to the soul
that he had so soon left his government; but he would find means to
invest him with another office in his estate, which would be attended
with less care and more advantage. He was likewise consoled by the
duchess, who gave particular orders about his entertainment, as he
seemed to be sorely bruised, and in a lamentable condition.
Footnote 194:
This was a Moorish princess, for whom her father built a stately
palace near the Tagus, the ruins of which remain to this day.
CHAP. IV.
OF THE DREADFUL AND UNSEEN BATTLE,
FOUGHT BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA,
AND THE LACQUEY TOSILOS,
IN BEHALF OF THE DAUGHTER OF RODRIGUEZ THE DUENNA.
The duke and duchess did not repent of the joke they had executed upon
Sancho Panza, with respect to his government, especially as the steward
arrived the same day, and gave a circumstantial detail of all the words
and actions which he had said and performed during the term of his
administration. In fine, he magnified the assault of the island, and the
terror of Sancho, and described the manner of his departure, from the
account of which they received no small pleasure and satisfaction.
The history afterwards relates, that the day appointed for the combat
arrived; and the duke having again and again instructed his lacquey
Tosilos how to manage Don Quixote, so as to conquer without slaying, or
even wounding the knight, ordered the lances to be divested of their
iron heads, observing to Don Quixote that Christianity, upon which he
valued himself, would not allow him to let the combat be fought with any
risk or danger of his life; and that he hoped the knight would be
satisfied with his granting a field for the lists in his territories, an
indulgence contrary to the decree of the holy council, which prohibits
all such challenges: he therefore desired that the battle might not be
fought to the last extremity. Don Quixote said his excellency might
order the particulars of that affair according to his own pleasure, and
that he would punctually comply with every circumstance of the
disposition.
The dreadful day then being arrived, and the duke having caused a
spacious scaffold to be erected before the courtyard of the castle, for
the accommodation of the judges of the field, and the mother and
daughter, who were plaintiffs in the cause; an infinite number of people
assembled from all the neighbouring towns and villages, to see the
novelty of this battle; for such a combat had never been seen nor heard
of in that country, by either the living or the dead. The first that
entered the lists was the master of the ceremonies, in order to examine
the ground; and he accordingly surveyed the whole field, to see that
there was no deceit, or any thing concealed that might occasion
stumbling or falling; then came the duennas and took their seats, veiled
down to the eyes, and even to the bosom, with demonstrations of
excessive grief. They being seated, Don Quixote presented himself in the
lists; and in a little time appeared the great lacquey Tosilos upon a
mighty steed that shook the very ground, accompanied with a number of
trumpets, his vizor being down, and his whole body stiffened with strong
and shining armour; his horse seemed to be of the Friezland breed, broad
built, and of a flea-bitten colour, with a stone of wool hanging to
every foot. Thus approached the valiant combatant, well instructed by
the duke how to engage the valorous Don Quixote de La Mancha, and
particularly cautioned against taking away the life of his knightly
opponent; for he was warned to avoid the first encounter as he would
shun his own death, which must have been certain had they met full shock
in the midst of their career. This champion, crossing the field, and
riding up to the place where the duennas were seated, began very
earnestly to contemplate the person who claimed him as her husband[195];
while the master of the field, calling to Don Quixote, who had likewise
entered the lists, and kept close to Tosilos, asked the duennas if they
consented to depend upon Don Quixote de La Mancha for the redress of
their grievances; they replied in the affirmative, declaring, at the
same time, that whatever he should do in the affair they would hold as
well done, firm, and sufficient[196]. By this time, the duke and duchess
had placed themselves in a gallery that overlooked the barriers, which
were crouded with an infinite number of people, who came to see the
dreadful and never-beheld encounter; but, before they engaged, it was
stipulated, that if Don Quixote should overcome his antagonist, he, the
said antagonist, should marry the daughter of Donna Rodriguez; but
should victory declare for the defendant, he should be released from the
promise they pretended he had made, without giving any other
satisfaction.
The master of the ceremonies having divided the sun, and stationed each
combatant in his proper post, the drums began to thunder, the sound of
trumpets filled the air, the earth trembled beneath their feet, and the
hearts of the gazing multitude throbbed with suspense and expectation,
some hoping, and others fearing, the good or bad success of the battle.
Finally, Don Quixote, recommending himself with all his heart to our
Lord God, and to the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, waited with impatience
for the precise signal of engaging; while our lacquey, engrossed by far
other sentiments, thought of nothing but what we will now explain. While
he stood gazing at his female enemy, she appeared in his eyes the most
beautiful creature he had ever seen in the whole course of his life, and
the little blind urchin, vulgarly known by the name of Cupid, was
unwilling to lose this opportunity to triumph over a lacqueyan soul, and
register this subject in the list of his atchievements; he, therefore,
approached him fairly and softly, and unperceived let fly an arrow two
yards long, which, entering his left side, transfixed his heart: nor was
it difficult to perform this exploit; for Love is invincible, and makes
his entrance and exit wheresoever he chuses to pass, without being
called to account by any person upon earth—I say, when they gave the
signal for battle, our lacquey’s soul was transported by the beauty of
her, to whom, by this time, he had surrendered his liberty; and
therefore, he was not so much affected by the sound of the trumpet as
his antagonist Don Quixote, whose ears it no sooner saluted, than he
sprang forwards to assault his adversary with all the mettle that
Rozinante could exert; and his good squire Sancho seeing him begin his
career, exclaimed with an audible voice, ‘God be thy guide, thou cream
and flower of knights-errant: God grant thee the victory, seeing thy
cause is the best!’
Although Tosilos saw Don Quixote advancing against him, he did not budge
one step from his station, but called aloud to the field-master, to
whom, when he went up to see what he wanted, he thus addressed himself:
‘Tell me, Signior, is not this combat appointed to determine whether I
shall or shall not marry that lady?’ To this question the other having
replied in the affirmative, ‘Well, then,’ resumed the lacquey, ‘I have a
tender conscience, that would be grievously burdened should I proceed in
this quarrel; and, therefore, I own myself vanquished, and will
forthwith take the lady to wife.’ The field-master was surprized at this
declaration of Tosilos; and, being in the secret of the plan, knew not
what answer to make; while Don Quixote, perceiving his enemy did not
come on to the assault, checked Rozinante in the middle of his career.
The duke, being ignorant of the cause that retarded the battle, was by
the field-master, informed of what Tosilos had said, at which he was
extremely surprized and incensed; whereas, Tosilos, in the mean time,
rode up towards the place where Donna Rodriguez was seated, and
pronounced with a loud voice, ‘Madam, as I am willing to marry your
daughter, there is no occasion to seek that by disputes and contention
which I may obtain peaceably without the danger of death.’ The valiant
Don Quixote hearing this address, ‘Since that is the case,’ said he, ‘I
am released and acquitted of my promise; let them marry a-God’s name,
and as our Lord bestows the bride, may St. Peter bless the nuptials!’
The duke descending into the court-yard of the castle, and advancing to
Tosilos, ‘Knight,’ said he, ‘is it true, that you own yourself
vanquished, and that, instigated by your timorous conscience, you
consent to marry this damsel?’ When he answered, ‘Yes, my lord.’—‘He is
very much in the right,’ cried Sancho: ‘Give always to the cat what was
kept for the rat; and, Let it still be thy view all mischief to eschew.’
As for Tosilos, he began to unlace his helmet, and earnestly begged that
somebody would come to his assistance; for his breath was almost gone,
and he could not bear to be confined so long in such a narrow lodging.
People accordingly ran to his relief; and his head being uncased, Donna
Rodriguez discovered the individual countenance of our lacquey, which
the daughter no sooner beheld than she cried aloud, ‘A cheat! a cheat!
My Lord Duke has palmed his lacquey upon us, in lieu of my lawful
husband: I demand justice of God and the king, for this malicious, not
to call it knavish contrivance.’
‘Ladies,’ said Don Quixote, ‘give yourselves no concern; there is
neither malice nor knavery in the case; or if there is, it cannot be
occasioned by the duke, but by those wicked inchanters who persecute me
without ceasing: envious of the glory I should have acquired in this
atchievement, they have metamorphosed your husband’s face into the
aspect of this man, who, you say, is the duke’s lacquey. Take my advice,
therefore, maugre the malice of mine enemies, bestow your hand upon him;
for, without all doubt, he is the very person whom you desire to obtain
as an husband.’
The duke, overhearing this admonition, had well-nigh vented all his
indignation in laughter, saying, ‘The adventures that happen to Signior
Don Quixote are so extraordinary, that I am apt to believe this is not
really my lacquey; but, let us make use of this expedient and stratagem:
we will, if it be agreeable, delay the marriage a fortnight, and confine
this person, of whom we are doubtful, and in that time perhaps he will
retrieve his former figure; for surely the rancour of those wicked
inchanters, who hate Don Quixote, cannot last so long; especially as
such delusions and transformations avail them so little.’—‘O my lord!’
cried Sancho, ‘those banditti have been long accustomed to chop, change,
and transmography every thing that belongs to my master; some time ago
he vanquished an errant, called the Knight of the Mirrours, and in a
twinkling they transformed him into the figure of the batchelor Sampson
Carrasco, a townsman and great friend of ours; as for my Lady Dulcinea
del Toboso, they have changed her into a homely country wench; and,
therefore, I take it for granted that this man will die and live a
lacquey all the days of his life.’
Here the daughter of Donna Rodriguez interposing, ‘Be he who he will,’
said she, ‘I am obliged to him for asking me in marriage: and I would
rather be the lawful wife of a lacquey, than the deluded mistress of a
gentleman; although he who deluded me has no pretensions to that title.’
In fine, all these incidents and explanations ended in the resolution to
confine Tosilos, until they should see the issue of his transformation;
while, with unusual acclamation, the victory was adjudged to Don
Quixote; though the greatest part of the spectators seemed melancholy
and disappointed, because they had not seen two such hopeful combatants
hew one another in pieces: in the same manner as the boys are out of
humour, when the execution is prevented by the malefactor’s being
pardoned, either by the party or the king.
The crowd dispersed, the duke and Don Quixote returned to the castle,
Tosilos was sent to prison; Donna Rodriguez and her daughter rejoiced
exceedingly, when they saw, that one way or another, this affair would
end in marriage, and the lover consoled himself with the same prospect.
Footnote 195:
A critick inclined to enumerate the inadvertencies of Cervantes, might
observe that Sancho pulled a piece of bread out of his wallet and gave
it to Dapple, after he had given the contents of the said wallet to
the pilgrims; that he tells the duke and duchess he had governed ten
days, whereas he had continued but seven days in office; and, lastly,
that Tosilos contemplated the beauties of the damsel, though we are
previously told that she was veiled down to the bosom.
Footnote 196:
In the romance of Gerard de Nevers we read, that a certain young lady,
perceiving the eagerness with which that knight undertook her defence,
pulled the glove from her left-hand, and presented it to him, saying,
‘Sir Knight, my body, life, lands, and honour, I commit to the
protection of God and you, to whom I pray he may grant grace to obtain
the victory, and deliver us from the danger in which we are now
involved.’
CHAP. V.
GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF THE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE
TOOK LEAVE OF THE DUKE;
AND OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN HIM
AND THE GAY AND WITTY ALTISIDORA, ONE OF THE DUCHESS’S DAMSELS.
By this time Don Quixote thought he would do well to quit that idle way
of life which he led in the castle; for he imagined himself much to
blame in living thus buried and inactive among those infinite dainties
and entertainments with which he, as a knight-errant, was indulged by
that noble pair; and he concluded that he would be obliged to give a
severe account to Heaven of this idleness and sequestration. He,
therefore, one day, begged leave of the duke and duchess to depart; and
they granted his request, with marks of being extremely grieved at his
intention. The duchess delivered to Sancho Panza his wife’s letter, and
the good squire wept bitterly when he understood the contents; saying,
‘Who could have thought such mighty hopes as were engendered in the
breast of my wife Teresa Panza, by the news of my government, would
vanish in my returning again to the woeful adventures of my master Don
Quixote de La Mancha? Nevertheless, I am pleased to find that my Teresa
behaved like herself, in sending the acorns to the duchess; for had she
failed in that particular, I should have been sorely vexed, and she
would have shewn herself ungrateful: what comforts my poor heart is,
that they cannot call this present a bribe; for I was actually in
possession of the government before the acorns were sent: and it is but
reasonable, that folks who receive any sort of benefit should shew their
gratitude, even though in trifles. In effect, naked I took possession of
the government, and naked I resigned my office; therefore, I may say
with a safe conscience, which is no small boast, I naked was born, and
naked remain; and if I lose nothing, as little I gain.’
This conference Sancho held with his own bosom on the day of their
departure: as for Don Quixote, having taken leave of their graces
over-night, he in the morning presented himself armed in the court-yard
of the castle, where he furnished a spectacle to all the people of the
family, not even excepting the duke and duchess, who viewed him from the
gallery. Sancho was mounted upon Dapple, extremely well pleased with the
contents of his bags, wallet, or store; for the duke’s steward, who
acted the part of the Countess Trifaldi, had given him a small purse of
two hundred crowns, to answer the emergencies of the road: but of this
supply Don Quixote was ignorant. While every individual, as we have
said, stood gazing at the knight, all of a sudden, from among the other
duennas and damsels of the duchess, the gay and witty Altisidora,
raising her voice, pronounced what follows, in a lamentable tone.
‘Ah! hear my plaint, unlucky knight,
Pull in thy rein, and do me right;
And pr’ythee spare, at my request,
The flanks of that poor batter’d beast.
Consider she whose heart’s at stake,
False man! is not a scaly snake;
But a young lambkin, meek and true,
Just wean’d from teat of mother ewe.
Say, monster, why undo a maid
More beautiful than ever stray’d
With Cynthia, huntress of the wood,
Or Venus, native of the flood?
But Æneas-like thou mean’st to fly,
The death of Barrabas may Quixote die!
‘Thou, robber! in thy claws hast got
The heart and bowels, and what not,
Of a weak virgin, Heav’n befriend her!
Mild, humble, timorous, and tender.
Three linen night-caps hast thou stole,
And silken garters strong and whole,
That to these legs did appertain;
These legs, as marble smooth and clean.
Thou carriest off two thousand sighs,
Which, kindled by thy beaming eyes,
Would in a twinkling quite destroy
Two thousand cities great as Troy.
But if Æneas-like thou mean’st to fly,
The death of Barrabas may Quixote die!
‘May Sancho’s buttocks, and his heart,
Ne’er feel the ignominious smart
Prescrib’d, when he is pleas’d and ready
To disinchant thy fav’rite lady!
Since thine’s the offence, and thine the blame,
Endure the punishment and shame
Which in my country, once a year,
The righteous for the wicked bear.
Be thy adventures (small and great)
Inglorious and unfortunate;
Like dreams may all thy pleasures fade,
Thy constancy oblivion shade;
And if Æneas-like thou mean’st to fly,
The death of Barrabas may Quixote die!
‘May’st thou be deem’d a perjur’d devil,
E’en from Marchena unto Seville;
From Loja to Granada hated,
From London Tow’r to England baited.
At drafts should’st thou attempt to play,
Or waste at ombre all the day,
May no crown’d monarch or spadille
Attend the efforts of thy skill;
When angry corn disturbs thy toe,
May blood at ev’ry paring flow;
And of each tooth the barbers draw,
The stump still fester in thy jaw:
Nay, since Æneaslike thou mean’st to fly,
The death of Barrabas may Quixote die!’
While the afflicted Altisidora complained in these strains, Don Quixote
surveyed her attentively; and, without answering a word to her
lamentation, turned to Sancho, saying, ‘By the age of thine ancestors,
my dear Sancho, I conjure thee to tell me the truth: say, hast thou
actually got the three caps and the garters, which this enamoured damsel
mentions?’ To this question the squire replied, ‘The three caps I have;
but as to the garters, I know nothing of the matter.’
The duchess was surprized at the freedom of Altisidora’s behaviour; for,
although she knew her to be forward, merry, and frank, she did not think
the girl possessed of assurance enough to attempt a scheme of this
nature; and her admiration was the greater, as she had not been
previously apprized of the intended joke. The duke, however, in order to
reinforce the jest, addressed himself to Don Quixote in these words: ‘It
does not look well, Sir Knight, that you who have met with such
honourable reception and treatment in this my castle, should presume to
carry off by stealth three knight-caps, at least, if not a pair of
garters likewise, belonging to my damsel: these are marks of a bad
heart, and but ill agree with your reputation. Restore the garters to
the right owner; otherwise, I challenge you to mortal combat, without
any apprehension that knavish inchanters will transform or change my
face, as they have practised upon my lacquey Tosilos, your last
antagonist.’
‘God forbid,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘that I should unsheath my sword
against your illustrious person, of whom I received such favours! The
three night-caps shall be restored; for Sancho owns they are in his
custody: but it is impossible to make restitution of the garters, as
neither he nor I did ever receive them; and I dare say your damsel will
find them, if she will take the trouble to rummage her own drawers. I,
my lord duke, was never a thief, and I hope never shall in the whole
course of my lite, provided God will not withdraw from me his guiding
hand. The damsel, according to her own declaration, talks like an
enamoured person; but surely I am not to blame for her impertinence:
and, therefore, I have no reason to ask pardon either of her or your
excellency, whom I entreat to look upon me with more favourable
sentiments, and beseech anew to consent that I may prosecute my
journey.’—‘God grant your departure may be so happy,’ said the duchess,
‘that we may always hear good news of Don Quixote’s exploits. Go, then,
a God’s name; for the longer you stay, your presence blows up the fire
the more fiercely in the bosoms of the damsels who behold you: as for
mine, I will chastise her in such a manner, that from henceforward she
shall never transgress either in word or deed.’—‘One word more, however,
I beg thou wilt hear me speak, O valiant Don Quixote!’ said Altisidora.
‘I crave pardon for having taxed you with the garters; for, as I shall
answer to Heaven and my own conscience, they are now upon my legs; and I
have been guilty of a mistake, like the man who went in search of his
ass, while he was mounted on his back.’—‘Did not I tell you so?’ cried
the squire: ‘I should be a rare fellow indeed, to receive and conceal
stolen goods; had I been that way inclined, I might have had opportunity
enough in my government.’
Don Quixote bowing his head, made a profound reverence to the duke and
duchess, and all the spectators; then turning Rozinante, and being
followed by Sancho upon Dapple, he set out from the castle, directing
his course to Saragossa.
CHAP. VI.
SHEWING HOW ADVENTURES THRONGED UPON DON QUIXOTE
SO THICK AS TO ENTANGLE ONE ANOTHER.
When Don Quixote found himself in the open field, free and
disembarrassed from the complaints of Altisidora, he seemed to be placed
in the very center of his own wish, and to enjoy a renovation of
spirits, in order to prosecute anew the aim of his chivalry. Turning,
therefore, to his squire, ‘Sancho,’ said he, ‘liberty is one of the most
precious gifts which Heaven hath bestowed on man, exceeding all the
treasures which earth encloses, or which ocean hides; and for this
blessing, as well as for honour, we may and ought to venture life
itself: on the other hand, captivity and restraint are the greatest
evils that human nature can endure. I make this observation, Sancho,
because thou hast seen the delicacies and the plenty with which we were
entertained in that castle: yet, in the midst of those savoury banquets,
and ice-cooled potations, I thought myself confined within the very
straits of famine, because I did not enjoy the treat with that liberty
which I should have felt, had it been my own; for obligations incurred
by benefits and favours received, are fetters which hamper the freeborn
soul. Happy is he to whom Heaven hath sent a morsel of bread, for which
he is obliged to none but Heaven itself.’
‘But notwithstanding all that your worship hath said,’ replied Sancho,
‘we, for our parts, ought not to be ungrateful, considering the two
hundred crowns of gold which the duke’s steward gave me in a purse, and
which, as a plaister and a cordial, I keep next my heart, in case of
emergency; for we shall not always find such castles where we can be
entertained; on the contrary, we may sometimes stumble upon sorry inns,
where we shall be soundly cudgelled.’
With this and other such discourse, the two errants, knight and squire,
amused themselves while they proceeded on their journey. Having
travelled a little more than a league, they perceived upon a green spot
of ground, about a dozen countrymen at dinner, with their cloaks spread
under them; and hard by, certain white sheets at some distance from one
another, that seemed to cover something, above which they were raised up
and stretched with great care and caution. Don Quixote approaching the
men, first of all saluted them courteously, and then asked what it was
they covered so carefully with these pieces of linen. ‘Signior,’ replied
one of the countrymen, ‘under these sheets are carved images for an
altar-piece to be set up in our town; we cover them in this manner, that
they may not be sullied, and carry them upon our shoulders that they may
not be broken.’—‘If you please,’ replied the knight, ‘I should be glad
to see them; they must certainly be good images, which you so carefully
convey.’—‘Good!’ cried the other, ‘aye, that the price of them will
declare: I can assure you there is not one of them that does not cost
above fifty ducats; and that your worship may be convinced of the truth
of what I say, stay a moment, and you shall see it with your own eyes.’
So saying, he left his dinner, and rising up, uncovered the first piece,
which represented St. George on horseback, with his lance thrust into
the throat of a serpent coiled at his feet, exhibiting all the
fierceness with which that animal is usually painted; and the whole
groupe looked, as the saying is, like a flame of gold.
Don Quixote, immediately recognizing the subject, ‘This knight,’ said
he, ‘was one of the best errants that ever signalized themselves in
divine warfare; his name was St. George, and he was, moreover, a
protector of damsels. Let us see the next;’ which, when displayed,
appeared to be the image of St. Martin on horseback, dividing his cloak
with the beggar. Don Quixote no sooner beheld it, than he said to
Sancho, ‘This knight was also one of the Christian adventurers, and, I
believe, more liberal than valiant, as thou mayest perceive by this
circumstance of dividing his cloak, and giving one half to the beggar;
and, doubtless, this incident must have happened in the winter season,
otherwise the saint was so charitable he would have given the
whole.’—‘Nay, that surely was not the case,’ replied the squire; ‘but he
held fast by the old proverb, which says, The man in wisdom must be old,
who knows in giving where to hold.’
Don Quixote smiled at this remark, and desired the man to lift the third
cover, under which appeared the figure of the patron of Spain on
horseback, with his bloody sword, trampling down and bruising the heads
of the Moors. Don Quixote seeing this representation, exclaimed, ‘Ah!
this is a knight, and chief in the squadrons of Christ; his name is Don
San Diego Mata Moros[197], and he was one of the most valiant saints and
knights which earth ever produced, or heaven now contains.’ Then they
unveiled the fourth, which exhibited St. Paul falling from his horse,
with all the circumstances usually set forth in the picture of his
conversion, so lively represented, that one would have almost thought
Christ was speaking, and Paul answering the voice. ‘This,’ said Don
Quixote, ‘was the most bitter enemy the church of God ever had, while
our Lord and Saviour was on earth, and afterwards the greatest defender
it will ever have: a knight-errant in his life, and a perfect saint in
his death; an unwearied labourer in the vineyard of our Lord, a teacher
of the Gentiles, schooled by Heaven, and whose professor and master was
Jesus Christ himself.’
There being no other images to see, Don Quixote desired the man to cover
up those he had examined; and addressing himself to the bearers,
‘Brothers,’ said he, ‘I look upon it as a good omen to have met with
these images; for these saints and knights were of my profession, which
is the exercise of arms: with this difference, however, they were
saints, and fought in a divine manner; and I, who am a sinner, fight in
the manner of men. They conquered Heaven by the force of their arms; for
the kingdom of Heaven suffers violence; whereas I know not, hitherto,
what I have conquered by the toils and troubles I have undergone: but if
my Dulcinea del Toboso should be delivered from those she now sustains,
my fortune will be bettered, my judgment repaired, and perhaps my steps
may be directed through a better path than that which I at present
follow.’
This declaration was closed with an exclamation of Sancho, who cried
aloud, ‘The Lord give ear, I pray; and sin be deaf for aye!’ The men
were equally astonished at the knight’s appearance and discourse, one
half of which they did not understand; nevertheless, they made an end of
their meal, shouldered their images, and taking leave of Don Quixote,
pursued their journey. Sancho was, on this occasion, as much astonished
at the learning of his master, as if he had never known him before that
day; and imagined there was not an history or event in the whole world,
that was not decyphered on his nail, or nailed to his memory. ‘Truly,
master of mine,’ said he, ‘if what has happened to us to-day may be
called an adventure, it is the most sweet and delicious of all that have
yet befallen us in the whole course of our peregrinations; from this we
have escaped with whole skins and fearless hearts; we have neither
unsheathed our swords, battered the earth with our poor carcases, nor
are we left in a starving condition; blessed be God who hath spared me
to see this good luck with my own eyes!’—‘Thou sayest well, Sancho,’
replied the knight; ‘but thou must take notice, that all times are not
the same, nor equally fortunate; and those incidents which the vulgar
call omens, though not founded on any natural reason, have, even by
persons of sagacity, been held and deemed as fair and fortunate. One of
these superstitious omen-mongers rises in the morning, goes abroad,
chances to meet a friar belonging to the beatified St. Francis; and, as
if he had encountered a dragon in his way, runs back to his own house
with fear and consternation. Another Foresight[198] by accident scatters
the salt upon the table, by which fear and melancholy are scattered
through his heart; as if nature was obliged to foretel future
misfortunes by such trivial signs and tokens; whereas, a prudent man and
a good Christian will not so minutely scrutinize the purposes of Heaven.
Scipio chancing to fall in landing upon the coast of Africk, and
perceiving that his soldiers looked upon this accident as a bad omen, he
embraced the soil with seeming eagerness, saying, “Thou shalt not ’scape
me, Africk; for I have thee safe within my arms.” Therefore, Sancho, my
meeting with those images I consider as a most happy encounter.’—‘I am
of the same opinion,’ answered the squire; ‘but I wish your worship
would be pleased to tell me, for what reason the Spaniards, when they
join battle, and invoke that same St. Diego Mata Moros, cry, “St. Jago!”
and “Close, Spain!” Is Spain cloven in such a manner, as to want
closing; or what is the meaning of that ceremony?’—‘Sancho,’ replied the
knight, ‘thy simplicity is very great. You must know, that God has given
this great Knight of the Red Cross, as a patron and protector to Spain,
especially in those dreadful battles fought against the Moors. The
Spaniards, therefore, invoke and call upon him as their defender on all
such occasions; nay, many times hath he been seen overthrowing,
trampling, slaying, and destroying the squadrons of the children of
Hagar[199]; and of this truth I could convince thee by many examples
recorded in the authentick histories of Spain[200].’
Sancho changing the subject of conversation, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘I was
astonished at the boldness of her grace’s damsel, Altisidora. I’faith!
she must be rarely pricked and stabbed by him they call Cupid; who, they
say, is a mischievous blind boy, and is able, with those bleared eyes of
his, or rather with no eyes at all, if once he takes aim, to pierce
through and through with his arrows, the smallest heart that ever was
seen. I have also heard it observed, that by the modesty and reserve of
young women, these same amorous shafts are blunted and broken; but in
Altisidora they seem rather to be whetted than blunted.’—‘Sancho,’
replied Don Quixote, ‘you must know that love has no respect of persons;
nor, in his progress, does he confine himself within the bounds of
reason; indeed he is of the same disposition with death; for he assaults
the lofty palaces of kings, as well as the humble cottages of swains.
When he once has taken full possession of the soul, his first exploit is
to expel fear and modesty; and without these did Altisidora declare her
passion, which engendered not pity, but confusion in my breast.’—‘O
monstrous and notorious cruelty!’ cried Sancho, ‘unheard-of ingratitude!
I can say for myself, that the least kind word from her would have
subdued and made me her bond slave. Ah, the son of a whore! what a heart
of marble, bowels of brass, and soul of plaister!—But I cannot, for the
blood of me, conceive what the damsel could see in your worship, to tame
and bring her to such an humble pass; what finery, what good humour,
what gentility could she observe about your person? or what beauty could
she spy in that face? for women are taken with these qualities either
severally or conjunctly. Verily, verily, I have often stopped to survey
your worship from the sole of your foot to the last hair upon your
scull; and I protest before God! I think you would be more apt to
frighten than to captivate a fair lady; and as I have, moreover, heard
it said, that beauty is the chief and principal article that inspires
love, your worship being quite destitute of that commodity, I cannot
imagine what the poor creature was in love with.’—‘Take notice, Sancho,’
replied Don Quixote, ‘there are two kinds of beauty, one of the mind,
and another of the body: that of the mind displays itself in the
understanding, in honourable and virtuous behaviour, in a liberality of
disposition, and in good breeding; now, all these qualifications may
center in an ugly man; and when this kind of beauty, preferable to that
of the body, is the object of admiration, it produces love that glows
with equal impetuosity and advantage. For my own part, Sancho, I can
easily see that I am not beautiful; but I likewise know I am not
deformed; and a gentleman who is not altogether monstrous, may inspire
the most ardent love, provided he is in possession of those qualities of
the mind which I have mentioned.’
Thus discoursing together they entered a wood, at a small distance from
the highway; and, all of a sudden, without dreaming of any such lett or
impediment, Don Quixote found himself entangled among some nets of green
thread, which were spread and stretched from tree to tree. As he could
not conceive the meaning of this phænomenon, ‘I believe,’ said he to
Sancho, ‘that this of the nets must be one of the newest adventures that
ever were imagined or contrived. Let me die if the inchanters by whom I
am persecuted, have not a mind to entangle me in them, and obstruct my
journey, in revenge for my rigour and indifference towards Altisidora!
But I shall give them to understand, that although these nets, instead
of thread, were made of the hardest adamant, and stronger than that in
which the jealous God of blacksmiths caught Mars and Venus together, I
would break through them as easily as if they were of rushes and unspun
cotton.’
[Illustration: Don Quixote and the Shepherdesses.]
So saying, he endeavoured to proceed and destroy this obstacle, when all
at once, from a tuft of trees, came forth two most beautiful
shepherdesses, at least they were clad like shepherdesses, though their
jackets and petticoats were of fine brocade—I say, their petticoats were
of the richest gold tabby; their hair hung loose upon their shoulders,
and in shining might have vied with the rays of Apollo himself; their
heads were adorned with garlands of green laurel, interwoven with sprigs
of red amaranth; and their age seemed to be neither under fifteen, nor
turned of eighteen; a sight that struck Sancho with admiration, the
knight with surprize, and suspended the sun in the middle of his career.
All the four, for some time, remained in silent wonder; and at length,
the first who spoke was one of the two country maidens, who, addressing
herself to Don Quixote, ‘Forbear, Sir Knight,’ said she, ‘and do not
break our nets, which, I assure you, were not spread for your
inconvenience, but merely for our own pastime: and because I know you
will ask for what reason they are placed, and who we are, I will satisfy
your curiosity in a few words. At a village about two leagues from
hence, which is inhabited by many people of fortune and fashion, it was
agreed among a number of friends and relations, that they, their wives,
sons, daughters, neighbours, friends and kinsfolks, should come and
enjoy the fine season in this spot, which is the most agreeable
situation in all this country; and here form a new pastoral Arcadia, the
girls being habited like shepherdesses, and the young men like swains.
We have studied two eclogues; one of the famous poet Garcilasso, and
another of the most excellent Camoens, in his own Portuguese language;
though they are not yet represented, for we arrived only yesterday.
Among these trees we have pitched some field-tents, upon the banks of a
plentiful stream which fertilizes all these meadows; and last night we
spread these nets from tree to tree, in order to deceive and catch the
simple little birds, which, frightened by the noise we make, may fly
into the snare: if you chuse to be our guest, Signior, you shall be
treated liberally and courteously, for at present neither melancholy nor
disgust shall enter this place.’
