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diff --git a/996-0.txt b/996-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..40c4a86 --- /dev/null +++ b/996-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,43279 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The History of Don Quixote, by Miguel de Cervantes + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The History of Don Quixote + +Author: Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra + +Translator: John Ormsby + +Release Date: July, 1997 [eBook #996] +[Most recently updated: March 30, 2023] + +Language: English + +Produced by: David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DON QUIXOTE *** + + + + +bookcover.jpg + + +Full Size + + + + + + + + + + + +spine.jpg (152K) + + +Full Size + + + + + + +Don Quixote + + + +by Miguel de Cervantes + + + + Translated by John Ormsby + + + + +Ebook Editor’s Note + + + +The book cover and spine above and the images which follow were not +part of the original Ormsby translation—they are taken from the 1880 +edition of J. W. Clark, illustrated by Gustave Doré. Clark in his +edition states that, “The English text of ‘Don Quixote’ adopted in this +edition is that of Jarvis, with occasional corrections from Motteaux.” +See in the introduction below John Ormsby’s critique of both the Jarvis +and Motteaux translations. It has been elected in the present Project +Gutenberg edition to attach the famous engravings of Gustave Doré to +the Ormsby translation instead of the Jarvis/Motteaux. The detail of +many of the Doré engravings can be fully appreciated only by utilizing +the “Full Size” button to expand them to their original dimensions. +Ormsby in his Preface has criticized the fanciful nature of Doré’s +illustrations; others feel these woodcuts and steel engravings well +match Quixote’s dreams. D.W. + + + +p003.jpg (307K) + + +Full Size + + + +CONTENTS VOLUME I + + +INTRODUCTION + +PREFARATORY + +CERVANTES + +‘DON QUIXOTE’ + +THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE + +COMMENDATORY VERSES + + + + +CHAPTER I WHICH TREATS OF THE CHARACTER AND +PURSUITS OF THE FAMOUS GENTLEMAN DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA + +CHAPTER II WHICH TREATS OF THE FIRST SALLY THE INGENIOUS +DON QUIXOTE MADE FROM HOME + +CHAPTER III +WHEREIN IS RELATED THE DROLL WAY IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE HAD HIMSELF DUBBED A +KNIGHT + +CHAPTER IV OF WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR +KNIGHT WHEN HE LEFT THE INN + +CHAPTER V IN +WHICH THE NARRATIVE OF OUR KNIGHT’S MISHAP IS CONTINUED + +CHAPTER VI OF THE DIVERTING AND IMPORTANT SCRUTINY WHICH +THE CURATE AND THE BARBER MADE IN THE LIBRARY OF OUR INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN + + +CHAPTER VII OF THE SECOND SALLY OF OUR WORTHY +KNIGHT DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA + +CHAPTER VIII +OF THE GOOD FORTUNE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE TERRIBLE AND +UNDREAMT-OF ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS, WITH OTHER OCCURRENCES WORTHY TO +BE FITLY RECORDED + +CHAPTER IX IN WHICH IS +CONCLUDED AND FINISHED THE TERRIFIC BATTLE BETWEEN THE GALLANT BISCAYAN +AND THE VALIANT MANCHEGAN + +CHAPTER X OF THE +PLEASANT DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO +PANZA + +CHAPTER XI OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE +WITH CERTAIN GOATHERDS + +CHAPTER XII OF WHAT A +GOATHERD RELATED TO THOSE WITH DON QUIXOTE + +CHAPTER +XIII IN WHICH IS ENDED THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS MARCELA, WITH +OTHER INCIDENTS + +CHAPTER XIV WHEREIN ARE +INSERTED THE DESPAIRING VERSES OF THE DEAD SHEPHERD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER +INCIDENTS NOT LOOKED FOR + +CHAPTER XV IN WHICH +IS RELATED THE UNFORTUNATE ADVENTURE THAT DON QUIXOTE FELL IN WITH WHEN HE +FELL OUT WITH CERTAIN HEARTLESS YANGUESANS + +CHAPTER +XVI OF WHAT HAPPENED TO THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN IN THE INN WHICH HE +TOOK TO BE A CASTLE + +CHAPTER XVII IN WHICH +ARE CONTAINED THE INNUMERABLE TROUBLES WHICH THE BRAVE DON QUIXOTE AND HIS +GOOD SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA ENDURED IN THE INN, WHICH TO HIS MISFORTUNE HE +TOOK TO BE A CASTLE + +CHAPTER XVIII IN WHICH +IS RELATED THE DISCOURSE SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH HIS MASTER, DON QUIXOTE, +AND OTHER ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING + +CHAPTER XIX +OF THE SHREWD DISCOURSE WHICH SANCHO HELD WITH HIS MASTER, AND OF THE +ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL HIM WITH A DEAD BODY, TOGETHER WITH OTHER NOTABLE +OCCURRENCES + +CHAPTER XX OF THE UNEXAMPLED AND +UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURE WHICH WAS ACHIEVED BY THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE OF LA +MANCHA WITH LESS PERIL THAN ANY EVER ACHIEVED BY ANY FAMOUS KNIGHT IN THE +WORLD + +CHAPTER XXI WHICH TREATS OF THE +EXALTED ADVENTURE AND RICH PRIZE OF MAMBRINO’S HELMET, TOGETHER WITH OTHER +THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE KNIGHT + +CHAPTER +XXII OF THE FREEDOM DON QUIXOTE CONFERRED ON SEVERAL UNFORTUNATES WHO +AGAINST THEIR WILL WERE BEING CARRIED WHERE THEY HAD NO WISH TO GO + +CHAPTER XXIII OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE SIERRA +MORENA, WHICH WAS ONE OF THE RAREST ADVENTURES RELATED IN THIS VERACIOUS +HISTORY + +CHAPTER XXIV IN WHICH IS CONTINUED +THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIERRA MORENA + +CHAPTER XXV +WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO THE STOUT KNIGHT OF LA +MANCHA IN THE SIERRA MORENA, AND OF HIS IMITATION OF THE PENANCE OF +BELTENEBROS + +CHAPTER XXVI IN WHICH ARE +CONTINUED THE REFINEMENTS WHEREWITH DON QUIXOTE PLAYED THE PART OF A LOVER +IN THE SIERRA MORENA + +CHAPTER XXVII OF HOW +THE CURATE AND THE BARBER PROCEEDED WITH THEIR SCHEME; TOGETHER WITH OTHER +MATTERS WORTHY OF RECORD IN THIS GREAT HISTORY + +CHAPTER +XXVIII WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE AND DELIGHTFUL ADVENTURE THAT +BEFELL THE CURATE AND THE BARBER IN THE SAME SIERRA + +CHAPTER XXIX WHICH TREATS OF THE DROLL DEVICE AND METHOD +ADOPTED TO EXTRICATE OUR LOVE-STRICKEN KNIGHT FROM THE SEVERE PENANCE HE +HAD IMPOSED UPON HIMSELF + +CHAPTER XXX WHICH +TREATS OF ADDRESS DISPLAYED BY THE FAIR DOROTHEA, WITH OTHER MATTERS +PLEASANT AND AMUSING + +CHAPTER XXXI OF THE +DELECTABLE DISCUSSION BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA, HIS SQUIRE, +TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS + +CHAPTER XXXII +WHICH TREATS OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE’S PARTY AT THE INN + +CHAPTER XXXIII IN WHICH IS RELATED THE NOVEL OF “THE +ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY” + +CHAPTER XXXIV IN +WHICH IS CONTINUED THE NOVEL OF “THE ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY” + +CHAPTER XXXV WHICH TREATS OF THE HEROIC AND PRODIGIOUS +BATTLE DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH CERTAIN SKINS OF RED WINE, AND BRINGS THE +NOVEL OF “THE ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY” TO A CLOSE + +CHAPTER +XXXVI WHICH TREATS OF MORE CURIOUS INCIDENTS THAT OCCURRED AT THE INN + + +CHAPTER XXXVII IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE +STORY OF THE FAMOUS PRINCESS MICOMICONA, WITH OTHER DROLL ADVENTURES + +CHAPTER XXXVIII WHICH TREATS OF THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE DON +QUIXOTE DELIVERED ON ARMS AND LETTERS + +CHAPTER +XXXIX WHEREIN THE CAPTIVE RELATES HIS LIFE AND ADVENTURES + +CHAPTER XL IN WHICH THE STORY OF THE CAPTIVE IS CONTINUED + + +CHAPTER XLI IN WHICH THE CAPTIVE STILL +CONTINUES HIS ADVENTURES + +CHAPTER XLII WHICH +TREATS OF WHAT FURTHER TOOK PLACE IN THE INN, AND OF SEVERAL OTHER THINGS +WORTH KNOWING + +CHAPTER XLIII WHEREIN IS +RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE MULETEER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER STRANGE +THINGS THAT CAME TO PASS IN THE INN + +CHAPTER XLIV +IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURES OF THE INN + +CHAPTER XLV IN WHICH THE DOUBTFUL QUESTION OF MAMBRINO’S +HELMET AND THE PACK-SADDLE IS FINALLY SETTLED, WITH OTHER ADVENTURES THAT +OCCURRED IN TRUTH AND EARNEST + +CHAPTER XLVI +OF THE END OF THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE OFFICERS OF THE HOLY +BROTHERHOOD; AND OF THE GREAT FEROCITY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT, DON QUIXOTE + + +CHAPTER XLVII OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH +DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WAS CARRIED AWAY ENCHANTED, TOGETHER WITH OTHER +REMARKABLE INCIDENTS + +CHAPTER XLVIII IN WHICH +THE CANON PURSUES THE SUBJECT OF THE BOOKS OF CHIVALRY, WITH OTHER MATTERS +WORTHY OF HIS WIT + +CHAPTER XLIX WHICH TREATS +OF THE SHREWD CONVERSATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH HIS MASTER DON +QUIXOTE + +CHAPTER L OF THE SHREWD CONTROVERSY +WHICH DON QUIXOTE AND THE CANON HELD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS + +CHAPTER LI WHICH DEALS WITH WHAT THE GOATHERD TOLD THOSE +WHO WERE CARRYING OFF DON QUIXOTE + +CHAPTER LII +OF THE QUARREL THAT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE GOATHERD, TOGETHER WITH THE +RARE ADVENTURE OF THE PENITENTS, WHICH WITH AN EXPENDITURE OF SWEAT HE +BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION + + + +CONTENTS VOLUME II + + + +CHAPTER I OF THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND +THE BARBER HAD WITH DON QUIXOTE ABOUT HIS MALADY + +CHAPTER +II WHICH TREATS OF THE NOTABLE ALTERCATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HAD WITH +DON QUIXOTE’S NIECE, AND HOUSEKEEPER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER +DROLLMATTERS + +CHAPTER III OF THE LAUGHABLE +CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE, SANCHO PANZA, AND THE +BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO + +CHAPTER IV IN WHICH +SANCHO PANZA GIVES A SATISFACTORY REPLY TO THE DOUBTS AND QUESTIONS OF THE +BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTH KNOWING AND +TELLING + +CHAPTER V OF THE SHREWD AND DROLL +CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA AND HIS WIFE TERESA PANZA, +AND OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF BEING DULY RECORDED + +CHAPTER +VI OF WHAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS NIECE AND +HOUSEKEEPER; ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT CHAPTERS IN THE WHOLE HISTORY + +CHAPTER VII OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS +SQUIRE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER VERY NOTABLE INCIDENTS + +CHAPTER VIII WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE +ON HIS WAY TO SEE HIS LADY DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO + +CHAPTER +IX WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT WILL BE SEEN THERE + +CHAPTER X WHEREIN IS RELATED THE CRAFTY DEVICE SANCHO +ADOPTED TO ENCHANT THE LADY DULCINEA, AND OTHER INCIDENTS AS LUDICROUS AS +THEY ARE TRUE + +CHAPTER XI OF THE STRANGE +ADVENTURE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE CAR OR CART OF +“THE CORTES OF DEATH” + +CHAPTER XII +OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE WITH THE +BOLD KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS + +CHAPTER XIII IN +WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GROVE, TOGETHER WITH +THE SENSIBLE, ORIGINAL, AND TRANQUIL COLLOQUY THAT PASSED BETWEEN THE TWO +SQUIRES + +CHAPTER XIV WHEREIN IS CONTINUED +THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GROVE + +CHAPTER +XV WHEREIN IT IS TOLD AND KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS AND HIS +SQUIRE WERE + +CHAPTER XVI OF WHAT BEFELL DON +QUIXOTE WITH A DISCREET GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA + +CHAPTER +XVII WHEREIN IS SHOWN THE FURTHEST AND HIGHEST POINT WHICH THE +UNEXAMPLEDCOURAGE OF DON QUIXOTE REACHED OR COULD REACH; TOGETHER WITH THE +HAPPILY ACHIEVED ADVENTURE OF THE LIONS + +CHAPTER +XVIII OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE OR HOUSE OF THE +KNIGHT OF THE GREEN GABAN, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS OUT OF THE COMMON + + +CHAPTER XIX IN WHICH IS RELATED THE +ADVENTURE OF THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER TRULY DROLL +INCIDENTS + +CHAPTER XX WHEREIN AN ACCOUNT IS +GIVEN OF THE WEDDING OF CAMACHO THE RICH, TOGETHER WITH THE INCIDENT OF +BASILIO THE POOR + +CHAPTER XXI IN WHICH +CAMACHO’S WEDDING IS CONTINUED, WITH OTHER DELIGHTFUL INCIDENTS + + +CHAPTER XXII WHEREIN IS RELATED THE GRAND +ADVENTURE OF THE CAVE OF MONTESINOS IN THE HEART OF LA MANCHA, WHICH THE +VALIANT DON QUIXOTE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY TERMINATION + +CHAPTER XXIII OF THE WONDERFUL THINGS THE INCOMPARABLE +DON QUIXOTE SAID HE SAW IN THE PROFOUND CAVE OF MONTESINOS, THE +IMPOSSIBILITY AND MAGNITUDE OF WHICH CAUSE THIS ADVENTURE TO BE DEEMED +APOCRYPHAL + +CHAPTER XXIV WHEREIN ARE RELATED +A THOUSAND TRIFLING MATTERS, AS TRIVIAL AS THEY ARE NECESSARY TO THE RIGHT +UNDERSTANDING OF THIS GREAT HISTORY + +CHAPTER XXV +WHEREIN IS SET DOWN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, AND THE DROLL ONE OF THE +PUPPET-SHOWMAN, TOGETHER WITH THE MEMORABLE DIVINATIONS OF THE DIVINING +APE + +CHAPTER XXVI WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE +DROLL ADVENTURE OF THE PUPPET-SHOWMAN, TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS IN TRUTH +RIGHT GOOD + +CHAPTER XXVII WHEREIN IT IS +SHOWN WHO MASTER PEDRO AND HIS APE WERE, TOGETHER WITH THE MISHAP DON +QUIXOTE HAD IN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, WHICH HE DID NOT CONCLUDE AS HE +WOULD HAVE LIKED OR AS HE HAD EXPECTED + +CHAPTER +XXVIII OF MATTERS THAT BENENGELI SAYS HE WHO READS THEM WILL KNOW, IF +HE READS THEM WITH ATTENTION + +CHAPTER XXIX +OF THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED BARK + +CHAPTER +XXX OF DON QUIXOTE’S ADVENTURE WITH A FAIR HUNTRESS + +CHAPTER XXXI WHICH TREATS OF MANY AND GREAT MATTERS + + +CHAPTER XXXII OF THE REPLY DON QUIXOTE GAVE +HIS CENSURER, WITH OTHER INCIDENTS, GRAVE AND DROLL + +CHAPTER XXXIII OF THE DELECTABLE DISCOURSE WHICH THE +DUCHESS AND HER DAMSELS HELD WITH SANCHO PANZA, WELL WORTH READING AND +NOTING + +CHAPTER XXXIV WHICH RELATES HOW THEY +LEARNED THE WAY IN WHICH THEY WERE TO DISENCHANT THE PEERLESS DULCINEA DEL +TOBOSO, WHICH IS ONE OF THE RAREST ADVENTURES IN THIS BOOK + +CHAPTER XXXV WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE INSTRUCTION GIVEN +TO DON QUIXOTE TOUCHING THE DISENCHANTMENT OF DULCINEA, TOGETHER WITH +OTHER MARVELLOUS INCIDENTS + +CHAPTER XXXVI +WHEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE AND UNDREAMT-OF ADVENTURE OF THE DISTRESSED +DUENNA, ALIAS THE COUNTESS TRIFALDI, TOGETHER WITH A LETTER WHICH SANCHO +PANZA WROTE TO HIS WIFE, TERESA PANZA + +CHAPTER +XXXVII WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE DISTRESSED +DUENNA + +CHAPTER XXXVIII WHEREIN IS TOLD THE +DISTRESSED DUENNA’S TALE OF HER MISFORTUNES + +CHAPTER XXXIX IN WHICH THE TRIFALDI CONTINUES HER +MARVELLOUS AND MEMORABLE STORY + +CHAPTER XL +OF MATTERS RELATING AND BELONGING TO THIS ADVENTURE AND TO THIS MEMORABLE +HISTORY + +CHAPTER XLI OF THE ARRIVAL OF +CLAVILEÑO AND THE END OF THIS PROTRACTED ADVENTURE + +CHAPTER XLII OF THE COUNSELS WHICH DON QUIXOTE GAVE +SANCHO PANZA BEFORE HE SET OUT TO GOVERN THE ISLAND, TOGETHER WITH OTHER +WELL-CONSIDERED MATTERS + +CHAPTER XLIII OF +THE SECOND SET OF COUNSELS DON QUIXOTE GAVE SANCHO PANZA + +CHAPTER XLIV HOW SANCHO PANZA WAS CONDUCTED TO HIS +GOVERNMENT, AND OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE +CASTLE + +CHAPTER XLV OF HOW THE GREAT SANCHO +PANZA TOOK POSSESSION OF HIS ISLAND, AND OF HOW HE MADE A BEGINNING IN +GOVERNING + +CHAPTER XLVI OF THE TERRIBLE BELL +AND CAT FRIGHT THAT DON QUIXOTE GOT IN THE COURSE OF THE ENAMOURED +ALTISIDORA’S WOOING + +CHAPTER XLVII +WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ACCOUNT OF HOW SANCHO PANZA CONDUCTED HIMSELF IN +HIS GOVERNMENT + +CHAPTER XLVIII OF WHAT +BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH DOÑA RODRIGUEZ, THE DUCHESS’S DUENNA, +TOGETHER WITH OTHER OCCURRENCES WORTHY OF RECORD AND ETERNAL REMEMBRANCE + + +CHAPTER XLIX OF WHAT HAPPENED SANCHO IN +MAKING THE ROUND OF HIS ISLAND + +CHAPTER L +WHEREIN IS SET FORTH WHO THE ENCHANTERS AND EXECUTIONERS WERE WHO FLOGGED +THE DUENNA AND PINCHED DON QUIXOTE, AND ALSO WHAT BEFELL THE PAGE WHO +CARRIED THE LETTER TO TERESA PANZA, SANCHO PANZA’S WIFE + +CHAPTER LI OF THE PROGRESS OF SANCHO’S GOVERNMENT, +AND OTHER SUCH ENTERTAINING MATTERS + +CHAPTER LII +WHEREIN IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND DISTRESSED OR AFFLICTED +DUENNA, OTHERWISE CALLED DOÑA RODRIGUEZ + +CHAPTER +LIII OF THE TROUBLOUS END AND TERMINATION SANCHO PANZA’S +GOVERNMENT CAME TO + +CHAPTER LIV WHICH DEALS +WITH MATTERS RELATING TO THIS HISTORY AND NO OTHER + +CHAPTER LV OF WHAT BEFELL SANCHO ON THE ROAD, AND OTHER +THINGS THAT CANNOT BE SURPASSED + +CHAPTER LVI +OF THE PRODIGIOUS AND UNPARALLELED BATTLE THAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON +QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA AND THE LACQUEY TOSILOS IN DEFENCE OF THE DAUGHTER OF +DOÑA RODRIGUEZ + +CHAPTER LVII WHICH TREATS OF +HOW DON QUIXOTE TOOK LEAVE OF THE DUKE, AND OF WHAT FOLLOWED WITH THE +WITTY AND IMPUDENT ALTISIDORA, ONE OF THE DUCHESS’S DAMSELS + +CHAPTER LVIII WHICH TELLS HOW ADVENTURES CAME CROWDING +ON DON QUIXOTE IN SUCH NUMBERS THAT THEY GAVE ONE ANOTHER NO +BREATHING-TIME + +CHAPTER LIX WHEREIN IS +RELATED THE STRANGE THING, WHICH MAY BE REGARDED AS AN ADVENTURE, THAT +HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE + +CHAPTER LX OF WHAT +HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY TO BARCELONA + +CHAPTER +LXI OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON ENTERING BARCELONA, TOGETHER WITH +OTHER MATTERS THAT PARTAKE OF THE TRUE RATHER THAN OF THE INGENIOUS + +CHAPTER LXII WHICH DEALS WITH THE ADVENTURE OF THE +ENCHANTED HEAD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER TRIVIAL MATTERS WHICH CANNOT BE LEFT +UNTOLD + +CHAPTER LXIII OF THE MISHAP THAT +BEFELL SANCHO PANZA THROUGH THE VISIT TO THE GALLEYS, AND THE STRANGE +ADVENTURE OF THE FAIR MORISCO + +CHAPTER LXIV +TREATING OF THE ADVENTURE WHICH GAVE DON QUIXOTE MORE UNHAPPINESS THAN ALL +THAT HAD HITHERTO BEFALLEN HIM + +CHAPTER LXV +WHEREIN IS MADE KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE MOON WAS; LIKEWISE DON +GREGORIO’S RELEASE, AND OTHER EVENTS + +CHAPTER +LXVI WHICH TREATS OF WHAT HE WHO READS WILL SEE, OR WHAT HE WHO HAS IT +READ TO HIM WILL HEAR + +CHAPTER LXVII OF THE +RESOLUTION DON QUIXOTE FORMED TO TURN SHEPHERD AND TAKE TO A LIFE IN THE +FIELDS WHILE THE YEAR FOR WHICH HE HAD GIVEN HIS WORD WAS RUNNING ITS +COURSE; WITH OTHER EVENTS TRULY DELECTABLE AND HAPPY + +CHAPTER LXVIII OF THE BRISTLY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON +QUIXOTE + +CHAPTER LXIX OF THE STRANGEST AND +MOST EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE WHOLE COURSE +OF THIS GREAT HISTORY + +CHAPTER LXX WHICH +FOLLOWS SIXTY-NINE AND DEALS WITH MATTERS INDISPENSABLE FOR THE CLEAR +COMPREHENSION OF THIS HISTORY + +CHAPTER LXXI +OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO ON THE WAY TO +THEIR VILLAGE + +CHAPTER LXXII OF HOW DON +QUIXOTE AND SANCHO REACHED THEIR VILLAGE + +CHAPTER +LXXIII OF THE OMENS DON QUIXOTE HAD AS HE ENTERED HIS OWN VILLAGE, AND +OTHER INCIDENTS THAT EMBELLISH AND GIVE A COLOUR TO THIS GREAT HISTORY + + +CHAPTER LXXIV OF HOW DON QUIXOTE FELL SICK, +AND OF THE WILL HE MADE, AND HOW HE DIED + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +PREFARATORY + +It was with considerable reluctance that I abandoned in favour of the +present undertaking what had long been a favourite project: that of a +new edition of Shelton’s “Don Quixote,” which has now become a somewhat +scarce book. There are some—and I confess myself to be one—for whom +Shelton’s racy old version, with all its defects, has a charm that no +modern translation, however skilful or correct, could possess. Shelton +had the inestimable advantage of belonging to the same generation as +Cervantes; “Don Quixote” had to him a vitality that only a contemporary +could feel; it cost him no dramatic effort to see things as Cervantes +saw them; there is no anachronism in his language; he put the Spanish +of Cervantes into the English of Shakespeare. Shakespeare himself most +likely knew the book; he may have carried it home with him in his +saddle-bags to Stratford on one of his last journeys, and under the +mulberry tree at New Place joined hands with a kindred genius in its +pages. + +But it was soon made plain to me that to hope for even a moderate +popularity for Shelton was vain. His fine old crusted English would, no +doubt, be relished by a minority, but it would be only by a minority. +His warmest admirers must admit that he is not a satisfactory +representative of Cervantes. His translation of the First Part was very +hastily made and was never revised by him. It has all the freshness and +vigour, but also a full measure of the faults, of a hasty production. +It is often very literal—barbarously literal frequently—but just as +often very loose. He had evidently a good colloquial knowledge of +Spanish, but apparently not much more. It never seems to occur to him +that the same translation of a word will not suit in every case. + +It is often said that we have no satisfactory translation of “Don +Quixote.” To those who are familiar with the original, it savours of +truism or platitude to say so, for in truth there can be no thoroughly +satisfactory translation of “Don Quixote” into English or any other +language. It is not that the Spanish idioms are so utterly +unmanageable, or that the untranslatable words, numerous enough no +doubt, are so superabundant, but rather that the sententious terseness +to which the humour of the book owes its flavour is peculiar to +Spanish, and can at best be only distantly imitated in any other +tongue. + +The history of our English translations of “Don Quixote” is +instructive. Shelton’s, the first in any language, was made, +apparently, about 1608, but not published till 1612. This of course was +only the First Part. It has been asserted that the Second, published in +1620, is not the work of Shelton, but there is nothing to support the +assertion save the fact that it has less spirit, less of what we +generally understand by “go,” about it than the first, which would be +only natural if the first were the work of a young man writing +_currente calamo_, and the second that of a middle-aged man writing for +a bookseller. On the other hand, it is closer and more literal, the +style is the same, the very same translations, or mistranslations, +occur in it, and it is extremely unlikely that a new translator would, +by suppressing his name, have allowed Shelton to carry off the credit. + +In 1687 John Phillips, Milton’s nephew, produced a “Don Quixote” “made +English,” he says, “according to the humour of our modern language.” +His “Quixote” is not so much a translation as a travesty, and a +travesty that for coarseness, vulgarity, and buffoonery is almost +unexampled even in the literature of that day. + +Ned Ward’s “Life and Notable Adventures of Don Quixote, merrily +translated into Hudibrastic Verse” (1700), can scarcely be reckoned a +translation, but it serves to show the light in which “Don Quixote” was +regarded at the time. + +A further illustration may be found in the version published in 1712 by +Peter Motteux, who had then recently combined tea-dealing with +literature. It is described as “translated from the original by several +hands,” but if so all Spanish flavour has entirely evaporated under the +manipulation of the several hands. The flavour that it has, on the +other hand, is distinctly Franco-cockney. Anyone who compares it +carefully with the original will have little doubt that it is a +concoction from Shelton and the French of Filleau de Saint Martin, eked +out by borrowings from Phillips, whose mode of treatment it adopts. It +is, to be sure, more decent and decorous, but it treats “Don Quixote” +in the same fashion as a comic book that cannot be made too comic. + +To attempt to improve the humour of “Don Quixote” by an infusion of +cockney flippancy and facetiousness, as Motteux’s operators did, is not +merely an impertinence like larding a sirloin of prize beef, but an +absolute falsification of the spirit of the book, and it is a proof of +the uncritical way in which “Don Quixote” is generally read that this +worse than worthless translation—worthless as failing to represent, +worse than worthless as misrepresenting—should have been favoured as it +has been. + +It had the effect, however, of bringing out a translation undertaken +and executed in a very different spirit, that of Charles Jervas, the +portrait painter, and friend of Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, and Gay. Jervas +has been allowed little credit for his work, indeed it may be said +none, for it is known to the world in general as Jarvis’s. It was not +published until after his death, and the printers gave the name +according to the current pronunciation of the day. It has been the most +freely used and the most freely abused of all the translations. It has +seen far more editions than any other, it is admitted on all hands to +be by far the most faithful, and yet nobody seems to have a good word +to say for it or for its author. Jervas no doubt prejudiced readers +against himself in his preface, where among many true words about +Shelton, Stevens, and Motteux, he rashly and unjustly charges Shelton +with having translated not from the Spanish, but from the Italian +version of Franciosini, which did not appear until ten years after +Shelton’s first volume. A suspicion of incompetence, too, seems to have +attached to him because he was by profession a painter and a mediocre +one (though he has given us the best portrait we have of Swift), and +this may have been strengthened by Pope’s remark that he “translated +‘Don Quixote’ without understanding Spanish.” He has been also charged +with borrowing from Shelton, whom he disparaged. It is true that in a +few difficult or obscure passages he has followed Shelton, and gone +astray with him; but for one case of this sort, there are fifty where +he is right and Shelton wrong. As for Pope’s dictum, anyone who +examines Jervas’s version carefully, side by side with the original, +will see that he was a sound Spanish scholar, incomparably a better one +than Shelton, except perhaps in mere colloquial Spanish. He was, in +fact, an honest, faithful, and painstaking translator, and he has left +a version which, whatever its shortcomings may be, is singularly free +from errors and mistranslations. + +The charge against it is that it is stiff, dry—“wooden” in a word,—and +no one can deny that there is a foundation for it. But it may be +pleaded for Jervas that a good deal of this rigidity is due to his +abhorrence of the light, flippant, jocose style of his predecessors. He +was one of the few, very few, translators that have shown any +apprehension of the unsmiling gravity which is the essence of Quixotic +humour; it seemed to him a crime to bring Cervantes forward smirking +and grinning at his own good things, and to this may be attributed in a +great measure the ascetic abstinence from everything savouring of +liveliness which is the characteristic of his translation. In most +modern editions, it should be observed, his style has been smoothed and +smartened, but without any reference to the original Spanish, so that +if he has been made to read more agreeably he has also been robbed of +his chief merit of fidelity. + +Smollett’s version, published in 1755, may be almost counted as one of +these. At any rate it is plain that in its construction Jervas’s +translation was very freely drawn upon, and very little or probably no +heed given to the original Spanish. + +The later translations may be dismissed in a few words. George Kelly’s, +which appeared in 1769, “printed for the Translator,” was an impudent +imposture, being nothing more than Motteux’s version with a few of the +words, here and there, artfully transposed; Charles Wilmot’s (1774) was +only an abridgment like Florian’s, but not so skilfully executed; and +the version published by Miss Smirke in 1818, to accompany her +brother’s plates, was merely a patchwork production made out of former +translations. On the latest, Mr. A. J. Duffield’s, it would be in every +sense of the word impertinent in me to offer an opinion here. I had not +even seen it when the present undertaking was proposed to me, and since +then I may say vidi tantum, having for obvious reasons resisted the +temptation which Mr. Duffield’s reputation and comely volumes hold out +to every lover of Cervantes. + +From the foregoing history of our translations of “Don Quixote,” it +will be seen that there are a good many people who, provided they get +the mere narrative with its full complement of facts, incidents, and +adventures served up to them in a form that amuses them, care very +little whether that form is the one in which Cervantes originally +shaped his ideas. On the other hand, it is clear that there are many +who desire to have not merely the story he tells, but the story as he +tells it, so far at least as differences of idiom and circumstances +permit, and who will give a preference to the conscientious translator, +even though he may have acquitted himself somewhat awkwardly. + +But after all there is no real antagonism between the two classes; +there is no reason why what pleases the one should not please the +other, or why a translator who makes it his aim to treat “Don Quixote” +with the respect due to a great classic, should not be as acceptable +even to the careless reader as the one who treats it as a famous old +jest-book. It is not a question of caviare to the general, or, if it +is, the fault rests with him who makes so. The method by which +Cervantes won the ear of the Spanish people ought, mutatis mutandis, to +be equally effective with the great majority of English readers. At any +rate, even if there are readers to whom it is a matter of indifference, +fidelity to the method is as much a part of the translator’s duty as +fidelity to the matter. If he can please all parties, so much the +better; but his first duty is to those who look to him for as faithful +a representation of his author as it is in his power to give them, +faithful to the letter so long as fidelity is practicable, faithful to +the spirit so far as he can make it. + +My purpose here is not to dogmatise on the rules of translation, but to +indicate those I have followed, or at least tried to the best of my +ability to follow, in the present instance. One which, it seems to me, +cannot be too rigidly followed in translating “Don Quixote,” is to +avoid everything that savours of affectation. The book itself is, +indeed, in one sense a protest against it, and no man abhorred it more +than Cervantes. For this reason, I think, any temptation to use +antiquated or obsolete language should be resisted. It is after all an +affectation, and one for which there is no warrant or excuse. Spanish +has probably undergone less change since the seventeenth century than +any language in Europe, and by far the greater and certainly the best +part of “Don Quixote” differs but little in language from the +colloquial Spanish of the present day. Except in the tales and Don +Quixote’s speeches, the translator who uses the simplest and plainest +everyday language will almost always be the one who approaches nearest +to the original. + +Seeing that the story of “Don Quixote” and all its characters and +incidents have now been for more than two centuries and a half familiar +as household words in English mouths, it seems to me that the old +familiar names and phrases should not be changed without good reason. +Of course a translator who holds that “Don Quixote” should receive the +treatment a great classic deserves, will feel himself bound by the +injunction laid upon the Morisco in Chap. IX not to omit or add +anything. + + + + +CERVANTES + + +Four generations had laughed over “Don Quixote” before it occurred to +anyone to ask, who and what manner of man was this Miguel de Cervantes +Saavedra whose name is on the title-page; and it was too late for a +satisfactory answer to the question when it was proposed to add a life +of the author to the London edition published at Lord Carteret’s +instance in 1738. All traces of the personality of Cervantes had by +that time disappeared. Any floating traditions that may once have +existed, transmitted from men who had known him, had long since died +out, and of other record there was none; for the sixteenth and +seventeenth centuries were incurious as to “the men of the time,” a +reproach against which the nineteenth has, at any rate, secured itself, +if it has produced no Shakespeare or Cervantes. All that Mayans y +Siscar, to whom the task was entrusted, or any of those who followed +him, Rios, Pellicer, or Navarrete, could do was to eke out the few +allusions Cervantes makes to himself in his various prefaces with such +pieces of documentary evidence bearing upon his life as they could +find. + +This, however, has been done by the last-named biographer to such good +purpose that he has superseded all predecessors. Thoroughness is the +chief characteristic of Navarrete’s work. Besides sifting, testing, and +methodising with rare patience and judgment what had been previously +brought to light, he left, as the saying is, no stone unturned under +which anything to illustrate his subject might possibly be found. +Navarrete has done all that industry and acumen could do, and it is no +fault of his if he has not given us what we want. What Hallam says of +Shakespeare may be applied to the almost parallel case of Cervantes: +“It is not the register of his baptism, or the draft of his will, or +the orthography of his name that we seek; no letter of his writing, no +record of his conversation, no character of him drawn ... by a +contemporary has been produced.” + +It is only natural, therefore, that the biographers of Cervantes, +forced to make brick without straw, should have recourse largely to +conjecture, and that conjecture should in some instances come by +degrees to take the place of established fact. All that I propose to do +here is to separate what is matter of fact from what is matter of +conjecture, and leave it to the reader’s judgment to decide whether the +data justify the inference or not. + +The men whose names by common consent stand in the front rank of +Spanish literature, Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Quevedo, Calderon, +Garcilaso de la Vega, the Mendozas, Gongora, were all men of ancient +families, and, curiously, all, except the last, of families that traced +their origin to the same mountain district in the North of Spain. The +family of Cervantes is commonly said to have been of Galician origin, +and unquestionably it was in possession of lands in Galicia at a very +early date; but I think the balance of the evidence tends to show that +the “solar,” the original site of the family, was at Cervatos in the +north-west corner of Old Castile, close to the junction of Castile, +Leon, and the Asturias. As it happens, there is a complete history of +the Cervantes family from the tenth century down to the seventeenth +extant under the title of “Illustrious Ancestry, Glorious Deeds, and +Noble Posterity of the Famous Nuno Alfonso, Alcaide of Toledo,” written +in 1648 by the industrious genealogist Rodrigo Mendez Silva, who +availed himself of a manuscript genealogy by Juan de Mena, the poet +laureate and historiographer of John II. + +The origin of the name Cervantes is curious. Nuno Alfonso was almost as +distinguished in the struggle against the Moors in the reign of Alfonso +VII as the Cid had been half a century before in that of Alfonso VI, +and was rewarded by divers grants of land in the neighbourhood of +Toledo. On one of his acquisitions, about two leagues from the city, he +built himself a castle which he called Cervatos, because “he was lord +of the solar of Cervatos in the Montana,” as the mountain region +extending from the Basque Provinces to Leon was always called. At his +death in battle in 1143, the castle passed by his will to his son +Alfonso Munio, who, as territorial or local surnames were then coming +into vogue in place of the simple patronymic, took the additional name +of Cervatos. His eldest son Pedro succeeded him in the possession of +the castle, and followed his example in adopting the name, an +assumption at which the younger son, Gonzalo, seems to have taken +umbrage. + +Everyone who has paid even a flying visit to Toledo will remember the +ruined castle that crowns the hill above the spot where the bridge of +Alcántara spans the gorge of the Tagus, and with its broken outline and +crumbling walls makes such an admirable pendant to the square solid +Alcazar towering over the city roofs on the opposite side. It was +built, or as some say restored, by Alfonso VI shortly after his +occupation of Toledo in 1085, and called by him San Servando after a +Spanish martyr, a name subsequently modified into San Servan (in which +form it appears in the “Poem of the Cid”), San Servantes, and San +Cervantes: with regard to which last the “Handbook for Spain” warns its +readers against the supposition that it has anything to do with the +author of “Don Quixote.” Ford, as all know who have taken him for a +companion and counsellor on the roads of Spain, is seldom wrong in +matters of literature or history. In this instance, however, he is in +error. It has everything to do with the author of “Don Quixote,” for it +is in fact these old walls that have given to Spain the name she is +proudest of to-day. Gonzalo, above mentioned, it may be readily +conceived, did not relish the appropriation by his brother of a name to +which he himself had an equal right, for though nominally taken from +the castle, it was in reality derived from the ancient territorial +possession of the family, and as a set-off, and to distinguish himself +(diferenciarse) from his brother, he took as a surname the name of the +castle on the bank of the Tagus, in the building of which, according to +a family tradition, his great-grandfather had a share. + +Both brothers founded families. The Cervantes branch had more tenacity; +it sent offshoots in various directions, Andalusia, Estremadura, +Galicia, and Portugal, and produced a goodly line of men distinguished +in the service of Church and State. Gonzalo himself, and apparently a +son of his, followed Ferdinand III in the great campaign of 1236-48 +that gave Cordova and Seville to Christian Spain and penned up the +Moors in the kingdom of Granada, and his descendants intermarried with +some of the noblest families of the Peninsula and numbered among them +soldiers, magistrates, and Church dignitaries, including at least two +cardinal-archbishops. + +Of the line that settled in Andalusia, Deigo de Cervantes, Commander of +the Order of Santiago, married Juana Avellaneda, daughter of Juan Arias +de Saavedra, and had several sons, of whom one was Gonzalo Gomez, +Corregidor of Jerez and ancestor of the Mexican and Columbian branches +of the family; and another, Juan, whose son Rodrigo married Doña Leonor +de Cortinas, and by her had four children, Rodrigo, Andrea, Luisa, and +Miguel, our author. + +The pedigree of Cervantes is not without its bearing on “Don Quixote.” +A man who could look back upon an ancestry of genuine knights-errant +extending from well-nigh the time of Pelayo to the siege of Granada was +likely to have a strong feeling on the subject of the sham chivalry of +the romances. It gives a point, too, to what he says in more than one +place about families that have once been great and have tapered away +until they have come to nothing, like a pyramid. It was the case of his +own. + +He was born at Alcalá de Henares and baptised in the church of Santa +Maria Mayor on the 9th of October, 1547. Of his boyhood and youth we +know nothing, unless it be from the glimpse he gives us in the preface +to his “Comedies” of himself as a boy looking on with delight while +Lope de Rueda and his company set up their rude plank stage in the +plaza and acted the rustic farces which he himself afterwards took as +the model of his interludes. This first glimpse, however, is a +significant one, for it shows the early development of that love of the +drama which exercised such an influence on his life and seems to have +grown stronger as he grew older, and of which this very preface, +written only a few months before his death, is such a striking proof. +He gives us to understand, too, that he was a great reader in his +youth; but of this no assurance was needed, for the First Part of “Don +Quixote” alone proves a vast amount of miscellaneous reading, romances +of chivalry, ballads, popular poetry, chronicles, for which he had no +time or opportunity except in the first twenty years of his life; and +his misquotations and mistakes in matters of detail are always, it may +be noticed, those of a man recalling the reading of his boyhood. + +Other things besides the drama were in their infancy when Cervantes was +a boy. The period of his boyhood was in every way a transition period +for Spain. The old chivalrous Spain had passed away. The new Spain was +the mightiest power the world had seen since the Roman Empire and it +had not yet been called upon to pay the price of its greatness. By the +policy of Ferdinand and Ximenez the sovereign had been made absolute, +and the Church and Inquisition adroitly adjusted to keep him so. The +nobles, who had always resisted absolutism as strenuously as they had +fought the Moors, had been divested of all political power, a like fate +had befallen the cities, the free constitutions of Castile and Aragon +had been swept away, and the only function that remained to the Cortés +was that of granting money at the King’s dictation. + +The transition extended to literature. Men who, like Garcilaso de la +Vega and Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, followed the Italian wars, had +brought back from Italy the products of the post-Renaissance +literature, which took root and flourished and even threatened to +extinguish the native growths. Damon and Thyrsis, Phyllis and Chloe had +been fairly naturalised in Spain, together with all the devices of +pastoral poetry for investing with an air of novelty the idea of a +dispairing shepherd and inflexible shepherdess. As a set-off against +this, the old historical and traditional ballads, and the true +pastorals, the songs and ballads of peasant life, were being collected +assiduously and printed in the cancioneros that succeeded one another +with increasing rapidity. But the most notable consequence, perhaps, of +the spread of printing was the flood of romances of chivalry that had +continued to pour from the press ever since Garci Ordoñez de Montalvo +had resuscitated “Amadis of Gaul” at the beginning of the century. + +For a youth fond of reading, solid or light, there could have been no +better spot in Spain than Alcalá de Henares in the middle of the +sixteenth century. It was then a busy, populous university town, +something more than the enterprising rival of Salamanca, and altogether +a very different place from the melancholy, silent, deserted Alcalá the +traveller sees now as he goes from Madrid to Saragossa. Theology and +medicine may have been the strong points of the university, but the +town itself seems to have inclined rather to the humanities and light +literature, and as a producer of books Alcalá was already beginning to +compete with the older presses of Toledo, Burgos, Salamanca and +Seville. + +A pendant to the picture Cervantes has given us of his first playgoings +might, no doubt, have been often seen in the streets of Alcalá at that +time; a bright, eager, tawny-haired boy peering into a book-shop where +the latest volumes lay open to tempt the public, wondering, it may be, +what that little book with the woodcut of the blind beggar and his boy, +that called itself “Vida de Lazarillo de Tormes, segunda impresion,” +could be about; or with eyes brimming over with merriment gazing at one +of those preposterous portraits of a knight-errant in outrageous +panoply and plumes with which the publishers of chivalry romances loved +to embellish the title-pages of their folios. If the boy was the father +of the man, the sense of the incongruous that was strong at fifty was +lively at ten, and some such reflections as these may have been the +true genesis of “Don Quixote.” + +For his more solid education, we are told, he went to Salamanca. But +why Rodrigo de Cervantes, who was very poor, should have sent his son +to a university a hundred and fifty miles away when he had one at his +own door, would be a puzzle, if we had any reason for supposing that he +did so. The only evidence is a vague statement by Professor Tomas +Gonzalez, that he once saw an old entry of the matriculation of a +Miguel de Cervantes. This does not appear to have been ever seen again; +but even if it had, and if the date corresponded, it would prove +nothing, as there were at least two other Miguels born about the middle +of the century; one of them, moreover, a Cervantes Saavedra, a cousin, +no doubt, who was a source of great embarrassment to the biographers. + +That he was a student neither at Salamanca nor at Alcalá is best proved +by his own works. No man drew more largely upon experience than he did, +and he has nowhere left a single reminiscence of student life—for the +“Tia Fingida,” if it be his, is not one—nothing, not even “a college +joke,” to show that he remembered days that most men remember best. All +that we know positively about his education is that Juan Lopez de +Hoyos, a professor of humanities and belles-lettres of some eminence, +calls him his “dear and beloved pupil.” This was in a little collection +of verses by different hands on the death of Isabel de Valois, second +queen of Philip II., published by the professor in 1569, to which +Cervantes contributed four pieces, including an elegy, and an epitaph +in the form of a sonnet. It is only by a rare chance that a “Lycidas” +finds its way into a volume of this sort, and Cervantes was no Milton. +His verses are no worse than such things usually are; so much, at +least, may be said for them. + +By the time the book appeared he had left Spain, and, as fate ordered +it, for twelve years, the most eventful ones of his life. Giulio, +afterwards Cardinal, Acquaviva had been sent at the end of 1568 to +Philip II. by the Pope on a mission, partly of condolence, partly +political, and on his return to Rome, which was somewhat brusquely +expedited by the King, he took Cervantes with him as his camarero +(chamberlain), the office he himself held in the Pope’s household. The +post would no doubt have led to advancement at the Papal Court had +Cervantes retained it, but in the summer of 1570 he resigned it and +enlisted as a private soldier in Captain Diego Urbina’s company, +belonging to Don Miguel de Moncada’s regiment, but at that time forming +a part of the command of Marc Antony Colonna. What impelled him to this +step we know not, whether it was distaste for the career before him, or +purely military enthusiasm. It may well have been the latter, for it +was a stirring time; the events, however, which led to the alliance +between Spain, Venice, and the Pope, against the common enemy, the +Porte, and to the victory of the combined fleets at Lepanto, belong +rather to the history of Europe than to the life of Cervantes. He was +one of those that sailed from Messina, in September 1571, under the +command of Don John of Austria; but on the morning of the 7th of +October, when the Turkish fleet was sighted, he was lying below ill +with fever. At the news that the enemy was in sight he rose, and, in +spite of the remonstrances of his comrades and superiors, insisted on +taking his post, saying he preferred death in the service of God and +the King to health. His galley, the _Marquesa_, was in the thick of the +fight, and before it was over he had received three gunshot wounds, two +in the breast and one in the left hand or arm. On the morning after the +battle, according to Navarrete, he had an interview with the +commander-in-chief, Don John, who was making a personal inspection of +the wounded, one result of which was an addition of three crowns to his +pay, and another, apparently, the friendship of his general. + +How severely Cervantes was wounded may be inferred from the fact, that +with youth, a vigorous frame, and as cheerful and buoyant a temperament +as ever invalid had, he was seven months in hospital at Messina before +he was discharged. He came out with his left hand permanently disabled; +he had lost the use of it, as Mercury told him in the “Viaje del +Parnaso” for the greater glory of the right. This, however, did not +absolutely unfit him for service, and in April 1572 he joined Manuel +Ponce de Leon’s company of Lope de Figueroa’s regiment, in which, it +seems probable, his brother Rodrigo was serving, and shared in the +operations of the next three years, including the capture of the +Goletta and Tunis. Taking advantage of the lull which followed the +recapture of these places by the Turks, he obtained leave to return to +Spain, and sailed from Naples in September 1575 on board the _Sun_ +galley, in company with his brother Rodrigo, Pedro Carrillo de Quesada, +late Governor of the Goletta, and some others, and furnished with +letters from Don John of Austria and the Duke of Sesa, the Viceroy of +Sicily, recommending him to the King for the command of a company, on +account of his services; a _dono infelice_ as events proved. On the +26th they fell in with a squadron of Algerine galleys, and after a +stout resistance were overpowered and carried into Algiers. + +By means of a ransomed fellow-captive the brothers contrived to inform +their family of their condition, and the poor people at Alcalá at once +strove to raise the ransom money, the father disposing of all he +possessed, and the two sisters giving up their marriage portions. But +Dali Mami had found on Cervantes the letters addressed to the King by +Don John and the Duke of Sesa, and, concluding that his prize must be a +person of great consequence, when the money came he refused it +scornfully as being altogether insufficient. The owner of Rodrigo, +however, was more easily satisfied; ransom was accepted in his case, +and it was arranged between the brothers that he should return to Spain +and procure a vessel in which he was to come back to Algiers and take +off Miguel and as many of their comrades as possible. This was not the +first attempt to escape that Cervantes had made. Soon after the +commencement of his captivity he induced several of his companions to +join him in trying to reach Oran, then a Spanish post, on foot; but +after the first day’s journey, the Moor who had agreed to act as their +guide deserted them, and they had no choice but to return. The second +attempt was more disastrous. In a garden outside the city on the +sea-shore, he constructed, with the help of the gardener, a Spaniard, a +hiding-place, to which he brought, one by one, fourteen of his +fellow-captives, keeping them there in secrecy for several months, and +supplying them with food through a renegade known as El Dorador, “the +Gilder.” How he, a captive himself, contrived to do all this, is one of +the mysteries of the story. Wild as the project may appear, it was very +nearly successful. The vessel procured by Rodrigo made its appearance +off the coast, and under cover of night was proceeding to take off the +refugees, when the crew were alarmed by a passing fishing boat, and +beat a hasty retreat. On renewing the attempt shortly afterwards, they, +or a portion of them at least, were taken prisoners, and just as the +poor fellows in the garden were exulting in the thought that in a few +moments more freedom would be within their grasp, they found themselves +surrounded by Turkish troops, horse and foot. The Dorador had revealed +the whole scheme to the Dey Hassan. + +When Cervantes saw what had befallen them, he charged his companions to +lay all the blame upon him, and as they were being bound he declared +aloud that the whole plot was of his contriving, and that nobody else +had any share in it. Brought before the Dey, he said the same. He was +threatened with impalement and with torture; and as cutting off ears +and noses were playful freaks with the Algerines, it may be conceived +what their tortures were like; but nothing could make him swerve from +his original statement that he and he alone was responsible. The upshot +was that the unhappy gardener was hanged by his master, and the +prisoners taken possession of by the Dey, who, however, afterwards +restored most of them to their masters, but kept Cervantes, paying Dali +Mami 500 crowns for him. He felt, no doubt, that a man of such +resource, energy, and daring, was too dangerous a piece of property to +be left in private hands; and he had him heavily ironed and lodged in +his own prison. If he thought that by these means he could break the +spirit or shake the resolution of his prisoner, he was soon undeceived, +for Cervantes contrived before long to despatch a letter to the +Governor of Oran, entreating him to send him someone that could be +trusted, to enable him and three other gentlemen, fellow-captives of +his, to make their escape; intending evidently to renew his first +attempt with a more trustworthy guide. Unfortunately the Moor who +carried the letter was stopped just outside Oran, and the letter being +found upon him, he was sent back to Algiers, where by the order of the +Dey he was promptly impaled as a warning to others, while Cervantes was +condemned to receive two thousand blows of the stick, a number which +most likely would have deprived the world of “Don Quixote,” had not +some persons, who they were we know not, interceded on his behalf. + +After this he seems to have been kept in still closer confinement than +before, for nearly two years passed before he made another attempt. +This time his plan was to purchase, by the aid of a Spanish renegade +and two Valencian merchants resident in Algiers, an armed vessel in +which he and about sixty of the leading captives were to make their +escape; but just as they were about to put it into execution one Doctor +Juan Blanco de Paz, an ecclesiastic and a compatriot, informed the Dey +of the plot. Cervantes by force of character, by his self-devotion, by +his untiring energy and his exertions to lighten the lot of his +companions in misery, had endeared himself to all, and become the +leading spirit in the captive colony, and, incredible as it may seem, +jealousy of his influence and the esteem in which he was held, moved +this man to compass his destruction by a cruel death. The merchants +finding that the Dey knew all, and fearing that Cervantes under torture +might make disclosures that would imperil their own lives, tried to +persuade him to slip away on board a vessel that was on the point of +sailing for Spain; but he told them they had nothing to fear, for no +tortures would make him compromise anybody, and he went at once and +gave himself up to the Dey. + +As before, the Dey tried to force him to name his accomplices. +Everything was made ready for his immediate execution; the halter was +put round his neck and his hands tied behind him, but all that could be +got from him was that he himself, with the help of four gentlemen who +had since left Algiers, had arranged the whole, and that the sixty who +were to accompany him were not to know anything of it until the last +moment. Finding he could make nothing of him, the Dey sent him back to +prison more heavily ironed than before. + +The poverty-stricken Cervantes family had been all this time trying +once more to raise the ransom money, and at last a sum of three hundred +ducats was got together and entrusted to the Redemptorist Father Juan +Gil, who was about to sail for Algiers. The Dey, however, demanded more +than double the sum offered, and as his term of office had expired and +he was about to sail for Constantinople, taking all his slaves with +him, the case of Cervantes was critical. He was already on board +heavily ironed, when the Dey at length agreed to reduce his demand by +one-half, and Father Gil by borrowing was able to make up the amount, +and on September 19, 1580, after a captivity of five years all but a +week, Cervantes was at last set free. Before long he discovered that +Blanco de Paz, who claimed to be an officer of the Inquisition, was now +concocting on false evidence a charge of misconduct to be brought +against him on his return to Spain. To checkmate him Cervantes drew up +a series of twenty-five questions, covering the whole period of his +captivity, upon which he requested Father Gil to take the depositions +of credible witnesses before a notary. Eleven witnesses taken from +among the principal captives in Algiers deposed to all the facts above +stated and to a great deal more besides. There is something touching in +the admiration, love, and gratitude we see struggling to find +expression in the formal language of the notary, as they testify one +after another to the good deeds of Cervantes, how he comforted and +helped the weak-hearted, how he kept up their drooping courage, how he +shared his poor purse with this deponent, and how “in him this deponent +found father and mother.” + +On his return to Spain he found his old regiment about to march for +Portugal to support Philip’s claim to the crown, and utterly penniless +now, had no choice but to rejoin it. He was in the expeditions to the +Azores in 1582 and the following year, and on the conclusion of the war +returned to Spain in the autumn of 1583, bringing with him the +manuscript of his pastoral romance, the “Galatea,” and probably also, +to judge by internal evidence, that of the first portion of “Persiles +and Sigismunda.” He also brought back with him, his biographers assert, +an infant daughter, the offspring of an amour, as some of them with +great circumstantiality inform us, with a Lisbon lady of noble birth, +whose name, however, as well as that of the street she lived in, they +omit to mention. The sole foundation for all this is that in 1605 there +certainly was living in the family of Cervantes a Doña Isabel de +Saavedra, who is described in an official document as his natural +daughter, and then twenty years of age. + +With his crippled left hand promotion in the army was hopeless, now +that Don John was dead and he had no one to press his claims and +services, and for a man drawing on to forty life in the ranks was a +dismal prospect; he had already a certain reputation as a poet; he made +up his mind, therefore, to cast his lot with literature, and for a +first venture committed his “Galatea” to the press. It was published, +as Salva y Mallen shows conclusively, at Alcalá, his own birth-place, +in 1585 and no doubt helped to make his name more widely known, but +certainly did not do him much good in any other way. + +While it was going through the press, he married Doña Catalina de +Palacios Salazar y Vozmediano, a lady of Esquivias near Madrid, and +apparently a friend of the family, who brought him a fortune which may +possibly have served to keep the wolf from the door, but if so, that +was all. The drama had by this time outgrown market-place stages and +strolling companies, and with his old love for it he naturally turned +to it for a congenial employment. In about three years he wrote twenty +or thirty plays, which he tells us were performed without any throwing +of cucumbers or other missiles, and ran their course without any +hisses, outcries, or disturbance. In other words, his plays were not +bad enough to be hissed off the stage, but not good enough to hold +their own upon it. Only two of them have been preserved, but as they +happen to be two of the seven or eight he mentions with complacency, we +may assume they are favourable specimens, and no one who reads the +“Numancia” and the “Trato de Argel” will feel any surprise that they +failed as acting dramas. Whatever merits they may have, whatever +occasional they may show, they are, as regards construction, incurably +clumsy. How completely they failed is manifest from the fact that with +all his sanguine temperament and indomitable perseverance he was unable +to maintain the struggle to gain a livelihood as a dramatist for more +than three years; nor was the rising popularity of Lope the cause, as +is often said, notwithstanding his own words to the contrary. When Lope +began to write for the stage is uncertain, but it was certainly after +Cervantes went to Seville. + +Among the “Nuevos Documentos” printed by Señor Asensio y Toledo is one +dated 1592, and curiously characteristic of Cervantes. It is an +agreement with one Rodrigo Osorio, a manager, who was to accept six +comedies at fifty ducats (about 6l.) apiece, not to be paid in any case +unless it appeared on representation that the said comedy was one of +the best that had ever been represented in Spain. The test does not +seem to have been ever applied; perhaps it was sufficiently apparent to +Rodrigo Osorio that the comedies were not among the best that had ever +been represented. Among the correspondence of Cervantes there might +have been found, no doubt, more than one letter like that we see in the +“Rake’s Progress,” “Sir, I have read your play, and it will not doo.” + +He was more successful in a literary contest at Saragossa in 1595 in +honour of the canonisation of St. Jacinto, when his composition won the +first prize, three silver spoons. The year before this he had been +appointed a collector of revenues for the kingdom of Granada. In order +to remit the money he had collected more conveniently to the treasury, +he entrusted it to a merchant, who failed and absconded; and as the +bankrupt’s assets were insufficient to cover the whole, he was sent to +prison at Seville in September 1597. The balance against him, however, +was a small one, about 26l., and on giving security for it he was +released at the end of the year. + +It was as he journeyed from town to town collecting the king’s taxes, +that he noted down those bits of inn and wayside life and character +that abound in the pages of “Don Quixote:” the Benedictine monks with +spectacles and sunshades, mounted on their tall mules; the strollers in +costume bound for the next village; the barber with his basin on his +head, on his way to bleed a patient; the recruit with his breeches in +his bundle, tramping along the road singing; the reapers gathered in +the venta gateway listening to “Felixmarte of Hircania” read out to +them; and those little Hogarthian touches that he so well knew how to +bring in, the ox-tail hanging up with the landlord’s comb stuck in it, +the wine-skins at the bed-head, and those notable examples of hostelry +art, Helen going off in high spirits on Paris’s arm, and Dido on the +tower dropping tears as big as walnuts. Nay, it may well be that on +those journeys into remote regions he came across now and then a +specimen of the pauper gentleman, with his lean hack and his greyhound +and his books of chivalry, dreaming away his life in happy ignorance +that the world had changed since his great-grandfather’s old helmet was +new. But it was in Seville that he found out his true vocation, though +he himself would not by any means have admitted it to be so. It was +there, in Triana, that he was first tempted to try his hand at drawing +from life, and first brought his humour into play in the exquisite +little sketch of “Rinconete y Cortadillo,” the germ, in more ways than +one, of “Don Quixote.” + +Where and when that was written, we cannot tell. After his imprisonment +all trace of Cervantes in his official capacity disappears, from which +it may be inferred that he was not reinstated. That he was still in +Seville in November 1598 appears from a satirical sonnet of his on the +elaborate catafalque erected to testify the grief of the city at the +death of Philip II, but from this up to 1603 we have no clue to his +movements. The words in the preface to the First Part of “Don Quixote” +are generally held to be conclusive that he conceived the idea of the +book, and wrote the beginning of it at least, in a prison, and that he +may have done so is extremely likely. + +There is a tradition that Cervantes read some portions of his work to a +select audience at the Duke of Bejar’s, which may have helped to make +the book known; but the obvious conclusion is that the First Part of +“Don Quixote” lay on his hands some time before he could find a +publisher bold enough to undertake a venture of so novel a character; +and so little faith in it had Francisco Robles of Madrid, to whom at +last he sold it, that he did not care to incur the expense of securing +the copyright for Aragon or Portugal, contenting himself with that for +Castile. The printing was finished in December, and the book came out +with the new year, 1605. It is often said that “Don Quixote” was at +first received coldly. The facts show just the contrary. No sooner was +it in the hands of the public than preparations were made to issue +pirated editions at Lisbon and Valencia, and to bring out a second +edition with the additional copyrights for Aragon and Portugal, which +he secured in February. + +No doubt it was received with something more than coldness by certain +sections of the community. Men of wit, taste, and discrimination among +the aristocracy gave it a hearty welcome, but the aristocracy in +general were not likely to relish a book that turned their favourite +reading into ridicule and laughed at so many of their favourite ideas. +The dramatists who gathered round Lope as their leader regarded +Cervantes as their common enemy, and it is plain that he was equally +obnoxious to the other clique, the culto poets who had Gongora for +their chief. Navarrete, who knew nothing of the letter above mentioned, +tries hard to show that the relations between Cervantes and Lope were +of a very friendly sort, as indeed they were until “Don Quixote” was +written. Cervantes, indeed, to the last generously and manfully +declared his admiration of Lope’s powers, his unfailing invention, and +his marvellous fertility; but in the preface of the First Part of “Don +Quixote” and in the verses of “Urganda the Unknown,” and one or two +other places, there are, if we read between the lines, sly hits at +Lope’s vanities and affectations that argue no personal good-will; and +Lope openly sneers at “Don Quixote” and Cervantes, and fourteen years +after his death gives him only a few lines of cold commonplace in the +“Laurel de Apolo,” that seem all the colder for the eulogies of a host +of nonentities whose names are found nowhere else. + +In 1601 Valladolid was made the seat of the Court, and at the beginning +of 1603 Cervantes had been summoned thither in connection with the +balance due by him to the Treasury, which was still outstanding. He +remained at Valladolid, apparently supporting himself by agencies and +scrivener’s work of some sort; probably drafting petitions and drawing +up statements of claims to be presented to the Council, and the like. +So, at least, we gather from the depositions taken on the occasion of +the death of a gentleman, the victim of a street brawl, who had been +carried into the house in which he lived. In these he himself is +described as a man who wrote and transacted business, and it appears +that his household then consisted of his wife, the natural daughter +Isabel de Saavedra already mentioned, his sister Andrea, now a widow, +her daughter Constanza, a mysterious Magdalena de Sotomayor calling +herself his sister, for whom his biographers cannot account, and a +servant-maid. + +Meanwhile “Don Quixote” had been growing in favour, and its author’s +name was now known beyond the Pyrenees. In 1607 an edition was printed +at Brussels. Robles, the Madrid publisher, found it necessary to meet +the demand by a third edition, the seventh in all, in 1608. The +popularity of the book in Italy was such that a Milan bookseller was +led to bring out an edition in 1610; and another was called for in +Brussels in 1611. It might naturally have been expected that, with such +proofs before him that he had hit the taste of the public, Cervantes +would have at once set about redeeming his rather vague promise of a +second volume. + +But, to all appearance, nothing was farther from his thoughts. He had +still by him one or two short tales of the same vintage as those he had +inserted in “Don Quixote” and instead of continuing the adventures of +Don Quixote, he set to work to write more of these “Novelas Exemplares” +as he afterwards called them, with a view to making a book of them. + +The novels were published in the summer of 1613, with a dedication to +the Conde de Lemos, the Maecenas of the day, and with one of those +chatty confidential prefaces Cervantes was so fond of. In this, eight +years and a half after the First Part of “Don Quixote” had appeared, we +get the first hint of a forthcoming Second Part. “You shall see +shortly,” he says, “the further exploits of Don Quixote and humours of +Sancho Panza.” His idea of “shortly” was a somewhat elastic one, for, +as we know by the date to Sancho’s letter, he had barely one-half of +the book completed that time twelvemonth. + +But more than poems, or pastorals, or novels, it was his dramatic +ambition that engrossed his thoughts. The same indomitable spirit that +kept him from despair in the bagnios of Algiers, and prompted him to +attempt the escape of himself and his comrades again and again, made +him persevere in spite of failure and discouragement in his efforts to +win the ear of the public as a dramatist. The temperament of Cervantes +was essentially sanguine. The portrait he draws in the preface to the +novels, with the aquiline features, chestnut hair, smooth untroubled +forehead, and bright cheerful eyes, is the very portrait of a sanguine +man. Nothing that the managers might say could persuade him that the +merits of his plays would not be recognised at last if they were only +given a fair chance. The old soldier of the Spanish Salamis was bent on +being the Aeschylus of Spain. He was to found a great national drama, +based on the true principles of art, that was to be the envy of all +nations; he was to drive from the stage the silly, childish plays, the +“mirrors of nonsense and models of folly” that were in vogue through +the cupidity of the managers and shortsightedness of the authors; he +was to correct and educate the public taste until it was ripe for +tragedies on the model of the Greek drama—like the “Numancia” for +instance—and comedies that would not only amuse but improve and +instruct. All this he was to do, could he once get a hearing: there was +the initial difficulty. + +He shows plainly enough, too, that “Don Quixote” and the demolition of +the chivalry romances was not the work that lay next his heart. He was, +indeed, as he says himself in his preface, more a stepfather than a +father to “Don Quixote.” Never was great work so neglected by its +author. That it was written carelessly, hastily, and by fits and +starts, was not always his fault, but it seems clear he never read what +he sent to the press. He knew how the printers had blundered, but he +never took the trouble to correct them when the third edition was in +progress, as a man who really cared for the child of his brain would +have done. He appears to have regarded the book as little more than a +mere libro de entretenimiento, an amusing book, a thing, as he says in +the “Viaje,” “to divert the melancholy moody heart at any time or +season.” No doubt he had an affection for his hero, and was very proud +of Sancho Panza. It would have been strange indeed if he had not been +proud of the most humorous creation in all fiction. He was proud, too, +of the popularity and success of the book, and beyond measure +delightful is the naivete with which he shows his pride in a dozen +passages in the Second Part. But it was not the success he coveted. In +all probability he would have given all the success of “Don Quixote,” +nay, would have seen every copy of “Don Quixote” burned in the Plaza +Mayor, for one such success as Lope de Vega was enjoying on an average +once a week. + +And so he went on, dawdling over “Don Quixote,” adding a chapter now +and again, and putting it aside to turn to “Persiles and +Sigismunda”—which, as we know, was to be the most entertaining book in +the language, and the rival of “Theagenes and Chariclea”—or finishing +off one of his darling comedies; and if Robles asked when “Don Quixote” +would be ready, the answer no doubt was: En breve—shortly, there was +time enough for that. At sixty-eight he was as full of life and hope +and plans for the future as a boy of eighteen. + +Nemesis was coming, however. He had got as far as Chapter LIX, which at +his leisurely pace he could hardly have reached before October or +November 1614, when there was put into his hand a small octave lately +printed at Tarragona, and calling itself “Second Volume of the +Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha: by the Licentiate Alonso +Fernandez de Avellaneda of Tordesillas.” The last half of Chapter LIX +and most of the following chapters of the Second Part give us some idea +of the effect produced upon him, and his irritation was not likely to +be lessened by the reflection that he had no one to blame but himself. +Had Avellaneda, in fact, been content with merely bringing out a +continuation to “Don Quixote,” Cervantes would have had no reasonable +grievance. His own intentions were expressed in the very vaguest +language at the end of the book; nay, in his last words, “forse altro +cantera con miglior plettro,” he seems actually to invite someone else +to continue the work, and he made no sign until eight years and a half +had gone by; by which time Avellaneda’s volume was no doubt written. + +In fact Cervantes had no case, or a very bad one, as far as the mere +continuation was concerned. But Avellaneda chose to write a preface to +it, full of such coarse personal abuse as only an ill-conditioned man +could pour out. He taunts Cervantes with being old, with having lost +his hand, with having been in prison, with being poor, with being +friendless, accuses him of envy of Lope’s success, of petulance and +querulousness, and so on; and it was in this that the sting lay. +Avellaneda’s reason for this personal attack is obvious enough. Whoever +he may have been, it is clear that he was one of the dramatists of +Lope’s school, for he has the impudence to charge Cervantes with +attacking him as well as Lope in his criticism on the drama. His +identification has exercised the best critics and baffled all the +ingenuity and research that has been brought to bear on it. Navarrete +and Ticknor both incline to the belief that Cervantes knew who he was; +but I must say I think the anger he shows suggests an invisible +assailant; it is like the irritation of a man stung by a mosquito in +the dark. Cervantes from certain solecisms of language pronounces him +to be an Aragonese, and Pellicer, an Aragonese himself, supports this +view and believes him, moreover, to have been an ecclesiastic, a +Dominican probably. + +Any merit Avellaneda has is reflected from Cervantes, and he is too +dull to reflect much. “Dull and dirty” will always be, I imagine, the +verdict of the vast majority of unprejudiced readers. He is, at best, a +poor plagiarist; all he can do is to follow slavishly the lead given +him by Cervantes; his only humour lies in making Don Quixote take inns +for castles and fancy himself some legendary or historical personage, +and Sancho mistake words, invert proverbs, and display his gluttony; +all through he shows a proclivity to coarseness and dirt, and he has +contrived to introduce two tales filthier than anything by the +sixteenth century novellieri and without their sprightliness. + +But whatever Avellaneda and his book may be, we must not forget the +debt we owe them. But for them, there can be no doubt, “Don Quixote” +would have come to us a mere torso instead of a complete work. Even if +Cervantes had finished the volume he had in hand, most assuredly he +would have left off with a promise of a Third Part, giving the further +adventures of Don Quixote and humours of Sancho Panza as shepherds. It +is plain that he had at one time an intention of dealing with the +pastoral romances as he had dealt with the books of chivalry, and but +for Avellaneda he would have tried to carry it out. But it is more +likely that, with his plans, and projects, and hopefulness, the volume +would have remained unfinished till his death, and that we should have +never made the acquaintance of the Duke and Duchess, or gone with +Sancho to Barataria. + +From the moment the book came into his hands he seems to have been +haunted by the fear that there might be more Avellanedas in the field, +and putting everything else aside, he set himself to finish off his +task and protect Don Quixote in the only way he could, by killing him. +The conclusion is no doubt a hasty and in some places clumsy piece of +work and the frequent repetition of the scolding administered to +Avellaneda becomes in the end rather wearisome; but it is, at any rate, +a conclusion and for that we must thank Avellaneda. + +The new volume was ready for the press in February, but was not printed +till the very end of 1615, and during the interval Cervantes put +together the comedies and interludes he had written within the last few +years, and, as he adds plaintively, found no demand for among the +managers, and published them with a preface, worth the book it +introduces tenfold, in which he gives an account of the early Spanish +stage, and of his own attempts as a dramatist. It is needless to say +they were put forward by Cervantes in all good faith and full +confidence in their merits. The reader, however, was not to suppose +they were his last word or final effort in the drama, for he had in +hand a comedy called “Engano a los ojos,” about which, if he mistook +not, there would be no question. + +Of this dramatic masterpiece the world has no opportunity of judging; +his health had been failing for some time, and he died, apparently of +dropsy, on the 23rd of April, 1616, the day on which England lost +Shakespeare, nominally at least, for the English calendar had not yet +been reformed. He died as he had lived, accepting his lot bravely and +cheerfully. + +Was it an unhappy life, that of Cervantes? His biographers all tell us +that it was; but I must say I doubt it. It was a hard life, a life of +poverty, of incessant struggle, of toil ill paid, of disappointment, +but Cervantes carried within himself the antidote to all these evils. +His was not one of those light natures that rise above adversity merely +by virtue of their own buoyancy; it was in the fortitude of a high +spirit that he was proof against it. It is impossible to conceive +Cervantes giving way to despondency or prostrated by dejection. As for +poverty, it was with him a thing to be laughed over, and the only sigh +he ever allows to escape him is when he says, “Happy he to whom Heaven +has given a piece of bread for which he is not bound to give thanks to +any but Heaven itself.” Add to all this his vital energy and mental +activity, his restless invention and his sanguine temperament, and +there will be reason enough to doubt whether his could have been a very +unhappy life. He who could take Cervantes’ distresses together with his +apparatus for enduring them would not make so bad a bargain, perhaps, +as far as happiness in life is concerned. + +Of his burial-place nothing is known except that he was buried, in +accordance with his will, in the neighbouring convent of Trinitarian +nuns, of which it is supposed his daughter, Isabel de Saavedra, was an +inmate, and that a few years afterwards the nuns removed to another +convent, carrying their dead with them. But whether the remains of +Cervantes were included in the removal or not no one knows, and the +clue to their resting-place is now lost beyond all hope. This furnishes +perhaps the least defensible of the items in the charge of neglect +brought against his contemporaries. In some of the others there is a +good deal of exaggeration. To listen to most of his biographers one +would suppose that all Spain was in league not only against the man but +against his memory, or at least that it was insensible to his merits, +and left him to live in misery and die of want. To talk of his hard +life and unworthy employments in Andalusia is absurd. What had he done +to distinguish him from thousands of other struggling men earning a +precarious livelihood? True, he was a gallant soldier, who had been +wounded and had undergone captivity and suffering in his country’s +cause, but there were hundreds of others in the same case. He had +written a mediocre specimen of an insipid class of romance, and some +plays which manifestly did not comply with the primary condition of +pleasing: were the playgoers to patronise plays that did not amuse +them, because the author was to produce “Don Quixote” twenty years +afterwards? + +The scramble for copies which, as we have seen, followed immediately on +the appearance of the book, does not look like general insensibility to +its merits. No doubt it was received coldly by some, but if a man +writes a book in ridicule of periwigs he must make his account with +being coldly received by the periwig wearers and hated by the whole +tribe of wigmakers. If Cervantes had the chivalry-romance readers, the +sentimentalists, the dramatists, and the poets of the period all +against him, it was because “Don Quixote” was what it was; and if the +general public did not come forward to make him comfortable for the +rest of his days, it is no more to be charged with neglect and +ingratitude than the English-speaking public that did not pay off +Scott’s liabilities. It did the best it could; it read his book and +liked it and bought it, and encouraged the bookseller to pay him well +for others. + +It has been also made a reproach to Spain that she has erected no +monument to the man she is proudest of; no monument, that is to say, of +him; for the bronze statue in the little garden of the Plaza de las +Cortés, a fair work of art no doubt, and unexceptionable had it been +set up to the local poet in the market-place of some provincial town, +is not worthy of Cervantes or of Madrid. But what need has Cervantes of +“such weak witness of his name;” or what could a monument do in his +case except testify to the self-glorification of those who had put it +up? Si monumentum quoeris, circumspice. The nearest bookseller’s shop +will show what bathos there would be in a monument to the author of +“Don Quixote.” + + + + +‘DON QUIXOTE’ + + +Nine editions of the First Part of “Don Quixote” had already appeared +before Cervantes died, thirty thousand copies in all, according to his +own estimate, and a tenth was printed at Barcelona the year after his +death. So large a number naturally supplied the demand for some time, +but by 1634 it appears to have been exhausted; and from that time down +to the present day the stream of editions has continued to flow rapidly +and regularly. The translations show still more clearly in what request +the book has been from the very outset. In seven years from the +completion of the work it had been translated into the four leading +languages of Europe. Except the Bible, in fact, no book has been so +widely diffused as “Don Quixote.” The “Imitatio Christi” may have been +translated into as many different languages, and perhaps “Robinson +Crusoe” and the “Vicar of Wakefield” into nearly as many, but in +multiplicity of translations and editions “Don Quixote” leaves them all +far behind. + +Still more remarkable is the character of this wide diffusion. “Don +Quixote” has been thoroughly naturalised among people whose ideas about +knight-errantry, if they had any at all, were of the vaguest, who had +never seen or heard of a book of chivalry, who could not possibly feel +the humour of the burlesque or sympathise with the author’s purpose. +Another curious fact is that this, the most cosmopolitan book in the +world, is one of the most intensely national. “Manon Lescaut” is not +more thoroughly French, “Tom Jones” not more English, “Rob Roy” not +more Scotch, than “Don Quixote” is Spanish, in character, in ideas, in +sentiment, in local colour, in everything. What, then, is the secret of +this unparalleled popularity, increasing year by year for well-nigh +three centuries? One explanation, no doubt, is that of all the books in +the world, “Don Quixote” is the most catholic. There is something in it +for every sort of reader, young or old, sage or simple, high or low. As +Cervantes himself says with a touch of pride, “It is thumbed and read +and got by heart by people of all sorts; the children turn its leaves, +the young people read it, the grown men understand it, the old folk +praise it.” + +But it would be idle to deny that the ingredient which, more than its +humour, or its wisdom, or the fertility of invention or knowledge of +human nature it displays, has insured its success with the multitude, +is the vein of farce that runs through it. It was the attack upon the +sheep, the battle with the wine-skins, Mambrino’s helmet, the balsam of +Fierabras, Don Quixote knocked over by the sails of the windmill, +Sancho tossed in the blanket, the mishaps and misadventures of master +and man, that were originally the great attraction, and perhaps are so +still to some extent with the majority of readers. It is plain that +“Don Quixote” was generally regarded at first, and indeed in Spain for +a long time, as little more than a queer droll book, full of laughable +incidents and absurd situations, very amusing, but not entitled to much +consideration or care. All the editions printed in Spain from 1637 to +1771, when the famous printer Ibarra took it up, were mere trade +editions, badly and carelessly printed on vile paper and got up in the +style of chap-books intended only for popular use, with, in most +instances, uncouth illustrations and clap-trap additions by the +publisher. + +To England belongs the credit of having been the first country to +recognise the right of “Don Quixote” to better treatment than this. The +London edition of 1738, commonly called Lord Carteret’s from having +been suggested by him, was not a mere _édition de luxe_. It produced +“Don Quixote” in becoming form as regards paper and type, and +embellished with plates which, if not particularly happy as +illustrations, were at least well intentioned and well executed, but it +also aimed at correctness of text, a matter to which nobody except the +editors of the Valencia and Brussels editions had given even a passing +thought; and for a first attempt it was fairly successful, for though +some of its emendations are inadmissible, a good many of them have been +adopted by all subsequent editors. + +The zeal of publishers, editors, and annotators brought about a +remarkable change of sentiment with regard to “Don Quixote.” A vast +number of its admirers began to grow ashamed of laughing over it. It +became almost a crime to treat it as a humorous book. The humour was +not entirely denied, but, according to the new view, it was rated as an +altogether secondary quality, a mere accessory, nothing more than the +stalking-horse under the presentation of which Cervantes shot his +philosophy or his satire, or whatever it was he meant to shoot; for on +this point opinions varied. All were agreed, however, that the object +he aimed at was not the books of chivalry. He said emphatically in the +preface to the First Part and in the last sentence of the Second, that +he had no other object in view than to discredit these books, and this, +to advanced criticism, made it clear that his object must have been +something else. + +One theory was that the book was a kind of allegory, setting forth the +eternal struggle between the ideal and the real, between the spirit of +poetry and the spirit of prose; and perhaps German philosophy never +evolved a more ungainly or unlikely camel out of the depths of its +inner consciousness. Something of the antagonism, no doubt, is to be +found in “Don Quixote,” because it is to be found everywhere in life, +and Cervantes drew from life. It is difficult to imagine a community in +which the never-ceasing game of cross-purposes between Sancho Panza and +Don Quixote would not be recognised as true to nature. In the stone +age, among the lake dwellers, among the cave men, there were Don +Quixotes and Sancho Panzas; there must have been the troglodyte who +never could see the facts before his eyes, and the troglodyte who could +see nothing else. But to suppose Cervantes deliberately setting himself +to expound any such idea in two stout quarto volumes is to suppose +something not only very unlike the age in which he lived, but +altogether unlike Cervantes himself, who would have been the first to +laugh at an attempt of the sort made by anyone else. + +The extraordinary influence of the romances of chivalry in his day is +quite enough to account for the genesis of the book. Some idea of the +prodigious development of this branch of literature in the sixteenth +century may be obtained from the scrutiny of Chapter VII, if the reader +bears in mind that only a portion of the romances belonging to by far +the largest group are enumerated. As to its effect upon the nation, +there is abundant evidence. From the time when the Amadises and +Palmerins began to grow popular down to the very end of the century, +there is a steady stream of invective, from men whose character and +position lend weight to their words, against the romances of chivalry +and the infatuation of their readers. Ridicule was the only besom to +sweep away that dust. + +That this was the task Cervantes set himself, and that he had ample +provocation to urge him to it, will be sufficiently clear to those who +look into the evidence; as it will be also that it was not chivalry +itself that he attacked and swept away. Of all the absurdities that, +thanks to poetry, will be repeated to the end of time, there is no +greater one than saying that “Cervantes smiled Spain’s chivalry away.” +In the first place there was no chivalry for him to smile away. Spain’s +chivalry had been dead for more than a century. Its work was done when +Granada fell, and as chivalry was essentially republican in its nature, +it could not live under the rule that Ferdinand substituted for the +free institutions of mediaeval Spain. What he did smile away was not +chivalry but a degrading mockery of it. + +The true nature of the “right arm” and the “bright array,” before +which, according to the poet, “the world gave ground,” and which +Cervantes’ single laugh demolished, may be gathered from the words of +one of his own countrymen, Don Felix Pacheco, as reported by Captain +George Carleton, in his “Military Memoirs from 1672 to 1713.” “Before +the appearance in the world of that labour of Cervantes,” he said, “it +was next to an impossibility for a man to walk the streets with any +delight or without danger. There were seen so many cavaliers prancing +and curvetting before the windows of their mistresses, that a stranger +would have imagined the whole nation to have been nothing less than a +race of knight-errants. But after the world became a little acquainted +with that notable history, the man that was seen in that once +celebrated drapery was pointed at as a Don Quixote, and found himself +the jest of high and low. And I verily believe that to this, and this +only, we owe that dampness and poverty of spirit which has run through +all our councils for a century past, so little agreeable to those +nobler actions of our famous ancestors.” + +To call “Don Quixote” a sad book, preaching a pessimist view of life, +argues a total misconception of its drift. It would be so if its moral +were that, in this world, true enthusiasm naturally leads to ridicule +and discomfiture. But it preaches nothing of the sort; its moral, so +far as it can be said to have one, is that the spurious enthusiasm that +is born of vanity and self-conceit, that is made an end in itself, not +a means to an end, that acts on mere impulse, regardless of +circumstances and consequences, is mischievous to its owner, and a very +considerable nuisance to the community at large. To those who cannot +distinguish between the one kind and the other, no doubt “Don Quixote” +is a sad book; no doubt to some minds it is very sad that a man who had +just uttered so beautiful a sentiment as that “it is a hard case to +make slaves of those whom God and Nature made free,” should be +ungratefully pelted by the scoundrels his crazy philanthropy had let +loose on society; but to others of a more judicial cast it will be a +matter of regret that reckless self-sufficient enthusiasm is not +oftener requited in some such way for all the mischief it does in the +world. + +A very slight examination of the structure of “Don Quixote” will +suffice to show that Cervantes had no deep design or elaborate plan in +his mind when he began the book. When he wrote those lines in which +“with a few strokes of a great master he sets before us the pauper +gentleman,” he had no idea of the goal to which his imagination was +leading him. There can be little doubt that all he contemplated was a +short tale to range with those he had already written, a