Here she left off speaking; and Don Quixote replied—‘Assuredly, most
beauteous nymph, Acteon himself could not be seized with more surprize
and admiration, when he all of a sudden beheld Diana bathing, than that
which but now overwhelmed me at sight of such uncommon charms! I applaud
the scheme of your entertainments and diversions; I thank you heartily
for your courteous proffer, and if I can serve you in any shape, you may
command me, with full assurance of being obeyed; for I have chosen this
profession solely because it consists in being grateful and benevolent
to all mankind, especially to persons of rank such as your appearance
declares you to be; and if these nets, which I suppose occupy but a
small space, were extended over the whole circumference of the globe, I
would find new worlds through which I might pass, rather than by
breaking the least mesh, run the risque of interrupting your diversion.
That you may give some credit to this exaggeration, be pleased to take
notice, that he who makes it is no other than Don Quixote de La Mancha,
if peradventure such a name hath ever reached your ears.’
The young lady no sooner heard these words, than turning to the other
shepherdess, ‘O my dear companion!’ cried she, ‘what an happy incident
is this! that there knight, I assure thee, is the most valiant,
enamoured, and courteous person in the whole world, if we are not misled
and deceived by the printed history of his exploits, which I have read
from end to end; and I’ll lay a wager that honest man who accompanies
him is one Sancho Panza, his squire, whose pleasantry is above all
comparison.’—‘You are in the right,’ said Sancho; ‘I am that same
pleasant fellow and loyal squire whom your ladyship hath so honourably
mentioned; and that gentleman is my master, the very individual
historified and aforesaid Don Quixote de La Mancha.’
‘Good now, my dear,’ said the other, ‘let us beseech them to stay; our
fathers and brothers will be infinitely pleased with their conversation;
for I have likewise heard the same account of the knight’s valour and
the squire’s pleasantry: as for Don Quixote, in particular, he is said
to be the most constant and loyal lover that ever was known; and that
his mistress is one Dulcinea del Toboso, who bears away the palm of
beauty from all the ladies in Spain.’—‘Aye, and justly too,’ said the
knight; ‘unless your unequalled beauty should invalidate her claim.
Weary not yourselves, fair ladies, in persuading me to stay; for the
indispensible duties of my profession will not allow me to rest in any
place whatever.’
Just as he pronounced these words, they were joined by a brother of one
of the two nymphs, clad likewise in the fashion of a shepherd, though
his dress, in point of richness and gaiety, corresponded with that of
the ladies, who told him that the gentleman on horseback was the valiant
Don Quixote de La Mancha, and the other his squire Sancho, whose
characters he already knew from his having perused their history. The
gallant youth paid his compliments, and pressed Don Quixote to accompany
them to the tents, in such a manner that he could not help complying.
Then setting up the shout, the nets were filled with different kinds of
little birds, which, deceived by the colour of the meshes, flew
precipitately into the very danger they sought to avoid.
In this place they were joined by above thirty persons, gaily clad like
shepherds and shepherdesses, who were immediately informed of the names
of Don Quixote and his squire; a circumstance which afforded them no
small satisfaction, as the history had already made them acquainted with
the characters of both.
Repairing to the tents, where they found tables ready furnished with
elegance and abundance, they complimented the knight with the place of
honour, and all the company gazed upon him with admiration. At length,
when the cloth was taken away, Don Quixote raising his voice, thus
harangued them with great solemnity: ‘Of all the crimes which mankind
commit, though some say pride is the greatest, I affirm that ingratitude
is the most atrocious, adhering to the common supposition, that hell is
crouded with the ungrateful. This crime I have, as much as in me lies,
endeavoured to avoid ever since the first moment in which I could
exercise my reason; and though I may not be able to repay in kind the
benefits which I receive, I substitute the will for the deed: when that
is not sufficient, I publish them to the world; for he that promulgates
the favours he has received, would also requite them with equal
generosity, if it was in his power to make such recompence. But, for the
most part, people who receive benefits are inferior to those who bestow
them; and, therefore, God is above all, because he is the fountain of
all good things. Yet there is an infinite difference between the
benefits conferred by men and those bestowed by God, so as to reject all
comparison; and this narrowness and insufficiency on our part, is in
some measure supplied by gratitude. Now, I being grateful for the
favours you have done me, which I cannot repay in the same measure, and
being hampered by the narrow limits of my ability, must offer that which
is in my power to present; I say, therefore, that I will for two natural
days, in the middle of that high-road that leads to Saragossa, maintain
that the ladies here present, disguised in pastoral habits, are the most
fair and courteous damsels in the whole world, excepting always and
only, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, sole mistress of my thoughts;
without offence to the honourable hearers be it spoken.’
Here Sancho, who had stood listening attentively to what he said,
exclaimed with great vociferation, ‘Is it possible, now, that there can
be persons in the world, who have the presumption to say and swear that
my master is a madman? Pray tell me, gentlemen and ladies, shepherds and
shepherdesses, is there ever a country-curate in Spain, let him be never
so wise and learned, that could say what my master has just now said; or
is there a knight-errant, let him be never so famed for valour, who
could make such an offer as my master has made!’
Don Quixote turning to Sancho, with rage and indignation in his
countenance, ‘Miscreant,’ said he, ‘is it possible there should be a
person upon earth who would not say thou art stark mad, and that thy
soul is lined and bordered with fillets of malice and knavery? By what
authority, wretch! art thou entitled to intermeddle in my affairs, and
give thy opinion whether my brain be sound or crazy? Seal up thy lips,
and make no reply; but saddle Rozinante, if he is without his saddle,
and let us go immediately and perform my promise; for as I have justice
on my side, you may deem all those who shall contradict my assertion as
already vanquished.’
So saying, he rose from his seat with great fury and demonstrations of
wrath, leaving the whole company astonished, and doubting whether they
should consider him as a lunatick or person of sound intellects.
However, they endeavoured to dissuade him from publishing such a
declaration, saying they took his gratitude for granted, and that there
was no need of new proofs to demonstrate his valour, seeing those were
sufficient which they had seen recorded in the history of his
atchievements.
Notwithstanding this remonstrance, the knight executed his design; he
mounted Rozinante, embraced his shield, and grasping his lance, posted
himself in the middle of the king’s highway, which was not far from
their verdant habitation, being followed by Sancho upon Dapple and the
whole flock of those pastoral gentry, who were curious to see the issue
of his arrogant and hitherto unseen enterprize.
Having taken possession of the ground, he wounded the very vault of
heaven with the loudness of the tone in which he pronounced these words:
‘O ye passengers and travellers, knights, squires, persons on horseback
or a-foot, who come or are to come this way, within the space of two
days, from this present hour, know that Don Quixote de La Mancha,
knight-errant, is here posted to maintain that the nymphs who inhabit
these meadows and woods, excel in beauty and courtesy all the ladies
upon earth, exclusive of Dulcinea del Toboso, the mistress of my soul.
Let him who thinks the contrary, advance; here I am ready to receive
him.’
Twice did he repeat this declaration, and twice was it repeated unheard
by any knight adventurer; but fortune, which was bent upon directing his
affairs to better purpose, ordained, that in a very little time he
descried upon the road a great number of men on horseback, some of them
armed with lances riding towards him in great haste, and all in a
cluster. Those who were with Don Quixote no sooner perceived this troop,
than they turned their backs and retired a good way from the road,
knowing that some mischief would befal them, should they keep their
ground: the knight alone maintained his post with an undaunted heart,
and Sancho Panza shielded himself with the flanks of Rozinante.
When this troop of lancemen advanced, one of them that rode before the
rest, began to halloo as loud as he could cry to Don Quixote, ‘Get out
of the way, thou servant of the devil, or these bulls will trample thee
to dust!’—‘So ho, caitiffs!’ replied the knight; ‘your bulls shall not
avail against me, even though they are the fiercest that ever fed upon
the banks of Xarama; confess, ye miscreants, unsight, unseen, the truth
of what I have proclaimed, or meet my vengeance in the field of battle.’
The herdsman had no time to reply, nor Don Quixote to retire, had he
been never so willing; so that the drove of wild bulls and tame cattle,
together with a multitude of drivers and other people employed to convey
them to a place where, in a few days, they were to be baited—the whole
throng, I say, passed over the bellies of Don Quixote, Sancho,
Rozinante, and Dapple, whom they in a twinkling overthrew and rolled in
the mire, in such a manner that the squire was squeezed as flat as a
pancake, his master astonished, Dapple terribly bruised, and Rozinante
in no very catholick condition. At length, however, all the four got
upon their legs; and Don Quixote, staggering here, and tumbling there,
began to pursue the drove on foot, calling aloud—‘Halt, and wait a
little, ye felonious plebeians; he is a single knight who defies you to
the combat, and not of the disposition and opinion of those who say—“Lay
a bridge of silver for a flying enemy.”’
But notwithstanding all his exclamation, the drovers did not slacken
their pace, or mind his threats, more than they minded last year’s
weather. Don Quixote being so tired, that he could run no farther, sat
down upon the side of the road, more incensed than revenged, and waited
for Sancho, Rozinante, and Dapple, who soon arrived. Then the knight and
squire, mounting their beasts, proceeded on their journey with more
shame than satisfaction; and never dreamed of returning to take a formal
leave of the feigned or counterfeit Arcadia.
Footnote 197:
Moor-killer.
Footnote 198:
The original word is Mendoza, the name of a great family in Spain, one
of whom was remarkably superstitious.
Footnote 199:
The Moors are said to be descended from Hagar.
Footnote 200:
Sancho must have been very simple indeed, to be satisfied with this
explanation, which does not even hint at the main point of his
question; namely, Why do the Spanish soldiers, when they charge their
enemy, cry, ‘Close, Spain?’ A phrase of encouragement, by which the
soldiers exhort one another to do their duty, and close with the foe.
CHAP. VII.
IN WHICH IS RECOUNTED THE EXTRAORDINARY INCIDENT
THAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE,
AND MAY WELL PASS FOR AN ADVENTURE.
The dust and drought which Don Quixote and Sancho derived from the
uncivil behaviour of the bulls, were remedied by a clear and limpid
stream which they had the good fortune to find in a good shade, and on
the margin of which this down-trodden pair, the master and man, seated
themselves, after Rozinante and Dapple were unbridled, and unhaltered,
and left to the freedom of their own will. Sancho immediately had
recourse to the store of his wallet, from which he drew forth what he
usually called his belly-timber; but not before he had rinsed his mouth,
and his master had washed his own face, in consequence of which
refreshment they recovered their exhausted spirits. Nevertheless, Don
Quixote forbore eating, out of pure vexation; while Sancho, who durst
not touch the food that was before him, waited, out of pure good
manners, until his master should begin. Seeing, however, the knight so
absorbed in his own imagination, that he forgot to lift the bread to his
mouth, he, without letting one word escape his own, but trampling
under-foot all kind of good-breeding, began to cram his paunch with the
bread and cheese which constituted his provision. ‘Eat, friend Sancho,’
said Don Quixote, ‘and support life, which is of more importance to thee
than to me, and leave me to die by the strength of imagination and the
severity of my misfortunes. I, Sancho, was born to live dying, and thou
to die eating; and that thou mayest be convinced of this truth, consider
me recorded in history, renowned in arms, courteous in demeanour,
respected by princes, courted by damsels; and, after all, when I
expected palms, triumphs, crowns of laurel, obtained and merited by my
valiant atchievements, I have this morning seen myself trampled,
spurned, and bruised, by the feet of filthy, unclean animals! This
consideration blunts my teeth, stupifies my grinders, benumbs my hands,
and deprives me wholly of appetite; so that I believe I shall die of
hunger, the most cruel of all deaths.’—‘At that rate,’ answered the
squire, without suspending the action of his jaws, ‘your worship will
not approve of the proverb which says—“Let Martha die, but not for lack
of pye.” At least I, for my own part, have no intention to starve
myself; on the contrary, I am resolved to follow the example of the
cordwainer who stretches the leather with his teeth until it is
sufficient for his purpose; now, I will also employ my teeth in
stretching out my life with eating, to that end which is ordained by
Heaven; and you must know, Signior, that it is the greatest madness in
nature to seek to despair like your worship. Take my advice; eat a
little for refreshment, and then take a nap upon the green couch of this
delightful grass, and when you awake you will see how much you’ll be
relieved.’
The knight relished his advice, which he thought savoured more of the
philosopher than of the ideot; and said to him, ‘Now, Sancho, if thou
wouldst do that for me which I am going to mention, my relief would be
more certain, and my affliction diminished: my proposal is, that while I
sleep, in compliance with thy advice, thou wouldst go aside a little
farther, and, exposing thy flesh to the air, bestow upon it, with the
reins of Rozinante’s bridle, three or four hundred stripes, of the three
thousand three hundred which thou hast undertaken to endure for the
disinchantment of Dulcinea; for it is a lamentable circumstance that the
poor lady should remain so long inchanted, through thy carelessness and
neglect.’—‘There is much to be said on that subject,’ replied Sancho:
‘let us both go to sleep in the mean time; and afterwards God must
ordain that which will come to pass. Your worship must know, that it
requires great resolution in a man to scourge himself in cold blood;
especially when the stripes fall upon a body which is poorly fed and
supported: let my Lady Dulcinea have a little patience; when she least
thinks of it, she will see my body scourged into a perfect sieve; and
while there is life there is hope; my meaning is, that while I hold
life, I shall never quit the desire of performing my promise.’
Don Quixote, thanking him for his good-will, took a little sustenance,
Sancho ate voraciously, and then both laid themselves down to sleep,
leaving Rozinante and Dapple, those two friends and inseparable
companions, at full liberty to feed, without restraint, upon the
luxuriant grass with which the meadow abounded.
The day being far spent before they awoke, they remounted their cattle,
and pursued their journey with uncommon expedition, in order to reach an
inn which they descried at a league’s distance. I say, an inn, because
it was so called by Don Quixote, contrary to his former custom of
mistaking every inn for a castle. When they arrived at this place of
entertainment, they asked if they could be accommodated with lodging;
and the landlord replied in the affirmative, telling them at the same
time, that his house afforded as good conveniences and entertainment as
could be found in the whole city of Saragossa. They alighted
accordingly, and Sancho carried his bags into an apartment, of which the
innkeeper gave him the key; then he led the cattle to the stable, where
he gave them their allowance; from thence he went to receive the
commands of his master, who had sat down upon a bench, and thanked
Heaven, in a particular manner, that Don Quixote had not committed his
usual mistake. They retired to their chamber, and supper-time
approaching, Sancho desired to know what they could have for that meal.
To this interrogation mine host replied, that his taste should be fitted
to a hair, and that he might bespeak what he liked best; for, as far as
the birds of the air, the fowls of the land, and the fish of the sea
could go, he would find the house provided. ‘Less than all that will
serve,’ answered Sancho: ‘we shall be satisfied with a couple of
chickens roasted; for my master has a very delicate taste, and eats but
little; and as for myself, I am not a very unconscionable cormorant.’
The other frankly owned he had no chickens; for the kites had destroyed
the whole brood. ‘Well, then, Mr. Landlord,’ said the squire, ‘you may
order a pullet to be put to the fire; but see it be very tender.’—‘A
pullet!’ cried the innkeeper; ‘body o’ my father! now, as I’m an honest
man, I sent above half a hundred yesterday to market; but setting aside
pullets, you may have what you will.’—‘If that be the case,’ said
Sancho, there will be no want of veal or kid.’—‘At present,’ replied the
innkeeper, ‘there is really none in the house; we are just out of these
articles; but next week she shall have enough and to spare.’—‘To be
sure, we shall be much the better for that!’ answered Sancho; ‘I’ll lay
a wager all these wants will be supplied with plenty of eggs and
bacon.’—‘’Fore God!’ said the host, ‘my guest has an admirable knack at
guessing; I have told him there is neither hen nor pullet in the house,
and he would have me treat him with eggs[201]! Shift about, if you
please, to some other delicacies, and think no more of poultry.’
‘Body o’ me!’ cried Sancho, ‘let us come to some resolution; tell me at
once what is in the house, and pray, Mr. Landlord, no more of your
shiftings.’—‘What I really and truly can afford,’ said the innkeeper,
‘is a dish of cow-heel, so delicate they might be taken for calves-feet;
or you may call them calves-feet, that might pass for cow-heel. They are
stewed with pease, onions, and bacon, and this blessed minute cry—“Come,
eat me; come, eat me.”’—‘I mark them for my own,’ cried Sancho, ‘from
henceforth for ever, amen. Let no man touch the mess, for which I will
pay you handsomely; for nothing in the whole world could be more
agreeable to my taste; and, provided I have cow-heel, the calves-feet
may go to the devil.’—‘No man shall interfere with you,’ replied the
landlord; ‘as for the other company in the house, they, out of pure
gentility, bring along with them their own cook, butler and sumpter
mule.’—‘Nay, as for gentility,’ said the squire, ‘no man has more of
that than my master; but his profession will not admit of travelling
stores and butteries: lack-a-day! we lay ourselves down in the middle of
a green field, and fill our bellies with medlars and acorns.’ Such was
the conversation that passed between the innkeeper and Sancho; who would
not, however, go any greater lengths in satisfying the curiosity of mine
host, who was very desirous to know the office or profession of his
master.
Supper being ready, Don Quixote retired to his apartment, whither the
landlord brought the pot just as it was, and very decently sat down to
partake of the meal. At that instant, the knight heard people talking in
the next room, from which he was divided only by a partition of lath,
and could plainly distinguish these words: ‘As you hope to live, Don
Geronimo, I conjure you, as supper is not yet ready, to read another
chapter of the second part of Don Quixote de La Mancha.’
The knight, hearing his own name mentioned, started up immediately, and
listening with great attention, heard Geronimo reply to this effect:
‘What pleasure can you have in reading such absurdities, Don John? No
person who has seen the first part of the history of Don Quixote de La
Mancha, can possibly be entertained with this which is called the
second.’—‘Nevertheless,’ said Don John, ‘it will not be amiss to read a
little; for there is no book so bad as to contain nothing that deserves
regard. What displeases me most in this performance is, the author’s
describing Don Quixote as altogether disengaged and detached from
Dulcinea del Toboso.’
The knight, hearing this remark, was filled with rage and vexation, and
exclaimed aloud, ‘If any person whatever affirms that Don Quixote de La
Mancha either has forgotten or can forget Dulcinea del Toboso, I will,
with equal arms, make him know and own, that his affection is far
distant from the truth; for the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso cannot
possibly be forgot; nor is Don Quixote susceptible of forgetfulness: his
motto is Constancy, which he professes to maintain with gentleness and
suavity of manners.’—‘Who is he that answers?’ cried the voice. ‘Who
should it be,’ replied Sancho, ‘but Don Quixote de La Mancha, in his own
person, who will make good whatever he has said, and whatever he shall
say; for, “A good paymaster wants no pawn.”’
Scarce had the squire pronounced these words, when two gentlemen, for
such they appeared, entered the apartment; and one of them throwing his
arms about Don Quixote’s neck, ‘Your appearance,’ said he, ‘does not
belye your name, and your name cannot but give credit to your
appearance. Without all doubt, you, Signior, are the true Don Quixote de
La Mancha, the north-star and luminary of knight errantry, maugre and in
despite of him who has thought proper to usurp your name, and annihilate
your exploits; I mean, the author of this here book:’ which he took from
his companion, and put into the hand of Don Quixote; who, without
answering one word, began to turn over the leaves, and in a very little
time gave it back to the stranger, saying—‘In the little I have read, I
find three things worthy of reprehension in the author; first, some
expressions in the prologue or preface; secondly, his using the
Arragonian dialect, and writing sometimes without articles; and thirdly,
that which confirms my opinion of his ignorance, his erring and
deviating from the truth in the most material circumstances of the
history; for he says, the wife of my squire Sancho Panza, is called Mary
Gutierrez, whereas her name is Teresa Panza; now, if he blunders in such
an essential circumstance, we may justly conclude that his whole history
is full of mistakes[202].’
‘A pleasant historian, i’faith!’ cried Sancho: ‘he must be well
acquainted with our adventures, to be sure, when he calls my dame Teresa
by the name of Mary Gutierrez! Take the book again, Signior, and see if
he has lugged me in, too, under a borrowed name!’—‘From what you have
said, friend,’ replied Don Geronimo, ‘I find you must certainly be
Sancho Panza, squire to Signior Don Quixote.’—‘Even so,’ answered the
squire; ‘and I am proud of the occupation.’—‘Then, in good sooth!’ said
the cavalier, ‘this author has not treated you so handsomely as from
your appearance I conclude you deserve; he represents you as a
gormandizer, a simpleton without the least vein of humour or pleasantry;
and, in short, quite different from the Sancho described in the first
part of the history of your master!’—‘The Lord in heaven forgive him!’
cried Sancho: ‘he might have let me sleep in my corner, without
remembering there was such a sinner as me upon the face of the earth:
for, “He that has skill should handle the quill[203];” and I know that
St. Peter is well at Rome.’
The two gentlemen invited Don Quixote to sup with them in their
apartment, as they knew the inn could not afford any thing proper for
his entertainment; and the knight, who was always the pink of courtesy,
complied with their request; so that Sancho remained undisputed master
of the pot. _Cum mero mixto imperio_, he seated himself at the head of
the table, in company with the landlord, who vied with him in affection
for the cow-heel and calves-feet.
Don John, in the course of the conversation at supper, asked what news
Don Quixote had concerning the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; he begged to
know if she was married, brought to-bed, or in a state of pregnancy; or,
if still single, she, as far as modesty and decorum would permit, smiled
upon the passion of her lover Don Quixote. ‘Dulcinea,’ answered the
knight, ‘is still unmarried, and my passion more intense than ever: our
correspondence stands on the old footing, and her beauty is transformed
into the appearance of a base-born, rustick wench.’
Then he, in a very circumstantial manner, related the inchantment of his
mistress, together with his adventure in the cave of Montesinos, and the
means prescribed by the sage Merlin for her relief; namely, the
flagellation of Sancho.
Unspeakable was the satisfaction which the two cavaliers enjoyed in
hearing Don Quixote recount the strange incidents of his history; and
they were equally astonished at the folly of his adventures and the
elegance with which he related them: here they esteemed him as a man of
sound understanding; and there he slipped through their opinion into the
sink of madness; so that they could not determine what rank he should
maintain between lunacy and discretion.
Meanwhile, Sancho having finished his meal, left his landlord more than
half seas over; and entering the chamber where his master sat,
‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I’ll be hanged if the author of that book your
worships were talking of, has any mind or inclination that he and I
should be messmates. Since he has given me the character of a glutton,
as your worships have observed, I wish he may not have likewise called
me a drunkard.’—‘He has indeed,’ replied Don Geronimo: ‘but I do not
remember the expression, though I know the words are very scurrilous and
false above measure, as I can plainly perceive in the physiognomy of
honest Sancho here present.’—‘Take my word for it, noble gentlemen,’
said the squire, ‘the Sancho and Don Quixote of that history must be
persons quite different from those recorded by Cid Hamet Benengeli, who
are no other than we ourselves, here standing and sitting in your
presence: my master, valiant, sagacious, and enamoured; and I simple,
and withal pleasant, but neither sot nor gormandizer.’—‘I believe what
you say,’ replied Don John: ‘and wish it were possible to obtain a
mandate, prohibiting any person or persons from presuming to meddle with
the affairs of the great Don Quixote, excepting Hamet, his original
author; in the same manner as Alexander the Great decreed that no
painter but Apelles should draw his portrait.’—‘Any body may draw my
portrait,’ said the knight; ‘but let no man maltreat my character; for
patience often falls to the ground, when it is overloaded with
injuries.’—‘No injury can be done to Don Quixote, but what he can easily
revenge,’ answered Don John: ‘unless he chuse rather to ward it off with
the buckler of his patience, which, I believe, is both strong and
ample.’
In this and other such conversation they spent great part of the night;
and although Don John would fain have persuaded Don Quixote to read a
little more of the book, that they might hear him descant upon
particulars, he could not accomplish his purpose; the knight assuring
him he considered it as good as read, and pronounced the whole an heap
of absurdities; nor did he chuse that the author, who might perhaps hear
it was in his hands, should have the satisfaction of thinking he had
perused his performance; for, from objects of obscenity and turpitude,
not only the eyes but even the imagination ought to be kept sacred. When
they asked, whither his course was at present directed, he told them he
was bound for Saragossa, in order to signalize himself in the
prize-jousts which are yearly solemnized in that city.
Then Don John gave him to understand that the new history gives an
account of the spurious Don Quixote’s having been in that place at a
course, the description of which was barren of invention, low in stile,
miserably poor in devices, and rich in nothing but folly and
impertinence.—‘For that very reason,’ said Don Quixote, ‘I will not set
foot in Saragossa, and so demonstrate to the wide world, the falshood of
this modern historian, and let the nations see I am not the Don Quixote
whom he has described.’—‘I applaud your resolution,’ replied Don
Geronimo; ‘and there will be a tournament in Barcelona, where Don
Quixote will have an opportunity to signalize his valour.’—‘And that I
shall surely embrace,’ answered the knight: ‘at present, gentlemen, as
it is high time, you will give me leave to retire to bed; and I beg you
will esteem and place me among the number of your most sincere friends
and humble servants.’—‘And me also,’ said Sancho: ‘peradventure my
service may be good for something.’ They accordingly took their leave,
and retired to their apartment, leaving Don John and his companion
astonished at the medley of sense and madness they had observed in his
discourse: they believed, without hesitation, these to be the real Don
Quixote and Sancho, and not the persons described by the Arragonian
author.
Don Quixote rising early next morning, tapped at the partition, and bade
farewel to his entertainers: and Sancho paid his reckoning like a
prince; advising the landlord, however, either to furnish his house
better, or to brag less of his accommodations.
Footnote 201:
Why might not this innkeeper have had eggs in his house, as he had
sent no less than fifty pullets to market the very day before?
Footnote 202:
I am apt to believe that this remark was intended as an ironical
sarcasm on the trivial observations of hypercriticks: for we cannot
suppose Cervantes did not know, by this time, that he himself had more
than once, in the first part of this history, actually called Sancho’s
wife by the name of Mary Gutierrez; an oversight which I have taken
notice of in the proper place.
Footnote 203:
The proverb in the original, alludes to a kind of tabor: as if one
should say, ‘He alone should attempt to play, who knows how to beat
the tabor.’
CHAP. VIII.
OF WHAT BEFEL DON QUIXOTE IN HIS WAY TO BARCELONA.
The morning was cold, and seemed to promise but little less for the day
on which Don Quixote departed from the inn, after having informed
himself of the nearest road to Barcelona which he could travel without
touching at Saragossa; so eager he was to fix the lye upon the new
historian by whom they said he was so scurvily treated.
So it happened that he met with nothing worthy of record within six
days; at the end of which, having quitted the high road, he was
benighted among a thick cluster of oak or cork-trees; for, in this
particular, Cid Hamet has not preserved his usual punctuality. The
master and man alighting from their beasts, and accommodating themselves
at the roots of two separate trees, Sancho, who had laid in a good
afternoon’s luncheon, entered the gates of sleep abruptly, and without
hesitation; whereas the knight, who was kept awake more by fancy than by
hunger, could not close an eye; but, on the contrary, rambled in his
imagination through a thousand different scenes. Sometimes he conceived
himself to be in the cave of Montesinos; sometimes he thought he saw
Dulcinea skipping and leaping upon her ass, in that dismal state of
rustick transformation; and then his ears seemed to tingle with the
words of the sage Merlin, who pronounced the conditions and endeavours
to be observed and exerted for the disinchantment of his mistress. He
was driven almost to desperation, when he reflected on the sloth and
uncharitable disposition of his squire Sancho, who, to the best of his
belief, had hitherto given himself only five stripes; a number poor and
inconsiderable in comparison with the infinite score unpaid: and this
consideration overwhelmed him with such anxiety and chagrin, that he
thus argued with his own bosom.
‘If Alexander the Great ventured to cut the Gordian knot, on the
supposition that cutting would be as effectual as untying it; and
notwithstanding this violence, became sole master of all Asia, the same
success may now attend my efforts in disinchanting Dulcinea, should I
scourge Sancho against his own consent; for if the condition of this
remedy be, that Sancho shall receive three thousand three hundred
stripes, what signifies it to me whether they are bestowed by his own
hand, or that of some other person, seeing the essential point is in his
receiving them, from what quarter soever they may come?’
[Illustration: Don Quixote Attempts to Scourge Sancho Panza.]
Inspired with this notion, he took the reins of Rozinante’s bridle,
which he formed into an instrument of flagellation; and, approaching the
sleeping squire, began to untruss his points: indeed, it is the general
opinion, that he had but one before which kept up his breeches. But
scarce had he began to perform this operation, when Sancho, shaking off
the fetters of slumber at one start, exclaimed aloud, ‘What’s the
matter? Who the devil is that so busy untrussing me while I’m
asleep?’—‘It is I,’ answered the knight, ‘who mean to atone for thy
omissions, and remedy my own misfortunes. I come to scourge thee,
Sancho, and discharge some part of the debt which thou art obligated to
pay. Dulcinea pines in a state of transformation; and, while thou livest
at thine heart’s ease, I am dying with desire: untie these points,
therefore, of thy own free-will; for mine, I assure thee, is to afflict
thy posteriors with two thousand stripes at least, before we quit this
unfrequented place.’—‘By no manner of means!’ cried Sancho; ‘I advise
your worship to be quiet, or, by the God of Israel! the deaf shall hear
us: the stripes I have obliged myself to receive, must be given with my
own free-will and consent, not by force or compulsion; and, at present,
I have not the least inclination to discipline my own flesh: let it
suffice, I give your worship my word and honour, that I will flog and
fly-flap my carcase as soon as ever I find myself disposed for such
exercise.’—‘I must not leave it to thy courtesy,’ replied the knight;
‘for thou hast a stony heart, and though a peasant, art very tender of
thy flesh.’ He accordingly struggled with all his might to unbreech the
squire; who, finding the affair become very serious, started up from the
ground, sprung upon his master, and closing with him in a trice, tripped
up his heels, so that the knight came instantly to the ground, where he
lay with his face uppermost: then the victor, clapping his right knee to
the breast of the vanquished party, and griping him fast by both wrists,
hampered him in such a manner, that he could scarce either breathe or
move. Nevertheless he made shift to pronounce these words: ‘How now,
traitor! dost thou presume to rebel against thy master and natural lord,
whose bread thou hast eaten?’—‘I neither exalt kings nor dethrone them,’
answered Sancho; ‘but, being my own master, I stand up in my own
defence: if your worship will promise to be quiet, and think no more of
scourging me for the present, I will forthwith free and disencumber you
from these bonds: otherwise, here thou shalt die, traitor and enemy to
Donna Sancha.’
The knight subscribed to the conditions, swearing by the life of his
inclinations, that he would not touch the nap of his garment, but leave
him at full liberty to begin the flagellation when he himself should
think proper. On these considerations Sancho arose, and went aside a
good away to another tree, at whose root he resolved to take his lodging
for the remaining part of the night. There he felt something bob against
his head, and putting up his hand, found two legs provided with shoes
and stockings: trembling with affright, he moved with great expedition
to another tree, where he met with the same salutation, which increased
his terror to such a pitch, that he roared aloud for assistance. His
master hearing this exclamation, ran towards the place, and enquired
into the cause of his fear and confusion; when the squire gave him to
understand that all these trees were loaded with human legs and feet.
The knight reaching up his hand, immediately conceived the meaning of
this strange circumstance, and said to Sancho, ‘Thou needest not be
afraid, for those legs and feet which thou hast felt without seeing,
certainly belong to some robbers and outlaws who are hanged upon the
trees; for, when they are apprehended in this place, the officers of
justice string them up by twenties and thirties; and from this
particular, I am convinced that we must now be near Barcelona.’ And,
indeed, his conjecture was right. Soon as objects were rendered visible
by the dawn, they lifted up their eyes, and saw that the clusters
depending from the trees were no other than the bodies of banditti. The
morning forthwith ushered in the day; and if they were scared by the
dead, they were no less aghast when they found themselves all of a
sudden surrounded by above forty living robbers, who called to them in
the Catalonian language to be quiet, and stand still until their captain
should arrive.
Don Quixote being a-foot, his horse unbridled, his lance leaning against
a tree, and, in short, his person without any means of defence, he
thought proper to cross his arms upon his breast, and hung his head,
reserving himself for a better season and more happy conjuncture.
Meanwhile, the robbers made such dispatch in plundering Dapple, that in
the twinkling of an eye there was not the least crumb left in the wallet
and pillion; and lucky it was for Sancho that he had secured, in a
concealed girdle, the duke’s crowns and the money he had brought from
home; nay, notwithstanding this precaution, those honest gentlemen would
have searched and rummaged him in such a manner as to have found the
cash, even though it had been hidden between the flesh and the skin, had
not they been interrupted by the seasonable arrival of their captain,
who seemed to be about four and thirty years of age, of a robust make,
middling stature, grave countenance, and brown complexion; he rode a
strong horse, was provided with a coat of mail, and he had slung a pair
of pistols with firelocks at each side of him. Seeing his squires (for
so they call the gentlemen of that profession) very busy in rifling
Sancho Panza, he ordered them to desist; and, as they immediately obeyed
his command, the girdle happily escaped. Surprized to see a lance
leaning against a tree, a shield lying on the ground, and Don Quixote
armed at all points and in manifest despondence, exhibiting the most
rueful and melancholy figure that Melancholy herself could have formed,
he approached the knight, saying, ‘Be not so dejected, honest friend;
you have not fallen into the hands of a cruel Osiris, but of those of
Roque Guinart, who has more of compassion than cruelty in his
disposition.’
‘My dejection,’ answered the knight, ‘does not proceed from my having
fallen under thy power, O valiant Roque, whose fame the limits of this
earth cannot confine; but from the consciousness of my own neglect, in
consequence of which thy soldiers found me unprepared: whereas I am
bound by the order of chivalry, which I profess, to be always alert and
vigilant, and to stand as it were at all times sentry upon myself; and
give me leave to tell thee, O renowned Roque! they would not have found
it such an easy task to subdue me, had I been on horseback, armed with
my lance and shield: for know, I am Don Quixote de La Mancha, whose
exploits are celebrated through this whole terraqueous globe.’
Roque Guinart immediately perceived that the knight’s infirmity partook
more of madness than of valour; and although he had frequently heard him
named, he looked upon his atchievements as altogether fabulous, and
could not believe that such a humour did ever prevail in the heart of
man: he was therefore extremely well pleased with this encounter, that
he might with his own eyes see immediately before him what he had heard
reported afar off. ‘Valiant knight,’ said he, ‘do not vex yourself, or
consider your present situation in the light of a misfortune; perhaps,
by stumbling in this manner your crooked fate may be made straight; for
Heaven, by strange unforeseen windings, which mankind cannot comprehend,
is wont to raise the fallen, and enrich the needy.’
Don Quixote’s mouth was already open to thank him for his courteous
behaviour, when they heard behind them a noise like that of a whole
troop of horse, though there was only one, upon which came at full speed
a youth who seemed to be about the age of twenty, dressed in green
damask laced with gold, long breeches, a loose coat, a hat cocked in the
Walloon fashion, with strait waxed boots and spurs; armed with a gold
hilted sword and dagger, a small fusil in his hand, and a case of
pistols by his side.
Roque hearing the noise, turned about, and was surprized with the sight
of this handsome figure, who accosted him in these terms: ‘In search of
thee, courageous Roque! I came hither, hoping by thy means to find, if
not a remedy, at least an alleviation, of my misfortune: and, to keep
thee no longer in suspense, as I am certain you never saw me before,
know that I am Claudia Geronima, daughter of Simon Forte, who is thy
intimate friend, as well as the particular enemy of Clauquel Torellas,
thy inveterate foe, as being head of the party which thou hast always
opposed. This Torellas, thou knowest, has a son called Don Vincente
Torrellas, at least he was, two hours ago, distinguished by that name. I
will be as brief as possible in the account of my disaster, and explain
the occasion of it in a few words. That youth happened to see me, and
courted my good graces; I listened to his addresses, and gave him my
heart, without the knowledge of my father; for there is no woman
whatsoever so retired and mewed up, but she will find a time to execute
and gratify her irresistible desires. In a word, he promised to be my
husband, I consented to become his wife, and this was the farthest
extent of our correspondence. Yesterday I was informed, that, forgetting
this obligation, he intended to marry another woman, and that this
morning he had set out to celebrate his nuptials. My brain was
disturbed, and my indignation arrouzed to such a degree by these fatal
tidings, that, taking the advantage of my father’s absence, I disguised
myself in this apparel, pursued a-horseback my perfidious lover, whom,
having overtaken about a league from this place, I, without staying to
make complaints, or hear apologies, discharged upon him this fusil and
these two pistols; so that, I believe, he has more than a brace of
bullets in his body: thus I opened a gate through which my honour,
though bathed in his blood, may escape, and left him in the hands of his
servants, who neither could nor presumed to exert themselves in his
defence. Thence I came in quest of thee, to beg that thou wilt conduct
me safely to France, where I have relations; and, at the same time,
promise to defend my father from the numerous kindred of Don Vincente,
who may otherwise sacrifice him to their insatiable revenge.’
Roque was struck with admiration at the gallantry, gay appearance,
genteel mien, and adventure of the beauteous Claudia, to whom he
replied, ‘Come, Madam, let us first see whether or not your enemy is
actually dead, and then we will consider about the most proper measures
to be taken in your behalf.’ Here Don Quixote, who had listened with
great attention to Claudia’s address, and Roque’s reply, interposing in
the conversation, exclaimed, ‘No man has any occasion to give himself
the least trouble about the defence of this lady, which I take upon my
own shoulders. Give me my horse and my arms, and stay where you are; I
will go in quest of the gentleman, and dead or alive compel him to
perform the promise he hath made to so much beauty.’—‘Who doubts that!’
cried Sancho; ‘adad! my master has an excellent hand at match-making; a
few days ago, he compelled another person who likewise refused to keep
his word with a young woman; and if those plaguy inchanters who
persecute him so much, had not transmographied the gallant into a
lacquey, that very hour, She that was a maid before, would have been a
maid no more[204].’
Roque, whose attention was engrossed by the adventure of the beautiful
Claudia, paid very little regard to what was said either by the master
or the man; but, ordering his squires to restore the spoils of Dapple to
Sancho, and retire to the place appointed for their quarters that night,
he set out with Claudia, in great haste, to reconnoitre the situation of
the dead or wounded Don Vincente. When they arrived at the spot where he
had been overtaken by the young lady, they found nothing but some recent
blood; but, casting their eyes around, they discovered some people on
the side of a hill, and conjectured they could be no other than the
servants of Don Vincente carrying their master to a proper place, where
he might be cured, if alive, or buried, if dead. Their supposition was
just; and spurring up their horses, they soon overtook the unhappy
cavalier, whom they found in the arms of his attendants, whom he
entreated, with a faint and languid voice, to let him die where he was;
for the pain of his wounds would not suffer him to proceed farther. Then
Claudia and Roque approached him, to the great terror of his servants,
who stood aghast at sight of this famous free-booter; but Claudia was
greatly disturbed at the melancholy situation of Don Vincente; and
agitated by the conflicting passions of tenderness and resentment, took
him by the hand, saying, ‘Hadst thou given me this of thy own accord,
conformable to the mutual promise subsisting between us, thou wouldst
never have been in this condition.’
The wounded cavalier opened his eyes, which were almost shut for ever,
and recognizing Claudia, ‘I plainly perceive,’ said he, ‘most beautiful
and misled young lady, that I owe my death to your hand; a punishment
altogether unmerited and unsuited to my inclinations, which, as well as
my conduct, were, in regard to your person, altogether void of
offence.’—‘What!’ cried Claudia, ‘is it not true, that you, this
morning, intended to marry Leonora, daughter of the rich
Balvastro?’—‘No, surely,’ replied Don Vincente; ‘my evil genius must
have alarmed you with such information, that, your jealousy being
inflamed, you might deprive me of life, which, as I leave it in your
arms, and your embrace, I consider as happily lost; and, that you may be
convinced of my sincerity, give me your hand, and, if you please,
receive me for your husband, this being the only satisfaction I can make
for the offence I was supposed to have given.’ Accordingly, Claudia and
he joined hands and hearts together, in such a manner that she fainted
away upon his bloody breast, and he sunk into a mortal paroxism.
Roque being confounded and perplexed, the servants ran for water which
they sprinkled upon their faces, and Claudia recovered from her swoon;
but this was not the case with her unhappy lover, who had already
breathed his last. The young lady, perceiving her beloved husband was no
more, rent the air with her groans, wounded the heavens with her
lamentation, tore her locks and scattered them to the winds, and
disfigured her face with her own nails, exhibiting all the marks of the
most severe grief that ever took possession of an afflicted bosom. ‘O
cruel and inconsiderate woman!’ she cried; ‘how easily wast thou
provoked to execute such dire revenge! O furious jealousy! to what dire
despair dost thou conduct all those who give thee harbour in their
breasts! O my dear husband! whose unhappy fate, in being mine, hath made
thy marriage-bed thy grave!’
Such were the melancholy exclamations of Claudia, which brought water
into the eyes of Roque, who had seldom or never shed tears before; their
servants wept bitterly; the young lady swooned almost at every step, and
this whole circuit seemed to be the scene of sorrow, and field of
misfortune. At length Roque Guinart ordered the servants to carry their
master’s body to his father’s country-seat, which was hard by, that it
might be buried according to the old gentleman’s directions; and Claudia
expressed her desire of retiring to a certain monastery, the abbess of
which was her aunt, where she intended to finish her life, in company of
a better and more eternal husband. Roque applauded her design, and
offered to conduct her to the place, promising, at the same time, to
defend her father from the kindred of Don Vincente, and all the world,
should they conspire against his peace. She would by no means avail
herself of his attendance; but, thanking him for his obliging offers in
the most courteous terms she could use, took her leave of him, shedding
a torrent of tears: the servants of Don Vincente carried off the body,
Roque returned to his gang, and thus ended the amour of Claudia
Geronima; a catastrophe not to be wondered at, when we consider that the
web of her melancholy fate was woven by the baleful and invincible force
of jealousy.
Roque Guinart found his squires in the place where he had ordered them
to take up their night’s lodging, and in the midst of them Don Quixote
upon Rozinante, exhorting them in a long harangue, to quit that way of
life, so dangerous both to soul and body; but as the greatest part of
them were Gascons, a brutal and disorderly sort of people, the knight’s
arguments made but little impression. The chief arriving, asked Sancho
Panza if the men had restored the furniture and effects they had taken
from Dapple; and the squire replied in the affirmative, excepting,
however, three night-caps worth as many royal cities. ‘What the devil
does the fellow say!’ cried one of the gang; ‘here they are, and any
body may see they would not sell for three rials.’
‘True,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but my squire values them at that rate, on
account of the person of whom I received them in a present.’ Roque
commanded the man to restore them instantly; then, forming his people
into a line, gave orders for bringing before them all the cloaths,
jewels, money, and every thing they had acquired by robbery since the
last partition; then, making a short valuation, and reducing the
indivisibles into cash, he shared the whole among his company, with such
equity and discretion, that in the most minute article, he neither
exceeded nor fell short of distributive justice.
Having made this partition, with which every individual was perfectly
well satisfied and contented, Roque turning to Don Quixote, ‘If we did
not observe this punctuality,’ said he, ‘there would be no living among
such a crew.’ To this declaration Sancho replied, ‘From what I have
seen, I find justice so excellent in itself, that the practice of it is
necessary even among thieves.’
One of the squires overhearing the remark, lifted up the butt-end of his
musket, with which, in all probability, he would have shattered Sancho’s
scull, had not the general commanded him to desist; while Panza,
trembling in every limb, resolved never to open his lips again so long
as he should sojourn among such ruffians.
About this time arrived one of the gang, who was placed centinel on the
road to reconnoitre travellers, and bring intelligence; and riding up to
their chief, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘not far from hence, there is a large
company of people travelling to Barcelona.’—‘Have you perceived,’
answered Roque, ‘whether they are such as we seek, or such as are in
quest of us.’ When the squire replied that they were such as he sought;
‘Set out, then, all together,’ said he, ‘and bring the whole company
hither, without suffering one to escape.’
This whole gang departed accordingly, leaving their chief alone with Don
Quixote and Sancho, to wait the issue of their expedition; and during
this interval, Roque addressing himself to the knight, ‘This life of
ours,’ said he, ‘must appear very strange to Don Quixote, exposed as it
is to infinite adventures and incidents replete with danger; and,
indeed, I do not wonder that it should appear in that light; for I must
know there can be no situation so full of terror and disquiet as that in
which I live, and into which I was misled by the desire of revenge,
which is often powerful enough to disturb the most philosophick breast.
I am naturally benevolent and compassionate; but, as I have already
observed, the desire of revenging an injury which I received, hath
overturned all my virtuous inclinations in such a manner, that I
persevere in this career, maugre and in despite of my own understanding;
and, as deep calleth unto deep, and sin unto sin, different schemes of
revenge are so linked together, that I undertake not only my own, but
also those of other people; yet, by the blessing of God, although I find
myself thus involved in a labyrinth of confusion, I have not lost the
hope of being, one day, happily extricated from all my troubles.’
Don Quixote was surprized to hear Roque talk so sensibly and with such
moderation; for he imagined, that among those who were in the daily
practice of assaulting, robbing, and murdering their fellow-creatures,
there could not surely be one single person of sense and reflection.
‘Signior Roque,’ said he, ‘the beginning of health is the knowledge of
the disease, and the patient’s desire to comply with the physician’s
prescription. You are now in the diseased condition, sensible of your
infirmity, and Heaven, or rather God himself, who is the great
physician, will apply those medicines which are proper for the cure of
your distemper; but these remedies are wont to operate slowly, not in a
sudden miraculous manner; and sensible sinners are much more likely to
recover, than delinquents of little understanding. Now, as your
discourse evinces your discretion, be of good chear, and courageously
wait for the perfect recovery of your conscience. If you are in earnest
inclined to quit this road, and enter at once into that which leads to
salvation, come along with me and learn to be a knight-errant, in which
capacity you will undergo such toils and disasters as will be deemed
sufficient penance, and exalt you to Heaven in the turning of two
balls.’
Roque could not help smiling at Don Quixote’s advice; but changing the
conversation, he recounted the tragical adventure of Claudia Geronima,
at which Sancho was exceedingly grieved; for he had been hugely pleased
with the beauty, vivacity, and demeanor of the young lady.
About this time they were joined by the squires of the booty, who
brought along with them two gentlemen on horseback, two pilgrims on
foot, and a coach full of women, attended by six servants, partly
mounted, and partly footmen, together with two muleteers, who waited
upon the gentlemen. These came all in a troop surrounded by the squires,
and universal silence prevailed among the victors and the vanquished;
both sides expecting, with resignation, the commands of the great Roque
Guinart, who, approaching the gentlemen, asked who they were, whither
they were going, and what money they had.
To these interrogations one of them replied, ‘Signior, we are captains
of the Spanish infantry, our companies are in Naples; our intention is
to embark on board of four gallies, which, they say, are now in the
harbour of Barcelona, ready to sail for Sicily; and our funds amount to
two or three hundred crowns, with the possession of which we thought
ourselves rich and happy, considering the narrow appointments of a
soldier, which will not permit him to heap up a great deal of wealth.’
Then Roque putting the same questions to the pilgrims, they answered,
that their design was to embark for Italy, in order to visit Rome; and
that, between both, they could muster about sixty rials. He likewise
desired to know the quality of those who were in the coach, the place to
which they were going, and the state of their finances. In these
particulars he was satisfied by one of the horsemen, who said, ‘The
company in the coach consists of my Lady Donna Guiomar de Quinones, wife
to the regent of the vicariate of Naples, her little daughter a damsel,
and a duenna; I am one of the six servants who attend them, and her
ladyship’s cash may amount to six hundred crowns.’—‘At that rate, then,’
replied the mighty Roques, ‘here are nine hundred crowns and, sixty
rials; I have sixty soldiers; see what each man’s share will come to,
for I am but an indifferent arithmetician.’ The robbers hearing this
decision, cried aloud, ‘Long life to Roque Guinart, and confusion to the
knaves who endeavour to effect his ruin!’
The captains exhibited evident marks of affliction, my lady regent
assumed a very sorrowful countenance, and the pilgrims did not at all
rejoice at this confiscation of their effects. Although Roque kept them
for some time in suspense, he had no mind to protract their melancholy,
which was plainly perceivable a gunshot off; but, turning to the
captains, ‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘be so good as to lend me sixty crowns,
and my lady regent will favour me with fourscore, in order to satisfy my
squadron; you know, The abbot must not want, who for his bread doth
chant; then you may prosecute your journey without fear or molestation,
by virtue of a safe conduct I will grant; in consequence of which, you
will be exempted from plunder, in case you should fall in with any other
of those squadrons which I have posted up and down in different
divisions; for it is not my intention to aggrieve either soldiers or
ladies, especially ladies of quality.’
Infinite and well turned were the compliments in which the captains
acknowledged their obligation to Roque for his politeness and
liberality, for such they accounted it, in leaving them possessed of
their own money. My Lady Donna Guiomar de Quinones would have thrown
herself from the coach, in order to kiss the feet and hands of the great
Roque; but he would by no means accept such marks of submission: on the
contrary, he begged pardon for the injury which he was compelled to do
them, in compliance with the precise duty of his wicked profession. The
lady ordered her servant to pay instantly the eighty crowns which were
demanded; the captains had already disbursed threescore; and the
pilgrims were going to surrender their miserable pittance; when Roque
desired them to desist, and turning to his gang, ‘Of these crowns,’ said
he, ‘two shall fall to the share of each man, and then there will be an
overplus of twenty, one half of which I give to the pilgrims, and the
other ten to this honest squire, that he may make a favourable report of
the adventure.’
After this decision, he took pen, ink, and paper, with which he was
always provided, and writing a safe conduct directed to the chiefs of
his squadrons, gave it to the company, whom he courteously dismissed,
and they proceeded on their journey, struck with admiration at his noble
demeanour, gallant disposition, and strange conduct, looking upon him
rather as an Alexander the Great, than a notorious robber. One of the
squires, displeased at the booty, said in his Catalonian dialect, ‘This
captain of ours is fitter for praying than preying; if henceforth he has
a mind to shew his generosity, let it be from his own purse, and not
what is ours by right of conquest.’
The unhappy wretch did not speak so softly, but that he was overheard by
Roque, who instantly unsheathing his sword, cleft his head almost in
two, saying, ‘Thus I chastise mutiny and presumption.’ All the rest of
the gang were terrified at this execution, and not one of them durst
open his lips, so much were they over-awed by the character of their
chief.
As for Roque, he went aside and wrote a letter to a friend at Barcelona,
giving him to understand how he had met with the famous Don Quixote de
La Mancha, that knight-errant whose exploits were in every body’s mouth;
and, he assured him, that the adventurer was the most agreeable and
understanding man in the whole world: he likewise gave him notice, that
in four days from the date of the letter, on the feast of St. John, the
said knight-errant would appear on the beach of the city, armed
cap-a-pee, mounted on Rozinante, and accompanied by his squire Sancho
upon an ass. He, therefore, desired his correspondent to communicate
this intelligence to his friends the Nearri, that they might enjoy the
character of Don Quixote, and wished his enemies the Cadelli might not
partake of the diversion. But that was a vain desire, because the
mixture of madness and discretion in the knight, and the pleasantries of
his squire, were such as could not fail to yield entertainment to the
whole world in general.
This letter was dispatched by one of his squires; who, disguising
himself in the habit of a peasant, entered Barcelona, and delivered it
according to the direction.
Footnote 204:
This rhime is substituted in lieu of Sancho’s playing on the word
_fuera_, in the original.
CHAP. IX.
OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE ON HIS ENTRANCE INTO BARCELONA—WITH
OTHER CIRCUMSTANCES THAT PARTAKE MORE OF TRUTH THAN OF DISCRETION.
Three days and three nights did Don Quixote remain with Roque, and had
he staid as many hundred years, he would not have wanted subject for
enquiry and admiration at their way of life: they lodged in one place,
dined in another; sometimes they fled from they knew not what, sometimes
waited for they knew not whom. They slept standing, and even that
slumber was often interrupted; they shifted from place to place; in a
word, their whole time was spent in appointing spies, examining
centinels, and blowing matches for their musquets, though they had but
few; for they chiefly used firelocks. As for Roque, he passed the night
by himself, in private haunts and places concealed even from the
knowledge of his own gang; for the repeated proclamations issued by the
viceroy of Barcelona, setting a price upon his head, had rendered him
restless, diffident, and fearful; so that he durst not confide in any
person whatever, being apprehensive that even his own followers would
either murder or deliver him up to justice; a life, of all others,
assuredly the most tiresome and miserable! At length, this renowned
freebooter, accompanied by Don Quixote and Sancho, and attended by six
of his own squires, set out for Barcelona, through unfrequented roads,
short cuts, and private paths, and arrived upon the strand, after it was
dark, on the eve of St. John.
Here Roque, embracing Don Quixote, and giving to Sancho the ten crowns,
which, though promised, had not hitherto been paid, took his leave and
returned to his station, after mutual protestations of friendship had
passed between him and our hero, who resolved to sit on horseback as he
was till day, which was not far off. Accordingly, they had not tarried
long in this situation, when Aurora disclosed her rosy face through the
balconies of the east, infusing vigour and seeming joy into every plant
and flower, instead of gratifying the ear, which, however, was also that
instant regaled with the sound of waits and kettle-drums, together with
the noise of morrice bells; the clatter of horses upon the pavement, and
the repetition, of ‘Clear the way!’ pronounced by the couriers who came
forth from the city. Aurora vanished before the sun; who, with a
countenance ample as a target, gradually arose from below the horizon;
then Don Quixote and Sancho, extending their view all around, perceived
the sea, which they had never before beheld, and which seemed to be
infinitely vast, and abundantly more spacious than even the lakes of
Ruydera, which they had seen in La Mancha: they likewise beheld the
gallies in the road, which, when their awnings were furled, displayed a
glorious sight of pendants, flags, and streamers, that wantoned in the
wind, and kissed and brushed the surface of the deep; while they were
surrounded with clarions, trumpets, and other sorts of musick, which
filled the air, for many leagues around, with sweet and martial accents.
Now they began to move, and forming themselves into line of battle,
exhibited the representation of a naval fight upon the tranquil bosom of
the sea. At the same time, a mock skirmish was acted on the shore, by a
great number of gentlemen, mounted on beautiful horses, who came forth
from the city, in gay attire, with splendid liveries. The soldiers of
the gallies discharged an infinite number of fire-arms, which were
answered from the wall and forts of the city; and to the great guns,
which seemed to rend the air with their tremendous sound, the midship
cannons of the gallies made a suitable reply; the joy that resounded on
board, the pleasure that appeared on shore, together with the serenity
of the air, which was sometimes disturbed by the smoke of the artillery,
seemed to infuse and engender a sudden flow of spirits and delight in
every breast. As for Sancho, he could not conceive how those great hulks
could use such a number of feet in moving through the sea.
About this time, the cavaliers so richly caparisoned, crying, hallooing,
and shouting, in the Moorish manner, came riding up to the place where
Don Quixote sat on horseback, overwhelmed with surprize and
astonishment; and one of their number, who had been apprized by Roque,
exclaimed in a loud voice, ‘Welcome to our city, thou mirrour; lanthorn,
planet, and polar star, of all chivalry in its utmost extent! Welcome,
valorous Don Quixote de La Mancha, not the false, fictitious, and
apocryphal adventurer, lately in spurious history described; but the
real, legal, and royal knight recorded by Cid Hamet Benengeli, the
flower of historians.’
Don Quixote answered not a word; nor did the cavaliers wait for his
reply; but, with their followers, began to wheel and turn, and curvet in
a circle round the knight; who, addressing himself to Sancho, ‘As these
people know us so well,’ said he, ‘I will lay a wager they have read our
history, and even that of the Arragonian, which hath been lately
printed.’ The gentleman who had at first accosted him returning, renewed
his address in these words; ‘Signior Don Quixote, be so good as to go
along with us, who are all the intimate friends and humble servants of
Roque Guinart.’ To this entreaty the knight replied, ‘If courtesy
engenders courtesy, yours, Signior Cavalier, is the daughter, or, at
least, nearly allied to that which I experienced in the gallant Roque.
Conduct me whither you please to go; my will shall, in all respects, be
conformable to yours, and I should be proud if you would employ it in
your service.’
The gentleman answered this compliment with expressions equally polite;
and all his companions surrounding the knight in a body, they, to the
musick of the waits and kettle-drums, conducted him to the city, his
entrance into which was attended with a small misfortune. That mischief,
from which all mischief is produced, ordained, that two bold and
impudent boys, more mischievous than mischief itself, should squeeze
themselves through the crowd, and approaching Rozinante and Dapple, clap
a handful of furze under the tail of each: the poor animals, feeling the
severity of this new kind of spurs, augmented the pain, by pressing
their tails more closely to their buttocks; so that, after a thousand
plunges, they came with their riders to the ground, to the unutterable
shame and indignation of Don Quixote; who, with great dispatch,
delivered the posteriors of his companion from this disagreeable
plumage; while Sancho performed the same kind office for his friend
Dapple.
The gentlemen would have willingly chastised the boys for their
presumption; but it was not in their power to give the strangers that
satisfaction; for, they had no sooner executed their purpose, than they
concealed themselves among the crowd of above a thousand youngsters who
followed the cavalcade: so that Don Quixote and Sancho were obliged to
pocket the affront; and remounting their beasts, proceeded with the same
musick and acclamation to the house of their conductor, which was large
and magnificent, and in all respects suitable to the rank of an opulent
cavalier. Here, then, we shall leave him for the present; for such is
the will of Cid Hamet Benengeli.
CHAP. X.
CONTAINING THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED HEAD—WITH OTHER TRIVIAL
INCIDENTS, WHICH, HOWEVER, MUST NOT BE OMITTED.
Don Quixote’s landlord was called Don Antonio Moreno, a wealthy
gentleman of good understanding, who loved a joke in a fair and
good-humoured way; so that finding our knight safely housed under his
roof, he began to contrive means for extracting diversion from the
madness of his guests, without prejudice to his person; for those are no
jests that give pain; nor is that pastime to be indulged which tends to
the detriment of a fellow-creature. His first step was to unarm Don
Quixote, and in that strait shamoy doublet, which we have already
painted and described, expose him to publick view in a balcony that
jetted out into one of the chief streets in the city, where he was
surveyed by the people and the children, who gazed upon him as if he had
been a monster or baboon. While he stood in this situation, the
gentlemen with the rich liveries performed their courses before him, as
if for his sake only, and not in order to celebrate the festival, they
had provided all their finery; and Sancho was ravished with the thoughts
of having so luckily found, without knowing how or wherefore, another
wedding of Camacho, another house like that of Don Diego de Miranda, and
another place equal to the duke’s castle, where he had been so
hospitably entertained.
Don Antonio had that day invited some friends to dinner, and all of them
paid particular respect to Don Quixote, whom they treated as a renowned
knight-errant, a circumstance that elevated his vanity to such a pitch,
that he could scarce contain his satisfaction; and Sancho’s conceits
flowed so fast and humourous, that all the servants of the family, and
all who heard his sallies, seemed to hang upon his lips. While he waited
at table, Don Antonio accosting him, ‘Honest Sancho,’ said he, ‘we are
informed you are such a lover of fowls and balls of forced meat, that,
when you can eat no longer, you pocket what remains for next day.’—‘No,
Signior,’ answered Sancho; ‘that is not the case, and your worship must
have been misinformed; I am a cleanly squire, and no such filthy
glutton; for my master, here present, knows very well, that we have
often passed eight whole days, without any other sustenance than an
handful of nuts or acorns. True it is, If ever the heifer is offered,
the tether is at hand; my meaning is, I eat what I get, and ride the
ford as I find it[205]. If, therefore, any person whatever hath said
that I am an exceeding glutton and foul feeder, your worship may take it
for granted that he is in a mistake; and I would tell him my mind in
another manner, if it was not for the respect I bear to the honourable
beards of this company.’—‘Assuredly,’ said Don Quixote, ‘Sancho’s
cleanliness, and moderation in eating, might be inscribed and engraved
on tables of brass, for an everlasting memorial and example to
succeeding ages. True it is, when very hungry, he may seem to be a
little voracious; for he eats with precipitation, chewing with both
sides of his jaws; but cleanliness he punctually maintains; and, while a
governor, learned to eat so delicately, that he took up grapes, and even
the grains of a pomegranate, with a fork.’—‘How!’ cried Don Antonio,
‘hath Sancho been a governor?’—‘Yes, sure,’ replied the squire; ‘and
that of an island called Barataria, which I governed according to my own
will and pleasure, for the space of ten days, during which I lost my
natural rest, and learned to despise all the governments upon earth: I,
therefore, fled from it as I would fly from the devil, and tumbled into
a cavern, from whence, though I gave myself up as a dead man, I was
brought up alive by a perfect miracle.’ Then Don Quixote gave them a
circumstantial account of Sancho’s government, which afforded
extraordinary entertainment to the whole audience.
Dinner being ended, and the table uncovered, Don Antonio took our hero
by the hand, and conducted him into a private apartment, where there was
no furniture but a table, that seemed to be of jasper, supported by one
foot of the same substance; and upon this table was placed a bust of
bronze, from the breast upwards, representing a head of one of the Roman
emperors. Don Antonio, after having traversed the room with his guest,
and more than once walked round the table, ‘Signior Don Quixote,’ said
he, ‘now that I am assured no person overhears us, as nobody listens,
and the door is bolted, I will impart to your worship one of the rarest
adventures, or rather one of the greatest rarities, that ever was known;
on condition, however, that you will deposit the secret in the most
hidden recess of your heart.’—‘I swear to the condition,’ answered Don
Quixote: ‘and, for the greater security, will put a tomb-stone over
whatever you shall communicate; for, know, Signior Don Antonio,’ (by
this time he had learned his name) ‘your worship is talking to one, who,
though he has ears to hear, has never a tongue to tattle; so that you
may securely transfuse the contents of your own breast into mine, and
take it for granted, you have ingulphed them in the abyss of
silence.’—‘On the faith of that promise,’ replied Don Antonio, ‘I will
excite your worship’s admiration with what you shall see and hear; and
I, myself, will enjoy some alleviation of the pain I have felt from
having no person to whom I could communicate the secret, which is not to
be trusted to every body’s discretion.’ Don Quixote waited with
impatience and surprize to see the result of this preamble; when his
entertainer, taking him by the hand, made him feel all around the bust,
the table, and the jasper foot upon which it was supported; then
accosting him with great solemnity of aspect: ‘This bust, Signior Don
Quixote,’ said he, ‘was made and contrived by one of the greatest
inchanters and necromancers that ever the world produced. He was, I
think, a native of Poland, and disciple of the famous Escotillo[206], of
whose knowledge such wonders are reported. As he chanced to be in this
part of the world, I took him into my house, where, in consideration of
a thousand crowns which I paid, he wrought this head, in which is
centered the surprizing power and virtue of answering every question
communicated to its ear. The master performed certain rites, erected
schemes, consulted the stars, and carefully observed the lucky and
unlucky minutes, until, at length, he brought it to that perfection
which we shall perceive to-morrow; for on Fridays it is mute, and this
being Friday, we must wait till another day: in the mean time, your
worship may consider and prepare your questions, which I know by
experience it will truly answer.’ Don Quixote was confounded and
astonished at this property and virtue of the head, and indeed, almost
tempted to disbelieve Don Antonio’s account; but, seeing how little time
was required to make the experiment, he would not mention his
incredulity; but, in very polite terms, thanked his entertainer for
having entrusted him with such an important secret. They accordingly
quitted the apartment, and Don Antonio having locked the door, returned
to the rest of the company, who were highly entertained with Sancho’s
recapitulation of many adventures and incidents to which his master had
been exposed.