tale setting +forth the ludicrous results that might be expected to follow the +attempt of a crazy gentleman to act the part of a knight-errant in +modern life. + +It is plain, for one thing, that Sancho Panza did not enter into the +original scheme, for had Cervantes thought of him he certainly would +not have omitted him in his hero’s outfit, which he obviously meant to +be complete. Him we owe to the landlord’s chance remark in Chapter III +that knights seldom travelled without squires. To try to think of a Don +Quixote without Sancho Panza is like trying to think of a one-bladed +pair of scissors. + +The story was written at first, like the others, without any division +and without the intervention of Cid Hamete Benengeli; and it seems not +unlikely that Cervantes had some intention of bringing Dulcinea, or +Aldonza Lorenzo, on the scene in person. It was probably the ransacking +of the Don’s library and the discussion on the books of chivalry that +first suggested it to him that his idea was capable of development. +What, if instead of a mere string of farcical misadventures, he were to +make his tale a burlesque of one of these books, caricaturing their +style, incidents, and spirit? + +In pursuance of this change of plan, he hastily and somewhat clumsily +divided what he had written into chapters on the model of “Amadis,” +invented the fable of a mysterious Arabic manuscript, and set up Cid +Hamete Benengeli in imitation of the almost invariable practice of the +chivalry-romance authors, who were fond of tracing their books to some +recondite source. In working out the new ideas, he soon found the value +of Sancho Panza. Indeed, the keynote, not only to Sancho’s part, but to +the whole book, is struck in the first words Sancho utters when he +announces his intention of taking his ass with him. “About the ass,” we +are told, “Don Quixote hesitated a little, trying whether he could call +to mind any knight-errant taking with him an esquire mounted on +ass-back; but no instance occurred to his memory.” We can see the whole +scene at a glance, the stolid unconsciousness of Sancho and the +perplexity of his master, upon whose perception the incongruity has +just forced itself. This is Sancho’s mission throughout the book; he is +an unconscious Mephistopheles, always unwittingly making mockery of his +master’s aspirations, always exposing the fallacy of his ideas by some +unintentional ad absurdum, always bringing him back to the world of +fact and commonplace by force of sheer stolidity. + +By the time Cervantes had got his volume of novels off his hands, and +summoned up resolution enough to set about the Second Part in earnest, +the case was very much altered. Don Quixote and Sancho Panza had not +merely found favour, but had already become, what they have never since +ceased to be, veritable entities to the popular imagination. There was +no occasion for him now to interpolate extraneous matter; nay, his +readers told him plainly that what they wanted of him was more Don +Quixote and more Sancho Panza, and not novels, tales, or digressions. +To himself, too, his creations had become realities, and he had become +proud of them, especially of Sancho. He began the Second Part, +therefore, under very different conditions, and the difference makes +itself manifest at once. Even in translation the style will be seen to +be far easier, more flowing, more natural, and more like that of a man +sure of himself and of his audience. Don Quixote and Sancho undergo a +change also. In the First Part, Don Quixote has no character or +individuality whatever. He is nothing more than a crazy representative +of the sentiments of the chivalry romances. In all that he says and +does he is simply repeating the lesson he has learned from his books; +and therefore, it is absurd to speak of him in the gushing strain of +the sentimental critics when they dilate upon his nobleness, +disinterestedness, dauntless courage, and so forth. It was the business +of a knight-errant to right wrongs, redress injuries, and succour the +distressed, and this, as a matter of course, he makes his business when +he takes up the part; a knight-errant was bound to be intrepid, and so +he feels bound to cast fear aside. Of all Byron’s melodious nonsense +about Don Quixote, the most nonsensical statement is that “’tis his +virtue makes him mad!” The exact opposite is the truth; it is his +madness makes him virtuous. + +In the Second Part, Cervantes repeatedly reminds the reader, as if it +was a point upon which he was anxious there should be no mistake, that +his hero’s madness is strictly confined to delusions on the subject of +chivalry, and that on every other subject he is discreto, one, in fact, +whose faculty of discernment is in perfect order. The advantage of this +is that he is enabled to make use of Don Quixote as a mouthpiece for +his own reflections, and so, without seeming to digress, allow himself +the relief of digression when he requires it, as freely as in a +commonplace book. + +It is true the amount of individuality bestowed upon Don Quixote is not +very great. There are some natural touches of character about him, such +as his mixture of irascibility and placability, and his curious +affection for Sancho together with his impatience of the squire’s +loquacity and impertinence; but in the main, apart from his craze, he +is little more than a thoughtful, cultured gentleman, with instinctive +good taste and a great deal of shrewdness and originality of mind. + +As to Sancho, it is plain, from the concluding words of the preface to +the First Part, that he was a favourite with his creator even before he +had been taken into favour by the public. An inferior genius, taking +him in hand a second time, would very likely have tried to improve him +by making him more comical, clever, amiable, or virtuous. But Cervantes +was too true an artist to spoil his work in this way. Sancho, when he +reappears, is the old Sancho with the old familiar features; but with a +difference; they have been brought out more distinctly, but at the same +time with a careful avoidance of anything like caricature; the outline +has been filled in where filling in was necessary, and, vivified by a +few touches of a master’s hand, Sancho stands before us as he might in +a character portrait by Velazquez. He is a much more important and +prominent figure in the Second Part than in the First; indeed, it is +his matchless mendacity about Dulcinea that to a great extent supplies +the action of the story. + +His development in this respect is as remarkable as in any other. In +the First Part he displays a great natural gift of lying. His lies are +not of the highly imaginative sort that liars in fiction commonly +indulge in; like Falstaff’s, they resemble the father that begets them; +they are simple, homely, plump lies; plain working lies, in short. But +in the service of such a master as Don Quixote he develops rapidly, as +we see when he comes to palm off the three country wenches as Dulcinea +and her ladies in waiting. It is worth noticing how, flushed by his +success in this instance, he is tempted afterwards to try a flight +beyond his powers in his account of the journey on Clavileño. + +In the Second Part it is the spirit rather than the incidents of the +chivalry romances that is the subject of the burlesque. Enchantments of +the sort travestied in those of Dulcinea and the Trifaldi and the cave +of Montesinos play a leading part in the later and inferior romances, +and another distinguishing feature is caricatured in Don Quixote’s +blind adoration of Dulcinea. In the romances of chivalry love is either +a mere animalism or a fantastic idolatry. Only a coarse-minded man +would care to make merry with the former, but to one of Cervantes’ +humour the latter was naturally an attractive subject for ridicule. +Like everything else in these romances, it is a gross exaggeration of +the real sentiment of chivalry, but its peculiar extravagance is +probably due to the influence of those masters of hyperbole, the +Provencal poets. When a troubadour professed his readiness to obey his +lady in all things, he made it incumbent upon the next comer, if he +wished to avoid the imputation of tameness and commonplace, to declare +himself the slave of her will, which the next was compelled to cap by +some still stronger declaration; and so expressions of devotion went on +rising one above the other like biddings at an auction, and a +conventional language of gallantry and theory of love came into being +that in time permeated the literature of Southern Europe, and bore +fruit, in one direction in the transcendental worship of Beatrice and +Laura, and in another in the grotesque idolatry which found exponents +in writers like Feliciano de Silva. This is what Cervantes deals with +in Don Quixote’s passion for Dulcinea, and in no instance has he +carried out the burlesque more happily. By keeping Dulcinea in the +background, and making her a vague shadowy being of whose very +existence we are left in doubt, he invests Don Quixote’s worship of her +virtues and charms with an additional extravagance, and gives still +more point to the caricature of the sentiment and language of the +romances. + +One of the great merits of “Don Quixote,” and one of the qualities that +have secured its acceptance by all classes of readers and made it the +most cosmopolitan of books, is its simplicity. There are, of course, +points obvious enough to a Spanish seventeenth century audience which +do not immediately strike a reader now-a-days, and Cervantes often +takes it for granted that an allusion will be generally understood +which is only intelligible to a few. For example, on many of his +readers in Spain, and most of his readers out of it, the significance +of his choice of a country for his hero is completely lost. It would be +going too far to say that no one can thoroughly comprehend “Don +Quixote” without having seen La Mancha, but undoubtedly even a glimpse +of La Mancha will give an insight into the meaning of Cervantes such as +no commentator can give. Of all the regions of Spain it is the last +that would suggest the idea of romance. Of all the dull central plateau +of the Peninsula it is the dullest tract. There is something impressive +about the grim solitudes of Estremadura; and if the plains of Leon and +Old Castile are bald and dreary, they are studded with old cities +renowned in history and rich in relics of the past. But there is no +redeeming feature in the Manchegan landscape; it has all the sameness +of the desert without its dignity; the few towns and villages that +break its monotony are mean and commonplace, there is nothing venerable +about them, they have not even the picturesqueness of poverty; indeed, +Don Quixote’s own village, Argamasilla, has a sort of oppressive +respectability in the prim regularity of its streets and houses; +everything is ignoble; the very windmills are the ugliest and shabbiest +of the windmill kind. + +To anyone who knew the country well, the mere style and title of “Don +Quixote of La Mancha” gave the key to the author’s meaning at once. La +Mancha as the knight’s country and scene of his chivalries is of a +piece with the pasteboard helmet, the farm-labourer on ass-back for a +squire, knighthood conferred by a rascally ventero, convicts taken for +victims of oppression, and the rest of the incongruities between Don +Quixote’s world and the world he lived in, between things as he saw +them and things as they were. + +It is strange that this element of incongruity, underlying the whole +humour and purpose of the book, should have been so little heeded by +the majority of those who have undertaken to interpret “Don Quixote.” +It has been completely overlooked, for example, by the illustrators. To +be sure, the great majority of the artists who illustrated “Don +Quixote” knew nothing whatever of Spain. To them a venta conveyed no +idea but the abstract one of a roadside inn, and they could not +therefore do full justice to the humour of Don Quixote’s misconception +in taking it for a castle, or perceive the remoteness of all its +realities from his ideal. But even when better informed they seem to +have no apprehension of the full force of the discrepancy. Take, for +instance, Gustave Doré’s drawing of Don Quixote watching his armour in +the inn-yard. Whether or not the Venta de Quesada on the Seville road +is, as tradition maintains, the inn described in “Don Quixote,” beyond +all question it was just such an inn-yard as the one behind it that +Cervantes had in his mind’s eye, and it was on just such a rude stone +trough as that beside the primitive draw-well in the corner that he +meant Don Quixote to deposit his armour. Gustave Doré makes it an +elaborate fountain such as no arriero ever watered his mules at in the +corral of any venta in Spain, and thereby entirely misses the point +aimed at by Cervantes. It is the mean, prosaic, commonplace character +of all the surroundings and circumstances that gives a significance to +Don Quixote’s vigil and the ceremony that follows. + +Cervantes’ humour is for the most part of that broader and simpler +sort, the strength of which lies in the perception of the incongruous. +It is the incongruity of Sancho in all his ways, words, and works, with +the ideas and aims of his master, quite as much as the wonderful +vitality and truth to nature of the character, that makes him the most +humorous creation in the whole range of fiction. That unsmiling gravity +of which Cervantes was the first great master, “Cervantes’ serious +air,” which sits naturally on Swift alone, perhaps, of later +humourists, is essential to this kind of humour, and here again +Cervantes has suffered at the hands of his interpreters. Nothing, +unless indeed the coarse buffoonery of Phillips, could be more out of +place in an attempt to represent Cervantes, than a flippant, would-be +facetious style, like that of Motteux’s version for example, or the +sprightly, jaunty air, French translators sometimes adopt. It is the +grave matter-of-factness of the narrative, and the apparent +unconsciousness of the author that he is saying anything ludicrous, +anything but the merest commonplace, that give its peculiar flavour to +the humour of Cervantes. His, in fact, is the exact opposite of the +humour of Sterne and the self-conscious humourists. Even when Uncle +Toby is at his best, you are always aware of “the man Sterne” behind +him, watching you over his shoulder to see what effect he is producing. +Cervantes always leaves you alone with Don Quixote and Sancho. He and +Swift and the great humourists always keep themselves out of sight, or, +more properly speaking, never think about themselves at all, unlike our +latter-day school of humourists, who seem to have revived the old +horse-collar method, and try to raise a laugh by some grotesque +assumption of ignorance, imbecility, or bad taste. + +It is true that to do full justice to Spanish humour in any other +language is well-nigh an impossibility. There is a natural gravity and +a sonorous stateliness about Spanish, be it ever so colloquial, that +make an absurdity doubly absurd, and give plausibility to the most +preposterous statement. This is what makes Sancho Panza’s drollery the +despair of the conscientious translator. Sancho’s curt comments can +never fall flat, but they lose half their flavour when transferred from +their native Castilian into any other medium. But if foreigners have +failed to do justice to the humour of Cervantes, they are no worse than +his own countrymen. Indeed, were it not for the Spanish peasant’s +relish of “Don Quixote,” one might be tempted to think that the great +humourist was not looked upon as a humourist at all in his own country. + +The craze of Don Quixote seems, in some instances, to have communicated +itself to his critics, making them see things that are not in the book +and run full tilt at phantoms that have no existence save in their own +imaginations. Like a good many critics now-a-days, they forget that +screams are not criticism, and that it is only vulgar tastes that are +influenced by strings of superlatives, three-piled hyperboles, and +pompous epithets. But what strikes one as particularly strange is that +while they deal in extravagant eulogies, and ascribe all manner of +imaginary ideas and qualities to Cervantes, they show no perception of +the quality that ninety-nine out of a hundred of his readers would rate +highest in him, and hold to be the one that raises him above all +rivalry. + +To speak of “Don Quixote” as if it were merely a humorous book would be +a manifest misdescription. Cervantes at times makes it a kind of +commonplace book for occasional essays and criticisms, or for the +observations and reflections and gathered wisdom of a long and stirring +life. It is a mine of shrewd observation on mankind and human nature. +Among modern novels there may be, here and there, more elaborate +studies of character, but there is no book richer in individualised +character. What Coleridge said of Shakespeare in minimis is true of +Cervantes; he never, even for the most temporary purpose, puts forward +a lay figure. There is life and individuality in all his characters, +however little they may have to do, or however short a time they may be +before the reader. Samson Carrasco, the curate, Teresa Panza, +Altisidora, even the two students met on the road to the cave of +Montesinos, all live and move and have their being; and it is +characteristic of the broad humanity of Cervantes that there is not a +hateful one among them all. Even poor Maritornes, with her deplorable +morals, has a kind heart of her own and “some faint and distant +resemblance to a Christian about her;” and as for Sancho, though on +dissection we fail to find a lovable trait in him, unless it be a sort +of dog-like affection for his master, who is there that in his heart +does not love him? + +But it is, after all, the humour of “Don Quixote” that distinguishes it +from all other books of the romance kind. It is this that makes it, as +one of the most judicial-minded of modern critics calls it, “the best +novel in the world beyond all comparison.” It is its varied humour, +ranging from broad farce to comedy as subtle as Shakespeare’s or +Molière’s that has naturalised it in every country where there are +readers, and made it a classic in every language that has a literature. + + + +THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE + +Idle reader: thou mayest believe me without any oath that I would this +book, as it is the child of my brain, were the fairest, gayest, and +cleverest that could be imagined. But I could not counteract Nature’s +law that everything shall beget its like; and what, then, could this +sterile, illtilled wit of mine beget but the story of a dry, +shrivelled, whimsical offspring, full of thoughts of all sorts and such +as never came into any other imagination—just what might be begotten in +a prison, where every misery is lodged and every doleful sound makes +its dwelling? Tranquillity, a cheerful retreat, pleasant fields, bright +skies, murmuring brooks, peace of mind, these are the things that go +far to make even the most barren muses fertile, and bring into the +world births that fill it with wonder and delight. Sometimes when a +father has an ugly, loutish son, the love he bears him so blindfolds +his eyes that he does not see his defects, or, rather, takes them for +gifts and charms of mind and body, and talks of them to his friends as +wit and grace. I, however—for though I pass for the father, I am but +the stepfather to “Don Quixote”—have no desire to go with the current +of custom, or to implore thee, dearest reader, almost with tears in my +eyes, as others do, to pardon or excuse the defects thou wilt perceive +in this child of mine. Thou art neither its kinsman nor its friend, thy +soul is thine own and thy will as free as any man’s, whate’er he be, +thou art in thine own house and master of it as much as the king of his +taxes and thou knowest the common saying, “Under my cloak I kill the +king;” all which exempts and frees thee from every consideration and +obligation, and thou canst say what thou wilt of the story without fear +of being abused for any ill or rewarded for any good thou mayest say of +it. + +My wish would be simply to present it to thee plain and unadorned, +without any embellishment of preface or uncountable muster of customary +sonnets, epigrams, and eulogies, such as are commonly put at the +beginning of books. For I can tell thee, though composing it cost me +some labour, I found none greater than the making of this Preface thou +art now reading. Many times did I take up my pen to write it, and many +did I lay it down again, not knowing what to write. One of these times, +as I was pondering with the paper before me, a pen in my ear, my elbow +on the desk, and my cheek in my hand, thinking of what I should say, +there came in unexpectedly a certain lively, clever friend of mine, +who, seeing me so deep in thought, asked the reason; to which I, making +no mystery of it, answered that I was thinking of the Preface I had to +make for the story of “Don Quixote,” which so troubled me that I had a +mind not to make any at all, nor even publish the achievements of so +noble a knight. + +“For, how could you expect me not to feel uneasy about what that +ancient lawgiver they call the Public will say when it sees me, after +slumbering so many years in the silence of oblivion, coming out now +with all my years upon my back, and with a book as dry as a rush, +devoid of invention, meagre in style, poor in thoughts, wholly wanting +in learning and wisdom, without quotations in the margin or annotations +at the end, after the fashion of other books I see, which, though all +fables and profanity, are so full of maxims from Aristotle, and Plato, +and the whole herd of philosophers, that they fill the readers with +amazement and convince them that the authors are men of learning, +erudition, and eloquence. And then, when they quote the Holy +Scriptures!—anyone would say they are St. Thomases or other doctors of +the Church, observing as they do a decorum so ingenious that in one +sentence they describe a distracted lover and in the next deliver a +devout little sermon that it is a pleasure and a treat to hear and +read. Of all this there will be nothing in my book, for I have nothing +to quote in the margin or to note at the end, and still less do I know +what authors I follow in it, to place them at the beginning, as all do, +under the letters A, B, C, beginning with Aristotle and ending with +Xenophon, or Zoilus, or Zeuxis, though one was a slanderer and the +other a painter. Also my book must do without sonnets at the beginning, +at least sonnets whose authors are dukes, marquises, counts, bishops, +ladies, or famous poets. Though if I were to ask two or three obliging +friends, I know they would give me them, and such as the productions of +those that have the highest reputation in our Spain could not equal. + +“In short, my friend,” I continued, “I am determined that Señor Don +Quixote shall remain buried in the archives of his own La Mancha until +Heaven provide someone to garnish him with all those things he stands +in need of; because I find myself, through my shallowness and want of +learning, unequal to supplying them, and because I am by nature shy and +careless about hunting for authors to say what I myself can say without +them. Hence the cogitation and abstraction you found me in, and reason +enough, what you have heard from me.” + +Hearing this, my friend, giving himself a slap on the forehead and +breaking into a hearty laugh, exclaimed, “Before God, Brother, now am I +disabused of an error in which I have been living all this long time I +have known you, all through which I have taken you to be shrewd and +sensible in all you do; but now I see you are as far from that as the +heaven is from the earth. Is it possible that things of so little +moment and so easy to set right can occupy and perplex a ripe wit like +yours, fit to break through and crush far greater obstacles? By my +faith, this comes, not of any want of ability, but of too much +indolence and too little knowledge of life. Do you want to know if I am +telling the truth? Well, then, attend to me, and you will see how, in +the opening and shutting of an eye, I sweep away all your difficulties, +and supply all those deficiencies which you say check and discourage +you from bringing before the world the story of your famous Don +Quixote, the light and mirror of all knight-errantry.” + +“Say on,” said I, listening to his talk; “how do you propose to make up +for my diffidence, and reduce to order this chaos of perplexity I am +in?” + +To which he made answer, “Your first difficulty about the sonnets, +epigrams, or complimentary verses which you want for the beginning, and +which ought to be by persons of importance and rank, can be removed if +you yourself take a little trouble to make them; you can afterwards +baptise them, and put any name you like to them, fathering them on +Prester John of the Indies or the Emperor of Trebizond, who, to my +knowledge, were said to have been famous poets: and even if they were +not, and any pedants or bachelors should attack you and question the +fact, never care two maravedis for that, for even if they prove a lie +against you they cannot cut off the hand you wrote it with. + +“As to references in the margin to the books and authors from whom you +take the aphorisms and sayings you put into your story, it is only +contriving to fit in nicely any sentences or scraps of Latin you may +happen to have by heart, or at any rate that will not give you much +trouble to look up; so as, when you speak of freedom and captivity, to +insert + +_Non bene pro toto libertas venditur auro;_ + + +and then refer in the margin to Horace, or whoever said it; or, if you +allude to the power of death, to come in with— + +_Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, +Regumque turres._ + + +“If it be friendship and the love God bids us bear to our enemy, go at +once to the Holy Scriptures, which you can do with a very small amount +of research, and quote no less than the words of God himself: _Ego +autem dico vobis: diligite inimicos vestros._ If you speak of evil +thoughts, turn to the Gospel: _De corde exeunt cogitationes malæ._ If +of the fickleness of friends, there is Cato, who will give you his +distich: + +_Donec eris felix multos numerabis amicos, +Tempora si fuerint nubila, solus eris._ + + +“With these and such like bits of Latin they will take you for a +grammarian at all events, and that now-a-days is no small honour and +profit. + +“With regard to adding annotations at the end of the book, you may +safely do it in this way. If you mention any giant in your book +contrive that it shall be the giant Goliath, and with this alone, which +will cost you almost nothing, you have a grand note, for you can +put—_The giant Golias or Goliath was a Philistine whom the shepherd +David slew by a mighty stone-cast in the Terebinth valley, as is +related in the Book of Kings_—in the chapter where you find it written. + +“Next, to prove yourself a man of erudition in polite literature and +cosmography, manage that the river Tagus shall be named in your story, +and there you are at once with another famous annotation, setting +forth—_The river Tagus was so called after a King of Spain: it has its +source in such and such a place and falls into the ocean, kissing the +walls of the famous city of Lisbon, and it is a common belief that it +has golden sands_, etc. If you should have anything to do with robbers, +I will give you the story of Cacus, for I have it by heart; if with +loose women, there is the Bishop of Mondonedo, who will give you the +loan of Lamia, Laida, and Flora, any reference to whom will bring you +great credit; if with hard-hearted ones, Ovid will furnish you with +Medea; if with witches or enchantresses, Homer has Calypso, and Virgil +Circe; if with valiant captains, Julius Cæsar himself will lend you +himself in his own ‘Commentaries,’ and Plutarch will give you a +thousand Alexanders. If you should deal with love, with two ounces you +may know of Tuscan you can go to Leon the Hebrew, who will supply you +to your heart’s content; or if you should not care to go to foreign +countries you have at home Fonseca’s ‘Of the Love of God,’ in which is +condensed all that you or the most imaginative mind can want on the +subject. In short, all you have to do is to manage to quote these +names, or refer to these stories I have mentioned, and leave it to me +to insert the annotations and quotations, and I swear by all that’s +good to fill your margins and use up four sheets at the end of the +book. + +“Now let us come to those references to authors which other books have, +and you want for yours. The remedy for this is very simple: You have +only to look out for some book that quotes them all, from A to Z as you +say yourself, and then insert the very same alphabet in your book, and +though the imposition may be plain to see, because you have so little +need to borrow from them, that is no matter; there will probably be +some simple enough to believe that you have made use of them all in +this plain, artless story of yours. At any rate, if it answers no other +purpose, this long catalogue of authors will serve to give a surprising +look of authority to your book. Besides, no one will trouble himself to +verify whether you have followed them or whether you have not, being no +way concerned in it; especially as, if I mistake not, this book of +yours has no need of any one of those things you say it wants, for it +is, from beginning to end, an attack upon the books of chivalry, of +which Aristotle never dreamt, nor St. Basil said a word, nor Cicero had +any knowledge; nor do the niceties of truth nor the observations of +astrology come within the range of its fanciful vagaries; nor have +geometrical measurements or refutations of the arguments used in +rhetoric anything to do with it; nor does it mean to preach to anybody, +mixing up things human and divine, a sort of motley in which no +Christian understanding should dress itself. It has only to avail +itself of truth to nature in its composition, and the more perfect the +imitation the better the work will be. And as this piece of yours aims +at nothing more than to destroy the authority and influence which books +of chivalry have in the world and with the public, there is no need for +you to go a-begging for aphorisms from philosophers, precepts from Holy +Scripture, fables from poets, speeches from orators, or miracles from +saints; but merely to take care that your style and diction run +musically, pleasantly, and plainly, with clear, proper, and well-placed +words, setting forth your purpose to the best of your power, and +putting your ideas intelligibly, without confusion or obscurity. +Strive, too, that in reading your story the melancholy may be moved to +laughter, and the merry made merrier still; that the simple shall not +be wearied, that the judicious shall admire the invention, that the +grave shall not despise it, nor the wise fail to praise it. Finally, +keep your aim fixed on the destruction of that ill-founded edifice of +the books of chivalry, hated by some and praised by many more; for if +you succeed in this you will have achieved no small success.” + +In profound silence I listened to what my friend said, and his +observations made such an impression on me that, without attempting to +question them, I admitted their soundness, and out of them I determined +to make this Preface; wherein, gentle reader, thou wilt perceive my +friend’s good sense, my good fortune in finding such an adviser in such +a time of need, and what thou hast gained in receiving, without +addition or alteration, the story of the famous Don Quixote of La +Mancha, who is held by all the inhabitants of the district of the Campo +de Montiel to have been the chastest lover and the bravest knight that +has for many years been seen in that neighbourhood. I have no desire to +magnify the service I render thee in making thee acquainted with so +renowned and honoured a knight, but I do desire thy thanks for the +acquaintance thou wilt make with the famous Sancho Panza, his squire, +in whom, to my thinking, I have given thee condensed all the squirely +drolleries that are scattered through the swarm of the vain books of +chivalry. And so—may God give thee health, and not forget me. Vale. + + + +SOME COMMENDATORY VERSES + + + +URGANDA THE UNKNOWN + +To the book of Don Quixote of la Mancha + +If to be welcomed by the good, + O Book! thou make thy steady aim, +No empty chatterer will dare + To question or dispute thy claim. +But if perchance thou hast a mind + To win of idiots approbation, +Lost labour will be thy reward, + Though they’ll pretend appreciation. + +They say a goodly shade he finds + Who shelters ’neath a goodly tree; +And such a one thy kindly star + In Bejar bath provided thee: +A royal tree whose spreading boughs + A show of princely fruit display; +A tree that bears a noble Duke, + The Alexander of his day. + +Of a Manchegan gentleman + Thy purpose is to tell the story, +Relating how he lost his wits + O’er idle tales of love and glory, +Of “ladies, arms, and cavaliers:” + A new Orlando Furioso— +Innamorato, rather—who + Won Dulcinea del Toboso. + +Put no vain emblems on thy shield; + All figures—that is bragging play. +A modest dedication make, + And give no scoffer room to say, +“What! Álvaro de Luna here? + Or is it Hannibal again? +Or does King Francis at Madrid + Once more of destiny complain?” + +Since Heaven it hath not pleased on thee + Deep erudition to bestow, +Or black Latino’s gift of tongues, + No Latin let thy pages show. +Ape not philosophy or wit, + Lest one who cannot comprehend, +Make a wry face at thee and ask, + “Why offer flowers to me, my friend?” + +Be not a meddler; no affair + Of thine the life thy neighbours lead: +Be prudent; oft the random jest + Recoils upon the jester’s head. +Thy constant labour let it be + To earn thyself an honest name, +For fooleries preserved in print + Are perpetuity of shame. + +A further counsel bear in mind: + If that thy roof be made of glass, +It shows small wit to pick up stones + To pelt the people as they pass. +Win the attention of the wise, + And give the thinker food for thought; +Whoso indites frivolities, + Will but by simpletons be sought. + + + + +AMADIS OF GAUL +To Don Quixote of la Mancha + +SONNET + +Thou that didst imitate that life of mine + When I in lonely sadness on the great + Rock Peña Pobre sat disconsolate, +In self-imposed penance there to pine; +Thou, whose sole beverage was the bitter brine + Of thine own tears, and who withouten plate + Of silver, copper, tin, in lowly state +Off the bare earth and on earth’s fruits didst dine; +Live thou, of thine eternal glory sure. + So long as on the round of the fourth sphere + The bright Apollo shall his coursers steer, +In thy renown thou shalt remain secure, +Thy country’s name in story shall endure, + And thy sage author stand without a peer. + + + + +DON BELIANIS OF GREECE +To Don Quixote of la Mancha + +SONNET + +In slashing, hewing, cleaving, word and deed, + I was the foremost knight of chivalry, + Stout, bold, expert, as e’er the world did see; +Thousands from the oppressor’s wrong I freed; +Great were my feats, eternal fame their meed; + In love I proved my truth and loyalty; + The hugest giant was a dwarf for me; +Ever to knighthood’s laws gave I good heed. +My mastery the Fickle Goddess owned, + And even Chance, submitting to control, + Grasped by the forelock, yielded to my will. +Yet—though above yon horned moon enthroned + My fortune seems to sit—great Quixote, still + Envy of thy achievements fills my soul. + + + + +THE LADY OF ORIANA +To Dulcinea del Toboso + +SONNET + +Oh, fairest Dulcinea, could it be! + It were a pleasant fancy to suppose so— + Could Miraflores change to El Toboso, +And London’s town to that which shelters thee! +Oh, could mine but acquire that livery + Of countless charms thy mind and body show so! + Or him, now famous grown—thou mad’st him grow so— +Thy knight, in some dread combat could I see! +Oh, could I be released from Amadis + By exercise of such coy chastity +As led thee gentle Quixote to dismiss! + Then would my heavy sorrow turn to joy; + None would I envy, all would envy me, + And happiness be mine without alloy. + + + + +GANDALIN, SQUIRE OF AMADIS OF GAUL, +To Sancho Panza, squire of Don Quixote + +SONNET + +All hail, illustrious man! Fortune, when she + Bound thee apprentice to the esquire trade, + Her care and tenderness of thee displayed, +Shaping thy course from misadventure free. +No longer now doth proud knight-errantry + Regard with scorn the sickle and the spade; + Of towering arrogance less count is made +Than of plain esquire-like simplicity. +I envy thee thy Dapple, and thy name, + And those alforjas thou wast wont to stuff +With comforts that thy providence proclaim. + Excellent Sancho! hail to thee again! + To thee alone the Ovid of our Spain + Does homage with the rustic kiss and cuff. + + + + +FROM EL DONOSO, THE MOTLEY POET, + +On Sancho Panza and Rocinante + +ON SANCHO + +I am the esquire Sancho Pan— +Who served Don Quixote of La Man—; +But from his service I retreat—, +Resolved to pass my life discreet—; +For Villadiego, called the Si—, +Maintained that only in reti— +Was found the secret of well-be—, +According to the “Celesti—:” +A book divine, except for sin— +By speech too plain, in my opin— + + + + +ON ROCINANTE + +I am that Rocinante fa—, +Great-grandson of great Babie—, +Who, all for being lean and bon—, +Had one Don Quixote for an own—; +But if I matched him well in weak—, +I never took short commons meek—, +But kept myself in corn by steal—, +A trick I learned from Lazaril—, +When with a piece of straw so neat— +The blind man of his wine he cheat—. + + + + +ORLANDO FURIOSO +To Don Quixote of La Mancha + +SONNET + +If thou art not a Peer, peer thou hast none; + Among a thousand Peers thou art a peer; + Nor is there room for one when thou art near, +Unvanquished victor, great unconquered one! +Orlando, by Angelica undone, + Am I; o’er distant seas condemned to steer, + And to Fame’s altars as an offering bear +Valour respected by Oblivion. +I cannot be thy rival, for thy fame + And prowess rise above all rivalry, + Albeit both bereft of wits we go. +But, though the Scythian or the Moor to tame + Was not thy lot, still thou dost rival me: + Love binds us in a fellowship of woe. + + + + +THE KNIGHT OF PHŒBUS + +To Don Quixote of La Mancha + +My sword was not to be compared with thine + Phœbus of Spain, marvel of courtesy, +Nor with thy famous arm this hand of mine + That smote from east to west as lightnings fly. + I scorned all empire, and that monarchy +The rosy east held out did I resign + For one glance of Claridiana’s eye, +The bright Aurora for whose love I pine. +A miracle of constancy my love; + And banished by her ruthless cruelty, + This arm had might the rage of Hell to tame. +But, Gothic Quixote, happier thou dost prove, + For thou dost live in Dulcinea’s name, + And famous, honoured, wise, she lives in thee. + + + + +FROM SOLISDAN +To Don Quixote of La Mancha + +SONNET + +Your fantasies, Sir Quixote, it is true, + That crazy brain of yours have quite upset, + But aught of base or mean hath never yet +Been charged by any in reproach to you. +Your deeds are open proof in all men’s view; + For you went forth injustice to abate, + And for your pains sore drubbings did you get +From many a rascally and ruffian crew. +If the fair Dulcinea, your heart’s queen, + Be unrelenting in her cruelty, + If still your woe be powerless to move her, + In such hard case your comfort let it be +That Sancho was a sorry go-between: + A booby he, hard-hearted she, and you no lover. + + + + +DIALOGUE +Between Babieca and Rocinante + +SONNET + +_B_. “How comes it, Rocinante, you’re so lean?” +_R_. “I’m underfed, with overwork I’m worn.” +_B_. “But what becomes of all the hay and corn?” +_R_. “My master gives me none; he’s much too mean.” +_B_. “Come, come, you show ill-breeding, sir, I ween; + ’Tis like an ass your master thus to scorn.” +_R_. He is an ass, will die an ass, an ass was born; +Why, he’s in love; what’s plainer to be seen?” +_B_. “To be in love is folly?”—_R_. “No great sense.” +_B_. “You’re metaphysical.”—_R_. “From want of food.” +_B_. “Rail at the squire, then.”—_R_. “Why, what’s the good? + I might indeed complain of him, I grant ye, +But, squire or master, where’s the difference? + They’re both as sorry hacks as Rocinante.” + + + +p005.jpg (171K) + +Full Size + + + + +DEDICATION OF PART I + +TO THE DUKE OF BEJAR, MARQUIS OF GIBRALEON, COUNT OF BENALCAZAR AND +BANARES, VICECOUNT OF THE PUEBLA DE ALCOCER, MASTER OF THE TOWNS OF +CAPILLA, CURIEL AND BURGUILLOS + + + + +In belief of the good reception and honours that Your Excellency +bestows on all sort of books, as prince so inclined to favor good arts, +chiefly those who by their nobleness do not submit to the service and +bribery of the vulgar, I have determined bringing to light The +Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of la Mancha, in shelter of Your +Excellency’s glamorous name, to whom, with the obeisance I owe to such +grandeur, I pray to receive it agreeably under his protection, so that +in this shadow, though deprived of that precious ornament of elegance +and erudition that clothe the works composed in the houses of those who +know, it dares appear with assurance in the judgment of some who, +trespassing the bounds of their own ignorance, use to condemn with more +rigour and less justice the writings of others. It is my earnest hope +that Your Excellency’s good counsel in regard to my honourable purpose, +will not disdain the littleness of so humble a service. + +Miguel de Cervantes + + + +e00.jpg (24K) + + + +CHAPTER I. +WHICH TREATS OF THE CHARACTER AND PURSUITS OF THE FAMOUS GENTLEMAN DON +QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA + + + + +p007.jpg (150K) + +Full Size + +In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to call +to mind, there lived not long since one of those gentlemen that keep a +lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound +for coursing. An olla of rather more beef than mutton, a salad on most +nights, scraps on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and a pigeon or so +extra on Sundays, made away with three-quarters of his income. The rest +of it went in a doublet of fine cloth and velvet breeches and shoes to +match for holidays, while on week-days he made a brave figure in his +best homespun. He had in his house a housekeeper past forty, a niece +under twenty, and a lad for the field and market-place, who used to +saddle the hack as well as handle the bill-hook. The age of this +gentleman of ours was bordering on fifty; he was of a hardy habit, +spare, gaunt-featured, a very early riser and a great sportsman. They +will have it his surname was Quixada or Quesada (for here there is some +difference of opinion among the authors who write on the subject), +although from reasonable conjectures it seems plain that he was called +Quexana. This, however, is of but little importance to our tale; it +will be enough not to stray a hair’s breadth from the truth in the +telling of it. + +You must know, then, that the above-named gentleman whenever he was at +leisure (which was mostly all the year round) gave himself up to +reading books of chivalry with such ardour and avidity that he almost +entirely neglected the pursuit of his field-sports, and even the +management of his property; and to such a pitch did his eagerness and +infatuation go that he sold many an acre of tillageland to buy books of +chivalry to read, and brought home as many of them as he could get. But +of all there were none he liked so well as those of the famous +Feliciano de Silva’s composition, for their lucidity of style and +complicated conceits were as pearls in his sight, particularly when in +his reading he came upon courtships and cartels, where he often found +passages like “_the reason of the unreason with which my reason is +afflicted so weakens my reason that with reason I murmur at your +beauty;” or again, “the high heavens, that of your divinity divinely +fortify you with the stars, render you deserving of the desert your +greatness deserves_.” Over conceits of this sort the poor gentleman +lost his wits, and used to lie awake striving to understand them and +worm the meaning out of them; what Aristotle himself could not have +made out or extracted had he come to life again for that special +purpose. He was not at all easy about the wounds which Don Belianis +gave and took, because it seemed to him that, great as were the +surgeons who had cured him, he must have had his face and body covered +all over with seams and scars. He commended, however, the author’s way +of ending his book with the promise of that interminable adventure, and +many a time was he tempted to take up his pen and finish it properly as +is there proposed, which no doubt he would have done, and made a +successful piece of work of it too, had not greater and more absorbing +thoughts prevented him. + +Many an argument did he have with the curate of his village (a learned +man, and a graduate of Siguenza) as to which had been the better +knight, Palmerin of England or Amadis of Gaul. Master Nicholas, the +village barber, however, used to say that neither of them came up to +the Knight of Phœbus, and that if there was any that could compare with +_him_ it was Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul, because he had +a spirit that was equal to every occasion, and was no finikin knight, +nor lachrymose like his brother, while in the matter of valour he was +not a whit behind him. In short, he became so absorbed in his books +that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise, and his days from dawn +to dark, poring over them; and what with little sleep and much reading +his brains got so dry that he lost his wits. His fancy grew full of +what he used to read about in his books, enchantments, quarrels, +battles, challenges, wounds, wooings, loves, agonies, and all sorts of +impossible nonsense; and it so possessed his mind that the whole fabric +of invention and fancy he read of was true, that to him no history in +the world had more reality in it. He used to say the Cid Ruy Diaz was a +very good knight, but that he was not to be compared with the Knight of +the Burning Sword who with one back-stroke cut in half two fierce and +monstrous giants. He thought more of Bernardo del Carpio because at +Roncesvalles he slew Roland in spite of enchantments, availing himself +of the artifice of Hercules when he strangled Antæus the son of Terra +in his arms. He approved highly of the giant Morgante, because, +although of the giant breed which is always arrogant and +ill-conditioned, he alone was affable and well-bred. But above all he +admired Reinaldos of Montalban, especially when he saw him sallying +forth from his castle and robbing everyone he met, and when beyond the +seas he stole that image of Mahomet which, as his history says, was +entirely of gold. To have a bout of kicking at that traitor of a +Ganelon he would have given his housekeeper, and his niece into the +bargain. + +In short, his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the strangest notion +that ever madman in this world hit upon, and that was that he fancied +it was right and requisite, as well for the support of his own honour +as for the service of his country, that he should make a knight-errant +of himself, roaming the world over in full armour and on horseback in +quest of adventures, and putting in practice himself all that he had +read of as being the usual practices of knights-errant; righting every +kind of wrong, and exposing himself to peril and danger from which, in +the issue, he was to reap eternal renown and fame. Already the poor man +saw himself crowned by the might of his arm Emperor of Trebizond at +least; and so, led away by the intense enjoyment he found in these +pleasant fancies, he set himself forthwith to put his scheme into +execution. + +The first thing he did was to clean up some armour that had belonged to +his great-grandfather, and had been for ages lying forgotten in a +corner eaten with rust and covered with mildew. He scoured and polished +it as best he could, but he perceived one great defect in it, that it +had no closed helmet, nothing but a simple morion. This deficiency, +however, his ingenuity supplied, for he contrived a kind of half-helmet +of pasteboard which, fitted on to the morion, looked like a whole one. +It is true that, in order to see if it was strong and fit to stand a +cut, he drew his sword and gave it a couple of slashes, the first of +which undid in an instant what had taken him a week to do. The ease +with which he had knocked it to pieces disconcerted him somewhat, and +to guard against that danger he set to work again, fixing bars of iron +on the inside until he was satisfied with its strength; and then, not +caring to try any more experiments with it, he passed it and adopted it +as a helmet of the most perfect construction. + +He next proceeded to inspect his hack, which, with more quartos than a +real and more blemishes than the steed of Gonela, that “_tantum pellis +et ossa fuit_,” surpassed in his eyes the Bucephalus of Alexander or +the Babieca of the Cid. Four days were spent in thinking what name to +give him, because (as he said to himself) it was not right that a horse +belonging to a knight so famous, and one with such merits of his own, +should be without some distinctive name, and he strove to adapt it so +as to indicate what he had been before belonging to a knight-errant, +and what he then was; for it was only reasonable that, his master +taking a new character, he should take a new name, and that it should +be a distinguished and full-sounding one, befitting the new order and +calling he was about to follow. And so, after having composed, struck +out, rejected, added to, unmade, and remade a multitude of names out of +his memory and fancy, he decided upon calling him Rocinante, a name, to +his thinking, lofty, sonorous, and significant of his condition as a +hack before he became what he now was, the first and foremost of all +the hacks in the world. + +Having got a name for his horse so much to his taste, he was anxious to +get one for himself, and he was eight days more pondering over this +point, till at last he made up his mind to call himself “Don Quixote,” +whence, as has been already said, the authors of this veracious history +have inferred that his name must have been beyond a doubt Quixada, and +not Quesada as others would have it. Recollecting, however, that the +valiant Amadis was not content to call himself curtly Amadis and +nothing more, but added the name of his kingdom and country to make it +famous, and called himself Amadis of Gaul, he, like a good knight, +resolved to add on the name of his, and to style himself Don Quixote of +La Mancha, whereby, he considered, he described accurately his origin +and country, and did honour to it in taking his surname from it. + +So then, his armour being furbished, his morion turned into a helmet, +his hack christened, and he himself confirmed, he came to the +conclusion that nothing more was needed now but to look out for a lady +to be in love with; for a knight-errant without love was like a tree +without leaves or fruit, or a body without a soul. As he said to +himself, “If, for my sins, or by my good fortune, I come across some +giant hereabouts, a common occurrence with knights-errant, and +overthrow him in one onslaught, or cleave him asunder to the waist, or, +in short, vanquish and subdue him, will it not be well to have someone +I may send him to as a present, that he may come in and fall on his +knees before my sweet lady, and in a humble, submissive voice say, ‘I +am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island of Malindrania, +vanquished in single combat by the never sufficiently extolled knight +Don Quixote of La Mancha, who has commanded me to present myself before +your Grace, that your Highness dispose of me at your pleasure’?” Oh, +how our good gentleman enjoyed the delivery of this speech, especially +when he had thought of someone to call his Lady! There was, so the +story goes, in a village near his own a very good-looking farm-girl +with whom he had been at one time in love, though, so far as is known, +she never knew it nor gave a thought to the matter. Her name was +Aldonza Lorenzo, and upon her he thought fit to confer the title of +Lady of his Thoughts; and after some search for a name which should not +be out of harmony with her own, and should suggest and indicate that of +a princess and great lady, he decided upon calling her Dulcinea del +Toboso—she being of El Toboso—a name, to his mind, musical, uncommon, +and significant, like all those he had already bestowed upon himself +and the things belonging to him. + + + +p007b.jpg (61K) + + + +CHAPTER II. +WHICH TREATS OF THE FIRST SALLY THE INGENIOUS DON QUIXOTE MADE FROM +HOME + + + + +p007c.jpg (97K) + +Full Size + + + + +These preliminaries settled, he did not care to put off any longer the +execution of his design, urged on to it by the thought of all the world +was losing by his delay, seeing what wrongs he intended to right, +grievances to redress, injustices to repair, abuses to remove, and +duties to discharge. So, without giving notice of his intention to +anyone, and without anybody seeing him, one morning before the dawning +of the day (which was one of the hottest of the month of July) he +donned his suit of armour, mounted Rocinante with his patched-up helmet +on, braced his buckler, took his lance, and by the back door of the +yard sallied forth upon the plain in the highest contentment and +satisfaction at seeing with what ease he had made a beginning with his +grand purpose. But scarcely did he find himself upon the open plain, +when a terrible thought struck him, one all but enough to make him +abandon the enterprise at the very outset. It occurred to him that he +had not been dubbed a knight, and that according to the law of chivalry +he neither could nor ought to bear arms against any knight; and that +even if he had been, still he ought, as a novice knight, to wear white +armour, without a device upon the shield until by his prowess he had +earned one. These reflections made him waver in his purpose, but his +craze being stronger than any reasoning, he made up his mind to have +himself dubbed a knight by the first one he came across, following the +example of others in the same case, as he had read in the books that +brought him to this pass. As for white armour, he resolved, on the +first opportunity, to scour his until it was whiter than an ermine; and +so comforting himself he pursued his way, taking that which his horse +chose, for in this he believed lay the essence of adventures. + +Thus setting out, our new-fledged adventurer paced along, talking to +himself and saying, “Who knows but that in time to come, when the +veracious history of my famous deeds is made known, the sage who writes +it, when he has to set forth my first sally in the early morning, will +do it after this fashion? ‘Scarce had the rubicund Apollo spread o’er +the face of the broad spacious earth the golden threads of his bright +hair, scarce had the little birds of painted plumage attuned their +notes to hail with dulcet and mellifluous harmony the coming of the +rosy Dawn, that, deserting the soft couch of her jealous spouse, was +appearing to mortals at the gates and balconies of the Manchegan +horizon, when the renowned knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, quitting +the lazy down, mounted his celebrated steed Rocinante and began to +traverse the ancient and famous Campo de Montiel;’” which in fact he +was actually traversing. “Happy the age, happy the time,” he continued, +“in which shall be made known my deeds of fame, worthy to be moulded in +brass, carved in marble, limned in pictures, for a memorial for ever. +And thou, O sage magician, whoever thou art, to whom it shall fall to +be the chronicler of this wondrous history, forget not, I entreat thee, +my good Rocinante, the constant companion of my ways and wanderings.” +Presently he broke out again, as if he were love-stricken in earnest, +“O Princess Dulcinea, lady of this captive heart, a grievous wrong hast +thou done me to drive me forth with scorn, and with inexorable obduracy +banish me from the presence of thy beauty. O lady, deign to hold in +remembrance this heart, thy vassal, that thus in anguish pines for love +of thee.” + +So he went on stringing together these and other absurdities, all in +the style of those his books had taught him, imitating their language +as well as he could; and all the while he rode so slowly and the sun +mounted so rapidly and with such fervour that it was enough to melt his +brains if he had any. Nearly all day he travelled without anything +remarkable happening to him, at which he was in despair, for he was +anxious to encounter someone at once upon whom to try the might of his +strong arm. + + + +p008.jpg (289K) + +Full Size + + + + +Writers there are who say the first adventure he met with was that of +Puerto Lapice; others say it was that of the windmills; but what I have +ascertained on this point, and what I have found written in the annals +of La Mancha, is that he was on the road all day, and towards nightfall +his hack and he found themselves dead tired and hungry, when, looking +all around to see if he could discover any castle or shepherd’s shanty +where he might refresh himself and relieve his sore wants, he perceived +not far out of his road an inn, which was as welcome as a star guiding +him to the portals, if not the palaces, of his redemption; and +quickening his pace he reached it just as night was setting in. At the +door were standing two young women, girls of the district as they call +them, on their way to Seville with some carriers who had chanced to +halt that night at the inn; and as, happen what might to our +adventurer, everything he saw or imagined seemed to him to be and to +happen after the fashion of what he read of, the moment he saw the inn +he pictured it to himself as a castle with its four turrets and +pinnacles of shining silver, not forgetting the drawbridge and moat and +all the belongings usually ascribed to castles of the sort. To this +inn, which to him seemed a castle, he advanced, and at a short distance +from it he checked Rocinante, hoping that some dwarf would show himself +upon the battlements, and by sound of trumpet give notice that a knight +was approaching the castle. But seeing that they were slow about it, +and that Rocinante was in a hurry to reach the stable, he made for the +inn door, and perceived the two gay damsels who were standing there, +and who seemed to him to be two fair maidens or lovely ladies taking +their ease at the castle gate. + +At this moment it so happened that a swineherd who was going through +the stubbles collecting a drove of pigs (for, without any apology, that +is what they are called) gave a blast of his horn to bring them +together, and forthwith it seemed to Don Quixote to be what he was +expecting, the signal of some dwarf announcing his arrival; and so with +prodigious satisfaction he rode up to the inn and to the ladies, who, +seeing a man of this sort approaching in full armour and with lance and +buckler, were turning in dismay into the inn, when Don Quixote, +guessing their fear by their flight, raising his pasteboard visor, +disclosed his dry dusty visage, and with courteous bearing and gentle +voice addressed them, “Your ladyships need not fly or fear any +rudeness, for that it belongs not to the order of knighthood which I +profess to offer to anyone, much less to highborn maidens as your +appearance proclaims you to be.” The girls were looking at him and +straining their eyes to make out the features which the clumsy visor +obscured, but when they heard themselves called maidens, a thing so +much out of their line, they could not restrain their laughter, which +made Don Quixote wax indignant, and say, “Modesty becomes the fair, and +moreover laughter that has little cause is great silliness; this, +however, I say not to pain or anger you, for my desire is none other +than to serve you.” + +The incomprehensible language and the unpromising looks of our cavalier +only increased the ladies’ laughter, and that increased his irritation, +and matters might have gone farther if at that moment the landlord had +not come out, who, being a very fat man, was a very peaceful one. He, +seeing this grotesque figure clad in armour that did not match any more +than his saddle, bridle, lance, buckler, or corselet, was not at all +indisposed to join the damsels in their manifestations of amusement; +but, in truth, standing in awe of such a complicated armament, he +thought it best to speak him fairly, so he said, “Señor Caballero, if +your worship wants lodging, bating the bed (for there is not one in the +inn) there is plenty of everything else here.” Don Quixote, observing +the respectful bearing of the Alcaide of the fortress (for so innkeeper +and inn seemed in his eyes), made answer, “Sir Castellan, for me +anything will suffice, for + +‘My armour is my only wear, +My only rest the fray.’” + + +The host fancied he called him Castellan because he took him for a +“worthy of Castile,” though he was in fact an Andalusian, and one from +the strand of San Lucar, as crafty a thief as Cacus and as full of +tricks as a student or a page. “In that case,” said he, + +“‘Your bed is on the flinty rock, +Your sleep to watch alway;’ + + +and if so, you may dismount and safely reckon upon any quantity of +sleeplessness under this roof for a twelvemonth, not to say for a +single night.” So saying, he advanced to hold the stirrup for Don +Quixote, who got down with great difficulty and exertion (for he had +not broken his fast all day), and then charged the host to take great +care of his horse, as he was the best bit of flesh that ever ate bread +in this world. The landlord eyed him over but did not find him as good +as Don Quixote said, nor even half as good; and putting him up in the +stable, he returned to see what might be wanted by his guest, whom the +damsels, who had by this time made their peace with him, were now +relieving of his armour. They had taken off his breastplate and +backpiece, but they neither knew nor saw how to open his gorget or +remove his make-shift helmet, for he had fastened it with green +ribbons, which, as there was no untying the knots, required to be cut. +This, however, he would not by any means consent to, so he remained all +the evening with his helmet on, the drollest and oddest figure that can +be imagined; and while they were removing his armour, taking the +baggages who were about it for ladies of high degree belonging to the +castle, he said to them with great sprightliness: + +“Oh, never, surely, was there knight +So served by hand of dame, +As served was he, Don Quixote hight, +When from his town he came; +With maidens waiting on himself, +Princesses on his hack— + + +—or Rocinante, for that, ladies mine, is my horse’s name, and Don +Quixote of La Mancha is my own; for though I had no intention of +declaring myself until my achievements in your service and honour had +made me known, the necessity of adapting that old ballad of Lancelot to +the present occasion has given you the knowledge of my name altogether +prematurely. A time, however, will come for your ladyships to command +and me to obey, and then the might of my arm will show my desire to +serve you.” + +The girls, who were not used to hearing rhetoric of this sort, had +nothing to say in reply; they only asked him if he wanted anything to +eat. “I would gladly eat a bit of something,” said Don Quixote, “for I +feel it would come very seasonably.” The day happened to be a Friday, +and in the whole inn there was nothing but some pieces of the fish they +call in Castile “abadejo,” in Andalusia “bacallao,” and in some places +“curadillo,” and in others “troutlet;” so they asked him if he thought +he could eat troutlet, for there was no other fish to give him. “If +there be troutlets enough,” said Don Quixote, “they will be the same +thing as a trout; for it is all one to me whether I am given eight +reals in small change or a piece of eight; moreover, it may be that +these troutlets are like veal, which is better than beef, or kid, which +is better than goat. But whatever it be let it come quickly, for the +burden and pressure of arms cannot be borne without support to the +inside.” They laid a table for him at the door of the inn for the sake +of the air, and the host brought him a portion of ill-soaked and worse +cooked stockfish, and a piece of bread as black and mouldy as his own +armour; but a laughable sight it was to see him eating, for having his +helmet on and the beaver up, he could not with his own hands put +anything into his mouth unless someone else placed it there, and this +service one of the ladies rendered him. But to give him anything to +drink was impossible, or would have been so had not the landlord bored +a reed, and putting one end in his mouth poured the wine into him +through the other; all which he bore with patience rather than sever +the ribbons of his helmet. + +While this was going on there came up to the inn a sowgelder, who, as +he approached, sounded his reed pipe four or five times, and thereby +completely convinced Don Quixote that he was in some famous castle, and +that they were regaling him with music, and that the stockfish was +trout, the bread the whitest, the wenches ladies, and the landlord the +castellan of the castle; and consequently he held that his enterprise +and sally had been to some purpose. But still it distressed him to +think he had not been dubbed a knight, for it was plain to him he could +not lawfully engage in any adventure without receiving the order of +knighthood. + + + +e02.jpg (39K) + + + +CHAPTER III. +WHEREIN IS RELATED THE DROLL WAY IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE HAD HIMSELF +DUBBED A KNIGHT + + + + +p009.jpg (164K) + +Full Size + + + + +Harassed by this reflection, he made haste with his scanty pothouse +supper, and having finished it called the landlord, and shutting +himself into the stable with him, fell on his knees before him, saying, +“From this spot I rise not, valiant knight, until your courtesy grants +me the boon I seek, one that will redound to your praise and the +benefit of the human race.” The landlord, seeing his guest at his feet +and hearing a speech of this kind, stood staring at him in +bewilderment, not knowing what to do or say, and entreating him to +rise, but all to no purpose until he had agreed to grant the boon +demanded of him. “I looked for no less, my lord, from your High +Magnificence,” replied Don Quixote, “and I have to tell you that the +boon I have asked and your liberality has granted is that you shall dub +me knight to-morrow morning, and that to-night I shall watch my arms in +the chapel of this your castle; thus to-morrow, as I have said, will be +accomplished what I so much desire, enabling me lawfully to roam +through all the four quarters of the world seeking adventures on behalf +of those in distress, as is the duty of chivalry and of knights-errant +like myself, whose ambition is directed to such deeds.” + +The landlord, who, as has been mentioned, was something of a wag, and +had already some suspicion of his guest’s want of wits, was quite +convinced of it on hearing talk of this kind from him, and to make +sport for the night he determined to fall in with his humour. So he +told him he was quite right in pursuing the object he had in view, and +that such a motive was natural and becoming in cavaliers as +distinguished as he seemed and his gallant bearing showed him to be; +and that he himself in his younger days had followed the same +honourable calling, roaming in quest of adventures in various parts of +the world, among others the Curing-grounds of Malaga, the Isles of +Riaran, the Precinct of Seville, the Little Market of Segovia, the +Olivera of Valencia, the Rondilla of Granada, the Strand of San Lucar, +the Colt of Cordova, the Taverns of Toledo, and divers other quarters, +where he had proved the nimbleness of his feet and the lightness of his +fingers, doing many wrongs, cheating many widows, ruining maids and +swindling minors, and, in short, bringing himself under the notice of +almost every tribunal and court of justice in Spain; until at last he +had retired to this castle of his, where he was living upon his +property and upon that of others; and where he received all +knights-errant of whatever rank or condition they might be, all for the +great love he bore them and that they might share their substance with +him in return for his benevolence. He told him, moreover, that in this +castle of his there was no chapel in which he could watch his armour, +as it had been pulled down in order to be rebuilt, but that in a case +of necessity it might, he knew, be watched anywhere, and he might watch +it that night in a courtyard of the castle, and in the morning, God +willing, the requisite ceremonies might be performed so as to have him +dubbed a knight, and so thoroughly dubbed that nobody could be more so. +He asked if he had any money with him, to which Don Quixote replied +that he had not a farthing, as in the histories of knights-errant he +had never read of any of them carrying any. On this point the landlord +told him he was mistaken; for, though not recorded in the histories, +because in the author’s opinion there was no need to mention anything +so obvious and necessary as money and clean shirts, it was not to be +supposed therefore that they did not carry them, and he might regard it +as certain and established that all knights-errant (about whom there +were so many full and unimpeachable books) carried well-furnished +purses in case of emergency, and likewise carried shirts and a little +box of ointment to cure the wounds they received. For in those plains +and deserts where they engaged in combat and came out wounded, it was +not always that there was someone to cure them, unless indeed they had +for a friend some sage magician to succour them at once by fetching +through the air upon a cloud some damsel or dwarf with a vial of water +of such virtue that by tasting one drop of it they were cured of their +hurts and wounds in an instant and left as sound as if they had not +received any damage whatever. But in case this should not occur, the +knights of old took care to see that their squires were provided with +money and other requisites, such as lint and ointments for healing +purposes; and when it happened that knights had no squires (which was +rarely and seldom the case) they themselves carried everything in +cunning saddle-bags that were hardly seen on the horse’s croup, as if +it were something else of more importance, because, unless for some +such reason, carrying saddle-bags was not very favourably regarded +among knights-errant. He therefore advised him (and, as his godson so +soon to be, he might even command him) never from that time forth to +travel without money and the usual requirements, and he would find the +advantage of them when he least expected it. + +Don Quixote promised to follow his advice scrupulously, and it was +arranged forthwith that he should watch his armour in a large yard at +one side of the inn; so, collecting it all together, Don Quixote placed +it on a trough that stood by the side of a well, and bracing his +buckler on his arm he grasped his lance and began with a stately air to +march up and down in front of the trough, and as he began his march +night began to fall. + +The landlord told all the people who were in the inn about the craze of +his guest, the watching of the armour, and the dubbing ceremony he +contemplated. Full of wonder at so strange a form of madness, they +flocked to see it from a distance, and observed with what composure he +sometimes paced up and down, or sometimes, leaning on his lance, gazed +on his armour without taking his eyes off it for ever so long; and as +the night closed in with a light from the moon so brilliant that it +might vie with his that lent it, everything the novice knight did was +plainly seen by all. + +Meanwhile one of the carriers who were in the inn thought fit to water +his team, and it was necessary to remove Don Quixote’s armour as it lay +on the trough; but he seeing the other approach hailed him in a loud +voice, “O thou, whoever thou art, rash knight that comest to lay hands +on the armour of the most valorous errant that ever girt on sword, have +a care what thou dost; touch it not unless thou wouldst lay down thy +life as the penalty of thy rashness.” The carrier gave no heed to these +words (and he would have done better to heed them if he had been +heedful of his health), but seizing it by the straps flung the armour +some distance from him. Seeing this, Don Quixote raised his eyes to +heaven, and fixing his thoughts, apparently, upon his lady Dulcinea, +exclaimed, “Aid me, lady mine, in this the first encounter that +presents itself to this breast which thou holdest in subjection; let +not thy favour and protection fail me in this first jeopardy;” and, +with these words and others to the same purpose, dropping his buckler +he lifted his lance with both hands and with it smote such a blow on +the carrier’s head that he stretched him on the ground, so stunned that +had he followed it up with a second there would have been no need of a +surgeon to cure him. This done, he picked up his armour and returned to +his beat with the same serenity as before. + + + +p010.jpg (261K) + +Full Size + + + + +Shortly after this, another, not knowing what had happened (for the +carrier still lay senseless), came with the same object of giving water +to his mules, and was proceeding to remove the armour in order to clear +the trough, when Don Quixote, without uttering a word or imploring aid +from anyone, once more dropped his buckler and once more lifted his +lance, and without actually breaking the second carrier’s head into +pieces, made more than three of it, for he laid it open in four. At the +noise all the people of the inn ran to the spot, and among them the +landlord. Seeing this, Don Quixote braced his buckler on his arm, and +with his hand on his sword exclaimed, “O Lady of Beauty, strength and +support of my faint heart, it is time for thee to turn the eyes of thy +greatness on this thy captive knight on the brink of so mighty an +adventure.” By this he felt himself so inspired that he would not have +flinched if all the carriers in the world had assailed him. The +comrades of the wounded perceiving the plight they were in began from a +distance to shower stones on Don Quixote, who screened himself as best +he could with his buckler, not daring to quit the trough and leave his +armour unprotected. The landlord shouted to them to leave him alone, +for he had already told them that he was mad, and as a madman he would +not be accountable even if he killed them all. Still louder shouted Don +Quixote, calling them knaves and traitors, and the lord of the castle, +who allowed knights-errant to be treated in this fashion, a villain and +a low-born knight whom, had he received the order of knighthood, he +would call to account for his treachery. “But of you,” he cried, “base +and vile rabble, I make no account; fling, strike, come on, do all ye +can against me, ye shall see what the reward of your folly and +insolence will be.” This he uttered with so much spirit and boldness +that he filled his assailants with a terrible fear, and as much for +this reason as at the persuasion of the landlord they left off stoning +him, and he allowed them to carry off the wounded, and with the same +calmness and composure as before resumed the watch over his armour. + +But these freaks of his guest were not much to the liking of the +landlord, so he determined to cut matters short and confer upon him at +once the unlucky order of knighthood before any further misadventure +could occur; so, going up to him, he apologised for the rudeness which, +without his knowledge, had been offered to him by these low people, +who, however, had been well punished for their audacity. As he had +already told him, he said, there was no chapel in the castle, nor was +it needed for what remained to be done, for, as he understood the +ceremonial of the order, the whole point of being dubbed a knight lay +in the accolade and in the slap on the shoulder, and that could be +administered in the middle of a field; and that he had now done all +that was needful as to watching the armour, for all requirements were +satisfied by a watch of two hours only, while he had been more than +four about it. Don Quixote believed it all, and told him he stood there +ready to obey him, and to make an end of it with as much despatch as +possible; for, if he were again attacked, and felt himself to be dubbed +knight, he would not, he thought, leave a soul alive in the castle, +except such as out of respect he might spare at his bidding. + +Thus warned and menaced, the castellan forthwith brought out a book in +which he used to enter the straw and barley he served out to the +carriers, and, with a lad carrying a candle-end, and the two damsels +already mentioned, he returned to where Don Quixote stood, and bade him +kneel down. Then, reading from his account-book as if he were repeating +some devout prayer, in the middle of his delivery he raised his hand +and gave him a sturdy blow on the neck, and then, with his own sword, a +smart slap on the shoulder, all the while muttering between his teeth +as if he was saying his prayers. Having done this, he directed one of +the ladies to gird on his sword, which she did with great +self-possession and gravity, and not a little was required to prevent a +burst of laughter at each stage of the ceremony; but what they had +already seen of the novice knight’s prowess kept their laughter within +bounds. On girding him with the sword the worthy lady said to him, “May +God make your worship a very fortunate knight, and grant you success in +battle.” Don Quixote asked her name in order that he might from that +time forward know to whom he was beholden for the favour he had +received, as he meant to confer upon her some portion of the honour he +acquired by the might of his arm. She answered with great humility that +she was called La Tolosa, and that she was the daughter of a cobbler of +Toledo who lived in the stalls of Sanchobienaya, and that wherever she +might be she would serve and esteem him as her lord. Don Quixote said +in reply that she would do him a favour if thenceforward she assumed +the “Don” and called herself Doña Tolosa. She promised she would, and +then the other buckled on his spur, and with her followed almost the +same conversation as with the lady of the sword. He asked her name, and +she said it was La Molinera, and that she was the daughter of a +respectable miller of Antequera; and of her likewise Don Quixote +requested that she would adopt the “Don” and call herself Doña +Molinera, making offers to her further services and favours. + +Having thus, with hot haste and speed, brought to a conclusion these +never-till-now-seen ceremonies, Don Quixote was on thorns until he saw +himself on horseback sallying forth in quest of adventures; and +saddling Rocinante at once he mounted, and embracing his host, as he +returned thanks for his kindness in knighting him, he addressed him in +language so extraordinary that it is impossible to convey an idea of it +or report it. The landlord, to get him out of the inn, replied with no +less rhetoric though with shorter words, and without calling upon him +to pay the reckoning let him go with a Godspeed. + + + +p017.jpg (54K) + +Full Size + + + +CHAPTER IV. +OF WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR KNIGHT WHEN HE LEFT THE INN + + + + +p018.jpg (94K) + +Full Size + + + + +Day was dawning when Don Quixote quitted the inn, so happy, so gay, so +exhilarated at finding himself now dubbed a knight, that his joy was +like to burst his horse-girths. However, recalling the advice of his +host as to the requisites he ought to carry with him, especially that +referring to money and shirts, he determined to go home and provide +himself with all, and also with a squire, for he reckoned upon securing +a farm-labourer, a neighbour of his, a poor man with a family, but very +well qualified for the office of squire to a knight. With this object +he turned his horse’s head towards his village, and Rocinante, thus +reminded of his old quarters, stepped out so briskly that he hardly +seemed to tread the earth. + +He had not gone far, when out of a thicket on his right there seemed to +come feeble cries as of someone in distress, and the instant he heard +them he exclaimed, “Thanks be to heaven for the favour it accords me, +that it so soon offers me an opportunity of fulfilling the obligation I +have undertaken, and gathering the fruit of my ambition. These cries, +no doubt, come from some man or woman in want of help, and needing my +aid and protection;” and wheeling, he turned Rocinante in the direction +whence the cries seemed to proceed. He had gone but a few paces into +the wood, when he saw a mare tied to an oak, and tied to another, and +stripped from the waist upwards, a youth of about fifteen years of age, +from whom the cries came. Nor were they without cause, for a lusty +farmer was flogging him with a belt and following up every blow with +scoldings and commands, repeating, “Your mouth shut and your eyes +open!” while the youth made answer, “I won’t do it again, master mine; +by God’s passion I won’t do it again, and I’ll take more care of the +flock another time.” + +Seeing what was going on, Don Quixote said in an angry voice, +“Discourteous knight, it ill becomes you to assail one who cannot +defend himself; mount your steed and take your lance” (for there was a +lance leaning against the oak to which the mare was tied), “and I will +make you know that you are behaving as a coward.” The farmer, seeing +before him this figure in full armour brandishing a lance over his +head, gave himself up for dead, and made answer meekly, “Sir Knight, +this youth that I am chastising is my servant, employed by me to watch +a flock of sheep that I have hard by, and he is so careless that I lose +one every day, and when I punish him for his carelessness and knavery +he says I do it out of niggardliness, to escape paying him the wages I +owe him, and before God, and on my soul, he lies.” + +“Lies before me, base clown!” said Don Quixote. “By the sun that shines +on us I have a mind to run you through with this lance. Pay him at once +without another word; if not, by the God that rules us I will make an +end of you, and annihilate you on the spot; release him instantly.” + + + +p019.jpg (339K) + +Full Size + + + + +The farmer hung his head, and without a word untied his servant, of +whom Don Quixote asked how much his master owed him. + +He replied, nine months at seven reals a month. Don Quixote added it +up, found that it came to sixty-three reals, and told the farmer to pay +it down immediately, if he did not want to die for it. + +The trembling clown replied that as he lived and by the oath he had +sworn (though he had not sworn any) it was not so much; for there were +to be taken into account and deducted three pairs of shoes he had given +him, and a real for two blood-lettings when he was sick. + +“All that is very well,” said Don Quixote; “but let the shoes and the +blood-lettings stand as a setoff against the blows you have given him +without any cause; for if he spoiled the leather of the shoes you paid +for, you have damaged that of his body, and if the barber took blood +from him when he was sick, you have drawn it when he was sound; so on +that score he owes you nothing.” + +“The difficulty is, Sir Knight, that I have no money here; let Andres +come home with me, and I will pay him all, real by real.” + +“I go with him!” said the youth. “Nay, God forbid! No, señor, not for +the world; for once alone with me, he would flay me like a Saint +Bartholomew.” + +“He will do nothing of the kind,” said Don Quixote; “I have only to +command, and he will obey me; and as he has sworn to me by the order of +knighthood which he has received, I leave him free, and I guarantee the +payment.” + +“Consider what you are saying, señor,” said the youth; “this master of +mine is not a knight, nor has he received any order of knighthood; for +he is Juan Haldudo the Rich, of Quintanar.” + +“That matters little,” replied Don Quixote; “there may be Haldudos +knights; moreover, everyone is the son of his works.” + +“That is true,” said Andres; “but this master of mine—of what works is +he the son, when he refuses me the wages of my sweat and labour?” + +“I do not refuse, brother Andres,” said the farmer, “be good enough to +come along with me, and I swear by all the orders of knighthood there +are in the world to pay you as I have agreed, real by real, and +perfumed.” + +“For the perfumery I excuse you,” said Don Quixote; “give it to him in +reals, and I shall be satisfied; and see that you do as you have sworn; +if not, by the same oath I swear to come back and hunt you out and +punish you; and I shall find you though you should lie closer than a +lizard. And if you desire to know who it is lays this command upon you, +that you be more firmly bound to obey it, know that I am the valorous +Don Quixote of La Mancha, the undoer of wrongs and injustices; and so, +God be with you, and keep in mind what you have promised and sworn +under those penalties that have been already declared to you.” + +So saying, he gave Rocinante the spur and was soon out of reach. The +farmer followed him with his eyes, and when he saw that he had cleared +the wood and was no longer in sight, he turned to his boy Andres, and +said, “Come here, my son, I want to pay you what I owe you, as that +undoer of wrongs has commanded me.” + +“My oath on it,” said Andres, “your worship will be well advised to +obey the command of that good knight—may he live a thousand years—for, +as he is a valiant and just judge, by Roque, if you do not pay me, he +will come back and do as he said.” + +“My oath on it, too,” said the farmer; “but as I have a strong +affection for you, I want to add to the debt in order to add to the +payment;” and seizing him by the arm, he tied him up again, and gave +him such a flogging that he left him for dead. + +“Now, Master Andres,” said the farmer, “call on the undoer of wrongs; +you will find he won’t undo that, though I am not sure that I have +quite done with you, for I have a good mind to flay you alive.” But at +last he untied him, and gave him leave to go look for his judge in +order to put the sentence pronounced into execution. + +Andres went off rather down in the mouth, swearing he would go to look +for the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha and tell him exactly what had +happened, and that all would have to be repaid him sevenfold; but for +all that, he went off weeping, while his master stood laughing. + +Thus did the valiant Don Quixote right that wrong, and, thoroughly +satisfied with what had taken place, as he considered he had made a +very happy and noble beginning with his knighthood, he took the road +towards his village in perfect self-content, saying in a low voice, +“Well mayest thou this day call thyself fortunate above all on earth, O +Dulcinea del Toboso, fairest of the fair! since it has fallen to thy +lot to hold subject and submissive to thy full will and pleasure a +knight so renowned as is and will be Don Quixote of La Mancha, who, as +all the world knows, yesterday received the order of knighthood, and +hath to-day righted the greatest wrong and grievance that ever +injustice conceived and cruelty perpetrated: who hath to-day plucked +the rod from the hand of yonder ruthless oppressor so wantonly lashing +that tender child.” + +He now came to a road branching in four directions, and immediately he +was reminded of those cross-roads where knights-errant used to stop to +consider which road they should take. In imitation of them he halted +for a while, and after having deeply considered it, he gave Rocinante +his head, submitting his own will to that of his hack, who followed out +his first intention, which was to make straight for his own stable. +After he had gone about two miles Don Quixote perceived a large party +of people, who, as afterwards appeared, were some Toledo traders, on +their way to buy silk at Murcia. There were six of them coming along +under their sunshades, with four servants mounted, and three muleteers +on foot. Scarcely had Don Quixote descried them when the fancy +possessed him that this must be some new adventure; and to help him to +imitate as far as he could those passages he had read of in his books, +here seemed to come one made on purpose, which he resolved to attempt. +So with a lofty bearing and determination he fixed himself firmly in +his stirrups, got his lance ready, brought his buckler before his +breast, and planting himself in the middle of the road, stood waiting +the approach of these knights-errant, for such he now considered and +held them to be; and when they had come near enough to see and hear, he +exclaimed with a haughty gesture, “All the world stand, unless all the +world confess that in all the world there is no maiden fairer than the +Empress of La Mancha, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso.” + +The traders halted at the sound of this language and the sight of the +strange figure that uttered it, and from both figure and language at +once guessed the craze of their owner; they wished, however, to learn +quietly what was the object of this confession that was demanded of +them, and one of them, who was rather fond of a joke and was very +sharp-witted, said to him, “Sir Knight, we do not know who this good +lady is that you speak of; show her to us, for, if she be of such +beauty as you suggest, with all our hearts and without any pressure we +will confess the truth that is on your part required of us.” + +“If I were to show her to you,” replied Don Quixote, “what merit would +you have in confessing a truth so manifest? The essential point is that +without seeing her you must believe, confess, affirm, swear, and defend +it; else ye have to do with me in battle, ill-conditioned, arrogant +rabble that ye are; and come ye on, one by one as the order of +knighthood requires, or all together as is the custom and vile usage of +your breed, here do I bide and await you relying on the justice of the +cause I maintain.” + +“Sir Knight,” replied the trader, “I entreat your worship in the name +of this present company of princes, that, to save us from charging our +consciences with the confession of a thing we have never seen or heard +of, and one moreover so much to the prejudice of the Empresses and +Queens of the Alcarria and Estremadura, your worship will be pleased to +show us some portrait of this lady, though it be no bigger than a grain +of wheat; for by the thread one gets at the ball, and in this way we +shall be satisfied and easy, and you will be content and pleased; nay, +I believe we are already so far agreed with you that even though her +portrait should show her blind of one eye, and distilling vermilion and +sulphur from the other, we would nevertheless, to gratify your worship, +say all in her favour that you desire.” + +“She distils nothing of the kind, vile rabble,” said Don Quixote, +burning with rage, “nothing of the kind, I say, only ambergris and +civet in cotton; nor is she one-eyed or humpbacked, but straighter than +a Guadarrama spindle: but ye must pay for the blasphemy ye have uttered +against beauty like that of my lady.” + +And so saying, he charged with levelled lance against the one who had +spoken, with such fury and fierceness that, if luck had not contrived +that Rocinante should stumble midway and come down, it would have gone +hard with the rash trader. Down went Rocinante, and over went his +master, rolling along the ground for some distance; and when he tried +to rise he was unable, so encumbered was he with lance, buckler, spurs, +helmet, and the weight of his old armour; and all the while he was +struggling to get up he kept saying, “Fly not, cowards and caitiffs! +stay, for not by my fault, but my horse’s, am I stretched here.” + + + +p020.jpg (352K) + +Full Size + + + + +One of the muleteers in attendance, who could not have had much good +nature in him, hearing the poor prostrate man blustering in this style, +was unable to refrain from giving him an answer on his ribs; and coming +up to him he seized his lance, and having broken it in pieces, with one +of them he began so to belabour our Don Quixote that, notwithstanding +and in spite of his armour, he milled him like a measure of wheat. His +masters called out not to lay on so hard and to leave him alone, but +the muleteer’s blood was up, and he did not care to drop the game until +he had vented the rest of his wrath, and gathering up the remaining +fragments of the lance he finished with a discharge upon the unhappy +victim, who all through the storm of sticks that rained on him never +ceased threatening heaven, and earth, and the brigands, for such they +seemed to him. At last the muleteer was tired, and the traders +continued their journey, taking with them matter for talk about the +poor fellow who had been cudgelled. He when he found himself alone made +another effort to rise; but if he was unable when whole and sound, how +was he to rise after having been thrashed and well-nigh knocked to +pieces? And yet he esteemed himself fortunate, as it seemed to him that +this was a regular knight-errant’s mishap, and entirely, he considered, +the fault of his horse. However, battered in body as he was, to rise +was beyond his power. + + + +e04.jpg (28K) + + + +CHAPTER V. +IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE OF OUR KNIGHT’S MISHAP IS CONTINUED + + + + +p022.jpg (123K) + +Full Size + + + + +Finding, then, that, in fact he could not move, he thought himself of +having recourse to his usual remedy, which was to think of some passage +in his books, and his craze brought to his mind that about Baldwin and +the Marquis of Mantua, when Carloto left him wounded on the +mountainside, a story known by heart by the children, not forgotten by +the young men, and lauded and even believed by the old folk; and for +all that not a whit truer than the miracles of Mahomet. This seemed to +him to fit exactly the case in which he found himself, so, making a +show of severe suffering, he began to roll on the ground and with +feeble breath repeat the very words which the wounded knight of the +wood is said to have uttered: + +Where art thou, lady mine, that thou +My sorrow dost not rue? +Thou canst not know it, lady mine, +Or else thou art untrue. + + +And so he went on with the ballad as far as the lines: + +O noble Marquis of Mantua, +My Uncle and liege lord! + + + +p026.jpg (316K) + +Full Size + + + + +As chance would have it, when he had got to this line there happened to +come by a peasant from his own village, a neighbour of his, who had +been with a load of wheat to the mill, and he, seeing the man stretched +there, came up to him and asked him who he was and what was the matter +with him that he complained so dolefully. + +Don Quixote was firmly persuaded that this was the Marquis of Mantua, +his uncle, so the only answer he made was to go on with his ballad, in +which he told the tale of his misfortune, and of the loves of the +Emperor’s son and his wife all exactly as the ballad sings it. + +The peasant stood amazed at hearing such nonsense, and relieving him of +the visor, already battered to pieces by blows, he wiped his face, +which was covered with dust, and as soon as he had done so he +recognised him and said, “Señor Quixada” (for so he appears to have +been called when he was in his senses and had not yet changed from a +quiet country gentleman into a knight-errant), “who has brought your +worship to this pass?” But to all questions the other only went on with +his ballad. + +Seeing this, the good man removed as well as he could his breastplate +and backpiece to see if he had any wound, but he could perceive no +blood nor any mark whatever. He then contrived to raise him from the +ground, and with no little difficulty hoisted him upon his ass, which +seemed to him to be the easiest mount for him; and collecting the arms, +even to the splinters of the lance, he tied them on Rocinante, and +leading him by the bridle and the ass by the halter he took the road +for the village, very sad to hear what absurd stuff Don Quixote was +talking. + + + +p029.jpg (285K) + +Full Size + + + + +Nor was Don Quixote less so, for what with blows and bruises he could +not sit upright on the ass, and from time to time he sent up sighs to +heaven, so that once more he drove the peasant to ask what ailed him. +And it could have been only the devil himself that put into his head +tales to match his own adventures, for now, forgetting Baldwin, he +bethought himself of the Moor Abindarraez, when the Alcaide of +Antequera, Rodrigo de Narvaez, took him prisoner and carried him away +to his castle; so that when the peasant again asked him how he was and +what ailed him, he gave him for reply the same words and phrases that +the captive Abindarraez gave to Rodrigo de Narvaez, just as he had read +the story in the “Diana” of Jorge de Montemayor where it is written, +applying it to his own case so aptly that the peasant went along +cursing his fate that he had to listen to such a lot of nonsense; from +which, however, he came to the conclusion that his neighbour was mad, +and so made all haste to reach the village to escape the wearisomeness +of this harangue of Don Quixote’s; who, at the end of it, said, “Señor +Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, your worship must know that this fair Xarifa I +have mentioned is now the lovely Dulcinea del Toboso, for whom I have +done, am doing, and will do the most famous deeds of chivalry that in +this world have been seen, are to be seen, or ever shall be seen.” + +To this the peasant answered, “Señor—sinner that I am!—cannot your +worship see that I am not Don Rodrigo de Narvaez nor the Marquis of +Mantua, but Pedro Alonso your neighbour, and that your worship is +neither Baldwin nor Abindarraez, but the worthy gentleman Señor +Quixada?” + +“I know who I am,” replied Don Quixote, “and I know that I may be not +only those I have named, but all the Twelve Peers of France and even +all the Nine Worthies, since my achievements surpass all that they have +done all together and each of them on his own account.” + +With this talk and more of the same kind they reached the village just +as night was beginning to fall, but the peasant waited until it was a +little later that the belaboured gentleman might not be seen riding in +such a miserable trim. When it was what seemed to him the proper time +he entered the village and went to Don Quixote’s house, which he found +all in confusion, and there were the curate and the village barber, who +were great friends of Don Quixote, and his housekeeper was saying to +them in a loud voice, “What does your worship think can have befallen +my master, Señor Licentiate Pero Perez?” for so the curate was called; +“it is three days now since anything has been seen of him, or the hack, +or the buckler, lance, or armour. Miserable me! I am certain of it, and +it is as true as that I was born to die, that these accursed books of +chivalry he has, and has got into the way of reading so constantly, +have upset his reason; for now I remember having often heard him saying +to himself that he would turn knight-errant and go all over the world +in quest of adventures. To the devil and Barabbas with such books, that +have brought to ruin in this way the finest understanding there was in +all La Mancha!” + +The niece said the same, and, more: “You must know, Master +Nicholas”—for that was the name of the barber—“it was often my uncle’s +way to stay two days and nights together poring over these unholy books +of misventures, after which he would fling the book away and snatch up +his sword and fall to slashing the walls; and when he was tired out he +would say he had killed four giants like four towers; and the sweat +that flowed from him when he was weary he said was the blood of the +wounds he had received in battle; and then he would drink a great jug +of cold water and become calm and quiet, saying that this water was a +most precious potion which the sage Esquife, a great magician and +friend of his, had brought him. But I take all the blame upon myself +for never having told your worships of my uncle’s vagaries, that you +might put a stop to them before things had come to this pass, and burn +all these accursed books—for he has a great number—that richly deserve +to be burned like heretics.” + +“So say I too,” said the curate, “and by my faith to-morrow shall not +pass without public judgment upon them, and may they be condemned to +the flames lest they lead those that read to behave as my good friend +seems to have behaved.” + +All this the peasant heard, and from it he understood at last what was +the matter with his neighbour, so he began calling aloud, “Open, your +worships, to Señor Baldwin and to Señor the Marquis of Mantua, who +comes badly wounded, and to Señor Abindarraez, the Moor, whom the +valiant Rodrigo de Narvaez, the Alcaide of Antequera, brings captive.” + +At these words they all hurried out, and when they recognised their +friend, master, and uncle, who had not yet dismounted from the ass +because he could not, they ran to embrace him. + +“Hold!” said he, “for I am badly wounded through my horse’s fault; +carry me to bed, and if possible send for the wise Urganda to cure and +see to my wounds.” + +“See there! plague on it!” cried the housekeeper at this: “did not my +heart tell the truth as to which foot my master went lame of? To bed +with your worship at once, and we will contrive to cure you here +without fetching that Hurgada. A curse I say once more, and a hundred +times more, on those books of chivalry that have brought your worship +to such a pass.” + +They carried him to bed at once, and after searching for his wounds +could find none, but he said they were all bruises from having had a +severe fall with his horse Rocinante when in combat with ten giants, +the biggest and the boldest to be found on earth. + +“So, so!” said the curate, “are there giants in the dance? By the sign +of the Cross I will burn them to-morrow before the day is over.” + +They put a host of questions to Don Quixote, but his only answer to all +was—give him something to eat, and leave him to sleep, for that was +what he needed most. They did so, and the curate questioned the peasant +at great length as to how he had found Don Quixote. He told him, and +the nonsense he had talked when found and on the way home, all which +made the licentiate the more eager to do what he did the next day, +which was to summon his friend the barber, Master Nicholas, and go with +him to Don Quixote’s house. + + + +p031.jpg (31K) + + + +CHAPTER VI. +OF THE DIVERTING AND IMPORTANT SCRUTINY WHICH THE CURATE AND THE BARBER +MADE IN THE LIBRARY OF OUR INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN + + + + +c06a.jpg (92K) + +Full Size + + + + +He was still sleeping; so the curate asked the niece for the keys of +the room where the books, the authors of all the mischief, were, and +right willingly she gave them. They all went in, the housekeeper with +them, and found more than a hundred volumes of big books very well +bound, and some other small ones. The moment the housekeeper saw them +she turned about and ran out of the room, and came back immediately +with a saucer of holy water and a sprinkler, saying, “Here, your +worship, señor licentiate, sprinkle this room; don’t leave any magician +of the many there are in these books to bewitch us in revenge for our +design of banishing them from the world.” + +The simplicity of the housekeeper made the licentiate laugh, and he +directed the barber to give him the books one by one to see what they +were about, as there might be some to be found among them that did not +deserve the penalty of fire. + +“No,” said the niece, “there is no reason for showing mercy to any of +them; they have every one of them done mischief; better fling them out +of the window into the court and make a pile of them and set fire to +them; or else carry them into the yard, and there a bonfire can be made +without the smoke giving any annoyance.” The housekeeper said the same, +so eager were they both for the slaughter of those innocents, but the +curate would not agree to it without first reading at any rate the +titles. + +The first that Master Nicholas put into his hand was “The four books of +Amadis of Gaul.” “This seems a mysterious thing,” said the curate, +“for, as I have heard say, this was the first book of chivalry printed +in Spain, and from this all the others derive their birth and origin; +so it seems to me that we ought inexorably to condemn it to the flames +as the founder of so vile a sect.” + +“Nay, sir,” said the barber, “I too, have heard say that this is the +best of all the books of this kind that have been written, and so, as +something singular in its line, it ought to be pardoned.” + +“True,” said the curate; “and for that reason let its life be spared +for the present. Let us see that other which is next to it.” + +“It is,” said the barber, “the ‘Sergas de Esplandian,’ the lawful son +of Amadis of Gaul.” + +“Then verily,” said the curate, “the merit of the father must not be +put down to the account of the son. Take it, mistress housekeeper; open +the window and fling it into the yard and lay the foundation of the +pile for the bonfire we are to make.” + +The housekeeper obeyed with great satisfaction, and the worthy +“Esplandian” went flying into the yard to await with all patience the +fire that was in store for him. + +“Proceed,” said the curate. + +“This that comes next,” said the barber, “is ‘Amadis of Greece,’ and, +indeed, I believe all those on this side are of the same Amadis +lineage.” + +“Then to the yard with the whole of them,” said the curate; “for to +have the burning of Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the shepherd Darinel and +his eclogues, and the bedevilled and involved discourses of his author, +I would burn with them the father who begot me if he were going about +in the guise of a knight-errant.” + +“I am of the same mind,” said the barber. + +“And so am I,” added the niece. + +“In that case,” said the housekeeper, “here, into the yard with them!” + +They were handed to her, and as there were many of them, she spared +herself the staircase, and flung them down out of the window. + +“Who is that tub there?” said the curate. + +“This,” said the barber, “is ‘Don Olivante de Laura.’” + +“The author of that book,” said the curate, “was the same that wrote +‘The Garden of Flowers,’ and truly there is no deciding which of the +two books is the more truthful, or, to put it better, the less lying; +all I can say is, send this one into the yard for a swaggering fool.” + +“This that follows is ‘Florismarte of Hircania,’” said the barber. + +“Señor Florismarte here?” said the curate; “then by my faith he must +take up his quarters in the yard, in spite of his marvellous birth and +visionary adventures, for the stiffness and dryness of his style +deserve nothing else; into the yard with him and the other, mistress +housekeeper.” + +“With all my heart, señor,” said she, and executed the order with great +delight. + +“This,” said the barber, “is ‘The Knight Platir.’” + +“An old book that,” said the curate, “but I find no reason for clemency +in it; send it after the others without appeal;” which was done. + +Another book was opened, and they saw it was entitled, “The Knight of +the Cross.” + +“For the sake of the holy name this book has,” said the curate, “its +ignorance might be excused; but then, they say, ‘behind the cross +there’s the devil;’ to the fire with it.” + +Taking down another book, the barber said, “This is ‘The Mirror of +Chivalry.’” + +“I know his worship,” said the curate; “that is where Señor Reinaldos +of Montalvan figures with his friends and comrades, greater thieves +than Cacus, and the Twelve Peers of France with the veracious historian +Turpin; however, I am not for condemning them to more than perpetual +banishment, because, at any rate, they have some share in the invention +of the famous Matteo Boiardo, whence too the Christian poet Ludovico +Ariosto wove his web, to whom, if I find him here, and speaking any +language but his own, I shall show no respect whatever; but if he +speaks his own tongue I will put him upon my head.” + +“Well, I have him in Italian,” said the barber, “but I do not +understand him.” + +“Nor would it be well that you should understand him,” said the curate, +“and on that score we might have excused the Captain if he had not +brought him into Spain and turned him into Castilian. He robbed him of +a great deal of his natural force, and so do all those who try to turn +books written in verse into another language, for, with all the pains +they take and all the cleverness they show, they never can reach the +level of the originals as they were first produced. In short, I say +that this book, and all that may be found treating of those French +affairs, should be thrown into or deposited in some dry well, until +after more consideration it is settled what is to be done with them; +excepting always one ‘Bernardo del Carpio’ that is going about, and +another called ‘Roncesvalles;’ for these, if they come into my hands, +shall pass at once into those of the housekeeper, and from hers into +the fire without any reprieve.” + +To all this the barber gave his assent, and looked upon it as right and +proper, being persuaded that the curate was so staunch to the Faith and +loyal to the Truth that he would not for the world say anything opposed +to them. Opening another book he saw it was “Palmerin de Oliva,” and +beside it was another called “Palmerin of England,” seeing which the +licentiate said, “Let the Olive be made firewood of at once and burned +until no ashes even are left; and let that Palm of England be kept and +preserved as a thing that stands alone, and let such another case be +made for it as that which Alexander found among the spoils of Darius +and set aside for the safe keeping of the works of the poet Homer. This +book, gossip, is of authority for two reasons, first because it is very +good, and secondly because it is said to have been written by a wise +and witty king of Portugal. All the adventures at the Castle of +Miraguarda are excellent and of admirable contrivance, and the language +is polished and clear, studying and observing the style befitting the +speaker with propriety and judgment. So then, provided it seems good to +you, Master Nicholas, I say let this and ‘Amadis of Gaul’ be remitted +the penalty of fire, and as for all the rest, let them perish without +further question or query.” + +“Nay, gossip,” said the barber, “for this that I have here is the +famous ‘Don Belianis.’” + +“Well,” said the curate, “that and the second, third, and fourth parts +all stand in need of a little rhubarb to purge their excess of bile, +and they must be cleared of all that stuff about the Castle of Fame and +other greater affectations, to which end let them be allowed the +over-seas term, and, according as they mend, so shall mercy or justice +be meted out to them; and in the mean time, gossip, do you keep them in +your house and let no one read them.” + +“With all my heart,” said the barber; and not caring to tire himself +with reading more books of chivalry, he told the housekeeper to take +all the big ones and throw them into the yard. It was not said to one +dull or deaf, but to one who enjoyed burning them more than weaving the +broadest and finest web that could be; and seizing about eight at a +time, she flung them out of the window. + +In carrying so many together she let one fall at the feet of the +barber, who took it up, curious to know whose it was, and found it +said, “History of the Famous Knight, Tirante el Blanco.” + +“God bless me!” said the curate with a shout, “‘Tirante el Blanco’ +here! Hand it over, gossip, for in it I reckon I have found a treasury +of enjoyment and a mine of recreation. Here is Don Kyrieleison of +Montalvan, a valiant knight, and his brother Thomas of Montalvan, and +the knight Fonseca, with the battle the bold Tirante fought with the +mastiff, and the witticisms of the damsel Placerdemivida, and the loves +and wiles of the widow Reposada, and the empress in love with the +squire Hipolito—in truth, gossip, by right of its style it is the best +book in the world. Here knights eat and sleep, and die in their beds, +and make their wills before dying, and a great deal more of which there +is nothing in all the other books. Nevertheless, I say he who wrote it, +for deliberately composing such fooleries, deserves to be sent to the +galleys for life. Take it home with you and read it, and you will see +that what I have said is true.” + +“As you will,” said the barber; “but what are we to do with these +little books that are left?” + +“These must be, not chivalry, but poetry,” said the curate; and opening +one he saw it was the “Diana” of Jorge de Montemayor, and, supposing +all the others to be of the same sort, “these,” he said, “do not +deserve to be burned like the others, for they neither do nor can do +the mischief the books of chivalry have done, being books of +entertainment that can hurt no one.” + +“Ah, señor!” said the niece, “your worship had better order these to be +burned as well as the others; for it would be no wonder if, after being +cured of his chivalry disorder, my uncle, by reading these, took a +fancy to turn shepherd and range the woods and fields singing and +piping; or, what would be still worse, to turn poet, which they say is +an incurable and infectious malady.” + +“The damsel is right,” said the curate, “and it will be well to put +this stumbling-block and temptation out of our friend’s way. To begin, +then, with the ‘Diana’ of Montemayor. I am of opinion it should not be +burned, but that it should be cleared of all that about the sage +Felicia and the magic water, and of almost all the longer pieces of +verse: let it keep, and welcome, its prose and the honour of being the +first of books of the kind.” + +“This that comes next,” said the barber, “is the ‘Diana,’ entitled the +‘Second Part, by the Salamancan,’ and this other has the same title, +and its author is Gil Polo.” + +“As for that of the Salamancan,” replied the curate, “let it go to +swell the number of the condemned in the yard, and let Gil Polo’s be +preserved as if it came from Apollo himself: but get on, gossip, and +make haste, for it is growing late.” + +“This book,” said the barber, opening another, “is the ten books of the +‘Fortune of Love,’ written by Antonio de Lofraso, a Sardinian poet.” + +“By the orders I have received,” said the curate, “since Apollo has +been Apollo, and the Muses have been Muses, and poets have been poets, +so droll and absurd a book as this has never been written, and in its +way it is the best and the most singular of all of this species that +have as yet appeared, and he who has not read it may be sure he has +never read what is delightful. Give it here, gossip, for I make more +account of having found it than if they had given me a cassock of +Florence stuff.” + +He put it aside with extreme satisfaction, and the barber went on, +“These that come next are ‘The Shepherd of Iberia,’ ‘Nymphs of +Henares,’ and ‘The Enlightenment of Jealousy.’” + +“Then all we have to do,” said the curate, “is to hand them over to the +secular arm of the housekeeper, and ask me not why, or we shall never +have done.” + +“This next is the ‘Pastor de Fílida.’” + +“No Pastor that,” said the curate, “but a highly polished courtier; let +it be preserved as a precious jewel.” + +“This large one here,” said the barber, “is called ‘The Treasury of +various Poems.’” + +“If there were not so many of them,” said the curate, “they would be +more relished: this book must be weeded and cleansed of certain +vulgarities which it has with its excellences; let it be preserved +because the author is a friend of mine, and out of respect for other +more heroic and loftier works that he has written.” + +“This,” continued the barber, “is the ‘Cancionero’ of Lopez de +Maldonado.” + +“The author of that book, too,” said the curate, “is a great friend of +mine, and his verses from his own mouth are the admiration of all who +hear them, for such is the sweetness of his voice that he enchants when +he chants them: it gives rather too much of its eclogues, but what is +good was never yet plentiful: let it be kept with those that have been +set apart. But what book is that next it?” + +“The ‘Galatea’ of Miguel de Cervantes,” said the barber. + +“That Cervantes has been for many years a great friend of mine, and to +my knowledge he has had more experience in reverses than in verses. His +book has some good invention in it, it presents us with something but +brings nothing to a conclusion: we must wait for the Second Part it +promises: perhaps with amendment it may succeed in winning the full +measure of grace that is now denied it; and in the mean time do you, +señor gossip, keep it shut up in your own quarters.” + +“Very good,” said the barber; “and here come three together, the +‘Araucana’ of Don Alonso de Ercilla, the ‘Austriada’ of Juan Rufo, +Justice of Cordova, and the ‘Montserrate’ of Christobal de Virués, the +Valencian poet.” + +“These three books,” said the curate, “are the best that have been +written in Castilian in heroic verse, and they may compare with the +most famous of Italy; let them be preserved as the richest treasures of +poetry that Spain possesses.” + +The curate was tired and would not look into any more books, and so he +decided that, “contents uncertified,” all the rest should be burned; +but just then the barber held open one, called “The Tears of Angelica.” + +“I should have shed tears myself,” said the curate when he heard the +title, “had I ordered that book to be burned, for its author was one of +the famous poets of the world, not to say of Spain, and was very happy +in the translation of some of Ovid’s fables.” + + + +c06e.jpg (30K) + + + +CHAPTER VII. +OF THE SECOND SALLY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA + + + + +c07a.jpg (151K) + +Full Size + + + + +At this instant Don Quixote began shouting out, “Here, here, valiant +knights! here is need for you to put forth the might of your strong +arms, for they of the Court are gaining the mastery in the tourney!” +Called away by this noise and outcry, they proceeded no farther with +the scrutiny of the remaining books, and so it is thought that “The +Carolea,” “The Lion of Spain,” and “The Deeds of the Emperor,” written +by Don Luis de Ávila, went to the fire unseen and unheard; for no doubt +they were among those that remained, and perhaps if the curate had seen +them they would not have undergone so severe a sentence. + +When they reached Don Quixote he was already out of bed, and was still +shouting and raving, and slashing and cutting all round, as wide awake +as if he had never slept. + +They closed with him and by force got him back to bed, and when he had +become a little calm, addressing the curate, he said to him, “Of a +truth, Señor Archbishop Turpin, it is a great disgrace for us who call +ourselves the Twelve Peers, so carelessly to allow the knights of the +Court to gain the victory in this tourney, we the adventurers having +carried off the honour on the three former days.” + +“Hush, gossip,” said the curate; “please God, the luck may turn, and +what is lost to-day may be won to-morrow; for the present let your +worship have a care of your health, for it seems to me that you are +over-fatigued, if not badly wounded.” + +“Wounded no,” said Don Quixote, “but bruised and battered no doubt, for +that bastard Don Roland has cudgelled me with the trunk of an oak tree, +and all for envy, because he sees that I alone rival him in his +achievements. But I should not call myself Reinaldos of Montalvan did +he not pay me for it in spite of all his enchantments as soon as I rise +from this bed. For the present let them bring me something to eat, for +that, I feel, is what will be more to my purpose, and leave it to me to +avenge myself.” + +They did as he wished; they gave him something to eat, and once more he +fell asleep, leaving them marvelling at his madness. + +That night the housekeeper burned to ashes all the books that were in +the yard and in the whole house; and some must have been consumed that +deserved preservation in everlasting archives, but their fate and the +laziness of the examiner did not permit it, and so in them was verified +the proverb that the innocent suffer for the guilty. + +One of the remedies which the curate and the barber immediately applied +to their friend’s disorder was to wall up and plaster the room where +the books were, so that when he got up he should not find them +(possibly the cause being removed the effect might cease), and they +might say that a magician had carried them off, room and all; and this +was done with all despatch. Two days later Don Quixote got up, and the +first thing he did was to go and look at his books, and not finding the +room where he had left it, he wandered from side to side looking for +it. He came to the place where the door used to be, and tried it with +his hands, and turned and twisted his eyes in every direction without +saying a word; but after a good while he asked his housekeeper +whereabouts was the room that held his books. + +The housekeeper, who had been already well instructed in what she was +to answer, said, “What room or what nothing is it that your worship is +looking for? There are neither room nor books in this house now, for +the devil himself has carried all away.” + +“It was not the devil,” said the niece, “but a magician who came on a +cloud one night after the day your worship left this, and dismounting +from a serpent that he rode he entered the room, and what he did there +I know not, but after a little while he made off, flying through the +roof, and left the house full of smoke; and when we went to see what he +had done we saw neither book nor room: but we remember very well, the +housekeeper and I, that on leaving, the old villain said in a loud +voice that, for a private grudge he owed the owner of the books and the +room, he had done mischief in that house that would be discovered +by-and-by: he said too that his name was the Sage Muñaton.” + +“He must have said Friston,” said Don Quixote. + +“I don’t know whether he called himself Friston or Friton,” said the +housekeeper, “I only know that his name ended with ‘ton.’” + +“So it does,” said Don Quixote, “and he is a sage magician, a great +enemy of mine, who has a spite against me because he knows by his arts +and lore that in process of time I am to engage in single combat with a +knight whom he befriends and that I am to conquer, and he will be +unable to prevent it; and for this reason he endeavours to do me all +the ill turns that he can; but I promise him it will be hard for him to +oppose or avoid what is decreed by Heaven.” + +“Who doubts that?” said the niece; “but, uncle, who mixes you up in +these quarrels? Would it not be better to remain at peace in your own +house instead of roaming the world looking for better bread than ever +came of wheat, never reflecting that many go for wool and come back +shorn?” + +“Oh, niece of mine,” replied Don Quixote, “how much astray art thou in +thy reckoning: ere they shear me I shall have plucked away and stripped +off the beards of all who dare to touch only the tip of a hair of +mine.” + +The two were unwilling to make any further answer, as they saw that his +anger was kindling. + +In short, then, he remained at home fifteen days very quietly without +showing any signs of a desire to take up with his former delusions, and +during this time he held lively discussions with his two gossips, the +curate and the barber, on the point he maintained, that knights-errant +were what the world stood most in need of, and that in him was to be +accomplished the revival of knight-errantry. The curate sometimes +contradicted him, sometimes agreed with him, for if he had not observed +this precaution he would have been unable to bring him to reason. + +Meanwhile Don Quixote worked upon a farm labourer, a neighbour of his, +an honest man (if indeed that title can be given to him who is poor), +but with very little wit in his pate. In a word, he so talked him over, +and with such persuasions and promises, that the poor clown made up his +mind to sally forth with him and serve him as esquire. Don Quixote, +among other things, told him he ought to be ready to go with him +gladly, because any moment an adventure might occur that might win an +island in the twinkling of an eye and leave him governor of it. On +these and the like promises Sancho Panza (for so the labourer was +called) left wife and children, and engaged himself as esquire to his +neighbour. + + + +c07b.jpg (322K) + +Full Size + + + + +Don Quixote next set about getting some money; and selling one thing +and pawning another, and making a bad bargain in every case, he got +together a fair sum. He provided himself with a buckler, which he +begged as a loan from a friend, and, restoring his battered helmet as +best he could, he warned his squire Sancho of the day and hour he meant +to set out, that he might provide himself with what he thought most +needful. Above all, he charged him to take alforjas with him. The other +said he would, and that he meant to take also a very good ass he had, +as he was not much given to going on foot. About the ass, Don Quixote +hesitated a little, trying whether he could call to mind any +knight-errant taking with him an esquire mounted on ass-back, but no +instance occurred to his memory. For all that, however, he determined +to take him, intending to furnish him with a more honourable mount when +a chance of it presented itself, by appropriating the horse of the +first discourteous knight he encountered. Himself he provided with +shirts and such other things as he could, according to the advice the +host had given him; all which being done, without taking leave, Sancho +Panza of his wife and children, or Don Quixote of his housekeeper and +niece, they sallied forth unseen by anybody from the village one night, +and made such good way in the course of it that by daylight they held +themselves safe from discovery, even should search be made for them. + +Sancho rode on his ass like a patriarch, with his alforjas and bota, +and longing to see himself soon governor of the island his master had +promised him. Don Quixote decided upon taking the same route and road +he had taken on his first journey, that over the Campo de Montiel, +which he travelled with less discomfort than on the last occasion, for, +as it was early morning and the rays of the sun fell on them obliquely, +the heat did not distress them. + +And now said Sancho Panza to his master, “Your worship will take care, +Señor Knight-errant, not to forget about the island you have promised +me, for be it ever so big I’ll be equal to governing it.” + +To which Don Quixote replied, “Thou must know, friend Sancho Panza, +that it was a practice very much in vogue with the knights-errant of +old to make their squires governors of the islands or kingdoms they +won, and I am determined that there shall be no failure on my part in +so liberal a custom; on the contrary, I mean to improve upon it, for +they sometimes, and perhaps most frequently, waited until their squires +were old, and then when they had had enough of service and hard days +and worse nights, they gave them some title or other, of count, or at +the most marquis, of some valley or province more or less; but if thou +livest and I live, it may well be that before six days are over, I may +have won some kingdom that has others dependent upon it, which will be +just the thing to enable thee to be crowned king of one of them. Nor +needst thou count this wonderful, for things and chances fall to the +lot of such knights in ways so unexampled and unexpected that I might +easily give thee even more than I promise thee.” + +“In that case,” said Sancho Panza, “if I should become a king by one of +those miracles your worship speaks of, even Juana Gutierrez, my old +woman, would come to be queen and my children infantes.” + +“Well, who doubts it?” said Don Quixote. + +“I doubt it,” replied Sancho Panza, “because for my part I am persuaded +that though God should shower down kingdoms upon earth, not one of them +would fit the head of Mari Gutierrez. Let me tell you, señor, she is +not worth two maravedis for a queen; countess will fit her better, and +that only with God’s help.” + +“Leave it to God, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote, “for he will give her +what suits her best; but do not undervalue thyself so much as to come +to be content with anything less than being governor of a province.” + +“I will not, señor,” answered Sancho, “specially as I have a man of +such quality for a master in your worship, who will know how to give me +all that will be suitable for me and that I can bear.” + + + +c07e.jpg (70K) + + + +CHAPTER VIII. +OF THE GOOD FORTUNE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE TERRIBLE +AND UNDREAMT-OF ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS, WITH OTHER OCCURRENCES +WORTHY TO BE FITLY RECORDED + + + + +c08a.jpg (142K) + +Full Size + + + + +At this point they came in sight of thirty or forty windmills that +there are on that plain, and as soon as Don Quixote saw them he said to +his squire, “Fortune is arranging matters for us better than we could +have shaped our desires ourselves, for look there, friend Sancho Panza, +where thirty or more monstrous giants present themselves, all of whom I +mean to engage in battle and slay, and with whose spoils we shall begin +to make our fortunes; for this is righteous warfare, and it is God’s +good service to sweep so evil a breed from off the face of the earth.” + +“What giants?” said Sancho Panza. + +“Those thou seest there,” answered his master, “with the long arms, and +some have them nearly two leagues long.” + +“Look, your worship,” said Sancho; “what we see there are not giants +but windmills, and what seem to be their arms are the sails that turned +by the wind make the millstone go.” + +“It is easy to see,” replied Don Quixote, “that thou art not used to +this business of adventures; those are giants; and if thou art afraid, +away with thee out of this and betake thyself to prayer while I engage +them in fierce and unequal combat.” + +So saying, he gave the spur to his steed Rocinante, heedless of the +cries his squire Sancho sent after him, warning him that most certainly +they were windmills and not giants he was going to attack. He, however, +was so positive they were giants that he neither heard the cries of +Sancho, nor perceived, near as he was, what they were, but made at them +shouting, “Fly not, cowards and vile beings, for a single knight +attacks you.” + +A slight breeze at this moment sprang up, and the great sails began to +move, seeing which Don Quixote exclaimed, “Though ye flourish more arms +than the giant Briareus, ye have to reckon with me.” + +So saying, and commending himself with all his heart to his lady +Dulcinea, imploring her to support him in such a peril, with lance in +rest and covered by his buckler, he charged at Rocinante’s fullest +gallop and fell upon the first mill that stood in front of him; but as +he drove his lance-point into the sail the wind whirled it round with +such force that it shivered the lance to pieces, sweeping with it horse +and rider, who went rolling over on the plain, in a sorry condition. +Sancho hastened to his assistance as fast as his ass could go, and when +he came up found him unable to move, with such a shock had Rocinante +fallen with him. + + + +c08b.jpg (358K) + +Full Size + + + + +“God bless me!” said Sancho, “did I not tell your worship to mind what +you were about, for they were only windmills? and no one could have +made any mistake about it but one who had something of the same kind in +his head.” + +“Hush, friend Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “the fortunes of war more +than any other are liable to frequent fluctuations; and moreover I +think, and it is the truth, that that same sage Friston who carried off +my study and books, has turned these giants into mills in order to rob +me of the glory of vanquishing them, such is the enmity he bears me; +but in the end his wicked arts will avail but little against my good +sword.” + + + +c08c.jpg (301K) + +Full Size + + + + +“God order it as he may,” said Sancho Panza, and helping him to rise +got him up again on Rocinante, whose shoulder was half out; and then, +discussing the late adventure, they followed the road to Puerto Lapice, +for there, said Don Quixote, they could not fail to find adventures in +abundance and variety, as it was a great thoroughfare. For all that, he +was much grieved at the loss of his lance, and saying so to his squire, +he added, “I remember having read how a Spanish knight, Diego Perez de +Vargas by name, having broken his sword in battle, tore from an oak a +ponderous bough or branch, and with it did such things that day, and +pounded so many Moors, that he got the surname of Machuca, and he and +his descendants from that day forth were called Vargas y Machuca. I +mention this because from the first oak I see I mean to rend such +another branch, large and stout like that, with which I am determined +and resolved to do such deeds that thou mayest deem thyself very +fortunate in being found worthy to come and see them, and be an +eyewitness of things that will with difficulty be believed.” + +“Be that as God will,” said Sancho, “I believe it all as your worship +says it; but straighten yourself a little, for you seem all on one +side, may be from the shaking of the fall.” + +“That is the truth,” said Don Quixote, “and if I make no complaint of +the pain it is because knights-errant are not permitted to complain of +any wound, even though their bowels be coming out through it.” + +“If so,” said Sancho, “I have nothing to say; but God knows I would +rather your worship complained when anything ailed you. For my part, I +confess I must complain however small the ache may be; unless this rule +about not complaining extends to the squires of knights-errant also.” + +Don Quixote could not help laughing at his squire’s simplicity, and he +assured him he might complain whenever and however he chose, just as he +liked, for, so far, he had never read of anything to the contrary in +the order of knighthood. + +Sancho bade him remember it was dinner-time, to which his master +answered that he wanted nothing himself just then, but that _he_ might +eat when he had a mind. With this permission Sancho settled himself as +comfortably as he could on his beast, and taking out of the alforjas +what he had stowed away in them, he jogged along behind his master +munching deliberately, and from time to time taking a pull at the bota +with a relish that the thirstiest tapster in Malaga might have envied; +and while he went on in this way, gulping down draught after draught, +he never gave a thought to any of the promises his master had made him, +nor did he rate it as hardship but rather as recreation going in quest +of adventures, however dangerous they might be. Finally they passed the +night among some trees, from one of which Don Quixote plucked a dry +branch to serve him after a fashion as a lance, and fixed on it the +head he had removed from the broken one. All that night Don Quixote lay +awake thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in order to conform to what he had +read in his books, how many a night in the forests and deserts knights +used to lie sleepless supported by the memory of their mistresses. Not +so did Sancho Panza spend it, for having his stomach full of something +stronger than chicory water he made but one sleep of it, and, if his +master had not called him, neither the rays of the sun beating on his +face nor all the cheery notes of the birds welcoming the approach of +day would have had power to waken him. On getting up he tried the bota +and found it somewhat less full than the night before, which grieved +his heart because they did not seem to be on the way to remedy the +deficiency readily. Don Quixote did not care to break his fast, for, as +has been already said, he confined himself to savoury recollections for +nourishment. + +They returned to the road they had set out with, leading to Puerto +Lapice, and at three in the afternoon they came in sight of it. “Here, +brother Sancho Panza,” said Don Quixote when he saw it, “we may plunge +our hands up to the elbows in what they call adventures; but observe, +even shouldst thou see me in the greatest danger in the world, thou +must not put a hand to thy sword in my defence, unless indeed thou +perceivest that those who assail me are rabble or base folk; for in +that case thou mayest very properly aid me; but if they be knights it +is on no account permitted or allowed thee by the laws of knighthood to +help me until thou hast been dubbed a knight.” + +“Most certainly, señor,” replied Sancho, “your worship shall be fully +obeyed in this matter; all the more as of myself I am peaceful and no +friend to mixing in strife and quarrels: it is true that as regards the +defence of my own person I shall not give much heed to those laws, for +laws human and divine allow each one to defend himself against any +assailant whatever.” + +“That I grant,” said Don Quixote, “but in this matter of aiding me +against knights thou must put a restraint upon thy natural +impetuosity.” + +“I will do so, I promise you,” answered Sancho, “and will keep this +precept as carefully as Sunday.” + +While they were thus talking there appeared on the road two friars of +the order of St. Benedict, mounted on two dromedaries, for not less +tall were the two mules they rode on. They wore travelling spectacles +and carried sunshades; and behind them came a coach attended by four or +five persons on horseback and two muleteers on foot. In the coach there +was, as afterwards appeared, a Biscay lady on her way to Seville, where +her husband was about to take passage for the Indies with an +appointment of high honour. The friars, though going the same road, +were not in her company; but the moment Don Quixote perceived them he +said to his squire, “Either I am mistaken, or this is going to be the +most famous adventure that has ever been seen, for those black bodies +we see there must be, and doubtless are, magicians who are carrying off +some stolen princess in that coach, and with all my might I must undo +this wrong.” + +“This will be worse than the windmills,” said Sancho. “Look, señor; +those are friars of St. Benedict, and the coach plainly belongs to some +travellers: I tell you to mind well what you are about and don’t let +the devil mislead you.” + +“I have told thee already, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “that on the +subject of adventures thou knowest little. What I say is the truth, as +thou shalt see presently.” + +So saying, he advanced and posted himself in the middle of the road +along which the friars were coming, and as soon as he thought they had +come near enough to hear what he said, he cried aloud, “Devilish and +unnatural beings, release instantly the highborn princesses whom you +are carrying off by force in this coach, else prepare to meet a speedy +death as the just punishment of your evil deeds.” + +The friars drew rein and stood wondering at the appearance of Don +Quixote as well as at his words, to which they replied, “Señor +Caballero, we are not devilish or unnatural, but two brothers of St. +Benedict following our road, nor do we know whether or not there are +any captive princesses coming in this coach.” + +“No soft words with me, for I know you, lying rabble,” said Don +Quixote, and without waiting for a reply he spurred Rocinante and with +levelled lance charged the first friar with such fury and +determination, that, if the friar had not flung himself off the mule, +he would have brought him to the ground against his will, and sore +wounded, if not killed outright. The second brother, seeing how his +comrade was treated, drove his heels into his castle of a mule and made +off across the country faster than the wind. + +Sancho Panza, when he saw the friar on the ground, dismounting briskly +from his ass, rushed towards him and began to strip off his gown. At +that instant the friars’ muleteers came up and asked what he was +stripping him for. Sancho answered them that this fell to him lawfully +as spoil of the battle which his lord Don Quixote had won. The +muleteers, who had no idea of a joke and did not understand all this +about battles and spoils, seeing that Don Quixote was some distance off +talking to the travellers in the coach, fell upon Sancho, knocked him +down, and leaving hardly a hair in his beard, belaboured him with kicks +and left him stretched breathless and senseless on the ground; and +without any more delay helped the friar to mount, who, trembling, +terrified, and pale, as soon as he found himself in the saddle, spurred +after his companion, who was standing at a distance looking on, +watching the result of the onslaught; then, not caring to wait for the +end of the affair just begun, they pursued their journey making more +crosses than if they had the devil after them. + +Don Quixote was, as has been said, speaking to the lady in the coach: +“Your beauty, lady mine,” said he, “may now dispose of your person as +may be most in accordance with your pleasure, for the pride of your +ravishers lies prostrate on the ground through this strong arm of mine; +and lest you should be pining to know the name of your deliverer, know +that I am called Don Quixote of La Mancha, knight-errant and +adventurer, and captive to the peerless and beautiful lady Dulcinea del +Toboso: and in return for the service you have received of me I ask no +more than that you should return to El Toboso, and on my behalf present +yourself before that lady and tell her what I have done to set you +free.” + +One of the squires in attendance upon the coach, a Biscayan, was +listening to all Don Quixote was saying, and, perceiving that he would +not allow the coach to go on, but was saying it must return at once to +El Toboso, he made at him, and seizing his lance addressed him in bad +Castilian and worse Biscayan after his fashion, “Begone, caballero, and +ill go with thee; by the God that made me, unless thou quittest coach, +slayest thee as art here a Biscayan.” + +Don Quixote understood him quite well, and answered him very quietly, +“If thou wert a knight, as thou art none, I should have already +chastised thy folly and rashness, miserable creature.” To which the +Biscayan returned, “I no gentleman!—I swear to God thou liest as I am +Christian: if thou droppest lance and drawest sword, soon shalt thou +see thou art carrying water to the cat: Biscayan on land, hidalgo at +sea, hidalgo at the devil, and look, if thou sayest otherwise thou +liest.” + +“‘“You will see presently,” said Agrajes,’” replied Don Quixote; and +throwing his lance on the ground he drew his sword, braced his buckler +on his arm, and attacked the Biscayan, bent upon taking his life. + +The Biscayan, when he saw him coming on, though he wished to dismount +from his mule, in which, being one of those sorry ones let out for +hire, he had no confidence, had no choice but to draw his sword; it was +lucky for him, however, that he was near the coach, from which he was +able to snatch a cushion that served him for a shield; and they went at +one another as if they had been two mortal enemies. The others strove +to make peace between them, but could not, for the Biscayan declared in +his disjointed phrase that if they did not let him finish his battle he +would kill his mistress and everyone that strove to prevent him. The +lady in the coach, amazed and terrified at what she saw, ordered the +coachman to draw aside a little, and set herself to watch this severe +struggle, in the course of which the Biscayan smote Don Quixote a +mighty stroke on the shoulder over the top of his buckler, which, given +to one without armour, would have cleft him to the waist. Don Quixote, +feeling the weight of this prodigious blow, cried aloud, saying, “O +lady of my soul, Dulcinea, flower of beauty, come to the aid of this +your knight, who, in fulfilling his obligations to your beauty, finds +himself in this extreme peril.” To say this, to lift his sword, to +shelter himself well behind his buckler, and to assail the Biscayan was +the work of an instant, determined as he was to venture all upon a +single blow. The Biscayan, seeing him come on in this way, was +convinced of his courage by his spirited bearing, and resolved to +follow his example, so he waited for him keeping well under cover of +his cushion, being unable to execute any sort of manoeuvre with his +mule, which, dead tired and never meant for this kind of game, could +not stir a step. + +On, then, as aforesaid, came Don Quixote against the wary Biscayan, +with uplifted sword and a firm intention of splitting him in half, +while on his side the Biscayan waited for him sword in hand, and under +the protection of his cushion; and all present stood trembling, waiting +in suspense the result of blows such as threatened to fall, and the +lady in the coach and the rest of her following were making a thousand +vows and offerings to all the images and shrines of Spain, that God +might deliver her squire and all of them from this great peril in which +they found themselves. But it spoils all, that at this point and crisis +the author of the history leaves this battle impending, giving as +excuse that he could find nothing more written about these achievements +of Don Quixote than what has been already set forth. It is true the +second author of this work was unwilling to believe that a history so +curious could have been allowed to fall under the sentence of oblivion, +or that the wits of La Mancha could have been so undiscerning as not to +preserve in their archives or registries some documents referring to +this famous knight; and this being his persuasion, he did not despair +of finding the conclusion of this pleasant history, which, heaven +favouring him, he did find in a way that shall be related in the Second +Part. + + + +c08e.jpg (54K) + + + +CHAPTER IX. +IN WHICH IS CONCLUDED AND FINISHED THE TERRIFIC BATTLE BETWEEN THE +GALLANT BISCAYAN AND THE VALIANT MANCHEGAN + + + +c09a.jpg (142K) + +Full Size + + + + +In the First Part of this history we left the valiant Biscayan and the +renowned Don Quixote with drawn swords uplifted, ready to deliver two +such furious slashing blows that if they had fallen full and fair they +would at least have split and cleft them asunder from top to toe and +laid them open like a pomegranate; and at this so critical point the +delightful history came to a stop and stood cut short without any +intimation from the author where what was missing was to be found. + +This distressed me greatly, because the pleasure derived from having +read such a small portion turned to vexation at the thought of the poor +chance that presented itself of finding the large part that, so it +seemed to me, was missing of such an interesting tale. It appeared to +me to be a thing impossible and contrary to all precedent that so good +a knight should have been without some sage to undertake the task of +writing his marvellous achievements; a thing that was never wanting to +any of those knights-errant who, they say, went after adventures; for +every one of them had one or two sages as if made on purpose, who not +only recorded their deeds but described their most trifling thoughts +and follies, however secret they might be; and such a good knight could +not have been so unfortunate as not to have what Platir and others like +him had in abundance. And so I could not bring myself to believe that +such a gallant tale had been left maimed and mutilated, and I laid the +blame on Time, the devourer and destroyer of all things, that had +either concealed or consumed it. + +On the other hand, it struck me that, inasmuch as among his books there +had been found such modern ones as “The Enlightenment of Jealousy” and +the “Nymphs and Shepherds of Henares,” his story must likewise be +modern, and that though it might not be written, it might exist in the +memory of the people of his village and of those in the neighbourhood. +This reflection kept me perplexed and longing to know really and truly +the whole life and wondrous deeds of our famous Spaniard, Don Quixote +of La Mancha, light and mirror of Manchegan chivalry, and the first +that in our age and in these so evil days devoted himself to the labour +and exercise of the arms of knight-errantry, righting wrongs, +succouring widows, and protecting damsels of that sort that used to +ride about, whip in hand, on their palfreys, with all their virginity +about them, from mountain to mountain and valley to valley—for, if it +were not for some ruffian, or boor with a hood and hatchet, or +monstrous giant, that forced them, there were in days of yore damsels +that at the end of eighty years, in all which time they had never slept +a day under a roof, went to their graves as much maids as the mothers +that bore them. I say, then, that in these and other respects our +gallant Don Quixote is worthy of everlasting and notable praise, nor +should it be withheld even from me for the labour and pains spent in +searching for the conclusion of this delightful history; though I know +well that if Heaven, chance and good fortune had not helped me, the +world would have remained deprived of an entertainment and pleasure +that for a couple of hours or so may well occupy him who shall read it +attentively. The discovery of it occurred in this way. + +One day, as I was in the Alcana of Toledo, a boy came up to sell some +pamphlets and old papers to a silk mercer, and, as I am fond of reading +even the very scraps of paper in the streets, led by this natural bent +of mine I took up one of the pamphlets the boy had for sale, and saw +that it was in characters which I recognised as Arabic, and as I was +unable to read them though I could recognise them, I looked about to +see if there were any Spanish-speaking Morisco at hand to read them for +me; nor was there any great difficulty in finding such an interpreter, +for even had I sought one for an older and better language I should +have found him. In short, chance provided me with one, who when I told +him what I wanted and put the book into his hands, opened it in the +middle and after reading a little in it began to laugh. I asked him +what he was laughing at, and he replied that it was at something the +book had written in the margin by way of a note. I bade him tell it to +me; and he still laughing said, “In the margin, as I told you, this is +written: ‘_This Dulcinea del Toboso so often mentioned in this history, +had, they say, the best hand of any woman in all La Mancha for salting +pigs_.’” + +When I heard Dulcinea del Toboso named, I was struck with surprise and +amazement, for it occurred to me at once that these pamphlets contained +the history of Don Quixote. With this idea I pressed him to read the +beginning, and doing so, turning the Arabic offhand into Castilian, he +told me it meant, “_History of Don Quixote of La Mancha, written by Cid +Hamete Benengeli, an Arab historian_.” It required great caution to +hide the joy I felt when the title of the book reached my ears, and +snatching it from the silk mercer, I bought all the papers and +pamphlets from the boy for half a real; and if he had had his wits +about him and had known how eager I was for them, he might have safely +calculated on making more than six reals by the bargain. I withdrew at +once with the Morisco into the cloister of the cathedral, and begged +him to turn all these pamphlets that related to Don Quixote into the +Castilian tongue, without omitting or adding anything to them, offering +him whatever payment he pleased. He was satisfied with two arrobas of +raisins and two bushels of wheat, and promised to translate them +faithfully and with all despatch; but to make the matter easier, and +not to let such a precious find out of my hands, I took him to my +house, where in little more than a month and a half he translated the +whole just as it is set down here. + +In the first pamphlet the battle between Don Quixote and the Biscayan +was drawn to the very life, they planted in the same attitude as the +history describes, their swords raised, and the one protected by his +buckler, the other by his cushion, and the Biscayan’s mule so true to +nature that it could be seen to be a hired one a bowshot off. The +Biscayan had an inscription under his feet which said, “_Don Sancho de +Azpeitia_,” which no doubt must have been his name; and at the feet of +Rocinante was another that said, “_Don Quixote_.” Rocinante was +marvellously portrayed, so long and thin, so lank and lean, with so +much backbone and so far gone in consumption, that he showed plainly +with what judgment and propriety the name of Rocinante had been +bestowed upon him. Near him was Sancho Panza holding the halter of his +ass, at whose feet was another label that said, “Sancho Zancas,” and +according to the picture, he must have had a big belly, a short body, +and long shanks, for which reason, no doubt, the names of Panza and +Zancas were given him, for by these two surnames the history several +times calls him. Some other trifling particulars might be mentioned, +but they are all of slight importance and have nothing to do with the +true relation of the history; and no history can be bad so long as it +is true. + +If against the present one any objection be raised on the score of its +truth, it can only be that its author was an Arab, as lying is a very +common propensity with those of that nation; though, as they are such +enemies of ours, it is conceivable that there were omissions rather +than additions made in the course of it. And this is my own opinion; +for, where he could and should give freedom to his pen in praise of so +worthy a knight, he seems to me deliberately to pass it over in +silence; which is ill done and worse contrived, for it is the business +and duty of historians to be exact, truthful, and wholly free from +passion, and neither interest nor fear, hatred nor love, should make +them swerve from the path of truth, whose mother is history, rival of +time, storehouse of deeds, witness for the past, example and counsel +for the present, and warning for the future. In this I know will be +found all that can be desired in the pleasantest, and if it be wanting +in any good quality, I maintain it is the fault of its hound of an +author and not the fault of the subject. To be brief, its Second Part, +according to the translation, began in this way: + +With trenchant swords upraised and poised on high, it seemed as though +the two valiant and wrathful combatants stood threatening heaven, and +earth, and hell, with such resolution and determination did they bear +themselves. The fiery Biscayan was the first to strike a blow, which +was delivered with such force and fury that had not the sword turned in +its course, that single stroke would have sufficed to put an end to the +bitter struggle and to all the adventures of our knight; but that good +fortune which reserved him for greater things, turned aside the sword +of his adversary, so that although it smote him upon the left shoulder, +it did him no more harm than to strip all that side of its armour, +carrying away a great part of his helmet with half of his ear, all +which with fearful ruin fell to the ground, leaving him in a sorry +plight. + +Good God! Who is there that could properly describe the rage that +filled the heart of our Manchegan when he saw himself dealt with in +this fashion? All that can be said is, it was such that he again raised +himself in his stirrups, and, grasping his sword more firmly with both +hands, he came down on the Biscayan with such fury, smiting him full +over the cushion and over the head, that—even so good a shield proving +useless—as if a mountain had fallen on him, he began to bleed from +nose, mouth, and ears, reeling as if about to fall backwards from his +mule, as no doubt he would have done had he not flung his arms about +its neck; at the same time, however, he slipped his feet out of the +stirrups and then unclasped his arms, and the mule, taking fright at +the terrible blow, made off across the plain, and with a few plunges +flung its master to the ground. Don Quixote stood looking on very +calmly, and, when he saw him fall, leaped from his horse and with great +briskness ran to him, and, presenting the point of his sword to his +eyes, bade him surrender, or he would cut his head off. The Biscayan +was so bewildered that he was unable to answer a word, and it would +have gone hard with him, so blind was Don Quixote, had not the ladies +in the coach, who had hitherto been watching the combat in great +terror, hastened to where he stood and implored him with earnest +entreaties to grant them the great grace and favour of sparing their +squire’s life; to which Don Quixote replied with much gravity and +dignity, “In truth, fair ladies, I am well content to do what ye ask of +me; but it must be on one condition and understanding, which is that +this knight promise me to go to the village of El Toboso, and on my +behalf present himself before the peerless lady Dulcinea, that she deal +with him as shall be most pleasing to her.” + +The terrified and disconsolate ladies, without discussing Don Quixote’s +demand or asking who Dulcinea might be, promised that their squire +should do all that had been commanded. + +“Then, on the faith of that promise,” said Don Quixote, “I shall do him +no further harm, though he well deserves it of me.” + + + +c09e.jpg (61K) + +Full Size + + + +CHAPTER X. +OF THE PLEASANT DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS +SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA + + + + +c10a.jpg (91K) + +Full Size + + + + +Now by this time Sancho had risen, rather the worse for the handling of +the friars’ muleteers, and stood watching the battle of his master, Don +Quixote, and praying to God in his heart that it might be his will to +grant him the victory, and that he might thereby win some island to +make him governor of, as he had promised. Seeing, therefore, that the +struggle was now over, and that his master was returning to mount +Rocinante, he approached to hold the stirrup for him, and, before he +could mount, he went on his knees before him, and taking his hand, +kissed it saying, “May it please your worship, Señor Don Quixote, to +give me the government of that island which has been won in this hard +fight, for be it ever so big I feel myself in sufficient force to be +able to govern it as much and as well as anyone in the world who has +ever governed islands.” + +To which Don Quixote replied, “Thou must take notice, brother Sancho, +that this adventure and those like it are not adventures of islands, +but of cross-roads, in which nothing is got except a broken head or an +ear the less: have patience, for adventures will present themselves +from which I may make you, not only a governor, but something more.” + +Sancho gave him many thanks, and again kissing his hand and the skirt +of his hauberk, helped him to mount Rocinante, and mounting his ass +himself, proceeded to follow his master, who at a brisk pace, without +taking leave, or saying anything further to the ladies belonging to the +coach, turned into a wood that was hard by. Sancho followed him at his +ass’s best trot, but Rocinante stepped out so that, seeing himself left +behind, he was forced to call to his master to wait for him. Don +Quixote did so, reining in Rocinante until his weary squire came up, +who on reaching him said, “It seems to me, señor, it would be prudent +in us to go and take refuge in some church, for, seeing how mauled he +with whom you fought has been left, it will be no wonder if they give +information of the affair to the Holy Brotherhood and arrest us, and, +faith, if they do, before we come out of gaol we shall have to sweat +for it.” + +“Peace,” said Don Quixote; “where hast thou ever seen or heard that a +knight-errant has been arraigned before a court of justice, however +many homicides he may have committed?” + +“I know nothing about omecils,” answered Sancho, “nor in my life have +had anything to do with one; I only know that the Holy Brotherhood +looks after those who fight in the fields, and in that other matter I +do not meddle.” + +“Then thou needst have no uneasiness, my friend,” said Don Quixote, +“for I will deliver thee out of the hands of the Chaldeans, much more +out of those of the Brotherhood. But tell me, as thou livest, hast thou +seen a more valiant knight than I in all the known world; hast thou +read in history of any who has or had higher mettle in attack, more +spirit in maintaining it, more dexterity in wounding or skill in +overthrowing?” + +“The truth is,” answered Sancho, “that I have never read any history, +for I can neither read nor write, but what I will venture to bet is +that a more daring master than your worship I have never served in all +the days of my life, and God grant that this daring be not paid for +where I have said; what I beg of your worship is to dress your wound, +for a great deal of blood flows from that ear, and I have here some +lint and a little white ointment in the alforjas.” + +“All that might be well dispensed with,” said Don Quixote, “if I had +remembered to make a vial of the balsam of Fierabras, for time and +medicine are saved by one single drop.” + +“What vial and what balsam is that?” said Sancho Panza. + +“It is a balsam,” answered Don Quixote, “the receipt of which I have in +my memory, with which one need have no fear of death, or dread dying of +any wound; and so when I make it and give it to thee thou hast nothing +to do when in some battle thou seest they have cut me in half through +the middle of the body—as is wont to happen frequently—but neatly and +with great nicety, ere the blood congeal, to place that portion of the +body which shall have fallen to the ground upon the other half which +remains in the saddle, taking care to fit it on evenly and exactly. +Then thou shalt give me to drink but two drops of the balsam I have +mentioned, and thou shalt see me become sounder than an apple.” + +“If that be so,” said Panza, “I renounce henceforth the government of +the promised island, and desire nothing more in payment of my many and +faithful services than that your worship give me the receipt of this +supreme liquor, for I am persuaded it will be worth more than two reals +an ounce anywhere, and I want no more to pass the rest of my life in +ease and honour; but it remains to be told if it costs much to make +it.” + +“With less than three reals, six quarts of it may be made,” said Don +Quixote. + +“Sinner that I am!” said Sancho, “then why does your worship put off +making it and teaching it to me?” + +“Peace, friend,” answered Don Quixote; “greater secrets I mean to teach +thee and greater favours to bestow upon thee; and for the present let +us see to the dressing, for my ear pains me more than I could wish.” + +Sancho took out some lint and ointment from the alforjas; but when Don +Quixote came to see his helmet shattered, he was like to lose his +senses, and clapping his hand upon his sword and raising his eyes to +heaven, he said, “I swear by the Creator of all things and the four +Gospels in their fullest extent, to do as the great Marquis of Mantua +did when he swore to avenge the death of his nephew Baldwin (and that +was not to eat bread from a table-cloth, nor embrace his wife, and +other points which, though I cannot now call them to mind, I here grant +as expressed) until I take complete vengeance upon him who has +committed such an offence against me.” + +Hearing this, Sancho said to him, “Your worship should bear in mind, +Señor Don Quixote, that if the knight has done what was commanded him +in going to present himself before my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he will +have done all that he was bound to do, and does not deserve further +punishment unless he commits some new offence.” + +“Thou hast said well and hit the point,” answered Don Quixote; and so I +recall the oath in so far as relates to taking fresh vengeance on him, +but I make and confirm it anew to lead the life I have said until such +time as I take by force from some knight another helmet such as this +and as good; and think not, Sancho, that I am raising smoke with straw +in doing so, for I have one to imitate in the matter, since the very +same thing to a hair happened in the case of Mambrino’s helmet, which +cost Sacripante so dear.” + +“Señor,” replied Sancho, “let your worship send all such oaths to the +devil, for they are very pernicious to salvation and prejudicial to the +conscience; just tell me now, if for several days to come we fall in +with no man armed with a helmet, what are we to do? Is the oath to be +observed in spite of all the inconvenience and discomfort it will be to +sleep in your clothes, and not to sleep in a house, and a thousand +other mortifications contained in the oath of that old fool the Marquis +of Mantua, which your worship is now wanting to revive? Let your +worship observe that there are no men in armour travelling on any of +these roads, nothing but carriers and carters, who not only do not wear +helmets, but perhaps never heard tell of them all their lives.” + +“Thou art wrong there,” said Don Quixote, “for we shall not have been +above two hours among these cross-roads before we see more men in +armour than came to Albraca to win the fair Angelica.” + +“Enough,” said Sancho; “so be it then, and God grant us success, and +that the time for winning that island which is costing me so dear may +soon come, and then let me die.” + +“I have already told thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “not to give +thyself any uneasiness on that score; for if an island should fail, +there is the kingdom of Denmark, or of Sobradisa, which will fit thee +as a ring fits the finger, and all the more that, being on _terra +firma_, thou wilt all the better enjoy thyself. But let us leave that +to its own time; see if thou hast anything for us to eat in those +alforjas, because we must presently go in quest of some castle where we +may lodge to-night and make the balsam I told thee of, for I swear to +thee by God, this ear is giving me great pain.” + +“I have here an onion and a little cheese and a few scraps of bread,” +said Sancho, “but they are not victuals fit for a valiant knight like +your worship.” + +“How little thou knowest about it,” answered Don Quixote; “I would have +thee to know, Sancho, that it is the glory of knights-errant to go +without eating for a month, and even when they do eat, that it should +be of what comes first to hand; and this would have been clear to thee +hadst thou read as many histories as I have, for, though they are very +many, among them all I have found no mention made of knights-errant +eating, unless by accident or at some sumptuous banquets prepared for +them, and the rest of the time they passed in dalliance. And though it +is plain they could not do without eating and performing all the other +natural functions, because, in fact, they were men like ourselves, it +is plain too that, wandering as they did the most part of their lives +through woods and wilds and without a cook, their most usual fare would +be rustic viands such as those thou now offer me; so that, friend +Sancho, let not that distress thee which pleases me, and do not seek to +make a new world or pervert knight-errantry.” + +“Pardon me, your worship,” said Sancho, “for, as I cannot read or +write, as I said just now, I neither know nor comprehend the rules of +the profession of chivalry: henceforward I will stock the alforjas with +every kind of dry fruit for your worship, as you are a knight; and for +myself, as I am not one, I will furnish them with poultry and other +things more substantial.” + +“I do not say, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “that it is imperative on +knights-errant not to eat anything else but the fruits thou speakest +of; only that their more usual diet must be those, and certain herbs +they found in the fields which they knew and I know too.” + +“A good thing it is,” answered Sancho, “to know those herbs, for to my +thinking it will be needful some day to put that knowledge into +practice.” + +And here taking out what he said he had brought, the pair made their +repast peaceably and sociably. But anxious to find quarters for the +night, they with all despatch made an end of their poor dry fare, +mounted at once, and made haste to reach some habitation before night +set in; but daylight and the hope of succeeding in their object failed +them close by the huts of some goatherds, so they determined to pass +the night there, and it was as much to Sancho’s discontent not to have +reached a house, as it was to his master’s satisfaction to sleep under +the open heaven, for he fancied that each time this happened to him he +performed an act of ownership that helped to prove his chivalry. + + + +c10e.jpg (57K) + + + +CHAPTER XI. +WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH CERTAIN GOATHERDS + + + + +c11a.jpg (173K) + +Full Size + + + + +He was cordially welcomed by the goatherds, and Sancho, having as best +he could put up Rocinante and the ass, drew towards the fragrance that +came from some pieces of salted goat simmering in a pot on the fire; +and though he would have liked at once to try if they were ready to be +transferred from the pot to the stomach, he refrained from doing so as +the goatherds removed them from the fire, and laying sheepskins on the +ground, quickly spread their rude table, and with signs of hearty +good-will invited them both to share what they had. Round the skins six +of the men belonging to the fold seated themselves, having first with +rough politeness pressed Don Quixote to take a seat upon a trough which +they placed for him upside down. Don Quixote seated himself, and Sancho +remained standing to serve the cup, which was made of horn. Seeing him +standing, his master said to him: + +“That thou mayest see, Sancho, the good that knight-errantry contains +in itself, and how those who fill any office in it are on the high road +to be speedily honoured and esteemed by the world, I desire that thou +seat thyself here at my side and in the company of these worthy people, +and that thou be one with me who am thy master and natural lord, and +that thou eat from my plate and drink from whatever I drink from; for +the same may be said of knight-errantry as of love, that it levels +all.” + +“Great thanks,” said Sancho, “but I may tell your worship that provided +I have enough to eat, I can eat it as well, or better, standing, and by +myself, than seated alongside of an emperor. And indeed, if the truth +is to be told, what I eat in my corner without form or fuss has much +more relish for me, even though it be bread and onions, than the +turkeys of those other tables where I am forced to chew slowly, drink +little, wipe my mouth every minute, and cannot sneeze or cough if I +want or do other things that are the privileges of liberty and +solitude. So, señor, as for these honours which your worship would put +upon me as a servant and follower of knight-errantry, exchange them for +other things which may be of more use and advantage to me; for these, +though I fully acknowledge them as received, I renounce from this +moment to the end of the world.” + +“For all that,” said Don Quixote, “thou must seat thyself, because him +who humbleth himself God exalteth;” and seizing him by the arm he +forced him to sit down beside himself. + +The goatherds did not understand this jargon about squires and +knights-errant, and all they did was to eat in silence and stare at +their guests, who with great elegance and appetite were stowing away +pieces as big as one’s fist. The course of meat finished, they spread +upon the sheepskins a great heap of parched acorns, and with them they +put down a half cheese harder than if it had been made of mortar. All +this while the horn was not idle, for it went round so constantly, now +full, now empty, like the bucket of a water-wheel, that it soon drained +one of the two wine-skins that were in sight. When Don Quixote had +quite appeased his appetite he took up a handful of the acorns, and +contemplating them attentively delivered himself somewhat in this +fashion: + +“Happy the age, happy the time, to which the ancients gave the name of +golden, not because in that fortunate age the gold so coveted in this +our iron one was gained without toil, but because they that lived in it +knew not the two words “_mine_” and “_thine_”! In that blessed age all +things were in common; to win the daily food no labour was required of +any save to stretch forth his hand and gather it from the sturdy oaks +that stood generously inviting him with their sweet ripe fruit. The +clear streams and running brooks yielded their savoury limpid waters in +noble abundance. The busy and sagacious bees fixed their republic in +the clefts of the rocks and hollows of the trees, offering without +usance the plenteous produce of their fragrant toil to every hand. The +mighty cork trees, unenforced save of their own courtesy, shed the +broad light bark that served at first to roof the houses supported by +rude stakes, a protection against the inclemency of heaven alone. Then +all was peace, all friendship, all concord; as yet the dull share of +the crooked plough had not dared to rend and pierce the tender bowels +of our first mother that without compulsion yielded from every portion +of her broad fertile bosom all that could satisfy, sustain, and delight +the children that then possessed her. Then was it that the innocent and +fair young shepherdess roamed from vale to vale and hill to hill, with +flowing locks, and no more garments than were needful modestly to cover +what modesty seeks and ever sought to hide. Nor were their ornaments +like those in use to-day, set off by Tyrian purple, and silk tortured +in endless fashions, but the wreathed leaves of the green dock and ivy, +wherewith they went as bravely and becomingly decked as our Court dames +with all the rare and far-fetched artifices that idle curiosity has +taught them. Then the love-thoughts of the heart clothed themselves +simply and naturally as the heart conceived them, nor sought to commend +themselves by forced and rambling verbiage. Fraud, deceit, or malice +had then not yet mingled with truth and sincerity. Justice held her +ground, undisturbed and unassailed by the efforts of favour and of +interest, that now so much impair, pervert, and beset her. Arbitrary +law had not yet established itself in the mind of the judge, for then +there was no cause to judge and no one to be judged. Maidens and +modesty, as I have said, wandered at will alone and unattended, without +fear of insult from lawlessness or libertine assault, and if they were +undone it was of their own will and pleasure. But now in this hateful +age of ours not one is safe, not though some new labyrinth like that of +Crete conceal and surround her; even there the pestilence of gallantry +will make its way to them through chinks or on the air by the zeal of +its accursed importunity, and, despite of all seclusion, lead them to +ruin. In defence of these, as time advanced and wickedness increased, +the order of knights-errant was instituted, to defend maidens, to +protect widows and to succour the orphans and the needy. To this order +I belong, brother goatherds, to whom I return thanks for the +hospitality and kindly welcome ye offer me and my squire; for though by +natural law all living are bound to show favour to knights-errant, yet, +seeing that without knowing this obligation ye have welcomed and +feasted me, it is right that with all the good-will in my power I +should thank you for yours.” + + + +c11b.jpg (349K) + +Full Size + + + + +All this long harangue (which might very well have been spared) our +knight delivered because the acorns they gave him reminded him of the +golden age; and the whim seized him to address all this unnecessary +argument to the goatherds, who listened to him gaping in amazement +without saying a word in reply. Sancho likewise held his peace and ate +acorns, and paid repeated visits to the second wine-skin, which they +had hung up on a cork tree to keep the wine cool. + +Don Quixote was longer in talking than the supper in finishing, at the +end of which one of the goatherds said, “That your worship, señor +knight-errant, may say with more truth that we show you hospitality +with ready good-will, we will give you amusement and pleasure by making +one of our comrades sing: he will be here before long, and he is a very +intelligent youth and deep in love, and what is more he can read and +write and play on the rebeck to perfection.” + +The goatherd had hardly done speaking, when the notes of the rebeck +reached their ears; and shortly after, the player came up, a very +good-looking young man of about two-and-twenty. His comrades asked him +if he had supped, and on his replying that he had, he who had already +made the offer said to him: + +“In that case, Antonio, thou mayest as well do us the pleasure of +singing a little, that the gentleman, our guest, may see that even in +the mountains and woods there are musicians: we have told him of thy +accomplishments, and we want thee to show them and prove that we say +true; so, as thou livest, pray sit down and sing that ballad about thy +love that thy uncle the prebendary made thee, and that was so much +liked in the town.” + +“With all my heart,” said the young man, and without waiting for more +pressing he seated himself on the trunk of a felled oak, and tuning his +rebeck, presently began to sing to these words. + +ANTONIO’S BALLAD + +Thou dost love me well, Olalla; +Well I know it, even though +Love’s mute tongues, thine eyes, have never +By their glances told me so. + +For I know my love thou knowest, +Therefore thine to claim I dare: +Once it ceases to be secret, +Love need never feel despair. + +True it is, Olalla, sometimes +Thou hast all too plainly shown +That thy heart is brass in hardness, +And thy snowy bosom stone. + +Yet for all that, in thy coyness, +And thy fickle fits between, +Hope is there—at least the border +Of her garment may be seen. + +Lures to faith are they, those glimpses, +And to faith in thee I hold; +Kindness cannot make it stronger, +Coldness cannot make it cold. + +If it be that love is gentle, +In thy gentleness I see +Something holding out assurance +To the hope of winning thee. + +If it be that in devotion +Lies a power hearts to move, +That which every day I show thee, +Helpful to my suit should prove. + +Many a time thou must have noticed— +If to notice thou dost care— +How I go about on Monday +Dressed in all my Sunday wear. + +Love’s eyes love to look on brightness; +Love loves what is gaily drest; +Sunday, Monday, all I care is +Thou shouldst see me in my best. + +No account I make of dances, +Or of strains that pleased thee so, +Keeping thee awake from midnight +Till the cocks began to crow; + +Or of how I roundly swore it +That there’s none so fair as thou; +True it is, but as I said it, +By the girls I’m hated now. + +For Teresa of the hillside +At my praise of thee was sore; +Said, “You think you love an angel; +It’s a monkey you adore; + +“Caught by all her glittering trinkets, +And her borrowed braids of hair, +And a host of made-up beauties +That would Love himself ensnare.” + +’Twas a lie, and so I told her, +And her cousin at the word +Gave me his defiance for it; +And what followed thou hast heard. + +Mine is no high-flown affection, +Mine no passion _par amours_— +As they call it—what I offer +Is an honest love, and pure. + +Cunning cords the holy Church has, +Cords of softest silk they be; +Put thy neck beneath the yoke, dear; +Mine will follow, thou wilt see. + +Else—and once for all I swear it +By the saint of most renown— +If I ever quit the mountains, +’Twill be in a friar’s gown. + + +Here the goatherd brought his song to an end, and though Don Quixote +entreated him to sing more, Sancho had no mind that way, being more +inclined for sleep than for listening to songs; so said he to his +master, “Your worship will do well to settle at once where you mean to +pass the night, for the labour these good men are at all day does not +allow them to spend the night in singing.” + +“I understand thee, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; “I perceive clearly +that those visits to the wine-skin demand compensation in sleep rather +than in music.” + +“It’s sweet to us all, blessed be God,” said Sancho. + +“I do not deny it,” replied Don Quixote; “but settle thyself where thou +wilt; those of my calling are more becomingly employed in watching than +in sleeping; still it would be as well if thou wert to dress this ear +for me again, for it is giving me more pain than it need.” + +Sancho did as he bade him, but one of the goatherds, seeing the wound, +told him not to be uneasy, as he would apply a remedy with which it +would be soon healed; and gathering some leaves of rosemary, of which +there was a great quantity there, he chewed them and mixed them with a +little salt, and applying them to the ear he secured them firmly with a +bandage, assuring him that no other treatment would be required, and so +it proved. + + + +c11e.jpg (37K) + + + +CHAPTER XII. +OF WHAT A GOATHERD RELATED TO THOSE WITH DON QUIXOTE + + + + +c12a.jpg (143K) + +Full Size + + + + +Just then another young man, one of those who fetched their provisions +from the village, came up and said, “Do you know what is going on in +the village, comrades?” + +“How could we know it?” replied one of them. + +“Well, then, you must know,” continued the young man, “this morning +that famous student-shepherd called Chrysostom died, and it is rumoured +that he died of love for that devil of a village girl the daughter of +Guillermo the Rich, she that wanders about the wolds here in the dress +of a shepherdess.” + +“You mean Marcela?” said one. + +“Her I mean,” answered the goatherd; “and the best of it is, he has +directed in his will that he is to be buried in the fields like a Moor, +and at the foot of the rock where the Cork-tree spring is, because, as +the story goes (and they say he himself said so), that was the place +where he first saw her. And he has also left other directions which the +clergy of the village say should not and must not be obeyed because +they savour of paganism. To all which his great friend Ambrosio the +student, he who, like him, also went dressed as a shepherd, replies +that everything must be done without any omission according to the +directions left by Chrysostom, and about this the village is all in +commotion; however, report says that, after all, what Ambrosio and all +the shepherds his friends desire will be done, and to-morrow they are +coming to bury him with great ceremony where I said. I am sure it will +be something worth seeing; at least I will not fail to go and see it +even if I knew I should not return to the village to-morrow.” + +“We will do the same,” answered the goatherds, “and cast lots to see +who must stay to mind the goats of all.” + +“Thou sayest well, Pedro,” said one, “though there will be no need of +taking that trouble, for I will stay behind for all; and don’t suppose +it is virtue or want of curiosity in me; it is that the splinter that +ran into my foot the other day will not let me walk.” + +“For all that, we thank thee,” answered Pedro. + +Don Quixote asked Pedro to tell him who the dead man was and who the +shepherdess, to which Pedro replied that all he knew was that the dead +man was a wealthy gentleman belonging to a village in those mountains, +who had been a student at Salamanca for many years, at the end of which +he returned to his village with the reputation of being very learned +and deeply read. “Above all, they said, he was learned in the science +of the stars and of what went on yonder in the heavens and the sun and +the moon, for he told us of the cris of the sun and moon to exact +time.” + +“Eclipse it is called, friend, not cris, the darkening of those two +luminaries,” said Don Quixote; but Pedro, not troubling himself with +trifles, went on with his story, saying, “Also he foretold when the +year was going to be one of abundance or estility.” + +“Sterility, you mean,” said Don Quixote. + +“Sterility or estility,” answered Pedro, “it is all the same in the +end. And I can tell you that by this his father and friends who +believed him grew very rich because they did as he advised them, +bidding them ‘sow barley this year, not wheat; this year you may sow +pulse and not barley; the next there will be a full oil crop, and the +three following not a drop will be got.’” + +“That science is called astrology,” said Don Quixote. + +“I do not know what it is called,” replied Pedro, “but I know that he +knew all this and more besides. But, to make an end, not many months +had passed after he returned from Salamanca, when one day he appeared +dressed as a shepherd with his crook and sheepskin, having put off the +long gown he wore as a scholar; and at the same time his great friend, +Ambrosio by name, who had been his companion in his studies, took to +the shepherd’s dress with him. I forgot to say that Chrysostom, who is +dead, was a great man for writing verses, so much so that he made +carols for Christmas Eve, and plays for Corpus Christi, which the young +men of our village acted, and all said they were excellent. When the +villagers saw the two scholars so unexpectedly appearing in shepherd’s +dress, they were lost in wonder, and could not guess what had led them +to make so extraordinary a change. About this time the father of our +Chrysostom died, and he was left heir to a large amount of property in +chattels as well as in land, no small number of cattle and sheep, and a +large sum of money, of all of which the young man was left dissolute +owner, and indeed he was deserving of it all, for he was a very good +comrade, and kind-hearted, and a friend of worthy folk, and had a +countenance like a benediction. Presently it came to be known that he +had changed his dress with no other object than to wander about these +wastes after that shepherdess Marcela our lad mentioned a while ago, +with whom the deceased Chrysostom had fallen in love. And I must tell +you now, for it is well you should know it, who this girl is; perhaps, +and even without any perhaps, you will not have heard anything like