The same evening, they persuaded Don Quixote to make a progress along
the streets with them, not in his armour, but in a loose coat of
tawny-coloured cloth, which would have made ice itself sweat at that
season; and, in the mean time, they directed their servants to amuse
Sancho within doors, that he might not come forth and spoil their
diversion. The knight was not mounted on Rozinante, but accommodated
with an ambling mule, gaily caparisoned; and, upon the back of his coat
or cloak, they, without his knowledge, pinned a parchment inscribed in
large letters, ‘This is Don Quixote de La Mancha.’ The procession no
sooner began, than this scroll attracted the eyes of the people; and,
when they read it aloud, the knight was astonished to find himself
known, and hear his name repeated by all the spectators. He, therefore,
turning to Don Antonio, who rode by his side, ‘Great,’ said he, ‘is the
prerogative that centers in knight-errantry, the professors of which are
known and celebrated through all the corners of the earth: take notice,
Signior Don Antonio, how my name is repeated by the very boys who never
saw me before.’—‘It is even so, Signior Don Quixote,’ replied Antonio;
‘for, as light cannot be shut up and concealed, so neither can virtue
remain unknown; and, that which is acquired by the profession of arms,
shines with superior splendor over all other acquisitions.’
While our knight thus proceeded amidst the acclamation of the crowd, a
certain Castilian happened to pass, and reading the scroll, exclaimed
aloud, ‘Now, the devil take thee, Don Quixote de La Mancha! how hast
thou made shift to come so far without expiring under some of those
infinite drubbings which thy ribs have received? A madman thou surely
art: and if the defect of thine understanding affected thyself only, and
was confined within the gates of thy own madness, the misfortune would
be the smaller; but thy frenzy is of such a peculiar nature as to turn
the brains of all those with whom thou hast any commerce or
communication; witness these gentlemen by whom thou art now accompanied.
Return to your own house, Mr. Goose-cap, mind your family-concerns; look
after your wife and children; and discard these vain maggots, which have
eaten and burrowed into your brain, and skimmed off the very cream of
your understanding.’—‘Hark ye, brother,’ said Don Antonio, ‘go about
your business; and do not pretend to offer your advice to those who want
none of your counsel: Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha is renowned for
wisdom, and we who accompany him are not so mad as you may imagine.
Virtue ought to be honoured wheresoever it is found: therefore be gone
with a vengeance; and seek not to meddle in those affairs with which you
have no concern.’—‘’Fore God! your worship is in the right,’ replied the
Castilian: ‘advising that honest man is kicking against the pricks.
Nevertheless, I am extremely sorry that the good sense, which, they say,
this madman displays in some things, should be unprofitably wasted
through the canal of his knight-errantry: and may that vengeance which
your worship imprecated, overtake me and all my posterity, if, from this
day forwards, I give advice to any person whatever, asked, or unasked,
even though I should live to the age of Methusalem!’ So saying, this
counsellor went away, and the procession went on; but the throng was so
great, occasioned by the boys and other idle people who pressed in to
read the scroll, that Don Antonio was fain to take it off, on pretence
of freeing the knight from some other annoyance.
In the twilight they returned to the house of Don Antonio, where they
found a ball prepared by his lady, who was a woman of birth, beauty,
good humour, and discretion; and had invited a number of friends to come
and honour her guest, and enjoy the strange peculiarities of his
madness: they accordingly came, and after supper, at which they were
entertained in a very splendid manner, the ball began about ten o’clock.
Among the company were two ladies who had a turn for satire, accompanied
with a great deal of humour; and who, though persons of unblemished
honour, indulged themselves with uncommon freedom of behaviour, in order
to keep up the spirit of the diversion, that it might not flag. This
pair of female wags persisted with incredible eagerness, in dancing with
Don Quixote, until not only his body, but even his very soul, seemed
fainting with fatigue; and nothing could be more ludicrous than the
figure of the knight, so long, so lank, so lean, so yellow, capering
about in a straight shamoy doublet, with an air unspeakably aukward, and
legs that were never designed for such exercise. The young ladies
affected to court his good graces by stealth; and he privately treated
their advances with disdain, until, finding them become more and more
pressing, he pronounced aloud, ‘_Fugite partes adversæ!_ disturb not my
repose, ye unwelcome thoughts! avaunt, ladies, with your unruly desires;
for she who is queen of mine, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, will not
consent that I should surrender or be subject to any other than her
own!’
[Illustration: Don Quixote Dancing.]
So saying, he sat down upon the floor in the middle of the hall, quite
exhausted and demolished with the violent exercise he had undergone; so
that Don Antonio gave orders for his being carried forthwith to bed; and
the first person who touched him in obedience to this order, was his own
squire Sancho Panza; who, as he endeavoured to raise him upon his legs,
could not help reprehending him in these words: ‘What a plague tempted
your worship to fall a capering? Did you suppose every valiant man was
as nimble as an harlequin, or that all knights-errant must needs be
masterly dancers? If that was your opinion, I say you were much
deceived: for there be men who would rather undertake to slay a giant,
than to cut a caper. Had it been the shoe-slapping horn-pipe, I could
have supplied your place; for I slap like a jerfaulcon; but as for your
figured dances, I know not a stitch of the matter.’ With this address
Sancho raised a laugh from the assembly, and his master from the floor,
and carrying the knight to bed, covered him up very warm, that he might
sweat out the cold caught in dancing.
Next day Don Antonio thought proper to try the experiment of the
inchanted head, and for this purpose entered the apartment, accompanied
by Don Quixote, Sancho, a couple of friends, with our hero’s two waggish
partners, who had staid all night with Antonio’s lady. The door being
fast bolted, he explained the property of the bust, after having laid
injunctions on the company to keep the secret, and declared this was the
day on which he intended to make the first trial of the virtue contained
in the inchanted head[207]. Indeed, except his two friends, no other
person knew the mystery; and if they had not been previously informed by
Don Antonio, they would certainly have shared in the same admiration
which necessarily seized the rest who were present at the execution of a
scheme so artfully contrived.
The first who approached the ear of this inchanted head was Don Antonio
himself, who said in a low voice, but so as to be overheard by all
present, ‘Tell me, O head, by thy inherent virtue, what are my present
thoughts?’ To this interrogation the head, without moving its lips,
replied in a clear and distinct voice, which was heard by the whole
company, ‘I do not pretend to investigate the thoughts.’ Those who knew
not the plot were confounded at hearing this answer, as they plainly
perceived there was not a living soul under the table or in the whole
apartment to utter this reply. Don Antonio addressing himself again to
it, asked, ‘How many persons are here in company?’ and was answered in
the same key, ‘You and your wife[208], two friends of yours, and two of
her companions, with a famous knight called Don Quixote de La Mancha,
and his squire Sancho Panza by name.’ Here was fresh amazement! here was
their hair standing on end with affright; while Don Antonio, stepping
aside from the table, said, ‘This is enough to convince me that I have
not been deceived by the person of whom I purchased thee; thou sage,
speaking, oracular, and admirable head! Let some other person go and
question it at will.’
As women are usually very curious and impatient, the next who approached
was one of the two ladies, and her question was this: ‘Tell me, O head,
what I shall do to be extremely beautiful?’ She received for answer, ‘Be
extremely virtuous;’ and replied, ‘I ask no more.’ Then her companion
advanced, saying, ‘I want to know, sagacious head, whether or not I am
fondly beloved by my husband?’ and she was answered, ‘That you will
learn by observing his behaviour.’ The married lady retired, observing
that it required no magick to solve that question; for, in effect, an
husband’s behaviour to his wife will always declare the state of his
affection. The third person that approached the table was one of Don
Antonio’s friends, who asked, ‘What am I?’ and when the voice answered,
‘Thou knowest best,’ he replied, ‘That is not the purport of my
question; I desire thou wilt tell me if thou knowest my name?’—‘Yes,’
said the oracle; ‘I know thou art Don Pedro Noriez.’—‘Then I am
satisfied,’ answered Don Pedro; ‘for that answer is sufficient to
convince me, O head, that thou knowest every thing.’ Then he withdrew,
and was succeeded by the other gentleman; who, advancing to the table,
‘Tell me, O head,’ said he, ‘the wish of my eldest son?’—‘I have already
owned that I cannot dive into the thoughts of men,’ said the voice;
‘nevertheless, I will tell thee, that the wish of thy son is to bury his
father.’—‘That is indeed his wish,’ replied the cavalier; ‘I see it with
my eye, I touch it with my finger, and do not chuse to ask another
question.’ Don Antonio’s lady approached, saying, ‘I know not how to
interrogate thee, O head; but I should be glad to know if I shall long
enjoy my good husband?’—‘Yes, you will,’ replied the voice; ‘his healthy
constitution, and moderate way of life, promise a long succession of
years and a good old age, of which many men deprive themselves by their
own intemperance.’
Don Quixote now took his turn, and addressing himself to the bust, ‘Tell
me then, whatsoever thou art,’ said he, ‘is my account of what befel me
in the cave of Montesinos really fact, or only the illusion of a dream?
Will the flagellation of my squire Sancho be certainly accomplished? and
will the disinchantment of Dulcinea take effect?’—‘With respect to the
cave,’ replied the oracle, ‘much may be said; the adventure partakes
both of truth and illusion. The flagellation of Sancho will proceed
slowly; but Dulcinea will be disinchanted in process of time.’—‘And that
is all I desire to know,’ cried the knight; ‘for, in the disinchantment
of Dulcinea, I shall reckon all my wishes at once happily fulfilled.’
The last interrogator was Sancho; who, approaching the table, ‘Pray,
good Mr. Head,’ said he, ‘shall I peradventure obtain another
government? shall I ever rise above the humble station of a squire? and
lastly, shall I ever see again my wife and children?’ To these questions
he received these answers: ‘If it be thy fate to return to thy own
house, thou wilt govern thy family, and see thy wife and children; and
in ceasing to serve, thou wilt cease to be a squire.’—‘’Fore God! an
excellent response!’ cried Sancho; ‘that I could have foretold myself,
and the prophet Perogrullo could have said no more.’—‘What answer would
you have, you beast?’ said Don Quixote; ‘is it not sufficient that the
responses delivered by the head, correspond with the questions you have
asked?’—‘It shall suffice,’ replied the squire; ‘but I wish it had
explained itself a little more fully, and told me some more of my
fortune.’
Thus ended the questions and answers, but not the admiration of the
whole company; except Antonio’s two friends, who had been let into the
secret; which Cid Hamet Benengeli will now explain, that the world may
not be kept longer in suspense, or imagine that any necromantick
talisman or extraordinary mystery was contained in this wonderful bust.
He gives us, therefore, to understand, that Don Antonio Moreno, in
imitation of such another head which he had seen at Madrid, contrived by
a statuary, ordered this to be made in his own house for his private
amusement, and with a view to surprize the vulgar; and in this manner
was the whole fabricated. The table was of wood painted and varnished
like jasper, and the foot that supported it of the same materials,
carved into the resemblance of four eagles talons, which kept it firm
and steady in its position. The head formed from the medal of one of the
Roman emperors, and covered with a copper colour, was hollow, as well as
the table, in which it was so nicely fixed, that no eye could perceive
the joining; the foot was likewise hollow, and answered to the neck and
breast of the bust; and the whole corresponed with another chamber
below, by means of a concealed tin pipe which passed through the bust,
the table, and the foot. In this lower apartment, communicating with
that of the inchanted head, did the person who uttered the responses fix
his mouth to the pipe, so as that the voice ascended and descended in
distinct and articulate sounds, and it was impossible for any person to
discover the deception. The respondent was Antonio’s nephew, a student
of acute parts, and a well-cultivated understanding, who, being
previously informed by his uncle of the number and names of the persons
whom he intended to introduce into the chamber of the inchanted head,
was enabled to answer the first question with great facility and
precision; and to the rest he replied by conjectures which were equally
ingenious and discreet.
Cid Hamet moreover relates, that for ten or twelve days the virtue of
this wonderful machine continued in full force; but a report diffusing
itself through the city, that Don Antonio had in his house an inchanted
head, which could answer all manner of questions, he began to be afraid
that these tidings might reach the ears of the vigilant centinels of our
faith; for which reason he explained the whole affair to the fathers of
the inquisition, who forbade him to proceed with the deception, and gave
orders that the head should be broke in pieces, lest it should give
umbrage to the superstitious vulgar: but, in the opinion of Don Quixote
and Sancho Panza, it passed for a head that was really inchanted and
oracular; though it had given more satisfaction to the knight than the
squire.
The gentlemen of the city, in complaisance to Don Antonio, and for the
entertainment of Don Quixote, whom they wanted to furnish with an
opportunity of discovering his diverting follies, appointed a running at
the ring to be performed in six days; but this was prevented by an
incident which will be explained in the sequel. Meanwhile, the knight
was desirous of going out and viewing the city at leisure, and afoot;
fearing that, should he appear on horseback, he would again be
persecuted by the boys and vulgar. He accordingly went forth, attended
by Sancho, and two of Antonio’s servants, whom their master had chosen
for that purpose; and chancing to lift up his eyes in passing through
one of the streets, he saw inscribed over a gate, in capital letters,
‘This is a printing-house;’ a circumstance which gave him uncommon
satisfaction, as hitherto he had never seen a printing-press, and longed
much to know something of that art: he therefore entered the house with
all his train, and saw people casting off in one part, correcting in
another, composing in a third, revising in a fourth, and, in short, the
whole œconomy of a large printing-house. Going up to one box, he asked
what was doing; and being informed by the workmen, expressed his
admiration, and proceeded to a second. Among others, he went up to one,
and putting the same question, the workman replied, ‘Signior, that there
gentleman,’ pointing to a grave person of a very prepossessing
appearance, ‘has translated a book from the Tuscan into the Castilian
language, and I am now composing it for the press.’—‘What is the name of
the book?’ said Don Quixote. ‘Signior,’ answered the author, ‘the book
in the original is called, _Le Bagatelle_.’—‘And what is the
signification of Le Bagatelle in our language?’ resumed the knight. ‘_Le
Bagatelle_,’ replied the author, ‘is, as if we should say, in Castilian,
_Juquetes_[209]: and, although the title of the book be so humble, it
includes and contains a great deal of excellent and substantial
writing.’—‘I am not altogether ignorant of the Tuscan language,’ said
Don Quixote, ‘for I value myself upon singing some stanzas of Ariosto;
but, pray tell me, Signior, (and what I am going to ask is not with any
intention to sound your genius, but merely to satisfy my own curiosity)
have you ever, in composing your books, met with the word
_pignatta_?’—‘Yes, frequently,’ replied the author. ‘And how do you
translate it into Castilian?’ resumed the knight. ‘How should I
translate it,’ said the other, ‘but by the word _olla_?’—‘Body o’me!’
cried Don Quixote, ‘what progress you have made in the knowledge of the
Tuscan idiom! I will lay a good wager that you translate _piace_ into
_plaze_, _piu_ into _mas_, _su_ into _arriba_, and _giu_ into
_abaxo_.’—‘Certainly,’ said the author, ‘because these words of the two
languages correspond with one another.’—‘Notwithstanding all your
learning,’ replied the knight, ‘I could almost swear you are hitherto
unknown to the world, which is ever averse to remunerate a flourishing
genius, and works of merit. What talents are lost, what abilities
obscured, and what virtues are undervalued, in this degenerate age! yet,
nevertheless, a translation from one language to another, excepting
always those sovereign tongues the Greek and Latin, is, in my opinion,
like the wrong side of Flemish tapestry, in which, though we distinguish
the figures, they are confused and obscured by ends and threads, without
that smoothness and expression which the other side exhibits: and to
translate from easy languages, argues neither genius nor elocution, nor
any merit superior to that of transcribing from one paper to another;
but from hence I would not infer that translation is not a laudable
exercise, for a man may employ his time in a much worse and more
unprofitable occupation. At any rate, my observation cannot affect our
two famous translators, Doctor Christoval de Figueroa, in Pastor Fido,
and Don Juan de Xaurigui in Aminta, two pieces they have so happily
executed, as to render it doubtful which is the original and which the
translation: but pray, Signior, is this book printed on your own
account, or have you sold the copy to a bookseller?’—‘I publish it on my
own account,’ replied the author, ‘and expect to gain a thousand ducats
at least upon the first impression, of which there will be two thousand
copies, that will fetch six rials a piece in the turning of a
straw.’—‘That is a very clear and comfortable reckoning,’ answered Don
Quixote; ‘but you seem to be very little acquainted with the outgoings
and the incomings, the schemes, conspiracies, and cabals of booksellers:
when you find your back burdened with two thousand copies, I give you my
word both your mind and body will be terribly fatigued; especially if
the books should be harsh, or a little deficient in point of
spirit.’—‘What!’ said the author, ‘your worship thinks, then, I ought to
offer my performance to a bookseller, who would give me three maravedis
for the copy, and insist upon it that he had done me a favour into the
bargain? I do not publish with a view to acquire reputation in the
world, where, thank Heaven, I am already well known by my works; I print
for profit, without which, reputation is not worth a doit.’—‘God send
you good luck, Signior,’ answered the knight; who, advancing to another
box, where he saw the corrector employed on the sheet of a book,
intitled, ‘The Light of the Soul;’—‘Aye,’ said he, ‘these are the books
that ought to be printed; for, although there is already a pretty large
number of this kind in print, numerous are the sinners for whose use
they are intended; and for such multitudes who are in darkness, an
infinite number of lights is required.’ He proceeded in his enquiry, and
when he asked another corrector the name of a book on which he saw him
at work, he understood it was the second part of The Sage Hidalgo Don
Quixote de La Mancha, written by a certain person a native of
Tordesillas. ‘I have heard of this performance,’ said the knight; ‘and
really, in my conscience, thought it was long before this time burned
into ashes, or pounded into dust, for the impertinence it contains; but,
as we say of hogs, “Martinmas will come in due season[210].” Works of
imagination are the more useful and entertaining the nearer they
approach to truth, and the more probability they contain; and even
history is valued according to its truth and authenticity.’
So saying, he quitted the printing-house with some marks of displeasure;
and that same day, Don Antonio proposed that he should go on board, and
see the gallies in the road; a proposal which was extremely agreeable to
Sancho, who had never seen the inside of a galley in the whole course of
his life; and he sent a message to inform the commodore of his intention
to visit him in the evening, with his guest the renowned Don Quixote de
La Mancha, whose name and person were already well known to this
commander and all the citizens of Barcelona. What passed during this
visit, will be related in the following chapter.
Footnote 205:
Literally, ‘Use the times as I find them.’
Footnote 206:
This was Michael Scot, who lived in the thirteenth century, and was
such an adept in medicine, mathematicks, chymistry, alchymy, and other
branches of natural knowledge, that the vulgar looked upon him as a
wizard or magician. But as this philosopher died in 1291, and this
conversation between Don Antonio and our knight must have happened
after the year 1605, when the first part of Don Quixote was licensed,
how could the disciple of Scot be in the house of Don Antonio? Yet
this anachronism might easily pass upon Don Quixote, as it related to
matters of inchantment.
Footnote 207:
But in this very chapter he has already told Don Quixote, that he knew
the virtue of the head from experience.
Footnote 208:
Antonio’s wife must have been here before the others entered: for she
is not in the list of those who went in with her husband.
Footnote 209:
Trifles.
Footnote 210:
About Martinmas they killed the hogs designed for bacon.
CHAP. XI.
OF THE MISFORTUNE WHICH BEFEL SANCHO PANZA ON BOARD OF THE GALLIES,
AND THE RARE ADVENTURE OF THE BEAUTIFUL MOOR.
Manifold and profound were the self-deliberations of Don Quixote on the
response of the inchanted head, without his being able to discover the
deceit; and the result of all his reflections was the promise of
Dulcinea’s being disinchanted, on which he reposed himself with the most
implicit confidence. This was the goal of all his thoughts, and he
rejoiced, in full assurance of seeing it suddenly accomplished. As for
Sancho, although he abhorred the office of a governor, as we have
already observed, he could not help wishing for another opportunity of
issuing out orders and seeing them obeyed; a misfortune which never
fails to attend the exertion of power, even though founded on mock
authority.
In a word, that very evening his landlord Don Antonio Moreno, and his
two friends, went on board of the gallies with Don Quixote and Sancho;
and the commodore being apprized of the visit intended by two such
famous personages, no sooner perceived them coming towards the sea-side,
than he ordered the awnings to be struck and the musick to play; the
barge was hoisted out, covered with rich carpets, and furnished with
velvet cushions, and the minute Don Quixote embarked, the cannon
a-midships of the captain-galley was discharged, and the others followed
her example. When the knight ascended the accommodation-ladder, on the
starboard side, the whole crew saluted him with three cheers, a
compliment usually paid to persons of the first quality; and the
general, for by this name we shall henceforth call him, who was a noble
Valentian, presented his hand, and embracing Don Quixote, ‘This day,’
said he, ‘will I mark with a white stone, as one of the happiest I shall
ever enjoy, on account of seeing the renowned Signior Don Quixote de La
Mancha, in whom the whole worth of knight-errantry is cyphered and
concentered.’ No less courteous and polite was the reply of Don Quixote,
who rejoiced above measure at seeing himself treated with such respect.
The whole company having ascended the poop, which was very gaily
ornamented, and seated themselves upon benches, the boatswain repaired
to the gangway, and making a signal with his whistle for all the slaves
to strip, was obeyed in an instant, to the no small discomposure of
Sancho, who was terrified at the sight of so many naked backs; nor did
his apprehension abate, when he saw the awning stretched with such
incredible dispatch, that he thought all the devils in hell had assisted
in the operation. Yet this was nothing but cakes and gingerbread to what
I am going to relate.
The squire sat upon the stentril, close by the aftermost rower on the
starboard side; who, in consequence of the previous instructions he had
received, lifted up Sancho in his arms, and while the whole crew of
slaves stood up, alert with the prospect of the joke, tossed him like a
tennis-ball to his fellow, who in the same manner committed him to a
third; and thus he was bandied forwards on the starboard side, from
slave to slave, and bench to bench, with such expedition, that poor
Panza lost his eyesight entirely, and firmly believed himself in the
possession of the fiends: nor did they desist from this exercise, until
he was reconveyed by the larboard-side to the poop, where this miserable
object lay bruised, breathless, and covered with a cold sweat, and in
such perturbation of spirits that he scarce knew what he had undergone.
Don Quixote seeing Sancho flying in that manner without wings, asked the
general, if it was a ceremony practised upon every person at his first
going on board; for, in that case, as he himself did not intend to make
profession of a seafaring life, he had no ambition to perform such an
exercise; and he vowed to God, if any man should attempt to seize him,
as a fit subject for flying, he would spurn his soul out of his body; in
confirmation of which resolve, he started up, and laying his hand upon
his sword, put himself in a posture of defence.
At that instant the awning was furled, and the main-yard lowered with
such a terrible noise, that Sancho imagined the heavens were tore from
off their hinges and tumbling down upon his head, which he forthwith
shrunk between his legs in an agony of terror: nor was all serene in the
breast of Don Quixote; who, while his legs trembled under him, shrugged
up his shoulders, and changed colour. The crew having hoisted the
main-yard, with the same expedition and noise which were made in its
descent; while they themselves continued as silent as if they had been
altogether without breath or utterance, the boatswain piped all hands to
weigh anchor, and leaping into the middle of the gangway, began to ply
their shoulders with his supple-jack, or bull’s-pizzle, and the galley
by little and little stood out to sea.
Sancho beholding such a huge body, moved by so many painted feet, for
such he took the oars to be, said within himself, ‘This, indeed, is
really inchantment; but what my master takes for it is no such matter.
What have these miserable wretches done to be scourged in this manner?
and I wonder how the devil that single man, who skips up and down,
piping and whistling, dares whip and flog so many people; now, on my
conscience, I believe this is hell itself, or purgatory at least!’
Don Quixote perceiving with what attention the squire observed every
circumstance, ‘Friend Sancho,’ said he, ‘with what facility and dispatch
might you now, if you please, strip yourself from the middle upwards,
and taking your place among these gentlemen, finish at once the
disenchantment of Dulcinea; for, amidst the distress of so much good
company, you would hardly be sensible of bodily pain: and who knows, but
the sage Merlin would reckon each of these stripes, which are bestowed
with goodwill, equivalent to ten of these, which, at the long run, you
must receive from your own hand.’ The general had just opened his mouth
to enquire about the nature of this flagellation, and Dulcinea’s
disenchantment, when a mariner came and told him, that the fort of
Munjuy had made signal of a rowing bark upon the coast, to the westward.
He no sooner received this intelligence, than advancing into a gang-way,
‘Pull away, my lads!’ cried he, ‘let not this corsair brigantine escape;
for certainly she must be a vessel belonging to Algiers which the castle
has discovered.’
The other three gallies ranging alongside of the admiral to receive
orders, the general directed that two of them should stand out to sea,
and the other keep along shore, so that the Algerine should not escape.
The slaves immediately began to ply their oars, which impelled the
gallies with such velocity, that they seemed to fly; while the two that
put to sea, at the distance of two miles, discovered a bark, which, from
the view, they judged to have fourteen or fifteen banks, and their
conjecture was right. This vessel no sooner descried the gallies, than
she made the best of her way, in hope of being able to escape by her
nimbleness; but she was baffled in this expedition; for the admiral
being one of the swiftest gallies that ever sailed, came up with her
apace, and the captain of the brigantine perceiving plainly that he
could not escape, desired the rowers to quit their oars and strike, that
he might not by his obstinacy incense the officer who commanded the
gallies: but fate, which conducted their affairs in another manner,
ordained, that even after the admiral was within hearing, and ordered
them to strike, two Toraquis, that is, a couple of drunken Turks,
belonging to the brigantine, discharged two firelocks, which killed as
many soldiers who chanced to be in the head of the galley; an incident
which was no sooner perceived by the general, than he swore he would not
leave one person alive in the brigantine, which he ordered his people to
board with all expedition; nevertheless, she, for the present, escaped
under the oars, and the galley had such way, that she shot a-head to a
good distance, so that the people on board the chace, seeing themselves
in danger of being destroyed, hoisted their sails and put before the
wind, while the galley tacked and pursued with all her force of canvas
and of oars. The diligence and dexterity of the Algerines did not turn
out so much to their advantage, as their presumption conduced to their
prejudice; for, the admiral running along-side, grappled with the
brigantine, and took the whole crew prisoners. The other two gallies
came up, and all returned with the prize to the road, while a great
concourse of people stood on the beach, to see the contents of the ship
they had taken. The general anchored close by the shore, and
understanding the viceroy of the city was among the spectators, he
ordered the barge to be hoisted out to fetch him on board, and commanded
the yard to be lowered for the convenience of hanging the master of the
brigantine, and the other Turks he had taken, to the number of
thirty-six, all stout young fellows, and mostly Turkish musqueteers.
When he asked who commanded the brigantine, one of the prisoners, who
was afterwards known to be a Spanish renegado, answered in Castilian,
‘That there young man is our master;’ pointing to one of the most
beautiful and genteel youths that human imagination can conceive, whose
age to all appearance was under twenty. ‘Ill-advised dog,’ said the
general, ‘what induced thee to kill my soldiers, when thou sawest it was
impossible to escape? Is that the respect which is due to
admiral-gallies? Dost thou not know, that rashness is not valour, and
that doubtful hopes ought to make men resolute, but not desperate?’
The Moor was about to reply, but the general could not at that time hear
his answer, because he was obliged to go and receive the viceroy, who
had just entered the galley, with some of his own servants, and a few
other persons. ‘General,’ said this nobleman, ‘you have had a fine
chace.’—‘Aye, so fine,’ replied the other, ‘that your excellency shall
see it presently hoisted up at the yard-arm.’—‘For what reason?’ said
the viceroy. ‘I mean, the master of the brigantine and his crew,’
answered the commodore, ‘who have, against all law, reason, and custom
of war, killed two of the best soldiers that ever served on board; so
that I have sworn to hang all the prisoners, especially this youth who
was their captain,’ pointing to the handsome Moor; who, by this time,
waited for execution, with his hands tied, and a rope about his neck.
The viceroy, surveying this unhappy prisoner, (whose beauty, genteel
mien, and humility, served him instead of a recommendation) was seized
with the desire of saving his life, and approaching him, ‘Tell me,
corsair,’ said he, ‘art thou a Turk, Moor, or Renegado?’ To this
question the youth answered, in the Castilian tongue, ‘I am neither
Turk, Moor, or Renegado.’—‘Then, what art thou?’ resumed the viceroy. ‘A
Christian woman,’ replied the captive. ‘A Christian woman,’ cried the
viceroy, ‘in such dress and situation! this is a circumstance more
worthy of admiration than of credit.’—‘Gentlemen,’ said the youth, ‘be
so good as to suspend my execution, until I shall have recounted the
particulars of my story; and that small delay will not much retard the
accomplishment of your revenge.’ What heart could be so obdurate as not
to relent at this address; so far at least, as to hear the story of the
afflicted youth? The general, accordingly, told him he might proceed
with his relation, but by no means expect pardon for the crime of which
he was convicted. With this permission he began in these terms.
‘I was born of that nation, more unfortunate than wise, which hath been
lately overwhelmed by a sea of trouble: in other words, my parents were
Moors; and, in the torrent of their misfortune, I was carried by two
uncles into Barbary, notwithstanding my professing myself a Christian;
not one of those impostors, who are so only in appearance, but a true
and faithful Roman catholick. This declaration did not avail me with
those who had the charge of our miserable expulsion; nor was it believed
by my uncles, who, on the contrary, supposing it no more than a lye, and
expedient, by which I thought to obtain permission to remain in my
native country, hurried me along with them in a forcible manner. My
mother was a Christian, and my father a prudent man of the same
religion: I sucked in the catholick faith when an infant at the breast,
and was trained up in the ways of virtue; nor do I think I have ever
given the least marks of Mahometanism, either in word or deed. In equal
pace with my virtue, (for I really think my life was virtuous) my
beauty, such as it is, hath ever walked; and notwithstanding the
extraordinary reserve in which I lived, concealed from publick view, it
was my fate to be seen by a young cavalier, called Don Gregorio, eldest
son of a gentleman who had an estate in our neighbourhood. How he became
desperately enamoured of me, and how I grew fond of him to distraction,
it would be tedious to relate, considering my present situation,
standing as I am, with the fatal cord between my tongue and throat: I
shall therefore only observe, that Don Gregorio resolved to accompany me
in my exile, and actually mingled with those Moors who joined us in
different places, without being discovered; for he spoke the language
perfectly well. Nay, in the course of our voyage, he insinuated himself
into the friendship of my two uncles, with whom I travelled; for my
father, who was a man of prudence and foresight, no sooner heard the
first mandate for our expulsion, than he went abroad to foreign kingdoms
in quest of an asylum for his family, leaving a large quantity of
pearls, valuable jewels, with some money, in crusadoes and doubloons of
gold, concealed and interred in a certain place, to which I alone was
privy; and laying strong injunctions upon me to avoid touching this
treasure, in case we should be exiled before his return. I obeyed his
commands in this particular, and as I have already observed, set sail
with my uncles, relations, and friends, for Barbary; and the place in
which we settled was Algiers, whereas we might as well have taken up our
habitation in hell itself. The king hearing of my beauty, and the report
of my wealth, which was partly fortunate for my designs, ordered me to
be brought before him, and asked from what part of Spain I had come, and
what money and jewels I had brought to Barbary. I told him the place of
my nativity, and gave him to understand that the money and jewels were
buried under-ground: but that I should easily recover the whole hoard,
provided I could return alone for that purpose. This information I gave,
that he might be more blinded by his own avarice than my beauty: but,
during the conversation, a person told him that I was accompanied in my
voyage by one of the most beautiful and genteel youths that ever was
seen. I immediately understood that this was no other than Don Gasper
Gregorio, whose beauty far exceeds the fairest that ever was extolled;
and was exceedingly afflicted at the prospect of danger to which the
dear youth might be exposed; for, among those barbarous Turks, a boy or
handsome youth is more prized and esteemed than any woman, let her be
never so beautiful.