it +all the days of your life, though you should live more years than +sarna.” + +“Say Sarra,” said Don Quixote, unable to endure the goatherd’s +confusion of words. + +“The sarna lives long enough,” answered Pedro; “and if, señor, you must +go finding fault with words at every step, we shall not make an end of +it this twelvemonth.” + +“Pardon me, friend,” said Don Quixote; “but, as there is such a +difference between sarna and Sarra, I told you of it; however, you have +answered very rightly, for sarna lives longer than Sarra: so continue +your story, and I will not object any more to anything.” + +“I say then, my dear sir,” said the goatherd, “that in our village +there was a farmer even richer than the father of Chrysostom, who was +named Guillermo, and upon whom God bestowed, over and above great +wealth, a daughter at whose birth her mother died, the most respected +woman there was in this neighbourhood; I fancy I can see her now with +that countenance which had the sun on one side and the moon on the +other; and moreover active, and kind to the poor, for which I trust +that at the present moment her soul is in bliss with God in the other +world. Her husband Guillermo died of grief at the death of so good a +wife, leaving his daughter Marcela, a child and rich, to the care of an +uncle of hers, a priest and prebendary in our village. The girl grew up +with such beauty that it reminded us of her mother’s, which was very +great, and yet it was thought that the daughter’s would exceed it; and +so when she reached the age of fourteen to fifteen years nobody beheld +her but blessed God that had made her so beautiful, and the greater +number were in love with her past redemption. Her uncle kept her in +great seclusion and retirement, but for all that the fame of her great +beauty spread so that, as well for it as for her great wealth, her +uncle was asked, solicited, and importuned, to give her in marriage not +only by those of our town but of those many leagues round, and by the +persons of highest quality in them. But he, being a good Christian man, +though he desired to give her in marriage at once, seeing her to be old +enough, was unwilling to do so without her consent, not that he had any +eye to the gain and profit which the custody of the girl’s property +brought him while he put off her marriage; and, faith, this was said in +praise of the good priest in more than one set in the town. For I would +have you know, Sir Errant, that in these little villages everything is +talked about and everything is carped at, and rest assured, as I am, +that the priest must be over and above good who forces his parishioners +to speak well of him, especially in villages.” + +“That is the truth,” said Don Quixote; “but go on, for the story is +very good, and you, good Pedro, tell it with very good grace.” + +“May that of the Lord not be wanting to me,” said Pedro; “that is the +one to have. To proceed; you must know that though the uncle put before +his niece and described to her the qualities of each one in particular +of the many who had asked her in marriage, begging her to marry and +make a choice according to her own taste, she never gave any other +answer than that she had no desire to marry just yet, and that being so +young she did not think herself fit to bear the burden of matrimony. At +these, to all appearance, reasonable excuses that she made, her uncle +ceased to urge her, and waited till she was somewhat more advanced in +age and could mate herself to her own liking. For, said he—and he said +quite right—parents are not to settle children in life against their +will. But when one least looked for it, lo and behold! one day the +demure Marcela makes her appearance turned shepherdess; and, in spite +of her uncle and all those of the town that strove to dissuade her, +took to going a-field with the other shepherd-lasses of the village, +and tending her own flock. And so, since she appeared in public, and +her beauty came to be seen openly, I could not well tell you how many +rich youths, gentlemen and peasants, have adopted the costume of +Chrysostom, and go about these fields making love to her. One of these, +as has been already said, was our deceased friend, of whom they say +that he did not love but adore her. But you must not suppose, because +Marcela chose a life of such liberty and independence, and of so little +or rather no retirement, that she has given any occasion, or even the +semblance of one, for disparagement of her purity and modesty; on the +contrary, such and so great is the vigilance with which she watches +over her honour, that of all those that court and woo her not one has +boasted, or can with truth boast, that she has given him any hope +however small of obtaining his desire. For although she does not avoid +or shun the society and conversation of the shepherds, and treats them +courteously and kindly, should any one of them come to declare his +intention to her, though it be one as proper and holy as that of +matrimony, she flings him from her like a catapult. And with this kind +of disposition she does more harm in this country than if the plague +had got into it, for her affability and her beauty draw on the hearts +of those that associate with her to love her and to court her, but her +scorn and her frankness bring them to the brink of despair; and so they +know not what to say save to proclaim her aloud cruel and hard-hearted, +and other names of the same sort which well describe the nature of her +character; and if you should remain here any time, señor, you would +hear these hills and valleys resounding with the laments of the +rejected ones who pursue her. Not far from this there is a spot where +there are a couple of dozen of tall beeches, and there is not one of +them but has carved and written on its smooth bark the name of Marcela, +and above some a crown carved on the same tree as though her lover +would say more plainly that Marcela wore and deserved that of all human +beauty. Here one shepherd is sighing, there another is lamenting; there +love songs are heard, here despairing elegies. One will pass all the +hours of the night seated at the foot of some oak or rock, and there, +without having closed his weeping eyes, the sun finds him in the +morning bemused and bereft of sense; and another without relief or +respite to his sighs, stretched on the burning sand in the full heat of +the sultry summer noontide, makes his appeal to the compassionate +heavens, and over one and the other, over these and all, the beautiful +Marcela triumphs free and careless. And all of us that know her are +waiting to see what her pride will come to, and who is to be the happy +man that will succeed in taming a nature so formidable and gaining +possession of a beauty so supreme. All that I have told you being such +well-established truth, I am persuaded that what they say of the cause +of Chrysostom’s death, as our lad told us, is the same. And so I advise +you, señor, fail not to be present to-morrow at his burial, which will +be well worth seeing, for Chrysostom had many friends, and it is not +half a league from this place to where he directed he should be +buried.” + +“I will make a point of it,” said Don Quixote, “and I thank you for the +pleasure you have given me by relating so interesting a tale.” + +“Oh,” said the goatherd, “I do not know even the half of what has +happened to the lovers of Marcela, but perhaps to-morrow we may fall in +with some shepherd on the road who can tell us; and now it will be well +for you to go and sleep under cover, for the night air may hurt your +wound, though with the remedy I have applied to you there is no fear of +an untoward result.” + +Sancho Panza, who was wishing the goatherd’s loquacity at the devil, on +his part begged his master to go into Pedro’s hut to sleep. He did so, +and passed all the rest of the night in thinking of his lady Dulcinea, +in imitation of the lovers of Marcela. Sancho Panza settled himself +between Rocinante and his ass, and slept, not like a lover who had been +discarded, but like a man who had been soundly kicked. + + + +c12e.jpg (42K) + + + +CHAPTER XIII. +IN WHICH IS ENDED THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS MARCELA, WITH OTHER +INCIDENTS + + + +c13a.jpg (181K) + +Full Size + + + + +But hardly had day begun to show itself through the balconies of the +east, when five of the six goatherds came to rouse Don Quixote and tell +him that if he was still of a mind to go and see the famous burial of +Chrysostom they would bear him company. Don Quixote, who desired +nothing better, rose and ordered Sancho to saddle and pannel at once, +which he did with all despatch, and with the same they all set out +forthwith. They had not gone a quarter of a league when at the meeting +of two paths they saw coming towards them some six shepherds dressed in +black sheepskins and with their heads crowned with garlands of cypress +and bitter oleander. Each of them carried a stout holly staff in his +hand, and along with them there came two men of quality on horseback in +handsome travelling dress, with three servants on foot accompanying +them. Courteous salutations were exchanged on meeting, and inquiring +one of the other which way each party was going, they learned that all +were bound for the scene of the burial, so they went on all together. + +One of those on horseback addressing his companion said to him, “It +seems to me, Señor Vivaldo, that we may reckon as well spent the delay +we shall incur in seeing this remarkable funeral, for remarkable it +cannot but be judging by the strange things these shepherds have told +us, of both the dead shepherd and homicide shepherdess.” + +“So I think too,” replied Vivaldo, “and I would delay not to say a day, +but four, for the sake of seeing it.” + +Don Quixote asked them what it was they had heard of Marcela and +Chrysostom. The traveller answered that the same morning they had met +these shepherds, and seeing them dressed in this mournful fashion they +had asked them the reason of their appearing in such a guise; which one +of them gave, describing the strange behaviour and beauty of a +shepherdess called Marcela, and the loves of many who courted her, +together with the death of that Chrysostom to whose burial they were +going. In short, he repeated all that Pedro had related to Don Quixote. + +This conversation dropped, and another was commenced by him who was +called Vivaldo asking Don Quixote what was the reason that led him to +go armed in that fashion in a country so peaceful. To which Don Quixote +replied, “The pursuit of my calling does not allow or permit me to go +in any other fashion; easy life, enjoyment, and repose were invented +for soft courtiers, but toil, unrest, and arms were invented and made +for those alone whom the world calls knights-errant, of whom I, though +unworthy, am the least of all.” + +The instant they heard this all set him down as mad, and the better to +settle the point and discover what kind of madness his was, Vivaldo +proceeded to ask him what knights-errant meant. + +“Have not your worships,” replied Don Quixote, “read the annals and +histories of England, in which are recorded the famous deeds of King +Arthur, whom we in our popular Castilian invariably call King Artus, +with regard to whom it is an ancient tradition, and commonly received +all over that kingdom of Great Britain, that this king did not die, but +was changed by magic art into a raven, and that in process of time he +is to return to reign and recover his kingdom and sceptre; for which +reason it cannot be proved that from that time to this any Englishman +ever killed a raven? Well, then, in the time of this good king that +famous order of chivalry of the Knights of the Round Table was +instituted, and the amour of Don Lancelot of the Lake with the Queen +Guinevere occurred, precisely as is there related, the go-between and +confidante therein being the highly honourable dame Quintañona, whence +came that ballad so well known and widely spread in our Spain— + +O never surely was there knight + So served by hand of dame, +As served was he Sir Lancelot hight + When he from Britain came— + + +with all the sweet and delectable course of his achievements in love +and war. Handed down from that time, then, this order of chivalry went +on extending and spreading itself over many and various parts of the +world; and in it, famous and renowned for their deeds, were the mighty +Amadis of Gaul with all his sons and descendants to the fifth +generation, and the valiant Felixmarte of Hircania, and the never +sufficiently praised Tirante el Blanco, and in our own days almost we +have seen and heard and talked with the invincible knight Don Belianis +of Greece. This, then, sirs, is to be a knight-errant, and what I have +spoken of is the order of his chivalry, of which, as I have already +said, I, though a sinner, have made profession, and what the aforesaid +knights professed that same do I profess, and so I go through these +solitudes and wilds seeking adventures, resolved in soul to oppose my +arm and person to the most perilous that fortune may offer me in aid of +the weak and needy.” + +By these words of his the travellers were able to satisfy themselves of +Don Quixote’s being out of his senses and of the form of madness that +overmastered him, at which they felt the same astonishment that all +felt on first becoming acquainted with it; and Vivaldo, who was a +person of great shrewdness and of a lively temperament, in order to +beguile the short journey which they said was required to reach the +mountain, the scene of the burial, sought to give him an opportunity of +going on with his absurdities. So he said to him, “It seems to me, +Señor Knight-errant, that your worship has made choice of one of the +most austere professions in the world, and I imagine even that of the +Carthusian monks is not so austere.” + +“As austere it may perhaps be,” replied our Don Quixote, “but so +necessary for the world I am very much inclined to doubt. For, if the +truth is to be told, the soldier who executes what his captain orders +does no less than the captain himself who gives the order. My meaning, +is, that churchmen in peace and quiet pray to Heaven for the welfare of +the world, but we soldiers and knights carry into effect what they pray +for, defending it with the might of our arms and the edge of our +swords, not under shelter but in the open air, a target for the +intolerable rays of the sun in summer and the piercing frosts of +winter. Thus are we God’s ministers on earth and the arms by which his +justice is done therein. And as the business of war and all that +relates and belongs to it cannot be conducted without exceeding great +sweat, toil, and exertion, it follows that those who make it their +profession have undoubtedly more labour than those who in tranquil +peace and quiet are engaged in praying to God to help the weak. I do +not mean to say, nor does it enter into my thoughts, that the +knight-errant’s calling is as good as that of the monk in his cell; I +would merely infer from what I endure myself that it is beyond a doubt +a more laborious and a more belaboured one, a hungrier and thirstier, a +wretcheder, raggeder, and lousier; for there is no reason to doubt that +the knights-errant of yore endured much hardship in the course of their +lives. And if some of them by the might of their arms did rise to be +emperors, in faith it cost them dear in the matter of blood and sweat; +and if those who attained to that rank had not had magicians and sages +to help them they would have been completely baulked in their ambition +and disappointed in their hopes.” + +“That is my own opinion,” replied the traveller; “but one thing among +many others seems to me very wrong in knights-errant, and that is that +when they find themselves about to engage in some mighty and perilous +adventure in which there is manifest danger of losing their lives, they +never at the moment of engaging in it think of commending themselves to +God, as is the duty of every good Christian in like peril; instead of +which they commend themselves to their ladies with as much devotion as +if these were their gods, a thing which seems to me to savour somewhat +of heathenism.” + +“Sir,” answered Don Quixote, “that cannot be on any account omitted, +and the knight-errant would be disgraced who acted otherwise: for it is +usual and customary in knight-errantry that the knight-errant, who on +engaging in any great feat of arms has his lady before him, should turn +his eyes towards her softly and lovingly, as though with them +entreating her to favour and protect him in the hazardous venture he is +about to undertake, and even though no one hear him, he is bound to say +certain words between his teeth, commending himself to her with all his +heart, and of this we have innumerable instances in the histories. Nor +is it to be supposed from this that they are to omit commending +themselves to God, for there will be time and opportunity for doing so +while they are engaged in their task.” + +“For all that,” answered the traveller, “I feel some doubt still, +because often I have read how words will arise between two +knights-errant, and from one thing to another it comes about that their +anger kindles and they wheel their horses round and take a good stretch +of field, and then without any more ado at the top of their speed they +come to the charge, and in mid-career they are wont to commend +themselves to their ladies; and what commonly comes of the encounter is +that one falls over the haunches of his horse pierced through and +through by his antagonist’s lance, and as for the other, it is only by +holding on to the mane of his horse that he can help falling to the +ground; but I know not how the dead man had time to commend himself to +God in the course of such rapid work as this; it would have been better +if those words which he spent in commending himself to his lady in the +midst of his career had been devoted to his duty and obligation as a +Christian. Moreover, it is my belief that all knights-errant have not +ladies to commend themselves to, for they are not all in love.” + +“That is impossible,” said Don Quixote: “I say it is impossible that +there could be a knight-errant without a lady, because to such it is as +natural and proper to be in love as to the heavens to have stars: most +certainly no history has been seen in which there is to be found a +knight-errant without an amour, and for the simple reason that without +one he would be held no legitimate knight but a bastard, and one who +had gained entrance into the stronghold of the said knighthood, not by +the door, but over the wall like a thief and a robber.” + +“Nevertheless,” said the traveller, “if I remember rightly, I think I +have read that Don Galaor, the brother of the valiant Amadis of Gaul, +never had any special lady to whom he might commend himself, and yet he +was not the less esteemed, and was a very stout and famous knight.” + +To which our Don Quixote made answer, “Sir, one solitary swallow does +not make summer; moreover, I know that knight was in secret very deeply +in love; besides which, that way of falling in love with all that took +his fancy was a natural propensity which he could not control. But, in +short, it is very manifest that he had one alone whom he made mistress +of his will, to whom he commended himself very frequently and very +secretly, for he prided himself on being a reticent knight.” + +“Then if it be essential that every knight-errant should be in love,” +said the traveller, “it may be fairly supposed that your worship is so, +as you are of the order; and if you do not pride yourself on being as +reticent as Don Galaor, I entreat you as earnestly as I can, in the +name of all this company and in my own, to inform us of the name, +country, rank, and beauty of your lady, for she will esteem herself +fortunate if all the world knows that she is loved and served by such a +knight as your worship seems to be.” + +At this Don Quixote heaved a deep sigh and said, “I cannot say +positively whether my sweet enemy is pleased or not that the world +should know I serve her; I can only say in answer to what has been so +courteously asked of me, that her name is Dulcinea, her country El +Toboso, a village of La Mancha, her rank must be at least that of a +princess, since she is my queen and lady, and her beauty superhuman, +since all the impossible and fanciful attributes of beauty which the +poets apply to their ladies are verified in her; for her hairs are +gold, her forehead Elysian fields, her eyebrows rainbows, her eyes +suns, her cheeks roses, her lips coral, her teeth pearls, her neck +alabaster, her bosom marble, her hands ivory, her fairness snow, and +what modesty conceals from sight such, I think and imagine, as rational +reflection can only extol, not compare.” + +“We should like to know her lineage, race, and ancestry,” said Vivaldo. + +To which Don Quixote replied, “She is not of the ancient Roman Curtii, +Caii, or Scipios, nor of the modern Colonnas or Orsini, nor of the +Moncadas or Requesenes of Catalonia, nor yet of the Rebellas or +Villanovas of Valencia; Palafoxes, Nuzas, Rocabertis, Corellas, Lunas, +Alagones, Urreas, Foces, or Gurreas of Aragon; Cerdas, Manriques, +Mendozas, or Guzmans of Castile; Alencastros, Pallas, or Meneses of +Portugal; but she is of those of El Toboso of La Mancha, a lineage that +though modern, may furnish a source of gentle blood for the most +illustrious families of the ages that are to come, and this let none +dispute with me save on the condition that Zerbino placed at the foot +of the trophy of Orlando’s arms, saying, + + These let none move + Who dareth not his might with Roland prove.” + + +“Although mine is of the Cachopins of Laredo,” said the traveller, “I +will not venture to compare it with that of El Toboso of La Mancha, +though, to tell the truth, no such surname has until now ever reached +my ears.” + +“What!” said Don Quixote, “has that never reached them?” + +The rest of the party went along listening with great attention to the +conversation of the pair, and even the very goatherds and shepherds +perceived how exceedingly out of his wits our Don Quixote was. Sancho +Panza alone thought that what his master said was the truth, knowing +who he was and having known him from his birth; and all that he felt +any difficulty in believing was that about the fair Dulcinea del +Toboso, because neither any such name nor any such princess had ever +come to his knowledge though he lived so close to El Toboso. They were +going along conversing in this way, when they saw descending a gap +between two high mountains some twenty shepherds, all clad in +sheepskins of black wool, and crowned with garlands which, as +afterwards appeared, were, some of them of yew, some of cypress. Six of +the number were carrying a bier covered with a great variety of flowers +and branches, on seeing which one of the goatherds said, “Those who +come there are the bearers of Chrysostom’s body, and the foot of that +mountain is the place where he ordered them to bury him.” They +therefore made haste to reach the spot, and did so by the time those +who came had laid the bier upon the ground, and four of them with sharp +pickaxes were digging a grave by the side of a hard rock. They greeted +each other courteously, and then Don Quixote and those who accompanied +him turned to examine the bier, and on it, covered with flowers, they +saw a dead body in the dress of a shepherd, to all appearance of one +thirty years of age, and showing even in death that in life he had been +of comely features and gallant bearing. Around him on the bier itself +were laid some books, and several papers open and folded; and those who +were looking on as well as those who were opening the grave and all the +others who were there preserved a strange silence, until one of those +who had borne the body said to another, “Observe carefully, Ambrosio if +this is the place Chrysostom spoke of, since you are anxious that what +he directed in his will should be so strictly complied with.” + +“This is the place,” answered Ambrosio “for in it many a time did my +poor friend tell me the story of his hard fortune. Here it was, he told +me, that he saw for the first time that mortal enemy of the human race, +and here, too, for the first time he declared to her his passion, as +honourable as it was devoted, and here it was that at last Marcela +ended by scorning and rejecting him so as to bring the tragedy of his +wretched life to a close; here, in memory of misfortunes so great, he +desired to be laid in the bowels of eternal oblivion.” Then turning to +Don Quixote and the travellers he went on to say, “That body, sirs, on +which you are looking with compassionate eyes, was the abode of a soul +on which Heaven bestowed a vast share of its riches. That is the body +of Chrysostom, who was unrivalled in wit, unequalled in courtesy, +unapproached in gentle bearing, a phœnix in friendship, generous +without limit, grave without arrogance, gay without vulgarity, and, in +short, first in all that constitutes goodness and second to none in all +that makes up misfortune. He loved deeply, he was hated; he adored, he +was scorned; he wooed a wild beast, he pleaded with marble, he pursued +the wind, he cried to the wilderness, he served ingratitude, and for +reward was made the prey of death in the mid-course of life, cut short +by a shepherdess whom he sought to immortalise in the memory of man, as +these papers which you see could fully prove, had he not commanded me +to consign them to the fire after having consigned his body to the +earth.” + +“You would deal with them more harshly and cruelly than their owner +himself,” said Vivaldo, “for it is neither right nor proper to do the +will of one who enjoins what is wholly unreasonable; it would not have +been reasonable in Augustus Cæsar had he permitted the directions left +by the divine Mantuan in his will to be carried into effect. So that, +Señor Ambrosio while you consign your friend’s body to the earth, you +should not consign his writings to oblivion, for if he gave the order +in bitterness of heart, it is not right that you should irrationally +obey it. On the contrary, by granting life to those papers, let the +cruelty of Marcela live for ever, to serve as a warning in ages to come +to all men to shun and avoid falling into like danger; or I and all of +us who have come here know already the story of this your love-stricken +and heart-broken friend, and we know, too, your friendship, and the +cause of his death, and the directions he gave at the close of his +life; from which sad story may be gathered how great was the cruelty of +Marcela, the love of Chrysostom, and the loyalty of your friendship, +together with the end awaiting those who pursue rashly the path that +insane passion opens to their eyes. Last night we learned the death of +Chrysostom and that he was to be buried here, and out of curiosity and +pity we left our direct road and resolved to come and see with our eyes +that which when heard of had so moved our compassion, and in +consideration of that compassion and our desire to prove it if we might +by condolence, we beg of you, excellent Ambrosio, or at least I on my +own account entreat you, that instead of burning those papers you allow +me to carry away some of them.” + +And without waiting for the shepherd’s answer, he stretched out his +hand and took up some of those that were nearest to him; seeing which +Ambrosio said, “Out of courtesy, señor, I will grant your request as to +those you have taken, but it is idle to expect me to abstain from +burning the remainder.” + +Vivaldo, who was eager to see what the papers contained, opened one of +them at once, and saw that its title was “Lay of Despair.” + +Ambrosio hearing it said, “That is the last paper the unhappy man +wrote; and that you may see, señor, to what an end his misfortunes +brought him, read it so that you may be heard, for you will have time +enough for that while we are waiting for the grave to be dug.” + +“I will do so very willingly,” said Vivaldo; and as all the bystanders +were equally eager they gathered round him, and he, reading in a loud +voice, found that it ran as follows. + + + +c13e.jpg (15K) + + + +CHAPTER XIV. +WHEREIN ARE INSERTED THE DESPAIRING VERSES OF THE DEAD SHEPHERD, +TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS NOT LOOKED FOR + + + +c14a.jpg (172K) + +Full Size + + + + +THE LAY OF CHRYSOSTOM + +Since thou dost in thy cruelty desire +The ruthless rigour of thy tyranny +From tongue to tongue, from land to land proclaimed, +The very Hell will I constrain to lend +This stricken breast of mine deep notes of woe +To serve my need of fitting utterance. +And as I strive to body forth the tale +Of all I suffer, all that thou hast done, +Forth shall the dread voice roll, and bear along +Shreds from my vitals torn for greater pain. +Then listen, not to dulcet harmony, +But to a discord wrung by mad despair +Out of this bosom’s depths of bitterness, +To ease my heart and plant a sting in thine. + +The lion’s roar, the fierce wolf’s savage howl, +The horrid hissing of the scaly snake, +The awesome cries of monsters yet unnamed, +The crow’s ill-boding croak, the hollow moan +Of wild winds wrestling with the restless sea, +The wrathful bellow of the vanquished bull, +The plaintive sobbing of the widowed dove, +The envied owl’s sad note, the wail of woe +That rises from the dreary choir of Hell, +Commingled in one sound, confusing sense, +Let all these come to aid my soul’s complaint, +For pain like mine demands new modes of song. + +No echoes of that discord shall be heard +Where Father Tagus rolls, or on the banks +Of olive-bordered Betis; to the rocks +Or in deep caverns shall my plaint be told, +And by a lifeless tongue in living words; +Or in dark valleys or on lonely shores, +Where neither foot of man nor sunbeam falls; +Or in among the poison-breathing swarms +Of monsters nourished by the sluggish Nile. +For, though it be to solitudes remote +The hoarse vague echoes of my sorrows sound +Thy matchless cruelty, my dismal fate +Shall carry them to all the spacious world. + +Disdain hath power to kill, and patience dies +Slain by suspicion, be it false or true; +And deadly is the force of jealousy; +Long absence makes of life a dreary void; +No hope of happiness can give repose +To him that ever fears to be forgot; +And death, inevitable, waits in hall. +But I, by some strange miracle, live on +A prey to absence, jealousy, disdain; +Racked by suspicion as by certainty; +Forgotten, left to feed my flame alone. +And while I suffer thus, there comes no ray +Of hope to gladden me athwart the gloom; +Nor do I look for it in my despair; +But rather clinging to a cureless woe, +All hope do I abjure for evermore. + +Can there be hope where fear is? Were it well, +When far more certain are the grounds of fear? +Ought I to shut mine eyes to jealousy, +If through a thousand heart-wounds it appears? +Who would not give free access to distrust, +Seeing disdain unveiled, and—bitter change!— +All his suspicions turned to certainties, +And the fair truth transformed into a lie? +Oh, thou fierce tyrant of the realms of love, +Oh, Jealousy! put chains upon these hands, +And bind me with thy strongest cord, Disdain. +But, woe is me! triumphant over all, +My sufferings drown the memory of you. + +And now I die, and since there is no hope +Of happiness for me in life or death, +Still to my fantasy I’ll fondly cling. +I’ll say that he is wise who loveth well, +And that the soul most free is that most bound +In thraldom to the ancient tyrant Love. +I’ll say that she who is mine enemy +In that fair body hath as fair a mind, +And that her coldness is but my desert, +And that by virtue of the pain he sends +Love rules his kingdom with a gentle sway. +Thus, self-deluding, and in bondage sore, +And wearing out the wretched shred of life +To which I am reduced by her disdain, +I’ll give this soul and body to the winds, +All hopeless of a crown of bliss in store. + +Thou whose injustice hath supplied the cause +That makes me quit the weary life I loathe, +As by this wounded bosom thou canst see +How willingly thy victim I become, +Let not my death, if haply worth a tear, +Cloud the clear heaven that dwells in thy bright eyes; +I would not have thee expiate in aught +The crime of having made my heart thy prey; +But rather let thy laughter gaily ring +And prove my death to be thy festival. +Fool that I am to bid thee! well I know +Thy glory gains by my untimely end. + +And now it is the time; from Hell’s abyss +Come thirsting Tantalus, come Sisyphus +Heaving the cruel stone, come Tityus +With vulture, and with wheel Ixion come, +And come the sisters of the ceaseless toil; +And all into this breast transfer their pains, +And (if such tribute to despair be due) +Chant in their deepest tones a doleful dirge +Over a corse unworthy of a shroud. +Let the three-headed guardian of the gate, +And all the monstrous progeny of hell, +The doleful concert join: a lover dead +Methinks can have no fitter obsequies. + +Lay of despair, grieve not when thou art gone +Forth from this sorrowing heart: my misery +Brings fortune to the cause that gave thee birth; +Then banish sadness even in the tomb. + + +The “Lay of Chrysostom” met with the approbation of the listeners, +though the reader said it did not seem to him to agree with what he had +heard of Marcela’s reserve and propriety, for Chrysostom complained in +it of jealousy, suspicion, and absence, all to the prejudice of the +good name and fame of Marcela; to which Ambrosio replied as one who +knew well his friend’s most secret thoughts, “Señor, to remove that +doubt I should tell you that when the unhappy man wrote this lay he was +away from Marcela, from whom he had voluntarily separated himself, to +try if absence would act with him as it is wont; and as everything +distresses and every fear haunts the banished lover, so imaginary +jealousies and suspicions, dreaded as if they were true, tormented +Chrysostom; and thus the truth of what report declares of the virtue of +Marcela remains unshaken, and with her envy itself should not and +cannot find any fault save that of being cruel, somewhat haughty, and +very scornful.” + +“That is true,” said Vivaldo; and as he was about to read another paper +of those he had preserved from the fire, he was stopped by a marvellous +vision (for such it seemed) that unexpectedly presented itself to their +eyes; for on the summit of the rock where they were digging the grave +there appeared the shepherdess Marcela, so beautiful that her beauty +exceeded its reputation. Those who had never till then beheld her gazed +upon her in wonder and silence, and those who were accustomed to see +her were not less amazed than those who had never seen her before. But +the instant Ambrosio saw her he addressed her, with manifest +indignation: + +“Art thou come, by chance, cruel basilisk of these mountains, to see if +in thy presence blood will flow from the wounds of this wretched being +thy cruelty has robbed of life; or is it to exult over the cruel work +of thy humours that thou art come; or like another pitiless Nero to +look down from that height upon the ruin of his Rome in embers; or in +thy arrogance to trample on this ill-fated corpse, as the ungrateful +daughter trampled on her father Tarquin’s? Tell us quickly for what +thou art come, or what it is thou wouldst have, for, as I know the +thoughts of Chrysostom never failed to obey thee in life, I will make +all these who call themselves his friends obey thee, though he be +dead.” + +“I come not, Ambrosio for any of the purposes thou hast named,” replied +Marcela, “but to defend myself and to prove how unreasonable are all +those who blame me for their sorrow and for Chrysostom’s death; and +therefore I ask all of you that are here to give me your attention, for +it will not take much time or many words to bring the truth home to +persons of sense. Heaven has made me, so you say, beautiful, and so +much so that in spite of yourselves my beauty leads you to love me; and +for the love you show me you say, and even urge, that I am bound to +love you. By that natural understanding which God has given me I know +that everything beautiful attracts love, but I cannot see how, by +reason of being loved, that which is loved for its beauty is bound to +love that which loves it; besides, it may happen that the lover of that +which is beautiful may be ugly, and ugliness being detestable, it is +very absurd to say, “I love thee because thou art beautiful, thou must +love me though I be ugly.” But supposing the beauty equal on both +sides, it does not follow that the inclinations must be therefore +alike, for it is not every beauty that excites love, some but pleasing +the eye without winning the affection; and if every sort of beauty +excited love and won the heart, the will would wander vaguely to and +fro unable to make choice of any; for as there is an infinity of +beautiful objects there must be an infinity of inclinations, and true +love, I have heard it said, is indivisible, and must be voluntary and +not compelled. If this be so, as I believe it to be, why do you desire +me to bend my will by force, for no other reason but that you say you +love me? Nay—tell me—had Heaven made me ugly, as it has made me +beautiful, could I with justice complain of you for not loving me? +Moreover, you must remember that the beauty I possess was no choice of +mine, for, be it what it may, Heaven of its bounty gave it me without +my asking or choosing it; and as the viper, though it kills with it, +does not deserve to be blamed for the poison it carries, as it is a +gift of nature, neither do I deserve reproach for being beautiful; for +beauty in a modest woman is like fire at a distance or a sharp sword; +the one does not burn, the other does not cut, those who do not come +too near. Honour and virtue are the ornaments of the mind, without +which the body, though it be so, has no right to pass for beautiful; +but if modesty is one of the virtues that specially lend a grace and +charm to mind and body, why should she who is loved for her beauty part +with it to gratify one who for his pleasure alone strives with all his +might and energy to rob her of it? I was born free, and that I might +live in freedom I chose the solitude of the fields; in the trees of the +mountains I find society, the clear waters of the brooks are my +mirrors, and to the trees and waters I make known my thoughts and +charms. I am a fire afar off, a sword laid aside. Those whom I have +inspired with love by letting them see me, I have by words undeceived, +and if their longings live on hope—and I have given none to Chrysostom +or to any other—it cannot justly be said that the death of any is my +doing, for it was rather his own obstinacy than my cruelty that killed +him; and if it be made a charge against me that his wishes were +honourable, and that therefore I was bound to yield to them, I answer +that when on this very spot where now his grave is made he declared to +me his purity of purpose, I told him that mine was to live in perpetual +solitude, and that the earth alone should enjoy the fruits of my +retirement and the spoils of my beauty; and if, after this open avowal, +he chose to persist against hope and steer against the wind, what +wonder is it that he should sink in the depths of his infatuation? If I +had encouraged him, I should be false; if I had gratified him, I should +have acted against my own better resolution and purpose. He was +persistent in spite of warning, he despaired without being hated. +Bethink you now if it be reasonable that his suffering should be laid +to my charge. Let him who has been deceived complain, let him give way +to despair whose encouraged hopes have proved vain, let him flatter +himself whom I shall entice, let him boast whom I shall receive; but +let not him call me cruel or homicide to whom I make no promise, upon +whom I practise no deception, whom I neither entice nor receive. It has +not been so far the will of Heaven that I should love by fate, and to +expect me to love by choice is idle. Let this general declaration serve +for each of my suitors on his own account, and let it be understood +from this time forth that if anyone dies for me it is not of jealousy +or misery he dies, for she who loves no one can give no cause for +jealousy to any, and candour is not to be confounded with scorn. Let +him who calls me wild beast and basilisk, leave me alone as something +noxious and evil; let him who calls me ungrateful, withhold his +service; who calls me wayward, seek not my acquaintance; who calls me +cruel, pursue me not; for this wild beast, this basilisk, this +ungrateful, cruel, wayward being has no kind of desire to seek, serve, +know, or follow them. If Chrysostom’s impatience and violent passion +killed him, why should my modest behaviour and circumspection be +blamed? If I preserve my purity in the society of the trees, why should +he who would have me preserve it among men, seek to rob me of it? I +have, as you know, wealth of my own, and I covet not that of others; my +taste is for freedom, and I have no relish for constraint; I neither +love nor hate anyone; I do not deceive this one or court that, or +trifle with one or play with another. The modest converse of the +shepherd girls of these hamlets and the care of my goats are my +recreations; my desires are bounded by these mountains, and if they +ever wander hence it is to contemplate the beauty of the heavens, steps +by which the soul travels to its primeval abode.” + +With these words, and not waiting to hear a reply, she turned and +passed into the thickest part of a wood that was hard by, leaving all +who were there lost in admiration as much of her good sense as of her +beauty. Some—those wounded by the irresistible shafts launched by her +bright eyes—made as though they would follow her, heedless of the frank +declaration they had heard; seeing which, and deeming this a fitting +occasion for the exercise of his chivalry in aid of distressed damsels, +Don Quixote, laying his hand on the hilt of his sword, exclaimed in a +loud and distinct voice: + +“Let no one, whatever his rank or condition, dare to follow the +beautiful Marcela, under pain of incurring my fierce indignation. She +has shown by clear and satisfactory arguments that little or no fault +is to be found with her for the death of Chrysostom, and also how far +she is from yielding to the wishes of any of her lovers, for which +reason, instead of being followed and persecuted, she should in justice +be honoured and esteemed by all the good people of the world, for she +shows that she is the only woman in it that holds to such a virtuous +resolution.” + +Whether it was because of the threats of Don Quixote, or because +Ambrosio told them to fulfil their duty to their good friend, none of +the shepherds moved or stirred from the spot until, having finished the +grave and burned Chrysostom’s papers, they laid his body in it, not +without many tears from those who stood by. They closed the grave with +a heavy stone until a slab was ready which Ambrosio said he meant to +have prepared, with an epitaph which was to be to this effect: + +Beneath the stone before your eyes +The body of a lover lies; +In life he was a shepherd swain, +In death a victim to disdain. +Ungrateful, cruel, coy, and fair, +Was she that drove him to despair, +And Love hath made her his ally +For spreading wide his tyranny. + + +They then strewed upon the grave a profusion of flowers and branches, +and all expressing their condolence with his friend Ambrosio, took +their leave. Vivaldo and his companion did the same; and Don Quixote +bade farewell to his hosts and to the travellers, who pressed him to +come with them to Seville, as being such a convenient place for finding +adventures, for they presented themselves in every street and round +every corner oftener than anywhere else. Don Quixote thanked them for +their advice and for the disposition they showed to do him a favour, +and said that for the present he would not, and must not go to Seville +until he had cleared all these mountains of highwaymen and robbers, of +whom report said they were full. Seeing his good intention, the +travellers were unwilling to press him further, and once more bidding +him farewell, they left him and pursued their journey, in the course of +which they did not fail to discuss the story of Marcela and Chrysostom +as well as the madness of Don Quixote. He, on his part, resolved to go +in quest of the shepherdess Marcela, and make offer to her of all the +service he could render her; but things did not fall out with him as he +expected, according to what is related in the course of this veracious +history, of which the Second Part ends here. + + + +c14e.jpg (31K) + + + +CHAPTER XV. +IN WHICH IS RELATED THE UNFORTUNATE ADVENTURE THAT DON QUIXOTE FELL IN +WITH WHEN HE FELL OUT WITH CERTAIN HEARTLESS YANGUESANS + + + + +c15a.jpg (81K) + +Full Size + + + + +The sage Cid Hamete Benengeli relates that as soon as Don Quixote took +leave of his hosts and all who had been present at the burial of +Chrysostom, he and his squire passed into the same wood which they had +seen the shepherdess Marcela enter, and after having wandered for more +than two hours in all directions in search of her without finding her, +they came to a halt in a glade covered with tender grass, beside which +ran a pleasant cool stream that invited and compelled them to pass +there the hours of the noontide heat, which by this time was beginning +to come on oppressively. Don Quixote and Sancho dismounted, and turning +Rocinante and the ass loose to feed on the grass that was there in +abundance, they ransacked the alforjas, and without any ceremony very +peacefully and sociably master and man made their repast on what they +found in them. + + + +c15b.jpg (376K) + +Full Size + + + + +Sancho had not thought it worth while to hobble Rocinante, feeling +sure, from what he knew of his staidness and freedom from incontinence, +that all the mares in the Cordova pastures would not lead him into an +impropriety. Chance, however, and the devil, who is not always asleep, +so ordained it that feeding in this valley there was a drove of +Galician ponies belonging to certain Yanguesan carriers, whose way it +is to take their midday rest with their teams in places and spots where +grass and water abound; and that where Don Quixote chanced to be suited +the Yanguesans’ purpose very well. It so happened, then, that Rocinante +took a fancy to disport himself with their ladyships the ponies, and +abandoning his usual gait and demeanour as he scented them, he, without +asking leave of his master, got up a briskish little trot and hastened +to make known his wishes to them; they, however, it seemed, preferred +their pasture to him, and received him with their heels and teeth to +such effect that they soon broke his girths and left him naked without +a saddle to cover him; but what must have been worse to him was that +the carriers, seeing the violence he was offering to their mares, came +running up armed with stakes, and so belaboured him that they brought +him sorely battered to the ground. + +By this time Don Quixote and Sancho, who had witnessed the drubbing of +Rocinante, came up panting, and said Don Quixote to Sancho: + +“So far as I can see, friend Sancho, these are not knights but base +folk of low birth: I mention it because thou canst lawfully aid me in +taking due vengeance for the insult offered to Rocinante before our +eyes.” + +“What the devil vengeance can we take,” answered Sancho, “if they are +more than twenty, and we no more than two, or, indeed, perhaps not more +than one and a half?” + +“I count for a hundred,” replied Don Quixote, and without more words he +drew his sword and attacked the Yanguesans and excited and impelled by +the example of his master, Sancho did the same; and to begin with, Don +Quixote delivered a slash at one of them that laid open the leather +jerkin he wore, together with a great portion of his shoulder. The +Yanguesans, seeing themselves assaulted by only two men while they were +so many, betook themselves to their stakes, and driving the two into +the middle they began to lay on with great zeal and energy; in fact, at +the second blow they brought Sancho to the ground, and Don Quixote +fared the same way, all his skill and high mettle availing him nothing, +and fate willed it that he should fall at the feet of Rocinante, who +had not yet risen; whereby it may be seen how furiously stakes can +pound in angry boorish hands. + + + +c15c.jpg (362K) + +Full Size + + + + +Then, seeing the mischief they had done, the Yanguesans with all the +haste they could loaded their team and pursued their journey, leaving +the two adventurers a sorry sight and in sorrier mood. + +Sancho was the first to come to, and finding himself close to his +master he called to him in a weak and doleful voice, “Señor Don +Quixote, ah, Señor Don Quixote!” + +“What wouldst thou, brother Sancho?” answered Don Quixote in the same +feeble suffering tone as Sancho. + +“I would like, if it were possible,” answered Sancho Panza, “your +worship to give me a couple of sups of that potion of the fiery Blas, +if it be that you have any to hand there; perhaps it will serve for +broken bones as well as for wounds.” + +“If I only had it here, wretch that I am, what more should we want?” +said Don Quixote; “but I swear to thee, Sancho Panza, on the faith of a +knight-errant, ere two days are over, unless fortune orders otherwise, +I mean to have it in my possession, or my hand will have lost its +cunning.” + +“But in how many does your worship think we shall have the use of our +feet?” answered Sancho Panza. + +“For myself I must say I cannot guess how many,” said the battered +knight Don Quixote; “but I take all the blame upon myself, for I had no +business to put hand to sword against men who where not dubbed knights +like myself, and so I believe that in punishment for having +transgressed the laws of chivalry the God of battles has permitted this +chastisement to be administered to me; for which reason, brother +Sancho, it is well thou shouldst receive a hint on the matter which I +am now about to mention to thee, for it is of much importance to the +welfare of both of us. It is that when thou shalt see rabble of this +sort offering us insult thou art not to wait till I draw sword against +them, for I shall not do so at all; but do thou draw sword and chastise +them to thy heart’s content, and if any knights come to their aid and +defence I will take care to defend thee and assail them with all my +might; and thou hast already seen by a thousand signs and proofs what +the might of this strong arm of mine is equal to”—so uplifted had the +poor gentleman become through the victory over the stout Biscayan. + +But Sancho did not so fully approve of his master’s admonition as to +let it pass without saying in reply, “Señor, I am a man of peace, meek +and quiet, and I can put up with any affront because I have a wife and +children to support and bring up; so let it be likewise a hint to your +worship, as it cannot be a mandate, that on no account will I draw +sword either against clown or against knight, and that here before God +I forgive the insults that have been offered me, whether they have +been, are, or shall be offered me by high or low, rich or poor, noble +or commoner, not excepting any rank or condition whatsoever.” + +To all which his master said in reply, “I wish I had breath enough to +speak somewhat easily, and that the pain I feel on this side would +abate so as to let me explain to thee, Panza, the mistake thou makest. +Come now, sinner, suppose the wind of fortune, hitherto so adverse, +should turn in our favour, filling the sails of our desires so that +safely and without impediment we put into port in some one of those +islands I have promised thee, how would it be with thee if on winning +it I made thee lord of it? Why, thou wilt make it well-nigh impossible +through not being a knight nor having any desire to be one, nor +possessing the courage nor the will to avenge insults or defend thy +lordship; for thou must know that in newly conquered kingdoms and +provinces the minds of the inhabitants are never so quiet nor so well +disposed to the new lord that there is no fear of their making some +move to change matters once more, and try, as they say, what chance may +do for them; so it is essential that the new possessor should have good +sense to enable him to govern, and valour to attack and defend himself, +whatever may befall him.” + +“In what has now befallen us,” answered Sancho, “I’d have been well +pleased to have that good sense and that valour your worship speaks of, +but I swear on the faith of a poor man I am more fit for plasters than +for arguments. See if your worship can get up, and let us help +Rocinante, though he does not deserve it, for he was the main cause of +all this thrashing. I never thought it of Rocinante, for I took him to +be a virtuous person and as quiet as myself. After all, they say right +that it takes a long time to come to know people, and that there is +nothing sure in this life. Who would have said that, after such mighty +slashes as your worship gave that unlucky knight-errant, there was +coming, travelling post and at the very heels of them, such a great +storm of sticks as has fallen upon our shoulders?” + +“And yet thine, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “ought to be used to such +squalls; but mine, reared in soft cloth and fine linen, it is plain +they must feel more keenly the pain of this mishap, and if it were not +that I imagine—why do I say imagine?—know of a certainty that all these +annoyances are very necessary accompaniments of the calling of arms, I +would lay me down here to die of pure vexation.” + +To this the squire replied, “Señor, as these mishaps are what one reaps +of chivalry, tell me if they happen very often, or if they have their +own fixed times for coming to pass; because it seems to me that after +two harvests we shall be no good for the third, unless God in his +infinite mercy helps us.” + +“Know, friend Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “that the life of +knights-errant is subject to a thousand dangers and reverses, and +neither more nor less is it within immediate possibility for +knights-errant to become kings and emperors, as experience has shown in +the case of many different knights with whose histories I am thoroughly +acquainted; and I could tell thee now, if the pain would let me, of +some who simply by might of arm have risen to the high stations I have +mentioned; and those same, both before and after, experienced divers +misfortunes and miseries; for the valiant Amadis of Gaul found himself +in the power of his mortal enemy Arcalaus the magician, who, it is +positively asserted, holding him captive, gave him more than two +hundred lashes with the reins of his horse while tied to one of the +pillars of a court; and moreover there is a certain recondite author of +no small authority who says that the Knight of Phœbus, being caught in +a certain pitfall, which opened under his feet in a certain castle, on +falling found himself bound hand and foot in a deep pit underground, +where they administered to him one of those things they call clysters, +of sand and snow-water, that well-nigh finished him; and if he had not +been succoured in that sore extremity by a sage, a great friend of his, +it would have gone very hard with the poor knight; so I may well suffer +in company with such worthy folk, for greater were the indignities +which they had to suffer than those which we suffer. For I would have +thee know, Sancho, that wounds caused by any instruments which happen +by chance to be in hand inflict no indignity, and this is laid down in +the law of the duel in express words: if, for instance, the cobbler +strikes another with the last which he has in his hand, though it be in +fact a piece of wood, it cannot be said for that reason that he whom he +struck with it has been cudgelled. I say this lest thou shouldst +imagine that because we have been drubbed in this affray we have +therefore suffered any indignity; for the arms those men carried, with +which they pounded us, were nothing more than their stakes, and not one +of them, so far as I remember, carried rapier, sword, or dagger.” + +“They gave me no time to see that much,” answered Sancho, “for hardly +had I laid hand on my tizona when they signed the cross on my shoulders +with their sticks in such style that they took the sight out of my eyes +and the strength out of my feet, stretching me where I now lie, and +where thinking of whether all those stake-strokes were an indignity or +not gives me no uneasiness, which the pain of the blows does, for they +will remain as deeply impressed on my memory as on my shoulders.” + +“For all that let me tell thee, brother Panza,” said Don Quixote, “that +there is no recollection which time does not put an end to, and no pain +which death does not remove.” + +“And what greater misfortune can there be,” replied Panza, “than the +one that waits for time to put an end to it and death to remove it? If +our mishap were one of those that are cured with a couple of plasters, +it would not be so bad; but I am beginning to think that all the +plasters in a hospital almost won’t be enough to put us right.” + +“No more of that: pluck strength out of weakness, Sancho, as I mean to +do,” returned Don Quixote, “and let us see how Rocinante is, for it +seems to me that not the least share of this mishap has fallen to the +lot of the poor beast.” + +“There is nothing wonderful in that,” replied Sancho, “since he is a +knight-errant too; what I wonder at is that my beast should have come +off scot-free where we come out scotched.” + +“Fortune always leaves a door open in adversity in order to bring +relief to it,” said Don Quixote; “I say so because this little beast +may now supply the want of Rocinante, carrying me hence to some castle +where I may be cured of my wounds. And moreover I shall not hold it any +dishonour to be so mounted, for I remember having read how the good old +Silenus, the tutor and instructor of the gay god of laughter, when he +entered the city of the hundred gates, went very contentedly mounted on +a handsome ass.” + +“It may be true that he went mounted as your worship says,” answered +Sancho, “but there is a great difference between going mounted and +going slung like a sack of manure.” + +To which Don Quixote replied, “Wounds received in battle confer honour +instead of taking it away; and so, friend Panza, say no more, but, as I +told thee before, get up as well as thou canst and put me on top of thy +beast in whatever fashion pleases thee best, and let us go hence ere +night come on and surprise us in these wilds.” + +“And yet I have heard your worship say,” observed Panza, “that it is +very meet for knights-errant to sleep in wastes and deserts, and that +they esteem it very good fortune.” + +“That is,” said Don Quixote, “when they cannot help it, or when they +are in love; and so true is this that there have been knights who have +remained two years on rocks, in sunshine and shade and all the +inclemencies of heaven, without their ladies knowing anything of it; +and one of these was Amadis, when, under the name of Beltenebros, he +took up his abode on the Peña Pobre for—I know not if it was eight +years or eight months, for I am not very sure of the reckoning; at any +rate he stayed there doing penance for I know not what pique the +Princess Oriana had against him; but no more of this now, Sancho, and +make haste before a mishap like Rocinante’s befalls the ass.” + +“The very devil would be in it in that case,” said Sancho; and letting +off thirty “ohs,” and sixty sighs, and a hundred and twenty +maledictions and execrations on whomsoever it was that had brought him +there, he raised himself, stopping half-way bent like a Turkish bow +without power to bring himself upright, but with all his pains he +saddled his ass, who too had gone astray somewhat, yielding to the +excessive licence of the day; he next raised up Rocinante, and as for +him, had he possessed a tongue to complain with, most assuredly neither +Sancho nor his master would have been behind him. + + + +c15d.jpg (329K) + +Full Size + + + + +To be brief, Sancho fixed Don Quixote on the ass and secured Rocinante +with a leading rein, and taking the ass by the halter, he proceeded +more or less in the direction in which it seemed to him the high road +might be; and, as chance was conducting their affairs for them from +good to better, he had not gone a short league when the road came in +sight, and on it he perceived an inn, which to his annoyance and to the +delight of Don Quixote must needs be a castle. Sancho insisted that it +was an inn, and his master that it was not one, but a castle, and the +dispute lasted so long that before the point was settled they had time +to reach it, and into it Sancho entered with all his team without any +further controversy. + + + +c15e.jpg (31K) + + + +CHAPTER XVI. +OF WHAT HAPPENED TO THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN IN THE INN WHICH HE TOOK TO +BE A CASTLE + + + + +c16a.jpg (129K) + +Full Size + + + + +The innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote slung across the ass, asked Sancho +what was amiss with him. Sancho answered that it was nothing, only that +he had fallen down from a rock and had his ribs a little bruised. The +innkeeper had a wife whose disposition was not such as those of her +calling commonly have, for she was by nature kind-hearted and felt for +the sufferings of her neighbours, so she at once set about tending Don +Quixote, and made her young daughter, a very comely girl, help her in +taking care of her guest. There was besides in the inn, as servant, an +Asturian lass with a broad face, flat poll, and snub nose, blind of one +eye and not very sound in the other. The elegance of her shape, to be +sure, made up for all her defects; she did not measure seven palms from +head to foot, and her shoulders, which overweighted her somewhat, made +her contemplate the ground more than she liked. This graceful lass, +then, helped the young girl, and the two made up a very bad bed for Don +Quixote in a garret that showed evident signs of having formerly served +for many years as a straw-loft, in which there was also quartered a +carrier whose bed was placed a little beyond our Don Quixote’s, and, +though only made of the pack-saddles and cloths of his mules, had much +the advantage of it, as Don Quixote’s consisted simply of four rough +boards on two not very even trestles, a mattress, that for thinness +might have passed for a quilt, full of pellets which, were they not +seen through the rents to be wool, would to the touch have seemed +pebbles in hardness, two sheets made of buckler leather, and a coverlet +the threads of which anyone that chose might have counted without +missing one in the reckoning. + +On this accursed bed Don Quixote stretched himself, and the hostess and +her daughter soon covered him with plasters from top to toe, while +Maritornes—for that was the name of the Asturian—held the light for +them, and while plastering him, the hostess, observing how full of +wheals Don Quixote was in some places, remarked that this had more the +look of blows than of a fall. + +It was not blows, Sancho said, but that the rock had many points and +projections, and that each of them had left its mark. “Pray, señora,” +he added, “manage to save some tow, as there will be no want of someone +to use it, for my loins too are rather sore.” + +“Then you must have fallen too,” said the hostess. + +“I did not fall,” said Sancho Panza, “but from the shock I got at +seeing my master fall, my body aches so that I feel as if I had had a +thousand thwacks.” + +“That may well be,” said the young girl, “for it has many a time +happened to me to dream that I was falling down from a tower and never +coming to the ground, and when I awoke from the dream to find myself as +weak and shaken as if I had really fallen.” + +“There is the point, señora,” replied Sancho Panza, “that I without +dreaming at all, but being more awake than I am now, find myself with +scarcely less wheals than my master, Don Quixote.” + +“How is the gentleman called?” asked Maritornes the Asturian. + +“Don Quixote of La Mancha,” answered Sancho Panza, “and he is a +knight-adventurer, and one of the best and stoutest that have been seen +in the world this long time past.” + +“What is a knight-adventurer?” said the lass. + +“Are you so new in the world as not to know?” answered Sancho Panza. +“Well, then, you must know, sister, that a knight-adventurer is a thing +that in two words is seen drubbed and emperor, that is to-day the most +miserable and needy being in the world, and to-morrow will have two or +three crowns of kingdoms to give his squire.” + +“Then how is it,” said the hostess, “that belonging to so good a master +as this, you have not, to judge by appearances, even so much as a +county?” + +“It is too soon yet,” answered Sancho, “for we have only been a month +going in quest of adventures, and so far we have met with nothing that +can be called one, for it will happen that when one thing is looked for +another thing is found; however, if my master Don Quixote gets well of +this wound, or fall, and I am left none the worse of it, I would not +change my hopes for the best title in Spain.” + +To all this conversation Don Quixote was listening very attentively, +and sitting up in bed as well as he could, and taking the hostess by +the hand he said to her, “Believe me, fair lady, you may call yourself +fortunate in having in this castle of yours sheltered my person, which +is such that if I do not myself praise it, it is because of what is +commonly said, that self-praise debaseth; but my squire will inform you +who I am. I only tell you that I shall preserve for ever inscribed on +my memory the service you have rendered me in order to tender you my +gratitude while life shall last me; and would to Heaven love held me +not so enthralled and subject to its laws and to the eyes of that fair +ingrate whom I name between my teeth, but that those of this lovely +damsel might be the masters of my liberty.” + +The hostess, her daughter, and the worthy Maritornes listened in +bewilderment to the words of the knight-errant; for they understood +about as much of them as if he had been talking Greek, though they +could perceive they were all meant for expressions of good-will and +blandishments; and not being accustomed to this kind of language, they +stared at him and wondered to themselves, for he seemed to them a man +of a different sort from those they were used to, and thanking him in +pothouse phrase for his civility they left him, while the Asturian gave +her attention to Sancho, who needed it no less than his master. + +The carrier had made an arrangement with her for recreation that night, +and she had given him her word that when the guests were quiet and the +family asleep she would come in search of him and meet his wishes +unreservedly. And it is said of this good lass that she never made +promises of the kind without fulfilling them, even though she made them +in a forest and without any witness present, for she plumed herself +greatly on being a lady and held it no disgrace to be in such an +employment as servant in an inn, because, she said, misfortunes and +ill-luck had brought her to that position. The hard, narrow, wretched, +rickety bed of Don Quixote stood first in the middle of this star-lit +stable, and close beside it Sancho made his, which merely consisted of +a rush mat and a blanket that looked as if it was of threadbare canvas +rather than of wool. Next to these two beds was that of the carrier, +made up, as has been said, of the pack-saddles and all the trappings of +the two best mules he had, though there were twelve of them, sleek, +plump, and in prime condition, for he was one of the rich carriers of +Arévalo, according to the author of this history, who particularly +mentions this carrier because he knew him very well, and they even say +was in some degree a relation of his; besides which Cid Hamete +Benengeli was a historian of great research and accuracy in all things, +as is very evident since he would not pass over in silence those that +have been already mentioned, however trifling and insignificant they +might be, an example that might be followed by those grave historians +who relate transactions so curtly and briefly that we hardly get a +taste of them, all the substance of the work being left in the inkstand +from carelessness, perverseness, or ignorance. A thousand blessings on +the author of “Tablante de Ricamonte” and that of the other book in +which the deeds of the Conde Tomillas are recounted; with what +minuteness they describe everything! + +To proceed, then: after having paid a visit to his team and given them +their second feed, the carrier stretched himself on his pack-saddles +and lay waiting for his conscientious Maritornes. Sancho was by this +time plastered and had lain down, and though he strove to sleep the +pain of his ribs would not let him, while Don Quixote with the pain of +his had his eyes as wide open as a hare’s. + + + +c16b.jpg (333K) + +Full Size + + + + +The inn was all in silence, and in the whole of it there was no light +except that given by a lantern that hung burning in the middle of the +gateway. This strange stillness, and the thoughts, always present to +our knight’s mind, of the incidents described at every turn in the +books that were the cause of his misfortune, conjured up to his +imagination as extraordinary a delusion as can well be conceived, which +was that he fancied himself to have reached a famous castle (for, as +has been said, all the inns he lodged in were castles to his eyes), and +that the daughter of the innkeeper was daughter of the lord of the +castle, and that she, won by his high-bred bearing, had fallen in love +with him, and had promised to come to his bed for a while that night +without the knowledge of her parents; and holding all this fantasy that +he had constructed as solid fact, he began to feel uneasy and to +consider the perilous risk which his virtue was about to encounter, and +he resolved in his heart to commit no treason to his lady Dulcinea del +Toboso, even though the queen Guinevere herself and the dame Quintañona +should present themselves before him. + +While he was taken up with these vagaries, then, the time and the +hour—an unlucky one for him—arrived for the Asturian to come, who in +her smock, with bare feet and her hair gathered into a fustian coif, +with noiseless and cautious steps entered the chamber where the three +were quartered, in quest of the carrier; but scarcely had she gained +the door when Don Quixote perceived her, and sitting up in his bed in +spite of his plasters and the pain of his ribs, he stretched out his +arms to receive his beauteous damsel. The Asturian, who went all +doubled up and in silence with her hands before her feeling for her +lover, encountered the arms of Don Quixote, who grasped her tightly by +the wrist, and drawing her towards him, while she dared not utter a +word, made her sit down on the bed. He then felt her smock, and +although it was of sackcloth it appeared to him to be of the finest and +softest silk: on her wrists she wore some glass beads, but to him they +had the sheen of precious Orient pearls: her hair, which in some +measure resembled a horse’s mane, he rated as threads of the brightest +gold of Araby, whose refulgence dimmed the sun himself: her breath, +which no doubt smelt of yesterday’s stale salad, seemed to him to +diffuse a sweet aromatic fragrance from her mouth; and, in short, he +drew her portrait in his imagination with the same features and in the +same style as that which he had seen in his books of the other +princesses who, smitten by love, came with all the adornments that are +here set down, to see the sorely wounded knight; and so great was the +poor gentleman’s blindness that neither touch, nor smell, nor anything +else about the good lass that would have made any but a carrier vomit, +were enough to undeceive him; on the contrary, he was persuaded he had +the goddess of beauty in his arms, and holding her firmly in his grasp +he went on to say in low, tender voice: + +“Would that I found myself, lovely and exalted lady, in a position to +repay such a favour as that which you, by the sight of your great +beauty, have granted me; but fortune, which is never weary of +persecuting the good, has chosen to place me upon this bed, where I lie +so bruised and broken that though my inclination would gladly comply +with yours it is impossible; besides, to this impossibility another yet +greater is to be added, which is the faith that I have pledged to the +peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, sole lady of my most secret thoughts; and +were it not that this stood in the way I should not be so insensible a +knight as to miss the happy opportunity which your great goodness has +offered me.” + +Maritornes was fretting and sweating at finding herself held so fast by +Don Quixote, and not understanding or heeding the words he addressed to +her, she strove without speaking to free herself. The worthy carrier, +whose unholy thoughts kept him awake, was aware of his doxy the moment +she entered the door, and was listening attentively to all Don Quixote +said; and jealous that the Asturian should have broken her word with +him for another, drew nearer to Don Quixote’s bed and stood still to +see what would come of this talk which he could not understand; but +when he perceived the wench struggling to get free and Don Quixote +striving to hold her, not relishing the joke he raised his arm and +delivered such a terrible cuff on the lank jaws of the amorous knight +that he bathed all his mouth in blood, and not content with this he +mounted on his ribs and with his feet tramped all over them at a pace +rather smarter than a trot. The bed which was somewhat crazy and not +very firm on its feet, unable to support the additional weight of the +carrier, came to the ground, and at the mighty crash of this the +innkeeper awoke and at once concluded that it must be some brawl of +Maritornes’, because after calling loudly to her he got no answer. With +this suspicion he got up, and lighting a lamp hastened to the quarter +where he had heard the disturbance. The wench, seeing that her master +was coming and knowing that his temper was terrible, frightened and +panic-stricken made for the bed of Sancho Panza, who still slept, and +crouching upon it made a ball of herself. + +The innkeeper came in exclaiming, “Where art thou, strumpet? Of course +this is some of thy work.” At this Sancho awoke, and feeling this mass +almost on top of him fancied he had the nightmare and began to +distribute fisticuffs all round, of which a certain share fell upon +Maritornes, who, irritated by the pain and flinging modesty aside, paid +back so many in return to Sancho that she woke him up in spite of +himself. He then, finding himself so handled, by whom he knew not, +raising himself up as well as he could, grappled with Maritornes, and +he and she between them began the bitterest and drollest scrimmage in +the world. The carrier, however, perceiving by the light of the +innkeeper candle how it fared with his ladylove, quitting Don Quixote, +ran to bring her the help she needed; and the innkeeper did the same +but with a different intention, for his was to chastise the lass, as he +believed that beyond a doubt she alone was the cause of all the +harmony. And so, as the saying is, cat to rat, rat to rope, rope to +stick, the carrier pounded Sancho, Sancho the lass, she him, and the +innkeeper her, and all worked away so briskly that they did not give +themselves a moment’s rest; and the best of it was that the innkeeper’s +lamp went out, and as they were left in the dark they all laid on one +upon the other in a mass so unmercifully that there was not a sound +spot left where a hand could light. + +It so happened that there was lodging that night in the inn a +caudrillero of what they call the Old Holy Brotherhood of Toledo, who, +also hearing the extraordinary noise of the conflict, seized his staff +and the tin case with his warrants, and made his way in the dark into +the room crying: “Hold! in the name of the Jurisdiction! Hold! in the +name of the Holy Brotherhood!” + +The first that he came upon was the pummelled Don Quixote, who lay +stretched senseless on his back upon his broken-down bed, and, his hand +falling on the beard as he felt about, he continued to cry, “Help for +the Jurisdiction!” but perceiving that he whom he had laid hold of did +not move or stir, he concluded that he was dead and that those in the +room were his murderers, and with this suspicion he raised his voice +still higher, calling out, “Shut the inn gate; see that no one goes +out; they have killed a man here!” This cry startled them all, and each +dropped the contest at the point at which the voice reached him. The +innkeeper retreated to his room, the carrier to his pack-saddles, the +lass to her crib; the unlucky Don Quixote and Sancho alone were unable +to move from where they were. The cuadrillero on this let go Don +Quixote’s beard, and went out to look for a light to search for and +apprehend the culprits; but not finding one, as the innkeeper had +purposely extinguished the lantern on retreating to his room, he was +compelled to have recourse to the hearth, where after much time and +trouble he lit another lamp. + + + +c16e.jpg (32K) + + + +CHAPTER XVII. +IN WHICH ARE CONTAINED THE INNUMERABLE TROUBLES WHICH THE BRAVE DON +QUIXOTE AND HIS GOOD SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA ENDURED IN THE INN, WHICH TO +HIS MISFORTUNE HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE + + + +c17a.jpg (87K) + +Full Size + + + + +By this time Don Quixote had recovered from his swoon; and in the same +tone of voice in which he had called to his squire the day before when +he lay stretched “in the vale of the stakes,” he began calling to him +now, “Sancho, my friend, art thou asleep? sleepest thou, friend +Sancho?” + +“How can I sleep, curses on it!” returned Sancho discontentedly and +bitterly, “when it is plain that all the devils have been at me this +night?” + +“Thou mayest well believe that,” answered Don Quixote, “because, either +I know little, or this castle is enchanted, for thou must know—but this +that I am now about to tell thee thou must swear to keep secret until +after my death.” + +“I swear it,” answered Sancho. + +“I say so,” continued Don Quixote, “because I hate taking away anyone’s +good name.” + +“I say,” replied Sancho, “that I swear to hold my tongue about it till +the end of your worship’s days, and God grant I may be able to let it +out to-morrow.” + +“Do I do thee such injuries, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that thou +wouldst see me dead so soon?” + +“It is not for that,” replied Sancho, “but because I hate keeping +things long, and I don’t want them to grow rotten with me from +over-keeping.” + +“At any rate,” said Don Quixote, “I have more confidence in thy +affection and good nature; and so I would have thee know that this +night there befell me one of the strangest adventures that I could +describe, and to relate it to thee briefly thou must know that a little +while ago the daughter of the lord of this castle came to me, and that +she is the most elegant and beautiful damsel that could be found in the +wide world. What I could tell thee of the charms of her person! of her +lively wit! of other secret matters which, to preserve the fealty I owe +to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, I shall pass over unnoticed and in +silence! I will only tell thee that, either fate being envious of so +great a boon placed in my hands by good fortune, or perhaps (and this +is more probable) this castle being, as I have already said, enchanted, +at the time when I was engaged in the sweetest and most amorous +discourse with her, there came, without my seeing or knowing whence it +came, a hand attached to some arm of some huge giant, that planted such +a cuff on my jaws that I have them all bathed in blood, and then +pummelled me in such a way that I am in a worse plight than yesterday +when the carriers, on account of Rocinante’s misbehaviour, inflicted on +us the injury thou knowest of; whence conjecture that there must be +some enchanted Moor guarding the treasure of this damsel’s beauty, and +that it is not for me.” + +“Not for me either,” said Sancho, “for more than four hundred Moors +have so thrashed me that the drubbing of the stakes was cakes and +fancy-bread to it. But tell me, señor, what do you call this excellent +and rare adventure that has left us as we are left now? Though your +worship was not so badly off, having in your arms that incomparable +beauty you spoke of; but I, what did I have, except the heaviest whacks +I think I had in all my life? Unlucky me and the mother that bore me! +for I am not a knight-errant and never expect to be one, and of all the +mishaps, the greater part falls to my share.” + +“Then thou hast been thrashed too?” said Don Quixote. + +“Didn’t I say so? worse luck to my line!” said Sancho. + +“Be not distressed, friend,” said Don Quixote, “for I will now make the +precious balsam with which we shall cure ourselves in the twinkling of +an eye.” + +By this time the cuadrillero had succeeded in lighting the lamp, and +came in to see the man that he thought had been killed; and as Sancho +caught sight of him at the door, seeing him coming in his shirt, with a +cloth on his head, and a lamp in his hand, and a very forbidding +countenance, he said to his master, “Señor, can it be that this is the +enchanted Moor coming back to give us more castigation if there be +anything still left in the ink-bottle?” + +“It cannot be the Moor,” answered Don Quixote, “for those under +enchantment do not let themselves be seen by anyone.” + +“If they don’t let themselves be seen, they let themselves be felt,” +said Sancho; “if not, let my shoulders speak to the point.” + +“Mine could speak too,” said Don Quixote, “but that is not a sufficient +reason for believing that what we see is the enchanted Moor.” + +The officer came up, and finding them engaged in such a peaceful +conversation, stood amazed; though Don Quixote, to be sure, still lay +on his back unable to move from pure pummelling and plasters. The +officer turned to him and said, “Well, how goes it, good man?” + +“I would speak more politely if I were you,” replied Don Quixote; “is +it the way of this country to address knights-errant in that style, you +booby?” + +The cuadrillero finding himself so disrespectfully treated by such a +sorry-looking individual, lost his temper, and raising the lamp full of +oil, smote Don Quixote such a blow with it on the head that he gave him +a badly broken pate; then, all being in darkness, he went out, and +Sancho Panza said, “That is certainly the enchanted Moor, Señor, and he +keeps the treasure for others, and for us only the cuffs and +lamp-whacks.” + +“That is the truth,” answered Don Quixote, “and there is no use in +troubling oneself about these matters of enchantment or being angry or +vexed at them, for as they are invisible and visionary we shall find no +one on whom to avenge ourselves, do what we may; rise, Sancho, if thou +canst, and call the alcaide of this fortress, and get him to give me a +little oil, wine, salt, and rosemary to make the salutiferous balsam, +for indeed I believe I have great need of it now, because I am losing +much blood from the wound that phantom gave me.” + +Sancho got up with pain enough in his bones, and went after the +innkeeper in the dark, and meeting the officer, who was looking to see +what had become of his enemy, he said to him, “Señor, whoever you are, +do us the favour and kindness to give us a little rosemary, oil, salt, +and wine, for it is wanted to cure one of the best knights-errant on +earth, who lies on yonder bed wounded by the hands of the enchanted +Moor that is in this inn.” + +When the officer heard him talk in this way, he took him for a man out +of his senses, and as day was now beginning to break, he opened the inn +gate, and calling the host, he told him what this good man wanted. The +host furnished him with what he required, and Sancho brought it to Don +Quixote, who, with his hand to his head, was bewailing the pain of the +blow of the lamp, which had done him no more harm than raising a couple +of rather large lumps, and what he fancied blood was only the sweat +that flowed from him in his sufferings during the late storm. To be +brief, he took the materials, of which he made a compound, mixing them +all and boiling them a good while until it seemed to him they had come +to perfection. He then asked for some vial to pour it into, and as +there was not one in the inn, he decided on putting it into a tin +oil-bottle or flask of which the host made him a free gift; and over +the flask he repeated more than eighty paternosters and as many more +ave-marias, salves, and credos, accompanying each word with a cross by +way of benediction, at all which there were present Sancho, the +innkeeper, and the cuadrillero; for the carrier was now peacefully +engaged in attending to the comfort of his mules. + +This being accomplished, he felt anxious to make trial himself, on the +spot, of the virtue of this precious balsam, as he considered it, and +so he drank near a quart of what could not be put into the flask and +remained in the pigskin in which it had been boiled; but scarcely had +he done drinking when he began to vomit in such a way that nothing was +left in his stomach, and with the pangs and spasms of vomiting he broke +into a profuse sweat, on account of which he bade them cover him up and +leave him alone. They did so, and he lay sleeping more than three +hours, at the end of which he awoke and felt very great bodily relief +and so much ease from his bruises that he thought himself quite cured, +and verily believed he had hit upon the balsam of Fierabras; and that +with this remedy he might thenceforward, without any fear, face any +kind of destruction, battle, or combat, however perilous it might be. + +Sancho Panza, who also regarded the amendment of his master as +miraculous, begged him to give him what was left in the pigskin, which +was no small quantity. Don Quixote consented, and he, taking it with +both hands, in good faith and with a better will, gulped down and +drained off very little less than his master. But the fact is, that the +stomach of poor Sancho was of necessity not so delicate as that of his +master, and so, before vomiting, he was seized with such gripings and +retchings, and such sweats and faintness, that verily and truly he +believed his last hour had come, and finding himself so racked and +tormented he cursed the balsam and the thief that had given it to him. + +Don Quixote seeing him in this state said, “It is my belief, Sancho, +that this mischief comes of thy not being dubbed a knight, for I am +persuaded this liquor cannot be good for those who are not so.” + +“If your worship knew that,” returned Sancho—“woe betide me and all my +kindred!