‘The king forthwith ordered his people to bring Don Gregorio into his
presence, and in the mean time asked me if his person actually
corresponded with this report. Then I, as if inspired by Heaven,
answered in the affirmative; though at the same time I assured him, it
was no youth, but a woman like myself; and begged leave to go and dress
her in her natural attire, which would shew her beauty to the best
advantage, and enable her to appear in his presence with less confusion.
He said I might go, in good time, and that some other day he would
concert measures for my return into Spain, to bring off the hidden
treasure. Thus dismissed, I went and explained to Don Gaspar the risque
he would run in appearing as a man, and dressing him in the habit of a
Moorish woman, accompanied him that same evening to the presence of the
king, who was seized with admiration at sight of her beauty, and
resolved to keep her for a present to the Grand Signior. In order to
avoid the danger to which this young creature might be exposed in his
seraglio, from his own inordinate desires, he ordered her to be lodged,
quartered, and attended, in the house of some Moorish ladies, whither
she was immediately conveyed; and what we both felt at parting, for I
cannot deny that I love him tenderly, I leave to the confederation of
lovers who have experienced such a cruel separation.
‘The king afterwards contrived a scheme for my returning to Spain in
this brigantine, accompanied by two native Turks, the very persons who
killed your soldiers, and that Spanish renegado,’ (pointing to him who
spoke first) ‘who I know is a Christian in his heart, and is much more
desirous of remaining in Spain than of returning to Barbary; the rest of
the crew are Moors and Turks, whom we engaged as rowers. The two
insolent and rapacious Turks, without minding the order they received to
land the renegado and me in the habit of Christians, with which we were
provided on the first part of Spain they could make, resolved previously
to scour the coast, with a view to take prizes, fearing that should they
set us on shore beforehand, we might meet with some accident which would
oblige us to discover that there was a corsair on the coast, and they of
consequence run the risk of being taken by the gallies. At night we
descried this road, though we did not perceive the four gallies, and
being discovered, were taken as you see. In a word, Don Gregorio remains
in the habit of a woman among the Moorish ladies, at the imminent hazard
of his life, and here I stand fettered and manacled, in expectation, or
rather in fear, of losing that existence of which I am already tired.
This, Signior, is the end of my lamentable story, which is equally true
and unfortunate; and all I beg of you is, that I may die like a
Christian, seeing, as I have already observed, I have in no shape been
guilty of the fault which hath been charged upon our unhappy nation!’
So saying, she stood silent, her lovely eyes impregnated with tears,
which few of the spectators could behold unmoved; and the viceroy, whose
disposition was humane and compassionate, unable to speak, advanced to
the place, and with his own hands released those of the beautiful Moor.
While this Christian Moor related her peregrinations, an ancient pilgrim
who had followed the viceroy into the galley, kept his eyes close fixed
upon her countenance, and her story was no sooner finished than he threw
himself at her feet, which he bathed with his tears, while in accents
interrupted with a thousand sighs and groans, he exclaimed, ‘O, Anna
Felix! my unhappy daughter; I am thy father Ricote, who have returned in
search of thee to Spain, because I could not live without thee, who art
dear to my affection even as my own soul!’
At these words, Sancho opened his eyes, and raised his head, which he
had hitherto hung in manifest despondence, reflecting upon the disgrace
of his flying adventure; and looking at the pilgrim, recognized that
same Ricote whom he had encountered the very day on which he quitted his
government: he likewise recollected the features of his daughter, who
being by this time unbound, mingled her tears with those of her father,
whom she tenderly embraced; and then the old man, addressing himself to
the viceroy and general, ‘My lords,’ said he, ‘this is my daughter; not
so happy in the incidents of her life, as in her name, which is Anna
Felix, with the addition of Ricote, as famous for her beauty as for her
father’s wealth. I left my country in quest of a place where we should
be received and hospitably entertained; and having found such an asylum
in Germany, I returned as a pilgrim in the company of some people of
that nation; hoping to find my daughter, and fetch away the wealth which
I had buried in the earth: my daughter was gone, but I recovered my
hoard, which is in my possession; and now, by this strange vicissitude
which you have seen, I have retrieved that treasure which is the chief
object of my affection, I mean, my beloved daughter. If our innocence
and mutual tears can have influence enough upon your integrity and
justice, to open the gates of mercy, O let it prevail in favour of us,
who never offended you even in thought, nor in any shape corresponded
with the designs of our people, who have been justly expelled.’ Here
Sancho interposing, ‘I am very well acquainted with Ricote,’ said he,
‘and know all he has said about his daughter Anna Felix to be true; but
with respect to that other trash of his comings and goings, and his good
or evil designs, I neither meddle nor make.’ Every person present
expressed admiration at this strange incident; and the general turning
to the daughter, ‘Every tear you let fall,’ said he, ‘conspires in
preventing the performance of my oath. Live, beauteous Anna Felix, the
term of your life prescribed by Heaven; and let those insolent and
presumptuous wretches suffer punishment for the crimes they have
committed.’
So saying, he ordered the two Turks, who had killed his soldiers, to be
hanged at the yard’s-arm; but the viceroy earnestly entreated him to
spare their lives, as their crime was rather the effect of madness than
of preconceived design. The general granted his request, especially as
he did not think it commendable to execute revenge in cold blood.
Then they began to contrive some method for extricating Don Gaspar
Gregorio from the danger in which he was involved; and Ricote offered to
the value of above two thousand ducats, which he had about him in pearls
and jewels, to any person who could effect his deliverance. Many schemes
were projected; but none of them seemed so sensible as that which was
presented by the fore-mentioned Spanish renegado, who offered to return
to Algiers in some small bark of about six banks, manned with
Christians, as he knew where, how, and when he might land with safety,
and was well acquainted with the house in which Don Gaspar remained. The
general and the viceroy were dubious of the renegado, and scrupled to
trust him with the command of Christian rowers; but Anna Felix was
satisfied of his integrity, and her father said he would engage to
ransom them, should they chance to be taken and enslaved.
Matters being settled on this footing, the viceroy went ashore, after
having laid strong injunctions on Don Antonio Moreno, who had invited
the Moorish beauty and her father to his house, to make much of his
guests, and command whatever his own palace could afford for their
entertainment. Such was the charity and benevolence which Anna’s beauty
had infused into his heart!
CHAP. XII.
GIVING THE DETAIL OF AN ADVENTURE
WHICH GAVE DON QUIXOTE MORE MORTIFICATION
THAN HE HAD RECEIVED FROM ALL THE MISFORTUNES
WHICH HAD HITHERTO BEFALLEN HIM.
Don Antonio’s lady, as the history relates, was extremely pleased at the
sight of Anna Felix, whom she received with great cordiality, equally
enamoured of her beauty and discretion; for, indeed, the Moor excelled
in both; and here she was visited by all the people of fashion in town,
as if by toll of bell. As for Don Quixote, he gave Antonio to
understand, that in his opinion, the plan they had formed for the
deliverance of Don Gregorio was more dangerous than expedient; and that
it would be much more effectual to set him on shore in Barbary, with his
arms and horse; in which case he would bring home the young gentleman in
despight of the whole Moorish race, as heretofore Don Gayferos had
delivered his wife, Melisandra. Sancho, hearing this proposal,
‘Consider,’ said he, ‘that Signior Don Gayferos delivered his wife from
captivity on the main land, and carried her off to France through the
high road; but, in this case, even granting we should have the good luck
to release Don Gregorio from his confinement, we shall not be able to
convey him hither to Spain, because the sea is between us and
Barbary.’—‘There’s a remedy for all things but death,’ replied the
knight: ‘for, if there is a bark by the shore, we can go aboard, in
opposition to the whole universe.’—‘Your worship describes it a very
easy matter,’ said the squire; ‘but, between Said and Done, a long race
may be run; and, for my part, I would stick to the offer of the
renegado, who seems to be a very honest person, and a man of
compassionate bowels.’ Don Antonio said, that if the renegado should
fail in his undertaking, they would certainly find some means for
transporting the great Don Quixote to Barbary; and in two days the
renegado departed in a light bark with six oars on a side, manned with a
crew of approved valour. In two days after her departure the gallies
likewise set sail for the Levant, after the general had begged and
obtained the viceroy’s promise to let him know the success of the scheme
they had contrived for the deliverance of Don Gregorio, together with
the fate of the lovely Anna Felix.
One morning, Don Quixote rode forth upon the strand, completely armed;
for he often observed, arms were his ornaments, and fighting his
diversion, and he never cared to appear in any other dress; and as he
pranced along, he saw coming towards him a knight, likewise armed
cap-a-pee, having a full moon painted on his shield. This apparition was
no sooner within hearing, than he addressed his discourse to Don
Quixote, pronouncing aloud, ‘Renowned cavalier, never enough applauded
Don Quixote de La Mancha, I, the Knight of the White Moon, whose
unheard-of exploits, may, peradventure, recal him to your remembrance,
am come with hostile intent to prove the force of thine arm; to convince
and compel thee to own that my mistress, whosoever she is, exceeds in
beauty thy Dulcinea del Toboso, beyond all comparison: which truth, if
thou wilt fairly and fully confess, thou wilt avoid thy own death, and
spare me the trouble of being thy executioner; but shouldst thou presume
to engage with me in single combat, and be overcome, all the
satisfaction I demand is, that thou wilt lay aside thine arms, desist
from travelling in quest of adventures, and quitting the field, retire
to thine own habitation, where thou shalt continue a whole year, without
drawing a sword, in comfortable peace and profitable tranquillity, which
may tend to the augmentation of thy fortune, and the salvation of thy
precious soul. On the other hand, if it be my fate to be vanquished, my
life shall exist at thy discretion; thine shall be the spoils of all my
arms and horse, and to thee shall be transferred all the fame of my
atchievements: consider which of these alternatives thou wilt chuse, and
answer me on the spot; for, on this very day, the affair must be
dispatched and determined.’
Don Quixote was astonished and confounded, as well at the arrogance of
the Knight of the White Moon, as at the cause of his defiance; and,
after a short pause of recollection, replied with a solemn tone, and
countenance severe, ‘Sir Knight of the White Moon, whose exploits have
not as yet reached mine ear, I dare say you have never seen the
illustrious Dulcinea; for, had you enjoyed that happiness, I know you
would not have dreamed of making such a rash demand: one glimpse of her
would have undeceived you perfectly, and plainly demonstrated, that
there never was, or will be, beauty comparable to that which she
possesses. I, therefore, without giving you the lye, but only affirming
that you are egregiously mistaken, accept of your defiance on the
conditions you have proposed, and will fight you forthwith, before the
day you have pitched upon shall be elapsed; with this exception,
however, that I will by no means adopt the fame of your exploits;
because I know not how, where, or wherefore they were atchieved, and am
content with my own, such as they are: chuse your ground therefore, and
I will take my share of the field; and let St. Peter bless what God
shall bestow.’
The Knight of the White Moon being discovered from the city, and seen
talking with Don Quixote, notice was given to the viceroy; who,
supposing it was some new adventure contrived by Don Antonio Moreno, or
some other gentleman of the town, went down to the strand, accompanied
by the said Don Antonio, and a number of other cavaliers, and reached
the spot just as Don Quixote wheeled about on Rozinante to measure his
distance. Seeing both parties ready for returning to the encounter, he
placed himself in the middle between them, and demanded the cause that
induced them so suddenly to engage in single combat. The Knight of the
White Moon answered, that it was the precedency of beauty; and briefly
repeated his proposal to Don Quixote, with the mutual acceptation of the
conditions proposed. Then the viceroy taking Don Antonio aside, asked if
he knew this Knight of the White Moon; and if this was a joke which he
intended to perpetrate upon Don Quixote. Don Antonio assured him that he
knew not the stranger, nor could guess whether the challenge was given
in jest or earnest. He was a little perplexed, and dubious whether or
not he should allow the battle to be fought; but, as he could not
conceive it to be any thing else than a preconcerted joke, he retired,
saying, ‘Valiant knights, seeing there is no other remedy, but you must
confess or die; and Signior Don Quixote persists in denying what you, of
the White Moon, presume to affirm; I leave you to your fate, and God
stand by the righteous.’
The stranger, in very polite terms, and well-selected phrase, thanked
the viceroy for the permission he had granted; and his example was, in
this particular, followed by Don Quixote, who, having recommended
himself heartily to Heaven and his Dulcinea, according to his usual
practice when he engaged in any combat, turned about to take a little
more ground, in imitation of his antagonist; then, without receiving a
signal for engaging, either by sound of trumpet, or any other
instrument, both parties wheeled about at the same instant. The Knight
of the White Moon having the fleeter horse, coming up with his
adversary, before this last had run one third of his career, lifting up
his lance purposely that he might not wound Don Quixote, whom, however,
he encountered with such an irresistible shock, that both he and
Rozinante came to the ground with a very dangerous fall: the victor
instantly sprung upon him, and clapping his lance to his vizor,
‘Knight,’ said he, ‘you are vanquished, and a dead man, unless you
acknowledge the terms of the defiance.’ To this address the battered and
astonished Don Quixote, without lifting up his beaver, replied in a
languid tone and feeble voice, that seemed to issue from a tomb,
‘Dulcinea del Toboso is the most beautiful woman in the world, and I the
most unfortunate knight on earth; and, as it is not reasonable that my
weakness should discredit this truth, make use of your weapon, knight,
and instantly deprive me of life, as you have already divested me of
honour.’—‘By no means’ said he of the White Moon: ‘let the fame of my
Lady Dulcinea’s beauty flourish in full perfection; all the satisfaction
I ask is, that the great Don Quixote shall retire to his own house, and
there abide for the space of one year, or during the term which I shall
prescribe, according to the articles agreed upon before we engaged.’
This whole dialogue was overheard by the viceroy, Don Antonio, and a
number of other people who were present, and they were also
ear-witnesses of the answer made by Don Quixote, who said, that as the
victor had demanded nothing to the prejudice of Dulcinea, he would
comply with his proposal like a true and punctual knight.
He of the White Moon hearing his declaration, turning his horse, and,
bowing courteously to the viceroy, entered the city at an half gallop,
whither he was followed by Don Antonio, at the desire of the viceroy,
who entreated him to make enquiry, and obtain satisfactory information
concerning this romantick stranger. In the mean time, they raised up Don
Quixote; and uncovering his face, found him pale as death, and his
forehead bedewed with a cold sweat, while Rozinante lay motionless, from
the rough treatment he had received. As for Sancho, he was so
overwhelmed with sorrow and vexation, that he knew not what to say or
do: this unlucky incident seemed to be a dream, and he looked upon the
whole scene as a matter of inchantment. Seeing his lord and master
overcome, and obliged to lay aside his arms for the space of a whole
year, he imagined the splendor of his exploits was eclipsed, and all
those fair hopes, produced from his late promise, dispersed in the air,
as smoak is dissipated by the wind, in a word, he was afraid that
Rozinante was maimed for ever, and his master’s bones dislocated; and
even thought it would be a great mercy if he was not in a worse
condition.
Finally, the viceroy ordered his people to bring a sedan, in which the
knight was carried to the city, accompanied by that nobleman, who longed
very much to know who this Knight of the White Moon was, by whom Don
Quixote had been left in such a cruel dilemma.
CHAP. XIII.
WHICH DISCOVERS WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE MOON WAS, AND GIVES AN
ACCOUNT OF THE DELIVERANCE OF DON GREGORIO—WITH OTHER INCIDENTS.
Don Antonio Moreno followed the Knight of the White Moon, who was also
accompanied, and even persecuted by a number of boys, until they had
housed him in one of the city inns, which was at the same time entered
by Don Antonio, who burned with impatience to know what he was; and,
without ceremony, intruded himself into the apartment to which the
stranger retired, with his squire, to be unarmed. He of the White Moon,
perceiving how much the gentleman’s curiosity was inflamed, and that he
was resolved to stick close by him until it should be satisfied,
‘Signior,’ said he, ‘I am not ignorant that you are come hither on
purpose to know who I am; and as there is no reason why I should refuse
you that satisfaction, I will, while my servant is employed in taking
off my armour, explain the whole mystery, without the least reserve: you
must know, then, Signior, that I am called the Batchelor Sampson
Carrasco, a townsman of Don Quixote de La Mancha, whose madness and
extravagance has given great concern to all his acquaintance, and to me
in particular. Believing that his recovery would depend upon his living
quietly at his own habitation, I projected a scheme for compelling him
to stay at home; and, about three months ago, sallied forth upon the
highway, as a knight-errant, assuming the appellation of the Knight of
the Mirrours, fully resolved to engage and vanquish Don Quixote, without
hurting him dangerously, after I should have established, as the
condition of our combat, that the vanquished should be at the discretion
of the victor: and, as I deemed him already conquered, my intention was
to demand that he should return to his own house, from which he should
not stir for the space of one year, in which time I hoped his cure might
be effected. But fate ordained things in another manner; I was conquered
and overthrown, and my design entirely frustrated; he proceeded in quest
of new adventures, and I returned vanquished, ashamed, and sorely
bruised by the dangerous fall I had sustained in battle: nevertheless, I
did not lay aside the design of returning in quest of him to overthrow
him in my turn, and you have this day seen my intention succeed; for he
is so punctual in observing the ordinances of chivalry, that he will,
doubtless, perform his promise in complying with my demand. This,
Signior, is an account of the whole affair: nor have I omitted one
circumstance; and I beg you will not discover and disclose to Don
Quixote who I am, that my Christian intention may take effect, and the
poor gentleman retrieve his judgement, which would be altogether
excellent, were he once abandoned by those mad notions of
chivalry.’—‘God forgive you, Signior,’ cried Don Antonio, ‘for the
injury you have done the world, in seeking to restore to his senses the
most agreeable madman that ever lived! Do not you perceive, Signior,
that the benefit resulting from the cure of Don Quixote will never
counterbalance the pleasure produced by his extravagances? But, I
imagine, all the care and industry of Signior Batchelor will hardly be
sufficient to effect the recovery of a man who is so thoroughly mad,
and, if it was no breach of charity, I would say, May Don Quixote never
be cured; for, in his recovery, we not only lose his own diverting
flights, but also those of his squire Sancho Panza; and any of these
conceits are such as might convert Melancholy herself into merriment and
laughter: nevertheless, I shall put a seal upon my lips, and say
nothing, that I may see whether or not I shall judge aright, in
supposing that the diligence of Signior Carrasco will not answer his
expectation.’ The batchelor answered, that all things considered, the
business was already in a fair way; and, he did not doubt, would be
blessed with a prosperous issue. Don Antonio having made a tender of his
services, and taken his leave, Sampson ordered his arms to be fastened
upon a mule; then mounting the horse on which he engaged Don Quixote, he
quitted the city the same day, on his return to his own country, in
which he arrived without having met with any incident worthy of being
recorded in this authentick history. Don Antonio made the viceroy
acquainted with all the particulars he had learned from Carrasco, which
afforded no great pleasure to that nobleman, as the retirement of Don
Quixote would destroy all that entertainment enjoyed by those who had
the opportunity of observing his madness.
Six whole days did Don Quixote lie a-bed, pensive, melancholy, mauled,
and meagre, revolving in his imagination, and meditating incessantly on
the unfortunate incident of his overthrow; notwithstanding the
consolations of Sancho, who, among other arguments of comfort, exhorted
his worship to hold up his head, and dispel his sorrow, if possible.
‘Your worship,’ said he, ‘has reason to thank God, that, though you are
overthrown, your ribs are still whole: you know that, in those matters,
we must take as well as give; and where there are hooks we do not always
find bacon—A fig for the physician, seeing we do not want his help in
the cure of this distemper: let us return to our habitation, and leave
off travelling about in quest of adventures, through lands and countries
unknown; nay, if we rightly consider the case, I am the greatest loser,
though your worship is the most roughly handled; for though, when I
quitted the government, I likewise quitted all thought of governing, I
did not give up the desire of being a count, which will never be
fulfilled if your worship should renounce your design of being a king,
and quit the exercise of chivalry; in that case all my hopes must vanish
into smoke.’—‘Peace, Sancho,’ said the disconsolate knight; ‘the term of
my penance and retirement will not exceed a year, at the end of which I
will return to the honourable duties of my profession, and then we shall
find kingdoms to conquer and countships to bestow.’—‘The Lord give ear,
and my sin never hear!’ cried Sancho: ‘and I have always heard it said,
that righteous hope is better than unjust possession.’
Their conversation was interrupted by Don Antonio; who, entering the
apartment with marks of infinite satisfaction, exclaimed—‘Money for my
good news, Signior Don Quixote: Don Gregorio, and the renegado who
undertook his deliverance, are now in the road—in the road! they are, by
this time, in the viceroy’s palace, and will be here in an instant.’ The
knight was a little revived by these tidings, and replied—‘In truth, I
was going to say, I should have been glad to hear that the scheme had
not succeeded, so that I should have been obliged to cross over into
Barbary, where I would, by the strength of my arm, have given liberty
not only to Don Gregorio, but also to all the Christian captives in
Algiers—but what am I saying, miserable caitif? am not I vanquished? am
not I overthrown? am not I excluded from the exercise of arms for the
space of a whole year? wherefore, then, promise what I cannot perform?
wherefore praise my own valour, when I am fitter for handling a distaff
than for wielding a sword?’—‘No more of that, good Signior,’ replied the
squire; ‘Let the hen live though she has the pip: To-day for thee, and
to-morrow for me: as to those matters of encounters and dry bastings,
they are not to be minded; for he that falls to-day may rise to-morrow,
if he does not chuse to lie a-bed; I mean, if he does not chuse to
despair, without endeavouring to recover fresh spirits for fresh
adventures. Get up, therefore, I beseech your worship, and receive Don
Gregorio; for the people are in such an uproar, that by this time he
must be in the house.’
This was really the case: Don Gregorio and the renegado having given the
viceroy an account of the voyage and success of the undertaking, the
young gentleman, impatient to see his dear Anna Felix, was come with his
deliverer to the house of Don Antonio; and although Don Gregorio was in
woman’s apparel when they delivered him from Algeirs, he had exchanged
it in the vessel with another captive by whom he was accompanied; but,
in any dress whatsoever, his appearance was such as commanded
friendship, service, and esteem; for he was exceedingly beautiful, and
seemingly not above seventeen or eighteen years of age. Ricote and his
daughter went forth to receive him; the father with tears of joy, and
Anna with the most modest deportment: nor did this fair couple embrace
one another; for, where genuine love prevails, such freedom of behaviour
is seldom indulged. The beauty of Don Gregorio and his mistress excited
the admiration of all the spectators; while silence spoke for the lovers
themselves, and their eyes performing the office of the tongue,
disclosed the joy of their virtuous thoughts. The renegado recounted the
stratagem and means he had used for the deliverance of the youth; who
likewise entertained the company with a detail of the dangers and
distresses to which he was exposed among the women with whom he had been
left; and this task he performed not with diffused prolixity, but in
elegant and concise terms, which plainly proved that his discretion far
exceeded his years. Finally, Ricote liberally rewarded the rowers and
the renagado, who re-united and re-incorporated himself with the church,
and from a rotten member, became fair and sound, by dint of
mortification and sincere repentance.
Two days after the arrival of Don Gregorio, the viceroy consulted with
Don Antonio about the means of obtaining permission for Anna Felix and
her father to reside in Spain, as they were persuaded that no
inconvenience could arise from such indulgence to a daughter who was so
perfectly a Christian, and a father so righteously disposed. Don Antonio
offered to negotiate this affair at court, whither he was pressingly
called by his own occasions; observing, that by dint of interest and
presents many difficulties are removed. Ricote, who was present at this
conversation, said, ‘There is nothing to be hoped from favour or
presents; neither tears, entreaties, promises, nor presents, will avail
with the great Don Bernandino de Velasco, Count de Selaza, to whom his
majesty has entrusted the charge of our expulsion; for, although he
really tempers justice with mercy, as he perceives the whole body of our
nation contaminated and gangrened, he applies the actual cautery instead
of the mollifying ointment; so that, by his diligence, prudence,
sagacity, and terrifying threats, he has sustained upon his able
shoulders the weight of that vast project which he has successfully put
in execution, without suffering his Argus eyes, which are always alert,
to be blinded by all our industry, stratagem, fraud, and solicitation.
He is resolved that none of our people shall remain concealed; lest,
like an hidden root, they may hereafter bud and bring forth fruit which
may be poisonous to Spain, already cleansed and delivered from those
fears that arose from the prodigious number of Moors: an heroick
resolution of the great Philip III. who has, at the same time, displayed
the most consummate wisdom, in committing the execution of the scheme to
the courage and ability of Don Bernandino de Velasco.’—‘Nevertheless,’
said Don Antonio, ‘I will, while at court, use all possible means in
your behalf, and leave the determination to Heaven; Don Gregorio shall
go along with me, and console his parents for the grief they have
suffered from his absence; Anna Felix shall stay with my wife, or be
boarded in a monastery; and, I know, my lord viceroy will be pleased to
lodge honest Ricote until we shall see the issue of my negociation.’ The
viceroy agreed to every circumstance of the proposal; but Don Gregorio,
being informed of the scheme, declared he neither could nor would leave
his charming Anna Felix. At length, however, he assented to the
proposal, resolving to go and visit his parents, with whom he would
concert measures for returning to fetch away his mistress; so that Anna
Felix remained with Don Antonio’s lady, and Ricote staid in the
viceroy’s palace.
The hour of Antonio’s departure arrived; and, in two days, was followed
by that of Don Quixote, whose fall would not permit him to travel before
that time. The parting of the lovers was attended with weeping, sighing,
sobbing, and swooning; and Ricote offered to accommodate Don Gregorio
with a thousand crowns; but the young gentleman would take but five,
which he borrowed of Don Antonio, promising to repay them at court. Thus
they set out together for Madrid; and soon after, as we have already
observed, Don Quixote and Sancho departed from Barcelona; the knight
unarmed, in a travelling dress, and the squire trudging a-foot, because
Dapple carried the armour of his master.
CHAP. XIV.
TREATING OF THAT WHICH WILL BE SEEN BY HIM WHO READS,
AND KNOWN BY HIM WHO HEARS IT READ.
Don Quixote, in leaving Barcelona, turned about to survey the fatal spot
in which he had fallen, and thus exclaimed: ‘Here Troy once stood! here,
by misfortune, not by cowardice, was I despoiled of all the glory I had
acquired! Here did I feel the vicissitudes of fortune! here all my
atchievements were eclipsed! and, finally, here fell my fortune, never
more to rise!’ Sancho hearing this effusion, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘it is
the part of a valiant man to bear with patience his sufferings and
adversity, as well as to enjoy his prosperity with good humour. I judge
from my own feeling; for, if I was merry when a governor, I am not
melancholy now that I am a poor squire travelling a-foot; and I have
often heard, that she we call Fortune is a drunken, fickle female, and
so blind withal, that she sees not what she does, and knows not whom she
is abusing, or whom exalting.’—‘Sancho,’ answered the knight, ‘thou art
very philosophical, and hast spoke with great discretion, which I know
not where thou hast learned; I can tell thee, however, there is no such
thing as fortune in the whole world; nor do those things which happen,
whether good or evil, proceed from chance, but solely from the
particular providence of Heaven; and hence comes the usual saying, That
every man is the maker of his own fortune. I at least have been the
maker of mine, though not with sufficient prudence, and therefore my
presumptuous hopes miscarried. I ought to have considered that
Rozinante’s weakness could not resist the weight and magnitude of my
adversary’s horse; in a word, I tried my fortune, did what I could,
found myself vanquished and overthrown, and though I lost mine honour, I
neither did nor can forfeit my integrity, and the merit of fulfilling my
promise; while I was a knight-errant valiant and intrepid, my hand and
my performance gave credit to my exploits; and now that I am no more
than a pedestrian squire, my word shall be confirmed by the
accomplishment of my promise. Make haste, then, friend Sancho, let us
return to our own country, and pass the year of our probation, and
during that term of confinement acquire fresh vigour and virtue, to
resume the never by me forgotten exercise of arms.’—‘Signior,’ answered
the squire, ‘the pastime of trudging a-foot is not quite so pleasant, as
to move and instigate me to travel a great pace; let us leave these arms
of yours, hanging like a malefactor on some tree; and then I, occupying
the back of Dapple, with my feet no longer in the mire, we may travel
just as your worship shall desire or demand; but, to think that I can
make long marches a-foot, is a vain supposition.’—‘Thou art in the
right, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘let my arms be suspended in form
of a trophy; and beneath, or around them, we will engrave upon the tree,
an inscription like that which appeared under the armour of Orlando—
‘“Let him alone these arms displace,
Who dares Orlando’s fury face.”’
‘A most excellent device!’ cried the squire; ‘and if it were not that we
should feel the want of him in our journey, it would not be amiss to
hang up Rozinante at the same time.’—‘Nevertheless,’ replied Don
Quixote, ‘neither Rozinante nor my arms will I suffer to be hung up; for
it shall never be said of me, that a good service met with a bad
remuneration.’—‘Your worship talks very much to the purpose,’ said
Sancho; ‘for according to the opinion of wise men, The pannel ought not
to suffer for the fault of the ass; and since your worship alone was to
blame for the bad success of the last adventure, you ought to punish
yourself only, and not vent your indignation upon your bloody and
already rusted arms, or upon the meekness of Rozinante, or, lastly, upon
the tenderness of my feet, in desiring them to walk at a pace which they
cannot maintain.’
In this conversation, and other such discourse, they passed that whole
day and the next four, without meeting with any incident that could
interrupt their journey: on the fifth, which was a holiday, they entered
a village where they saw a number of people making merry at the gate of
an inn; and when Don Quixote approached, a countryman exclaimed, ‘One of
these gentlemen travellers, who are unacquainted with the parties, shall
decide our wager.’ The knight assuring them he would give his opinion
freely and honestly, as soon as he should be informed of the matter, the
peasant replied, ‘Worthy Signior, this here is the case: One of our
townsmen, who is so fat and bulky that he weighs little less than three
hundred weight, has challenged one of his neighbours, a thin creature,
not half so heavy, to run with him one hundred yards with equal weight.
The match was accordingly made; but when the challenger was asked how
the weight of both should be made equal, he insisted on the other’s
carrying the difference in bars of iron, by which means, Limberham would
be upon a footing with Loggerhead.’—‘By no means,’ cried Sancho,
interposing before his master could answer one word, ‘to me, who have
been lately a governor and a judge, as all the world knows, it belongs
to resolve these doubts, and give my opinion in every dispute.’—‘Speak,
then, in happy time, friend Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘for my judgment
is so confounded and disturbed, that I am hardly fit to throw crumbs to
a cat.’ With this permission, Sancho addressing himself to the peasants,
who had assembled around him, and waited his decision with open mouths,
‘Brothers,’ said he, ‘the demand of Loggerhead will not hold water, and
is indeed without the least shadow of justice; for if what all the world
says be true, namely, that the challenged party has the choice of the
weapons, it is not reasonable that the said Loggerhead should pretend to
chuse such arms as will encumber his adversary, and secure the victory
to himself; it is therefore my opinion, that Loggerhead, the challenger,
shall scrape, shave, pare, polish, slice, and take away, one hundred and
fifty pounds weight of his own individual flesh from different parts of
his body, according to his own fancy and convenience; so that, leaving
the other moiety, which will be sufficient to counterbalance his
antagonist, the parties may run with equal advantage.’—‘’Fore God!’
cried one of the countrymen, hearing this wise decision, ‘the gentleman
has spoken like a saint, and given sentence like a canon; but, sure I
am, Loggerhead will not part with an ounce, much less one hundred and
fifty pounds of his flesh.’—‘The best part of the joke,’ replied another
peasant, ‘is, that the match cannot be run; for Limberham will not touch
a bar of iron, and Loggerhead will not pare himself; let us therefore
spend the half of the money in treating these gentlemen at the tavern
with some of the best wine; and, when it rains, let the shower fall upon
my cloak.’—‘Gentlemen,’ said Don Quixote, ‘I thank you for your
invitation, but I really cannot tarry a moment; for melancholy thoughts
and unlucky adventures oblige me to appear uncivil on this occasion, and
to travel faster than the ordinary pace.’ So saying, he clapped spurs to
Rozinante, and set on; leaving them astonished in consequence of having
seen and observed the strange figure of the master, and the sagacity of
the servant, for such they supposed Sancho to be. One of them could not
help saying, ‘If the servant is so wise, what must the master be? I’ll
lay a wager if they go to study at Salamanca, they will in a trice be
created alcaldes of the court; for it is nothing but children’s play,
studying and poring, and having interest and good luck: and when a man
thinks least about the matter, he finds himself with a white rod in his
hand, or a mitre upon his head.’
That night our adventurer and his squire passed in the middle of an open
field, under the spacious cope of heaven; and next day, proceeding on
their journey, they saw coming towards them a man on foot, with a
javelin or half-pike in his hand, and a wallet on his back;
circumstances from which they judged he was a post or courier. As he
advanced he quickened his pace, and running to Don Quixote, embraced his
right thigh, for he could reach no higher, exclaiming, with marks of
extraordinary satisfaction, ‘O my good Signior Don Quixote! how will the
heart of my lord duke be rejoiced when he knows your worship is
returning to his castle, where he still continues with my lady
duchess!’—‘Friend,’ said the knight, ‘I do not recollect your features,
nor do I know who you are, unless you will be pleased to tell
me.’—‘Signior Don Quixote,’ replied the courier, ‘I am my lord duke’s
lacquey Tosilos, who refused to fight with your worship concerning the
marriage of the duenna’s daughter.’—‘God in heaven protect me!’ cried
the knight, ‘is it possible that you are he whom my enemies the
enchanters transformed into that same lacquey you mention, to deprive me
of the glory of that combat?’—‘No more of that, worthy Signior,’ replied
the post; ‘there was no inchantment in the case, nor any sort of
transformation; I was as much the lacquey Tosilos when I entered the
lists, as when I left them. I thought the girl handsome, and therefore
would have married her without fighting, but the event did not answer my
expectation. Your worship was no sooner gone from the castle, than my
lord duke ordered me to be severely bastinadoed, for having contradicted
the instructions he had given me before I entered the lists; and this is
the upshot of the whole affair: the girl is by this time a nun, Donna
Rodriguez is gone back to Castile, and I am now bound for Barcelona with
a packet of letters from his grace to the viceroy. If your worship is
inclined to take a small draught of good wine, though not very cool, I
have here a calabash full of the best, and some slices of Tronchon
cheese, which will serve as provocatives and rouzers of thirst, if
perchance it should be asleep.’—‘Your invitation is accepted,’ cried
Sancho; ‘truce with your compliments and skink away, honest Tosilos,
maugre and in despite of all the inchanters of the Indies.’—‘Verily,
Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘thou art the most insatiate glutton in the
universe, and the most ignorant animal upon earth: but, as thou art not
persuaded that this courier is inchanted, and no other than a
counterfeit Tosilos, thou mayst tarry along with him and fill thy belly,
and I will jog on at a slow pace until thou shalt overtake me.’ The
lacquey smiled at his infatuation, unsheathed his calabash, unwalletted
his cheese, and producing a small loaf, he and Sancho sat down upon the
grass, where in peace and harmony they dispatched and discussed the
contents of the wallet with great perseverance and good-will, and even
licked the packet, because it smelled of cheese. During the repast,
Tosilos said to the squire, ‘Doubtless, friend Sancho, thy master is
bankrupt in common-sense.’—‘How, bankrupt!’ answered Panza; ‘he owes no
man a farthing, but pays like a prince, especially where madness is the
current coin; I see the matter plain enough, and tell him my opinion
freely: but to what purpose? Now, indeed, he is going home in despair,
for having been vanquished by the Knight of the White Moon.’ Tosilos
earnestly begged he would recount that adventure; but Sancho declined
the talk, observing, that it would be unmannerly to let his master wait
for him; though at their next meeting he should have more leisure. He
accordingly started up, and shaking the crumbs from his garment and
beard, bade adieu to Tosilos; then driving Dapple before him, soon came
up with his master, whom he found waiting for him under the shade of a
tree.
CHAP. XV.
OF THE RESOLUTION WHICH DON QUIXOTE TOOK TO BECOME A SHEPHERD,
AND LEAD A PASTORAL LIFE
UNTIL THE TERM OF HIS CONFINEMENT SHOULD BE ELAPSED—
WITH OTHER INCIDENTS TRULY ENTERTAINING.
If Don Quixote was perplexed with cogitation before his overthrow, much
more was he fatigued by his own thoughts after his late misfortune.
Under the shade of a tree, as we have already observed, did he remain,
and there he was stung with reflections that swarmed like flies about
honey; some dwelling upon the disinchantment of Dulcinea, and others
revolving plans for the life he was to lead in his compulsive
retirement. When Sancho joined him, and began to expatiate upon the
liberal disposition of Tosilos, ‘Is it possible, O Sancho,’ said the
knight, ‘that thou still believest that man to be the individual
lacquey? One would think thou hadst forgot that thy own eyes have seen
Dulcinea converted and transformed into a country wench, and the Knight
of the Mirrours into the Bachelor Carrasco, by the wicked arts of those
inchanters who persecute my virtue. But, tell me now didst thou ask
Tosilos how Providence hath disposed of Altisidora? Hath she bewailed my
absence, or already consigned to oblivion those amorous thoughts by
which she was tormented during my residence at the castle?’—‘My
thoughts,’ answered Sancho, ‘were not such as allowed me to ask these
childish questions. Body O me! Signior, is your worship at present in a
condition to enquire about other people’s thoughts, especially those you
call amorous?’—‘Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘you must consider there is a
wide difference between the suggestions of love, and those of gratitude:
a gentleman may very well be insensible to love; but, strictly speaking,
he can never be ungrateful. Altisidora, in all appearance, loved me to
distraction: she, as thou very well knowest, made me a present of three
night-caps; she bewailed my departure, loaded me with curses and
reproach, and, in spite of maiden shame, complained of me in publick;
undoubted proofs of my being the object of her adoration; for the
indignation of lovers usually vents itself in maledictions. I had no
hopes to give, nor treasures to offer; all my affections are yielded to
Dulcinea; and the treasures of knights-errant are like those of the
fairies, altogether phantom and illusion: all, therefore, that I can
return, is a kind remembrance, without prejudice, however, to the memory
of Dulcinea, who is greatly aggrieved by thy remissness in delaying to
scourge and chastise that flesh which I hope will be a prey to the
wolves; seeing thou seemed more inclined to reserve it for the worms,
than to use it in behalf of that poor distressed lady.’—‘Signior,’
answered the squire, ‘if the truth must be told, I cannot persuade
myself that the whipping of my posteriors can have any effect in
disenchanting those who are inchanted, no more than if we should anoint
the shins to cure the head-ache; at least, I will venture to swear that
in all the histories your worship has read concerning knight-errantry,
you have never found that any person was disinchanted by such a
whipping: but be that as it may, I will lay it on when I have time,
convenience, and inclination, to make free with my own flesh.’—‘God
grant thou mayst,’ said Don Quixote; ‘and Heaven give thee grace to
understand and be sensible of the obligation thou liest under, to assist
my mistress; who, as thou art mine, is thine also.’
With such conversation they amused themselves in travelling, until they
arrived at the very spot where they had been overturned by the bulls;
when Don Quixote recognizing the ground, ‘This is the meadow,’ said he,
‘where we met the gay shepherdesses and gallant swains, who sought to
renew and re-act the pastoral Arcadia, a project equally original and
ingenious; in imitation of which, shouldst thou approve of the scheme,
we will assume the garb and employment of shepherds during the term of
our retirement. I will purchase some sheep, together with all the
necessary implements of a pastoral life, and taking the name of
Quixotiz, while thou shalt bear that of the swain Pancino; we will
stroll about through mountains, woods, and meadows, singing here,
lamenting there, drinking liquid chrystal from the gelid springs, the
limpid rills, and mighty rivers. The lofty oaks will shed upon us
abundance of their delightful fruit; the trunks of hardest cork trees
will yield us seats; the willows will afford us shade; the rose perfume;
the extended meadow, carpets of a thousand dyes; the pure serenity of
air will give us breath; the moon and stars will grant us light in spite
of darkness; our singing will inspire delight; our lamentations, mirth;
Apollo, verses; and Love himself, conceits to render us immortal and
renowned, not only in the present age, but also to the latest
posterity.’—‘Odds tens!’ cried Sancho, ‘such a life will square, aye,
and be the very corner-stone of my wishes: the Batchelor Sampson
Carrasco and Master Nicholas the barber, as soon as they have a glimpse
of it, will wish to join us in the scheme, and turn shepherds for our
company; and God grant that the curate himself may not take it in his
head to enter the fold; for he is a merry companion, and a great friend
to good fellowship.’—‘Thou hast a very good notion,’ said the knight;
‘and if the batchelor shall be inclined to join our pastoral
association, as he doubtless will, he may take the appellation of the
shepherd Sansonino, or of the swain Carrascon: Nicholas the barber may
be called Niculoso, as old Boscan called himself Nemoroso: and as for
the curate, I know not what title we can confer upon him, except some
derivative from his own name, such as the shepherd Curiambro. For the
nymphs of whom we must be enamoured, there is plenty of names to chuse;
but seeing that of my mistress will suit as well with a shepherdess as
with a princess, I need not give myself the trouble to invent any other
that might be more proper; as for thee, Sancho, thou mayest give thy
mistress what appellation will please thy own fancy.’—‘I have no
intention,’ replied the squire, ‘to give her any other than that of
Teresona, which will fit her fatness to an hair, as well as be agreeable
to her own name Teresa; especially as in celebrating her in verse, I
shall disclose my chaste desires, without going in search of fine bread
in a neighbour’s house: the curate would be in the wrong to chuse a
shepherdess, because he ought to set a good example to his flock; and as
for the batchelor, if he has any such inclination, Let him please his
own soul, without lett or controul.’
‘Good Heaven! friend Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘what a life shall we
lead! how will our ears be regaled with pipes and bagpipes of Zamora,
tambourines, timbrels, and rebecks! and if these different kinds of
musick be reinforced with the sound of the albogues, we shall have a
full concert of all the pastoral instruments.’—‘And pray what are the
albogues?’ said Sancho, ‘I never saw nor heard them named before, in the
whole course of my life.’—‘Albogues,’ answered the knight, ‘are plates
of brass resembling candlesticks, the hollow parts of which being
clashed together produce a sound, if not ravishing or harmonious, at
least not disagreeable nor unsuited to the rusticity of the bagpipe and
tabor. The name of _albogues_ is Moorish, as are all the words in our
language beginning with _al_; for example, _almoaca_, _almorcar_,
_alhombra_, _alguazil_, _alucima_, _almacen_, _alcanzia_, and a few
others; and we have only three Moorish words ending in _i_, namely,
_borcegui_, _zaquicami_, and _maravedi_; as for _alheli_ and _alsaqui_,
they are known to be Arabick, as well from their beginning with _al_, as
for their ending in _i_: these observations I have made, by the bye, in
consequence of having mentioned _albogues_, which recalled them to my
remembrance. But, to return to our scheme, nothing will conduce so much
to the perfection of it, as my having a talent for versification, as
thou very well knowest, and the batchelor’s being an excellent poet. Of
the curate I shall say nothing; though I would lay a good wager that his
collars and points are truly poetical: and that Master Nicholas is in
the same fashion I do not at all doubt; for people of his profession are
famous for making ballads and playing on the guittar. For my own part, I
will complain of absence; thou wilt extol the constancy of thy own love;
the swain Carrascon will lament the disdain of his mistress; the curate
Curiambro chuse his own subject; and every thing proceed in such a
manner as to fulfil the warmest wishes.’
To this effusion Sancho replied, ‘Verily, Signior, I am such an unlucky
wretch, that I am afraid the time will never come when I shall see
myself in that blessed occupation. O what delicate wooden spoons shall I
make when I am a shepherd! O what crumbs and cream shall I devour! O
what garlands and pastoral nick-nacks shall I contrive! and though these
may not, perhaps, add much to my reputation for wisdom, they will not
fail to convince the world of my ingenuity. My daughter Sanchica shall
bring our victuals to the fold; but ’ware mischief! the wench is buxom,
and there are some shepherds more knavish than simple; I would not have
her come out for wool and go home shorn. Those same amours, and unruly
desires, are gratified in the open field as well as in the city chamber,
in a shepherd’s cot as well as in a royal palace. The sin will cease
when the temptation is removed; The heart will not grieve for what the
eye does not perceive; and, What prayers ne’er can gain, a leap from a
hedge will obtain.’ ‘No more of your proverbs, Sancho,’ said Don
Quixote; ‘any one of those thou hast repeated is sufficient to explain
thy meaning; and I have often exhorted thee to be less prodigal of old
saws, and keep them more under command; but, I see, it is like preaching
to the desart: and My mother whips me, and I scourge the top.’—‘Under
correction,’ answered the squire, ‘your worship, methinks, is like the
frying-pan which called to the pot, “Avaunt black-a-moor, avaunt!” Even
in the very act of rebuking me for uttering proverbs, your worship
strings them together in pairs.’—‘But, then, you must consider, Sancho,’
said Don Quixote, ‘that when I use them, they are seasonably brought in,
and fit the purpose as the ring fits the finger: whereas, by thee, they
are not brought in, but lugged in, as it were, by the head and
shoulders. If my memory fails me not, I have formerly told thee, that
proverbs are short sentences extracted from the experience and
speculation of ancient sages; and a proverb unseasonably introduced, is
rather an absurdity than a judicious apothegm. But let us quit the
subject, and, as the day is already spent, retire from the highway to
some place where we may pass the night; for God alone knows what will be
to-morrow.’
They accordingly retired to a grove, where they made a late and very
indifferent supper, to the no small mortification of Sancho, who
ruefully reflected upon the meagre commons of chivalry, so uncomfortably
discussed among woods and mountains; though his imagination was also
regaled with the remembrance of that abundance which he had enjoyed at
the castle, as well as at the wedding of the rich Camacho, and in the
houses of Don Diego de Miranda, and Don Antonio de Moreno: but, finally,
considering it could not be always day, or always night, he resolved,
for the present, to sleep, while his master indulged his contemplations
awake.
CHAP. XVI.
OF THE BRISTLY ADVENTURE IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE WAS INVOLVED.
The night was a little dark; for, although the moon was in the heavens,
she was invisible to the people of our hemisphere, Madam Diana having
taken a trip to the Antipodes, and left our mountains obumbrated and our
vallies obscured.
Don Quixote, in compliance with nature, enjoyed his first sleep without
indulging himself in a second, quite contrary to the practice of Sancho,
who never desired a second, because the first always lasted from night
till morning; a sure sign of little care, and an excellent constitution.
As for the knight, his cares interfered so much with his repose, that he
wakened his squire, to whom he said, ‘I am amazed, Sancho, at the
indifference of thy disposition, and imagine thou art made of marble or
obdurate brass, unsusceptible of sentiment or emotion. I watch whilst
thou art snoring; I weep whilst thou art singing; I faint with fasting,
whilst thou art overloaded and out of breath with eating! It is the
province of a good servant to sympathize with his master’s pain, and to
share his anguish, even for the sake of decorum. Observe the serenity of
the sky and the solitude of the place, which invite us to make an
intermission in our repose. I conjure thee, by thy life, to rise and go
aside to some proper place, where, with good will and grateful
inclination, thou mayest conveniently inflict upon thyself three or four
hundred stripes, on account of Dulcinea’s inchantment; and this favour I
humbly request, without any intention to try again the strength of thine
arms, which I know to be heavy and robust: after the performance of that
task, we will pass the remainder of the night in harmony; I, in singing
the torments of absence, and thou, in chanting the constancy of thy
passion; and thus will we begin the pastoral life which we are to lead
at our own village.’—‘Signior,’ answered the squire, ‘I am no monk, to
rise and discipline my flesh in the middle of the night; nor do I think
the extremity of pain is such a provocative to musick; I therefore
desire your worship will let me take out my nap, without pressing me
farther to scourge myself, lest I should grow desperate, and solemnly
swear never to whip the nap of my garment, much less an hair of my
skin.’—‘Soul of a savage! flinty-hearted squire!’ cried Don Quixote: ‘O
ill-bestowed bread! O ill-requited benefits, intended or conferred! By
my means wast thou created governor; and through me alone dost thou now
enjoy the near prospect of being a count, or something else of equal
title; nor will the accomplishment of thy wishes be retarded longer than
the term of one fleeting year; for, _Post tenebras spero lucem_.’—‘Your
conclusion,’ said Sancho, ‘I do not understand; but well I know, that
while I sleep, I am troubled neither with fear nor hope, nor toil nor
glory; and praise be to him who invented sleep, which is the mantle that
shrouds all human thoughts; the food that dispels hunger; the drink that
quenches thirst; the fire that warms the cold; the cool breeze that
moderates heat; in a word, the general coin that purchases every
commodity; the weight and balance that makes the shepherd even with his
sovereign, and the simple with the sage: there is only one bad
circumstance, as I have heard, in sleep, it resembles death; inasmuch as
between a dead corpse and a sleeping man there is no apparent
difference.’—‘Truly, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘I never heard thee talk
so elegantly before, whence I perceive the truth of the proverb which
thou hast often repeated, Not he with whom you was bred, but he by whom
you are fed.’—‘Odds my life! Sir master of mine,’ cried Sancho, ‘I am
not the only person who strings proverbs: they fall from your worship’s
mouth in couples, faster than from mine; indeed, there is some
difference; for your worship’s proverbs come at a proper time, whereas
mine are always out of season; but, nevertheless, they are all
proverbs.’
Thus far the conversation had proceeded, when they heard a dull confused
noise, intermingled with very harsh sounds, that seemed to extend
through the whole valley. The knight immediately started up and
unsheathed his sword; while the squire squatted down under Dapple,
fencing himself on each side with his master’s armour and the pannel of
the ass, being as much afraid as Don Quixote was astonished; for the
noise increased every moment, as the cause of it approached the two
tremblers, or rather one trembler, for the other’s valour and courage
are well known. The case, in fact, was this: some dealers were driving
about six hundred hogs to a fair; and, as they travelled in the night,
the noise of their feet, together with their grunting and blowing, made
such a din, as almost deafened Don Quixote and Sancho, who could not
conceive the meaning of such an uproar. Meanwhile, the numerous grunting
herd advanced; and, without shewing the least respect to the authority
of Don Quixote or Sancho, ran over them in a twinkling, demolished the
barricadoes of the squire, and trampled down not only the master, but
also his steed Rozinante; the thronging, the grunting, and the hurry of
those unclean animals, throwing every thing in confusion, and strewing
the master and the man, the horse and the ass, the pannel and the
armour, along the ground. Sancho, getting up as well as he could,
demanded his master’s sword, in order to sacrifice half a dozen of those
discourteous gentlemen porkers; for by this time he had discovered what
they were; but the knight refused to grant his request, saying, ‘Let
them pass, friend Sancho; this affront is the punishment of my crime;
and the just chastisement of Heaven inflicted upon a vanquished knight,
is, that he shall be devoured by dogs, stung by wasps, and trampled upon
by swine.’—‘At that rate, then,’ replied the squire, ‘the chastisement
which Heaven inflicts upon squires of vanquished knight-errants, is,
that they shall be bitten by fleas, devoured by lice, and assaulted by
famine: if we squires were sons of the knights we serve, or even their
near relations, it would be no great wonder if the punishment of our
faults should overtake us to the fourth generation: but what affinity is
there between the Panzas and the Quixotes? At present let us put things
to rights again, so that we may sleep out the remainder of the night,
and we shall be in better plight when God sends us a new day.’—‘Enjoy
thy repose,’ said Don Quixote; ‘thou wast born to sleep and I to watch;
and during the little of night that remains, I will give my thoughts the
rein, and cool the furnace of my reflections with a short madrigal,
which I have this evening, unknown to thee, composed in my own
mind.’—‘In my opinion,’ answered the squire, ‘your thoughts could not be
very troublesome and unruly, if they gave you leisure to make couplets;
but, however, your worship may couple as many as you please, and I will
sleep as much as I can.’ So saying, he chose his ground, on which he
huddled himself up, and enjoyed a most profound sleep, which received no
interruption from the remembrance of debt, surety, or any other
grievance. As for Don Quixote, he leaned against a beech or cork-tree;
for Cid Hamet Benengeli has not distinguished the genus; and, to the
musick of his own sighs, sung the following stanzas.
I.
‘O cruel love! when I endure
The dreadful vengeance of thy bow,
I fly to death, the only cure
For such immensity of woe.
II.
‘But, when I touch the peaceful goal,
That port secure from storms of strife,
The fight revives my drooping soul,
I cannot enter for my life!
III.
‘Thus life exhausts my vital flame,
But death still keeps the spark alive;
O wond’rous fate! unknown to fame!
That life should kill, and death revive.’
Every verse he accompanied with a multitude of sighs and a torrent of
tears, as if his heart had been transpierced with grief for his
overthrow and the absence of Dulcinea. In this situation he was found by
the day, when Phœbus darting his rays into Sancho’s eyes, the squire
awoke, yawned, turned, stretched his lazy limbs, and surveying the
havock which the swine had made in his store, he bitterly cursed the
whole herd; aye, and even went farther with his maledictions.
Then the two proceeded in their journey; and, towards the close of the
afternoon, descried about ten men on horseback, and half that number on
foot, advancing towards them; a sight which made the knight’s heart
throb with surprize, and the squire’s with terror; for this company was
armed with lance and target, and approached in a very hostile manner.
Don Quixote turning to his squire, ‘Sancho,’ said he, ‘if I could now
exercise my arms, and my hands were not tied by a solemn promise, I
would look upon that machine, which comes upon us, with contempt, as so
much cake and gingerbread; but, perhaps, it may be something else than
we apprehend.’ He had scarce pronounced these words, when the horsemen
coming up, and couching their lances, surrounded him in a trice; then
clapping the points of their weapons to his back and breast, seemed to
threaten immediate death and destruction; while one of those on foot,
laying his finger on his mouth, as a signal for him to be silent, seized
Rozinante’s bridle, and led him out of the highway. The rest of the
footpads drove Sancho and Dapple before them, and, while a wonderful
silence prevailed, followed the knight, who attempted twice or thrice to
ask whither they conducted him, and what they wanted; but scarce had he
began to move his lips when they threatened to shut them for ever with
the points of their spears. The same menaces were practiced upon Sancho,
who no sooner expressed a desire to be talking, than he was pricked in
the posteriors with a goad by one of his attendants; and Dapple met with
the same fate, as if he too had made a motion to speak, like his master.
As night approached they quickened their pace, and the terrors of the
captives increased in proportion as the darkness deepened, especially as
their guard pronounced from time to time, ‘Dispatch, ye Troglodytes!
silence, ye Barbarians! now ye shall suffer, ye Antropophagi! not a word
of complaint, ye Scythians! open not your eyes, ye murderous
Polyphemuses! ye carnivorous lions and beasts of prey.’ With these and
other such appellations, they tormented the ears of the miserable master
and the forlorn Sancho, who said within himself, ‘Draggle doits! Barber
Anns! Henry puff a Jay! City hens! and Paulfamouses! these are fine
names with a vengeance! I’m afraid this is a bad wind for winnowing our
corn! the mischief comes upon us altogether, like drubbing to a dog; and
I wish this misventrous adventure, that threatens so dismally, may end
in nothing worse!’ As for Don Quixote, he was utterly astonished and
confounded; nor could he, with all his reflection, comprehend the
meaning of his own captivity, and those reproachful terms, from which he
could only conclude, that no good but a great deal of mischief was to be
expected. In this state of anxious suspense he continued till about an
hour after it was dark, when they arrived at a castle; which the knight
immediately recognizing to be the duke’s habitation, where he had so
lately resided, ‘Good Heaven!’ cried he, ‘where will this adventure end!
surely this is the dwelling place of politeness and hospitality; but to
those who are vanquished, good is converted into bad, and bad to worse.’
This ejaculation he uttered as they entered the court of the castle,
which was decorated in a strange manner that increased their admiration,
and redoubled their fear, as will be seen in the following chapter.
CHAP. XVII.
OF THE MOST SINGULAR AND STRANGEST ADVENTURE THAT HAPPENED TO DON
QUIXOTE IN THE WHOLE COURSE OF THIS SUBLIME HISTORY.
The horsemen alighting, with the assistance of those who were on foot,
snatched up the bodies of Don Quixote and Sancho, and carried them
hastily into the court of the castle, round which above a hundred
flaming torches were placed, and the corridores of the court were
illuminated by five hundred tapers, shining with such a blaze, that, in
spite of the night, which was dark, there was no want of the day. In the
middle of the court appeared a monument raised about two yards from the
ground, and covered with a spacious canopy of black velvet; and, upon
the steps that led up to it, above a hundred tapers of virgin wax stood
burning in silver candlesticks. On the tomb lay the body of a young
damsel, whose beauty was such as rendered death itself beautiful; her
head was raised on a cushion of brocade, and crowned with a garland of
various odoriferous flowers; and in her hands, that were crossed upon
her breast, appeared a bough of green victorious palm. On one side of
the court was erected a theatre, on which were seated two personages,
whom their crowns and sceptres declared to be either real or fictitious
kings; and hard by the theatre, which was furnished with steps, two
other chairs, upon which Don Quixote and Sancho were seated by their
captors, who still maintained their former silence, the observance of
which they likewise recommended, by signs, to our hero and his squire;
though these injunctions were altogether superfluous; for their
astonishment at what they saw, had effectually tied their tongues; and,
indeed, how could they help being astonished at sight of this apparatus!
considering, too, that by this time the knight had discovered the dead
body on the tomb to be no other than the beauteous Altisidora? At this
juncture, two noble personages, with a numerous retinue, ascended the
theatre, and seated themselves in magnificent chairs, hard by the
figures that were crowned; then Don Quixote and Sancho, perceiving the
new comers to be their former entertainers, the duke and duchess, rose
up and bowed with great veneration, and their graces, rising also,
returned the compliment with a slight inclination of the head. And now
an officer crossing the court, and approaching Sancho, threw over him a
robe of black buckram, painted all over with flames of fire; at the same
time pulling off his cap, he put upon his head one of those pasteboard
mitres which are worn by the penitents of the holy office; and in a
whisper advised him to keep his lips fast sewed together, unless he had
a mind to be gagged or put to death without mercy. Sancho surveyed
himself from head to foot, and saw his robe in flames; but as they did
not burn, he valued them not a farthing; then he took off his mitre, and
perceiving it figured with pictures of fiends, set it on his head again,
saying to himself, ‘As the flames do not burn, and the fiends do not fly
away with me, I am very well satisfied.’ Don Quixote likewise surveyed
the squire; and, although his reflection was still disturbed with fear
and suspense, could not help smiling at the ludicrous figure.
Sancho being thus equipped, a low yet agreeable sound of flutes seemed
to issue from beneath the tomb, and being uninterrupted by any human
voice, for here silence itself kept silence, produced a very soft and
pleasing melody. Then all of a sudden, a beautiful youth, in a Roman
habit, appeared close by the cushion on which the seemingly dead body
reposed, and to the sound of the harp on which he himself played, with a
sweet harmonious voice he sung the two following stanzas—
I.
‘Till fair Altisidora, slain
By Quixote’s cruelty, return;
And all th’ inchanted female train
Her hapless fate in sack-cloth mourn;
Until duennas clad in baize
Appear in presence of her grace,
I’ll celebrate the nymph in lays
That would not shame the bard of Thrace.
II.
‘Nor shall thy beauty fade unsung,
When life forsakes my gelid veins;
My clay-cold lips and frozen tongue,
In death shall raise immortal strains.
My soul when freed from cumb’rous clay,
Her flight o’er Stygian waves shall take;
And while on Lethe’s banks I stray,
My song shall charm th’ oblivious lake.’
Here he was interrupted by one of the two pretended kings; who
said—‘Enough, divine songster! it would be an infinite task to describe
the death and beauties of the peerless Altisidora, not dead as the
ignorant world imagines, but alive in the voice of fame, and in the
penance which Sancho Panza here present must undergo, in order to
restore her to the light she has lost; and therefore, O Rhadamanthus!
who sittest with me in judgment, within the gloomy caverns of Lethe, as
thou art intimately acquainted with all the determinations of the
inscrutable fates, touching the revival of this damsel, relate and
declare them without loss of time, that we may no longer delay that
happiness which we expect from her recovery.’
Scarce had Minos pronounced these words, when his fellow-judge and
companion Rhadamanthus stood up, saying—‘So ho! ye ministers of this
house, high and low, great and small, come hither one by one, and mark
the face, the arms, and loins of Sancho, with two dozen of tweaks, one
dozen of pinches, and half a dozen pricks with a pin; for upon this
execution depends the revival of Altisidora.’ Sancho Panza hearing this
sentence, broke silence, and exclaimed aloud—‘I vow to God, I will
sooner turn Turk, than allow my face to be marked or my flesh to be
handled in any such manner. Body o’ me! what has the pinching of my face
to do with the resurrection of that damsel. The old woman has got a
liquorish tooth, forsooth, and she is still licking her fingers.
Dulcinea is inchanted, and I must be scourged for the disinchantment of
her ladyship: Altisidora is dead by the hand of God, and in order to
bring her to life, I must suffer two dozen of tweaks, my body must be
pinked into a sieve with large pins, and my arms pinched into all the
colours of the rainbow! Such jokes may pass upon a brother-in-law; but I
am an old dog, and will not be coaxed with a crust.’—‘Then thou shalt
die,’ cried Rhadamanthus with an audible voice. ‘Tame that savage heart
of thine, thou tyger; humble thyself, thou proud Nimrod! suffer and be
silent. We ask not impossibilities, and therefore thou must not pretend
to examine the difficulties of this affair: tweaked thou shalt be;
pinked shalt thou find thyself, and pinched until thy groans declare
thine anguish.—So ho! I say, ye ministers! execute my command, or by the
faith of an honest man, you shall see for what you were born!’
In consequence of this summons, six duennas came walking through the
court yard in procession, one by one, the four first with spectacles,
and each with her right-arm raised, about four inches of the wrist being
bared according to the present fashion, that the hand may seem the
larger. Sancho no sooner beheld these matrons, than he began to bellow
like a bull; exclaiming—‘I might have allowed myself to be handled by
all the world besides, but that duennas should touch me I will by no
means consent! they may cat-claw my face, as my master was served in
this very castle; they may run me through the guts with daggers of
steel; they may tear the flesh off my arms with red-hot pincers; all
these tortures will I bear patiently, for the service of these noble
persons: but I say again, the devil shall fly away with me before I
suffer a duenna to lay a finger on my carcase!’ Then Don Quixote
addressing himself to Sancho, broke silence in these terms—‘Exert thy
patience, my son, for the satisfaction of these noble personages, and
give thanks to Heaven, which hath indued thy person with such virtue,
that by the martyrdom of thy flesh, the inchanted are delivered from
inchantment, and even the dead revived.’
By this time the duennas had surrounded Sancho; who, being softened and
persuaded, seated himself in a proper posture, and held out his face and
beard to the first, who treated him with a well-planted twitch, and then
dropped a profound curtsey. ‘Less courtesy, less anointing, good Madam
Duenna,’ cried the squire; ‘for, by the Lord, your fingers smack of
vinegar!’ In a word, he was tweaked by all the duennas, and pinched by a
great number of other persons belonging to the family: but what he could
by no means be brought to endure, was the puncture with pins, which they
no sooner began to perform, than starting up in a rage, and seizing a
lighted torch that stood near him, he assaulted the duennas, and all the
rest of his executioners, crying—‘Avaunt, ye ministers of hell! I am not
made of brass, to be insensible to such torture.’ At this instant,
Altisidora, who must have been tired with lying so long upon her back,
turned herself on one side; and this motion was no sooner perceived by
the spectators, than all of them exclaimed, as if with one voice,
‘Altisidora moves! Altisidora lives!’ Then Rhadamanthus desired Sancho
to lay aside his indignation, seeing the intended aim was already
accomplished.
Don Quixote seeing Altisidora stirring, fell upon his knees before
Sancho, saying—‘Now is the time, dear son of my bowels, and no longer my
squire! now is the time to inflict upon thyself some of those lashes
thou art obliged to undergo for the disinchantment of Dulcinea. This, I
say, is the time, when thy virtue is seasoned, and of efficacy
sufficient to perform the cure which we expect from thy compliance.’ To
this apostrophe the squire replied—‘This is reel upon reel, and not
honey upon pancakes; scourging, to be sure, is a very agreeable dessert
to a dish of twitches, pinches, and pin-prickings. There is no more to
be done, but to take and tie a great stone about my neck, and toss me
into a well; it will be much better for me to die at once, than to be
always the wedding-heifer, to remedy the misfortunes of other people:
either let me live in peace! or, before God, all shall out, sell or not
sell.’
By this time Altisidora sat upright on the tomb, and at that instant the
waits beginning to play, were accompanied by the musick of flutes, and
the voices of all the spectators, who acclaimed—‘Live Altisidora!
Altisidora live!’ The duke and duchess, together with Minos and
Rhadamanthus, rising from their seats, and being joined by Don Quixote
and Sancho, went to receive this young lady, and help her in descending
from the tomb; while, they were thus employed, she assumed a languid and
fainting air, and inclining her head towards the duke and duchess and
the two kings, darted a sidelong glance to Don Quixote, saying—‘God
forgive thee, unrelenting knight! by thy cruelty I have been doomed to
remain, as I believe, above a thousand years in the other world! but as
for thee, thou most compassionate squire that this wide earth contains!
I thank thee kindly for that life I now enjoy. From this day, friend
Sancho, thou mayest command six of my shifts to be converted into shirts
for thy own body; and if they are not quite whole, at least they are
white and clean.’ Sancho thanked her for the present, with mitre in hand
and knee on ground; and when the duke ordered his servants to take away
those badges of disgrace, and restore his own cap and coat, the squire
entreated his grace to let him keep the mitre and the flaming robe, and
carry them to his own country, as a mark and memorial of this
incredible, adventure. To this supplication the duchess replied, that he
might keep these testimonials, for he knew how much she was his friend.
The duke ordered the court to be cleared, the company to retire to their
several chambers, and the knight and squire to be conduced to the
apartments which they had formerly occupied.
CHAP. XVIII.
WHICH FOLLOWS THE PRECEDING, AND TREATS OF MATTERS THAT MUST BE
DISCLOSED, IN ORDER TO MAKE THE HISTORY THE MORE INTELLIGIBLE AND
DISTINCT.
Sancho slept that night in a truckle-bed, in the apartment of Don
Quixote; a circumstance which he would have waved, if possible, because
he well knew his master would keep him awake with questions and replies,
and he was not at all in a talkative humour; for the pain of his past
sufferings kept them still present in his fancy, depriving his tongue of
its usual freedom; and he would have much rather slept alone in a hut,
than in the richest chamber thus accompanied. His apprehension was so
true, and his suspicions so just, that scarce had his master committed
his body to the bed, when he accosted the squire in these words: ‘What
is thy opinion, Sancho, of this night’s adventure? Great and powerful is
the force of amorous disdain, as thou hast seen with thy own eyes.
Altisidora dead—not by shaft, or sword, or warlike instrument, or mortal
poison, but solely by the reflection of that rigour and disdain with
which I have always treated her advances.’—‘She might have died in good
time, when and how she thought proper,’ cried Sancho, ‘and left me in
quiet at my own house, seeing I never treated her either with love or
disdain in the whole course of my life; for my own part, I neither know,
nor can I conceive, as I have formerly observed, what the health or life
of such a whimsical girl as Altisidora has to do with the martyrdom of
Sancho Panza: but now at length I can clearly and distinctly perceive,
that this world actually abounds with inchanters and inchantments, from
which I pray God may deliver me, since I cannot deliver myself! in the
mean time, I humbly beseech your worship to let me sleep, without
farther question, if you have not a mind to see me throw myself out of
the window.’—‘Sleep, then, friend Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘if thou
canst enjoy the benefit of slumber after the pinching, twitching, and
pricking thou hast undergone.’—‘No pain is comparable to that of the
twitching,’ replied the squire; ‘for no other reason, but because it was
inflicted by duennas, whom God in heaven confound! I again intreat your
worship to leave me to my repose, for deep is a remedy for those
miseries which we feel when awake.’—‘Be it so,’ said the knight, ‘and
the Lord make thy sleep refreshing!’
While these two are left to their repose, Cid Hamet, author of this
sublime history, takes occasion to explain the motives that induced the
duke and duchess to raise the edifice of the adventure above related. He
says, the batchelor Sampson Carrasco still remembering how, as Knight of
the Mirrours, he had been vanquished and overthrown by Don Quixote, and
his whole design blotted and defaced by that unlucky fall and defeat, he
resolved to try his fortune once more, in hope of meeting with better
success; and learning where the knight was, from the information of the
page who carried the letter and the present to Sancho’s wife Teresa
Panza, he purchased a new suit of armour and a horse, ordered a white
moon to be painted on his shield, and fastened the whole cargo on the
back of an he-mule, which was conducted by a certain ploughman, and not
by his old squire Tom Cecial, lest he should be known by Sancho or Don
Quixote. With this equipage he set out for the duke’s castle, where he
was informed of the knight’s motions and route, together with his
intention to assist at the tournament in Saragossa. His grace likewise
gave him an account of the jokes they had executed upon our adventurer,
with the contrivance of Dulcinea’s disinchantment, to be effected at the
expence of Sancho’s posteriors. Nor did he forget to relate the trick
which Sancho had practised on his master, in making him believe that
Dulcinea was inchanted and transformed into a country-wench; as also how
my lady duchess had persuaded the squire that Dulcinea was really and
truly inchanted and transformed, and he himself the person that was
mistaken and deceived: particulars which afforded abundance of mirth to
the batchelor, who could not help admiring afresh the mixture of
archness and simplicity in Sancho, as well as the unaccountable madness
of Don Quixote. The duke begged he would return that way and communicate
his success, whether he should be vanquished or victor. Sampson, having
promised to comply with his request, set out in quest of our knight;
and, as he did not find him in Saragossa, proceeded to Barcelona, where
he met with the adventure we have already related in its proper place:
then he returned to the duke’s castle, where he gave an account of the
whole engagement, and the conditions of the combat; in consequence of
which Don Quixote was already on his return, to fulfil, like a worthy
knight-errant, the promise he had made to reside at his own habitation
for the term of one year, during which, the batchelor said, he might
possibly be cured of his madness. He declared this was his sole motive
for disguising himself in such a manner, as it was a thousand pities
that a gentleman of Don Quixote’s excellent understanding should
continue under the influence of such infatuation. He accordingly took
his leave of the duke, and returned to his own country, in full hope
that the knight was not far behind.
From this information, his grace took the opportunity to connive this
last adventure, so much was he delighted with the behaviour of Sancho
and Don Quixote. He ordered a great number of his people on horseback
and a-foot, to scour the country far and near, and a patrole through
every road by which he thought the knight could possibly return, with
orders to bring him to the castle, either by fair means or foul.
Accordingly, when they found him, they gave notice to his grace, who
having already pre-concerted what was to be done, no sooner heard of his
coming than he directed that the torches and tapers should be lighted
around the court, and Altisidora placed upon the tomb, together with all
the apparatus already described; which was so naturally and artfully
executed, that it differed very little from the real truth. Nay, Cid
Hamet moreover observes, that he looked upon the jokers to be as mad as
those who were joked; and the duke and duchess to be within
two-fingers-breadth of lunacy, seeing they placed such happiness in
playing pranks upon two confirmed madmen; one of whom the new day found
sleeping at full snore, and the other watching over his disastrous
thoughts, and very impatient to quit his couch; for, whether vanquished
or victor, Don Quixote never took pleasure in lolling on the lazy down.
It was now that Altisidora, who in the knight’s opinion had returned
from death, in compliance with the humour of her lord and lady, entered
his apartment crowned with the same garland she had worn on the tomb,
clad in a robe of white taffety powdered with flowers of gold, her hair
flowing loose upon her shoulders, and supporting herself upon a staff of
fine polished black ebony. This apparition discomposed our hero to such
a degree, that he shrunk within his nest in silent confusion, and almost
covered himself wholly with the sheets, fully determined against making
any return of compliment. Meanwhile, Altisidora sitting down upon a
chair, at his bed’s head, heaved a profound sigh, and thus addressed
herself to him, in a faint and tender tone—‘When women of fashion, and
damsels of reserve, trample upon honour, and give their tongues the
liberty to break through all inconveniences, so as to divulge the
secrets which their hearts conceal, their condition must be desperate
indeed. I am one of those, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha; sorely
hampered, vanquished, and enamoured; but withal so patient and modest,
that my soul broke through my silence, and I lost my life: in
consequence of thy rigour, O flinty-hearted knight! more deaf than
marble to my complaints, have I been dead for two days, or at least
supposed to be dead by those who saw me; and if love, in pity to my
fate, had not deposited a remedy in the tortures of that worthy squire,
I should have remained for ever in the other world.’—‘Love,’ said
Sancho, ‘might as well have deposited the remedy in the tortures of my
ass, and I should have thanked him for it heartily: but pray, Madam,
tell me, so may Heaven send you a kinder lover than my master, what did
you see in the other world? What is going forward in hell? for surely
those who die in despair must go to that baiting-place.’—‘To tell you
the truth,’ answered Altisidora, ‘I could not be quite dead, seeing I
did not enter the infernal regions; for, had I been once fairly
introduced, I could not have left the place again, whatever inclination
I might have had to return. The truth is, I went no farther than the
gate, where I saw about a dozen devils playing at tennis, in their
drawers and doublets, having bands edged with Flanders lace, and ruffles
of the same at their wrists, which were naked to the length of four
inches, in order to enlarge the appearance of their hands, in which they
wielded rackets of fire: but what I chiefly admired was, that instead of
balls, they made use of books, which seemed to be filled with wind and
flocks; a circumstance equally new and surprizing! and yet there was
another particular which still increased my astonishment; for, whereas
among the gamesters of this world, it is natural for the winners to be
merry, and for the losers to be sad; in that diabolical pastime, all the
players growled and grumbled, and cursed one another.’—‘That is not to
be wondered at,’ replied the squire; ‘for the devils, play or not play,
win or not win, can never be content.’—‘That must certainly be the
case,’ answered Altisidora; ‘but there was likewise another peculiarity
at which I wonder, I mean, at which I then wondered; namely, that after
the first toss, the ball was useless, and could not be used a second
time; so that they whirled them away, new and old, in a marvellous
manner. On one of these, which was finely gilt and lettered, they
bestowed such a violent stroke, that the guts flew out in scattered
leaves. “What book is that?” said one devil to his fellow. The other
answered, that it was the second part of the history of Don Quixote de
La Mancha, composed not by the original author Cid Hamet, but by an
Arragonian, who calls himself a native of Tordesillas. “Away with it!”
cried the first, “plunge it into the lowest abyss of hell, that mine
eyes may never behold it again.”—“What, is it so bad!” said the second.
“So very bad,” replied the other, “that if I myself had endeavoured to
make it worse, it would not have been in my power.” They proceeded with
their play, driving about the unfortunate books; and I hearing them
mention Don Quixote, whom I love and adore, endeavoured to retain the
vision in my memory.’—‘A vision it must have been, without all doubt,’
said Don Quixote; ‘for there is no other I in the whole world; and as
for that history, it is bandied from hand to hand, without finding a
resting place, and every body has a fling at the author: nor am I in the
least mortified to hear that I wander like a fantastick shadow through
the dark abodes of hell, as well as through the enlightened mansions of
this globe, as I am not the person recorded in that history; which, were
it elegant, faithful, and authentick, would live for ages; but, being
false and execrable as it is, there will be no great distance between
its birth and burial.’
Altisidora was going to proceed with her lamentations, when she was
prevented by the knight; who said, with great solemnity, ‘I have often
told you, Madam, that I am sorry you have placed your affection upon me,
who can make no other return than that of gratitude and thanks; I was
born for Dulcinea del Toboso; and the Fates, if such there be, have
consecrated me for her service; so that to imagine any other beauty
shall ever occupy the place which she possesses in my heart, is to
suppose a mere impossibility. Let this declaration, therefore, undeceive
and prevail upon you to retire within the limits of virtue and decorum,
seeing no man is obliged to perform impossibilities.’ Altisidora, in
consequence of this repulse, assumed an air of indignation, and in an
affected transport of rage, exclaimed, ‘How now, Don Stockfish! soul of
a mortar! stone of a date! more positive and obstinate than a courted
peasant when his harrow hath chanced to hit the mark, by the Lord! if I
once fall upon you, I will tear your eyes out. Hark ye, Don
Beaten-and-cudgelled, are you such a wiseacre as to suppose I died for
love of you? All you have seen this last night was a pure fiction; for I
am not the woman to have a finger ache, much less to die for such a
camel.’—‘O my conscience! I believe what you say,’ cried Sancho; ‘that
of dying for love is a most ridiculous affair: your lovers, indeed, may
easily say they are dying; but that they will actually give up the
ghost, Judas may believe it for me.’
During this conversation, the musician and poet, who had sung the two
stanzas which we have already repeated, came into the apartment, and
made a profound bow to Don Quixote, saying, ‘Sir Knight, I beg you will
esteem and reckon me among the number of your most humble servants; for
many days are elapsed since I have conceived the warmest affection for
your person, from the fame of your character and atchievements.’ When
Don Quixote desired to know who he was, that he might respect him
according to his merit, he answered, that he was the musician and
panegyrist of the preceding night. ‘Assuredly, your voice is extremely
sweet,’ said the knight; ‘but, methinks, the verses you sung were not
much to the purpose; for what affinity is there between the stanzas of
Garcilasso and the death of this young lady?’—‘Your worship must not
wonder at that impropriety,’ answered the musician; ‘it is a common
practice among the beardless poets of this age to write what they will,
and steal from whom they please to pillage, whether it be or be not to
the purpose; and every absurdity that occurs in their singing or
writing, they attribute to the _licentia poetica_.’
Don Quixote’s reply was prevented by the entrance of the duke and
duchess, who came to visit him in his chamber, and a long diverting
conversation ensued, in the course of which Sancho uttered so many
humorous sallies, and satirical jokes, that their graces admired anew
the mixture of his acuteness and simplicity. As for the knight, he
humbly requested that he might be allowed to depart that very day, as it
was much more proper that vanquished knights, like him, should live in
hog-sties than in sumptuous palaces. They graciously complied with his
request; and when the duchess enquired if Altisidora had, as yet,
acquired his good graces, ‘Your grace must know,’ said he, ‘that
damsel’s distemper wholly proceeds from idleness, which may be easily
cured by continual and decent occupation: she tells me it is the fashion
in hell to wear lace, and as she knows how to make it, let the work
never be out of her hand, which being employed in moving the bobbins,
the idea or ideas of what she loves will no longer move in her
imagination; and this is the truth, the substance of my opinion, and the
marrow of my advice.’—‘Aye, and of mine too,’ cried Sancho; ‘for never
in my born days did I know a lace-maker die for love: the thoughts of
girls employed at that work, run more upon the finishing of their tasks
than upon the idle fancies of love; and, for myself, I can safely say,
that while I am digging in the field, I never so much as dream of my
duck; I mean, my wife Teresa Panza, whom I love as the apple of mine
eye.’—‘You talk like an oracle, Sancho,’ said the duchess: ‘and I will
take care, that, from this day forward, Altisidora shall be employed in
some plain work, which she understands to perfection.’—‘Your ladyship
shall not need to use any such expedient,’ replied Altisidora; ‘for the
consideration of the cruelty with which I have been used by that
felonious monster, will blot him effectually from my remembrance,
without any other assistance; and, in the mean time, with your grace’s
permission, I will retire, that I may no longer have before my eyes—I
will not say his rueful countenance, but his frightful and abominable
aspect.’—‘These reproaches,’ said the duke, ‘put me in mind of the old
observation, that Scolding among lovers is the next neighbour to
forgiveness.’
Altisidora, making a shew of wiping the tears from her eyes with a white
handkerchief, dropped a low curtsey to her lord and lady, and withdrew;
and Sancho sending after her an earnest look, ‘Poor damsel!’ cried he,
‘I can bequeath, bequeath thee nothing, I say, but bad luck, seeing thou
hast placed thine affection upon a soul of rush, and an heart of oak:
had it lighted upon me, another sort of a cock would have crowned thy
fortune.’
Thus the conversation ended, Don Quixote put on his cloaths, dined with
the duke and duchess, and set out that same evening for his own
habitation.
CHAP. XIX.
OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE, IN THEIR JOURNEY TO
THEIR OWN VILLAGE.
The perplexed and vanquished Don Quixote travelled along, extremely
chagrined on one account, though greatly rejoiced on another: his
melancholy was occasioned by his overthrow, and his joy produced from
the consideration of that virtue inherent in his squire, which he had
seen demonstrated in the resurrection of Altisidora, though he had some
scruples in persuading himself that the enamoured damsel was actually
dead. As for Sancho, he felt no sort of pleasure; but, on the contrary,
was much mortified to find that Altisidora had failed in performing her
promise touching the present of the shifts; and his imagination dwelling
upon this circumstance, he said to his master—‘Truly, Signior, I must
certainly be the most unfortunate physician that ever lived upon the
earth, in which there are many leeches, who, though they kill their
patients, insist upon being paid for their trouble, which, by the bye,
is no more than writing and signing a list of medicines upon a scrap of
paper; for the apothecary makes up the prescription, and so the farce is
acted; whereas, I receive not a doit, though I cure other people’s
maladies at the expence of pinches, twitches, pin-pricks, lashes, and
drops of blood; but, I vow to God! if any other patient is put into my
hands, they shall be well anointed before I undertake the cure; for, The
abbot chants but to supply his wants: and I cannot believe that Heaven
hath bestowed such virtue upon me, in order that I should throw it away
upon the undeserving.’—‘Thou art in the right, friend Sancho,’ replied
Don Quixote; ‘and Altisidora is much to blame in having witheld the
promised shifts, although thy virtue is _gratis data_, without having
put thee to the trouble of studying aught but the art of enduring
personal torture; for my own part, I can say, that if thou hadst
demanded payment for the disinchanting stripes, I should have allowed it
to thy own satisfaction; though I know not how such hire might interfere
with the cure; and I should not wish that the premium might impede the
effect of the medicine: nevertheless, I do not think the experiment
could be attended with any bad consequence. Consider, Sancho, what thou
wouldst have; then proceed to the flagellation, and pay thyself fairly
out of my money which is in thy own hands.’
At this proposal, the squire opened his eyes and ears a full span, and
resolving in his heart to scourge himself with good will, answered in
these words—‘Aye, now, Signior, I find myself extremely well disposed to
comply with your worship’s desire, since my compliance will be attended
with some profit; and, I own, my regard for my poor wife and children
makes me seem a little selfish.—Pray what will your worship chuse to
give for every stripe?’—‘Were I to pay thee, Sancho,’ said the knight,
‘according to the greatness of thy deserts, and the quality of the cure,
the bank of Venice and mines of Potosi would not afford a sufficient
recompence: but, see how much of my money thou hast got, and set thy own
price upon every lash.’—‘The number of stripes to be given,’ answered
the squire, ‘amounts to three thousand three hundred and odd: of these I
have received about five, which shall stand for the odd; so that three
thousand three hundred remain. Now, if we value each lash at a quarter
of a rial, and I would not bate a doit though the whole world should
desire me, the sum will be three thousand three hundred quartillos; the
three thousand quartillos make fifteen hundred half-rials, which are
equal to seven hundred and fifty rials, and the other three hundred
quartillos make one hundred and fifty half-rials, which are equal to
seventy five rials, and these being added to the former seven hundred
and fifty, the whole reckoning amounts to eight hundred and twenty five
rials. These I will deduct from your cash that is in my hands, and then
I will return to my own house, rich and satisfied, though well scourged;
for, We cannot catch trouts without wetting our clouts: and I will say
no more upon the subject.’—‘O blessed Sancho! O lovely Sancho!’ cried
Don Quixote; ‘Dulcinea and I will be bound to serve thee all the days
that Heaven shall permit us to live; provided she shall retrieve her
lost-form: and, in this hope, we cannot possibly be mistaken; her
misfortune will prove fortunate, and my overthrow a most happy triumph.
And now, Sancho, consider when thou wilt begin this discipline; towards
the speedy performance of which, I add another hundred rials.’—‘When?’
replied the squire; ‘this very night, without fail: if your worship will
take care to chuse our lodging in the open field, I will take care to
open my own carcase.’
At length the night arrived, after it had been impatiently expected by
Don Quixote, who thought the wheels of Apollo’s car had broken down, and
that the day was extended to an unusual length; like those lovers whose
desires ever outstrip the career of time.
In the evening, they betook themselves to the covert of some pleasant
trees at a little distance from the highway, and vacating the saddle of
Rozinante, and the pannel of the ass, sat down together upon the grass,
and supped upon the store contained in the wallet of Sancho; who,
forming a strong and flexible scourge with Dapple’s halter, retired into
a tuft of beeches about twenty paces from his master. The knight seeing
him withdraw so brisk and resolute—‘Beware, friend Sancho,’ said he, ‘of
scourging thyself to pieces; perform thy discipline at leisure; let the
stripes follow one another in regular succession, and do not run so fast
as to be out of breath in the middle of thy career; I mean, do not lash
thyself so severely, as to destroy thy own life before the number be
compleated; and, that thou mayest not lose it by a card too many, or too
few, I will stand aside and count the stripes upon my rosary. Mayest
thou enjoy the protection of Heaven, which thy christian intention so
richly deserves!’—‘A good paymaster needs no bail,’ answered the squire:
‘I intend to scourge myself in such a manner as will mortify my flesh,
without any hazard of my life; for, in that medium the substance of the
miracle must consist.’ He forthwith stripped himself naked from the
waist upwards, and snatching the scourge, began to whip himself, while
his master reckoned the stripes. About half a dozen or eight lashes had
Sancho bestowed upon himself, when he found the joke very expensive, and
the reward dog cheap; and suspending the instrument, told the knight he
had been deceived, and claimed the benefit of an appeal; for every one
of these stripes was worth half a rial instead of a quartillo. ‘Proceed,
friend Sancho, without dismay,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘and I will double
the allowance.’—‘At that rate,’ replied the squire, ‘to it again, by the
grace of God, and let it rain lashes.’ But, the cunning knave no longer
made application to his own shoulders, in lieu of which he began to
scourge the trees, venting between whiles such dismal groans as seemed
to tear his very soul up by the roots. The knight, from the tenderness
of his own disposition, being apprehensive that he would actually put an
end to his life, and of consequence defeat the purpose of his
flagellation by his imprudence, exclaimed—‘I conjure thee, by thy life,
friend Sancho, to let the business rest where it now stands: the
medicine seems to have a very rough operation, and it will be better to
proceed leisurely; for Zamora was not taken in one hour. Above a
thousand stripes hast thou already inflicted upon thyself, if my
reckoning is just, and these shall suffice for the present; for, if I
may use a vulgar expression, Though the load must lie over the ass, he
must not be overloaded.’—‘No, no, Signior,’ replied Sancho, ‘they shall
never say of me, When money’s paid before its due, a broken limb will
straight ensue. Pray stand aside a little, Signior, and let me lay on
another thousand, if you please: two such bouts will perform the
bargain, and leave something to boot.’—‘Since thou findest thyself in
such an excellent frame and disposition,’ said the knight, ‘Heaven
protect thee; stick to the stuff, and I shall withdraw.’ Sancho,
resuming his task and reckoning, had already disbarked a number of
trees, with the rigorous application of his scourge; when, bestowing a
dreadful stroke upon an unfortunate beech, he exclaimed with great
vociferation—‘Here, Sampson, shalt thou die, with all thine abettors.’
Don Quixote hearing this dismal ejaculation, and the terrible sound of
the stroke, ran up to the spot, and seizing the twisted halter that
Sancho used instead of a bull’s pizzle—‘Fate,’ said he, ‘friend Sancho,
will not permit that for my pleasure thou shouldst lose that life on
which the sustenance of thy wife and family must depend. Dulcinea shall
wait for a more favourable conjuncture, and I will contain myself within
the limits of the nearest hope, until thou shalt recover new strength to
conclude this affair to the satisfaction of all parties.’—‘Since your
worship is so inclined,’ answered the squire, ‘so be it in happy time;
and pray, good Signior, throw your cloak, about my shoulders; for I am
all in a sweat, and would not willingly catch cold, which is so often
the case with new disciplinants.’ The knight, in compliance with this
request, stripped himself of his upper garment, with which he covered up
Sancho, who slept until he was wakened by the sun; then they proceeded
on their journey, which, for that day, did not exceed three leagues.
They alighted at an inn; for such it was acknowledged by Don Quixote,
who did not, as usual, suppose it a castle furnished with a fosse,
turrets, portcullices, and draw-bridges: indeed, since his defeat, he
had talked with more sanity on all subjects, as will presently appear.
He was shewn into a low apartment, hung with old painted serge, instead
of tapestry, such as is used in country places, in one piece of which
some wretched hand had drawn the rape of Helen, who was carried off from
Menelaus by his presumptuous guest; and in another was represented the
story of Dido and Æneas, the unhappy queen standing upon a lofty tower,
making signals with a white sheet to her fugitive lover, who, in a
frigate or brigantine, was flying from her coast. He observed, of these
two history pieces, that Helen shewed no marks of compulsion; but rather
exhibited her satisfaction in a roguish smile; whereas, from the eyes of
the beautiful Dido, tears as big as walnuts seemed to fall. Don Quixote
having considered both pictures, ‘These two ladies,’ said he, ‘were most
unfortunate, because they did not live in this our age; and I, above all
men unhappy, because I did not live in theirs. Had I encountered these
gentlemen, Troy had ne’er been burnt, nor Carthage laid in ruins; for,
by killing Paris only, I should have prevented such disasters.’—‘I’ll
lay a wager,’ said Sancho, ‘that in a very little time, every cook’s
cellar, tavern, inn, and barber’s shop in the kingdom, will be
ornamented with pictures containing the history of our atchievements;
but I should be glad to see them painted by a better workman than him
who made these daubings.’—‘Thou art in the right,’ replied Don Quixote;
‘he that painted these pieces is just such another as Orbaneja, a
painter of Ubeda, who being asked what he was about, answered, “Just as
it happens;” and if he chanced to represent a cock, he wrote under it,
“This is a cock,” that it might not be mistaken for a fox. Such a
person, I suppose, is that same painter or author, for it is the same
thing, who ushered into the world the lately published history of the
new Don Quixote: for he has painted or described whatever came
uppermost; or, perhaps, he resembles an old court poet called Mauleon,
who pretended to answer every question extempore; and being one day
asked the meaning of _Deum del Deo_, replied, “_De doude diere_[211].”
But, waving this subject, tell me, Sancho, if thou art resolved to take
the other turn to-night, and whether thou wouldst chuse to go to work
under an humble roof, or beneath the high canopy of Heaven?’—‘’Fore God!
Signior,’ replied the squire, ‘as to what I intend to take, it matters
not much, whether it be taken within doors or without: nevertheless, I
should chuse to go to work among trees; for they seem to accompany and
assist me wonderfully in bearing the brunt of the application.’—‘But it
must not be so at present, friend Sancho,’ answered the knight; ‘in
order to recruit your strength, the execution shall be postponed until
we arrive at our own village, which we shall reach the day after
to-morrow, at farthest.’ Sancho said he might take his own way; though
he himself should be glad to dispatch the business now he was warm, and
while the mill was a going; ‘For, Delay breeds danger; and We ought
still to be doing while to God we are suing. I will give thee, is good;
but, Here, take it, is better. A sparrow in hand is worth an eagle on
wing.’—‘No more proverbs, Sancho, for the love of God!’ cried the
knight; thou seemest to be returning to _sicut erat_. Speak plainly and
perspicuously, without such intricate mazes, as I have often advised
thee, and thou wilt find thyself one loaf per cent. in pocket.’—‘I am so
unlucky,’ answered the squire, ‘that I cannot give a reason without a
proverb, nor a proverb that I do not think a good reason; but I will
mend if I can!’ And here the conversation ended for that time.
Footnote 211:
‘Wherever it may hit:’ an answer that has no affinity with the
question, but the faint resemblance of sound.
CHAP. XX.
GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF DON QUIXOTE’S ARRIVAL AT HIS OWN HABITATION.
That whole day Don Quixote and Sancho tarried at the inn, waiting for
night, during which the one intended to finish his whipping task in the
open field, and the other hoped to see the accomplishment of that
discipline on which depended the accomplishment of his desire. In the
mean time, a gentleman on horseback arrived at the door, attended by
three or four servants, one of whom said to him who seemed to be the
master, ‘Signior Don Alvaro Tarfe, your worship may pass the afternoon
in this house; the lodging seems to be cool and cleanly.’ Don Quixote
hearing this address, ‘Hark ye, Sancho,’ said he, ‘when I glanced over
the second part of my history, I am very much mistaken if I did not
perceive, as I turned over the leaves, this very name of Don Alvaro
Tarfe.’—‘Very likely,’ replied the squire; ‘first let him alight, and
then we can ask questions.’ Accordingly the traveller having alighted,
was conducted by the landlady into a room that fronted the knight’s
apartment, and was ornamented with the same kind of paintings which we
have already described. This new-come cavalier, laying aside his upper
garment, came out into the porch, which was cool and spacious, where
seeing Don Quixote walking backwards and forwards for the benefit of the
air, he asked in a courteous manner, which way his worship was
travelling. The knight told him he was going to the place of his
nativity, which was a village in the neighbourhood; and, in his turn,
expressed a desire of knowing the direction of the stranger’s course.
‘Signior,’ said the cavalier, ‘I am travelling to Grenada, which is my
native country.’—‘And a good country it is,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘but
will your worship be so good as to tell me your name, which I believe is
of more importance to me to know, than I can well explain.’—‘My name,’
said the stranger, ‘is Don Alvaro Tarfe.’—‘Without doubt, then,’ replied
the knight, ‘you must be the gentleman mentioned in the second part of
the history of Don Quixote de La Mancha, lately printed and published by
a modern author.’—‘The very same,’ answered the cavalier: ‘Don Quixote,
the principal character of that history, was an intimate acquaintance of
mine: I brought him from his own habitation; at least I persuaded him to
assist at the tournament of Saragossa, whither I was going, and where I
really and truly did him signal services; and particularly saved his
back from being very roughly handled by the hangman, for his excessive
impudence and knavery.’—‘And pray, Signior Don Alvaro, is there any
resemblance between me and that Don Quixote whom your worship mentions?’
said the knight. ‘No, surely, none at all,’ replied the stranger. ‘Is
not that Don Quixote attended by a squire, called Sancho Panza?’ resumed
our hero. ‘Yes, he is,’ answered the other; ‘and although he was
reported to be a very humorous companion, I never heard him utter one
merry conceit.’—‘That I can very well believe,’ said Sancho, mingling in
the discourse; ‘it is not every body that can utter conceits; and that
same Sancho, whom your worship mentions, must be a very great knave, and
indeed both fool and knave; for I am the true Sancho Panza, who have as
many conceits as there are drops of rain. If your worship will but try
the experiment, and keep me company for a year or so, you will see them
fall from me at every step; nay, they are so merry and so numerous, that
very often when I myself know not what I have said, they make all the
hearers burst their sides with laughing; and the true Don Quixote de La
Mancha, the renowned, the valiant, the sage, the enamoured knight, the
undoer of wrongs, the tutor of wards and orphans, the protector of
widows, the destroyer of maids, he who owns no other mistress than the
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, is my master, this very gentleman here
present: every other Don Quixote, and every other Sancho whatsoever, is
no better than a dream or delusion.’—‘Before God! I am of the same
opinion,’ replied Don Alvaro; ‘for, truly, my good friend, you have
uttered more pleasantry in these few sentences you have spoke, than ever
I knew come from the mouth of the other Sancho Panza, though he was an
eternal babbler; he was much more of a glutton than an orator, and
rather idiotical than humorous. Indeed, I am fully persuaded, that those
inchanters who molest the good Don Quixote, have been pleased to
persecute me with the bad Don Quixote: and yet I know not what to say;
for I can take my oath that I left him at Toledo in the nuncio’s house,
under the care of surgeons; and now, another Don Quixote starts up in
his place, though of a very different character and complexion!’—‘I know
not whether or not I am the good Don Quixote,’ replied the knight; ‘but,
I will venture to say, I am not the bad Don Quixote; and, as a proof of
what I alledge, my good Signior Don Alvaro Tarfe, your worship must
know, that in the whole course of my life I never was at Saragossa; on
the contrary, having been informed, that the fantastical Don Quixote had
been present at the tournament of that city, I would not set foot within
its walls, that I might demonstrate his imposture to the satisfaction of
the whole world: I, therefore, openly repaired to Barcelona, that
repository of politeness, that asylum of strangers, that hospital of the
poor, that native place of gallantry, that avenging tribunal of the
injured, that agreeable scene of unshaken friendship unparalleled both
in beauty and situation! and although certain adventures which there
befel me did not so much contribute to my satisfaction, but, on the
contrary, conduced to my unspeakable disquiet, I bear my fate without
repining, and count myself happy in having seen that celebrated place:
finally, Signior Don Alvaro Tarfe, I am the real Don Quixote de La
Mancha, so well known to fame, and not that wretched impostor who has
thought proper to usurp my name, and deck himself with the spoils of my
reputation. I must therefore entreat your worship, as you value yourself
on the character of a gentleman, to make a declaration before the
alcalde of the place; importing, that, before this day, you never saw me
in the whole course of your life; and that I am not the Don Quixote
described in the second part, nor this Sancho Panza the squire whom your
worship knew in his service.’—‘With all my heart,’ said Don Alvaro; ‘and
yet I cannot help being astonished to see two Don Quixotes, and two
Sanchos, at the same time, so similar in name, and so unlike in
character; so that I say again, and even affirm, that I have not really
seen that which I thought I had seen, nor met with those incidents in
which I supposed myself concerned.’—‘Doubtless,’ cried Sancho, ‘your
worship must be enchanted, like my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; and would
to God your disinchantment depended upon my undergoing another tale of
three thousand three hundred lashes, such as I have undertaken in her
favour; I would lay them on without interest or deduction.’ When Don
Alvaro said he did not understand what he meant by lashes, the squire
answered it was a long story, which, however, he would relate to him
should they chance to travel the same road.
Don Quixote and Don Alvaro dined together; and the alcalde of the town
chancing to enter the inn with a scrivener, our hero demanded, by a
formal petition, that Don Alvaro Tarfe, the gentleman there present,
should depose before his worship, that he was not acquainted with him,
Don Quixote there present also; and that he the said Don Quixote was not
the person described in a certain history, intitled, The second part of
Don Quixote de La Mancha; composed by one Avellanada, native of
Tordesillas. In a word, the alcalde proceeded in form; the deposition
was drawn up in the strongest terms, and the knight and squire were as
much rejoiced as if this certificate had been of the utmost consequence
to their identity, and as if the difference between the two Quixotes and
Sanchos would not have plainly appeared from their words and actions.
Many compliments and proffers of service passed between Don Alvaro and
Don Quixote; and our great Manchegan gave such proofs of discretion as
undeceived Don Alvaro, who persuaded himself that he was certainly
inchanted, seeing he had felt, as it were with his hand, two such
contrary Don Quixotes. In the evening they departed from the village,
and travelled together about half a league, until they found the highway
divided into two roads, one of which led to the habitation of Don
Quixote, and Don Alvaro’s journey lay through the other: yet, in that
small space, the knight recounted the misfortune of his overthrow,
together with Dulcinea’s inchantment, and the remedy proposed; so as to
excite anew the admiration of the stranger; who, embracing Don Quixote
and Sancho, took his leave, and proceeded on his own affairs, while our
knight jogged on at an easy pace, and passed the night in a grove of
trees in order to give Sancho an opportunity to perform his penance,
which he accomplished as before, at the expence of the beeches, and not
of his own shoulders; these he defended with such care, that they felt
not even the whiff of any stripe sufficient to displace a fly. The
credulous knight lost not one in his reckoning of the lashes; which
including those of the preceding night, amounted to three thousand and
twenty-nine: the sun seemed to rise early on purpose to behold this
sacrifice, and to light our adventurer on his way, which he prosecuted,
conversing with Sancho upon the mistake and deception of Don Alvaro, and
his own presence of mind in obtaining such an authentick testimonial
before the justice.
The whole day and night they travelled without encountering any
adventure worthy of record, except that, in the dark, Sancho finished
his discipline, to the unspeakable satisfaction of the knight, who
waited with impatience for the day in hope of finding his mistress
Dulcinea disinchanted upon the road: indeed, he was so much engrossed by
this notion, that he went up to every woman he met in the remaining part
of his journey, to see if she was not Dulcinea del Toboso; infallibly
persuaded that there could be no deceit in the promises of Merlin. While
he indulged these reflections and desires, they ascended a rising ground
from whence they descried their own village; which Sancho no sooner
perceived, than he fell upon his knees, saying, ‘Open thine eyes,
beloved country! and behold the return of thy son Sancho Panza; who,
though not very rich in coin, is well stored with lashes: open thine
arms at the same time, and receive thy son Don Quixote; who, though
vanquished by a stranger’s hand, returns the victor of himself; and
that, as he hath often told me, is the greatest conquest which can be
desired. With regard to my own fate, I have money in my purse; for,
though the stripes fell thick and heavy, I was rewarded like a
gentleman.’—‘Leave these fooleries,’ said the knight, ‘and let us go
directly home, where we will indulge our imagination with free scope, in
contriving the scheme of pastoral felicity which we intend to enjoy.’
They accordingly descended the hill, and made the best of their way to
their own village.
CHAP. XXI.
OF THE OMENS THAT OCCURRED TO DON QUIXOTE
WHEN HE ENTERED THE VILLAGE—
WITH OTHER INCIDENTS WHICH ADORN
AND AUTHENTICATE THIS SUBLIME HISTORY.
Cid Hamet relates, that Don Quixote, as he entered the village,
perceived two boys quarrelling in a threshing-floor, and heard the one
say to his antagonist, ‘Struggle thy fill, Periquillo, thou shalt never
see it in all the days of thy life.’ These words no sooner reached the
knight’s ears, than turning to his squire, ‘Friend Sancho,’ said he,
‘didst not thou mark what the boy said? “Thou shalt never see it in all
the days of thy life.”’—‘And what signifies what the boy says?’ answered
the squire. ‘What!’ replied the knight, ‘dost thou not perceive that
these words, applied to my concerns, signify, that I shall never behold
Dulcinea?’ Sancho was just going to answer, when he was prevented by the
sight of an hare, which being pursued by a number of greyhounds and
hunters, came running through the field and squatted down in a fright
under Dapple; the squire immediately saved it from the dogs, by seizing
and presenting it to his master, who said, ‘_Malum signum, malum
signum!_ the hare flies, the hounds pursue, and Dulcinea does not
appear.’—‘That is a strange fancy in your worship!’ replied the squire;
‘let us, for example, suppose it Dulcinea del Toboso, and these pursuing
hounds the felonious inchanters who have transformed her into a
country-wench; she flies, I catch and deliver her to your worship, who
hold and fondle her in your arms; what bad sign is that? or what ill
omen can be conjured from such a circumstance?’ At this juncture the two
boys who had been quarrelling, came up to see the hare; and Sancho
having asked the cause of their quarrel, was answered by him who said,
‘Thou shalt never see it in all the days of thy life,’ that he had taken
a cage full of crickets from the other boy, which he did not intend to
restore in the whole course of his life. In consequence of this
information, the squire pulled out of his pocket four farthings, and
gave them to the boy for the cage, which he put into the hands of Don
Quixote, saying, ‘Behold, Signior, the wreck and destruction of those
omens, which I (though a fool) imagine have no more to do with our
affairs than last year’s clouds; and if I right remember, I have heard
the curate of our parish observe, that no Christian of common sense
ought to mind such childish trifles; nay, even your worship made the
same remark some time ago, and told me those Christians were actually
mad who put any faith in omens; and therefore we have no occasion to
make a stumbling-block of this accident: but let us proceed, and enter
the town a-God’s name.’
The hunters coming up, demanded the hare, which was delivered to them by
our knight, who jogging on with his squire, perceived the curate and
batchelor Carrasco busy at their devotion, in a little meadow that
skirted the town. Now the reader must know, that Sancho Panza had, over
the bundle of armour carried by Dapple, thrown, by way of sumpter-cloth,
the buckram robe painted with flames of fire, which he had worn in the
duke’s castle on the night of Altisidora’s resurrection; and he, at the
same time, had fixed the mitre upon the head of the ass, which, thus
adorned, exhibited the strangest transformation that any beast of burden
in the world had ever undergone. Our adventurers were immediately
recognized by the curate and batchelor, who ran to receive them with
open arms; when Don Quixote alighting, embraced them with great
cordiality; and the boys, who are quick-sighted as lynxes, descrying the
mitre of the ass, came running in crowds to behold this new spectacle,
crying to one another, ‘Come along, boys, and see Sancho Panza’s Dapple,
as fine as a May-morning[212], and Rozinante more lean than ever.’
In a word, they entered the town, surrounded with boys, and accompanied
by the curate and batchelor, who attended them to the knight’s house, at
the gate of which they found the niece and housekeeper, already apprized
of his arrival. The same intimation, neither more nor less, had been
given to Sancho’s spouse Teresa Panza, who came running to see her
husband, half naked, with her hair hanging about her ears, and her
daughter Sanchica in her hand; but, seeing he was not so gayly equipped
as she thought a governor should be, ‘Hey-day, husband!’ cried she, ‘you
come home a-foot, and seem to be quite foundered, and look more like a
governor of hogs, than a ruler of men.’—‘Hold your tongue, Teresa,’
replied the squire; ‘you will often find hooks where there is no bacon;
let us e’en trudge home, where I will tell thee wonders: I have money in
my purse, (and that’s the one thing needful) earned by my own industry,
without prejudice to any person whatsoever.’—‘Do you bring home the
money, good husband,’ said Teresa, ‘and let it be earned here or there,
or got in what shape you please, I give myself no trouble about the
matter; I am sure, in getting it, you have introduced no new fashion
into the world.’ Sanchica embraced her father, and asked if he had
brought any thing for her, who had expected him as impatiently as if he
had been May-dew: then taking hold of his girdle with one hand, and
leading Dapple with the other, while her mother held him by the fist,
they repaired to their own house, leaving Don Quixote to the care of his
niece and housekeeper, and in company with the curate and batchelor.
The knight, disregarding times and seasons, instantly retired into an
apartment with his two friends, to whom he briefly related his
overthrow, and the obligation under which he lay, to stay at home for
the space of one year, which obligation he intended literally to
observe, without failing in the least tittle, like a true knight-errant,
bound by the punctuality of the order which he had the honour to
profess. During this term of retirement, he proposed to turn shepherd,
and enjoy the solitude of the field, where he would give full scope to
his amorous sentiments, and exercise himself in all the virtues of a
pastoral life: he, at the same time, besought them (provided they had
any time to spare, and were not hindered by business of more
consequence) to become his companions; assuring them he would purchase a
flock of sheep sufficient for a number of swains, and that the principal
part of the scheme was already effected, inasmuch as he had invented
names that would suit them with the utmost propriety. The curate
expressing a desire to know these appellations, the knight said, he
would call himself the shepherd Quixotiz, the batchelor should be
distinguished by the name of the swain Carrascon, the curate he
denominated Curiambro, and the squire, Pancino. They were confounded at
this new species of madness; but, lest he should once more forsake his
habitation to follow his new chivalries, and in hope that he might
possibly be cured during the year of his confinement, they seemingly
assented to this new proposal, extolled his madness as the very essence
of discretion, and promised to be his companions in the exercise he had
planned. ‘All the world knows that I am a celebrated poet,’ said Sampson
Carrasco, ‘and at every turn I shall compose verses, pastorals, or
courtly sonnets, or such as will best answer the purpose of entertaining
us in the fields through which we shall rove: but there is one
circumstance, gentlemen, which we must by no means neglect; and that is,
every man shall chuse a name for the shepherdess he intends to
celebrate, and inscribe and engrave it on every tree, let it be never so
hard, according to the constant practice of enamoured swains.’—‘A very
seasonable suggestion,’ answered Don Quixote: ‘but, although I am at
liberty to chuse a fictitious name, I shall not employ my invention for
that purpose, while there is such a person as the peerless Dulcinea del
Toboso, the glory of these banks! the ornament of these meadows! the
support of beauty! the cream of all gentility! and, finally, the subject
that suits all praise, how hyperbolical soever it may be.’—‘Very true,’
said the curate; ‘but we must put up with nymphs of an inferior rank;
who, though they will not square, may corner with our desires.’—‘And
should we be at a loss,’ added Sampson Carrasco, ‘we will borrow names
that abound in printed books; such as Phillis, Amaryllis, Diana,
Florida, Galatea, and Belisarda; which, as they are publickly sold, we
may purchase and appropriate to our own use. If, for example, my
mistress, or rather shepherdess, be called Ann, I will celebrate her
under the name of Anna; if her name is Frances, she shall be called
Francenia; if Lucia, she shall be known by the appellation of Lucinda:
in the same manner shall other names be metamorphosed; and if Sancho
Panza is inclined to be one of our fraternity, he may celebrate his wife
Teresa Panza, under the name of Teresayna.’ Don Quixote could not help
smiling at this transformation; and the curate, in very high terms,
applauded his honourable and virtuous resolution, promising anew to
spend in his company all the time he could spare from his indispensible
obligations. And now they took leave of the knight; after having advised
and entreated him to have a reverend care of his health, and comfort his
stomach with something good and substantial.
The niece and housekeeper having by accident overheard this
conversation, entered the apartment as soon as the curate and batchelor
were gone; and the former, addressing herself to Don Quixote, ‘Uncle,’
said she, ‘what is the meaning of all this! Now that we thought you was
returned to stay at home, and lead a quiet and honourable life in your
own house, you want to re-entangle yourself in new labyrinths, and turn
a poor shepherd. Thou cam’st with a crook, and with a scrip thou wilt
go, as the saying is; for, in good faith, the straw is too old to make
pipes of.’—‘And does your worship think,’ added the housekeeper, ‘that
you can stay in the field, during the heats of summer, and the frosts of
winter, to hear the howling of wolves! no, truly, that is the office and
employment of robust clowns, tanned by the weather, and brought up to
the business, even from their christening blankets and swaddling
cloaths; and, weighing one evil against another, you had better still be
a knight-errant than a shepherd. Consider, Signior, and take my advice,
which I do not give from a full stomach, but fresh and fasting, with
fifty good years over my head: stay at home in your own house, look
after your estate, go frequently to confession, be good to the poor, and
let my conscience answer for the rest.’—‘Hold your peace, my good
children,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘I know my own duty, and what I have to
do; meanwhile carry me to bed, for methinks I am not very well; and be
assured, that whether I continue knight-errant or turn shepherd, you may
depend upon my good offices and assistance, as you shall find by
experience.’
Comforted by this declaration, the good souls (for so they were, without
doubt) carried the knight to bed, where they presented him with
victuals, and cherished him with all possible care.
Footnote 212:
In the original, ‘as fine as Mingo,’ who was a bad poet, and tawdry
beau, contemporary with Cervantes.
CHAP. XXII.
GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF DON QUIXOTE’S LAST ILLNESS AND DEATH.
As nothing human is eternal, but every sublunary object, especially the
life of man, is always declining from its origin to its decay; and Don
Quixote had no particular privilege from Heaven, exempting him from the
common fate, the end and period of his existence arrived, when he least
expected its approach. Either in consequence of the melancholy produced
by his overthrow, or by the particular dispensations of Heaven, he was
seized with a calenture which detained him in bed for the space of six
days, during which he was often visited by his friends; the curate,
batchelor, and barber, and his good squire Sancho Panza never stirred
from his bedside. These gentlemen, supposing his distemper proceeded
from the chagrin inspired by his overthrow, and the disappointment of
his hope, concerning the liberty and disenchantment of Dulcinea,
endeavoured by all possible means to exhilarate his spirits. The
batchelor exhorted him to chear up his heart, and forsake his couch,
that they might begin their pastoral exercise, towards which he had
already composed an eclogue which would disgrace all the pastorals that
ever Sannazarius wrote. He likewise gave him to understand, that he had
purchased with his own money from an herdsman of Quintanar, two famous
dogs called Barcino and Butron, to defend their flock from the wolves.
All these consolations, however, could not dispel the melancholy of Don
Quixote; so that his friends called a physician, who having felt his
pulse, made a very doubtful prognostick; saying, happen what would, they
ought to provide for the health of his soul, as that of his body was in
imminent danger; and he gave it as his opinion, that the poor gentleman
was overwhelmed with melancholy and vexation. The knight heard this
sentence with the most heroick composure; but that was not the case with
his housekeeper, niece, and squire, who began to weep and wail most
bitterly, as if they had already seen him deprived of life.
Don Quixote finding himself inclined to slumber, desired he might be
left alone; and the company retiring, he is said to have slept six hours
at a stretch; so that the housekeeper and niece began to fear he would
never awake. Nevertheless, he awoke at the expiration of the aforesaid
time, and exclaimed aloud, ‘Praised be the Almighty God, for the great
benefit I have received from his bounty! His mercies know no bounds; nor
are they abridged or impeded by the transgressions of man!’ The niece,
who listened attentively, hearing this ejaculation, more sensible and
connected than any thing he had uttered since the beginning of his
illness; ‘Uncle,’ said she, ‘what do you mean? Has any thing new
befallen us? What mercies and transgressions are these you
mention?’—‘Mercies,’ replied the knight, ‘which Heaven hath this instant
been pleased to vouchsafe unto me, notwithstanding the heinousness of my
transgressions. I now enjoy my judgment undisturbed, and cleared from
those dark shadows of ignorance, in which my understanding hath been
involved, by the pernicious and incessant reading of those detestable
books of chivalry. I am now sensible of the falsity and folly they
contain; and nothing gives me concern, but that this conviction comes
too late to give me time sufficient to make amends, by reading others,
which would enlighten my soul. I feel myself, cousin, at the point of
death; and I would not undergo that great change, in such a manner as to
entail the imputation of madness on my memory; for, though I have acted
as a madman, I should not wish to confirm the character, by my behaviour
in the last moments of my life. Be so good, my dear child, as to send
for my worthy friend the curate, the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, and
master Nicholas the barber; for I want to confess, and make my will.’
The accidental arrival of these three, saved her the trouble of sending
a message to each in particular; and Don Quixote seeing them enter,
‘Good gentlemen,’ said he, ‘congratulate and rejoice with me, upon my
being no longer Don Quixote de La Mancha, but plain Alonzo Quixano,
surnamed the Good, on account of the innocence of my life and
conversation. I am now an enemy to Amadis de Gaul, and the whole
infinite tribe of his descendants; now are all the profane histories of
knight errantry odious to my reflection; now I am sensible of my own
madness, and the danger into which I have been precipitated by reading
such absurdities, which I, from dear-bought experience, abominate and
abhor.’ The three friends, hearing this declaration, believed he was
certainly seized with some new species of madness; and, on this
supposition, Sampson replied, ‘Now, Signior Don Quixote, when we have
received the news of my Lady Dulcinea’s being disenchanted, do you talk
at this rate? When we are on the point of becoming shepherds, that we
may pass away our time happily in singing, like so many princes, has
your worship taken the resolution to turn hermit? No more of that, I
beseech you; recollect your spirits, and leave off talking such idle
stories!’—‘Those which I have hitherto believed, have, indeed, realized
my misfortune,’ said the knight; ‘but, with the assistance of Heaven, I
hope my death will turn them to my advantage.—Gentlemen, I feel myself
hastening to the goal of life; and therefore, jesting apart, let me have
the benefit of a ghostly confessor, and send for a notary to write my
will; for in such extremities, a man must not trifle with his own soul:
I entreat you, then, to call a notary; and, in the mean time, I will
confess myself to Mr. Curate.’ They looked at one another, surprized at
this discourse; and, though still dubious, resolved to comply with his
desire: they considered this sudden and easy transition from madness to
sanity, as a certain signal of his approaching death; for to those
expressions already rehearsed, he added a great number so rational, so
christian and well-connected, as to dispel the doubts of all present,
who were now firmly persuaded, that he had retrieved the right use of
his intellects. The curate having dismissed the company, confessed the
penitent; while the batchelor went in quest of the notary, with whom he
in a little time returned, accompanied also by Sancho, who having
received an account of his master’s condition, and finding the niece and
housekeeper in tears, began to pucker up his face, and open the
flood-gates of his eyes.
[Illustration: Don Quixote on His Death-Bed.]
Confession being ended, the curate came forth, saying, ‘The good Alonzo
Quixano is really dying, and without all doubt restored to his senses;
we may now go and see the will attested.’ These tidings gave a terrible
stab to the overcharged hearts of the two ladies and his faithful
squire, whose eyes overflowed with weeping, and whose bosoms had
well-nigh burst with a thousand sighs and groans; for, indeed, it must
be owned, as we have somewhere observed, that whether in the character
of Alonzo Quixano the Good, or in the capacity of Don Quixote de La
Mancha, the poor gentleman had always exhibited marks of a peaceable
temper and agreeable demeanour, for which he was beloved, not only by
his own family, but also by all those who had the pleasure of his
acquaintance.
The notary entering the apartment with the rest of the company, wrote
the preamble of the will, in which Don Quixote disposed of his soul in
all the necessary Christian forms: then proceeding to the legacies, he
said, ‘_Item_, Whereas Sancho Panza, whom, in my madness, I made my
squire, has in his hands a certain sum of money for my use; and as
divers accounts, disbursements, and pecuniary transactions have passed
between us; it is my will, that he shall not be charged or brought to
account for the said money; but, if there be any overplus, after he has
deducted the payment of what I owe him, the said overplus, which must be
a mere trifle, shall be his own, and much good may it do him! and as,
during my disorder, I contributed to his being made governor of an
island, I would now, while I enjoy my perfect senses, confer upon him,
were it in my power, a whole kingdom; which he richly deserves for the
innocency of his heart, and the fidelity of his service.’ Then turning
to the disconsolate squire, ‘Forgive me, friend,’ said he, ‘for having
been the cause of thy appearing in the eye of the world a madman, like
myself; by drawing thee into my own erroneous notions, concerning the
existence and adventures of knights-errant.’—‘Lack-a-day, dear Sir!’
cried Sancho, blubbering, ‘do not die; take my advice, and live many
years upon the face of the earth; for the greatest madness a man can be
guilty of in this life, is to let himself die outright, without being
slain by any person whatever, or destroyed by any other weapon than the
hands of melancholy. Hark ye, Signior! hang sloth! get up, and let us
take the field in shepherds apparel, according to our agreement; who
knows, but behind some bush we may find my Lady Dulcinea disenchanted,
and a comely sight for to see? If you take your overthrow so much to
heart, lay the blame at my door, and say you was vanquished by my
carelessness, in girting Rozinante; besides, your worship must have read
in your books of chivalry, that it was common for one knight to unhorse
another, and for him who was vanquished to-day, to be victor
to-morrow.’—‘Very true,’ said Sampson; ‘honest Sancho seems to be very
well informed of these matters.’—‘Gentlemen,’ replied the knight, ‘let
us proceed fair and softly, without looking for this year’s birds in
last year’s nests. I was mad; but now am in my right senses. I was Don
Quixote de La Mancha; but now, as I have already observed, I am Alonzo
Quixano the Good: and I hope, I shall, by my veracity and repentance,
recover that degree of your esteem, which I formerly enjoyed. So let Mr.
Notary proceed.’
‘_Item_, I bequeath my whole estate, real and personal, to my niece
Antonia Quixano here present, after deducting what shall be sufficient
for the payment of my debts and legacies; and it is my will, that from
the first of the money thence arising, the wages due to my housekeeper
shall be paid, together with twenty ducats for a suit of mourning; and I
appoint Mr. Curate, and Mr. Batchelor Sampson Carrasco, here present, my
executors. _Item_, It is my will, that if my niece Antonia Quixano
inclines to marriage, she shall not wed any man until she is fully
satisfied, from previous information, that he is an utter stranger to
books of chivalry; or, if she finds he is addicted to this kind of
reading, and marries him nevertheless, she shall forfeit the whole
legacy, which my executors may, in that case, dispose of in pious uses.
_Item_, I beseech the said gentlemen, my executors, if perchance they
should become acquainted with a certain author, who composed and
published an history, entitled, “The Second Part of the Atchievements of
Don Quixote de La Mancha;” that they will, in my name, most earnestly
entreat him to forgive me for having been the innocent cause of his
writing such a number of absurdities as that performance contains; for I
quit this life with some scruples of conscience arising from that
consideration.’ The will being thus concluded, he was seized with a
fainting-fit, and stretched himself at full length in the bed; so that
all the company were alarmed, and ran to his assistance. During three
days which he lived after the will was signed and sealed, he frequently
fainted, and the whole family was in confusion: nevertheless, the niece
eat her victuals, the housekeeper drank to the repose of his soul, and
even Sancho cherished his little carcase; for the prospect of succession
either dispels or moderates that affliction which an heir ought to feel
at the death of the testator.
At last Don Quixote expired; after having received all the sacraments,
and in the strongest terms, pathetically enforced, expressed his
abomination against all books of chivalry; and the notary observed, that
in all the books of that kind which he had perused, he had never read of
any knight-errant who died quietly in his bed, as a good Christian, like
Don Quixote; who, amidst the tears and lamentations of all present, gave
up the ghost, or in other words, departed this life. The curate was no
sooner certified of his decease, than he desired the notary to make a
testimonial, declaring, that Alonzo Quixano the Good, commonly called
Don Quixote de La Mancha, had taken his departure from this life, and
died of a natural death; that no other author, different from Cid Hamet
Benengeli, should falsely pretend to raise him from the dead, and write
endless histories of his atchievements.
This was the end of the sage Hidalgo de La Mancha, whose native place
Cid Hamet would not punctually describe, because he wished that all the
towns and villages of that province should contend for the honour of
having given him birth, as the seven cities of Greece contended for
Homer. We shall here omit the lamentations of the housekeeper, niece,
and squire, together with all the epitaphs, except the following, by
Sampson Carrasco.
Here lies a cavalier of fame,
Whose dauntless courage soar’d so high,
That death, which can the boldest tame,
He scorn’d to flatter or to fly.
A constant bugbear to the bad,
His might the world in arms defy’d;
And in his life though counted mad,
He in his perfect senses dy’d.
The sagacious Cid Hamet addressing himself to his pen, ‘And now, my
slender quill,’ said he, ‘whether cunningly cut, or unskilfully formed,
it boots not much; here, from this rack, suspended by a wire, shalt thou
enjoy repose, and live to future ages, if no presumptuous and wicked
hand shall take thee down, in order to profane thee in compiling idle
histories. But ere such insolent fingers can touch thine hallowed plume,
accost, and warn them, if thou canst, in words like these:
“Caitifs, forbear!—Illustrious prince, let none
”Attempt th’ emprize reserv’d for me alone[213].”
‘For me alone was Don Quixote born, and I produced for him; he to act,
and I to record: in a word, we were destined for each other, maugre and
in despight of that fictitious Tordesilian author, who has presumed, or
may presume, to write with his coarse, aukward ostrich quill, the
atchievements of my valiant knight; a burden too heavy for his weak
shoulders, and an undertaking too great for his frozen genius. Advise
him, therefore, if ever thou shouldst chance to be in his company, to
let the wearied and mouldering bones of Don Quixote rest in the grave,
without seeking to carry him into Old Castile[214], in opposition to all
the prerogatives of death; or to drag him from his tomb, where he really
and truly lies extended at full length, and utterly incapable of making
a third sally: for all the exploits performed by the whole tribe of
knights-errant are sufficiently ridiculed by the two expeditions he has
already made, so much to the satisfaction and entertainment, not only of
Spain, but also of every foreign nation to which the fame of his
adventures hath been conveyed. In so doing, thou wilt conform to thy
Christian profession of doing good to those who would do thee harm; and
I shall rest satisfied and perfectly well pleased, in seeing myself the
first author who fully enjoyed the fruit of his writings in the success
of his design: for mine was no other than to inspire mankind with an
abhorrence of the false and improbable stories recounted in books of
chivalry; which are already shaken by the adventures of my true and
genuine Don Quixote, and in a little time will certainly sink into
oblivion. Farewel.’
FINIS.
Footnote 213:
Lines probably taken from some old ballad or romance.
Footnote 214:
The author of the Second Part hinted, in his preface, a design of
bringing his hero into the field again, in Old Castile.
● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
○ Footnotes have been moved to follow the sections in which they are
referenced.
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