—why did you let me taste it?” + +At this moment the draught took effect, and the poor squire began to +discharge both ways at such a rate that the rush mat on which he had +thrown himself and the canvas blanket he had covering him were fit for +nothing afterwards. He sweated and perspired with such paroxysms and +convulsions that not only he himself but all present thought his end +had come. This tempest and tribulation lasted about two hours, at the +end of which he was left, not like his master, but so weak and +exhausted that he could not stand. Don Quixote, however, who, as has +been said, felt himself relieved and well, was eager to take his +departure at once in quest of adventures, as it seemed to him that all +the time he loitered there was a fraud upon the world and those in it +who stood in need of his help and protection, all the more when he had +the security and confidence his balsam afforded him; and so, urged by +this impulse, he saddled Rocinante himself and put the pack-saddle on +his squire’s beast, whom likewise he helped to dress and mount the ass; +after which he mounted his horse and turning to a corner of the inn he +laid hold of a pike that stood there, to serve him by way of a lance. +All that were in the inn, who were more than twenty persons, stood +watching him; the innkeeper’s daughter was likewise observing him, and +he too never took his eyes off her, and from time to time fetched a +sigh that he seemed to pluck up from the depths of his bowels; but they +all thought it must be from the pain he felt in his ribs; at any rate +they who had seen him plastered the night before thought so. + +As soon as they were both mounted, at the gate of the inn, he called to +the host and said in a very grave and measured voice, “Many and great +are the favours, Señor Alcaide, that I have received in this castle of +yours, and I remain under the deepest obligation to be grateful to you +for them all the days of my life; if I can repay them in avenging you +of any arrogant foe who may have wronged you, know that my calling is +no other than to aid the weak, to avenge those who suffer wrong, and to +chastise perfidy. Search your memory, and if you find anything of this +kind you need only tell me of it, and I promise you by the order of +knighthood which I have received to procure you satisfaction and +reparation to the utmost of your desire.” + +The innkeeper replied to him with equal calmness, “Sir Knight, I do not +want your worship to avenge me of any wrong, because when any is done +me I can take what vengeance seems good to me; the only thing I want is +that you pay me the score that you have run up in the inn last night, +as well for the straw and barley for your two beasts, as for supper and +beds.” + + + +c16c.jpg (326K) + +Full Size + + + + +“Then this is an inn?” said Don Quixote. + +“And a very respectable one,” said the innkeeper. + +“I have been under a mistake all this time,” answered Don Quixote, “for +in truth I thought it was a castle, and not a bad one; but since it +appears that it is not a castle but an inn, all that can be done now is +that you should excuse the payment, for I cannot contravene the rule of +knights-errant, of whom I know as a fact (and up to the present I have +read nothing to the contrary) that they never paid for lodging or +anything else in the inn where they might be; for any hospitality that +might be offered them is their due by law and right in return for the +insufferable toil they endure in seeking adventures by night and by +day, in summer and in winter, on foot and on horseback, in hunger and +thirst, cold and heat, exposed to all the inclemencies of heaven and +all the hardships of earth.” + +“I have little to do with that,” replied the innkeeper; “pay me what +you owe me, and let us have no more talk of chivalry, for all I care +about is to get my money.” + +“You are a stupid, scurvy innkeeper,” said Don Quixote, and putting +spurs to Rocinante and bringing his pike to the slope he rode out of +the inn before anyone could stop him, and pushed on some distance +without looking to see if his squire was following him. + +The innkeeper when he saw him go without paying him ran to get payment +of Sancho, who said that as his master would not pay neither would he, +because, being as he was squire to a knight-errant, the same rule and +reason held good for him as for his master with regard to not paying +anything in inns and hostelries. At this the innkeeper waxed very +wroth, and threatened if he did not pay to compel him in a way that he +would not like. To which Sancho made answer that by the law of chivalry +his master had received he would not pay a rap, though it cost him his +life; for the excellent and ancient usage of knights-errant was not +going to be violated by him, nor should the squires of such as were yet +to come into the world ever complain of him or reproach him with +breaking so just a privilege. + +The ill-luck of the unfortunate Sancho so ordered it that among the +company in the inn there were four woolcarders from Segovia, three +needle-makers from the Colt of Cordova, and two lodgers from the Fair +of Seville, lively fellows, tender-hearted, fond of a joke, and +playful, who, almost as if instigated and moved by a common impulse, +made up to Sancho and dismounted him from his ass, while one of them +went in for the blanket of the host’s bed; but on flinging him into it +they looked up, and seeing that the ceiling was somewhat lower than +what they required for their work, they decided upon going out into the +yard, which was bounded by the sky, and there, putting Sancho in the +middle of the blanket, they began to raise him high, making sport with +him as they would with a dog at Shrovetide. + + + +c16d.jpg (285K) + +Full Size + + + + +The cries of the poor blanketed wretch were so loud that they reached +the ears of his master, who, halting to listen attentively, was +persuaded that some new adventure was coming, until he clearly +perceived that it was his squire who uttered them. Wheeling about he +came up to the inn with a laborious gallop, and finding it shut went +round it to see if he could find some way of getting in; but as soon as +he came to the wall of the yard, which was not very high, he discovered +the game that was being played with his squire. He saw him rising and +falling in the air with such grace and nimbleness that, had his rage +allowed him, it is my belief he would have laughed. He tried to climb +from his horse on to the top of the wall, but he was so bruised and +battered that he could not even dismount; and so from the back of his +horse he began to utter such maledictions and objurgations against +those who were blanketing Sancho as it would be impossible to write +down accurately: they, however, did not stay their laughter or their +work for this, nor did the flying Sancho cease his lamentations, +mingled now with threats, now with entreaties but all to little +purpose, or none at all, until from pure weariness they left off. They +then brought him his ass, and mounting him on top of it they put his +jacket round him; and the compassionate Maritornes, seeing him so +exhausted, thought fit to refresh him with a jug of water, and that it +might be all the cooler she fetched it from the well. Sancho took it, +and as he was raising it to his mouth he was stopped by the cries of +his master exclaiming, “Sancho, my son, drink not water; drink it not, +my son, for it will kill thee; see, here I have the blessed balsam (and +he held up the flask of liquor), and with drinking two drops of it thou +wilt certainly be restored.” + +At these words Sancho turned his eyes asquint, and in a still louder +voice said, “Can it be your worship has forgotten that I am not a +knight, or do you want me to end by vomiting up what bowels I have left +after last night? Keep your liquor in the name of all the devils, and +leave me to myself!” and at one and the same instant he left off +talking and began drinking; but as at the first sup he perceived it was +water he did not care to go on with it, and begged Maritornes to fetch +him some wine, which she did with right good will, and paid for it with +her own money; for indeed they say of her that, though she was in that +line of life, there was some faint and distant resemblance to a +Christian about her. When Sancho had done drinking he dug his heels +into his ass, and the gate of the inn being thrown open he passed out +very well pleased at having paid nothing and carried his point, though +it had been at the expense of his usual sureties, his shoulders. It is +true that the innkeeper detained his alforjas in payment of what was +owing to him, but Sancho took his departure in such a flurry that he +never missed them. The innkeeper, as soon as he saw him off, wanted to +bar the gate close, but the blanketers would not agree to it, for they +were fellows who would not have cared two farthings for Don Quixote, +even had he been really one of the knights-errant of the Round Table. + + + +c17e.jpg (47K) + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. +IN WHICH IS RELATED THE DISCOURSE SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH HIS MASTER, +DON QUIXOTE, AND OTHER ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING + + + +c18a.jpg (79K) + +Full Size + + + + +Sancho reached his master so limp and faint that he could not urge on +his beast. When Don Quixote saw the state he was in he said, “I have +now come to the conclusion, good Sancho, that this castle or inn is +beyond a doubt enchanted, because those who have so atrociously +diverted themselves with thee, what can they be but phantoms or beings +of another world? and I hold this confirmed by having noticed that when +I was by the wall of the yard witnessing the acts of thy sad tragedy, +it was out of my power to mount upon it, nor could I even dismount from +Rocinante, because they no doubt had me enchanted; for I swear to thee +by the faith of what I am that if I had been able to climb up or +dismount, I would have avenged thee in such a way that those braggart +thieves would have remembered their freak for ever, even though in so +doing I knew that I contravened the laws of chivalry, which, as I have +often told thee, do not permit a knight to lay hands on him who is not +one, save in case of urgent and great necessity in defence of his own +life and person.” + +“I would have avenged myself too if I could,” said Sancho, “whether I +had been dubbed knight or not, but I could not; though for my part I am +persuaded those who amused themselves with me were not phantoms or +enchanted men, as your worship says, but men of flesh and bone like +ourselves; and they all had their names, for I heard them name them +when they were tossing me, and one was called Pedro Martinez, and +another Tenorio Hernandez, and the innkeeper, I heard, was called Juan +Palomeque the Left-handed; so that, señor, your not being able to leap +over the wall of the yard or dismount from your horse came of something +else besides enchantments; and what I make out clearly from all this +is, that these adventures we go seeking will in the end lead us into +such misadventures that we shall not know which is our right foot; and +that the best and wisest thing, according to my small wits, would be +for us to return home, now that it is harvest-time, and attend to our +business, and give over wandering from Zeca to Mecca and from pail to +bucket, as the saying is.” + +“How little thou knowest about chivalry, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; +“hold thy peace and have patience; the day will come when thou shalt +see with thine own eyes what an honourable thing it is to wander in the +pursuit of this calling; nay, tell me, what greater pleasure can there +be in the world, or what delight can equal that of winning a battle, +and triumphing over one’s enemy? None, beyond all doubt.” + +“Very likely,” answered Sancho, “though I do not know it; all I know is +that since we have been knights-errant, or since your worship has been +one (for I have no right to reckon myself one of so honourable a +number) we have never won any battle except the one with the Biscayan, +and even out of that your worship came with half an ear and half a +helmet the less; and from that till now it has been all cudgellings and +more cudgellings, cuffs and more cuffs, I getting the blanketing over +and above, and falling in with enchanted persons on whom I cannot +avenge myself so as to know what the delight, as your worship calls it, +of conquering an enemy is like.” + +“That is what vexes me, and what ought to vex thee, Sancho,” replied +Don Quixote; “but henceforward I will endeavour to have at hand some +sword made by such craft that no kind of enchantments can take effect +upon him who carries it, and it is even possible that fortune may +procure for me that which belonged to Amadis when he was called ‘The +Knight of the Burning Sword,’ which was one of the best swords that +ever knight in the world possessed, for, besides having the said +virtue, it cut like a razor, and there was no armour, however strong +and enchanted it might be, that could resist it.” + +“Such is my luck,” said Sancho, “that even if that happened and your +worship found some such sword, it would, like the balsam, turn out +serviceable and good for dubbed knights only, and as for the squires, +they might sup sorrow.” + +“Fear not that, Sancho,” said Don Quixote: “Heaven will deal better by +thee.” + +Thus talking, Don Quixote and his squire were going along, when, on the +road they were following, Don Quixote perceived approaching them a +large and thick cloud of dust, on seeing which he turned to Sancho and +said: + +“This is the day, Sancho, on which will be seen the boon my fortune is +reserving for me; this, I say, is the day on which as much as on any +other shall be displayed the might of my arm, and on which I shall do +deeds that shall remain written in the book of fame for all ages to +come. Seest thou that cloud of dust which rises yonder? Well, then, all +that is churned up by a vast army composed of various and countless +nations that comes marching there.” + +“According to that there must be two,” said Sancho, “for on this +opposite side also there rises just such another cloud of dust.” + +Don Quixote turned to look and found that it was true, and rejoicing +exceedingly, he concluded that they were two armies about to engage and +encounter in the midst of that broad plain; for at all times and +seasons his fancy was full of the battles, enchantments, adventures, +crazy feats, loves, and defiances that are recorded in the books of +chivalry, and everything he said, thought, or did had reference to such +things. Now the cloud of dust he had seen was raised by two great +droves of sheep coming along the same road in opposite directions, +which, because of the dust, did not become visible until they drew +near, but Don Quixote asserted so positively that they were armies that +Sancho was led to believe it and say, “Well, and what are we to do, +señor?” + + + +c17b.jpg (339K) + +Full Size + + + + +“What?” said Don Quixote: “give aid and assistance to the weak and +those who need it; and thou must know, Sancho, that this which comes +opposite to us is conducted and led by the mighty emperor Alifanfaron, +lord of the great isle of Trapobana; this other that marches behind me +is that of his enemy the king of the Garamantas, Pentapolin of the Bare +Arm, for he always goes into battle with his right arm bare.” + +“But why are these two lords such enemies?” + +“They are at enmity,” replied Don Quixote, “because this Alifanfaron is +a furious pagan and is in love with the daughter of Pentapolin, who is +a very beautiful and moreover gracious lady, and a Christian, and her +father is unwilling to bestow her upon the pagan king unless he first +abandons the religion of his false prophet Mahomet, and adopts his +own.” + +“By my beard,” said Sancho, “but Pentapolin does quite right, and I +will help him as much as I can.” + +“In that thou wilt do what is thy duty, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “for +to engage in battles of this sort it is not requisite to be a dubbed +knight.” + +“That I can well understand,” answered Sancho; “but where shall we put +this ass where we may be sure to find him after the fray is over? for I +believe it has not been the custom so far to go into battle on a beast +of this kind.” + +“That is true,” said Don Quixote, “and what you had best do with him is +to leave him to take his chance whether he be lost or not, for the +horses we shall have when we come out victors will be so many that even +Rocinante will run a risk of being changed for another. But attend to +me and observe, for I wish to give thee some account of the chief +knights who accompany these two armies; and that thou mayest the better +see and mark, let us withdraw to that hillock which rises yonder, +whence both armies may be seen.” + +They did so, and placed themselves on a rising ground from which the +two droves that Don Quixote made armies of might have been plainly seen +if the clouds of dust they raised had not obscured them and blinded the +sight; nevertheless, seeing in his imagination what he did not see and +what did not exist, he began thus in a loud voice: + +“That knight whom thou seest yonder in yellow armour, who bears upon +his shield a lion crowned crouching at the feet of a damsel, is the +valiant Laurcalco, lord of the Silver Bridge; that one in armour with +flowers of gold, who bears on his shield three crowns argent on an +azure field, is the dreaded Micocolembo, grand duke of Quirocia; that +other of gigantic frame, on his right hand, is the ever dauntless +Brandabarbaran de Boliche, lord of the three Arabias, who for armour +wears that serpent skin, and has for shield a gate which, according to +tradition, is one of those of the temple that Samson brought to the +ground when by his death he revenged himself upon his enemies. But turn +thine eyes to the other side, and thou shalt see in front and in the +van of this other army the ever victorious and never vanquished Timonel +of Carcajona, prince of New Biscay, who comes in armour with arms +quartered azure, vert, white, and yellow, and bears on his shield a cat +or on a field tawny with a motto which says _Miau_, which is the +beginning of the name of his lady, who according to report is the +peerless Miaulina, daughter of the duke Alfeniquen of the Algarve; the +other, who burdens and presses the loins of that powerful charger and +bears arms white as snow and a shield blank and without any device, is +a novice knight, a Frenchman by birth, Pierres Papin by name, lord of +the baronies of Utrique; that other, who with iron-shod heels strikes +the flanks of that nimble parti-coloured zebra, and for arms bears +azure vair, is the mighty duke of Nerbia, Espartafilardo del Bosque, +who bears for device on his shield an asparagus plant with a motto in +Castilian that says, _‘Rastrea mi suerte’_.” And so he went on naming a +number of knights of one squadron or the other out of his imagination, +and to all he assigned off-hand their arms, colours, devices, and +mottoes, carried away by the illusions of his unheard-of craze; and +without a pause, he continued, “People of divers nations compose this +squadron in front; here are those that drink of the sweet waters of the +famous Xanthus, those that scour the woody Massilian plains, those that +sift the pure fine gold of Arabia Felix, those that enjoy the famed +cool banks of the crystal Thermodon, those that in many and various +ways divert the streams of the golden Pactolus, the Numidians, +faithless in their promises, the Persians renowned in archery, the +Parthians and the Medes that fight as they fly, the Arabs that ever +shift their dwellings, the Scythians as cruel as they are fair, the +Ethiopians with pierced lips, and an infinity of other nations whose +features I recognise and descry, though I cannot recall their names. In +this other squadron there come those that drink of the crystal streams +of the olive-bearing Betis, those that make smooth their countenances +with the water of the ever rich and golden Tagus, those that rejoice in +the fertilising flow of the divine Genil, those that roam the Tartesian +plains abounding in pasture, those that take their pleasure in the +Elysian meadows of Jerez, the rich Manchegans crowned with ruddy ears +of corn, the wearers of iron, old relics of the Gothic race, those that +bathe in the Pisuerga renowned for its gentle current, those that feed +their herds along the spreading pastures of the winding Guadiana famed +for its hidden course, those that tremble with the cold of the pineclad +Pyrenees or the dazzling snows of the lofty Apennine; in a word, as +many as all Europe includes and contains.” + +Good God! what a number of countries and nations he named! giving to +each its proper attributes with marvellous readiness; brimful and +saturated with what he had read in his lying books! Sancho Panza hung +upon his words without speaking, and from time to time turned to try if +he could see the knights and giants his master was describing, and as +he could not make out one of them he said to him: + +“Señor, devil take it if there’s a sign of any man you talk of, knight +or giant, in the whole thing; maybe it’s all enchantment, like the +phantoms last night.” + +“How canst thou say that!” answered Don Quixote; “dost thou not hear +the neighing of the steeds, the braying of the trumpets, the roll of +the drums?” + +“I hear nothing but a great bleating of ewes and sheep,” said Sancho; +which was true, for by this time the two flocks had come close. + +“The fear thou art in, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “prevents thee from +seeing or hearing correctly, for one of the effects of fear is to +derange the senses and make things appear different from what they are; +if thou art in such fear, withdraw to one side and leave me to myself, +for alone I suffice to bring victory to that side to which I shall give +my aid;” and so saying he gave Rocinante the spur, and putting the +lance in rest, shot down the slope like a thunderbolt. Sancho shouted +after him, crying, “Come back, Señor Don Quixote; I vow to God they are +sheep and ewes you are charging! Come back! Unlucky the father that +begot me! what madness is this! Look, there is no giant, nor knight, +nor cats, nor arms, nor shields quartered or whole, nor vair azure or +bedevilled. What are you about? Sinner that I am before God!” But not +for all these entreaties did Don Quixote turn back; on the contrary he +went on shouting out, “Ho, knights, ye who follow and fight under the +banners of the valiant emperor Pentapolin of the Bare Arm, follow me +all; ye shall see how easily I shall give him his revenge over his +enemy Alifanfaron of the Trapobana.” + +So saying, he dashed into the midst of the squadron of ewes, and began +spearing them with as much spirit and intrepidity as if he were +transfixing mortal enemies in earnest. The shepherds and drovers +accompanying the flock shouted to him to desist; seeing it was no use, +they ungirt their slings and began to salute his ears with stones as +big as one’s fist. Don Quixote gave no heed to the stones, but, letting +drive right and left kept saying: + +“Where art thou, proud Alifanfaron? Come before me; I am a single +knight who would fain prove thy prowess hand to hand, and make thee +yield thy life a penalty for the wrong thou dost to the valiant +Pentapolin Garamanta.” Here came a sugar-plum from the brook that +struck him on the side and buried a couple of ribs in his body. Feeling +himself so smitten, he imagined himself slain or badly wounded for +certain, and recollecting his liquor he drew out his flask, and putting +it to his mouth began to pour the contents into his stomach; but ere he +had succeeded in swallowing what seemed to him enough, there came +another almond which struck him on the hand and on the flask so fairly +that it smashed it to pieces, knocking three or four teeth and grinders +out of his mouth in its course, and sorely crushing two fingers of his +hand. Such was the force of the first blow and of the second, that the +poor knight in spite of himself came down backwards off his horse. The +shepherds came up, and felt sure they had killed him; so in all haste +they collected their flock together, took up the dead beasts, of which +there were more than seven, and made off without waiting to ascertain +anything further. + +All this time Sancho stood on the hill watching the crazy feats his +master was performing, and tearing his beard and cursing the hour and +the occasion when fortune had made him acquainted with him. Seeing him, +then, brought to the ground, and that the shepherds had taken +themselves off, he ran to him and found him in very bad case, though +not unconscious; and said he: + +“Did I not tell you to come back, Señor Don Quixote; and that what you +were going to attack were not armies but droves of sheep?” + +“That’s how that thief of a sage, my enemy, can alter and falsify +things,” answered Don Quixote; “thou must know, Sancho, that it is a +very easy matter for those of his sort to make us believe what they +choose; and this malignant being who persecutes me, envious of the +glory he knew I was to win in this battle, has turned the squadrons of +the enemy into droves of sheep. At any rate, do this much, I beg of +thee, Sancho, to undeceive thyself, and see that what I say is true; +mount thy ass and follow them quietly, and thou shalt see that when +they have gone some little distance from this they will return to their +original shape and, ceasing to be sheep, become men in all respects as +I described them to thee at first. But go not just yet, for I want thy +help and assistance; come hither, and see how many of my teeth and +grinders are missing, for I feel as if there was not one left in my +mouth.” + +Sancho came so close that he almost put his eyes into his mouth; now +just at that moment the balsam had acted on the stomach of Don Quixote, +so, at the very instant when Sancho came to examine his mouth, he +discharged all its contents with more force than a musket, and full +into the beard of the compassionate squire. + +“Holy Mary!” cried Sancho, “what is this that has happened me? Clearly +this sinner is mortally wounded, as he vomits blood from the mouth;” +but considering the matter a little more closely he perceived by the +colour, taste, and smell, that it was not blood but the balsam from the +flask which he had seen him drink; and he was taken with such a +loathing that his stomach turned, and he vomited up his inside over his +very master, and both were left in a precious state. Sancho ran to his +ass to get something wherewith to clean himself, and relieve his +master, out of his alforjas; but not finding them, he well-nigh took +leave of his senses, and cursed himself anew, and in his heart resolved +to quit his master and return home, even though he forfeited the wages +of his service and all hopes of the promised island. + +Don Quixote now rose, and putting his left hand to his mouth to keep +his teeth from falling out altogether, with the other he laid hold of +the bridle of Rocinante, who had never stirred from his master’s +side—so loyal and well-behaved was he—and betook himself to where the +squire stood leaning over his ass with his hand to his cheek, like one +in deep dejection. Seeing him in this mood, looking so sad, Don Quixote +said to him: + +“Bear in mind, Sancho, that one man is no more than another, unless he +does more than another; all these tempests that fall upon us are signs +that fair weather is coming shortly, and that things will go well with +us, for it is impossible for good or evil to last for ever; and hence +it follows that the evil having lasted long, the good must be now nigh +at hand; so thou must not distress thyself at the misfortunes which +happen to me, since thou hast no share in them.” + +“How have I not?” replied Sancho; “was he whom they blanketed yesterday +perchance any other than my father’s son? and the alforjas that are +missing to-day with all my treasures, did they belong to any other but +myself?” + +“What! are the alforjas missing, Sancho?” said Don Quixote. + +“Yes, they are missing,” answered Sancho. + +“In that case we have nothing to eat to-day,” replied Don Quixote. + +“It would be so,” answered Sancho, “if there were none of the herbs +your worship says you know in these meadows, those with which +knights-errant as unlucky as your worship are wont to supply such-like +shortcomings.” + +“For all that,” answered Don Quixote, “I would rather have just now a +quarter of bread, or a loaf and a couple of pilchards’ heads, than all +the herbs described by Dioscorides, even with Doctor Laguna’s notes. +Nevertheless, Sancho the Good, mount thy beast and come along with me, +for God, who provides for all things, will not fail us (more especially +when we are so active in his service as we are), since he fails not the +midges of the air, nor the grubs of the earth, nor the tadpoles of the +water, and is so merciful that he maketh his sun to rise on the good +and on the evil, and sendeth rain on the unjust and on the just.” + +“Your worship would make a better preacher than knight-errant,” said +Sancho. + +“Knights-errant knew and ought to know everything, Sancho,” said Don +Quixote; “for there were knights-errant in former times as well +qualified to deliver a sermon or discourse in the middle of an +encampment, as if they had graduated in the University of Paris; +whereby we may see that the lance has never blunted the pen, nor the +pen the lance.” + +“Well, be it as your worship says,” replied Sancho; “let us be off now +and find some place of shelter for the night, and God grant it may be +somewhere where there are no blankets, nor blanketeers, nor phantoms, +nor enchanted Moors; for if there are, may the devil take the whole +concern.” + +“Ask that of God, my son,” said Don Quixote; and do thou lead on where +thou wilt, for this time I leave our lodging to thy choice; but reach +me here thy hand, and feel with thy finger, and find out how many of my +teeth and grinders are missing from this right side of the upper jaw, +for it is there I feel the pain.” + +Sancho put in his fingers, and feeling about asked him, “How many +grinders used your worship have on this side?” + +“Four,” replied Don Quixote, “besides the back-tooth, all whole and +quite sound.” + +“Mind what you are saying, señor.” + +“I say four, if not five,” answered Don Quixote, “for never in my life +have I had tooth or grinder drawn, nor has any fallen out or been +destroyed by any decay or rheum.” + +“Well, then,” said Sancho, “in this lower side your worship has no more +than two grinders and a half, and in the upper neither a half nor any +at all, for it is all as smooth as the palm of my hand.” + +“Luckless that I am!” said Don Quixote, hearing the sad news his squire +gave him; “I had rather they despoiled me of an arm, so it were not the +sword-arm; for I tell thee, Sancho, a mouth without teeth is like a +mill without a millstone, and a tooth is much more to be prized than a +diamond; but we who profess the austere order of chivalry are liable to +all this. Mount, friend, and lead the way, and I will follow thee at +whatever pace thou wilt.” + +Sancho did as he bade him, and proceeded in the direction in which he +thought he might find refuge without quitting the high road, which was +there very much frequented. As they went along, then, at a slow +pace—for the pain in Don Quixote’s jaws kept him uneasy and +ill-disposed for speed—Sancho thought it well to amuse and divert him +by talk of some kind, and among the things he said to him was that +which will be told in the following chapter. + + + +c18e.jpg (44K) + + + +CHAPTER XIX. +OF THE SHREWD DISCOURSE WHICH SANCHO HELD WITH HIS MASTER, AND OF THE +ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL HIM WITH A DEAD BODY, TOGETHER WITH OTHER NOTABLE +OCCURRENCES + +“It seems to me, señor, that all these mishaps that have befallen us of +late have been without any doubt a punishment for the offence committed +by your worship against the order of chivalry in not keeping the oath +you made not to eat bread off a tablecloth or embrace the queen, and +all the rest of it that your worship swore to observe until you had +taken that helmet of Malandrino’s, or whatever the Moor is called, for +I do not very well remember.” + +“Thou art very right, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “but to tell the +truth, it had escaped my memory; and likewise thou mayest rely upon it +that the affair of the blanket happened to thee because of thy fault in +not reminding me of it in time; but I will make amends, for there are +ways of compounding for everything in the order of chivalry.” + +“Why! have I taken an oath of some sort, then?” said Sancho. + +“It makes no matter that thou hast not taken an oath,” said Don +Quixote; “suffice it that I see thou art not quite clear of complicity; +and whether or no, it will not be ill done to provide ourselves with a +remedy.” + +“In that case,” said Sancho, “mind that your worship does not forget +this as you did the oath; perhaps the phantoms may take it into their +heads to amuse themselves once more with me; or even with your worship +if they see you so obstinate.” + +While engaged in this and other talk, night overtook them on the road +before they had reached or discovered any place of shelter; and what +made it still worse was that they were dying of hunger, for with the +loss of the alforjas they had lost their entire larder and +commissariat; and to complete the misfortune they met with an adventure +which without any invention had really the appearance of one. It so +happened that the night closed in somewhat darkly, but for all that +they pushed on, Sancho feeling sure that as the road was the king’s +highway they might reasonably expect to find some inn within a league +or two. Going along, then, in this way, the night dark, the squire +hungry, the master sharp-set, they saw coming towards them on the road +they were travelling a great number of lights which looked exactly like +stars in motion. Sancho was taken aback at the sight of them, nor did +Don Quixote altogether relish them: the one pulled up his ass by the +halter, the other his hack by the bridle, and they stood still, +watching anxiously to see what all this would turn out to be, and found +that the lights were approaching them, and the nearer they came the +greater they seemed, at which spectacle Sancho began to shake like a +man dosed with mercury, and Don Quixote’s hair stood on end; he, +however, plucking up spirit a little, said: + +“This, no doubt, Sancho, will be a most mighty and perilous adventure, +in which it will be needful for me to put forth all my valour and +resolution.” + +“Unlucky me!” answered Sancho; “if this adventure happens to be one of +phantoms, as I am beginning to think it is, where shall I find the ribs +to bear it?” + +“Be they phantoms ever so much,” said Don Quixote, “I will not permit +them to touch a thread of thy garments; for if they played tricks with +thee the time before, it was because I was unable to leap the walls of +the yard; but now we are on a wide plain, where I shall be able to +wield my sword as I please.” + +“And if they enchant and cripple you as they did the last time,” said +Sancho, “what difference will it make being on the open plain or not?” + +“For all that,” replied Don Quixote, “I entreat thee, Sancho, to keep a +good heart, for experience will tell thee what mine is.” + +“I will, please God,” answered Sancho, and the two retiring to one side +of the road set themselves to observe closely what all these moving +lights might be; and very soon afterwards they made out some twenty +encamisados, all on horseback, with lighted torches in their hands, the +awe-inspiring aspect of whom completely extinguished the courage of +Sancho, who began to chatter with his teeth like one in the cold fit of +an ague; and his heart sank and his teeth chattered still more when +they perceived distinctly that behind them there came a litter covered +over with black and followed by six more mounted figures in mourning +down to the very feet of their mules—for they could perceive plainly +they were not horses by the easy pace at which they went. And as the +encamisados came along they muttered to themselves in a low plaintive +tone. This strange spectacle at such an hour and in such a solitary +place was quite enough to strike terror into Sancho’s heart, and even +into his master’s; and (save in Don Quixote’s case) did so, for all +Sancho’s resolution had now broken down. It was just the opposite with +his master, whose imagination immediately conjured up all this to him +vividly as one of the adventures of his books. + +He took it into his head that the litter was a bier on which was borne +some sorely wounded or slain knight, to avenge whom was a task reserved +for him alone; and without any further reasoning he laid his lance in +rest, fixed himself firmly in his saddle, and with gallant spirit and +bearing took up his position in the middle of the road where the +encamisados must of necessity pass; and as soon as he saw them near at +hand he raised his voice and said: + +“Halt, knights, or whosoever ye may be, and render me account of who ye +are, whence ye come, where ye go, what it is ye carry upon that bier, +for, to judge by appearances, either ye have done some wrong or some +wrong has been done to you, and it is fitting and necessary that I +should know, either that I may chastise you for the evil ye have done, +or else that I may avenge you for the injury that has been inflicted +upon you.” + +“We are in haste,” answered one of the encamisados, “and the inn is far +off, and we cannot stop to render you such an account as you demand;” +and spurring his mule he moved on. + +Don Quixote was mightily provoked by this answer, and seizing the mule +by the bridle he said, “Halt, and be more mannerly, and render an +account of what I have asked of you; else, take my defiance to combat, +all of you.” + +The mule was shy, and was so frightened at her bridle being seized that +rearing up she flung her rider to the ground over her haunches. An +attendant who was on foot, seeing the encamisado fall, began to abuse +Don Quixote, who now moved to anger, without any more ado, laying his +lance in rest charged one of the men in mourning and brought him badly +wounded to the ground, and as he wheeled round upon the others the +agility with which he attacked and routed them was a sight to see, for +it seemed just as if wings had that instant grown upon Rocinante, so +lightly and proudly did he bear himself. The encamisados were all timid +folk and unarmed, so they speedily made their escape from the fray and +set off at a run across the plain with their lighted torches, looking +exactly like maskers running on some gala or festival night. The +mourners, too, enveloped and swathed in their skirts and gowns, were +unable to bestir themselves, and so with entire safety to himself Don +Quixote belaboured them all and drove them off against their will, for +they all thought it was no man but a devil from hell come to carry away +the dead body they had in the litter. + +Sancho beheld all this in astonishment at the intrepidity of his lord, +and said to himself, “Clearly this master of mine is as bold and +valiant as he says he is.” + +A burning torch lay on the ground near the first man whom the mule had +thrown, by the light of which Don Quixote perceived him, and coming up +to him he presented the point of the lance to his face, calling on him +to yield himself prisoner, or else he would kill him; to which the +prostrate man replied, “I am prisoner enough as it is; I cannot stir, +for one of my legs is broken: I entreat you, if you be a Christian +gentleman, not to kill me, which will be committing grave sacrilege, +for I am a licentiate and I hold first orders.” + +“Then what the devil brought you here, being a churchman?” said Don +Quixote. + +“What, señor?” said the other. “My bad luck.” + +“Then still worse awaits you,” said Don Quixote, “if you do not satisfy +me as to all I asked you at first.” + +“You shall be soon satisfied,” said the licentiate; “you must know, +then, that though just now I said I was a licentiate, I am only a +bachelor, and my name is Alonzo Lopez; I am a native of Alcobendas, I +come from the city of Baeza with eleven others, priests, the same who +fled with the torches, and we are going to the city of Segovia +accompanying a dead body which is in that litter, and is that of a +gentleman who died in Baeza, where he was interred; and now, as I said, +we are taking his bones to their burial-place, which is in Segovia, +where he was born.” + +“And who killed him?” asked Don Quixote. + +“God, by means of a malignant fever that took him,” answered the +bachelor. + +“In that case,” said Don Quixote, “the Lord has relieved me of the task +of avenging his death had any other slain him; but, he who slew him +having slain him, there is nothing for it but to be silent, and shrug +one’s shoulders; I should do the same were he to slay myself; and I +would have your reverence know that I am a knight of La Mancha, Don +Quixote by name, and it is my business and calling to roam the world +righting wrongs and redressing injuries.” + +“I do not know how that about righting wrongs can be,” said the +bachelor, “for from straight you have made me crooked, leaving me with +a broken leg that will never see itself straight again all the days of +its life; and the injury you have redressed in my case has been to +leave me injured in such a way that I shall remain injured for ever; +and the height of misadventure it was to fall in with you who go in +search of adventures.” + +“Things do not all happen in the same way,” answered Don Quixote; “it +all came, Sir Bachelor Alonzo Lopez, of your going, as you did, by +night, dressed in those surplices, with lighted torches, praying, +covered with mourning, so that naturally you looked like something evil +and of the other world; and so I could not avoid doing my duty in +attacking you, and I should have attacked you even had I known +positively that you were the very devils of hell, for such I certainly +believed and took you to be.” + +“As my fate has so willed it,” said the bachelor, “I entreat you, sir +knight-errant, whose errand has been such an evil one for me, to help +me to get from under this mule that holds one of my legs caught between +the stirrup and the saddle.” + +“I would have talked on till to-morrow,” said Don Quixote; “how long +were you going to wait before telling me of your distress?” + +He at once called to Sancho, who, however, had no mind to come, as he +was just then engaged in unloading a sumpter mule, well laden with +provender, which these worthy gentlemen had brought with them. Sancho +made a bag of his coat, and, getting together as much as he could, and +as the bag would hold, he loaded his beast, and then hastened to obey +his master’s call, and helped him to remove the bachelor from under the +mule; then putting him on her back he gave him the torch, and Don +Quixote bade him follow the track of his companions, and beg pardon of +them on his part for the wrong which he could not help doing them. + +And said Sancho, “If by chance these gentlemen should want to know who +was the hero that served them so, your worship may tell them that he is +the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the +Rueful Countenance.” + +The bachelor then took his departure. + +I forgot to mention that before he did so he said to Don Quixote, +“Remember that you stand excommunicated for having laid violent hands +on a holy thing, _juxta illud, si quis, suadente diabolo_.” + +“I do not understand that Latin,” answered Don Quixote, “but I know +well I did not lay hands, only this pike; besides, I did not think I +was committing an assault upon priests or things of the Church, which, +like a Catholic and faithful Christian as I am, I respect and revere, +but upon phantoms and spectres of the other world; but even so, I +remember how it fared with Cid Ruy Diaz when he broke the chair of the +ambassador of that king before his Holiness the Pope, who +excommunicated him for the same; and yet the good Roderick of Vivar +bore himself that day like a very noble and valiant knight.” + +On hearing this the bachelor took his departure, as has been said, +without making any reply; and Don Quixote asked Sancho what had induced +him to call him the “Knight of the Rueful Countenance” more then than +at any other time. + +“I will tell you,” answered Sancho; “it was because I have been looking +at you for some time by the light of the torch held by that +unfortunate, and verily your worship has got of late the most +ill-favoured countenance I ever saw: it must be either owing to the +fatigue of this combat, or else to the want of teeth and grinders.” + +“It is not that,” replied Don Quixote, “but because the sage whose duty +it will be to write the history of my achievements must have thought it +proper that I should take some distinctive name as all knights of yore +did; one being ‘He of the Burning Sword,’ another ‘He of the Unicorn,’ +this one ‘He of the Damsels,’ that ‘He of the Phœnix,’ another ‘The +Knight of the Griffin,’ and another ‘He of the Death,’ and by these +names and designations they were known all the world round; and so I +say that the sage aforesaid must have put it into your mouth and mind +just now to call me ‘The Knight of the Rueful Countenance,’ as I intend +to call myself from this day forward; and that the said name may fit me +better, I mean, when the opportunity offers, to have a very rueful +countenance painted on my shield.” + +“There is no occasion, señor, for wasting time or money on making that +countenance,” said Sancho; “for all that need be done is for your +worship to show your own, face to face, to those who look at you, and +without anything more, either image or shield, they will call you ‘Him +of the Rueful Countenance’ and believe me I am telling you the truth, +for I assure you, señor (and in good part be it said), hunger and the +loss of your grinders have given you such an ill-favoured face that, as +I say, the rueful picture may be very well spared.” + +Don Quixote laughed at Sancho’s pleasantry; nevertheless he resolved to +call himself by that name, and have his shield or buckler painted as he +had devised. + +Don Quixote would have looked to see whether the body in the litter +were bones or not, but Sancho would not have it, saying: + +“Señor, you have ended this perilous adventure more safely for yourself +than any of those I have seen: perhaps these people, though beaten and +routed, may bethink themselves that it is a single man that has beaten +them, and feeling sore and ashamed of it may take heart and come in +search of us and give us trouble enough. The ass is in proper trim, the +mountains are near at hand, hunger presses, we have nothing more to do +but make good our retreat, and, as the saying is, the dead to the grave +and the living to the loaf.” + +And driving his ass before him he begged his master to follow, who, +feeling that Sancho was right, did so without replying; and after +proceeding some little distance between two hills they found themselves +in a wide and retired valley, where they alighted, and Sancho unloaded +his beast, and stretched upon the green grass, with hunger for sauce, +they breakfasted, dined, lunched, and supped all at once, satisfying +their appetites with more than one store of cold meat which the dead +man’s clerical gentlemen (who seldom put themselves on short allowance) +had brought with them on their sumpter mule. But another piece of +ill-luck befell them, which Sancho held the worst of all, and that was +that they had no wine to drink, nor even water to moisten their lips; +and as thirst tormented them, Sancho, observing that the meadow where +they were was full of green and tender grass, said what will be told in +the following chapter. + + + +CHAPTER XX. +OF THE UNEXAMPLED AND UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURE WHICH WAS ACHIEVED BY THE +VALIANT DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WITH LESS PERIL THAN ANY EVER ACHIEVED +BY ANY FAMOUS KNIGHT IN THE WORLD + + + +c19a.jpg (147K) + +Full Size + + + + +“It cannot be, señor, but that this grass is a proof that there must be +hard by some spring or brook to give it moisture, so it would be well +to move a little farther on, that we may find some place where we may +quench this terrible thirst that plagues us, which beyond a doubt is +more distressing than hunger.” + +The advice seemed good to Don Quixote, and, he leading Rocinante by the +bridle and Sancho the ass by the halter, after he had packed away upon +him the remains of the supper, they advanced the meadow feeling their +way, for the darkness of the night made it impossible to see anything; +but they had not gone two hundred paces when a loud noise of water, as +if falling from great rocks, struck their ears. The sound cheered them +greatly; but halting to make out by listening from what quarter it came +they heard unseasonably another noise which spoiled the satisfaction +the sound of the water gave them, especially for Sancho, who was by +nature timid and faint-hearted. They heard, I say, strokes falling with +a measured beat, and a certain rattling of iron and chains that, +together with the furious din of the water, would have struck terror +into any heart but Don Quixote’s. The night was, as has been said, +dark, and they had happened to reach a spot in among some tall trees, +whose leaves stirred by a gentle breeze made a low ominous sound; so +that, what with the solitude, the place, the darkness, the noise of the +water, and the rustling of the leaves, everything inspired awe and +dread; more especially as they perceived that the strokes did not +cease, nor the wind lull, nor morning approach; to all which might be +added their ignorance as to where they were. + + + +c19b.jpg (204K) + +Full Size + + + + +But Don Quixote, supported by his intrepid heart, leaped on Rocinante, +and bracing his buckler on his arm, brought his pike to the slope, and +said, “Friend Sancho, know that I by Heaven’s will have been born in +this our iron age to revive in it the age of gold, or the golden as it +is called; I am he for whom perils, mighty achievements, and valiant +deeds are reserved; I am, I say again, he who is to revive the Knights +of the Round Table, the Twelve of France and the Nine Worthies; and he +who is to consign to oblivion the Platirs, the Tablantes, the Olivantes +and Tirantes, the Phœbuses and Belianises, with the whole herd of +famous knights-errant of days gone by, performing in these in which I +live such exploits, marvels, and feats of arms as shall obscure their +brightest deeds. Thou dost mark well, faithful and trusty squire, the +gloom of this night, its strange silence, the dull confused murmur of +those trees, the awful sound of that water in quest of which we came, +that seems as though it were precipitating and dashing itself down from +the lofty mountains of the Moon, and that incessant hammering that +wounds and pains our ears; which things all together and each of itself +are enough to instil fear, dread, and dismay into the breast of Mars +himself, much more into one not used to hazards and adventures of the +kind. Well, then, all this that I put before thee is but an incentive +and stimulant to my spirit, making my heart burst in my bosom through +eagerness to engage in this adventure, arduous as it promises to be; +therefore tighten Rocinante’s girths a little, and God be with thee; +wait for me here three days and no more, and if in that time I come not +back, thou canst return to our village, and thence, to do me a favour +and a service, thou wilt go to El Toboso, where thou shalt say to my +incomparable lady Dulcinea that her captive knight hath died in +attempting things that might make him worthy of being called hers.” + +When Sancho heard his master’s words he began to weep in the most +pathetic way, saying: + +“Señor, I know not why your worship wants to attempt this so dreadful +adventure; it is night now, no one sees us here, we can easily turn +about and take ourselves out of danger, even if we don’t drink for +three days to come; and as there is no one to see us, all the less will +there be anyone to set us down as cowards; besides, I have many a time +heard the curate of our village, whom your worship knows well, preach +that he who seeks danger perishes in it; so it is not right to tempt +God by trying so tremendous a feat from which there can be no escape +save by a miracle, and Heaven has performed enough of them for your +worship in delivering you from being blanketed as I was, and bringing +you out victorious and safe and sound from among all those enemies that +were with the dead man; and if all this does not move or soften that +hard heart, let this thought and reflection move it, that you will have +hardly quitted this spot when from pure fear I shall yield my soul up +to anyone that will take it. I left home and wife and children to come +and serve your worship, trusting to do better and not worse; but as +covetousness bursts the bag, it has rent my hopes asunder, for just as +I had them highest about getting that wretched unlucky island your +worship has so often promised me, I see that instead and in lieu of it +you mean to desert me now in a place so far from human reach: for God’s +sake, master mine, deal not so unjustly by me, and if your worship will +not entirely give up attempting this feat, at least put it off till +morning, for by what the lore I learned when I was a shepherd tells me +it cannot want three hours of dawn now, because the mouth of the Horn +is overhead and makes midnight in the line of the left arm.” + +“How canst thou see, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “where it makes that +line, or where this mouth or this occiput is that thou talkest of, when +the night is so dark that there is not a star to be seen in the whole +heaven?” + +“That’s true,” said Sancho, “but fear has sharp eyes, and sees things +underground, much more above in heavens; besides, there is good reason +to show that it now wants but little of day.” + +“Let it want what it may,” replied Don Quixote, “it shall not be said +of me now or at any time that tears or entreaties turned me aside from +doing what was in accordance with knightly usage; and so I beg of thee, +Sancho, to hold thy peace, for God, who has put it into my heart to +undertake now this so unexampled and terrible adventure, will take care +to watch over my safety and console thy sorrow; what thou hast to do is +to tighten Rocinante’s girths well, and wait here, for I shall come +back shortly, alive or dead.” + +Sancho perceiving it his master’s final resolve, and how little his +tears, counsels, and entreaties prevailed with him, determined to have +recourse to his own ingenuity and compel him, if he could, to wait till +daylight; and so, while tightening the girths of the horse, he quietly +and without being felt, with his ass’ halter tied both Rocinante’s +legs, so that when Don Quixote strove to go he was unable as the horse +could only move by jumps. Seeing the success of his trick, Sancho Panza +said: + +“See there, señor! Heaven, moved by my tears and prayers, has so +ordered it that Rocinante cannot stir; and if you will be obstinate, +and spur and strike him, you will only provoke fortune, and kick, as +they say, against the pricks.” + +Don Quixote at this grew desperate, but the more he drove his heels +into the horse, the less he stirred him; and not having any suspicion +of the tying, he was fain to resign himself and wait till daybreak or +until Rocinante could move, firmly persuaded that all this came of +something other than Sancho’s ingenuity. So he said to him, “As it is +so, Sancho, and as Rocinante cannot move, I am content to wait till +dawn smiles upon us, even though I weep while it delays its coming.” + +“There is no need to weep,” answered Sancho, “for I will amuse your +worship by telling stories from this till daylight, unless indeed you +like to dismount and lie down to sleep a little on the green grass +after the fashion of knights-errant, so as to be fresher when day comes +and the moment arrives for attempting this extraordinary adventure you +are looking forward to.” + +“What art thou talking about dismounting or sleeping for?” said Don +Quixote. “Am I, thinkest thou, one of those knights that take their +rest in the presence of danger? Sleep thou who art born to sleep, or do +as thou wilt, for I will act as I think most consistent with my +character.” + +“Be not angry, master mine,” replied Sancho, “I did not mean to say +that;” and coming close to him he laid one hand on the pommel of the +saddle and the other on the cantle so that he held his master’s left +thigh in his embrace, not daring to separate a finger’s width from him; +so much afraid was he of the strokes which still resounded with a +regular beat. Don Quixote bade him tell some story to amuse him as he +had proposed, to which Sancho replied that he would if his dread of +what he heard would let him; “Still,” said he, “I will strive to tell a +story which, if I can manage to relate it, and nobody interferes with +the telling, is the best of stories, and let your worship give me your +attention, for here I begin. What was, was; and may the good that is to +come be for all, and the evil for him who goes to look for it—your +worship must know that the beginning the old folk used to put to their +tales was not just as each one pleased; it was a maxim of Cato +Zonzorino the Roman, that says ‘the evil for him that goes to look for +it,’ and it comes as pat to the purpose now as ring to finger, to show +that your worship should keep quiet and not go looking for evil in any +quarter, and that we should go back by some other road, since nobody +forces us to follow this in which so many terrors affright us.” + +“Go on with thy story, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and leave the choice +of our road to my care.” + +“I say then,” continued Sancho, “that in a village of Estremadura there +was a goat-shepherd—that is to say, one who tended goats—which shepherd +or goatherd, as my story goes, was called Lope Ruiz, and this Lope Ruiz +was in love with a shepherdess called Torralva, which shepherdess +called Torralva was the daughter of a rich grazier, and this rich +grazier—” + +“If that is the way thou tellest thy tale, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, +“repeating twice all thou hast to say, thou wilt not have done these +two days; go straight on with it, and tell it like a reasonable man, or +else say nothing.” + +“Tales are always told in my country in the very way I am telling +this,” answered Sancho, “and I cannot tell it in any other, nor is it +right of your worship to ask me to make new customs.” + +“Tell it as thou wilt,” replied Don Quixote; “and as fate will have it +that I cannot help listening to thee, go on.” + +“And so, lord of my soul,” continued Sancho, as I have said, this +shepherd was in love with Torralva the shepherdess, who was a wild +buxom lass with something of the look of a man about her, for she had +little moustaches; I fancy I see her now.” + +“Then you knew her?” said Don Quixote. + +“I did not know her,” said Sancho, “but he who told me the story said +it was so true and certain that when I told it to another I might +safely declare and swear I had seen it all myself. And so in course of +time, the devil, who never sleeps and puts everything in confusion, +contrived that the love the shepherd bore the shepherdess turned into +hatred and ill-will, and the reason, according to evil tongues, was +some little jealousy she caused him that crossed the line and +trespassed on forbidden ground; and so much did the shepherd hate her +from that time forward that, in order to escape from her, he determined +to quit the country and go where he should never set eyes on her again. +Torralva, when she found herself spurned by Lope, was immediately +smitten with love for him, though she had never loved him before.” + +“That is the natural way of women,” said Don Quixote, “to scorn the one +that loves them, and love the one that hates them: go on, Sancho.” + +“It came to pass,” said Sancho, “that the shepherd carried out his +intention, and driving his goats before him took his way across the +plains of Estremadura to pass over into the Kingdom of Portugal. +Torralva, who knew of it, went after him, and on foot and barefoot +followed him at a distance, with a pilgrim’s staff in her hand and a +scrip round her neck, in which she carried, it is said, a bit of +looking-glass and a piece of a comb and some little pot or other of +paint for her face; but let her carry what she did, I am not going to +trouble myself to prove it; all I say is, that the shepherd, they say, +came with his flock to cross over the river Guadiana, which was at that +time swollen and almost overflowing its banks, and at the spot he came +to there was neither ferry nor boat nor anyone to carry him or his +flock to the other side, at which he was much vexed, for he perceived +that Torralva was approaching and would give him great annoyance with +her tears and entreaties; however, he went looking about so closely +that he discovered a fisherman who had alongside of him a boat so small +that it could only hold one person and one goat; but for all that he +spoke to him and agreed with him to carry himself and his three hundred +goats across. The fisherman got into the boat and carried one goat +over; he came back and carried another over; he came back again, and +again brought over another—let your worship keep count of the goats the +fisherman is taking across, for if one escapes the memory there will be +an end of the story, and it will be impossible to tell another word of +it. To proceed, I must tell you the landing place on the other side was +miry and slippery, and the fisherman lost a great deal of time in going +and coming; still he returned for another goat, and another, and +another.” + +“Take it for granted he brought them all across,” said Don Quixote, +“and don’t keep going and coming in this way, or thou wilt not make an +end of bringing them over this twelvemonth.” + +“How many have gone across so far?” said Sancho. + +“How the devil do I know?” replied Don Quixote. + +“There it is,” said Sancho, “what I told you, that you must keep a good +count; well then, by God, there is an end of the story, for there is no +going any farther.” + +“How can that be?” said Don Quixote; “is it so essential to the story +to know to a nicety the goats that have crossed over, that if there be +a mistake of one in the reckoning, thou canst not go on with it?” + +“No, señor, not a bit,” replied Sancho; “for when I asked your worship +to tell me how many goats had crossed, and you answered you did not +know, at that very instant all I had to say passed away out of my +memory, and, faith, there was much virtue in it, and entertainment.” + +“So, then,” said Don Quixote, “the story has come to an end?” + +“As much as my mother has,” said Sancho. + +“In truth,” said Don Quixote, “thou hast told one of the rarest +stories, tales, or histories, that anyone in the world could have +imagined, and such a way of telling it and ending it was never seen nor +will be in a lifetime; though I expected nothing else from thy +excellent understanding. But I do not wonder, for perhaps those +ceaseless strokes may have confused thy wits.” + +“All that may be,” replied Sancho, “but I know that as to my story, all +that can be said is that it ends there where the mistake in the count +of the passage of the goats begins.” + +“Let it end where it will, well and good,” said Don Quixote, “and let +us see if Rocinante can go;” and again he spurred him, and again +Rocinante made jumps and remained where he was, so well tied was he. + +Just then, whether it was the cold of the morning that was now +approaching, or that he had eaten something laxative at supper, or that +it was only natural (as is most likely), Sancho felt a desire to do +what no one could do for him; but so great was the fear that had +penetrated his heart, he dared not separate himself from his master by +as much as the black of his nail; to escape doing what he wanted was, +however, also impossible; so what he did for peace’s sake was to remove +his right hand, which held the back of the saddle, and with it to untie +gently and silently the running string which alone held up his +breeches, so that on loosening it they at once fell down round his feet +like fetters; he then raised his shirt as well as he could and bared +his hind quarters, no slim ones. But, this accomplished, which he +fancied was all he had to do to get out of this terrible strait and +embarrassment, another still greater difficulty presented itself, for +it seemed to him impossible to relieve himself without making some +noise, and he ground his teeth and squeezed his shoulders together, +holding his breath as much as he could; but in spite of his precautions +he was unlucky enough after all to make a little noise, very different +from that which was causing him so much fear. + + + +c19c.jpg (308K) + +Full Size + + + + +Don Quixote, hearing it, said, “What noise is that, Sancho?” + +“I don’t know, señor,” said he; “it must be something new, for +adventures and misadventures never begin with a trifle.” Once more he +tried his luck, and succeeded so well, that without any further noise +or disturbance he found himself relieved of the burden that had given +him so much discomfort. But as Don Quixote’s sense of smell was as +acute as his hearing, and as Sancho was so closely linked with him that +the fumes rose almost in a straight line, it could not be but that some +should reach his nose, and as soon as they did he came to its relief by +compressing it between his fingers, saying in a rather snuffing tone, +“Sancho, it strikes me thou art in great fear.” + +“I am,” answered Sancho; “but how does your worship perceive it now +more than ever?” + +“Because just now thou smellest stronger than ever, and not of +ambergris,” answered Don Quixote. + +“Very likely,” said Sancho, “but that’s not my fault, but your +worship’s, for leading me about at unseasonable hours and at such +unwonted paces.” + +“Then go back three or four, my friend,” said Don Quixote, all the time +with his fingers to his nose; “and for the future pay more attention to +thy person and to what thou owest to mine; for it is my great +familiarity with thee that has bred this contempt.” + +“I’ll bet,” replied Sancho, “that your worship thinks I have done +something I ought not with my person.” + +“It makes it worse to stir it, friend Sancho,” returned Don Quixote. + +With this and other talk of the same sort master and man passed the +night, till Sancho, perceiving that daybreak was coming on apace, very +cautiously untied Rocinante and tied up his breeches. As soon as +Rocinante found himself free, though by nature he was not at all +mettlesome, he seemed to feel lively and began pawing—for as to +capering, begging his pardon, he knew not what it meant. Don Quixote, +then, observing that Rocinante could move, took it as a good sign and a +signal that he should attempt the dread adventure. By this time day had +fully broken and everything showed distinctly, and Don Quixote saw that +he was among some tall trees, chestnuts, which cast a very deep shade; +he perceived likewise that the sound of the strokes did not cease, but +could not discover what caused it, and so without any further delay he +let Rocinante feel the spur, and once more taking leave of Sancho, he +told him to wait for him there three days at most, as he had said +before, and if he should not have returned by that time, he might feel +sure it had been God’s will that he should end his days in that +perilous adventure. He again repeated the message and commission with +which he was to go on his behalf to his lady Dulcinea, and said he was +not to be uneasy as to the payment of his services, for before leaving +home he had made his will, in which he would find himself fully +recompensed in the matter of wages in due proportion to the time he had +served; but if God delivered him safe, sound, and unhurt out of that +danger, he might look upon the promised island as much more than +certain. Sancho began to weep afresh on again hearing the affecting +words of his good master, and resolved to stay with him until the final +issue and end of the business. From these tears and this honourable +resolve of Sancho Panza’s the author of this history infers that he +must have been of good birth and at least an old Christian; and the +feeling he displayed touched his but not so much as to make him show +any weakness; on the contrary, hiding what he felt as well as he could, +he began to move towards that quarter whence the sound of the water and +of the strokes seemed to come. + +Sancho followed him on foot, leading by the halter, as his custom was, +his ass, his constant comrade in prosperity or adversity; and advancing +some distance through the shady chestnut trees they came upon a little +meadow at the foot of some high rocks, down which a mighty rush of +water flung itself. At the foot of the rocks were some rudely +constructed houses looking more like ruins than houses, from among +which came, they perceived, the din and clatter of blows, which still +continued without intermission. Rocinante took fright at the noise of +the water and of the blows, but quieting him Don Quixote advanced step +by step towards the houses, commending himself with all his heart to +his lady, imploring her support in that dread pass and enterprise, and +on the way commending himself to God, too, not to forget him. Sancho +who never quitted his side, stretched his neck as far as he could and +peered between the legs of Rocinante to see if he could now discover +what it was that caused him such fear and apprehension. They went it +might be a hundred paces farther, when on turning a corner the true +cause, beyond the possibility of any mistake, of that dread-sounding +and to them awe-inspiring noise that had kept them all the night in +such fear and perplexity, appeared plain and obvious; and it was (if, +reader, thou art not disgusted and disappointed) six fulling hammers +which by their alternate strokes made all the din. + +When Don Quixote perceived what it was, he was struck dumb and rigid +from head to foot. Sancho glanced at him and saw him with his head bent +down upon his breast in manifest mortification; and Don Quixote glanced +at Sancho and saw him with his cheeks puffed out and his mouth full of +laughter, and evidently ready to explode with it, and in spite of his +vexation he could not help laughing at the sight of him; and when +Sancho saw his master begin he let go so heartily that he had to hold +his sides with both hands to keep himself from bursting with laughter. +Four times he stopped, and as many times did his laughter break out +afresh with the same violence as at first, whereat Don Quixote grew +furious, above all when he heard him say mockingly, “Thou must know, +friend Sancho, that of Heaven’s will I was born in this our iron age to +revive in it the golden or age of gold; I am he for whom are reserved +perils, mighty achievements, valiant deeds;” and here he went on +repeating the words that Don Quixote uttered the first time they heard +the awful strokes. + +Don Quixote, then, seeing that Sancho was turning him into ridicule, +was so mortified and vexed that he lifted up his pike and smote him two +such blows that if, instead of catching them on his shoulders, he had +caught them on his head there would have been no wages to pay, unless +indeed to his heirs. Sancho seeing that he was getting an awkward +return in earnest for his jest, and fearing his master might carry it +still further, said to him very humbly, “Calm yourself, sir, for by God +I am only joking.” + +“Well, then, if you are joking I am not,” replied Don Quixote. “Look +here, my lively gentleman, if these, instead of being fulling hammers, +had been some perilous adventure, have I not, think you, shown the +courage required for the attempt and achievement? Am I, perchance, +being, as I am, a gentleman, bound to know and distinguish sounds and +tell whether they come from fulling mills or not; and that, when +perhaps, as is the case, I have never in my life seen any as you have, +low boor as you are, that have been born and bred among them? But turn +me these six hammers into six giants, and bring them to beard me, one +by one or all together, and if I do not knock them head over heels, +then make what mockery you like of me.” + +“No more of that, señor,” returned Sancho; “I own I went a little too +far with the joke. But tell me, your worship, now that peace is made +between us (and may God bring you out of all the adventures that may +befall you as safe and sound as he has brought you out of this one), +was it not a thing to laugh at, and is it not a good story, the great +fear we were in?—at least that I was in; for as to your worship I see +now that you neither know nor understand what either fear or dismay +is.” + +“I do not deny,” said Don Quixote, “that what happened to us may be +worth laughing at, but it is not worth making a story about, for it is +not everyone that is shrewd enough to hit the right point of a thing.” + +“At any rate,” said Sancho, “your worship knew how to hit the right +point with your pike, aiming at my head and hitting me on the +shoulders, thanks be to God and my own smartness in dodging it. But let +that pass; all will come out in the scouring; for I have heard say ‘he +loves thee well that makes thee weep;’ and moreover that it is the way +with great lords after any hard words they give a servant to give him a +pair of breeches; though I do not know what they give after blows, +unless it be that knights-errant after blows give islands, or kingdoms +on the mainland.” + +“It may be on the dice,” said Don Quixote, “that all thou sayest will +come true; overlook the past, for thou art shrewd enough to know that +our first movements are not in our own control; and one thing for the +future bear in mind, that thou curb and restrain thy loquacity in my +company; for in all the books of chivalry that I have read, and they +are innumerable, I never met with a squire who talked so much to his +lord as thou dost to thine; and in fact I feel it to be a great fault +of thine and of mine: of thine, that thou hast so little respect for +me; of mine, that I do not make myself more respected. There was +Gandalin, the squire of Amadis of Gaul, that was Count of the Insula +Firme, and we read of him that he always addressed his lord with his +cap in his hand, his head bowed down and his body bent double, more +turquesco. And then, what shall we say of Gasabal, the squire of +Galaor, who was so silent that in order to indicate to us the greatness +of his marvellous taciturnity his name is only once mentioned in the +whole of that history, as long as it is truthful? From all I have said +thou wilt gather, Sancho, that there must be a difference between +master and man, between lord and lackey, between knight and squire: so +that from this day forward in our intercourse we must observe more +respect and take less liberties, for in whatever way I may be provoked +with you it will be bad for the pitcher. The favours and benefits that +I have promised you will come in due time, and if they do not your +wages at least will not be lost, as I have already told you.” + +“All that your worship says is very well,” said Sancho, “but I should +like to know (in case the time of favours should not come, and it might +be necessary to fall back upon wages) how much did the squire of a +knight-errant get in those days, and did they agree by the month, or by +the day like bricklayers?” + +“I do not believe,” replied Don Quixote, “that such squires were ever +on wages, but were dependent on favour; and if I have now mentioned +thine in the sealed will I have left at home, it was with a view to +what may happen; for as yet I know not how chivalry will turn out in +these wretched times of ours, and I do not wish my soul to suffer for +trifles in the other world; for I would have thee know, Sancho, that in +this there is no condition more hazardous than that of adventurers.” + +“That is true,” said Sancho, “since the mere noise of the hammers of a +fulling mill can disturb and disquiet the heart of such a valiant +errant adventurer as your worship; but you may be sure I will not open +my lips henceforward to make light of anything of your worship’s, but +only to honour you as my master and natural lord.” + +“By so doing,” replied Don Quixote, “shalt thou live long on the face +of the earth; for next to parents, masters are to be respected as +though they were parents.” + + + +c19e.jpg (33K) + + + +CHAPTER XXI. +WHICH TREATS OF THE EXALTED ADVENTURE AND RICH PRIZE OF MAMBRINO’S +HELMET, TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE +KNIGHT + + + + +c20a.jpg (73K) + +Full Size + + + + +It now began to rain a little, and Sancho was for going into the +fulling mills, but Don Quixote had taken such an abhorrence to them on +account of the late joke that he would not enter them on any account; +so turning aside to right they came upon another road, different from +that which they had taken the night before. Shortly afterwards Don +Quixote perceived a man on horseback who wore on his head something +that shone like gold, and the moment he saw him he turned to Sancho and +said: + +“I think, Sancho, there is no proverb that is not true, all being +maxims drawn from experience itself, the mother of all the sciences, +especially that one that says, ‘Where one door shuts, another opens.’ I +say so because if last night fortune shut the door of the adventure we +were looking for against us, cheating us with the fulling mills, it now +opens wide another one for another better and more certain adventure, +and if I do not contrive to enter it, it will be my own fault, and I +cannot lay it to my ignorance of fulling mills, or the darkness of the +night. I say this because, if I mistake not, there comes towards us one +who wears on his head the helmet of Mambrino, concerning which I took +the oath thou rememberest.” + +“Mind what you say, your worship, and still more what you do,” said +Sancho, “for I don’t want any more fulling mills to finish off fulling +and knocking our senses out.” + +“The devil take thee, man,” said Don Quixote; “what has a helmet to do +with fulling mills?” + +“I don’t know,” replied Sancho, “but, faith, if I might speak as I +used, perhaps I could give such reasons that your worship would see you +were mistaken in what you say.” + +“How can I be mistaken in what I say, unbelieving traitor?” returned +Don Quixote; “tell me, seest thou not yonder knight coming towards us +on a dappled grey steed, who has upon his head a helmet of gold?” + +“What I see and make out,” answered Sancho, “is only a man on a grey +ass like my own, who has something that shines on his head.” + +“Well, that is the helmet of Mambrino,” said Don Quixote; “stand to one +side and leave me alone with him; thou shalt see how, without saying a +word, to save time, I shall bring this adventure to an issue and +possess myself of the helmet I have so longed for.” + +“I will take care to stand aside,” said Sancho; “but God grant, I say +once more, that it may be marjoram and not fulling mills.” + +“I have told thee, brother, on no account to mention those fulling +mills to me again,” said Don Quixote, “or I vow—and I say no more—I’ll +full the soul out of you.” + +Sancho held his peace in dread lest his master should carry out the vow +he had hurled like a bowl at him. + +The fact of the matter as regards the helmet, steed, and knight that +Don Quixote saw, was this. In that neighbourhood there were two +villages, one of them so small that it had neither apothecary’s shop +nor barber, which the other that was close to it had, so the barber of +the larger served the smaller, and in it there was a sick man who +required to be bled and another man who wanted to be shaved, and on +this errand the barber was going, carrying with him a brass basin; but +as luck would have it, as he was on the way it began to rain, and not +to spoil his hat, which probably was a new one, he put the basin on his +head, and being clean it glittered at half a league’s distance. He rode +upon a grey ass, as Sancho said, and this was what made it seem to Don +Quixote to be a dapple-grey steed and a knight and a golden helmet; for +everything he saw he made to fall in with his crazy chivalry and +ill-errant notions; and when he saw the poor knight draw near, without +entering into any parley with him, at Rocinante’s top speed he bore +down upon him with the pike pointed low, fully determined to run him +through and through, and as he reached him, without checking the fury +of his charge, he cried to him: + +“Defend thyself, miserable being, or yield me of thine own accord that +which is so reasonably my due.” + +The barber, who without any expectation or apprehension of it saw this +apparition coming down upon him, had no other way of saving himself +from the stroke of the lance but to let himself fall off his ass; and +no sooner had he touched the ground than he sprang up more nimbly than +a deer and sped away across the plain faster than the wind. + +He left the basin on the ground, with which Don Quixote contented +himself, saying that the pagan had shown his discretion and imitated +the beaver, which finding itself pressed by the hunters bites and cuts +off with its teeth that for which, by its natural instinct, it knows it +is pursued. + +He told Sancho to pick up the helmet, and he taking it in his hands +said: + +“By God the basin is a good one, and worth a real of eight if it is +worth a maravedis,” and handed it to his master, who immediately put it +on his head, turning it round, now this way, now that, in search of +fitment, and not finding it he said, “Clearly the pagan to whose +measure this famous head-piece was first forged must have had a very +large head; but the worst of it is half of it is wanting.” + +When Sancho heard him call the basin a headpiece he was unable to +restrain his laughter, but remembering his master’s wrath he checked +himself in the midst of it. + +“What art thou laughing at, Sancho?” said Don Quixote. + +“I am laughing,” said he, “to think of the great head the pagan must +have had who owned this helmet, for it looks exactly like a regular +barber’s basin.” + +“Dost thou know what I suspect, Sancho?” said Don Quixote; “that this +wonderful piece of this enchanted helmet must by some strange accident +have come into the hands of someone who was unable to recognise or +realise its value, and who, not knowing what he did, and seeing it to +be of the purest gold, must have melted down one half for the sake of +what it might be worth, and of the other made this which is like a +barber’s basin as thou sayest; but be it as it may, to me who recognise +it, its transformation makes no difference, for I will set it to rights +at the first village where there is a blacksmith, and in such style +that that helmet the god of smithies forged for the god of battles +shall not surpass it or even come up to it; and in the meantime I will +wear it as well as I can, for something is better than nothing; all the +more as it will be quite enough to protect me from any chance blow of a +stone.” + +“That is,” said Sancho, “if it is not shot with a sling as they were in +the battle of the two armies, when they signed the cross on your +worship’s grinders and smashed the flask with that blessed draught that +made me vomit my bowels up.” + +“It does not grieve me much to have lost it,” said Don Quixote, “for +thou knowest, Sancho, that I have the receipt in my memory.” + +“So have I,” answered Sancho, “but if ever I make it, or try it again +as long as I live, may this be my last hour; moreover, I have no +intention of putting myself in the way of wanting it, for I mean, with +all my five senses, to keep myself from being wounded or from wounding +anyone: as to being blanketed again I say nothing, for it is hard to +prevent mishaps of that sort, and if they come there is nothing for it +but to squeeze our shoulders together, hold our breath, shut our eyes, +and let ourselves go where luck and the blanket may send us.” + +“Thou art a bad Christian, Sancho,” said Don Quixote on hearing this, +“for once an injury has been done thee thou never forgettest it: but +know that it is the part of noble and generous hearts not to attach +importance to trifles. What lame leg hast thou got by it, what broken +rib, what cracked head, that thou canst not forget that jest? For jest +and sport it was, properly regarded, and had I not seen it in that +light I would have returned and done more mischief in revenging thee +than the Greeks did for the rape of Helen, who, if she were alive now, +or if my Dulcinea had lived then, might depend upon it she would not be +so famous for her beauty as she is;” and here he heaved a sigh and sent +it aloft; and said Sancho, “Let it pass for a jest as it cannot be +revenged in earnest, but I know what sort of jest and earnest it was, +and I know it will never be rubbed out of my memory any more than off +my shoulders. But putting that aside, will your worship tell me what +are we to do with this dapple-grey steed that looks like a grey ass, +which that Martino that your worship overthrew has left deserted here? +for, from the way he took to his heels and bolted, he is not likely +ever to come back for it; and by my beard but the grey is a good one.” + +“I have never been in the habit,” said Don Quixote, “of taking spoil of +those whom I vanquish, nor is it the practice of chivalry to take away +their horses and leave them to go on foot, unless indeed it be that the +victor have lost his own in the combat, in which case it is lawful to +take that of the vanquished as a thing won in lawful war; therefore, +Sancho, leave this horse, or ass, or whatever thou wilt have it to be; +for when its owner sees us gone hence he will come back for it.” + +“God knows I should like to take it,” returned Sancho, “or at least to +change it for my own, which does not seem to me as good a one: verily +the laws of chivalry are strict, since they cannot be stretched to let +one ass be changed for another; I should like to know if I might at +least change trappings.” + +“On that head I am not quite certain,” answered Don Quixote, “and the +matter being doubtful, pending better information, I say thou mayest +change them, if so be thou hast urgent need of them.” + +“So urgent is it,” answered Sancho, “that if they were for my own +person I could not want them more;” and forthwith, fortified by this +licence, he effected the _mutatio capparum_, and rigged out his beast +to the ninety-nines and making quite another thing of it. This done, +they broke their fast on the remains of the spoils of war plundered +from the sumpter mule, and drank of the brook that flowed from the +fulling mills, without casting a look in that direction, in such +loathing did they hold them for the alarm they had caused them; and, +all anger and gloom removed, they mounted and, without taking any fixed +road (not to fix upon any being the proper thing for true +knights-errant), they set out, guided by Rocinante’s will, which +carried along with it that of his master, not to say that of the ass, +which always followed him wherever he led, lovingly and sociably; +nevertheless they returned to the high road, and pursued it at a +venture without any other aim. + +As they went along, then, in this way Sancho said to his master, +“Señor, would your worship give me leave to speak a little to you? For +since you laid that hard injunction of silence on me several things +have gone to rot in my stomach, and I have now just one on the tip of +my tongue that I don’t want to be spoiled.” + +“Say, on, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and be brief in thy discourse, +for there is no pleasure in one that is long.” + +“Well then, señor,” returned Sancho, “I say that for some days past I +have been considering how little is got or gained by going in search of +these adventures that your worship seeks in these wilds and +cross-roads, where, even if the most perilous are victoriously +achieved, there is no one to see or know of them, and so they must be +left untold for ever, to the loss of your worship’s object and the +credit they deserve; therefore it seems to me it would be better +(saving your worship’s better judgment) if we were to go and serve some +emperor or other great prince who may have some war on hand, in whose +service your worship may prove the worth of your person, your great +might, and greater understanding, on perceiving which the lord in whose +service we may be will perforce have to reward us, each according to +his merits; and there you will not be at a loss for someone to set down +your achievements in writing so as to preserve their memory for ever. +Of my own I say nothing, as they will not go beyond squirely limits, +though I make bold to say that, if it be the practice in chivalry to +write the achievements of squires, I think mine must not be left out.” + +“Thou speakest not amiss, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “but before +that point is reached it is requisite to roam the world, as it were on +probation, seeking adventures, in order that, by achieving some, name +and fame may be acquired, such that when he betakes himself to the +court of some great monarch the knight may be already known by his +deeds, and that the boys, the instant they see him enter the gate of +the city, may all follow him and surround him, crying, ‘This is the +Knight of the Sun’—or the Serpent, or any other title under which he +may have achieved great deeds. ‘This,’ they will say, ‘is he who +vanquished in single combat the gigantic Brocabruno of mighty strength; +he who delivered the great Mameluke of Persia out of the long +enchantment under which he had been for almost nine hundred years.’ So +from one to another they will go proclaiming his achievements; and +presently at the tumult of the boys and the others the king of that +kingdom will appear at the windows of his royal palace, and as soon as +he beholds the knight, recognising him by his arms and the device on +his shield, he will as a matter of course say, ‘What ho! Forth all ye, +the knights of my court, to receive the flower of chivalry who cometh +hither!’ At which command all will issue forth, and he himself, +advancing half-way down the stairs, will embrace him closely, and +salute him, kissing him on the cheek, and will then lead him to the +queen’s chamber, where the knight will find her with the princess her +daughter, who will be one of the most beautiful and accomplished +damsels that could with the utmost pains be discovered anywhere in the +known world. Straightway it will come to pass that she will fix her +eyes upon the knight and he his upon her, and each will seem to the +other something more divine than human, and, without knowing how or why +they will be taken and entangled in the inextricable toils of love, and +sorely distressed in their hearts not to see any way of making their +pains and sufferings known by speech. Thence they will lead him, no +doubt, to some richly adorned chamber of the palace, where, having +removed his armour, they will bring him a rich mantle of scarlet +wherewith to robe himself, and if he looked noble in his armour he will +look still more so in a doublet. When night comes he will sup with the +king, queen, and princess; and all the time he will never take his eyes +off her, stealing stealthy glances, unnoticed by those present, and she +will do the same, and with equal cautiousness, being, as I have said, a +damsel of great discretion. The tables being removed, suddenly through +the door of the hall there will enter a hideous and diminutive dwarf +followed by a fair dame, between two giants, who comes with a certain +adventure, the work of an ancient sage; and he who shall achieve it +shall be deemed the best knight in the world. + +“The king will then command all those present to essay it, and none +will bring it to an end and conclusion save the stranger knight, to the +great enhancement of his fame, whereat the princess will be overjoyed +and will esteem herself happy and fortunate in having fixed and placed +her thoughts so high. And the best of it is that this king, or prince, +or whatever he is, is engaged in a very bitter war with another as +powerful as himself, and the stranger knight, after having been some +days at his court, requests leave from him to go and serve him in the +said war. The king will grant it very readily, and the knight will +courteously kiss his hands for the favour done to him; and that night +he will take leave of his lady the princess at the grating of the +chamber where she sleeps, which looks upon a garden, and at which he +has already many times conversed with her, the go-between and +confidante in the matter being a damsel much trusted by the princess. +He will sigh, she will swoon, the damsel will fetch water, much +distressed because morning approaches, and for the honour of her lady +he would not that they were discovered; at last the princess will come +to herself and will present her white hands through the grating to the +knight, who will kiss them a thousand and a thousand times, bathing +them with his tears. It will be arranged between them how they are to +inform each other of their good or evil fortunes, and the princess will +entreat him to make his absence as short as possible, which he will +promise to do with many oaths; once more he kisses her hands, and takes +his leave in such grief that he is well-nigh ready to die. He betakes +him thence to his chamber, flings himself on his bed, cannot sleep for +sorrow at parting, rises early in the morning, goes to take leave of +the king, queen, and princess, and, as he takes his leave of the pair, +it is told him that the princess is indisposed and cannot receive a +visit; the knight thinks it is from grief at his departure, his heart +is pierced, and he is hardly able to keep from showing his pain. The +confidante is present, observes all, goes to tell her mistress, who +listens with tears and says that one of her greatest distresses is not +knowing who this knight is, and whether he is of kingly lineage or not; +the damsel assures her that so much courtesy, gentleness, and gallantry +of bearing as her knight possesses could not exist in any save one who +was royal and illustrious; her anxiety is thus relieved, and she +strives to be of good cheer lest she should excite suspicion in her +parents, and at the end of two days she appears in public. Meanwhile +the knight has taken his departure; he fights in the war, conquers the +king’s enemy, wins many cities, triumphs in many battles, returns to +the court, sees his lady where he was wont to see her, and it is agreed +that he shall demand her in marriage of her parents as the reward of +his services; the king is unwilling to give her, as he knows not who he +is, but nevertheless, whether carried off or in whatever other way it +may be, the princess comes to be his bride, and her father comes to +regard it as very good fortune; for it so happens that this knight is +proved to be the son of a valiant king of some kingdom, I know not +what, for I fancy it is not likely to be on the map. The father dies, +the princess inherits, and in two words the knight becomes king. And +here comes in at once the bestowal of rewards upon his squire and all +who have aided him in rising to so exalted a rank. He marries his +squire to a damsel of the princess’s, who will be, no doubt, the one +who was confidante in their amour, and is daughter of a very great +duke.” + +“That’s what I want, and no mistake about it!” said Sancho. “That’s +what I’m waiting for; for all this, word for word, is in store for your +worship under the title of the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.” + +“Thou needst not doubt it, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “for in the +same manner, and by the same steps as I have described here, +knights-errant rise and have risen to be kings and emperors; all we +want now is to find out what king, Christian or pagan, is at war and +has a beautiful daughter; but there will be time enough to think of +that, for, as I have told thee, fame must be won in other quarters +before repairing to the court. There is another thing, too, that is +wanting; for supposing we find a king who is at war and has a beautiful +daughter, and that I have won incredible fame throughout the universe, +I know not how it can be made out that I am of royal lineage, or even +second cousin to an emperor; for the king will not be willing to give +me his daughter in marriage unless he is first thoroughly satisfied on +this point, however much my famous deeds may deserve it; so that by +this deficiency I fear I shall lose what my arm has fairly earned. True +it is I am a gentleman of known house, of estate and property, and +entitled to the five hundred sueldos mulet; and it may be that the sage +who shall write my history will so clear up my ancestry and pedigree +that I may find myself fifth or sixth in descent from a king; for I +would have thee know, Sancho, that there are two kinds of lineages in +the world; some there be tracing and deriving their descent from kings +and princes, whom time has reduced little by little until they end in a +point like a pyramid upside down; and others who spring from the common +herd and go on rising step by step until they come to be great lords; +so that the difference is that the one were what they no longer are, +and the others are what they formerly were not. And I may be of such +that after investigation my origin may prove great and famous, with +which the king, my father-in-law that is to be, ought to be satisfied; +and should he not be, the princess will so love me that even though she +well knew me to be the son of a water-carrier, she will take me for her +lord and husband in spite of her father; if not, then it comes to +seizing her and carrying her off where I please; for time or death will +put an end to the wrath of her parents.” + +“It comes to this, too,” said Sancho, “what some naughty people say, +‘Never ask as a favour what thou canst take by force;’ though it would +fit better to say, ‘A clear escape is better than good men’s prayers.’ +I say so because if my lord the king, your worship’s father-in-law, +will not condescend to give you my lady the princess, there is nothing +for it but, as your worship says, to seize her and transport her. But +the mischief is that until peace is made and you come into the peaceful +enjoyment of your kingdom, the poor squire is famishing as far as +rewards go, unless it be that the confidante damsel that is to be his +wife comes with the princess, and that with her he tides over his bad +luck until Heaven otherwise orders things; for his master, I suppose, +may as well give her to him at once for a lawful wife.” + +“Nobody can object to that,” said Don Quixote. + +“Then since that may be,” said Sancho, “there is nothing for it but to +commend ourselves to God, and let fortune take what course it will.” + +“God guide it according to my wishes and thy wants,” said Don Quixote, +“and mean be he who thinks himself mean.” + +“In God’s name let him be so,” said Sancho: “I am an old Christian, and +to fit me for a count that’s enough.” + +“And more than enough for thee,” said Don Quixote; “and even wert thou +not, it would make no difference, because I being the king can easily +give thee nobility without purchase or service rendered by thee, for +when I make thee a count, then thou art at once a gentleman; and they +may say what they will, but by my faith they will have to call thee +‘your lordship,’ whether they like it or not.” + +“Not a doubt of it; and I’ll know how to support the tittle,” said +Sancho. + +“Title thou shouldst say, not tittle,” said his master. + +“So be it,” answered Sancho. “I say I will know how to behave, for once +in my life I was beadle of a brotherhood, and the beadle’s gown sat so +well on me that all said I looked as if I was to be steward of the same +brotherhood. What will it be, then, when I put a duke’s robe on my +back, or dress myself in gold and pearls like a count? I believe +they’ll come a hundred leagues to see me.” + +“Thou wilt look well,” said Don Quixote, “but thou must shave thy beard +often, for thou hast it so thick and rough and unkempt, that if thou +dost not shave it every second day at least, they will see what thou +art at the distance of a musket shot.” + +“What more will it be,” said Sancho, “than having a barber, and keeping +him at wages in the house? and even if it be necessary, I will make him +go behind me like a nobleman’s equerry.” + +“Why, how dost thou know that noblemen have equerries behind them?” +asked Don Quixote. + +“I will tell you,” answered Sancho. “Years ago I was for a month at the +capital and there I saw taking the air a very small gentleman who they +said was a very great man, and a man following him on horseback in +every turn he took, just as if he was his tail. I asked why this man +did not join the other man, instead of always going behind him; they +answered me that he was his equerry, and that it was the custom with +nobles to have such persons behind them, and ever since then I know it, +for I have never forgotten it.” + +“Thou art right,” said Don Quixote, “and in the same way thou mayest +carry thy barber with thee, for customs did not come into use all +together, nor were they all invented at once, and thou mayest be the +first count to have a barber to follow him; and, indeed, shaving one’s +beard is a greater trust than saddling one’s horse.” + +“Let the barber business be my look-out,” said Sancho; “and your +worship’s be it to strive to become a king, and make me a count.” + +“So it shall be,” answered Don Quixote, and raising his eyes he saw +what will be told in the following chapter. + + + +c20e.jpg (18K) + + + +CHAPTER XXII. +OF THE FREEDOM DON QUIXOTE CONFERRED ON SEVERAL UNFORTUNATES WHO +AGAINST THEIR WILL WERE BEING CARRIED WHERE THEY HAD NO WISH TO GO + + + + +c22a.jpg (178K) + +Full Size + + + + +Cid Hamete Benengeli, the Arab and Manchegan author, relates in this +most grave, high-sounding, minute, delightful, and original history +that after the discussion between the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha +and his squire Sancho Panza which is set down at the end of chapter +twenty-one, Don Quixote raised his eyes and saw coming along the road +he was following some dozen men on foot strung together by the neck, +like beads, on a great iron chain, and all with manacles on their +hands. With them there came also two men on horseback and two on foot; +those on horseback with wheel-lock muskets, those on foot with javelins +and swords, and as soon as Sancho saw them he said: + +“That is a chain of galley slaves, on the way to the galleys by force +of the king’s orders.” + +“How by force?” asked Don Quixote; “is it possible that the king uses +force against anyone?” + +“I do not say that,” answered Sancho, “but that these are people +condemned for their crimes to serve by force in the king’s galleys.” + +“In fact,” replied Don Quixote, “however it may be, these people are +going where they are taking them by force, and not of their own will.” + +“Just so,” said Sancho. + +“Then if so,” said Don Quixote, “here is a case for the exercise of my +office, to put down force and to succour and help the wretched.” + +“Recollect, your worship,” said Sancho, “Justice, which is the king +himself, is not using force or doing wrong to such persons, but +punishing them for their crimes.” + +The chain of galley slaves had by this time come up, and Don Quixote in +very courteous language asked those who were in custody of it to be +good enough to tell him the reason or reasons for which they were +conducting these people in this manner. One of the guards on horseback +answered that they were galley slaves belonging to his majesty, that +they were going to the galleys, and that was all that was to be said +and all he had any business to know. + + + +c22b.jpg (298K) + +Full Size + + + + +“Nevertheless,” replied Don Quixote, “I should like to know from each +of them separately the reason of his misfortune;” to this he added more +to the same effect to induce them to tell him what he wanted so civilly +that the other mounted guard said to him: + +“Though we have here the register and certificate of the sentence of +every one of these wretches, this is no time to take them out or read +them; come and ask themselves; they can tell if they choose, and they +will, for these fellows take a pleasure in doing and talking about +rascalities.” + +With this permission, which Don Quixote would have taken even had they +not granted it, he approached the chain and asked the first for what +offences he was now in such a sorry case. + +He made answer that it was for being a lover. + +“For that only?” replied Don Quixote; “why, if for being lovers they +send people to the galleys I might have been rowing in them long ago.” + +“The love is not the sort your worship is thinking of,” said the galley +slave; “mine was that I loved a washerwoman’s basket of clean linen so +well, and held it so close in my embrace, that if the arm of the law +had not forced it from me, I should never have let it go of my own will +to this moment; I was caught in the act, there was no occasion for +torture, the case was settled, they treated me to a hundred lashes on +the back, and three years of gurapas besides, and that was the end of +it.” + +“What are gurapas?” asked Don Quixote. + +“Gurapas are galleys,” answered the galley slave, who was a young man +of about four-and-twenty, and said he was a native of Piedrahita. + +Don Quixote asked the same question of the second, who made no reply, +so downcast and melancholy was he; but the first answered for him, and +said, “He, sir, goes as a canary, I mean as a musician and a singer.” + +“What!” said Don Quixote, “for being musicians and singers are people +sent to the galleys too?” + +“Yes, sir,” answered the galley slave, “for there is nothing worse than +singing under suffering.” + +“On the contrary, I have heard say,” said Don Quixote, “that he who +sings scares away his woes.” + +“Here it is the reverse,” said the galley slave; “for he who sings once +weeps all his life.” + +“I do not understand it,” said Don Quixote; but one of the guards said +to him, “Sir, to sing under suffering means with the _non sancta_ +fraternity to confess under torture; they put this sinner to the +torture and he confessed his crime, which was being a cuatrero, that is +a cattle-stealer, and on his confession they sentenced him to six years +in the galleys, besides two hundred lashes that he has already had on +the back; and he is always dejected and downcast because the other +thieves that were left behind and that march here ill-treat, and snub, +and jeer, and despise him for confessing and not having spirit enough +to say nay; for, say they, ‘nay’ has no more letters in it than ‘yea,’ +and a culprit is well off when life or death with him depends on his +own tongue and not on that of witnesses or evidence; and to my thinking +they are not very far out.” + +“And I think so too,” answered Don Quixote; then passing on to the +third he asked him what he had asked the others, and the man answered +very readily and unconcernedly, “I am going for five years to their +ladyships the gurapas for the want of ten ducats.” + +“I will give twenty with pleasure to get you out of that trouble,” said +Don Quixote. + +“That,” said the galley slave, “is like a man having money at sea when +he is dying of hunger and has no way of buying what he wants; I say so +because if at the right time I had had those twenty ducats that your +worship now offers me, I would have greased the notary’s pen and +freshened up the attorney’s wit with them, so that to-day I should be +in the middle of the plaza of the Zocodover at Toledo, and not on this +road coupled like a greyhound. But God is great; patience—there, that’s +enough of it.” + +Don Quixote passed on to the fourth, a man of venerable aspect with a +white beard falling below his breast, who on hearing himself asked the +reason of his being there began to weep without answering a word, but +the fifth acted as his tongue and said, “This worthy man is going to +the galleys for four years, after having gone the rounds in ceremony +and on horseback.” + +“That means,” said Sancho Panza, “as I take it, to have been exposed to +shame in public.” + +“Just so,” replied the galley slave, “and the offence for which they +gave him that punishment was having been an ear-broker, nay +body-broker; I mean, in short, that this gentleman goes as a pimp, and +for having besides a certain touch of the sorcerer about him.” + +“If that touch had not been thrown in,” said Don Quixote, “he would not +deserve, for mere pimping, to row in the galleys, but rather to command +and be admiral of them; for the office of pimp is no ordinary one, +being the office of persons of discretion, one very necessary in a +well-ordered state, and only to be exercised by persons of good birth; +nay, there ought to be an inspector and overseer of them, as in other +offices, and recognised number, as with the brokers on change; in this +way many of the evils would be avoided which are caused by this office +and calling being in the hands of stupid and ignorant people, such as +women more or less silly, and pages and jesters of little standing and +experience, who on the most urgent occasions, and when ingenuity of +contrivance is needed, let the crumbs freeze on the way to their +mouths, and know not which is their right hand. I should like to go +farther, and give reasons to show that it is advisable to choose those +who are to hold so necessary an office in the state, but this is not +the fit place for it; some day I will expound the matter to someone +able to see to and rectify it; all I say now is, that the additional +fact of his being a sorcerer has removed the sorrow it gave me to see +these white hairs and this venerable countenance in so painful a +position on account of his being a pimp; though I know well there are +no sorceries in the world that can move or compel the will as some +simple folk fancy, for our will is free, nor is there herb or charm +that can force it. All that certain silly women and quacks do is to +turn men mad with potions and poisons, pretending that they have power +to cause love, for, as I say, it is an impossibility to compel the +will.” + +“It is true,” said the good old man, “and indeed, sir, as far as the +charge of sorcery goes I was not guilty; as to that of being a pimp I +cannot deny it; but I never thought I was doing any harm by it, for my +only object was that all the world should enjoy itself and live in +peace and quiet, without quarrels or troubles; but my good intentions +were unavailing to save me from going where I never expect to come back +from, with this weight of years upon me and a urinary ailment that +never gives me a moment’s ease;” and again he fell to weeping as +before, and such compassion did Sancho feel for him that he took out a +real of four from his bosom and gave it to him in alms. + +Don Quixote went on and asked another what his crime was, and the man +answered with no less but rather much more sprightliness than the last +one. + +“I am here because I carried the joke too far with a couple of cousins +of mine, and with a couple of other cousins who were none of mine; in +short, I carried the joke so far with them all that it ended in such a +complicated increase of kindred that no accountant could make it clear: +it was all proved against me, I got no favour, I had no money, I was +near having my neck stretched, they sentenced me to the galleys for six +years, I accepted my fate, it is the punishment of my fault; I am a +young man; let life only last, and with that all will come right. If +you, sir, have anything wherewith to help the poor, God will repay it +to you in heaven, and we on earth will take care in our petitions to +him to pray for the life and health of your worship, that they may be +as long and as good as your amiable appearance deserves.” + +This one was in the dress of a student, and one of the guards said he +was a great talker and a very elegant Latin scholar. + +Behind all these there came a man of thirty, a very personable fellow, +except that when he looked, his eyes turned in a little one towards the +other. He was bound differently from the rest, for he had to his leg a +chain so long that it was wound all round his body, and two rings on +his neck, one attached to the chain, the other to what they call a +“keep-friend” or “friend’s foot,” from which hung two irons reaching to +his waist with two manacles fixed to them in which his hands were +secured by a big padlock, so that he could neither raise his hands to +his mouth nor lower his head to his hands. Don Quixote asked why this +man carried so many more chains than the others. The guard replied that +it was because he alone had committed more crimes than all the rest put +together, and was so daring and such a villain, that though they +marched him in that fashion they did not feel sure of him, but were in +dread of his making his escape. + +“What crimes can he have committed,” said Don Quixote, “if they have +not deserved a heavier punishment than being sent to the galleys?” + +“He goes for ten years,” replied the guard, “which is the same thing as +civil death, and all that need be said is that this good fellow is the +famous Gines de Pasamonte, otherwise called Ginesillo de Parapilla.” + +“Gently, señor commissary,” said the galley slave at this, “let us have +no fixing of names or surnames; my name is Gines, not Ginesillo, and my +family name is Pasamonte, not Parapilla as you say; let each one mind +his own business, and he will be doing enough.” + +“Speak with less impertinence, master thief of extra measure,” replied +the commissary, “if you don’t want me to make you hold your tongue in +spite of your teeth.” + +“It is easy to see,” returned the galley slave, “that man goes as God +pleases, but someone shall know some day whether I am called Ginesillo +de Parapilla or not.” + +“Don’t they call you so, you liar?” said the guard. + +“They do,” returned Gines, “but I will make them give over calling me +so, or I will be shaved, where, I only say behind my teeth. If you, +sir, have anything to give us, give it to us at once, and God speed +you, for you are becoming tiresome with all this inquisitiveness about +the lives of others; if you want to know about mine, let me tell you I +am Gines de Pasamonte, whose life is written by these fingers.” + +“He says true,” said the commissary, “for he has himself written his +story as grand as you please, and has left the book in the prison in +pawn for two hundred reals.” + +“And I mean to take it out of pawn,” said Gines, “though it were in for +two hundred ducats.” + +“Is it so good?” said Don Quixote. + +“So good is it,” replied Gines, “that a fig for ‘Lazarillo de Tormes,’ +and all of that kind that have been written, or shall be written +compared with it: all I will say about it is that it deals with facts, +and facts so neat and diverting that no lies could match them.” + +“And how is the book entitled?” asked Don Quixote. + +“The ‘Life of Gines de Pasamonte,’” replied the subject of it. + +“And is it finished?” asked Don Quixote. + +“How can it be finished,” said the other, “when my life is not yet +finished? All that is written is from my birth down to the point when +they sent me to the galleys this last time.” + +“Then you have been there before?” said Don Quixote. + +“In the service of God and the king I have been there for four years +before now, and I know by this time what the biscuit and courbash are +like,” replied Gines; “and it is no great grievance to me to go back to +them, for there I shall have time to finish my book; I have still many +things left to say, and in the galleys of Spain there is more than +enough leisure; though I do not want much for what I have to write, for +I have it by heart.” + +“You seem a clever fellow,” said Don Quixote. + +“And an unfortunate one,” replied Gines, “for misfortune always +persecutes good wit.” + +“It persecutes rogues,” said the commissary. + +“I told you already to go gently, master commissary,” said Pasamonte; +“their lordships yonder never gave you that staff to ill-treat us +wretches here, but to conduct and take us where his majesty orders you; +if not, by the life of—never mind—; it may be that some day the stains +made in the inn will come out in the scouring; let everyone hold his +tongue and behave well and speak better; and now let us march on, for +we have had quite enough of this entertainment.” + +The commissary lifted his staff to strike Pasamonte in return for his +threats, but Don Quixote came between them, and begged him not to +ill-use him, as it was not too much to allow one who had his hands tied +to have his tongue a trifle free; and turning to the whole chain of +them he said: + +“From all you have told me, dear brethren, I make out clearly that +though they have punished you for your faults, the punishments you are +about to endure do not give you much pleasure, and that you go to them +very much against the grain and against your will, and that perhaps +this one’s want of courage under torture, that one’s want of money, the +other’s want of advocacy, and lastly the perverted judgment of the +judge may have been the cause of your ruin and of your failure to +obtain the justice you had on your side. All which presents itself now +to my mind, urging, persuading, and even compelling me to demonstrate +in your case the purpose for which Heaven sent me into the world and +caused me to make profession of the order of chivalry to which I +belong, and the vow I took therein to give aid to those in need and +under the oppression of the strong. But as I know that it is a mark of +prudence not to do by foul means what may be done by fair, I will ask +these gentlemen, the guards and commissary, to be so good as to release +you and let you go in peace, as there will be no lack of others to +serve the king under more favourable circumstances; for it seems to me +a hard case to make slaves of those whom God and nature have made free. +Moreover, sirs of the guard,” added Don Quixote, “these poor fellows +have done nothing to you; let each answer for his own sins yonder; +there is a God in Heaven who will not forget to punish the wicked or +reward the good; and it is not fitting that honest men should be the +instruments of punishment to others, they being therein no way +concerned. This request I make thus gently and quietly, that, if you +comply with it, I may have reason for thanking you; and, if you will +not voluntarily, this lance and sword together with the might of my arm +shall compel you to comply with it by force.” + +“Nice nonsense!” said the commissary; “a fine piece of pleasantry he +has come out with at last! He wants us to let the king’s prisoners go, +as if we had any authority to release them, or he to order us to do so! +Go your way, sir, and good luck to you; put that basin straight that +you’ve got on your head, and don’t go looking for three feet on a cat.” + +“’Tis you that are the cat, rat, and rascal,” replied Don Quixote, and +acting on the word he fell upon him so suddenly that without giving him +time to defend himself he brought him to the ground sorely wounded with +a lance-thrust; and lucky it was for him that it was the one that had +the musket. The other guards stood thunderstruck and amazed at this +unexpected event, but recovering presence of mind, those on horseback +seized their swords, and those on foot their javelins, and attacked Don +Quixote, who was waiting for them with great calmness; and no doubt it +would have gone badly with him if the galley slaves, seeing the chance +before them of liberating themselves, had not effected it by contriving +to break the chain on which they were strung. Such was the confusion, +that the guards, now rushing at the galley slaves who were breaking +loose, now to attack Don Quixote who was waiting for them, did nothing +at all that was of any use. Sancho, on his part, gave a helping hand to +release Gines de Pasamonte, who was the first to leap forth upon the +plain free and unfettered, and who, attacking the prostrate commissary, +took from him his sword and the musket, with which, aiming at one and +levelling at another, he, without ever discharging it, drove every one +of the guards off the field, for they took to flight, as well to escape +Pasamonte’s musket, as the showers of stones the now released galley +slaves were raining upon them. Sancho was greatly grieved at the +affair, because he anticipated that those who had fled would report the +matter to the Holy Brotherhood, who at the summons of the alarm-bell +would at once sally forth in quest of the offenders; and he said so to +his master, and entreated him to leave the place at once, and go into +hiding in the sierra that was close by. + +“That is all very well,” said Don Quixote, “but I know what must be +done now;” and calling together all the galley slaves, who were now +running riot, and had stripped the commissary to the skin, he collected +them round him to hear what he had to say, and addressed them as +follows: “To be grateful for benefits received is the part of persons +of good birth, and one of the sins most offensive to God is +ingratitude; I say so because, sirs, ye have already seen by manifest +proof the benefit ye have received of me; in return for which I desire, +and it is my good pleasure that, laden with that chain which I have +taken off your necks, ye at once set out and proceed to the city of El +Toboso, and there present yourselves before the lady Dulcinea del +Toboso, and say to her that her knight, he of the Rueful Countenance, +sends to commend himself to her; and that ye recount to her in full +detail all the particulars of this notable adventure, up to the +recovery of your longed-for liberty; and this done ye may go where ye +will, and good fortune attend you.” + +Gines de Pasamonte made answer for all, saying, “That which you, sir, +our deliverer, demand of us, is of all impossibilities the most +impossible to comply with, because we cannot go together along the +roads, but only singly and separate, and each one his own way, +endeavouring to hide ourselves in the bowels of the earth to escape the +Holy Brotherhood, which, no doubt, will come out in search of us. What +your worship may do, and fairly do, is to change this service and +tribute as regards the lady Dulcinea del Toboso for a certain quantity +of ave-marias and credos which we will say for your worship’s +intention, and this is a condition that can be complied with by night +as by day, running or resting, in peace or in war; but to imagine that +we are going now to return to the flesh-pots of Egypt, I mean to take +up our chain and set out for El Toboso, is to imagine that it is now +night, though it is not yet ten in the morning, and to ask this of us +is like asking pears of the elm tree.” + +“Then by all that’s good,” said Don Quixote (now stirred to wrath), +“Don son of a bitch, Don Ginesillo de Paropillo, or whatever your name +is, you will have to go yourself alone, with your tail between your +legs and the whole chain on your back.” + +Pasamonte, who was anything but meek (being by this time thoroughly +convinced that Don Quixote was not quite right in his head as he had +committed such a vagary as to set them free), finding himself abused in +this fashion, gave the wink to his companions, and falling back they +began to shower stones on Don Quixote at such a rate that he was quite +unable to protect himself with his buckler, and poor Rocinante no more +heeded the spur than if he had been made of brass. Sancho planted +himself behind his ass, and with him sheltered himself from the +hailstorm that poured on both of them. Don Quixote was unable to shield +himself so well but that more pebbles than I could count struck him +full on the body with such force that they brought him to the ground; +and the instant he fell the student pounced upon him, snatched the +basin from his head, and with it struck three or four blows on his +shoulders, and as many more on the ground, knocking it almost to +pieces. They then stripped him of a jacket that he wore over his +armour, and they would have stripped off his stockings if his greaves +had not prevented them. From Sancho they took his coat, leaving him in +his shirt-sleeves; and dividing among themselves the remaining spoils +of the battle, they went each one his own way, more solicitous about +keeping clear of the Holy Brotherhood they dreaded, than about +burdening themselves with the chain, or going to present themselves +before the lady Dulcinea del Toboso. The ass and Rocinante, Sancho and +Don Quixote, were all that were left upon the spot; the ass with +drooping head, serious, shaking his ears from time to time as if he +thought the storm of stones that assailed them was not yet over; +Rocinante stretched beside his master, for he too had been brought to +the ground by a stone; Sancho stripped, and trembling with fear of the +Holy Brotherhood; and Don Quixote fuming to find himself so served by +the very persons for whom he had done so much. + + + +c22e.jpg (44K) + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. +OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE SIERRA MORENA, WHICH WAS ONE OF THE +RAREST ADVENTURES RELATED IN THIS VERACIOUS HISTORY + + + + +c23a.jpg (148K) + +Full Size + + + + +Seeing himself served in this way, Don Quixote said to his squire, “I +have always heard it said, Sancho, that to do good to boors is to throw +water into the sea. If I had believed thy words, I should have avoided +this trouble; but it is done now, it is only to have patience and take +warning for the future.” + + + +c23b.jpg (318K) + +Full Size + + + + +“Your worship will take warning as much as I am a Turk,” returned +Sancho; “but, as you say this mischief might have been avoided if you +had believed me, believe me now, and a still greater one will be +avoided; for I tell you chivalry is of no account with the Holy +Brotherhood, and they don’t care two maravedis for all the +knights-errant in the world; and I can tell you I fancy I hear their +arrows whistling past my ears this minute.” + +“Thou art a coward by nature, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “but lest thou +shouldst say I am obstinate, and that I never do as thou dost advise, +this once I will take thy advice, and withdraw out of reach of that +fury thou so dreadest; but it must be on one condition, that never, in +life or in death, thou art to say to anyone that I retired or withdrew +from this danger out of fear, but only in compliance with thy +entreaties; for if thou sayest otherwise thou wilt lie therein, and +from this time to that, and from that to this, I give thee lie, and say +thou liest and wilt lie every time thou thinkest or sayest it; and +answer me not again; for at the mere thought that I am withdrawing or +retiring from any danger, above all from this, which does seem to carry +some little shadow of fear with it, I am ready to take my stand here +and await alone, not only that Holy Brotherhood you talk of and dread, +but the brothers of the twelve tribes of Israel, and the Seven +Maccabees, and Castor and Pollux, and all the brothers and brotherhoods +in the world.” + +“Señor,” replied Sancho, “to retire is not to flee, and there is no +wisdom in waiting when danger outweighs hope, and it is the part of +wise men to preserve themselves to-day for to-morrow, and not risk all +in one day; and let me tell you, though I am a clown and a boor, I have +got some notion of what they call safe conduct; so repent not of having +taken my advice, but mount Rocinante if you can, and if not I will help +you; and follow me, for my mother-wit tells me we have more need of +legs than hands just now.” + +Don Quixote mounted without replying, and, Sancho leading the way on +his ass, they entered the side of the Sierra Morena, which was close +by, as it was Sancho’s design to cross it entirely and come out again +at El Viso or Almodóvar del Campo, and hide for some days among its +crags so as to escape the search of the Brotherhood should they come to +look for them. He was encouraged in this by perceiving that the stock +of provisions carried by the ass had come safe out of the fray with the +galley slaves, a circumstance that he regarded as a miracle, seeing how +they pillaged and ransacked. + + + +c23c.jpg (297K) + +Full Size + + + + +That night they reached the very heart of the Sierra Morena, where it +seemed prudent to Sancho to pass the night and even some days, at least +as many as the stores he carried might last, and so they encamped +between two rocks and among some cork trees; but fatal destiny, which, +according to the opinion of those who have not the light of the true +faith, directs, arranges, and settles everything in its own way, so +ordered it that Gines de Pasamonte, the famous knave and thief who by +the virtue and madness of Don Quixote had been released from the chain, +driven by fear of the Holy Brotherhood, which he had good reason to +dread, resolved to take hiding in the mountains; and his fate and fear +led him to the same spot to which Don Quixote and Sancho Panza had been +led by theirs, just in time to recognise them and leave them to fall +asleep: and as the wicked are always ungrateful, and necessity leads to +evildoing, and immediate advantage overcomes all considerations of the +future, Gines, who was neither grateful nor well-principled, made up +his mind to steal Sancho Panza’s ass, not troubling himself about +Rocinante, as being a prize that was no good either to pledge or sell. +While Sancho slept he stole his ass, and before day dawned he was far +out of reach. + + + +c23d.jpg (256K) + +Full Size + + + + +Aurora made her appearance bringing gladness to the earth but sadness +to Sancho Panza, for he found that his Dapple was missing, and seeing +himself bereft of him he began the saddest and most doleful lament in +the world, so loud that Don Quixote awoke at his exclamations and heard +him saying, “O son of my bowels, born in my very house, my children’s +plaything, my wife’s joy, the envy of my neighbours, relief of my +burdens, and lastly, half supporter of myself, for with the +six-and-twenty maravedis thou didst earn me daily I met half my +charges.” + +Don Quixote, when he heard the lament and learned the cause, consoled +Sancho with the best arguments he could, entreating him to be patient, +and promising to give him a letter of exchange ordering three out of +five ass-colts that he had at home to be given to him. Sancho took +comfort at this, dried his tears, suppressed his sobs, and returned +thanks for the kindness shown him by Don Quixote. He on his part was +rejoiced to the heart on entering the mountains, as they seemed to him +to be just the place for the adventures he was in quest of. They +brought back to his memory the marvellous adventures that had befallen +knights-errant in like solitudes and wilds, and he went along +reflecting on these things, so absorbed and carried away by them that +he had no thought for anything else. + + + +c23e.jpg (280K) + +Full Size + + + + +Nor had Sancho any other care (now that he fancied he was travelling in +a safe quarter) than to satisfy his appetite with such remains as were +left of the clerical spoils, and so he marched behind his master laden +with what Dapple used to carry, emptying the sack and packing his +paunch, and so long as he could go that way, he would not have given a +farthing to meet with another adventure. + +While so engaged he raised his eyes and saw that his master had halted, +and was trying with the point of his pike to lift some bulky object +that lay upon the ground, on which he hastened to join him and help him +if it were needful, and reached him just as with the point of the pike +he was raising a saddle-pad with a valise attached to it, half or +rather wholly rotten and torn; but so heavy were they that Sancho had +to help to take them up, and his master directed him to see what the +valise contained. Sancho did so with great alacrity, and though the +valise was secured by a chain and padlock, from its torn and rotten +condition he was able to see its contents, which were four shirts of +fine holland, and other articles of linen no less curious than clean; +and in a handkerchief he found a good lot of gold crowns, and as soon +as he saw them he exclaimed: + +“Blessed be all Heaven for sending us an adventure that is good for +something!” + +Searching further he found a little memorandum book richly bound; this +Don Quixote asked of him, telling him to take the money and keep it for +himself. Sancho kissed his hands for the favour, and cleared the valise +of its linen, which he stowed away in the provision sack. Considering +the whole matter, Don Quixote observed: + +“It seems to me, Sancho—and it is impossible it can be otherwise—that +some strayed traveller must have crossed this sierra and been attacked +and slain by footpads, who brought him to this remote spot to bury +him.” + +“That cannot be,” answered Sancho, “because if they had been robbers +they would not have left this money.” + +“Thou art right,” said Don Quixote, “and I cannot guess or explain what +this may mean; but stay; let us see if in this memorandum book there is +anything written by which we may be able to trace out or discover what +we want to know.” + +He opened it, and the first thing he found in it, written roughly but +in a very good hand, was a sonnet, and reading it aloud that Sancho +might hear it, he found that it ran as follows: + +SONNET + +Or Love is lacking in intelligence, +Or to the height of cruelty attains, +Or else it is my doom to suffer pains +Beyond the measure due to my offence. +But if Love be a God, it follows thence +That he knows all, and certain it remains +No God loves cruelty; then who ordains +This penance that enthrals while it torments? +It were a falsehood, Chloe, thee to name; +Such evil with such goodness cannot live; +And against Heaven I dare not charge the blame, +I only know it is my fate to die. +To him who knows not whence his malady +A miracle alone a cure can give. + + + + +c23f.jpg (344K) + +Full Size + + + + +“There is nothing to be learned from that rhyme,” said Sancho, “unless +by that clue there’s in it, one may draw out the ball of the whole +matter.” + +“What clue is there?” said Don Quixote. + +“I thought your worship spoke of a clue in it,” said Sancho. + +“I only said Chloe,” replied Don Quixote; “and that no doubt, is the +name of the lady of whom the author of the sonnet complains; and, +faith, he must be a tolerable poet, or I know little of the craft.” + +“Then your worship understands rhyming too?” + +“And better than thou thinkest,” replied Don Quixote, “as thou shalt +see when thou carriest a letter written in verse from beginning to end +to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, for I would have thee know, Sancho, +that all or most of the knights-errant in days of yore were great +troubadours and great musicians, for both of these accomplishments, or +more properly speaking gifts, are the peculiar property of +lovers-errant: true it is that the verses of the knights of old have +more spirit than neatness in them.” + +“Read more, your worship,” said Sancho, “and you will find something +that will enlighten us.” + +Don Quixote turned the page and said, “This is prose and seems to be a +letter.” + +“A correspondence letter, señor?” + +“From the beginning it seems to be a love letter,” replied Don Quixote. + +“Then let your worship read it aloud,” said Sancho, “for I am very fond +of love matters.” + +“With all my heart,” said Don Quixote, and reading it aloud as Sancho +had requested him, he found it ran thus: + +Thy false promise and my sure misfortune carry me to a place whence the +news of my death will reach thy ears before the words of my complaint. +Ungrateful one, thou hast rejected me for one more wealthy, but not +more worthy; but if virtue were esteemed wealth I should neither envy +the fortunes of others nor weep for misfortunes of my own. What thy +beauty raised up thy deeds have laid low; by it I believed thee to be +an angel, by them I know thou art a woman. Peace be with thee who hast +sent war to me, and Heaven grant that the deceit of thy husband be ever +hidden from thee, so that thou repent not of what thou hast done, and I +reap not a revenge I would not have. + + +When he had finished the letter, Don Quixote said, “There is less to be +gathered from this than from the verses, except that he who wrote it is +some rejected lover;” and turning over nearly all the pages of the book +he found more verses and letters, some of which he could read, while +others he could not; but they were all made up of complaints, laments, +misgivings, desires and aversions, favours and rejections, some +rapturous, some doleful. While Don Quixote examined the book, Sancho +examined the valise, not leaving a corner in the whole of it or in the +pad that he did not search, peer into, and explore, or seam that he did +not rip, or tuft of wool that he did not pick to pieces, lest anything +should escape for want of care and pains; so keen was the covetousness +excited in him by the discovery of the crowns, which amounted to near a +hundred; and though he found no more booty, he held the blanket +flights, balsam vomits, stake benedictions, carriers’ fisticuffs, +missing alforjas, stolen coat, and all the hunger, thirst, and +weariness he had endured in the service of his good master, cheap at +the price; as he considered himself more than fully indemnified for all +by the payment he received in the gift of the treasure-trove. + +The Knight of the Rueful Countenance was still very anxious to find out +who the owner of the valise could be, conjecturing from the sonnet and +letter, from the money in gold, and from the fineness of the shirts, +that he must be some lover of distinction whom the scorn and cruelty of +his lady had driven to some desperate course; but as in that +uninhabited and rugged spot there was no one to be seen of whom he +could inquire, he saw nothing else for it but to push on, taking +whatever road Rocinante chose—which was where he could make his +way—firmly persuaded that among these wilds he could not fail to meet +some rare adventure. As he went along, then, occupied with these +thoughts, he perceived on the summit of a height that rose before their +eyes a man who went springing from rock to rock and from tussock to +tussock with marvellous agility. As well as he could make out he was +unclad, with a thick black beard, long tangled hair, and bare legs and +feet, his thighs were covered by breeches apparently of tawny velvet +but so ragged that they showed his skin in several places. + + + +c23g.jpg (360K) + +Full Size + + + + +He was bareheaded, and notwithstanding the swiftness with which he +passed as has been described, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance +observed and noted all these trifles, and though he made the attempt, +he was unable to follow him, for it was not granted to the feebleness +of Rocinante to make way over such rough ground, he being, moreover, +slow-paced and sluggish by nature. Don Quixote at once came to the +conclusion that this was the owner of the saddle-pad and of the valise, +and made up his mind to go in search of him, even though he should have +to wander a year in those mountains before he found him, and so he +directed Sancho to take a short cut over one side of the mountain, +while he himself went by the other, and perhaps by this means they +might light upon this man who had passed so quickly out of their sight. + +“I could not do that,” said Sancho, “for when I separate from your +worship fear at once lays hold of me, and assails me with all sorts of +panics and fancies; and let what I now say be a notice that from this +time forth I am not going to stir a finger’s width from your presence.” + +“It shall be so,” said he of the Rueful Countenance, “and I am very +glad that thou art willing to rely on my courage, which will never fail +thee, even though the soul in thy body fail thee; so come on now behind +me slowly as well as thou canst, and make lanterns of thine eyes; let +us make the circuit of this ridge; perhaps we shall light upon this man +that we saw, who no doubt is no other than the owner of what we found.” + +To which Sancho made answer, “Far better would it be not to look for +him, for, if we find him, and he happens to be the owner of the money, +it is plain I must restore it; it would be better, therefore, that +without taking this needless trouble, I should keep possession of it +until in some other less meddlesome and officious way the real owner +may be discovered; and perhaps that will be when I shall have spent it, +and then the king will hold me harmless.” + +“Thou art wrong there, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for now that we have +a suspicion who the owner is, and have him almost before us, we are +bound to seek him and make restitution; and if we do not see him, the +strong suspicion we have as to his being the owner makes us as guilty +as if he were so; and so, friend Sancho, let not our search for him +give thee any uneasiness, for if we find him it will relieve mine.” + +And so saying he gave Rocinante the spur, and Sancho followed him on +foot and loaded, and after having partly made the circuit of the +mountain they found lying in a ravine, dead and half devoured by dogs +and pecked by jackdaws, a mule saddled and bridled, all which still +further strengthened their suspicion that he who had fled was the owner +of the mule and the saddle-pad. + + + +c23h.jpg (381K) + +Full Size + + + + +As they stood looking at it they heard a whistle like that of a +shepherd watching his flock, and suddenly on their left there appeared +a great number of goats and behind them on the summit of the mountain +the goatherd in charge of them, a man advanced in years. Don Quixote +called aloud to him and begged him to come down to where they stood. He +shouted in return, asking what had brought them to that spot, seldom or +never trodden except by the feet of goats, or of the wolves and other +wild beasts that roamed around. Sancho in return bade him come down, +and they would explain all to him. + +The goatherd descended, and reaching the place where Don Quixote stood, +he said, “I will wager you are looking at that hack mule that lies dead +in the hollow there, and, faith, it has been lying there now these six +months; tell me, have you come upon its master about here?” + +“We have come upon nobody,” answered Don Quixote, “nor on anything +except a saddle-pad and a little valise that we found not far from +this.” + +“I found it too,” said the goatherd, “but I would not lift it nor go +near it for fear of some ill-luck or being charged with theft, for the +devil is crafty, and things rise up under one’s feet to make one fall +without knowing why or wherefore.” + +“That’s exactly what I say,” said Sancho; “I found it too, and I would +not go within a stone’s throw of it; there I left it, and there it lies +just as it was, for I don’t want a dog with a bell.” + +“Tell me, good man,” said Don Quixote, “do you know who is the owner of +this property?” + +“All I can tell you,” said the goatherd, “is that about six months ago, +more or less, there arrived at a shepherd’s hut three leagues, perhaps, +away from this, a youth of well-bred appearance and manners, mounted on +that same mule which lies dead here, and with the same saddle-pad and +valise which you say you found and did not touch. He asked us what part +of this sierra was the most rugged and retired; we told him that it was +where we now are; and so in truth it is, for if you push on half a +league farther, perhaps you will not be able to find your way out; and +I am wondering how you have managed to come here, for there is no road +or path that leads to this spot. I say, then, that on hearing our +answer the youth turned about and made for the place we pointed out to +him, leaving us all charmed with his good looks, and wondering at his +question and the haste with which we saw him depart in the direction of +the sierra; and after that we saw him no more, until some days +afterwards he crossed the path of one of our shepherds, and without +saying a word to him, came up to him and gave him several cuffs and +kicks, and then turned to the ass with our provisions and took all the +bread and cheese it carried, and having done this made off back again +into the sierra with extraordinary swiftness. When some of us goatherds +learned this we went in search of him for about two days through the +most remote portion of this sierra, at the end of which we found him +lodged in the hollow of a large thick cork tree. He came out to meet us +with great gentleness, with his dress now torn and his face so +disfigured and burned by the sun, that we hardly recognised him but +that his clothes, though torn, convinced us, from the recollection we +had of them, that he was the person we were looking for. He saluted us +courteously, and in a few well-spoken words he told us not to wonder at +seeing him going about in this guise, as it was binding upon him in +order that he might work out a penance which for his many sins had been +imposed upon him. We asked him to tell us who he was, but we were never +able to find out from him: we begged of him too, when he was in want of +food, which he could not do without, to tell us where we should find +him, as we would bring it to him with all good-will and readiness; or +if this were not to his taste, at least to come and ask it of us and +not take it by force from the shepherds. He thanked us for the offer, +begged pardon for the late assault, and promised for the future to ask +it in God’s name without offering violence to anybody. As for fixed +abode, he said he had no other than that which chance offered wherever +night might overtake him; and his words ended in an outburst of weeping +so bitter that we who listened to him must have been very stones had we +not joined him in it, comparing what we saw of him the first time with +what we saw now; for, as I said, he was a graceful and gracious youth, +and in his courteous and polished language showed himself to be of good +birth and courtly breeding, and rustics as we were that listened to +him, even to our rusticity his gentle bearing sufficed to make it +plain. + +“But in the midst of his conversation he stopped and became silent, +keeping his eyes fixed upon the ground for some time, during which we +stood still waiting anxiously to see what would come of this +abstraction; and with no little pity, for from his behaviour, now +staring at the ground with fixed gaze and eyes wide open without moving +an eyelid, again closing them, compressing his lips and raising his +eyebrows, we could perceive plainly that a fit of madness of some kind +had come upon him; and before long he showed that what we imagined was +the truth, for he arose in a fury from the ground where he had thrown +himself, and attacked the first he found near him with such rage and +fierceness that if we had not dragged him off him, he would have beaten +or bitten him to death, all the while exclaiming, ‘Oh faithless +Fernando, here, here shalt thou pay the penalty of the wrong thou hast +done me; these hands shall tear out that heart of thine, abode and +dwelling of all iniquity, but of deceit and fraud above all; and to +these he added other words all in effect upbraiding this Fernando and +charging him with treachery and faithlessness. + +“We forced him to release his hold with no little difficulty, and +without another word he left us, and rushing off plunged in among these +brakes and brambles, so as to make it impossible for us to follow him; +from this we suppose that madness comes upon him from time to time, and +that someone called Fernando must have done him a wrong of a grievous +nature such as the condition to which it had brought him seemed to +show. All this has been since then confirmed on those occasions, and +they have been many, on which he has crossed our path, at one time to +beg the shepherds to give him some of the food they carry, at another +to take it from them by force; for when there is a fit of madness upon +him, even though the shepherds offer it freely, he will not accept it +but snatches it from them by dint of blows; but when he is in his +senses he begs it for the love of God, courteously and civilly, and +receives it with many thanks and not a few tears. And to tell you the +truth, sirs,” continued the goatherd, “it was yesterday that we +resolved, I and four of the lads, two of them our servants, and the +other two friends of mine, to go in search of him until we find him, +and when we do to take him, whether by force or of his own consent, to +the town of Almodóvar, which is eight leagues from this, and there +strive to cure him (if indeed his malady admits of a cure), or learn +when he is in his senses who he is, and if he has relatives to whom we +may give notice of his misfortune. This, sirs, is all I can say in +answer to what you have asked me; and be sure that the owner of the +articles you found is he whom you saw pass by with such nimbleness and +so naked.” + +For Don Quixote had already described how he had seen the man go +bounding along the mountainside, and he was now filled with amazement +at what he heard from the goatherd, and more eager than ever to +discover who the unhappy madman was; and in his heart he resolved, as +he had done before, to search for him all over the mountain, not +leaving a corner or cave unexamined until he had found him. But chance +arranged matters better than he expected or hoped, for at that very +moment, in a gorge on the mountain that opened where they stood, the +youth he wished to find made his appearance, coming along talking to +himself in a way that would have been unintelligible near at hand, much +more at a distance. His garb was what has been described, save that as +he drew near, Don Quixote perceived that a tattered doublet which he +wore was amber-tanned, from which he concluded that one who wore such +garments could not be of very low rank. + +Approaching them, the youth greeted them in a harsh and hoarse voice +but with great courtesy. Don Quixote returned his salutation with equal +politeness, and dismounting from Rocinante advanced with well-bred +bearing and grace to embrace him, and held him for some time close in +his arms as if he had known him for a long time. The other, whom we may +call the Ragged One of the Sorry Countenance, as Don Quixote was of the +Rueful, after submitting to the embrace pushed him back a little and, +placing his hands on Don Quixote’s shoulders, stood gazing at him as if +seeking to see whether he knew him, not less amazed, perhaps, at the +sight of the face, figure, and armour of Don Quixote than Don Quixote +was at the sight of him. To be brief, the first to speak after +embracing was the Ragged One, and he said what will be told farther on. + + + +c23i.jpg (53K) + +Full Size + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. +IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIERRA MORENA + + + + +c24a.jpg (151K) + +Full Size + + + + +The history relates that it was with the greatest attention Don Quixote +listened to the ragged knight of the Sierra, who began by saying: + +“Of a surety, señor, whoever you are, for I know you not, I thank you +for the proofs of kindness and courtesy you have shown me, and would I +were in a condition to requite with something more than good-will that +which you have displayed towards me in the cordial reception you have +given me; but my fate does not afford me any other means of returning +kindnesses done me save the hearty desire to repay them.” + +“Mine,” replied Don Quixote, “is to be of service to you, so much so +that I had resolved not to quit these mountains until I had found you, +and learned of you whether there is any kind of relief to be found for +that sorrow under which from the strangeness of your life you seem to +labour; and to search for you with all possible diligence, if search +had been necessary. And if your misfortune should prove to be one of +those that refuse admission to any sort of consolation, it was my +purpose to join you in lamenting and mourning over it, so far as I +could; for it is still some comfort in misfortune to find one who can +feel for it. And if my good intentions deserve to be acknowledged with +any kind of courtesy, I entreat you, señor, by that which I perceive +you possess in so high a degree, and likewise conjure you by whatever +you love or have loved best in life, to tell me who you are and the +cause that has brought you to live or die in these solitudes like a +brute beast, dwelling among them in a manner so foreign to your +condition as your garb and appearance show. And I swear,” added Don +Quixote, “by the order of knighthood which I have received, and by my +vocation of knight-errant, if you gratify me in this, to serve you with +all the zeal my calling demands of me, either in relieving your +misfortune if it admits of relief, or in joining you in lamenting it as +I promised to do.” + +The Knight of the Thicket, hearing him of the Rueful Countenance talk +in this strain, did nothing but stare at him, and stare at him again, +and again survey him from head to foot; and when he had thoroughly +examined him, he said to him: + +“If you have anything to give me to eat, for God’s sake give it me, and +after I have eaten I will do all you ask in acknowledgment of the +goodwill you have displayed towards me.” + +Sancho from his sack, and the goatherd from his pouch, furnished the +Ragged One with the means of appeasing his hunger, and what they gave +him he ate like a half-witted being, so hastily that he took no time +between mouthfuls, gorging rather than swallowing; and while he ate +neither he nor they who observed him uttered a word. As soon as he had +done he made signs to them to follow him, which they did, and he led +them to a green plot which lay a little farther off round the corner of +a rock. On reaching it he stretched himself upon the grass, and the +others did the same, all keeping silence, until the Ragged One, +settling himself in his place, said: + +“If it is your wish, sirs, that I should disclose in a few words the +surpassing extent of my misfortunes, you must promise not to break the +thread of my sad story with any question or other interruption, for the +instant you do so the tale I tell will come to an end.” + +These words of the Ragged One reminded Don Quixote of the tale his +squire had told him, when he failed to keep count of the goats that had +crossed the river and the story remained unfinished; but to return to +the Ragged One, he went on to say: + +“I give you this warning because I wish to pass briefly over the story +of my misfortunes, for recalling them to memory only serves to add +fresh ones, and the less you question me the sooner shall I make an end +of the recital, though I shall not omit to relate anything of +importance in order fully to satisfy your curiosity.” + +Don Quixote gave the promise for himself and the others, and with this +assurance he began as follows: + +“My name is Cardenio, my birthplace one of the best cities of this +Andalusia, my family noble, my parents rich, my misfortune so great +that my parents must have wept and my family grieved over it without +being able by their wealth to lighten it; for the gifts of fortune can +do little to relieve reverses sent by Heaven. In that same country +there was a heaven in which love had placed all the glory I could +desire; such was the beauty of Luscinda, a damsel as noble and as rich +as I, but of happier fortunes, and of less firmness than was due to so +worthy a passion as mine. This Luscinda I loved, worshipped, and adored +from my earliest and tenderest years, and she loved me in all the +innocence and sincerity of childhood. Our parents were aware of our +feelings, and were not sorry to perceive them, for they saw clearly +that as they ripened they must lead at last to a marriage between us, a +thing that seemed almost prearranged by the equality of our families +and wealth. We grew up, and with our growth grew the love between us, +so that the father of Luscinda felt bound for propriety’s sake to +refuse me admission to his house, in this perhaps imitating the parents +of that Thisbe so celebrated by the poets, and this refusal but added +love to love and flame to flame; for though they enforced silence upon +our tongues they could not impose it upon our pens, which can make +known the heart’s secrets to a loved one more freely than tongues; for +many a time the presence of the object of love shakes the firmest will +and strikes dumb the boldest tongue. Ah heavens! how many letters did I +write her, and how many dainty modest replies did I receive! how many +ditties and love-songs did I compose in which my heart declared and +made known its feelings, described its ardent longings, revelled in its +recollections and dallied with its desires! At length growing impatient +and feeling my heart languishing with longing to see her, I resolved to +put into execution and carry out what seemed to me the best mode of +winning my desired and merited reward, to ask her of her father for my +lawful wife, which I did. To this his answer was that he thanked me for +the disposition I showed to do honour to him and to regard myself as +honoured by the bestowal of his treasure; but that as my father was +alive it was his by right to make this demand, for if it were not in +accordance with his full will and pleasure, Luscinda was not to be +taken or given by stealth. I thanked him for his kindness, reflecting +that there was reason in what he said, and that my father would assent +to it as soon as I should tell him, and with that view I went the very +same instant to let him know what my desires were. When I entered the +room where he was I found him with an open letter in his hand, which, +before I could utter a word, he gave me, saying, ‘By this letter thou +wilt see, Cardenio, the disposition the Duke Ricardo has to serve +thee.’ This Duke Ricardo, as you, sirs, probably know already, is a +grandee of Spain who has his seat in the best part of this Andalusia. I +took and read the letter, which was couched in terms so flattering that +even I myself felt it would be wrong in my father not to comply with +the request the duke made in it, which was that he would send me +immediately to him, as he wished me to become the companion, not +servant, of his eldest son, and would take upon himself the charge of +placing me in a position corresponding to the esteem in which he held +me. On reading the letter my voice failed me, and still more when I +heard my father say, ‘Two days hence thou wilt depart, Cardenio, in +accordance with the duke’s wish, and give thanks to God who is opening +a road to thee by which thou mayest attain what I know thou dost +deserve; and to these words he added others of fatherly counsel. The +time for my departure arrived; I spoke one night to Luscinda, I told +her all that had occurred, as I did also to her father, entreating him +to allow some delay, and to defer the disposal of her hand until I +should see what the Duke Ricardo sought of me: he gave me the promise, +and she confirmed it with vows and swoonings unnumbered. Finally, I +presented myself to the duke, and was received and treated by him so +kindly that very soon envy began to do its work, the old servants +growing envious of me, and regarding the duke’s inclination to show me +favour as an injury to themselves. But the one to whom my arrival gave +the greatest pleasure was the duke’s second son, Fernando by name, a +gallant youth, of noble, generous, and amorous disposition, who very +soon made so intimate a friend of me that it was remarked by everybody; +for though the elder was attached to me, and showed me kindness, he did +not carry his affectionate treatment to the same length as Don +Fernando. It so happened, then, that as between friends no secret +remains unshared, and as the favour I enjoyed with Don Fernando had +grown into friendship, he made all his thoughts known to me, and in +particular a love affair which troubled his mind a little. He was +deeply in love with a peasant girl, a vassal of his father’s, the +daughter of wealthy parents, and herself so beautiful, modest, +discreet, and virtuous, that no one who knew her was able to decide in +which of these respects she was most highly gifted or most excelled. +The attractions of the fair peasant raised the passion of Don Fernando +to such a point that, in order to gain his object and overcome her +virtuous resolutions, he determined to pledge his word to her to become +her husband, for to attempt it in any other way was to attempt an +impossibility. Bound to him as I was by friendship, I strove by the +best arguments and the most forcible examples I could think of to +restrain and dissuade him from such a course; but perceiving I produced +no effect I resolved to make the Duke Ricardo, his father, acquainted +with the matter; but Don Fernando, being sharp-witted and shrewd, +foresaw and apprehended this, perceiving that by my duty as a good +servant I was bound not to keep concealed a thing so much opposed to +the honour of my lord the duke; and so, to mislead and deceive me, he +told me he could find no better way of effacing from his mind the +beauty that so enslaved him than by absenting himself for some months, +and that he wished the absence to be effected by our going, both of us, +to my father’s house under the pretence, which he would make to the +duke, of going to see and buy some fine horses that there were in my +city, which produces the best in the world. When I heard him say so, +even if his resolution had not been so good a one I should have hailed +it as one of the happiest that could be imagined, prompted by my +affection, seeing what a favourable chance and opportunity it offered +me of returning to see my Luscinda. With this thought and wish I +commended his idea and encouraged his design, advising him to put it +into execution as quickly as possible, as, in truth, absence produced +its effect in spite of the most deeply rooted feelings. But, as +afterwards appeared, when he said this to me he had already enjoyed the +peasant girl under the title of husband, and was waiting for an +opportunity of making it known with safety to himself, being in dread +of what his father the duke would do when he came to know of his folly. +It happened, then, that as with young men love is for the most part +nothing more than appetite, which, as its final object is enjoyment, +comes to an end on obtaining it, and that which seemed to be love takes +to flight, as it cannot pass the limit fixed by nature, which fixes no +limit to true love—what I mean is that after Don Fernando had enjoyed +this peasant girl his passion subsided and his eagerness cooled, and if +at first he feigned a wish to absent himself in order to cure his love, +he was now in reality anxious to go to avoid keeping his promise. + +“The duke gave him permission, and ordered me to accompany him; we +arrived at my city, and my father gave him the reception due to his +rank; I saw Luscinda without delay, and, though it had not been dead or +deadened, my love gathered fresh life. To my sorrow I told the story of +it to Don Fernando, for I thought that in virtue of the great +friendship he bore me I was bound to conceal nothing from him. I +extolled her beauty, her gaiety, her wit, so warmly, that my praises +excited in him a desire to see a damsel adorned by such attractions. To +my misfortune I yielded to it, showing her to him one night by the +light of a taper at a window where we used to talk to one another. As +she appeared to him in her dressing-gown, she drove all the beauties he +had seen until then out of his recollection; speech failed him, his +head turned, he was spell-bound, and in the end love-smitten, as you +will see in the course of the story of my misfortune; and to inflame +still further his passion, which he hid from me and revealed to Heaven +alone, it so happened that one day he found a note of hers entreating +me to demand her of her father in marriage, so delicate, so modest, and +so tender, that on reading it he told me that in Luscinda alone were +combined all the charms of beauty and understanding that were +distributed among all the other women in the world. It is true, and I +own it now, that though I knew what good cause Don Fernando had to +praise Luscinda, it gave me uneasiness to hear these praises from his +mouth, and I began to fear, and with reason to feel distrust of him, +for there was no moment when he was not ready to talk of Luscinda, and +he would start the subject himself even though he dragged it in +unseasonably, a circumstance that aroused in me a certain amount of +jealousy; not that I feared any change in the constancy or faith of +Luscinda; but still my fate led me to forebode what she assured me +against. Don Fernando contrived always to read the letters I sent to +Luscinda and her answers to me, under the pretence that he enjoyed the +wit and sense of both. It so happened, then, that Luscinda having +begged of me a book of chivalry to read, one that she was very fond of, +Amadis of Gaul—” + +Don Quixote no sooner heard a book of chivalry mentioned, than he said: + +“Had your worship told me at the beginning of your story that the Lady +Luscinda was fond of books of chivalry, no other laudation would have +been requisite to impress upon me the superiority of her understanding, +for it could not have been of the excellence you describe had a taste +for such delightful reading been wanting; so, as far as I am concerned, +you need waste no more words in describing her beauty, worth, and +intelligence; for, on merely hearing what her taste was, I declare her +to be the most beautiful and the most intelligent woman in the world; +and I wish your worship had, along with Amadis of Gaul, sent her the +worthy Don Rugel of Greece, for I know the Lady Luscinda would greatly +relish Daraida and Garaya, and the shrewd sayings of the shepherd +Darinel, and the admirable verses of his bucolics, sung and delivered +by him with such sprightliness, wit, and ease; but a time may come when +this omission can be remedied, and to rectify it nothing more is needed +than for your worship to be so good as to come with me to my village, +for there I can give you more than three hundred books which are the +delight of my soul and the entertainment of my life;—though it occurs +to me that I have not got one of them now, thanks to the spite of +wicked and envious enchanters;—but pardon me for having broken the +promise we made not to interrupt your discourse; for when I hear +chivalry or knights-errant mentioned, I can no more help talking about +them than the rays of the sun can help giving heat, or those of the +moon moisture; pardon me, therefore, and proceed, for that is more to +the purpose now.” + +While Don Quixote was saying this, Cardenio allowed his head to fall +upon his breast, and seemed plunged in deep thought; and though twice +Don Quixote bade him go on with his story, he neither looked up nor +uttered a word in reply; but after some time he raised his head and +said, “I cannot get rid of the idea, nor will anyone in the world +remove it, or make me think otherwise—and he would be a blockhead who +would hold or believe anything else than that that arrant knave Master +Elisabad made free with Queen Madasima.” + +“That is not true, by all that’s good,” said Don Quixote in high wrath, +turning upon him angrily, as his way was; “and it is a very great +slander, or rather villainy. Queen Madasima was a very illustrious +lady, and it is not to be supposed that so exalted a princess would +have made free with a quack; and whoever maintains the contrary lies +like a great scoundrel, and I will give him to know it, on foot or on +horseback, armed or unarmed, by night or by day, or as he likes best.” + +Cardenio was looking at him steadily, and his mad fit having now come +upon him, he had no disposition to go on with his story, nor would Don +Quixote have listened to it, so much had what he had heard about +Madasima disgusted him. Strange to say, he stood up for her as if she +were in earnest his veritable born lady; to such a pass had his unholy +books brought him. Cardenio, then, being, as I said, now mad, when he +heard himself given the lie, and called a scoundrel and other insulting +names, not relishing the jest, snatched up a stone that he found near +him, and with it delivered such a blow on Don Quixote’s breast that he +laid him on his back. Sancho Panza, seeing his master treated in this +fashion, attacked the madman with his closed fist; but the Ragged One +received him in such a way that with a blow of his fist he stretched +him at his feet, and then mounting upon him crushed his ribs to his own +satisfaction; the goatherd, who came to the rescue, shared the same +fate; and having beaten and pummelled them all he left them and quietly +withdrew to his hiding-place on the mountain. Sancho rose, and with the +rage he felt at finding himself so belaboured without deserving it, ran +to take vengeance on the goatherd, accusing him of not giving them +warning that this man was at times taken with a mad fit, for if they +had known it they would have been on their guard to protect themselves. +The goatherd replied that he had said so, and that if he had not heard +him, that was no fault of his. Sancho retorted, and the goatherd +rejoined, and the altercation ended in their seizing each other by the +beard, and exchanging such fisticuffs that if Don Quixote had not made +peace between them, they would have knocked one another to pieces. + +“Leave me alone, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance,” said Sancho, +grappling with the goatherd, “for of this fellow, who is a clown like +myself, and no dubbed knight, I can safely take satisfaction for the +affront he has offered me, fighting with him hand to hand like an +honest man.” + +“That is true,” said Don Quixote, “but I know that he is not to blame +for what has happened.” + +With this he pacified them, and again asked the goatherd if it would be +possible to find Cardenio, as he felt the greatest anxiety to know the +end of his story. The goatherd told him, as he had told him before, +that there was no knowing of a certainty where his lair was; but that +if he wandered about much in that neighbourhood he could not fail to +fall in with him either in or out of his senses. + + + +c24e.jpg (69K) + +Full Size + + + +CHAPTER XXV. +WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO THE STOUT KNIGHT OF +LA MANCHA IN THE SIERRA MORENA, AND OF HIS IMITATION OF THE PENANCE OF +BELTENEBROS + + + + +c25a.jpg (168K) + +Full Size + + + + +Don Quixote took leave of the goatherd, and once more mounting +Rocinante bade Sancho follow him, which he having no ass, did very +discontentedly. They proceeded slowly, making their way into the most +rugged part of the mountain, Sancho all the while dying to have a talk +with his master, and longing for him to begin, so that there should be +no breach of the injunction laid upon him; but unable to keep silence +so long he said to him: + +“Señor Don Quixote, give me your worship’s blessing and dismissal, for +I’d like to go home at once to my wife and children with whom I can at +any rate talk and converse as much as I like; for to want me to go +through these solitudes day and night and not speak to you when I have +a mind is burying me alive. If luck would have it that animals spoke as +they did in the days of Guisopete, it would not be so bad, because I +could talk to Rocinante about whatever came into my head, and so put up +with my ill-fortune; but it is a hard case, and not to be borne with +patience, to go seeking adventures all one’s life and get nothing but +kicks and blanketings, brickbats and punches, and with all this to have +to sew up one’s mouth without daring to say what is in one’s heart, +just as if one were dumb.” + +“I understand thee, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; “thou art dying to +have the interdict I placed upon thy tongue removed; consider it +removed, and say what thou wilt while we are wandering in these +mountains.” + +“So be it,” said Sancho; “let me speak now, for God knows what will +happen by-and-by; and to take advantage of the permit at once, I ask, +what made your worship stand up so for that Queen Majimasa, or whatever +her name is, or what did it matter whether that abbot was a friend of +hers or not? for if your worship had let that pass—and you were not a +judge in the matter—it is my belief the madman would have gone on with +his story, and the blow of the stone, and the kicks, and more than half +a dozen cuffs would have been escaped.” + +“In faith, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “if thou knewest as I do what +an honourable and illustrious lady Queen Madasima was, I know thou +wouldst say I had great patience that I did not break in pieces the +mouth that uttered such blasphemies, for a very great blasphemy it is +to say or imagine that a queen has made free with a surgeon. The truth +of the story is that that Master Elisabad whom the madman mentioned was +a man of great prudence and sound judgment, and served as governor and +physician to the queen, but to suppose that she was his mistress is +nonsense deserving very severe punishment; and as a proof that Cardenio +did not know what he was saying, remember when he said it he was out of +his wits.” + +“That is what I say,” said Sancho; “there was no occasion for minding +the words of a madman; for if good luck had not helped your worship, +and he had sent that stone at your head instead of at your breast, a +fine way we should have been in for standing up for my lady yonder, God +confound her! And then, would not Cardenio have gone free as a madman?” + +“Against men in their senses or against madmen,” said Don Quixote, +“every knight-errant is bound to stand up for the honour of women, +whoever they may be, much more for queens of such high degree and +dignity as Queen Madasima, for whom I have a particular regard on +account of her amiable qualities; for, besides being extremely +beautiful, she was very wise, and very patient under her misfortunes, +of which she had many; and the counsel and society of the Master +Elisabad were a great help and support to her in enduring her +afflictions with wisdom and resignation; hence the ignorant and +ill-disposed vulgar took occasion to say and think that she was his +mistress; and they lie, I say it once more, and will lie two hundred +times more, all who think and say so.” + +“I neither say nor think so,” said Sancho; “let them look to it; with +their bread let them eat it; they have rendered account to God whether +they misbehaved or not; I come from my vineyard, I know nothing; I am +not fond of prying into other men’s lives; he who buys and lies feels +it in his purse; moreover, naked was I born, naked I find myself, I +neither lose nor gain; but if they did, what is that to me? many think +there are flitches where there are no hooks; but who can put gates to +the open plain? moreover they said of God—” + +“God bless me,” said Don Quixote, “what a set of absurdities thou art +stringing together! What has what we are talking about got to do with +the proverbs thou art threading one after the other? for God’s sake +hold thy tongue, Sancho, and henceforward keep to prodding thy ass and +don’t meddle in what does not concern thee; and understand with all thy +five senses that everything I have done, am doing, or shall do, is well +founded on reason and in conformity with the rules of chivalry, for I +understand them better than all the world that profess them.” + +“Señor,” replied Sancho, “is it a good rule of chivalry that we should +go astray through these mountains without path or road, looking for a +madman who when he is found will perhaps take a fancy to finish what he +began, not his story, but your worship’s head and my ribs, and end by +breaking them altogether for us?” + + + +c25b.jpg (330K) + +Full Size + + + + +“Peace, I say again, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for let me tell thee +it is not so much the desire of finding that madman that leads me into +these regions as that which I have of performing among them an +achievement wherewith I shall win eternal name and fame throughout the +known world; and it shall be such that I shall thereby set the seal on +all that can make a knight-errant perfect and famous.” + +“And is it very perilous, this achievement?” + +“No,” replied he of the Rueful Countenance; “though it may be in the +dice that we may throw deuce-ace instead of sixes; but all will depend +on thy diligence.” + +“On my diligence!” said Sancho. + +“Yes,” said Don Quixote, “for if thou dost return soon from the place +where I mean to send thee, my penance will be soon over, and my glory +will soon begin. But as it is not right to keep thee any longer in +suspense, waiting to see what comes of my words, I would have thee +know, Sancho, that the famous Amadis of Gaul was one of the most +perfect knights-errant—I am wrong to say he was one; he stood alone, +the first, the only one, the lord of all that were in the world in his +time. A fig for Don Belianis, and for all who say he equalled him in +any respect, for, my oath upon it, they are deceiving themselves! I +say, too, that when a painter desires to become famous in his art he +endeavours to copy the originals of the rarest painters that he knows; +and the same rule holds good for all the most important crafts and +callings that serve to adorn a state; thus must he who would be +esteemed prudent and patient imitate Ulysses, in whose person and +labours Homer presents to us a lively picture of prudence and patience; +as Virgil, too, shows us in the person of Æneas the virtue of a pious +son and the sagacity of a brave and skilful captain; not representing +or describing them as they were, but as they ought to be, so as to +leave the example of their virtues to posterity. In the same way Amadis +was the polestar, day-star, sun of valiant and devoted knights, whom +all we who fight under the banner of love and chivalry are bound to +imitate. This, then, being so, I consider, friend Sancho, that the +knight-errant who shall imitate him most closely will come nearest to +reaching the perfection of chivalry. Now one of the instances in which +this knight most conspicuously showed his prudence, worth, valour, +endurance, fortitude, and love, was when he withdrew, rejected by the +Lady Oriana, to do penance upon the Peña Pobre, changing his name into +that of Beltenebros, a name assuredly significant and appropriate to +the life which he had voluntarily adopted. So, as it is easier for me +to imitate him in this than in cleaving giants asunder, cutting off +serpents’ heads, slaying dragons, routing armies, destroying fleets, +and breaking enchantments, and as this place is so well suited for a +similar purpose, I must not allow the opportunity to escape which now +so conveniently offers me its forelock.” + +“What is it in reality,” said Sancho, “that your worship means to do in +such an out-of-the-way place as this?” + +“Have I not told thee,” answered Don Quixote, “that I mean to imitate +Amadis here, playing the victim of despair, the madman, the maniac, so +as at the same time to imitate the valiant Don Roland, when at the +fountain he had evidence of the fair Angelica having disgraced herself +with Medoro and through grief thereat went mad, and plucked up trees, +troubled the waters of the clear springs, slew shepherds, destroyed +flocks, burned down huts, levelled houses, dragged mares after him, and +perpetrated a hundred thousand other outrages worthy of everlasting +renown and record? And though I have no intention of imitating Roland, +or Orlando, or Rotolando (for he went by all these names), step by step +in all the mad things he did, said, and thought, I will make a rough +copy to the best of my power of all that seems to me most essential; +but perhaps I shall content myself with the simple imitation of Amadis, +who without giving way to any mischievous madness but merely to tears +and sorrow, gained as much fame as the most famous.” + +“It seems to me,” said Sancho, “that the knights who behaved in this +way had provocation and cause for those follies and penances; but what +cause has your worship for going mad? What lady has rejected you, or +what evidence have you found to prove that the lady Dulcinea del Toboso +has been trifling with Moor or Christian?” + +“There is the point,” replied Don Quixote, “and that is the beauty of +this business of mine; no thanks to a knight-errant for going mad when +he has cause; the thing is to turn crazy without any provocation, and +let my lady know, if I do this in the dry, what I would do in the +moist; moreover I have abundant cause in the long separation I have +endured from my lady till death, Dulcinea del Toboso; for as thou didst +hear that shepherd Ambrosio say the other day, in absence all ills are +felt and feared; and so, friend Sancho, waste no time in advising me +against so rare, so happy, and so unheard-of an imitation; mad I am, +and mad I must be until thou returnest with the answer to a letter that +I mean to send by thee to my lady Dulcinea; and if it be such as my +constancy deserves, my insanity and penance will come to an end; and if +it be to the opposite effect, I shall become mad in earnest, and, being +so, I shall suffer no more; thus in whatever way she may answer I shall +escape from the struggle and affliction in which thou wilt leave me, +enjoying in my senses the boon thou bearest me, or as a madman not +feeling the evil thou bringest me. But tell me, Sancho, hast thou got +Mambrino’s helmet safe? for I saw thee take it up from the ground when +that ungrateful wretch tried to break it in pieces but could not, by +which the fineness of its temper may be seen.” + +To which Sancho made answer, “By the living God, Sir Knight of the +Rueful Countenance, I cannot endure or bear with patience some of the +things that your worship says; and from them I begin to suspect that +all you tell me about chivalry, and winning kingdoms and empires, and +giving islands, and bestowing other rewards and dignities after the +custom of knights-errant, must be all made up of wind and lies, and all +pigments or figments, or whatever we may call them; for what would +anyone think that heard your worship calling a barber’s basin +Mambrino’s helmet without ever seeing the mistake all this time, but +that one who says and maintains such things must have his brains +addled? I have the basin in my sack all dinted, and I am taking it home +to have it mended, to trim my beard in it, if, by God’s grace, I am +allowed to see my wife and children some day or other.” + +“Look here, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “by him thou didst swear by just +now I swear thou hast the most limited understanding that any squire in +the world has or ever had. Is it possible that all this time thou hast +been going about with me thou hast never found out that all things +belonging to knights-errant seem to be illusions and nonsense and +ravings, and to go always by contraries? And not because it really is +so, but because there is always a swarm of enchanters in attendance +upon us that change and alter everything with us, and turn things as +they please, and according as they are disposed to aid or destroy us; +thus what seems to thee a barber’s basin seems to me Mambrino’s helmet, +and to another it will seem something else; and rare foresight it was +in the sage who is on my side to make what is really and truly +Mambrino’s helmet seem a basin to everybody, for, being held in such +estimation as it is, all the world would pursue me to rob me of it; but +when they see it is only a barber’s basin they do not take the trouble +to obtain it; as was plainly shown by him who tried to break it, and +left it on the ground without taking it, for, by my faith, had he known +it he would never have left it behind. Keep it safe, my friend, for +just now I have no need of it; indeed, I shall have to take off all +this armour and remain as naked as I was born, if I have a mind to +follow Roland rather than Amadis in my penance.” + +Thus talking they reached the foot of a high mountain which stood like +an isolated peak among the others that surrounded it. Past its base +there flowed a gentle brook, all around it spread a meadow so green and +luxuriant that it was a delight to the eyes to look upon it, and forest +trees in abundance, and shrubs and flowers, added to the charms of the +spot. Upon this place the Knight of the Rueful Countenance fixed his +choice for the performance of his penance, and as he beheld it +exclaimed in a loud voice as though he were out of his senses: + +“This is the place, oh, ye heavens, that I select and choose for +bewailing the misfortune in which ye yourselves have plunged me: this +is the spot where the overflowings of mine eyes shall swell the waters +of yon little brook, and my deep and endless sighs shall stir +unceasingly the leaves of these mountain trees, in testimony and token +of the pain my persecuted heart is suffering. Oh, ye rural deities, +whoever ye be that haunt this lone spot, give ear to the complaint of a +wretched lover whom long absence and brooding jealousy have driven to +bewail his fate among these wilds and complain of the hard heart of +that fair and ungrateful one, the end and limit of all human beauty! +Oh, ye wood nymphs and dryads, that dwell in the thickets of the +forest, so may the nimble wanton satyrs by whom ye are vainly wooed +never disturb your sweet repose, help me to lament my hard fate or at +least weary not at listening to it! Oh, Dulcinea del Toboso, day of my +night, glory of my pain, guide of my path, star of my fortune, so may +Heaven grant thee in full all thou seekest of it, bethink thee of the +place and condition to which absence from thee has brought me, and make +that return in kindness that is due to my fidelity! Oh, lonely trees, +that from this day forward shall bear me company in my solitude, give +me some sign by the gentle movement of your boughs that my presence is +not distasteful to you! Oh, thou, my squire, pleasant companion in my +prosperous and adverse fortunes, fix well in thy memory what thou shalt +see me do here, so that thou mayest relate and report it to the sole +cause of all,” and so saying he dismounted from Rocinante, and in an +instant relieved him of saddle and bridle, and giving him a slap on the +croup, said, “He gives thee freedom who is bereft of it himself, oh +steed as excellent in deed as thou art unfortunate in thy lot; begone +where thou wilt, for thou bearest written on thy forehead that neither +Astolfo’s hippogriff, nor the famed Frontino that cost Bradamante so +dear, could equal thee in speed.” + +Seeing this Sancho said, “Good luck to him who has saved us the trouble +of stripping the pack-saddle off Dapple! By my faith he would not have +gone without a slap on the croup and something said in his praise; +though if he were here I would not let anyone strip him, for there +would be no occasion, as he had nothing of the lover or victim of +despair about him, inasmuch as his master, which I was while it was +God’s pleasure, was nothing of the sort; and indeed, Sir Knight of the +Rueful Countenance, if my departure and your worship’s madness are to +come off in earnest, it will be as well to saddle Rocinante again in +order that he may supply the want of Dapple, because it will save me +time in going and returning: for if I go on foot I don’t know when I +shall get there or when I shall get back, as I am, in truth, a bad +walker.” + +“I declare, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote, “it shall be as thou wilt, +for thy plan does not seem to me a bad one, and three days hence thou +wilt depart, for I wish thee to observe in the meantime what I do and +say for her sake, that thou mayest be able to tell it.” + +“But what more have I to see besides what I have seen?” said Sancho. + +“Much thou knowest about it!” said Don Quixote. “I have now got to tear +up my garments, to scatter about my armour, knock my head against these +rocks, and more of the same sort of thing, which thou must witness.” + +“For the love of God,” said Sancho, “be careful, your worship, how you +give yourself those knocks on the head, for you may come across such a +rock, and in such a way, that the very first may put an end to the +whole contrivance of this penance; and I should think, if indeed knocks +on the head seem necessary to you, and this business cannot be done +without them, you might be content—as the whole thing is feigned, and +counterfeit, and in joke—you might be content, I say, with giving them +to yourself in the water, or against something soft, like cotton; and +leave it all to me; for I’ll tell my lady that your worship knocked +your head against a point of rock harder than a diamond.” + +“I thank thee for thy good intentions, friend Sancho,” answered Don +Quixote, “but I would have thee know that all these things I am doing +are not in joke, but very much in earnest, for anything else would be a +transgression of the ordinances of chivalry, which forbid us to tell +any lie whatever under the penalties due to apostasy; and to do one +thing instead of another is just the same as lying; so my knocks on the +head must be real, solid, and valid, without anything sophisticated or +fanciful about them, and it will be needful to leave me some lint to +dress my wounds, since fortune has compelled us to do without the +balsam we lost.” + +“It was worse losing the ass,” replied Sancho, “for with him lint and +all were lost; but I beg of your worship not to remind me again of that +accursed liquor, for my soul, not to say my stomach, turns at hearing +the very name of it; and I beg of you, too, to reckon as past the three +days you allowed me for seeing the mad things you do, for I take them +as seen already and pronounced upon, and I will tell wonderful stories +to my lady; so write the letter and send me off at once, for I long to +return and take your worship out of this purgatory where I am leaving +you.” + +“Purgatory dost thou call it, Sancho?” said Don Quixote, “rather call +it hell, or even worse if there be anything worse.” + +“For one who is in hell,” said Sancho, “_nulla est retentio_, as I have +heard say.” + +“I do not understand what _retentio_ means,” said Don Quixote. + +“_Retentio_,” answered Sancho, “means that whoever is in hell never +comes nor can come out of it, which will be the opposite case with your +worship or my legs will be idle, that is if I have spurs to enliven +Rocinante: let me once get to El Toboso and into the presence of my +lady Dulcinea, and I will tell her such things of the follies and +madnesses (for it is all one) that your worship has done and is still +doing, that I will manage to make her softer than a glove though I find +her harder than a cork tree; and with her sweet and honeyed answer I +will come back through the air like a witch, and take your worship out +of this purgatory that seems to be hell but is not, as there is hope of +getting out of it; which, as I have said, those in hell have not, and I +believe your worship will not say anything to the contrary.” + +“That is true,” said he of the Rueful Countenance, “but how shall we +manage to write the letter?” + +“And the ass-colt order too,” added Sancho. + +“All shall be included,” said Don Quixote; “and as there is no paper, +it would be well done to write it on the leaves of trees, as the +ancients did, or on tablets of wax; though that would be as hard to +find just now as paper. But it has just occurred to me how it may be +conveniently and even more than conveniently written, and that is in +the notebook that belonged to Cardenio, and thou wilt take care to have +it copied on paper, in a good hand, at the first village thou comest to +where there is a schoolmaster, or if not, any sacristan will copy it; +but see thou give it not to any notary to copy, for they write a law +hand that Satan could not make out.” + +“But what is to be done about the signature?” said Sancho. + +“The letters of Amadis were never signed,” said Don Quixote. + +“That is all very well,” said Sancho, “but the order must needs be +signed, and if it is copied they will say the signature is false, and I +shall be left without ass-colts.” + +“The order shall go signed in the same book,” said Don Quixote, “and on +seeing it my niece will make no difficulty about obeying it; as to the +loveletter thou canst put by way of signature, ‘_Yours till death, the +Knight of the Rueful Countenance._’ And it will be no great matter if +it is in some other person’s hand, for as well as I recollect Dulcinea +can neither read nor write, nor in the whole course of her life has she +seen handwriting or letter of mine, for my love and hers have been +always platonic, not going beyond a modest look, and even that so +seldom that I can safely swear I have not seen her four times in all +these twelve years I have been loving her more than the light of these +eyes that the earth will one day devour; and perhaps even of those four +times she has not once perceived that I was looking at her: such is the +retirement and seclusion in which her father Lorenzo Corchuelo and her +mother Aldonza Nogales have brought her up.” + +“So, so!” said Sancho; “Lorenzo Corchuelo’s daughter is the lady +Dulcinea del Toboso, otherwise called Aldonza Lorenzo?” + +“She it is,” said Don Quixote, “and she it is that is worthy to be lady +of the whole universe.” + +“I know her well,” said Sancho, “and let me tell you she can fling a +crowbar as well as the lustiest lad in all the town. Giver of all good! +but she is a brave lass, and a right and stout one, and fit to be +helpmate to any knight-errant that is or is to be, who may make her his +lady: the whoreson wench, what sting she has and what a voice! I can +tell you one day she posted herself on the top of the belfry of the +village to call some labourers of theirs that were in a ploughed field +of her father’s, and though they were better than half a league off +they heard her as well as if they were at the foot of the tower; and +the best of her is that she is not a bit prudish, for she has plenty of +affability, and jokes with everybody, and has a grin and a jest for +everything. So, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, I say you not +only may and ought to do mad freaks for her sake, but you have a good +right to give way to despair and hang yourself; and no one who knows of +it but will say you did well, though the devil should take you; and I +wish I were on my road already, simply to see her, for it is many a day +since I saw her, and she must be altered by this time, for going about +the fields always, and the sun and the air spoil women’s looks greatly. +But I must own the truth to your worship, Señor Don Quixote; until now +I have been under a great mistake, for I believed truly and honestly +that the lady Dulcinea must be some princess your worship was in love +with, or some person great enough to deserve the rich presents you have +sent her, such as the Biscayan and the galley slaves, and many more no +doubt, for your worship must have won many victories in the time when I +was not yet your squire. But all things considered, what good can it do +the lady Aldonza Lorenzo, I mean the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, to have +the vanquished your worship sends or will send coming to her and going +down on their knees before her? Because maybe when they came she’d be +hackling flax or threshing on the threshing floor, and they’d be +ashamed to see her, and she’d laugh, or resent the present.” + +“I have before now told thee many times, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, +“that thou art a mighty great chatterer, and that with a blunt wit thou +art always striving at sharpness; but to show thee what a fool thou art +and how rational I am, I would have thee listen to a short story. Thou +must know that a certain widow, fair, young, independent, and rich, and +above all free and easy, fell in love with a sturdy strapping young +lay-brother; his superior came to know of it, and one day said to the +worthy widow by way of brotherly remonstrance, ‘I am surprised, señora, +and not without good reason, that a woman of such high standing, so +fair, and so rich as you are, should have fallen in love with such a +mean, low, stupid fellow as So-and-so, when in this house there are so +many masters, graduates, and divinity students from among whom you +might choose as if they were a lot of pears, saying, ‘This one I’ll +take, that I won’t take;’ but she replied to him with great +sprightliness and candour, ‘My dear sir, you are very much mistaken, +and your ideas are very old-fashioned, if you think that I have made a +bad choice in So-and-so, fool as he seems; because for all I want with +him he knows as much and more philosophy than Aristotle.’ In the same +way, Sancho, for all I want with Dulcinea del Toboso she is just as +good as the most exalted princess on earth. It is not to be supposed +that all those poets who sang the praises of ladies under the fancy +names they give them, had any such mistresses. Thinkest thou that the +Amarillises, the Phillises, the Sylvias, the Dianas, the Galateas, the +Fílidas, and all the rest of them, that the books, the ballads, the +barber’s shops, the theatres are full of, were really and truly ladies +of flesh and blood, and mistresses of those that glorify and have +glorified them? Nothing of the kind; they only invent them for the most +part to furnish a subject for their verses, and that they may pass for +lovers, or for men valiant enough to be so; and so it suffices me to +think and believe that the good Aldonza Lorenzo is fair and virtuous; +and as to her pedigree it is very little matter, for no one will +examine into it for the purpose of conferring any order upon her, and +I, for my part, reckon her the most exalted princess in the world. For +thou shouldst know, Sancho, if thou dost not know, that two things +alone beyond all others are incentives to love, and these are great +beauty and a good name, and these two things are to be found in +Dulcinea in the highest degree, for in beauty no one equals her and in +good name few approach her; and to put the whole thing in a nutshell, I +persuade myself that all I say is as I say, neither more nor less, and +I picture her in my imagination as I would have her to be, as well in +beauty as in condition; Helen approaches her not nor does Lucretia come +up to her, nor any other of the famous women of times past, Greek, +Barbarian, or Latin; and let each say what he will, for if in this I am +taken to task by the ignorant, I shall not be censured by the +critical.” + +“I say that your worship is entirely right,” said Sancho, “and that I +am an ass. But I know not how the name of ass came into my mouth, for a +rope is not to be mentioned in the house of him who has been hanged; +but now for the letter, and then, God be with you, I am off.” + +Don Quixote took out the notebook, and, retiring to one side, very +deliberately began to write the letter, and when he had finished it he +called to Sancho, saying he wished to read it to him, so that he might +commit it to memory, in case of losing it on the road; for with evil +fortune like his anything might be apprehended. To which Sancho +replied, “Write it two or three times there in the book and give it to +me, and I will carry it very carefully, because to expect me to keep it +in my memory is all nonsense, for I have such a bad one that I often +forget my own name; but for all that repeat it to me, as I shall like +to hear it, for surely it will run as if it was in print.” + +“Listen,” said Don Quixote, “this is what it says: + +_“Don Quixote’s Letter to Dulcinea del Toboso_ + + +“Sovereign and exalted Lady,—The pierced by the point of absence, the +wounded to the heart’s core, sends thee, sweetest Dulcinea del Toboso, +the health that he himself enjoys not. If thy beauty despises me, if +thy worth is not for me, if thy scorn is my affliction, though I be +sufficiently long-suffering, hardly shall I endure this anxiety, which, +besides being oppressive, is protracted. My good squire Sancho will +relate to thee in full, fair ingrate, dear enemy, the condition to +which I am reduced on thy account: if it be thy pleasure to give me +relief, I am thine; if not, do as may be pleasing to thee; for by +ending my life I shall satisfy thy cruelty and my desire. + “Thine till death, + “The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.” + + +“By the life of my father,” said Sancho, when he heard the letter, “it +is the loftiest thing I ever heard. Body of me! how your worship says +everything as you like in it! And how well you fit in ‘The Knight of +the Rueful Countenance’ into the signature. I declare your worship is +indeed the very devil, and there is nothing you don’t know.” + +“Everything is needed for the calling I follow,” said Don Quixote. + +“Now then,” said Sancho, “let your worship put the order for the three +ass-colts on the other side, and sign it very plainly, that they may +recognise it at first sight.” + +“With all my heart,” said Don Quixote, and as he had written it he read +it to this effect: + +“Mistress Niece,—By this first of ass-colts please pay to Sancho Panza, +my squire, three of the five I left at home in your charge: said three +ass-colts to be paid and delivered for the same number received here in +hand, which upon this and upon his receipt shall be duly paid. Done in +the heart of the Sierra Morena, the twenty-seventh of August of this +present year.” + + +“That will do,” said Sancho; “now let your worship sign it.” + +“There is no need to sign it,” said Don Quixote, “but merely to put my +flourish, which is the same as a signature, and enough for three asses, +or even three hundred.” + +“I can trust your worship,” returned Sancho; “let me go and saddle +Rocinante, and be ready to give me your blessing, for I mean to go at +once without seeing the fooleries your worship is going to do; I’ll say +I saw you do so many that she will not want any more.” + +“At any rate, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “I should like—and there is +reason for it—I should like thee, I say, to see me stripped to the skin +and performing a dozen or two of insanities, which I can get done in +less than half an hour; for having seen them with thine own eyes, thou +canst then safely swear to the rest that thou wouldst add; and I +promise thee thou wilt not tell of as many as I mean to perform.” + +“For the love of God, master mine,” said Sancho, “let me not see your +worship stripped, for it will sorely grieve me, and I shall not be able +to keep from tears, and my head aches so with all I shed last night for +Dapple, that I am not fit to begin any fresh weeping; but if it is your +worship’s pleasure that I should see some insanities, do them in your +clothes, short ones, and such as come readiest to hand; for I myself +want nothing of the sort, and, as I have said, it will be a saving of +time for my return, which will be with the news your worship desires +and deserves. If not, let the lady Dulcinea look to it; if she does not +answer reasonably, I swear as solemnly as I can that I will fetch a +fair answer out of her stomach with kicks and cuffs; for why should it +be borne that a knight-errant as famous as your worship should go mad +without rhyme or reason for a—? Her ladyship had best not drive me to +say it, for by God I will speak out and let off everything cheap, even +if it doesn’t sell: I am pretty good at that! she little knows me; +faith, if she knew me she’d be in awe of me.” + +“In faith, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “to all appearance thou art no +sounder in thy wits than I.” + +“I am not so mad,” answered Sancho, “but I am more peppery; but apart +from all this, what has your worship to eat until I come back? Will you +sally out on the road like Cardenio to force it from the shepherds?” + +“Let not that anxiety trouble thee,” replied Don Quixote, “for even if +I had it I should not eat anything but the herbs and the fruits which +this meadow and these trees may yield me; the beauty of this business +of mine lies in not eating, and in performing other mortifications.” + +“Do you know what I am afraid of?” said Sancho upon this; “that I shall +not be able to find my way back to this spot where I am leaving you, it +is such an out-of-the-way place.” + +“Observe the landmarks well,” said Don Quixote, “for I will try not to +go far from this neighbourhood, and I will even take care to mount the +highest of these rocks to see if I can discover thee returning; +however, not to miss me and lose thyself, the best plan will be to cut +some branches of the broom that is so abundant about here, and as thou +goest to lay them at intervals until thou hast come out upon the plain; +these will serve thee, after the fashion of the clue in the labyrinth +of Theseus, as marks and signs for finding me on thy return.” + +“So I will,” said Sancho Panza, and having cut some, he asked his +master’s blessing, and not without many tears on both sides, took his +leave of him, and mounting Rocinante, of whom Don Quixote charged him +earnestly to have as much care as of his own person, he set out for the +plain, strewing at intervals the branches of broom as his master had +recommended him; and so he went his way, though Don Quixote still +entreated him to see him do were it only a couple of mad acts. He had +not gone a hundred paces, however, when he returned and said: + +“I must say, señor, your worship said quite right, that in order to be +able to swear without a weight on my conscience that I had seen you do +mad things, it would be well for me to see if it were only one; though +in your worship’s remaining here I have seen a very great one.” + + + +c25c.jpg (261K) + +Full Size + + + + +“Did I not tell thee so?” said Don Quixote. “Wait, Sancho, and I will +do them in the saying of a credo,” and pulling off his breeches in all +haste he stripped himself to his skin and his shirt, and then, without +more ado, he cut a couple of gambados in the air, and a couple of +somersaults, heels over head, making such a display that, not to see it +a second time, Sancho wheeled Rocinante round, and felt easy, and +satisfied in his mind that he could swear he had left his master mad; +and so we will leave him to follow his road until his return, which was +a quick one. + + + +c25e.jpg (20K) + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. +IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE REFINEMENTS WHEREWITH DON QUIXOTE PLAYED THE +PART OF A LOVER IN THE SIERRA MORENA + + + + +c26a.jpg (111K) + +Full Size + + + + +Returning to the proceedings of him of the Rueful Countenance when he +found himself alone, the history says that when Don Quixote had +completed the performance of the somersaults or capers, naked from the +waist down and clothed from the waist up, and saw that Sancho had gone +off without waiting to see any more crazy feats, he climbed up to the +top of a high rock, and there set himself to consider what he had +several times before considered without ever coming to any conclusion +on the point, namely whether it would be better and more to his purpose +to imitate the outrageous madness of Roland, or the melancholy madness +of Amadis; and communing with himself he said: + +“What wonder is it if Roland was so good a knight and so valiant as +everyone says he was, when, after all, he was enchanted, and nobody +could kill him save by thrusting a corking pin into the sole of his +foot, and he always wore shoes with seven iron soles? Though cunning +devices did not avail him against Bernardo del Carpio, who knew all +about them, and strangled him in his arms at Roncesvalles. But putting +the question of his valour aside, let us come to his losing his wits, +for certain it is that he did lose them in consequence of the proofs he +discovered at the fountain, and the intelligence the shepherd gave him +of Angelica having slept more than two siestas with Medoro, a little +curly-headed Moor, and page to Agramante. If he was persuaded that this +was true, and that his lady had wronged him, it is no wonder that he +should have gone mad; but I, how am I to imitate him in his madness, +unless I can imitate him in the cause of it? For my Dulcinea, I will +venture to swear, never saw a Moor in her life, as he is, in his proper +costume, and she is this day as the mother that bore her, and I should +plainly be doing her a wrong if, fancying anything else, I were to go +mad with the same kind of madness as Roland the Furious. On the other +hand, I see that Amadis of Gaul, without losing his senses and without +doing anything mad, acquired as a lover as much fame as the most +famous; for, according to his history, on finding himself rejected by +his lady Oriana, who had ordered him not to appear in her presence +until it should be her pleasure, all he did was to retire to the Peña +Pobre in company with a hermit, and there he took his fill of weeping +until Heaven sent him relief in the midst of his great grief and need. +And if this be true, as it is, why should I now take the trouble to +strip stark naked, or do mischief to these trees which have done me no +harm, or why am I to disturb the clear waters of these brooks which +will give me to drink whenever I have a mind? Long live the memory of +Amadis and let him be imitated so far as is possible by Don Quixote of +La Mancha, of whom it will be said, as was said of the other, that if +he did not achieve great things, he died in attempting them; and if I +am not repulsed or rejected by my Dulcinea, it is enough for me, as I +have said, to be absent from her. And so, now to business; come to my +memory ye deeds of Amadis, and show me how I am to begin to imitate +you. I know already that what he chiefly did was to pray and commend +himself to God; but what am I to do for a rosary, for I have not got +one?” + +And then it occurred to him how he might make one, and that was by +tearing a great strip off the tail of his shirt which hung down, and +making eleven knots on it, one bigger than the rest, and this served +him for a rosary all the time he was there, during which he repeated +countless ave-marias. But what distressed him greatly was not having +another hermit there to confess him and receive consolation from; and +so he solaced himself with pacing up and down the little meadow, and +writing and carving on the bark of the trees and on the fine sand a +multitude of verses all in harmony with his sadness, and some in praise +of Dulcinea; but, when he was found there afterwards, the only ones +completely legible that could be discovered were those that follow +here: + +Ye on the mountainside that grow, +Ye green things all, trees, shrubs, and bushes, +Are ye aweary of the woe +That this poor aching bosom crushes? +If it disturb you, and I owe +Some reparation, it may be a +Defence for me to let you know +Don Quixote’s tears are on the flow, +And all for distant Dulcinea +Del Toboso. + +The lealest lover time can show, +Doomed for a lady-love to languish, +Among these solitudes doth go, +A prey to every kind of anguish. +Why Love should like a spiteful foe +Thus use him, he hath no idea, +But hogsheads full—this doth he know— +Don Quixote’s tears are on the flow, +And all for distant Dulcinea +Del Toboso. + +Adventure-seeking doth he go +Up rugged heights, down rocky valleys, +But hill or dale, or high or low, +Mishap attendeth all his sallies: +Love still pursues him to and fro, +And plies his cruel scourge—ah me! a +Relentless fate, an endless woe; +Don Quixote’s tears are on the flow, +And all for distant Dulcinea +Del Toboso. + + +The addition of “Del Toboso” to Dulcinea’s name gave rise to no little +laughter among those who found the above lines, for they suspected Don +Quixote must have fancied that unless he added “del Toboso” when he +introduced the name of Dulcinea the verse would be unintelligible; +which was indeed the fact, as he himself afterwards admitted. He wrote +many more, but, as has been said, these three verses were all that +could be plainly and perfectly deciphered. In this way, and in sighing +and calling on the fauns and satyrs of the woods and the nymphs of the +streams, and Echo, moist and mournful, to answer, console, and hear +him, as well as in looking for herbs to sustain him, he passed his time +until Sancho’s return; and had that been delayed three weeks, as it was +three days, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance would have worn such +an altered countenance that the mother that bore him would not have +known him: and here it will be well to leave him, wrapped up in sighs +and verses, to relate how Sancho Panza fared on his mission. + +As for him, coming out upon the high road, he made for El Toboso, and +the next day reached the inn where the mishap of the blanket had +befallen him. As soon as he recognised it he felt as if he were once +more living through the air, and he could not bring himself to enter it +though it was an hour when he might well have done so, for it was +dinner-time, and he longed to taste something hot as it had been all +cold fare with him for many days past. This craving drove him to draw +near to the inn, still undecided whether to go in or not, and as he was +hesitating there came out two persons who at once recognised him, and +said one to the other: + +“Señor licentiate, is not he on the horse there Sancho Panza who, our +adventurer’s housekeeper told us, went off with her master as esquire?” + +“So it is,” said the licentiate, “and that is our friend Don Quixote’s +horse;” and if they knew him so well it was because they were the +curate and the barber of his own village, the same who had carried out +the scrutiny and sentence upon the books; and as soon as they +recognised Sancho Panza and Rocinante, being anxious to hear of Don +Quixote, they approached, and calling him by his name the curate said, +“Friend Sancho Panza, where is your master?” + +Sancho recognised them at once, and determined to keep secret the place +and circumstances where and under which he had left his master, so he +replied that his master was engaged in a certain quarter on a certain +matter of great importance to him which he could not disclose for the +eyes in his head. + +“Nay, nay,” said the barber, “if you don’t tell us where he is, Sancho +Panza, we will suspect as we suspect already, that you have murdered +and robbed him, for here you are mounted on his horse; in fact, you +must produce the master of the hack, or else take the consequences.” + +“There is no need of threats with me,” said Sancho, “for I am not a man +to rob or murder anybody; let his own fate, or God who made him, kill +each one; my master is engaged very much to his taste doing penance in +the midst of these mountains;” and then, offhand and without stopping, +he told them how he had left him, what adventures had befallen him, and +how he was carrying a letter to the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, the +daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo, with whom he was over head and ears in +love. They were both amazed at what Sancho Panza told them; for though +they were aware of Don Quixote’s madness and the nature of it, each +time they heard of it they were filled with fresh wonder. They then +asked Sancho Panza to show them the letter he was carrying to the lady +Dulcinea del Toboso. He said it was written in a notebook, and that his +master’s directions were that he should have it copied on paper at the +first village he came to. On this the curate said if he showed it to +him, he himself would make a fair copy of it. Sancho put his hand into +his bosom in search of the notebook but could not find it, nor, if he +had been searching until now, could he have found it, for Don Quixote +had kept it, and had never given it to him, nor had he himself thought +of asking for it. When Sancho discovered he could not find the book his +face grew deadly pale, and in great haste he again felt his body all +over, and seeing plainly it was not to be found, without more ado he +seized his beard with both hands and plucked away half of it, and then, +as quick as he could and without stopping, gave himself half a dozen +cuffs on the face and nose till they were bathed in blood. + +Seeing this, the curate and the barber asked him what had happened him +that he gave himself such rough treatment. + +“What should happen to me?” replied Sancho, “but to have lost from one +hand to the other, in a moment, three ass-colts, each of them like a +castle?” + +“How is that?” said the barber. + +“I have lost the notebook,” said Sancho, “that contained the letter to +Dulcinea, and an order signed by my master in which he directed his +niece to give me three ass-colts out of four or five he had at home;” +and he then told them about the loss of Dapple. + +The curate consoled him, telling him that when his master was found he +would get him to renew the order, and make a fresh draft on paper, as +was usual and customary; for those made in notebooks were never +accepted or honoured. + +Sancho comforted himself with this, and said if that were so the loss +of Dulcinea’s letter did not trouble him much, for he had it almost by +heart, and it could be taken down from him wherever and whenever they +liked. + +“Repeat it then, Sancho,” said the barber, “and we will write it down +afterwards.” + +Sancho Panza stopped to scratch his head to bring back the letter to +his memory, and balanced himself now on one foot, now the other, one +moment staring at the ground, the next at the sky, and after having +half gnawed off the end of a finger and kept them in suspense waiting +for him to begin, he said, after a long pause, “By God, señor +licentiate, devil a thing can I recollect of the letter; but it said at +the beginning, ‘Exalted and scrubbing Lady.’” + +“It cannot have said ‘scrubbing,’” said the barber, “but ‘superhuman’ +or ‘sovereign.’” + +“That is it,” said Sancho; “then, as well as I remember, it went on, +‘The wounded, and wanting of sleep, and the pierced, kisses your +worship’s hands, ungrateful and very unrecognised fair one; and it said +something or other about health and sickness that he was sending her; +and from that it went tailing off until it ended with ‘Yours till +death, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.’” + +It gave them no little amusement, both of them, to see what a good +memory Sancho had, and they complimented him greatly upon it, and +begged him to repeat the letter a couple of times more, so that they +too might get it by heart to write it out by-and-by. Sancho repeated it +three times, and as he did, uttered three thousand more absurdities; +then he told them more about his master but he never said a word about +the blanketing that had befallen himself in that inn, into which he +refused to enter. He told them, moreover, how his lord, if he brought +him a favourable answer from the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, was to put +himself in the way of endeavouring to become an emperor, or at least a +monarch; for it had been so settled between them, and with his personal +worth and the might of his arm it was an easy matter to come to be one: +and how on becoming one his lord was to make a marriage for him (for he +would be a widower by that time, as a matter of course) and was to give +him as a wife one of the damsels of the empress, the heiress of some +rich and grand state on the mainland, having nothing to do with islands +of any sort, for he did not care for them now. All this Sancho +delivered with so much composure—wiping his nose from time to time—and +with so little common-sense that his two hearers were again filled with +wonder at the force of Don Quixote’s madness that could run away with +this poor man’s reason. They did not care to take the trouble of +disabusing him of his error, as they considered that since it did not +in any way hurt his conscience it would be better to leave him in it, +and they would have all the more amusement in listening to his +simplicities; and so they bade him pray to God for his lord’s health, +as it was a very likely and a very feasible thing for him in course of +time to come to be an emperor, as he said, or at least an archbishop or +some other dignitary of equal rank. + +To which Sancho made answer, “If fortune, sirs, should bring things +about in such a way that my master should have a mind, instead of being +an emperor, to be an archbishop, I should like to know what +archbishops-errant commonly give their squires?” + +“They commonly give them,” said the curate, some simple benefice or +cure, or some place as sacristan which brings them a good fixed income, +not counting the altar fees, which may be reckoned at as much more.” + +“But for that,” said Sancho, “the squire must be unmarried, and must +know, at any rate, how to help at mass, and if that be so, woe is me, +for I am married already and I don’t know the first letter of the A B +C. What will become of me if my master takes a fancy to be an +archbishop and not an emperor, as is usual and customary with +knights-errant?” + +“Be not uneasy, friend Sancho,” said the barber, “for we will entreat +your master, and advise him, even urging it upon him as a case of +conscience, to become an emperor and not an archbishop, because it will +be easier for him as he is more valiant than lettered.” + +“So I have thought,” said Sancho; “though I can tell you he is fit for +anything: what I mean to do for my part is to pray to our Lord to place +him where it may be best for him, and where he may be able to bestow +most favours upon me.” + +“You speak like a man of sense,” said the curate, “and you will be +acting like a good Christian; but what must now be done is to take +steps to coax your master out of that useless penance you say he is +performing; and we had best turn into this inn to consider what plan to +adopt, and also to dine, for it is now time.” + +Sancho said they might go in, but that he would wait there outside, and +that he would tell them afterwards the reason why he was unwilling, and +why it did not suit him to enter it; but he begged them to bring him +out something to eat, and to let it be hot, and also to bring barley +for Rocinante. They left him and went in, and presently the barber +brought him out something to eat. By-and-by, after they had between +them carefully thought over what they should do to carry out their +object, the curate hit upon an idea very well adapted to humour Don +Quixote, and effect their purpose; and his notion, which he explained +to the barber, was that he himself should assume the disguise of a +wandering damsel, while the other should try as best he could to pass +for a squire, and that they should thus proceed to where Don Quixote +was, and he, pretending to be an aggrieved and distressed damsel, +should ask a favour of him, which as a valiant knight-errant he could +not refuse to grant; and the favour he meant to ask him was that he +should accompany her whither she would conduct him, in order to redress +a wrong which a wicked knight had done her, while at the same time she +should entreat him not to require her to remove her mask, nor ask her +any question touching her circumstances until he had righted her with +the wicked knight. And he had no doubt that Don Quixote would comply +with any request made in these terms, and that in this way they might +remove him and take him to his own village, where they would endeavour +to find out if his extraordinary madness admitted of any kind of +remedy. + + + +c26e.jpg (48K) + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. +OF HOW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER PROCEEDED WITH THEIR SCHEME; TOGETHER +WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF RECORD IN THIS GREAT HISTORY + + + + +c27a.jpg (169K) + +Full Size + + + + +The curate’s plan did not seem a bad one to the barber, but on the +contrary so good that they immediately set about putting it in +execution. They begged a petticoat and hood of the landlady, leaving +her in pledge a new cassock of the curate’s; and the barber made a +beard out of a grey-brown or red ox-tail in which the landlord used to +stick his comb. The landlady asked them what they wanted these things +for, and the curate told her in a few words about the madness of Don +Quixote, and how this disguise was intended to get him away from the +mountain where he then was. The landlord and landlady immediately came +to the conclusion that the madman was their guest, the balsam man and +master of the blanketed squire, and they told the curate all that had +passed between him and them, not omitting what Sancho had been so +silent about. Finally the landlady dressed up the curate in a style +that left nothing to be desired; she put on him a cloth petticoat with +black velvet stripes a palm broad, all slashed, and a bodice of green +velvet set off by a binding of white satin, which as well as the +petticoat must have been made in the time of king Wamba. The curate +would not let them hood him, but put on his head a little quilted linen +cap which he used for a night-cap, and bound his forehead with a strip +of black silk, while with another he made a mask with which he +concealed his beard and face very well. He then put on his hat, which +was broad enough to serve him for an umbrella, and enveloping himself +in his cloak seated himself woman-fashion on his mule, while the barber +mounted his with a beard down to the waist of mingled red and white, +for it was, as has been said, the tail of a clay-red ox. + +They took leave of all, and of the good Maritornes, who, sinner as she +was, promised to pray a rosary of prayers that God might grant them +success in such an arduous and Christian undertaking as that they had +in hand. But hardly had he sallied forth from the inn when it struck +the curate that he was doing wrong in rigging himself out in that +fashion, as it was an indecorous thing for a priest to dress himself +that way even though much might depend upon it; and saying so to the +barber he begged him to change dresses, as it was fitter he should be +the distressed damsel, while he himself would play the squire’s part, +which would be less derogatory to his dignity; otherwise he was +resolved to have nothing more to do with the matter, and let the devil +take Don Quixote. Just at this moment Sancho came up, and on seeing the +pair in such a costume he was unable to restrain his laughter; the +barber, however, agreed to do as the curate wished, and, altering their +plan, the curate went on to instruct him how to play his part and what +to say to Don Quixote to induce and compel him to come with them and +give up his fancy for the place he had chosen for his idle penance. The +barber told him he could manage it properly without any instruction, +and as he did not care to dress himself up until they were near where +Don Quixote was, he folded up the garments, and the curate adjusted his +beard, and they set out under the guidance of Sancho Panza, who went +along telling them of the encounter with the madman they met in the +Sierra, saying nothing, however, about the finding of the valise and +its contents; for with all his simplicity the lad was a trifle +covetous. + +The next day they reached the place where Sancho had laid the +broom-branches as marks to direct him to where he had left his master, +and recognising it he told them that here was the entrance, and that +they would do well to dress themselves, if that was required to deliver +his master; for they had already told him that going in this guise and +dressing in this way were of the highest importance in order to rescue +his master from the pernicious life he had adopted; and they charged +him strictly not to tell his master who they were, or that he knew +them, and should he ask, as ask he would, if he had given the letter to +Dulcinea, to say that he had, and that, as she did not know how to +read, she had given an answer by word of mouth, saying that she +commanded him, on pain of her displeasure, to come and see her at once; +and it was a very important matter for himself, because in this way and +with what they meant to say to him they felt sure of bringing him back +to a better mode of life and inducing him to take immediate steps to +become an emperor or monarch, for there was no fear of his becoming an +archbishop. All this Sancho listened to and fixed it well in his +memory, and thanked them heartily for intending to recommend his master +to be an emperor instead of an archbishop, for he felt sure that in the +way of bestowing rewards on their squires emperors could do more than +archbishops-errant. He said, too, that it would be as well for him to +go on before them to find him, and give him his lady’s answer; for that +perhaps might be enough to bring him away from the place without +putting them to all this trouble. They approved of what Sancho +proposed, and resolved to wait for him until he brought back word of +having found his master. + +Sancho pushed on into the glens of the Sierra, leaving them in one +through which there flowed a little gentle rivulet, and where the rocks +and trees afforded a cool and grateful shade. It was an August day with +all the heat of one, and the heat in those parts is intense, and the +hour was three in the afternoon, all which made the spot the more +inviting and tempted them to wait there for Sancho’s return, which they +did. They were reposing, then, in the shade, when a voice unaccompanied +by the notes of any instrument, but sweet and pleasing in its tone, +reached their ears, at which they were not a little astonished, as the +place did not seem to them likely quarters for one who sang so well; +for though it is often said that shepherds of rare voice are to be +found in the woods and fields, this is rather a flight of the poet’s +fancy than the truth. And still more surprised were they when they +perceived that what they heard sung were the verses not of rustic +shepherds, but of the polished wits of the city; and so it proved, for +the verses they heard were these: + +What makes my quest of happiness seem vain? +Disdain. +What bids me to abandon hope of ease? +Jealousies. +What holds my heart in anguish of suspense? +Absence. +If that be so, then for my grief +Where shall I turn to seek relief, +When hope on every side lies slain +By Absence, Jealousies, Disdain? + +What the prime cause of all my woe doth prove? +Love. +What at my glory ever looks askance? +Chance. +Whence is permission to afflict me given? +Heaven. +If that be so, I but await +The stroke of a resistless fate, +Since, working for my woe, these three, +Love, Chance and Heaven, in league I see. + +What must I do to find a remedy? +Die. +What is the lure for love when coy and strange? +Change. +What, if all fail, will cure the heart of sadness? +Madness. +If that be so, it is but folly +To seek a cure for melancholy: +Ask where it lies; the answer saith +In Change, in Madness, or in Death. + + +The hour, the summer season, the solitary place, the voice and skill of +the singer, all contributed to the wonder and delight of the two +listeners, who remained still waiting to hear something more; finding, +however, that the silence continued some little time, they resolved to +go in search of the musician who sang with so fine a voice; but just as +they were about to do so they were checked by the same voice, which +once more fell upon their ears, singing this + +SONNET + +When heavenward, holy Friendship, thou didst go +Soaring to seek thy home beyond the sky, +And take thy seat among the saints on high, +It was thy will to leave on earth below +Thy semblance, and upon it to bestow +Thy veil, wherewith at times hypocrisy, +Parading in thy shape, deceives the eye, +And makes its vileness bright as virtue show. +Friendship, return to us, or force the cheat +That wears it now, thy livery to restore, +By aid whereof sincerity is slain. +If thou wilt not unmask thy counterfeit, +This earth will be the prey of strife once more, +As when primæval discord held its reign. + + +The song ended with a deep sigh, and again the listeners remained +waiting attentively for the singer to resume; but perceiving that the +music had now turned to sobs and heart-rending moans they determined to +find out who the unhappy being could be whose voice was as rare as his +sighs were piteous, and they had not proceeded far when on turning the +corner of a rock they discovered a man of the same aspect and +appearance as Sancho had described to them when he told them the story +of Cardenio. He, showing no astonishment when he saw them, stood still +with his head bent down upon his breast like one in deep thought, +without raising his eyes to look at them after the first glance when +they suddenly came upon him. The curate, who was aware of his +misfortune and recognised him by the description, being a man of good +address, approached him and in a few sensible words entreated and urged +him to quit a life of such misery, lest he should end it there, which +would be the greatest of all misfortunes. Cardenio was then in his +right mind, free from any attack of that madness which so frequently +carried him away, and seeing them dressed in a fashion so unusual among +the frequenters of those wilds, could not help showing some surprise, +especially when he heard them speak of his case as if it were a +well-known matter (for the curate’s words gave him to understand as +much) so he replied to them thus: + +“I see plainly, sirs, whoever you may be, that Heaven, whose care it is +to succour the good, and even the wicked very often, here, in this +remote spot, cut off from human intercourse, sends me, though I deserve +it not, those who seek to draw me away from this to some better +retreat, showing me by many and forcible arguments how unreasonably I +act in leading the life I do; but as they know, that if I escape from +this evil I shall fall into another still greater, perhaps they will +set me down as a weak-minded man, or, what is worse, one devoid of +reason; nor would it be any wonder, for I myself can perceive that the +effect of the recollection of my misfortunes is so great and works so +powerfully to my ruin, that in spite of myself I become at times like a +stone, without feeling or consciousness; and I come to feel the truth +of it when they tell me and show me proofs of the things I have done +when the terrible fit overmasters me; and all I can do is bewail my lot +in vain, and idly curse my destiny, and plead for my madness by telling +how it was caused, to any that care to hear it; for no reasonable +beings on learning the cause will wonder at the effects; and if they +cannot help me at least they will not blame me, and the repugnance they +feel at my wild ways will turn into pity for my woes. If it be, sirs, +that you are here with the same design as others have come with, before +you proceed with your wise arguments, I entreat you to hear the story +of my countless misfortunes, for perhaps when you have heard it you +will spare yourselves the trouble you would take in offering +consolation to grief that is beyond the reach of it.” + +As they, both of them, desired nothing more than to hear from his own +lips the cause of his suffering, they entreated him to tell it, +promising not to do anything for his relief or comfort that he did not +wish; and thereupon the unhappy gentleman began his sad story in nearly +the same words and manner in which he had related it to Don Quixote and +the goatherd a few days before, when, through Master Elisabad, and Don +Quixote’s scrupulous observance of what was due to chivalry, the tale +was left unfinished, as this history has already recorded; but now +fortunately the mad fit kept off, allowed him to tell it to the end; +and so, coming to the incident of the note which Don Fernando had found +in the volume of “Amadis of Gaul,” Cardenio said that he remembered it +perfectly and that it was in these words: + +“_Luscinda to Cardenio._ + + +“Every day I discover merits in you that oblige and compel me to hold +you in higher estimation; so if you desire to relieve me of this +obligation without cost to my honour, you may easily do so. I have a +father who knows you and loves me dearly, who without putting any +constraint on my inclination will grant what will be reasonable for you +to have, if it be that you value me as you say and as I believe you +do.” + + +“By this letter I was induced, as I told you, to demand Luscinda for my +wife, and it was through it that Luscinda came to be regarded by Don +Fernando as one of the most discreet and prudent women of the day, and +this letter it was that suggested his design of ruining me before mine +could be carried into effect. I told Don Fernando that all Luscinda’s +father was waiting for was that mine should ask her of him, which I did +not dare to suggest to him, fearing that he would not consent to do so; +not because he did not know perfectly well the rank, goodness, virtue, +and beauty of Luscinda, and that she had qualities that would do honour +to any family in Spain, but because I was aware that he did not wish me +to marry so soon, before seeing what the Duke Ricardo would do for me. +In short, I told him I did not venture to mention it to my father, as +well on account of that difficulty, as of many others that discouraged +me though I knew not well what they were, only that it seemed to me +that what I desired was never to come to pass. To all this Don Fernando +answered that he would take it upon himself to speak to my father, and +persuade him to speak to Luscinda’s father. O, ambitious Marius! O, +cruel Catiline! O, wicked Sylla! O, perfidious Ganelon! O, treacherous +Vellido! O, vindictive Julian! O, covetous Judas! Traitor, cruel, +vindictive, and perfidious, wherein had this poor wretch failed in his +fidelity, who with such frankness showed thee the secrets and the joys +of his heart? What offence did I commit? What words did I utter, or +what counsels did I give that had not the furtherance of thy honour and +welfare for their aim? But, woe is me, wherefore do I complain? for +sure it is that when misfortunes spring from the stars, descending from +on high they fall upon us with such fury and violence that no power on +earth can check their course nor human device stay their coming. Who +could have thought that Don Fernando, a highborn gentleman, +intelligent, bound to me by gratitude for my services, one that could +win the object of his love wherever he might set his affections, could +have become so obdurate, as they say, as to rob me of my one ewe lamb +that was not even yet in my possession? But laying aside these useless +and unavailing reflections, let us take up the broken thread of my +unhappy story. + +“To proceed, then: Don Fernando finding my presence an obstacle to the +execution of his treacherous and wicked design, resolved to send me to +his elder brother under the pretext of asking money from him to pay for +six horses which, purposely, and with the sole object of sending me +away that he might the better carry out his infernal scheme, he had +purchased the very day he offered to speak to my father, and the price +of which he now desired me to fetch. Could I have anticipated this +treachery? Could I by any chance have suspected it? Nay; so far from +that, I offered with the greatest pleasure to go at once, in my +satisfaction at the good bargain that had been made. That night I spoke +with Luscinda, and told her what had been agreed upon with Don +Fernando, and how I had strong hopes of our fair and reasonable wishes +being realised. She, as unsuspicious as I was of the treachery of Don +Fernando, bade me try to return speedily, as she believed the +fulfilment of our desires would be delayed only so long as my father +put off speaking to hers. I know not why it was that on saying this to +me her eyes filled with tears, and there came a lump in her throat that +prevented her from uttering a word of many more that it seemed to me +she was striving to say to me. I was astonished at this unusual turn, +which I never before observed in her, for we always conversed, whenever +good fortune and my ingenuity gave us the chance, with the greatest +gaiety and cheerfulness, mingling tears, sighs, jealousies, doubts, or +fears with our words; it was all on my part a eulogy of my good fortune +that Heaven should have given her to me for my mistress; I glorified +her beauty, I extolled her worth and her understanding; and she paid me +back by praising in me what in her love for me she thought worthy of +praise; and besides we had a hundred thousand trifles and doings of our +neighbours and acquaintances to talk about, and the utmost extent of my +boldness was to take, almost by force, one of her fair white hands and +carry it to my lips, as well as the closeness of the low grating that +separated us allowed me. But the night before the unhappy day of my +departure she wept, she moaned, she sighed, and she withdrew leaving me +filled with perplexity and amazement, overwhelmed at the sight of such +strange and affecting signs of grief and sorrow in Luscinda; but not to +dash my hopes I ascribed it all to the depth of her love for me and the +pain that separation gives those who love tenderly. At last I took my +departure, sad and dejected, my heart filled with fancies and +suspicions, but not knowing well what it was I suspected or fancied; +plain omens pointing to the sad event and misfortune that was awaiting +me. + +“I reached the place whither I had been sent, gave the letter to Don +Fernando’s brother, and was kindly received but not promptly dismissed, +for he desired me to wait, very much against my will, eight days in +some place where the duke his father was not likely to see me, as his +brother wrote that the money was to be sent without his knowledge; all +of which was a scheme of the treacherous Don Fernando, for his brother +had no want of money to enable him to despatch me at once. + +“The command was one that exposed me to the temptation of disobeying +it, as it seemed to me impossible to endure life for so many days +separated from Luscinda, especially after leaving her in the sorrowful +mood I have described to you; nevertheless as a dutiful servant I +obeyed, though I felt it would be at the cost of my well-being. But +four days later there came a man in quest of me with a letter which he +gave me, and which by the address I perceived to be from Luscinda, as +the writing was hers. I opened it with fear and trepidation, persuaded +that it must be something serious that had impelled her to write to me +when at a distance, as she seldom did so when I was near. Before +reading it I asked the man who it was that had given it to him, and how +long he had been upon the road; he told me that as he happened to be +passing through one of the streets of the city at the hour of noon, a +very beautiful lady called to him from a window, and with tears in her +eyes said to him hurriedly, ‘Brother, if you are, as you seem to be, a +Christian, for the love of God I entreat you to have this letter +despatched without a moment’s delay to the place and person named in +the address, all which is well known, and by this you will render a +great service to our Lord; and that you may be at no inconvenience in +doing so take what is in this handkerchief;’ and said he, ‘with this +she threw me a handkerchief out of the window in which were tied up a +hundred reals and this gold ring which I bring here together with the +letter I have given you. And then without waiting for any answer she +left the window, though not before she saw me take the letter and the +handkerchief, and I had by signs let her know that I would do as she +bade me; and so, seeing myself so well paid for the trouble I would +have in bringing it to you, and knowing by the address that it was to +you it was sent (for, señor, I know you very well), and also unable to +resist that beautiful lady’s tears, I resolved to trust no one else, +but to come myself and give it to you, and in sixteen hours from the +time when it was given me I have made the journey, which, as you know, +is eighteen leagues.’ + +“All the while the good-natured improvised courier was telling me this, +I hung upon his words, my legs trembling under me so that I could +scarcely stand. However, I opened the letter and read these words: + +The promise Don Fernando gave you to urge your father to speak to mine, +he has fulfilled much more to his own satisfaction than to your +advantage. I have to tell you, señor, that he has demanded me for a +wife, and my father, led away by what he considers Don Fernando’s +superiority over you, has favoured his suit so cordially, that in two +days hence the betrothal is to take place with such secrecy and so +privately that the only witnesses are to be the Heavens above and a few +of the household. Picture to yourself the state I am in; judge if it be +urgent for you to come; the issue of the affair will show you whether I +love you or not. God grant this may come to your hand before mine shall +be forced to link itself with his who keeps so ill the faith that he +has pledged. + + +“Such, in brief, were the words of the letter, words that made me set +out at once without waiting any longer for reply or money; for I now +saw clearly that it was not the purchase of horses but of his own +pleasure that had made Don Fernando send me to his brother. The +exasperation I felt against Don Fernando, joined with the fear of +losing the prize I had won by so many years of love and devotion, lent +me wings; so that almost flying I reached home the same day, by the +hour which served for speaking with Luscinda. I arrived unobserved, and +left the mule on which I had come at the house of the worthy man who +had brought me the letter, and fortune was pleased to be for once so +kind that I found Luscinda at the grating that was the witness of our +loves. She recognised me at once, and I her, but not as she ought to +have recognised me, or I her. But who is there in the world that can +boast of having fathomed or understood the wavering mind and unstable +nature of a woman? Of a truth no one. To proceed: as soon as Luscinda +saw me she said, ‘Cardenio, I am in my bridal dress, and the +treacherous Don Fernando and my covetous father are waiting for me in +the hall with the other witnesses, who shall be the witnesses of my +death before they witness my betrothal. Be not distressed, my friend, +but contrive to be present at this sacrifice, and if that cannot be +prevented by my words, I have a dagger concealed which will prevent +more deliberate violence, putting an end to my life and giving thee a +first proof of the love I have borne and bear thee.’ I replied to her +distractedly and hastily, in fear lest I should not have time to reply, +‘May thy words be verified by thy deeds, lady; and if thou hast a +dagger to save thy honour, I have a sword to defend thee or kill myself +if fortune be against us.’ + +“I think she could not have heard all these words, for I perceived that +they called her away in haste, as the bridegroom was waiting. Now the +night of my sorrow set in, the sun of my happiness went down, I felt my +eyes bereft of sight, my mind of reason. I could not enter the house, +nor was I capable of any movement; but reflecting how important it was +that I should be present at what might take place on the occasion, I +nerved myself as best I could and went in, for I well knew all the +entrances and outlets; and besides, with the confusion that in secret +pervaded the house no one took notice of me, so, without being seen, I +found an opportunity of placing myself in the recess formed by a window +of the hall itself, and concealed by the ends and borders of two +tapestries, from between which I could, without being seen, see all +that took place in the room. Who could describe the agitation of heart +I suffered as I stood there—the thoughts that came to me—the +reflections that passed through my mind? They were such as cannot be, +nor were it well they should be, told. Suffice it to say that the +bridegroom entered the hall in his usual dress, without ornament of any +kind; as groomsman he had with him a cousin of Luscinda’s and except +the servants of the house there was no one else in the chamber. Soon +afterwards Luscinda came out from an antechamber, attended by her +mother and two of her damsels, arrayed and adorned as became her rank +and beauty, and in full festival and ceremonial attire. My anxiety and +distraction did not allow me to observe or notice particularly what she +wore; I could only perceive the colours, which were crimson and white, +and the glitter of the gems and jewels on her head dress and apparel, +surpassed by the rare beauty of her lovely auburn hair that vying with +the precious stones and the light of the four torches that stood in the +hall shone with a brighter gleam than all. Oh memory, mortal foe of my +peace! why bring before me now the incomparable beauty of that adored +enemy of mine? Were it not better, cruel memory, to remind me and +recall what she then did, that stirred by a wrong so glaring I may +seek, if not vengeance now, at least to rid myself of life? Be not +weary, sirs, of listening to these digressions; my sorrow is not one of +those that can or should be told tersely and briefly, for to me each +incident seems to call for many words.” + +To this the curate replied that not only were they not weary of +listening to him, but that the details he mentioned interested them +greatly, being of a kind by no means to be omitted and deserving of the +same attention as the main story. + +“To proceed, then,” continued Cardenio: “all being assembled in the +hall, the priest of the parish came in and as he took the pair by the +hand to perform the requisite ceremony, at the words, ‘Will you, Señora +Luscinda, take Señor Don Fernando, here present, for your lawful +husband, as the holy Mother Church ordains?’ I thrust my head and neck +out from between the tapestries, and with eager ears and throbbing +heart set myself to listen to Luscinda’s answer, awaiting in her reply +the sentence of death or the grant of life. Oh, that I had but dared at +that moment to rush forward crying aloud, ‘Luscinda, Luscinda! have a +care what thou dost; remember what thou owest me; bethink thee thou art +mine and canst not be another’s; reflect that thy utterance of “Yes” +and the end of my life will come at the same instant. O, treacherous +Don Fernando! robber of my glory, death of my life! What seekest thou? +Remember that thou canst not as a Christian attain the object of thy +wishes, for Luscinda is my bride, and I am her husband!’ Fool that I +am! now that I am far away, and out of danger, I say I should have done +what I did not do: now that I have allowed my precious treasure to be +robbed from me, I curse the robber, on whom I might have taken +vengeance had I as much heart for it as I have for bewailing my fate; +in short, as I was then a coward and a fool, little wonder is it if I +am now dying shame-stricken, remorseful, and mad. + +“The priest stood waiting for the answer of Luscinda, who for a long +time withheld it; and just as I thought she was taking out the dagger +to save her honour, or struggling for words to make some declaration of +the truth on my behalf, I heard her say in a faint and feeble voice, ‘I +will:’ Don Fernando said the same, and giving her the ring they stood +linked by a knot that could never be loosed. The bridegroom then +approached to embrace his bride; and she, pressing her hand upon her +heart, fell fainting in her mother’s arms. It only remains now for me +to tell you the state I was in when in that consent that I heard I saw +all my hopes mocked, the words and promises of Luscinda proved +falsehoods, and the recovery of the prize I had that instant lost +rendered impossible for ever. I stood stupefied, wholly abandoned, it +seemed, by Heaven, declared the enemy of the earth that bore me, the +air refusing me breath for my sighs, the water moisture for my tears; +it was only the fire that gathered strength so that my whole frame +glowed with rage and jealousy. They were all thrown into confusion by +Luscinda’s fainting, and as her mother was unlacing her to give her air +a sealed paper was discovered in her bosom which Don Fernando seized at +once and began to read by the light of one of the torches. As soon as +he had read it he seated himself in a chair, leaning his cheek on his +hand in the attitude of one deep in thought, without taking any part in +the efforts that were being made to recover his bride from her fainting +fit. + +“Seeing all the household in confusion, I ventured to come out +regardless whether I were seen or not, and determined, if I were, to do +some frenzied deed that would prove to all the world the righteous +indignation of my breast in the punishment of the treacherous Don +Fernando, and even in that of the fickle fainting traitress. But my +fate, doubtless reserving me for greater sorrows, if such there be, so +ordered it that just then I had enough and to spare of that reason +which has since been wanting to me; and so, without seeking to take +vengeance on my greatest enemies (which might have been easily taken, +as all thought of me was so far from their minds), I resolved to take +it upon myself, and on myself to inflict the pain they deserved, +perhaps with even greater severity than I should have dealt out to them +had I then slain them; for sudden pain is soon over, but that which is +protracted by tortures is ever slaying without ending life. In a word, +I quitted the house and reached that of the man with whom I had left my +mule; I made him saddle it for me, mounted without bidding him +farewell, and rode out of the city, like another Lot, not daring to +turn my head to look back upon it; and when I found myself alone in the +open country, screened by the darkness of the night, and tempted by the +stillness to give vent to my grief without apprehension or fear of +being heard or seen, then I broke silence and lifted up my voice in +maledictions upon Luscinda and Don Fernando, as if I could thus avenge +the wrong they had done me. I called her cruel, ungrateful, false, +thankless, but above all covetous, since the wealth of my enemy had +blinded the eyes of her affection, and turned it from me to transfer it +to one to whom fortune had been more generous and liberal. And yet, in +the midst of this outburst of execration and upbraiding, I found +excuses for her, saying it was no wonder that a young girl in the +seclusion of her parents’ house, trained and schooled to obey them +always, should have been ready to yield to their wishes when they +offered her for a husband a gentleman of such distinction, wealth, and +noble birth, that if she had refused to accept him she would have been +thought out of her senses, or to have set her affection elsewhere, a +suspicion injurious to her fair name and fame. But then again, I said, +had she declared I was her husband, they would have seen that in +choosing me she had not chosen so ill but that they might excuse her, +for before Don Fernando had made his offer, they themselves could not +have desired, if their desires had been ruled by reason, a more +eligible husband for their daughter than I was; and she, before taking +the last fatal step of giving her hand, might easily have said that I +had already given her mine, for I should have come forward to support +any assertion of hers to that effect. In short, I came to the +conclusion that feeble love, little reflection, great ambition, and a +craving for rank, had made her forget the words with which she had +deceived me, encouraged and supported by my firm hopes and honourable +passion. + +“Thus soliloquising and agitated, I journeyed onward for the remainder +of the night, and by daybreak I reached one of the passes of these +mountains, among which I wandered for three days more without taking +any path or road, until I came to some meadows lying on I know not +which side of the mountains, and there I inquired of some herdsmen in +what direction the most rugged part of the range lay. They told me that +it was in this quarter, and I at once directed my course hither, +intending to end my life here; but as I was making my way among these +crags, my mule dropped dead through fatigue and hunger, or, as I think +more likely, in order to have done with such a worthless burden as it +bore in me. I was left on foot, worn out, famishing, without anyone to +help me or any thought of seeking help: and so thus I lay stretched on +the ground, how long I know not, after which I rose up free from +hunger, and found beside me some goatherds, who no doubt were the +persons who had relieved me in my need, for they told me how they had +found me, and how I had been uttering ravings that showed plainly I had +lost my reason; and since then I am conscious that I am not always in +full possession of it, but at times so deranged and crazed that I do a +thousand mad things, tearing my clothes, crying aloud in these +solitudes, cursing my fate, and idly calling on the dear name of her +who is my enemy, and only seeking to end my life in lamentation; and +when I recover my senses I find myself so exhausted and weary that I +can scarcely move. Most commonly my dwelling is the hollow of a cork +tree large enough to shelter this miserable body; the herdsmen and +goatherds who frequent these mountains, moved by compassion, furnish me +with food, leaving it by the wayside or on the rocks, where they think +I may perhaps pass and find it; and so, even though I may be then out +of my senses, the wants of nature teach me what is required to sustain +me, and make me crave it and eager to take it. At other times, so they +tell me when they find me in a rational mood, I sally out upon the +road, and though they would gladly give it me, I snatch food by force +from the shepherds bringing it from the village to their huts. Thus do +pass the wretched life that remains to me, until it be Heaven’s will to +bring it to a close, or so to order my memory that I no longer +recollect the beauty and treachery of Luscinda, or the wrong done me by +Don Fernando; for if it will do this without depriving me of life, I +will turn my thoughts into some better channel; if not, I can only +implore it to have full mercy on my soul, for in myself I feel no power +or strength to release my body from this strait in which I have of my +own accord chosen to place it. + +“Such, sirs, is the dismal story of my misfortune: say if it be one +that can be told with less emotion than you have seen in me; and do not +trouble yourselves with urging or pressing upon me what reason suggests +as likely to serve for my relief, for it will avail me as much as the +medicine prescribed by a wise physician avails the sick man who will +not take it. I have no wish for health without Luscinda; and since it +is her pleasure to be another’s, when she is or should be mine, let it +be mine to be a prey to misery when I might have enjoyed happiness. She +by her fickleness strove to make my ruin irretrievable; I will strive +to gratify her wishes by seeking destruction; and it will show +generations to come that I alone was deprived of that of which all +others in misfortune have a superabundance, for to them the +impossibility of being consoled is itself a consolation, while to me it +is the cause of greater sorrows and sufferings, for I think that even +in death there will not be an end of them.” + +Here Cardenio brought to a close his long discourse and story, as full +of misfortune as it was of love; but just as the curate was going to +address some words of comfort to him, he was stopped by a voice that +reached his ear, saying in melancholy tones what will be told in the +Fourth Part of this narrative; for at this point the sage and sagacious +historian, Cid Hamete Benengeli, brought the Third to a conclusion. + + + +c27e.jpg (65K) + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. +WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE AND DELIGHTFUL ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL THE +CURATE AND THE BARBER IN THE SAME SIERRA + + + + +c28a.jpg (159K) + +Full Size + + + + +Happy and fortunate were the times when that most daring knight Don +Quixote of La Mancha was sent into the world; for by reason of his +having formed a resolution so honourable as that of seeking to revive +and restore to the world the long-lost and almost defunct order of +knight-errantry, we now enjoy in this age of ours, so poor in light +entertainment, not only the charm of his veracious history, but also of +the tales and episodes contained in it which are, in a measure, no less +pleasing, ingenious, and truthful, than the history itself; which, +resuming its thread, carded, spun, and wound, relates that just as the +curate was going to offer consolation to Cardenio, he was interrupted +by a voice that fell upon his ear saying in plaintive tones: + +“O God! is it possible I have found a place that may serve as a secret +grave for the weary load of this body that I support so unwillingly? If +the solitude these mountains promise deceives me not, it is so; ah! woe +is me! how much more grateful to my mind will be the society of these +rocks and brakes that permit me to complain of my misfortune to Heaven, +than that of any human being, for there is none on earth to look to for +counsel in doubt, comfort in sorrow, or relief in distress!” + +All this was heard distinctly by the curate and those with him, and as +it seemed to them to be uttered close by, as indeed it was, they got up +to look for the speaker, and before they had gone twenty paces they +discovered behind a rock, seated at the foot of an ash tree, a youth in +the dress of a peasant, whose face they were unable at the moment to +see as he was leaning forward, bathing his feet in the brook that +flowed past. They approached so silently that he did not perceive them, +being fully occupied in bathing his feet, which were so fair that they +looked like two pieces of shining crystal brought forth among the other +stones of the brook. The whiteness and beauty of these feet struck them +with surprise, for they did not seem to have been made to crush clods +or to follow the plough and the oxen as their owner’s dress suggested; +and so, finding they had not been noticed, the curate, who was in +front, made a sign to the other two to conceal themselves behind some +fragments of rock that lay there; which they did, observing closely +what the youth was about. He had on a loose double-skirted dark brown +jacket bound tight to his body with a white cloth; he wore besides +breeches and gaiters of brown cloth, and on his head a brown montera; +and he had the gaiters turned up as far as the middle of the leg, which +verily seemed to be of pure alabaster. + + + +c28b.jpg (339K) + +Full Size + + + + +As soon as he had done bathing his beautiful feet, he wiped them with a +towel he took from under the montera, on taking off which he raised his +face, and those who were watching him had an opportunity of seeing a +beauty so exquisite that Cardenio said to the curate in a whisper: + +“As this is not Luscinda, it is no human creature but a divine being.” + +The youth then took off the montera, and shaking his head from side to +side there broke loose and spread out a mass of hair that the beams of +the sun might have envied; by this they knew that what had seemed a +peasant was a lovely woman, nay the most beautiful the eyes of two of +them had ever beheld, or even Cardenio’s if they had not seen and known +Luscinda, for he afterwards declared that only the beauty of Luscinda +could compare with this. The long auburn tresses not only covered her +shoulders, but such was their length and abundance, concealed her all +round beneath their masses, so that except the feet nothing of her form +was visible. She now used her hands as a comb, and if her feet had +seemed like bits of crystal in the water, her hands looked like pieces +of driven snow among her locks; all which increased not only the +admiration of the three beholders, but their anxiety to learn who she +was. With this object they resolved to show themselves, and at the stir +they made in getting upon their feet the fair damsel raised her head, +and parting her hair from before her eyes with both hands, she looked +to see who had made the noise, and the instant she perceived them she +started to her feet, and without waiting to put on her shoes or gather +up her hair, hastily snatched up a bundle as though of clothes that she +had beside her, and, scared and alarmed, endeavoured to take flight; +but before she had gone six paces she fell to the ground, her delicate +feet being unable to bear the roughness of the stones; seeing which, +the three hastened towards her, and the curate addressing her first +said: + +“Stay, señora, whoever you may be, for those whom you see here only +desire to be of service to you; you have no need to attempt a flight so +heedless, for neither can your feet bear it, nor we allow it.” + +Taken by surprise and bewildered, she made no reply to these words. +They, however, came towards her, and the curate taking her hand went on +to say: + +“What your dress would hide, señora, is made known to us by your hair; +a clear proof that it can be no trifling cause that has disguised your +beauty in a garb so unworthy of it, and sent it into solitudes like +these where we have had the good fortune to find you, if not to relieve +your distress, at least to offer you comfort; for no distress, so long +as life lasts, can be so oppressive or reach such a height as to make +the sufferer refuse to listen to comfort offered with good intention. +And so, señora, or señor, or whatever you prefer to be, dismiss the +fears that our appearance has caused you and make us acquainted with +your good or evil fortunes, for from all of us together, or from each +one of us, you will receive sympathy in your trouble.” + +While the curate was speaking, the disguised damsel stood as if +spell-bound, looking at them without opening her lips or uttering a +word, just like a village rustic to whom something strange that he has +never seen before has been suddenly shown; but on the curate addressing +some further words to the same effect to her, sighing deeply she broke +silence and said: + +“Since the solitude of these mountains has been unable to conceal me, +and the escape of my dishevelled tresses will not allow my tongue to +deal in falsehoods, it would be idle for me now to make any further +pretence of what, if you were to believe me, you would believe more out +of courtesy than for any other reason. This being so, I say I thank +you, sirs, for the offer you have made me, which places me under the +obligation of complying with the request you have made of me; though I +fear the account I shall give you of my misfortunes will excite in you +as much concern as compassion, for you will be unable to suggest +anything to remedy them or any consolation to alleviate them. However, +that my honour may not be left a matter of doubt in your minds, now +that you have discovered me to be a woman, and see that I am young, +alone, and in this dress, things that taken together or separately +would be enough to destroy any good name, I feel bound to tell what I +would willingly keep secret if I could.” + +All this she who was now seen to be a lovely woman delivered without +any hesitation, with so much ease and in so sweet a voice that they +were not less charmed by her intelligence than by her beauty, and as +they again repeated their offers and entreaties to her to fulfil her +promise, she without further pressing, first modestly covering her feet +and gathering up her hair, seated herself on a stone with the three +placed around her, and, after an effort to restrain some tears that +came to her eyes, in a clear and steady voice began her story thus: + +“In this Andalusia there is a town from which a duke takes a title +which makes him one of those that are called Grandees of Spain. This +nobleman has two sons, the elder heir to his dignity and apparently to +his good qualities; the younger heir to I know not what, unless it be +the treachery of Vellido and the falsehood of Ganelon. My parents are +this lord’s vassals, lowly in origin, but so wealthy that if birth had +conferred as much on them as fortune, they would have had nothing left +to desire, nor should I have had reason to fear trouble like that in +which I find myself now; for it may be that my ill fortune came of +theirs in not having been nobly born. It is true they are not so low +that they have any reason to be ashamed of their condition, but neither +are they so high as to remove from my mind the impression that my +mishap comes of their humble birth. They are, in short, peasants, plain +homely people, without any taint of disreputable blood, and, as the +saying is, old rusty Christians, but so rich that by their wealth and +free-handed way of life they are coming by degrees to be considered +gentlefolk by birth, and even by position; though the wealth and +nobility they thought most of was having me for their daughter; and as +they have no other child to make their heir, and are affectionate +parents, I was one of the most indulged daughters that ever parents +indulged. + +“I was the mirror in which they beheld themselves, the staff of their +old age, and the object in which, with submission to Heaven, all their +wishes centred, and mine were in accordance with theirs, for I knew +their worth; and as I was mistress of their hearts, so was I also of +their possessions. Through me they engaged or dismissed their servants; +through my hands passed the accounts and returns of what was sown and +reaped; the oil-mills, the wine-presses, the count of the flocks and +herds, the beehives, all in short that a rich farmer like my father has +or can have, I had under my care, and I acted as steward and mistress +with an assiduity on my part and satisfaction on theirs that I cannot +well describe to you. The leisure hours left to me after I had given +the requisite orders to the head-shepherds, overseers, and other +labourers, I passed in such employments as are not only allowable but +necessary for young girls, those that the needle, embroidery cushion, +and spinning wheel usually afford, and if to refresh my mind I quitted +them for a while, I found recreation in reading some devotional book or +playing the harp, for experience taught me that music soothes the +troubled mind and relieves weariness of spirit. Such was the life I led +in my parents’ house and if I have depicted it thus minutely, it is not +out of ostentation, or to let you know that I am rich, but that you may +see how, without any fault of mine, I have fallen from the happy +condition I have described, to the misery I am in at present. The truth +is, that while I was leading this busy life, in a retirement that might +compare with that of a monastery, and unseen as I thought by any except +the servants of the house (for when I went to Mass it was so early in +the morning, and I was so closely attended by my mother and the women +of the household, and so thickly veiled and so shy, that my eyes +scarcely saw more ground than I trod on), in spite of all this, the +eyes of love, or idleness, more properly speaking, that the lynx’s +cannot rival, discovered me, with the help of the assiduity of Don +Fernando; for that is the name of the younger son of the duke I told +of.” + +The moment the speaker mentioned the name of Don Fernando, Cardenio +changed colour and broke into a sweat, with such signs of emotion that +the curate and the barber, who observed it, feared that one of the mad +fits which they heard attacked him sometimes was coming upon him; but +Cardenio showed no further agitation and remained quiet, regarding the +peasant girl with fixed attention, for he began to suspect who she was. +She, however, without noticing the excitement of Cardenio, continuing +her story, went on to say: + +“And they had hardly discovered me, when, as he owned afterwards, he +was smitten with a violent love for me, as the manner in which it +displayed itself plainly showed. But to shorten the long recital of my +woes, I will pass over in silence all the artifices employed by Don +Fernando for declaring his passion for me. He bribed all the household, +he gave and offered gifts and presents to my parents; every day was +like a holiday or a merry-making in our street; by night no one could +sleep for the music; the love letters that used to come to my hand, no +one knew how, were innumerable, full of tender pleadings and pledges, +containing more promises and oaths than there were letters in them; all +which not only did not soften me, but hardened my heart against him, as +if he had been my mortal enemy, and as if everything he did to make me +yield were done with the opposite intention. Not that the high-bred +bearing of Don Fernando was disagreeable to me, or that I found his +importunities wearisome; for it gave me a certain sort of satisfaction +to find myself so sought and prized by a gentleman of such distinction, +and I was not displeased at seeing my praises in his letters (for +however ugly we women may be, it seems to me it always pleases us to +hear ourselves called beautiful) but that my own sense of right was +opposed to all this, as well as the repeated advice of my parents, who +now very plainly perceived Don Fernando’s purpose, for he cared very +little if all the world knew it. They told me they trusted and confided +their honour and good name to my virtue and rectitude alone, and bade +me consider the disparity between Don Fernando and myself, from which I +might conclude that his intentions, whatever he might say to the +contrary, had for their aim his own pleasure rather than my advantage; +and if I were at all desirous of opposing an obstacle to his +unreasonable suit, they were ready, they said, to marry me at once to +anyone I preferred, either among the leading people of our own town, or +of any of those in the neighbourhood; for with their wealth and my good +name, a match might be looked for in any quarter. This offer, and their +sound advice strengthened my resolution, and I never gave Don Fernando +a word in reply that could hold out to him any hope of success, however +remote. + + + +c28c.jpg (279K) + +Full Size + + + + +“All this caution of mine, which he must have taken for coyness, had +apparently the effect of increasing his wanton appetite—for that is the +name I give to his passion for me; had it been what he declared it to +be, you would not know of it now, because there would have been no +occasion to tell you of it. At length he learned that my parents were +contemplating marriage for me in order to put an end to his hopes of +obtaining possession of me, or at least to secure additional protectors +to watch over me, and this intelligence or suspicion made him act as +you shall hear. One night, as I was in my chamber with no other +companion than a damsel who waited on me, with the doors carefully +locked lest my honour should be imperilled through any carelessness, I +know not nor can conceive how it happened, but, with all this seclusion +and these precautions, and in the solitude and silence of my +retirement, I found him standing before me, a vision that so astounded +me that it deprived my eyes of sight, and my tongue of speech. I had no +power to utter a cry, nor, I think, did he give me time to utter one, +as he immediately approached me, and taking me in his arms (for, +overwhelmed as I was, I was powerless, I say, to help myself), he began +to make such professions to me that I know not how falsehood could have +had the power of dressing them up to seem so like truth; and the +traitor contrived that his tears should vouch for his words, and his +sighs for his sincerity. + +“I, a poor young creature alone, ill versed among my people in cases +such as this, began, I know not how, to think all these lying +protestations true, though without being moved by his sighs and tears +to anything more than pure compassion; and so, as the first feeling of +bewilderment passed away, and I began in some degree to recover myself, +I said to him with more courage than I thought I could have possessed, +‘If, as I am now in your arms, señor, I were in the claws of a fierce +lion, and my deliverance could be procured by doing or saying anything +to the prejudice of my honour, it would no more be in my power to do it +or say it, than it would be possible that what was should not have +been; so then, if you hold my body clasped in your arms, I hold my soul +secured by virtuous intentions, very different from yours, as you will +see if you attempt to carry them into effect by force. I am your +vassal, but I am not your slave; your nobility neither has nor should +have any right to dishonour or degrade my humble birth; and low-born +peasant as I am, I have my self-respect as much as you, a lord and +gentleman: with me your violence will be to no purpose, your wealth +will have no weight, your words will have no power to deceive me, nor +your sighs or tears to soften me: were I to see any of the things I +speak of in him whom my parents gave me as a husband, his will should +be mine, and mine should be bounded by his; and my honour being +preserved even though my inclinations were not would willingly yield +him what you, señor, would now obtain by force; and this I say lest you +should suppose that any but my lawful husband shall ever win anything +of me.’ ‘If that,’ said this disloyal gentleman, ‘be the only scruple +you feel, fairest Dorothea’ (for that is the name of this unhappy +being), ‘see here I give you my hand to be yours, and let Heaven, from +which nothing is hid, and this image of Our Lady you have here, be +witnesses of this pledge.’” + + + +c28d.jpg (289K) + +Full Size + + + + +When Cardenio heard her say she was called Dorothea, he showed fresh +agitation and felt convinced of the truth of his former suspicion, but +he was unwilling to interrupt the story, and wished to hear the end of +what he already all but knew, so he merely said: + +“What! is Dorothea your name, señora? I have heard of another of the +same name who can perhaps match your misfortunes. But proceed; +by-and-by I may tell you something that will astonish you as much as it +will excite your compassion.” + +Dorothea was struck by Cardenio’s words as well as by his strange and +miserable attire, and begged him if he knew anything concerning her to +tell it to her at once, for if fortune had left her any blessing it was +courage to bear whatever calamity might fall upon her, as she felt sure +that none could reach her capable of increasing in any degree what she +endured already. + +“I would not let the occasion pass, señora,” replied Cardenio, “of +telling you what I think, if what I suspect were the truth, but so far +there has been no opportunity, nor is it of any importance to you to +know it.” + +“Be it as it may,” replied Dorothea, “what happened in my story was +that Don Fernando, taking an image that stood in the chamber, placed it +as a witness of our betrothal, and with the most binding words and +extravagant oaths gave me his promise to become my husband; though +before he had made an end of pledging himself I bade him consider well +what he was doing, and think of the anger his father would feel at +seeing him married to a peasant girl and one of his vassals; I told him +not to let my beauty, such as it was, blind him, for that was not +enough to furnish an excuse for his transgression; and if in the love +he bore me he wished to do me any kindness, it would be to leave my lot +to follow its course at the level my condition required; for marriages +so unequal never brought happiness, nor did they continue long to +afford the enjoyment they began with. + +“All this that I have now repeated I said to him, and much more which I +cannot recollect; but it had no effect in inducing him to forego his +purpose; he who has no intention of paying does not trouble himself +about difficulties when he is striking the bargain. At the same time I +argued the matter briefly in my own mind, saying to myself, ‘I shall +not be the first who has risen through marriage from a lowly to a lofty +station, nor will Don Fernando be the first whom beauty or, as is more +likely, a blind attachment, has led to mate himself below his rank. +Then, since I am introducing no new usage or practice, I may as well +avail myself of the honour that chance offers me, for even though his +inclination for me should not outlast the attainment of his wishes, I +shall be, after all, his wife before God. And if I strive to repel him +by scorn, I can see that, fair means failing, he is in a mood to use +force, and I shall be left dishonoured and without any means of proving +my innocence to those who cannot know how innocently I have come to be +in this position; for what arguments would persuade my parents that +this gentleman entered my chamber without my consent?’ + +“All these questions and answers passed through my mind in a moment; +but the oaths of Don Fernando, the witnesses he appealed to, the tears +he shed, and lastly the charms of his person and his high-bred grace, +which, accompanied by such signs of genuine love, might well have +conquered a heart even more free and coy than mine—these were the +things that more than all began to influence me and lead me unawares to +my ruin. I called my waiting-maid to me, that there might be a witness +on earth besides those in Heaven, and again Don Fernando renewed and +repeated his oaths, invoked as witnesses fresh saints in addition to +the former ones, called down upon himself a thousand curses hereafter +should he fail to keep his promise, shed more tears, redoubled his +sighs and pressed me closer in his arms, from which he had never +allowed me to escape; and so I was left by my maid, and ceased to be +one, and he became a traitor and a perjured man. + +“The day which followed the night of my misfortune did not come so +quickly, I imagine, as Don Fernando wished, for when desire has +attained its object, the greatest pleasure is to fly from the scene of +pleasure. I say so because Don Fernando made all haste to leave me, and +by the adroitness of my maid, who was indeed the one who had admitted +him, gained the street before daybreak; but on taking leave of me he +told me, though not with as much earnestness and fervour as when he +came, that I might rest assured of his faith and of the sanctity and +sincerity of his oaths; and to confirm his words he drew a rich ring +off his finger and placed it upon mine. He then took his departure and +I was left, I know not whether sorrowful or happy; all I can say is, I +was left agitated and troubled in mind and almost bewildered by what +had taken place, and I had not the spirit, or else it did not occur to +me, to chide my maid for the treachery she had been guilty of in +concealing Don Fernando in my chamber; for as yet I was unable to make +up my mind whether what had befallen me was for good or evil. I told +Don Fernando at parting, that as I was now his, he might see me on +other nights in the same way, until it should be his pleasure to let +the matter become known; but, except the following night, he came no +more, nor for more than a month could I catch a glimpse of him in the +street or in church, while I wearied myself with watching for one; +although I knew he was in the town, and almost every day went out +hunting, a pastime he was very fond of. I remember well how sad and +dreary those days and hours were to me; I remember well how I began to +doubt as they went by, and even to lose confidence in the faith of Don +Fernando; and I remember, too, how my maid heard those words in reproof +of her audacity that she had not heard before, and how I was forced to +put a constraint on my tears and on the expression of my countenance, +not to give my parents cause to ask me why I was so melancholy, and +drive me to invent falsehoods in reply. But all this was suddenly +brought to an end, for the time came when all such considerations were +disregarded, and there was no further question of honour, when my +patience gave way and the secret of my heart became known abroad. The +reason was, that a few days later it was reported in the town that Don +Fernando had been married in a neighbouring city to a maiden of rare +beauty, the daughter of parents of distinguished position, though not +so rich that her portion would entitle her to look for so brilliant a +match; it was said, too, that her name was Luscinda, and that at the +betrothal some strange things had happened.” + +Cardenio heard the name of Luscinda, but he only shrugged his +shoulders, bit his lips, bent his brows, and before long two streams of +tears escaped from his eyes. Dorothea, however, did not interrupt her +story, but went on in these words: + +“This sad intelligence reached my ears, and, instead of being struck +with a chill, with such wrath and fury did my heart burn that I +scarcely restrained myself from rushing out into the streets, crying +aloud and proclaiming openly the perfidy and treachery of which I was +the victim; but this transport of rage was for the time checked by a +resolution I formed, to be carried out the same night, and that was to +assume this dress, which I got from a servant of my father’s, one of +the zagals, as they are called in farmhouses, to whom I confided the +whole of my misfortune, and whom I entreated to accompany me to the +city where I heard my enemy was. He, though he remonstrated with me for +my boldness, and condemned my resolution, when he saw me bent upon my +purpose, offered to bear me company, as he said, to the end of the +world. I at once packed up in a linen pillow-case a woman’s dress, and +some jewels and money to provide for emergencies, and in the silence of +the night, without letting my treacherous maid know, I sallied forth +from the house, accompanied by my servant and abundant anxieties, and +on foot set out for the city, but borne as it were on wings by my +eagerness to reach it, if not to prevent what I presumed to be already +done, at least to call upon Don Fernando to tell me with what +conscience he had done it. I reached my destination in two days and a +half, and on entering the city inquired for the house of Luscinda’s +parents. The first person I asked gave me more in reply than I sought +to know; he showed me the house, and told me all that had occurred at +the betrothal of the daughter of the family, an affair of such +notoriety in the city that it was the talk of every knot of idlers in +the street. He said that on the night of Don Fernando’s betrothal with +Luscinda, as soon as she had consented to be his bride by saying ‘Yes,’ +she was taken with a sudden fainting fit, and that on the bridegroom +approaching to unlace the bosom of her dress to give her air, he found +a paper in her own handwriting, in which she said and declared that she +could not be Don Fernando’s bride, because she was already Cardenio’s, +who, according to the man’s account, was a gentleman of distinction of +the same city; and that if she had accepted Don Fernando, it was only +in obedience to her parents. In short, he said, the words of the paper +made it clear she meant to kill herself on the completion of the +betrothal, and gave her reasons for putting an end to herself all which +was confirmed, it was said, by a dagger they found somewhere in her +clothes. On seeing this, Don Fernando, persuaded that Luscinda had +befooled, slighted, and trifled with him, assailed her before she had +recovered from her swoon, and tried to stab her with the dagger that +had been found, and would have succeeded had not her parents and those +who were present prevented him. It was said, moreover, that Don +Fernando went away at once, and that Luscinda did not recover from her +prostration until the next day, when she told her parents how she was +really the bride of that Cardenio I have mentioned. I learned besides +that Cardenio, according to report, had been present at the betrothal; +and that upon seeing her betrothed contrary to his expectation, he had +quitted the city in despair, leaving behind him a letter declaring the +wrong Luscinda had done him, and his intention of going where no one +should ever see him again. All this was a matter of notoriety in the +city, and everyone spoke of it; especially when it became known that +Luscinda was missing from her father’s house and from the city, for she +was not to be found anywhere, to the distraction of her parents, who +knew not what steps to take to recover her. What I learned revived my +hopes, and I was better pleased not to have found Don Fernando than to +find him married, for it seemed to me that the door was not yet +entirely shut upon relief in my case, and I thought that perhaps Heaven +had put this impediment in the way of the second marriage, to lead him +to recognise his obligations under the former one, and reflect that as +a Christian he was bound to consider his soul above all human objects. +All this passed through my mind, and I strove to comfort myself without +comfort, indulging in faint and distant hopes of cherishing that life +that I now abhor. + +“But while I was in the city, uncertain what to do, as I could not find +Don Fernando, I heard notice given by the public crier offering a great +reward to anyone who should find me, and giving the particulars of my +age and of the very dress I wore; and I heard it said that the lad who +came with me had taken me away from my father’s house; a thing that cut +me to the heart, showing how low my good name had fallen, since it was +not enough that I should lose it by my flight, but they must add with +whom I had fled, and that one so much beneath me and so unworthy of my +consideration. The instant I heard the notice I quitted the city with +my servant, who now began to show signs of wavering in his fidelity to +me, and the same night, for fear of discovery, we entered the most +thickly wooded part of these mountains. But, as is commonly said, one +evil calls up another and the end of one misfortune is apt to be the +beginning of one still greater, and so it proved in my case; for my +worthy servant, until then so faithful and trusty when he found me in +this lonely spot, moved more by his own villainy than by my beauty, +sought to take advantage of the opportunity which these solitudes +seemed to present him, and with little shame and less fear of God and +respect for me, began to make overtures to me; and finding that I +replied to the effrontery of his proposals with justly severe language, +he laid aside the entreaties which he had employed at first, and began +to use violence. + + + +c28e.jpg (324K) + +Full Size + + + + +“But just Heaven, that seldom fails to watch over and aid good +intentions, so aided mine that with my slight strength and with little +exertion I pushed him over a precipice, where I left him, whether dead +or alive I know not; and then, with greater speed than seemed possible +in my terror and fatigue, I made my way into the mountains, without any +other thought or purpose save that of hiding myself among them, and +escaping my father and those despatched in search of me by his orders. +It is now I know not how many months since with this object I came +here, where I met a herdsman who engaged me as his servant at a place +in the heart of this Sierra, and all this time I have been serving him +as herd, striving to keep always afield to hide these locks which have +now unexpectedly betrayed me. But all my care and pains were +unavailing, for my master made the discovery that I was not a man, and +harboured the same base designs as my servant; and as fortune does not +always supply a remedy in cases of difficulty, and I had no precipice +or ravine at hand down which to fling the master and cure his passion, +as I had in the servant’s case, I thought it a lesser evil to leave him +and again conceal myself among these crags, than make trial of my +strength and argument with him. So, as I say, once more I went into +hiding to seek for some place where I might with sighs and tears +implore Heaven to have pity on my misery, and grant me help and +strength to escape from it, or let me die among the solitudes, leaving +no trace of an unhappy being who, by no fault of hers, has furnished +matter for talk and scandal at home and abroad.” + + + +c28f.jpg (42K) + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. +WHICH TREATS OF THE DROLL DEVICE AND METHOD ADOPTED TO EXTRICATE OUR +LOVE-STRICKEN KNIGHT FROM THE SEVERE PENANCE HE HAD IMPOSED UPON +HIMSELF + + + + +c29a.jpg (99K) + +Full Size + + + + +“Such, sirs, is the true story of my sad adventures; judge for +yourselves now whether the sighs and lamentations you heard, and the +tears that flowed from my eyes, had not sufficient cause even if I had +indulged in them more freely; and if you consider the nature of my +misfortune you will see that consolation is idle, as there is no +possible remedy for it. All I ask of you is, what you may easily and +reasonably do, to show me where I may pass my life unharassed by the +fear and dread of discovery by those who are in search of me; for +though the great love my parents bear me makes me feel sure of being +kindly received by them, so great is my feeling of shame at the mere +thought that I cannot present myself before them as they expect, that I +had rather banish myself from their sight for ever than look them in +the face with the reflection that they beheld mine stripped of that +purity they had a right to expect in me.” + +With these words she became silent, and the colour that overspread her +face showed plainly the pain and shame she was suffering at heart. In +theirs the listeners felt as much pity as wonder at her misfortunes; +but as the curate was just about to offer her some consolation and +advice Cardenio forestalled him, saying, “So then, señora, you are the +fair Dorothea, the only daughter of the rich Clenardo?” Dorothea was +astonished at hearing her father’s name, and at the miserable +appearance of him who mentioned it, for it has been already said how +wretchedly clad Cardenio was; so she said to him: + +“And who may you be, brother, who seem to know my father’s name so +well? For so far, if I remember rightly, I have not mentioned it in the +whole story of my misfortunes.” + +“I am that unhappy being, señora,” replied Cardenio, “whom, as you have +said, Luscinda declared to be her husband; I am the unfortunate +Cardenio, whom the wrong-doing of him who has brought you to your +present condition has reduced to the state you see me in, bare, ragged, +bereft of all human comfort, and what is worse, of reason, for I only +possess it when Heaven is pleased for some short space to restore it to +me. I, Dorothea, am he who witnessed the wrong done by Don Fernando, +and waited to hear the ‘Yes’ uttered by which Luscinda owned herself +his betrothed: I am he who had not courage enough to see how her +fainting fit ended, or what came of the paper that was found in her +bosom, because my heart had not the fortitude to endure so many strokes +of ill-fortune at once; and so losing patience I quitted the house, and +leaving a letter with my host, which I entreated him to place in +Luscinda’s hands, I betook myself to these solitudes, resolved to end +here the life I hated as if it were my mortal enemy. But fate would not +rid me of it, contenting itself with robbing me of my reason, perhaps +to preserve me for the good fortune I have had in meeting you; for if +that which you have just told us be true, as I believe it to be, it may +be that Heaven has yet in store for both of us a happier termination to +our misfortunes than we look for; because seeing that Luscinda cannot +marry Don Fernando, being mine, as she has herself so openly declared, +and that Don Fernando cannot marry her as he is yours, we may +reasonably hope that Heaven will restore to us what is ours, as it is +still in existence and not yet alienated or destroyed. And as we have +this consolation springing from no very visionary hope or wild fancy, I +entreat you, señora, to form new resolutions in your better mind, as I +mean to do in mine, preparing yourself to look forward to happier +fortunes; for I swear to you by the faith of a gentleman and a +Christian not to desert you until I see you in possession of Don +Fernando, and if I cannot by words induce him to recognise his +obligation to you, in that case to avail myself of the right which my +rank as a gentleman gives me, and with just cause challenge him on +account of the injury he has done you, not regarding my own wrongs, +which I shall leave to Heaven to avenge, while I on earth devote myself +to yours.” + +Cardenio’s words completed the astonishment of Dorothea, and not +knowing how to return thanks for such an offer, she attempted to kiss +his feet; but Cardenio would not permit it, and the licentiate replied +for both, commended the sound reasoning of Cardenio, and lastly, +begged, advised, and urged them to come with him to his village, where +they might furnish themselves with what they needed, and take measures +to discover Don Fernando, or restore Dorothea to her parents, or do +what seemed to them most advisable. Cardenio and Dorothea thanked him, +and accepted the kind offer he made them; and the barber, who had been +listening to all attentively and in silence, on his part some kindly +words also, and with no less good-will than the curate offered his +services in any way that might be of use to them. He also explained to +them in a few words the object that had brought them there, and the +strange nature of Don Quixote’s madness, and how they were waiting for +his squire, who had gone in search of him. Like the recollection of a +dream, the quarrel he had had with Don Quixote came back to Cardenio’s +memory, and he described it to the others; but he was unable to say +what the dispute was about. + + + +c29b.jpg (351K) + +Full Size + + + + +At this moment they heard a shout, and recognised it as coming from +Sancho Panza, who, not finding them where he had left them, was calling +aloud to them. They went to meet him, and in answer to their inquiries +about Don Quixote, he told them how he had found him stripped to his +shirt, lank, yellow, half dead with hunger, and sighing for his lady +Dulcinea; and although he had told him that she commanded him to quit +that place and come to El Toboso, where she was expecting him, he had +answered that he was determined not to appear in the presence of her +beauty until he had done deeds to make him worthy of her favour; and if +this went on, Sancho said, he ran the risk of not becoming an emperor +as in duty bound, or even an archbishop, which was the least he could +be; for which reason they ought to consider what was to be done to get +him away from there. The licentiate in reply told him not to be uneasy, +for they would fetch him away in spite of himself. He then told +Cardenio and Dorothea what they had proposed to do to cure Don Quixote, +or at any rate take him home; upon which Dorothea said that she could +play the distressed damsel better than the barber; especially as she +had there the dress in which to do it to the life, and that they might +trust to her acting the part in every particular requisite for carrying +out their scheme, for she had read a great many books of chivalry, and +knew exactly the style in which afflicted damsels begged boons of +knights-errant. + +“In that case,” said the curate, “there is nothing more required than +to set about it at once, for beyond a doubt fortune is declaring itself +in our favour, since it has so unexpectedly begun to open a door for +your relief, and smoothed the way for us to our object.” + +Dorothea then took out of her pillow-case a complete petticoat of some +rich stuff, and a green mantle of some other fine material, and a +necklace and other ornaments out of a little box, and with these in an +instant she so arrayed herself that she looked like a great and rich +lady. All this, and more, she said, she had taken from home in case of +need, but that until then she had had no occasion to make use of it. +They were all highly delighted with her grace, air, and beauty, and +declared Don Fernando to be a man of very little taste when he rejected +such charms. But the one who admired her most was Sancho Panza, for it +seemed to him (what indeed was true) that in all the days of his life +he had never seen such a lovely creature; and he asked the curate with +great eagerness who this beautiful lady was, and what she wanted in +these out-of-the-way quarters. + +“This fair lady, brother Sancho,” replied the curate, “is no less a +personage than the heiress in the direct male line of the great kingdom +of Micomicon, who has come in search of your master to beg a boon of +him, which is that he redress a wrong or injury that a wicked giant has +done her; and from the fame as a good knight which your master has +acquired far and wide, this princess has come from Guinea to seek him.” + +“A lucky seeking and a lucky finding!” said Sancho Panza at this; +“especially if my master has the good fortune to redress that injury, +and right that wrong, and kill that son of a bitch of a giant your +worship speaks of; as kill him he will if he meets him, unless, indeed, +he happens to be a phantom; for my master has no power at all against +phantoms. But one thing among others I would beg of you, señor +licentiate, which is, that, to prevent my master taking a fancy to be +an archbishop, for that is what I’m afraid of, your worship would +recommend him to marry this princess at once; for in this way he will +be disabled from taking archbishop’s orders, and will easily come into +his empire, and I to the end of my desires; I have been thinking over +the matter carefully, and by what I can make out I find it will not do +for me that my master should become an archbishop, because I am no good +for the Church, as I am married; and for me now, having as I have a +wife and children, to set about obtaining dispensations to enable me to +hold a place of profit under the Church, would be endless work; so +that, señor, it all turns on my master marrying this lady at once—for +as yet I do not know her grace, and so I cannot call her by her name.” + +“She is called the Princess Micomicona,” said the curate; “for as her +kingdom is Micomicon, it is clear that must be her name.” + +“There’s no doubt of that,” replied Sancho, “for I have known many to +take their name and title from the place where they were born and call +themselves Pedro of Alcalá, Juan of Úbeda, and Diego of Valladolid; and +it may be that over there in Guinea queens have the same way of taking +the names of their kingdoms.” + +“So it may,” said the curate; “and as for your master’s marrying, I +will do all in my power towards it:” with which Sancho was as much +pleased as the curate was amazed at his simplicity and at seeing what a +hold the absurdities of his master had taken of his fancy, for he had +evidently persuaded himself that he was going to be an emperor. + +By this time Dorothea had seated herself upon the curate’s mule, and +the barber had fitted the ox-tail beard to his face, and they now told +Sancho to conduct them to where Don Quixote was, warning him not to say +that he knew either the licentiate or the barber, as his master’s +becoming an emperor entirely depended on his not recognising them; +neither the curate nor Cardenio, however, thought fit to go with them; +Cardenio lest he should remind Don Quixote of the quarrel he had with +him, and the curate as there was no necessity for his presence just +yet, so they allowed the others to go on before them, while they +themselves followed slowly on foot. The curate did not forget to +instruct Dorothea how to act, but she said they might make their minds +easy, as everything would be done exactly as the books of chivalry +required and described. + + + +c29c.jpg (286K) + +Full Size + + + + +They had gone about three-quarters of a league when they discovered Don +Quixote in a wilderness of rocks, by this time clothed, but without his +armour; and as soon as Dorothea saw him and was told by Sancho that +that was Don Quixote, she whipped her palfrey, the well-bearded barber +following her, and on coming up to him her squire sprang from his mule +and came forward to receive her in his arms, and she dismounting with +great ease of manner advanced to kneel before the feet of Don Quixote; +and though he strove to raise her up, she without rising addressed him +in this fashion: + +“From this spot I will not rise, valiant and doughty knight, until your +goodness and courtesy grant me a boon, which will redound to the honour +and renown of your person and render a service to the most disconsolate +and afflicted damsel the sun has seen; and if the might of your strong +arm corresponds to the repute of your immortal fame, you are bound to +aid the helpless being who, led by the savour of your renowned name, +hath come from far distant lands to seek your aid in her misfortunes.” + +“I will not answer a word, beauteous lady,” replied Don Quixote, “nor +will I listen to anything further concerning you, until you rise from +the earth.” + +“I will not rise, señor,” answered the afflicted damsel, “unless of +your courtesy the boon I ask is first granted me.” + +“I grant and accord it,” said Don Quixote, “provided without detriment +or prejudice to my king, my country, or her who holds the key of my +heart and freedom, it may be complied with.” + +“It will not be to the detriment or prejudice of any of them, my worthy +lord,” said the afflicted damsel; and here Sancho Panza drew close to +his master’s ear and said to him very softly, “Your worship may very +safely grant the boon she asks; it’s nothing at all; only to kill a big +giant; and she who asks it is the exalted Princess Micomicona, queen of +the great kingdom of Micomicon of Ethiopia.” + +“Let her be who she may,” replied Don Quixote, “I will do what is my +bounden duty, and what my conscience bids me, in conformity with what I +have professed;” and turning to the damsel he said, “Let your great +beauty rise, for I grant the boon which you would ask of me.” + +“Then what I ask,” said the damsel, “is that your magnanimous person +accompany me at once whither I will conduct you, and that you promise +not to engage in any other adventure or quest until you have avenged me +of a traitor who against all human and divine law, has usurped my +kingdom.” + +“I repeat that I grant it,” replied Don Quixote; “and so, lady, you may +from this day forth lay aside the melancholy that distresses you, and +let your failing hopes gather new life and strength, for with the help +of God and of my arm you will soon see yourself restored to your +kingdom, and seated upon the throne of your ancient and mighty realm, +notwithstanding and despite of the felons who would gainsay it; and now +hands to the work, for in delay there is apt to be danger.” + +The distressed damsel strove with much pertinacity to kiss his hands; +but Don Quixote, who was in all things a polished and courteous knight, +would by no means allow it, but made her rise and embraced her with +great courtesy and politeness, and ordered Sancho to look to +Rocinante’s girths, and to arm him without a moment’s delay. Sancho +took down the armour, which was hung up on a tree like a trophy, and +having seen to the girths armed his master in a trice, who as soon as +he found himself in his armour exclaimed: + +“Let us be gone in the name of God to bring aid to this great lady.” + +The barber was all this time on his knees at great pains to hide his +laughter and not let his beard fall, for had it fallen maybe their fine +scheme would have come to nothing; but now seeing the boon granted, and +the promptitude with which Don Quixote prepared to set out in +compliance with it, he rose and took his lady’s hand, and between them +they placed her upon the mule. Don Quixote then mounted Rocinante, and +the barber settled himself on his beast, Sancho being left to go on +foot, which made him feel anew the loss of his Dapple, finding the want +of him now. But he bore all with cheerfulness, being persuaded that his +master had now fairly started and was just on the point of becoming an +emperor; for he felt no doubt at all that he would marry this princess, +and be king of Micomicon at least. The only thing that troubled him was +the reflection that this kingdom was in the land of the blacks, and +that the people they would give him for vassals would be all black; but +for this he soon found a remedy in his fancy, and said he to himself, +“What is it to me if my vassals are blacks? What more have I to do than +make a cargo of them and carry them to Spain, where I can sell them and +get ready money for them, and with it buy some title or some office in +which to live at ease all the days of my life? Not unless you go to +sleep and haven’t the wit or skill to turn things to account and sell +three, six, or ten thousand vassals while you would be talking about +it! By God I will stir them up, big and little, or as best I can, and +let them be ever so black I’ll turn them into white or yellow. Come, +come, what a fool I am!” And so he jogged on, so occupied with his +thoughts and easy in his mind that he forgot all about the hardship of +travelling on foot. + +Cardenio and the curate were watching all this from among some bushes, +not knowing how to join company with the others; but the curate, who +was very fertile in devices, soon hit upon a way of effecting their +purpose, and with a pair of scissors he had in a case he quickly cut +off Cardenio’s beard, and putting on him a grey jerkin of his own he +gave him a black cloak, leaving himself in his breeches and doublet, +while Cardenio’s appearance was so different from what it had been that +he would not have known himself had he seen himself in a mirror. Having +effected this, although the others had gone on ahead while they were +disguising themselves, they easily came out on the high road before +them, for the brambles and awkward places they encountered did not +allow those on horseback to go as fast as those on foot. They then +posted themselves on the level ground at the outlet of the Sierra, and +as soon as Don Quixote and his companions emerged from it the curate +began to examine him very deliberately, as though he were striving to +recognise him, and after having stared at him for some time he hastened +towards him with open arms exclaiming, “A happy meeting with the mirror +of chivalry, my worthy compatriot Don Quixote of La Mancha, the flower +and cream of high breeding, the protection and relief of the +distressed, the quintessence of knights-errant!” And so saying he +clasped in his arms the knee of Don Quixote’s left leg. He, astonished +at the stranger’s words and behaviour, looked at him attentively, and +at length recognised him, very much surprised to see him there, and +made great efforts to dismount. This, however, the curate would not +allow, on which Don Quixote said, “Permit me, señor licentiate, for it +is not fitting that I should be on horseback and so reverend a person +as your worship on foot.” + +“On no account will I allow it,” said the curate; “your mightiness must +remain on horseback, for it is on horseback you achieve the greatest +deeds and adventures that have been beheld in our age; as for me, an +unworthy priest, it will serve me well enough to mount on the haunches +of one of the mules of these gentlefolk who accompany your worship, if +they have no objection, and I will fancy I am mounted on the steed +Pegasus, or on the zebra or charger that bore the famous Moor, +Muzaraque, who to this day lies enchanted in the great hill of Zulema, +a little distance from the great Complutum.” + +“Nor even that will I consent to, señor licentiate,” answered Don +Quixote, “and I know it will be the good pleasure of my lady the +princess, out of love for me, to order her squire to give up the saddle +of his mule to your worship, and he can sit behind if the beast will +bear it.” + +“It will, I am sure,” said the princess, “and I am sure, too, that I +need not order my squire, for he is too courteous and considerate to +allow a Churchman to go on foot when he might be mounted.” + +“That he is,” said the barber, and at once alighting, he offered his +saddle to the curate, who accepted it without much entreaty; but +unfortunately as the barber was mounting behind, the mule, being as it +happened a hired one, which is the same thing as saying +ill-conditioned, lifted its hind hoofs and let fly a couple of kicks in +the air, which would have made Master Nicholas wish his expedition in +quest of Don Quixote at the devil had they caught him on the breast or +head. As it was, they so took him by surprise that he came to the +ground, giving so little heed to his beard that it fell off, and all he +could do when he found himself without it was to cover his face hastily +with both his hands and moan that his teeth were knocked out. Don +Quixote when he saw all that bundle of beard detached, without jaws or +blood, from the face of the fallen squire, exclaimed: + +“By the living God, but this is a great miracle! it has knocked off and +plucked away the beard from his face as if it had been shaved off +designedly.” + +The curate, seeing the danger of discovery that threatened his scheme, +at once pounced upon the beard and hastened with it to where Master +Nicholas lay, still uttering moans, and drawing his head to his breast +had it on in an instant, muttering over him some words which he said +were a certain special charm for sticking on beards, as they would see; +and as soon as he had it fixed he left him, and the squire appeared +well bearded and whole as before, whereat Don Quixote was beyond +measure astonished, and begged the curate to teach him that charm when +he had an opportunity, as he was persuaded its virtue must extend +beyond the sticking on of beards, for it was clear that where the beard +had been stripped off the flesh must have remained torn and lacerated, +and when it could heal all that it must be good for more than beards. + +“And so it is,” said the curate, and he promised to teach it to him on +the first opportunity. They then agreed that for the present the curate +should mount, and that the three should ride by turns until they +reached the inn, which might be about six leagues from where they were. + +Three then being mounted, that is to say, Don Quixote, the princess, +and the curate, and three on foot, Cardenio, the barber, and Sancho +Panza, Don Quixote said to the damsel: + +“Let your highness, lady, lead on whithersoever is most pleasing to +you;” but before she could answer the licentiate said: + + + +c29d.jpg (345K) + +Full Size + + + + +“Towards what kingdom would your ladyship direct our course? Is it +perchance towards that of Micomicon? It must be, or else I know little +about kingdoms.” + +She, being ready on all points, understood that she was to answer +“Yes,” so she said “Yes, señor, my way lies towards that kingdom.” + +“In that case,” said the curate, “we must pass right through my +village, and there your worship will take the road to Cartagena, where +you will be able to embark, fortune favouring; and if the wind be fair +and the sea smooth and tranquil, in somewhat less than nine years you +may come in sight of the great lake Meona, I mean Meotides, which is +little more than a hundred days’ journey this side of your highness’s +kingdom.” + + + +c29e.jpg (318K) + +Full Size + + + + +“Your worship is mistaken, señor,” said she; “for it is not two years +since I set out from it, and though I never had good weather, +nevertheless I am here to behold what I so longed for, and that is my +lord Don Quixote of La Mancha, whose fame came to my ears as soon as I +set foot in Spain and impelled me to go in search of him, to commend +myself to his courtesy, and entrust the justice of my cause to the +might of his invincible arm.” + +“Enough; no more praise,” said Don Quixote at this, “for I hate all +flattery; and though this may not be so, still language of the kind is +offensive to my chaste ears. I will only say, señora, that whether it +has might or not, that which it may or may not have shall be devoted to +your service even to death; and now, leaving this to its proper season, +I would ask the señor licentiate to tell me what it is that has brought +him into these parts, alone, unattended, and so lightly clad that I am +filled with amazement.” + +“I will answer that briefly,” replied the curate; “you must know then, +Señor Don Quixote, that Master Nicholas, our friend and barber, and I +were going to Seville to receive some money that a relative of mine who +went to the Indies many years ago had sent me, and not such a small sum +but that it was over sixty thousand pieces of eight, full weight, which +is something; and passing by this place yesterday we were attacked by +four footpads, who stripped us even to our beards, and them they +stripped off so that the barber found it necessary to put on a false +one, and even this young man here”—pointing to Cardenio—“they +completely transformed. But the best of it is, the story goes in the +neighbourhood that those who attacked us belong to a number of galley +slaves who, they say, were set free almost on the very same spot by a +man of such valour that, in spite of the commissary and of the guards, +he released the whole of them; and beyond all doubt he must have been +out of his senses, or he must be as great a scoundrel as they, or some +man without heart or conscience to let the wolf loose among the sheep, +the fox among the hens, the fly among the honey. He has defrauded +justice, and opposed his king and lawful master, for he opposed his +just commands; he has, I say, robbed the galleys of their feet, stirred +up the Holy Brotherhood which for many years past has been quiet, and, +lastly, has done a deed by which his soul may be lost without any gain +to his body.” Sancho had told the curate and the barber of the +adventure of the galley slaves, which, so much to his glory, his master +had achieved, and hence the curate in alluding to it made the most of +it to see what would be said or done by Don Quixote; who changed colour +at every word, not daring to say that it was he who had been the +liberator of those worthy people. “These, then,” said the curate, “were +they who robbed us; and God in his mercy pardon him who would not let +them go to the punishment they deserved.” + + + +c29f.jpg (53K) + +Full Size + + + +CHAPTER XXX. +WHICH TREATS OF ADDRESS DISPLAYED BY THE FAIR DOROTHEA, WITH OTHER +MATTERS PLEASANT AND AMUSING + + + + +c30a.jpg (147K) + +Full Size + + + + +The curate had hardly ceased speaking, when Sancho said, “In faith, +then, señor licentiate, he who did that deed was my master; and it was +not for want of my telling him beforehand and warning him to mind what +he was about, and that it was a sin to set them at liberty, as they +were all on the march there because they were special scoundrels.” + +“Blockhead!” said Don Quixote at this, “it is no business or concern of +knights-errant to inquire whether any persons in affliction, in chains, +or oppressed that they may meet on the high roads go that way and +suffer as they do because of their faults or because of their +misfortunes. It only concerns them to aid them as persons in need of +help, having regard to their sufferings and not to their rascalities. I +encountered a chaplet or string of miserable and unfortunate people, +and did for them what my sense of duty demands of me, and as for the +rest be that as it may; and whoever takes objection to it, saving the +sacred dignity of the señor licentiate and his honoured person, I say +he knows little about chivalry and lies like a whoreson villain, and +this I will give him to know to the fullest extent with my sword;” and +so saying he settled himself in his stirrups and pressed down his +morion; for the barber’s basin, which according to him was Mambrino’s +helmet, he carried hanging at the saddle-bow until he could repair the +damage done to it by the galley slaves. + +Dorothea, who was shrewd and sprightly, and by this time thoroughly +understood Don Quixote’s crazy turn, and that all except Sancho Panza +were making game of him, not to be behind the rest said to him, on +observing his irritation, “Sir Knight, remember the boon you have +promised me, and that in accordance with it you must not engage in any +other adventure, be it ever so pressing; calm yourself, for if the +licentiate had known that the galley slaves had been set free by that +unconquered arm he would have stopped his mouth thrice over, or even +bitten his tongue three times before he would have said a word that +tended towards disrespect of your worship.” + +“That I swear heartily,” said the curate, “and I would have even +plucked off a moustache.” + +“I will hold my peace, señora,” said Don Quixote, “and I will curb the +natural anger that had arisen in my breast, and will proceed in peace +and quietness until I have fulfilled my promise; but in return for this +consideration I entreat you to tell me, if you have no objection to do +so, what is the nature of your trouble, and how many, who, and what are +the persons of whom I am to require due satisfaction, and on whom I am +to take vengeance on your behalf?” + +“That I will do with all my heart,” replied Dorothea, “if it will not +be wearisome to you to hear of miseries and misfortunes.” + +“It will not be wearisome, señora,” said Don Quixote; to which Dorothea +replied, “Well, if that be so, give me your attention.” As soon as she +said this, Cardenio and the barber drew close to her side, eager to +hear what sort of story the quick-witted Dorothea would invent for +herself; and Sancho did the same, for he was as much taken in by her as +his master; and she having settled herself comfortably in the saddle, +and with the help of coughing and other preliminaries taken time to +think, began with great sprightliness of manner in this fashion. + +“First of all, I would have you know, sirs, that my name is—” and here +she stopped for a moment, for she forgot the name the curate had given +her; but he came to her relief, seeing what her difficulty was, and +said, “It is no wonder, señora, that your highness should be confused +and embarrassed in telling the tale of your misfortunes; for such +afflictions often have the effect of depriving the sufferers of memory, +so that they do not even remember their own names, as is the case now +with your ladyship, who has forgotten that she is called the Princess +Micomicona, lawful heiress of the great kingdom of Micomicon; and with +this cue your highness may now recall to your sorrowful recollection +all you may wish to tell us.” + +“That is the truth,” said the damsel; “but I think from this on I shall +have no need of any prompting, and I shall bring my true story safe +into port, and here it is. The king my father, who was called Tinacrio +the Sapient, was very learned in what they call magic arts, and became +aware by his craft that my mother, who was called Queen Jaramilla, was +to die before he did, and that soon after he too was to depart this +life, and I was to be left an orphan without father or mother. But all +this, he declared, did not so much grieve or distress him as his +certain knowledge that a prodigious giant, the lord of a great island +close to our kingdom, Pandafilando of the Scowl by name—for it is +averred that, though his eyes are properly placed and straight, he +always looks askew as if he squinted, and this he does out of +malignity, to strike fear and terror into those he looks at—that he +knew, I say, that this giant on becoming aware of my orphan condition +would overrun my kingdom with a mighty force and strip me of all, not +leaving me even a small village to shelter me; but that I could avoid +all this ruin and misfortune if I were willing to marry him; however, +as far as he could see, he never expected that I would consent to a +marriage so unequal; and he said no more than the truth in this, for it +has never entered my mind to marry that giant, or any other, let him be +ever so great or enormous. My father said, too, that when he was dead, +and I saw Pandafilando about to invade my kingdom, I was not to wait +and attempt to defend myself, for that would be destructive to me, but +that I should leave the kingdom entirely open to him if I wished to +avoid the death and total destruction of my good and loyal vassals, for +there would be no possibility of defending myself against the giant’s +devilish power; and that I should at once with some of my followers set +out for Spain, where I should obtain relief in my distress on finding a +certain knight-errant whose fame by that time would extend over the +whole kingdom, and who would be called, if I remember rightly, Don +Azote or Don Gigote.” + +“‘Don Quixote,’ he must have said, señora,” observed Sancho at this, +“otherwise called the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.” + +“That is it,” said Dorothea; “he said, moreover, that he would be tall +of stature and lank featured; and that on his right side under the left +shoulder, or thereabouts, he would have a grey mole with hairs like +bristles.” + +On hearing this, Don Quixote said to his squire, “Here, Sancho my son, +bear a hand and help me to strip, for I want to see if I am the knight +that sage king foretold.” + +“What does your worship want to strip for?” said Dorothea. + +“To see if I have that mole your father spoke of,” answered Don +Quixote. + +“There is no occasion to strip,” said Sancho; “for I know your worship +has just such a mole on the middle of your backbone, which is the mark +of a strong man.” + +“That is enough,” said Dorothea, “for with friends we must not look too +closely into trifles; and whether it be on the shoulder or on the +backbone matters little; it is enough if there is a mole, be it where +it may, for it is all the same flesh; no doubt my good father hit the +truth in every particular, and I have made a lucky hit in commending +myself to Don Quixote; for he is the one my father spoke of, as the +features of his countenance correspond with those assigned to this +knight by that wide fame he has acquired not only in Spain but in all +La Mancha; for I had scarcely landed at Osuna when I heard such +accounts of his achievements, that at once my heart told me he was the +very one I had come in search of.” + +“But how did you land at Osuna, señora,” asked Don Quixote, “when it is +not a seaport?” + +But before Dorothea could reply the curate anticipated her, saying, +“The princess meant to say that after she had landed at Malaga the +first place where she heard of your worship was Osuna.” + +“That is what I meant to say,” said Dorothea. + +“And that would be only natural,” said the curate. “Will your majesty +please proceed?” + +“There is no more to add,” said Dorothea, “save that in finding Don +Quixote I have had such good fortune, that I already reckon and regard +myself queen and mistress of my entire dominions, since of his courtesy +and magnanimity he has granted me the boon of accompanying me +whithersoever I may conduct him, which will be only to bring him face +to face with Pandafilando of the Scowl, that he may slay him and +restore to me what has been unjustly usurped by him: for all this must +come to pass satisfactorily since my good father Tinacrio the Sapient +foretold it, who likewise left it declared in writing in Chaldee or +Greek characters (for I cannot read them), that if this predicted +knight, after having cut the giant’s throat, should be disposed to +marry me I was to offer myself at once without demur as his lawful +wife, and yield him possession of my kingdom together with my person.” + +“What thinkest thou now, friend Sancho?” said Don Quixote at this. +“Hearest thou that? Did I not tell thee so? See how we have already got +a kingdom to govern and a queen to marry!” + +“On my oath it is so,” said Sancho; “and foul fortune to him who won’t +marry after slitting Señor Pandahilado’s windpipe! And then, how +illfavoured the queen is! I wish the fleas in my bed were that sort!” + +And so saying he cut a couple of capers in the air with every sign of +extreme satisfaction, and then ran to seize the bridle of Dorothea’s +mule, and checking it fell on his knees before her, begging her to give +him her hand to kiss in token of his acknowledgment of her as his queen +and mistress. Which of the bystanders could have helped laughing to see +the madness of the master and the simplicity of the servant? Dorothea +therefore gave her hand, and promised to make him a great lord in her +kingdom, when Heaven should be so good as to permit her to recover and +enjoy it, for which Sancho returned thanks in words that set them all +laughing again. + +“This, sirs,” continued Dorothea, “is my story; it only remains to tell +you that of all the attendants I took with me from my kingdom I have +none left except this well-bearded squire, for all were drowned in a +great tempest we encountered when in sight of port; and he and I came +to land on a couple of planks as if by a miracle; and indeed the whole +course of my life is a miracle and a mystery as you may have observed; +and if I have been over minute in any respect or not as precise as I +ought, let it be accounted for by what the licentiate said at the +beginning of my tale, that constant and excessive troubles deprive the +sufferers of their memory.” + +“They shall not deprive me of mine, exalted and worthy princess,” said +Don Quixote, “however great and unexampled those which I shall endure +in your service may be; and here I confirm anew the boon I have +promised you, and I swear to go with you to the end of the world until +I find myself in the presence of your fierce enemy, whose haughty head +I trust by the aid of my arm to cut off with the edge of this—I will +not say good sword, thanks to Gines de Pasamonte who carried away +mine”—(this he said between his teeth, and then continued), “and when +it has been cut off and you have been put in peaceful possession of +your realm it shall be left to your own decision to dispose of your +person as may be most pleasing to you; for so long as my memory is +occupied, my will enslaved, and my understanding enthralled by her—I +say no more—it is impossible for me for a moment to contemplate +marriage, even with a Phœnix.” + +The last words of his master about not wanting to marry were so +disagreeable to Sancho that raising his voice he exclaimed with great +irritation: + +“By my oath, Señor Don Quixote, you are not in your right senses; for +how can your worship possibly object to marrying such an exalted +princess as this? Do you think Fortune will offer you behind every +stone such a piece of luck as is offered you now? Is my lady Dulcinea +fairer, perchance? Not she; nor half as fair; and I will even go so far +as to say she does not come up to the shoe of this one here. A poor +chance I have of getting that county I am waiting for if your worship +goes looking for dainties in the bottom of the sea. In the devil’s +name, marry, marry, and take this kingdom that comes to hand without +any trouble, and when you are king make me a marquis or governor of a +province, and for the rest let the devil take it all.” + +Don Quixote, when he heard such blasphemies uttered against his lady +Dulcinea, could not endure it, and lifting his pike, without saying +anything to Sancho or uttering a word, he gave him two such thwacks +that he brought him to the ground; and had it not been that Dorothea +cried out to him to spare him he would have no doubt taken his life on +the spot. + +“Do you think,” he said to him after a pause, “you scurvy clown, that +you are to be always interfering with me, and that you are to be always +offending and I always pardoning? Don’t fancy it, impious scoundrel, +for that beyond a doubt thou art, since thou hast set thy tongue going +against the peerless Dulcinea. Know you not, lout, vagabond, beggar, +that were it not for the might that she infuses into my arm I should +not have strength enough to kill a flea? Say, scoffer with a viper’s +tongue, what think you has won this kingdom and cut off this giant’s +head and made you a marquis (for all this I count as already +accomplished and decided), but the might of Dulcinea, employing my arm +as the instrument of her achievements? She fights in me and conquers in +me, and I live and breathe in her, and owe my life and being to her. O +whoreson scoundrel, how ungrateful you are, you see yourself raised +from the dust of the earth to be a titled lord, and the return you make +for so great a benefit is to speak evil of her who has conferred it +upon you!” + +Sancho was not so stunned but that he heard all his master said, and +rising with some degree of nimbleness he ran to place himself behind +Dorothea’s palfrey, and from that position he said to his master: + +“Tell me, señor; if your worship is resolved not to marry this great +princess, it is plain the kingdom will not be yours; and not being so, +how can you bestow favours upon me? That is what I complain of. Let +your worship at any rate marry this queen, now that we have got her +here as if showered down from heaven, and afterwards you may go back to +my lady Dulcinea; for there must have been kings in the world who kept +mistresses. As to beauty, I have nothing to do with it; and if the +truth is to be told, I like them both; though I have never seen the +lady Dulcinea.” + +“How! never seen her, blasphemous traitor!” exclaimed Don Quixote; +“hast thou not just now brought me a message from her?” + +“I mean,” said Sancho, “that I did not see her so much at my leisure +that I could take particular notice of her beauty, or of her charms +piecemeal; but taken in the lump I like her.” + +“Now I forgive thee,” said Don Quixote; “and do thou forgive me the +injury I have done thee; for our first impulses are not in our +control.” + +“That I see,” replied Sancho, “and with me the wish to speak is always +the first impulse, and I cannot help saying, once at any rate, what I +have on the tip of my tongue.” + +“For all that, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “take heed of what thou +sayest, for the pitcher goes so often to the well—I need say no more to +thee.” + +“Well, well,” said Sancho, “God is in heaven, and sees all tricks, and +will judge who does most harm, I in not speaking right, or your worship +in not doing it.” + +“That is enough,” said Dorothea; “run, Sancho, and kiss your lord’s +hand and beg his pardon, and henceforward be more circumspect with your +praise and abuse; and say nothing in disparagement of that lady Toboso, +of whom I know nothing save that I am her servant; and put your trust +in God, for you will not fail to obtain some dignity so as to live like +a prince.” + +Sancho advanced hanging his head and begged his master’s hand, which +Don Quixote with dignity presented to him, giving him his blessing as +soon as he had kissed it; he then bade him go on ahead a little, as he +had questions to ask him and matters of great importance to discuss +with him. Sancho obeyed, and when the two had gone some distance in +advance Don Quixote said to him, “Since thy return I have had no +opportunity or time to ask thee many particulars touching thy mission +and the answer thou hast brought back, and now that chance has granted +us the time and opportunity, deny me not the happiness thou canst give +me by such good news.” + +“Let your worship ask what you will,” answered Sancho, “for I shall +find a way out of all as I found a way in; but I implore you, señor, +not to be so revengeful in future.” + +“Why dost thou say that, Sancho?” said Don Quixote. + +“I say it,” he returned, “because those blows just now were more +because of the quarrel the devil stirred up between us both the other +night, than for what I said against my lady Dulcinea, whom I love and +reverence as I would a relic—though there is nothing of that about +her—merely as something belonging to your worship.” + +“Say no more on that subject for thy life, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, +“for it is displeasing to me; I have already pardoned thee for that, +and thou knowest the common saying, ‘for a fresh sin a fresh penance.’” + +While this was going on they saw coming along the road they were +following a man mounted on an ass, who when he came close seemed to be +a gipsy; but Sancho Panza, whose eyes and heart were there wherever he +saw asses, no sooner beheld the man than he knew him to be Gines de +Pasamonte; and by the thread of the gipsy he got at the ball, his ass, +for it was, in fact, Dapple that carried Pasamonte, who to escape +recognition and to sell the ass had disguised himself as a gipsy, being +able to speak the gipsy language, and many more, as well as if they +were his own. Sancho saw him and recognised him, and the instant he did +so he shouted to him, “Ginesillo, you thief, give up my treasure, +release my life, embarrass thyself not with my repose, quit my ass, +leave my delight, be off, rip, get thee gone, thief, and give up what +is not thine.” + +There was no necessity for so many words or objurgations, for at the +first one Gines jumped down, and at a like racing speed made off and +got clear of them all. Sancho hastened to his Dapple, and embracing him +he said, “How hast thou fared, my blessing, Dapple of my eyes, my +comrade?” all the while kissing him and caressing him as if he were a +human being. The ass held his peace, and let himself be kissed and +caressed by Sancho without answering a single word. They all came up +and congratulated him on having found Dapple, Don Quixote especially, +who told him that notwithstanding this he would not cancel the order +for the three ass-colts, for which Sancho thanked him. + +While the two had been going along conversing in this fashion, the +curate observed to Dorothea that she had shown great cleverness, as +well in the story itself as in its conciseness, and the resemblance it +bore to those of the books of chivalry. She said that she had many +times amused herself reading them; but that she did not know the +situation of the provinces or seaports, and so she had said at +haphazard that she had landed at Osuna. + +“So I saw,” said the curate, “and for that reason I made haste to say +what I did, by which it was all set right. But is it not a strange +thing to see how readily this unhappy gentleman believes all these +figments and lies, simply because they are in the style and manner of +the absurdities of his books?” + +“So it is,” said Cardenio; “and so uncommon and unexampled, that were +one to attempt to invent and concoct it in fiction, I doubt if there be +any wit keen enough to imagine it.” + +“But another strange thing about it,” said the curate, “is that, apart +from the silly things which this worthy gentleman says in connection +with his craze, when other subjects are dealt with, he can discuss them +in a perfectly rational manner, showing that his mind is quite clear +and composed; so that, provided his chivalry is not touched upon, no +one would take him to be anything but a man of thoroughly sound +understanding.” + +While they were holding this conversation Don Quixote continued his +with Sancho, saying: + +“Friend Panza, let us forgive and forget as to our quarrels, and tell +me now, dismissing anger and irritation, where, how, and when didst +thou find Dulcinea? What was she doing? What didst thou say to her? +What did she answer? How did she look when she was reading my letter? +Who copied it out for thee? and everything in the matter that seems to +thee worth knowing, asking, and learning; neither adding nor falsifying +to give me pleasure, nor yet curtailing lest you should deprive me of +it.” + +“Señor,” replied Sancho, “if the truth is to be told, nobody copied out +the letter for me, for I carried no letter at all.” + +“It is as thou sayest,” said Don Quixote, “for the notebook in which I +wrote it I found in my own possession two days after thy departure, +which gave me very great vexation, as I knew not what thou wouldst do +on finding thyself without any letter; and I made sure thou wouldst +return from the place where thou didst first miss it.” + +“So I should have done,” said Sancho, “if I had not got it by heart +when your worship read it to me, so that I repeated it to a sacristan, +who copied it out for me from hearing it, so exactly that he said in +all the days of his life, though he had read many a letter of +excommunication, he had never seen or read so pretty a letter as that.” + +“And hast thou got it still in thy memory, Sancho?” said Don Quixote. + +“No, señor,” replied Sancho, “for as soon as I had repeated it, seeing +there was no further use for it, I set about forgetting it; and if I +recollect any of it, it is that about ‘Scrubbing,’ I mean to say +‘Sovereign Lady,’ and the end ‘Yours till death, the Knight of the +Rueful Countenance;’ and between these two I put into it more than +three hundred ‘my souls’ and ‘my life’s’ and ‘my eyes.” + + + +c30e.jpg (13K) + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. +OF THE DELECTABLE DISCUSSION BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA, HIS +SQUIRE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS + + + + +c31a.jpg (151K) + +Full Size + + + + +“All that is not unsatisfactory to me,” said Don Quixote. “Go on; thou +didst reach her; and what was that queen of beauty doing? Surely thou +didst find her stringing pearls, or embroidering some device in gold +thread for this her enslaved knight.” + +“I did not,” said Sancho, “but I found her winnowing two bushels of +wheat in the yard of her house.” + +“Then depend upon it,” said Don Quixote, “the grains of that wheat were +pearls when touched by her hands; and didst thou look, friend? was it +white wheat or brown?” + +“It was neither, but red,” said Sancho. + +“Then I promise thee,” said Don Quixote, “that, winnowed by her hands, +beyond a doubt the bread it made was of the whitest; but go on; when +thou gavest her my letter, did she kiss it? Did she place it on her +head? Did she perform any ceremony befitting it, or what did she do?” + +“When I went to give it to her,” replied Sancho, “she was hard at it +swaying from side to side with a lot of wheat she had in the sieve, and +she said to me, ‘Lay the letter, friend, on the top of that sack, for I +cannot read it until I have done sifting all this.” + +“Discreet lady!” said Don Quixote; “that was in order to read it at her +leisure and enjoy it; proceed, Sancho; while she was engaged in her +occupation what converse did she hold with thee? What did she ask about +me, and what answer didst thou give? Make haste; tell me all, and let +not an atom be left behind in the ink-bottle.” + +“She asked me nothing,” said Sancho; “but I told her how your worship +was left doing penance in her service, naked from the waist up, in +among these mountains like a savage, sleeping on the ground, not eating +bread off a tablecloth nor combing your beard, weeping and cursing your +fortune.” + +“In saying I cursed my fortune thou saidst wrong,” said Don Quixote; +“for rather do I bless it and shall bless it all the days of my life +for having made me worthy of aspiring to love so lofty a lady as +Dulcinea del Toboso.” + +“And so lofty she is,” said Sancho, “that she overtops me by more than +a hand’s-breadth.” + +“What! Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “didst thou measure with her?” + +“I measured in this way,” said Sancho; “going to help her to put a sack +of wheat on the back of an ass, we came so close together that I could +see she stood more than a good palm over me.” + +“Well!” said Don Quixote, “and doth she not of a truth accompany and +adorn this greatness with a thousand million charms of mind! But one +thing thou wilt not deny, Sancho; when thou camest close to her didst +thou not perceive a Sabæan odour, an aromatic fragrance, a, I know not +what, delicious, that I cannot find a name for; I mean a redolence, an +exhalation, as if thou wert in the shop of some dainty glover?” + +“All I can say is,” said Sancho, “that I did perceive a little odour, +something goaty; it must have been that she was all in a sweat with +hard work.” + +“It could not be that,” said Don Quixote, “but thou must have been +suffering from cold in the head, or must have smelt thyself; for I know +well what would be the scent of that rose among thorns, that lily of +the field, that dissolved amber.” + +“Maybe so,” replied Sancho; “there often comes from myself that same +odour which then seemed to me to come from her grace the lady Dulcinea; +but that’s no wonder, for one devil is like another.” + +“Well then,” continued Don Quixote, “now she has done sifting the corn +and sent it to the mill; what did she do when she read the letter?” + +“As for the letter,” said Sancho, “she did not read it, for she said +she could neither read nor write; instead of that she tore it up into +small pieces, saying that she did not want to let anyone read it lest +her secrets should become known in the village, and that what I had +told her by word of mouth about the love your worship bore her, and the +extraordinary penance you were doing for her sake, was enough; and, to +make an end of it, she told me to tell your worship that she kissed +your hands, and that she had a greater desire to see you than to write +to you; and that therefore she entreated and commanded you, on sight of +this present, to come out of these thickets, and to have done with +carrying on absurdities, and to set out at once for El Toboso, unless +something else of greater importance should happen, for she had a great +desire to see your worship. She laughed greatly when I told her how +your worship was called The Knight of the Rueful Countenance; I asked +her if that Biscayan the other day had been there; and she told me he +had, and that he was an honest fellow; I asked her too about the galley +slaves, but she said she had not seen any as yet.” + +“So far all goes well,” said Don Quixote; “but tell me what jewel was +it that she gave thee on taking thy leave, in return for thy tidings of +me? For it is a usual and ancient custom with knights and ladies errant +to give the squires, damsels, or dwarfs who bring tidings of their +ladies to the knights, or of their knights to the ladies, some rich +jewel as a guerdon for good news, and acknowledgment of the message.” + +“That is very likely,” said Sancho, “and a good custom it was, to my +mind; but that must have been in days gone by, for now it would seem to +be the custom only to give a piece of bread and cheese; because that +was what my lady Dulcinea gave me over the top of the yard-wall when I +took leave of her; and more by token it was sheep’s-milk cheese.” + +“She is generous in the extreme,” said Don Quixote, “and if she did not +give thee a jewel of gold, no doubt it must have been because she had +not one to hand there to give thee; but sleeves are good after Easter; +I shall see her and all shall be made right. But knowest thou what +amazes me, Sancho? It seems to me thou must have gone and come through +the air, for thou hast taken but little more than three days to go to +El Toboso and return, though it is more than thirty leagues from here +to there. From which I am inclined to think that the sage magician who +is my friend, and watches over my interests (for of necessity there is +and must be one, or else I should not be a right knight-errant), that +this same, I say, must have helped thee to travel without thy +knowledge; for some of these sages will catch up a knight-errant +sleeping in his bed, and without his knowing how or in what way it +happened, he wakes up the next day more than a thousand leagues away +from the place where he went to sleep. And if it were not for this, +knights-errant would not be able to give aid to one another in peril, +as they do at every turn. For a knight, maybe, is fighting in the +mountains of Armenia with some dragon, or fierce serpent, or another +knight, and gets the worst of the battle, and is at the point of death; +but when he least looks for it, there appears over against him on a +cloud, or chariot of fire, another knight, a friend of his, who just +before had been in England, and who takes his part, and delivers him +from death; and at night he finds himself in his own quarters supping +very much to his satisfaction; and yet from one place to the other will +have been two or three thousand leagues. And all this is done by the +craft and skill of the sage enchanters who take care of those valiant +knights; so that, friend Sancho, I find no difficulty in believing that +thou mayest have gone from this place to El Toboso and returned in such +a short time, since, as I have said, some friendly sage must have +carried thee through the air without thee perceiving it.” + +“That must have been it,” said Sancho, “for indeed Rocinante went like +a gipsy’s ass with quicksilver in his ears.” + +“Quicksilver!” said Don Quixote, “aye and what is more, a legion of +devils, folk that can travel and make others travel without being +weary, exactly as the whim seizes them. But putting this aside, what +thinkest thou I ought to do about my lady’s command to go and see her? +For though I feel that I am bound to obey her mandate, I feel too that +I am debarred by the boon I have accorded to the princess that +accompanies us, and the law of chivalry compels me to have regard for +my word in preference to my inclination; on the one hand the desire to +see my lady pursues and harasses me, on the other my solemn promise and +the glory I shall win in this enterprise urge and call me; but what I +think I shall do is to travel with all speed and reach quickly the +place where this giant is, and on my arrival I shall cut off his head, +and establish the princess peacefully in her realm, and forthwith I +shall return to behold the light that lightens my senses, to whom I +shall make such excuses that she will be led to approve of my delay, +for she will see that it entirely tends to increase her glory and fame; +for all that I have won, am winning, or shall win by arms in this life, +comes to me of the favour she extends to me, and because I am hers.” + +“Ah! what a sad state your worship’s brains are in!” said Sancho. “Tell +me, señor, do you mean to travel all that way for nothing, and to let +slip and lose so rich and great a match as this where they give as a +portion a kingdom that in sober truth I have heard say is more than +twenty thousand leagues round about, and abounds with all things +necessary to support human life, and is bigger than Portugal and +Castile put together? Peace, for the love of God! Blush for what you +have said, and take my advice, and forgive me, and marry at once in the +first village where there is a curate; if not, here is our licentiate +who will do the business beautifully; remember, I am old enough to give +advice, and this I am giving comes pat to the purpose; for a sparrow in +the hand is better than a vulture on the wing, and he who has the good +to his hand and chooses the bad, that the good he complains of may not +come to him.” + +“Look here, Sancho,” said Don Quixote. “If thou art advising me to +marry, in order that immediately on slaying the giant I may become +king, and be able to confer favours on thee, and give thee what I have +promised, let me tell thee I shall be able very easily to satisfy thy +desires without marrying; for before going into battle I will make it a +stipulation that, if I come out of it victorious, even I do not marry, +they shall give me a portion of the kingdom, that I may bestow it upon +whomsoever I choose, and when they give it to me upon whom wouldst thou +have me bestow it but upon thee?” + +“That is plain speaking,” said Sancho; “but let your worship take care +to choose it on the seacoast, so that if I don’t like the life, I may +be able to ship off my black vassals and deal with them as I have said; +don’t mind going to see my lady Dulcinea now, but go and kill this +giant and let us finish off this business; for by God it strikes me it +will be one of great honour and great profit.” + +“I hold thou art in the right of it, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and I +will take thy advice as to accompanying the princess before going to +see Dulcinea; but I counsel thee not to say anything to anyone, or to +those who are with us, about what we have considered and discussed, for +as Dulcinea is so decorous that she does not wish her thoughts to be +known it is not right that I or anyone for me should disclose them.” + +“Well then, if that be so,” said Sancho, “how is it that your worship +makes all those you overcome by your arm go to present themselves +before my lady Dulcinea, this being the same thing as signing your name +to it that you love her and are her lover? And as those who go must +perforce kneel before her and say they come from your worship to submit +themselves to her, how can the thoughts of both of you be hid?” + +“O, how silly and simple thou art!” said Don Quixote; “seest thou not, +Sancho, that this tends to her greater exaltation? For thou must know +that according to our way of thinking in chivalry, it is a high honour +to a lady to have many knights-errant in her service, whose thoughts +never go beyond serving her for her own sake, and who look for no other +reward for their great and true devotion than that she should be +willing to accept them as her knights.” + +“It is with that kind of love,” said Sancho, “I have heard preachers +say we ought to love our Lord, for himself alone, without being moved +by the hope of glory or the fear of punishment; though for my part, I +would rather love and serve him for what he could do.” + +“The devil take thee for a clown!” said Don Quixote, “and what shrewd +things thou sayest at times! One would think thou hadst studied.” + +“In faith, then, I cannot even read.” + +Master Nicholas here called out to them to wait a while, as they wanted +to halt and drink at a little spring there was there. Don Quixote drew +up, not a little to the satisfaction of Sancho, for he was by this time +weary of telling so many lies, and in dread of his master catching him +tripping, for though he knew that Dulcinea was a peasant girl of El +Toboso, he had never seen her in all his life. Cardenio had now put on +the clothes which Dorothea was wearing when they found her, and though +they were not very good, they were far better than those he put off. +They dismounted together by the side of the spring, and with what the +curate had provided himself with at the inn they appeased, though not +very well, the keen appetite they all of them brought with them. + +While they were so employed there happened to come by a youth passing +on his way, who stopping to examine the party at the spring, the next +moment ran to Don Quixote and clasping him round the legs, began to +weep freely, saying, “O, señor, do you not know me? Look at me well; I +am that lad Andres that your worship released from the oak-tree where I +was tied.” + +Don Quixote recognised him, and taking his hand he turned to those +present and said: “That your worships may see how important it is to +have knights-errant to redress the wrongs and injuries done by +tyrannical and wicked men in this world, I may tell you that some days +ago passing through a wood, I heard cries and piteous complaints as of +a person in pain and distress; I immediately hastened, impelled by my +bounden duty, to the quarter whence the plaintive accents seemed to me +to proceed, and I found tied to an oak this lad who now stands before +you, which in my heart I rejoice at, for his testimony will not permit +me to depart from the truth in any particular. He was, I say, tied to +an oak, naked from the waist up, and a clown, whom I afterwards found +to be his master, was scarifying him by lashes with the reins of his +mare. As soon as I saw him I asked the reason of so cruel a +flagellation. The boor replied that he was flogging him because he was +his servant and because of carelessness that proceeded rather from +dishonesty than stupidity; on which this boy said, ‘Señor, he flogs me +only because I ask for my wages.’ The master made I know not what +speeches and explanations, which, though I listened to them, I did not +accept. In short, I compelled the clown to unbind him, and to swear he +would take him with him, and pay him real by real, and perfumed into +the bargain. Is not all this true, Andres my son? Didst thou not mark +with what authority I commanded him, and with what humility he promised +to do all I enjoined, specified, and required of him? Answer without +hesitation; tell these gentlemen what took place, that they may see +that it is as great an advantage as I say to have knights-errant +abroad.” + +“All that your worship has said is quite true,” answered the lad; “but +the end of the business turned out just the opposite of what your +worship supposes.” + +“How! the opposite?” said Don Quixote; “did not the clown pay thee +then?” + +“Not only did he not pay me,” replied the lad, “but as soon as your +worship had passed out of the wood and we were alone, he tied me up +again to the same oak and gave me a fresh flogging, that left me like a +flayed Saint Bartholomew; and every stroke he gave me he followed up +with some jest or gibe about having made a fool of your worship, and +but for the pain I was suffering I should have laughed at the things he +said. In short he left me in such a condition that I have been until +now in a hospital getting cured of the injuries which that rascally +clown inflicted on me then; for all which your worship is to blame; for +if you had gone your own way and not come where there was no call for +you, nor meddled in other people’s affairs, my master would have been +content with giving me one or two dozen lashes, and would have then +loosed me and paid me what he owed me; but when your worship abused him +so out of measure, and gave him so many hard words, his anger was +kindled; and as he could not revenge himself on you, as soon as he saw +you had left him the storm burst upon me in such a way, that I feel as +if I should never be a man again.” + +“The mischief,” said Don Quixote, “lay in my going away; for I should +not have gone until I had seen thee paid; because I ought to have known +well by long experience that there is no clown who will keep his word +if he finds it will not suit him to keep it; but thou rememberest, +Andres, that I swore if he did not pay thee I would go and seek him, +and find him though he were to hide himself in the whale’s belly.” + +“That is true,” said Andres; “but it was of no use.” + +“Thou shalt see now whether it is of use or not,” said Don Quixote; and +so saying, he got up hastily and bade Sancho bridle Rocinante, who was +browsing while they were eating. Dorothea asked him what he meant to +do. He replied that he meant to go in search of this clown and chastise +him for such iniquitous conduct, and see Andres paid to the last +maravedi, despite and in the teeth of all the clowns in the world. To +which she replied that he must remember that in accordance with his +promise he could not engage in any enterprise until he had concluded +hers; and that as he knew this better than anyone, he should restrain +his ardour until his return from her kingdom. + +“That is true,” said Don Quixote, “and Andres must have patience until +my return as you say, señora; but I once more swear and promise not to +stop until I have seen him avenged and paid.” + +“I have no faith in those oaths,” said Andres; “I would rather have now +something to help me to get to Seville than all the revenges in the +world; if you have here anything to eat that I can take with me, give +it me, and God be with your worship and all knights-errant; and may +their errands turn out as well for themselves as they have for me.” + +Sancho took out from his store a piece of bread and another of cheese, +and giving them to the lad he said, “Here, take this, brother Andres, +for we have all of us a share in your misfortune.” + +“Why, what share have you got?” + +“This share of bread and cheese I am giving you,” answered Sancho; “and +God knows whether I shall feel the want of it myself or not; for I +would have you know, friend, that we squires to knights-errant have to +bear a great deal of hunger and hard fortune, and even other things +more easily felt than told.” + +Andres seized his bread and cheese, and seeing that nobody gave him +anything more, bent his head, and took hold of the road, as the saying +is. However, before leaving he said, “For the love of God, sir +knight-errant, if you ever meet me again, though you may see them +cutting me to pieces, give me no aid or succour, but leave me to my +misfortune, which will not be so great but that a greater will come to +me by being helped by your worship, on whom and all the knights-errant +that have ever been born God send his curse.” + +Don Quixote was getting up to chastise him, but he took to his heels at +such a pace that no one attempted to follow him; and mightily +chapfallen was Don Quixote at Andres’ story, and the others had to take +great care to restrain their laughter so as not to put him entirely out +of countenance. + + + +c31e.jpg (32K) + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. +WHICH TREATS OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE’S PARTY AT THE INN + + + + +c32a.jpg (132K) + +Full Size + + + + +Their dainty repast being finished, they saddled at once, and without +any adventure worth mentioning they reached next day the inn, the +object of Sancho Panza’s fear and dread; but though he would have +rather not entered it, there was no help for it. The landlady, the +landlord, their daughter, and Maritornes, when they saw Don Quixote and +Sancho coming, went out to welcome them with signs of hearty +satisfaction, which Don Quixote received with dignity and gravity, and +bade them make up a better bed for him than the last time: to which the +landlady replied that if he paid better than he did the last time she +would give him one fit for a prince. Don Quixote said he would, so they +made up a tolerable one for him in the same garret as before; and he +lay down at once, being sorely shaken and in want of sleep. + +No sooner was the door shut upon him than the landlady made at the +barber, and seizing him by the beard, said: + +“By my faith you are not going to make a beard of my tail any longer; +you must give me back my tail, for it is a shame the way that thing of +my husband’s goes tossing about on the floor; I mean the comb that I +used to stick in my good tail.” + +But for all she tugged at it the barber would not give it up until the +licentiate told him to let her have it, as there was now no further +occasion for that stratagem, because he might declare himself and +appear in his own character, and tell Don Quixote that he had fled to +this inn when those thieves the galley slaves robbed him; and should he +ask for the princess’s squire, they could tell him that she had sent +him on before her to give notice to the people of her kingdom that she +was coming, and bringing with her the deliverer of them all. On this +the barber cheerfully restored the tail to the landlady, and at the +same time they returned all the accessories they had borrowed to effect +Don Quixote’s deliverance. All the people of the inn were struck with +astonishment at the beauty of Dorothea, and even at the comely figure +of the shepherd Cardenio. The curate made them get ready such fare as +there was in the inn, and the landlord, in hope of better payment, +served them up a tolerably good dinner. All this time Don Quixote was +asleep, and they thought it best not to waken him, as sleeping would +now do him more good than eating. + +While at dinner, the company consisting of the landlord, his wife, +their daughter, Maritornes, and all the travellers, they discussed the +strange craze of Don Quixote and the manner in which he had been found; +and the landlady told them what had taken place between him and the +carrier; and then, looking round to see if Sancho was there, when she +saw he was not, she gave them the whole story of his blanketing, which +they received with no little amusement. But on the curate observing +that it was the books of chivalry which Don Quixote had read that had +turned his brain, the landlord said: + +“I cannot understand how that can be, for in truth to my mind there is +no better reading in the world, and I have here two or three of them, +with other writings that are the very life, not only of myself but of +plenty more; for when it is harvest-time, the reapers flock here on +holidays, and there is always one among them who can read and who takes +up one of these books, and we gather round him, thirty or more of us, +and stay listening to him with a delight that makes our grey hairs grow +young again. At least I can say for myself that when I hear of what +furious and terrible blows the knights deliver, I am seized with the +longing to do the same, and I would like to be hearing about them night +and day.” + +“And I just as much,” said the landlady, “because I never have a quiet +moment in my house except when you are listening to someone reading; +for then you are so taken up that for the time being you forget to +scold.” + +“That is true,” said Maritornes; “and, faith, I relish hearing these +things greatly too, for they are very pretty; especially when they +describe some lady or another in the arms of her knight under the +orange trees, and the duenna who is keeping watch for them half dead +with envy and fright; all this I say is as good as honey.” + +“And you, what do you think, young lady?” said the curate turning to +the landlord’s daughter. + +“I don’t know indeed, señor,” said she; “I listen too, and to tell the +truth, though I do not understand it, I like hearing it; but it is not +the blows that my father likes that I like, but the laments the knights +utter when they are separated from their ladies; and indeed they +sometimes make me weep with the pity I feel for them.” + +“Then you would console them if it was for you they wept, young lady?” +said Dorothea. + +“I don’t know what I should do,” said the girl; “I only know that there +are some of those ladies so cruel that they call their knights tigers +and lions and a thousand other foul names: and Jesus! I don’t know what +sort of folk they can be, so unfeeling and heartless, that rather than +bestow a glance upon a worthy man they leave him to die or go mad. I +don’t know what is the good of such prudery; if it is for honour’s +sake, why not marry them? That’s all they want.” + +“Hush, child,” said the landlady; “it seems to me thou knowest a great +deal about these things, and it is not fit for girls to know or talk so +much.” + +“As the gentleman asked me, I could not help answering him,” said the +girl. + +“Well then,” said the curate, “bring me these books, señor landlord, +for I should like to see them.” + +“With all my heart,” said he, and going into his own room he brought +out an old valise secured with a little chain, on opening which the +curate found in it three large books and some manuscripts written in a +very good hand. The first that he opened he found to be “Don Cirongilio +of Thrace,” and the second “Don Felixmarte of Hircania,” and the other +the “History of the Great Captain Gonzalo Hernandez de Cordova, with +the Life of Diego García de Paredes.” + +When the curate read the two first titles he looked over at the barber +and said, “We want my friend’s housekeeper and niece here now.” + +“Nay,” said the barber, “I can do just as well to carry them to the +yard or to the hearth, and there is a very good fire there.” + +“What! your worship would burn my books!” said the landlord. + +“Only these two,” said the curate, “Don Cirongilio, and Felixmarte.” + +“Are my books, then, heretics or phlegmatics that you want to burn +them?” said the landlord. + +“Schismatics you mean, friend,” said the barber, “not phlegmatics.” + +“That’s it,” said the landlord; “but if you want to burn any, let it be +that about the Great Captain and that Diego García; for I would rather +have a child of mine burnt than either of the others.” + +“Brother,” said the curate, “those two books are made up of lies, and +are full of folly and nonsense; but this of the Great Captain is a true +history, and contains the deeds of Gonzalo Hernandez of Cordova, who by +his many and great achievements earned the title all over the world of +the Great Captain, a famous and illustrious name, and deserved by him +alone; and this Diego García de Paredes was a distinguished knight of +the city of Trujillo in Estremadura, a most gallant soldier, and of +such bodily strength that with one finger he stopped a mill-wheel in +full motion; and posted with a two-handed sword at the foot of a bridge +he kept the whole of an immense army from passing over it, and achieved +such other exploits that if, instead of his relating them himself with +the modesty of a knight and of one writing his own history, some free +and unbiased writer had recorded them, they would have thrown into the +shade all the deeds of the Hectors, Achilleses, and Rolands.” + + + +c32b.jpg (395K) + +Full Size + + + + +“Tell that to my father,” said the landlord. “There’s a thing to be +astonished at! Stopping a mill-wheel! By God your worship should read +what I have read of Felixmarte of Hircania, how with one single +backstroke he cleft five giants asunder through the middle as if they +had been made of bean-pods like the little friars the children make; +and another time he attacked a very great and powerful army, in which +there were more than a million six hundred thousand soldiers, all armed +from head to foot, and he routed them all as if they had been flocks of +sheep.” + + + +c32c.jpg (341K) + +Full Size + + + + +“And then, what do you say to the good Cirongilio of Thrace, that was +so stout and bold; as may be seen in the book, where it is related that +as he was sailing along a river there came up out of the midst of the +water against him a fiery serpent, and he, as soon as he saw it, flung +himself upon it and got astride of its scaly shoulders, and squeezed +its throat with both hands with such force that the serpent, finding he +was throttling it, had nothing for it but to let itself sink to the +bottom of the river, carrying with it the knight who would not let go +his hold; and when they got down there he found himself among palaces +and gardens so pretty that it was a wonder to see; and then the serpent +changed itself into an old ancient man, who told him such things as +were never heard. Hold your peace, señor; for if you were to hear this +you would go mad with delight. A couple of figs for your Great Captain +and your Diego García!” + +Hearing this Dorothea said in a whisper to Cardenio, “Our landlord is +almost fit to play a second part to Don Quixote.” + +“I think so,” said Cardenio, “for, as he shows, he accepts it as a +certainty that everything those books relate took place exactly as it +is written down; and the barefooted friars themselves would not +persuade him to the contrary.” + +“But consider, brother,” said the curate once more, “there never was +any Felixmarte of Hircania in the world, nor any Cirongilio of Thrace, +or any of the other knights of the same sort, that the books of +chivalry talk of; the whole thing is the fabrication and invention of +idle wits, devised by them for the purpose you describe of beguiling +the time, as your reapers do when they read; for I swear to you in all +seriousness there never were any such knights in the world, and no such +exploits or nonsense ever happened anywhere.” + +“Try that bone on another dog,” said the landlord; “as if I did not +know how many make five, and where my shoe pinches me; don’t think to +feed me with pap, for by God I am no fool. It is a good joke for your +worship to try and persuade me that everything these good books say is +nonsense and lies, and they printed by the license of the Lords of the +Royal Council, as if they were people who would allow such a lot of +lies to be printed all together, and so many battles and enchantments +that they take away one’s senses.” + +“I have told you, friend,” said the curate, “that this is done to +divert our idle thoughts; and as in well-ordered states games of chess, +fives, and billiards are allowed for the diversion of those who do not +care, or are not obliged, or are unable to work, so books of this kind +are allowed to be printed, on the supposition that, what indeed is the +truth, there can be nobody so ignorant as to take any of them for true +stories; and if it were permitted me now, and the present company +desired it, I could say something about the qualities books of chivalry +should possess to be good ones, that would be to the advantage and even +to the taste of some; but I hope the time will come when I can +communicate my ideas to someone who may be able to mend matters; and in +the meantime, señor landlord, believe what I have said, and take your +books, and make up your mind about their truth or falsehood, and much +good may they do you; and God grant you may not fall lame of the same +foot your guest Don Quixote halts on.” + +“No fear of that,” returned the landlord; “I shall not be so mad as to +make a knight-errant of myself; for I see well enough that things are +not now as they used to be in those days, when they say those famous +knights roamed about the world.” + +Sancho had made his appearance in the middle of this conversation, and +he was very much troubled and cast down by what he heard said about +knights-errant being now no longer in vogue, and all books of chivalry +being folly and lies; and he resolved in his heart to wait and see what +came of this journey of his master’s, and if it did not turn out as +happily as his master expected, he determined to leave him and go back +to his wife and children and his ordinary labour. + +The landlord was carrying away the valise and the books, but the curate +said to him, “Wait; I want to see what those papers are that are +written in such a good hand.” The landlord taking them out handed them +to him to read, and he perceived they were a work of about eight sheets +of manuscript, with, in large letters at the beginning, the title of +“Novel of the Ill-advised Curiosity.” The curate read three or four +lines to himself, and said, “I must say the title of this novel does +not seem to me a bad one, and I feel an inclination to read it all.” To +which the landlord replied, “Then your reverence will do well to read +it, for I can tell you that some guests who have read it here have been +much pleased with it, and have begged it of me very earnestly; but I +would not give it, meaning to return it to the person who forgot the +valise, books, and papers here, for maybe he will return here some time +or other; and though I know I shall miss the books, faith I mean to +return them; for though I am an innkeeper, still I am a Christian.” + +“You are very right, friend,” said the curate; “but for all that, if +the novel pleases me you must let me copy it.” + +“With all my heart,” replied the host. + +While they were talking Cardenio had taken up the novel and begun to +read it, and forming the same opinion of it as the curate, he begged +him to read it so that they might all hear it. + +“I would read it,” said the curate, “if the time would not be better +spent in sleeping.” + +“It will be rest enough for me,” said Dorothea, “to while away the time +by listening to some tale, for my spirits are not yet tranquil enough +to let me sleep when it would be seasonable.” + +“Well then, in that case,” said the curate, “I will read it, if it were +only out of curiosity; perhaps it may contain something pleasant.” + +Master Nicholas added his entreaties to the same effect, and Sancho +too; seeing which, and considering that he would give pleasure to all, +and receive it himself, the curate said, “Well then, attend to me +everyone, for the novel begins thus.” + + + +c32e.jpg (11K) + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. +IN WHICH IS RELATED THE NOVEL OF “THE ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY” + +In Florence, a rich and famous city of Italy in the province called +Tuscany, there lived two gentlemen of wealth and quality, Anselmo and +Lothario, such great friends that by way of distinction they were +called by all that knew them “The Two Friends.” They were unmarried, +young, of the same age and of the same tastes, which was enough to +account for the reciprocal friendship between them. Anselmo, it is +true, was somewhat more inclined to seek pleasure in love than +Lothario, for whom the pleasures of the chase had more attraction; but +on occasion Anselmo would forego his own tastes to yield to those of +Lothario, and Lothario would surrender his to fall in with those of +Anselmo, and in this way their inclinations kept pace one with the +other with a concord so perfect that the best regulated clock could not +surpass it. + +Anselmo was deep in love with a high-born and beautiful maiden of the +same city, the daughter of parents so estimable, and so estimable +herself, that he resolved, with the approval of his friend Lothario, +without whom he did nothing, to ask her of them in marriage, and did +so, Lothario being the bearer of the demand, and conducting the +negotiation so much to the satisfaction of his friend that in a short +time he was in possession of the object of his desires, and Camilla so +happy in having won Anselmo for her husband, that she gave thanks +unceasingly to heaven and to Lothario, by whose means such good fortune +had fallen to her. The first few days, those of a wedding being usually +days of merry-making, Lothario frequented his friend Anselmo’s house as +he had been wont, striving to do honour to him and to the occasion, and +to gratify him in every way he could; but when the wedding days were +over and the succession of visits and congratulations had slackened, he +began purposely to leave off going to the house of Anselmo, for it +seemed to him, as it naturally would to all men of sense, that friends’ +houses ought not to be visited after marriage with the same frequency +as in their masters’ bachelor days: because, though true and genuine +friendship cannot and should not be in any way suspicious, still a +married man’s honour is a thing of such delicacy that it is held liable +to injury from brothers, much more from friends. Anselmo remarked the +cessation of Lothario’s visits, and complained of it to him, saying +that if he had known that marriage was to keep him from enjoying his +society as he used, he would have never married; and that, if by the +thorough harmony that subsisted between them while he was a bachelor +they had earned such a sweet name as that of “The Two Friends,” he +should not allow a title so rare and so delightful to be lost through a +needless anxiety to act circumspectly; and so he entreated him, if such +a phrase was allowable between them, to be once more master of his +house and to come in and go out as formerly, assuring him that his wife +Camilla had no other desire or inclination than that which he would +wish her to have, and that knowing how sincerely they loved one another +she was grieved to see such coldness in him. + +To all this and much more that Anselmo said to Lothario to persuade him +to come to his house as he had been in the habit of doing, Lothario +replied with so much prudence, sense, and judgment, that Anselmo was +satisfied of his friend’s good intentions, and it was agreed that on +two days in the week, and on holidays, Lothario should come to dine +with him; but though this arrangement was made between them Lothario +resolved to observe it no further than he considered to be in +accordance with the honour of his friend, whose good name was more to +him than his own. He said, and justly, that a married man upon whom +heaven had bestowed a beautiful wife should consider as carefully what +friends he brought to his house as what female friends his wife +associated with, for what cannot be done or arranged in the +market-place, in church, at public festivals or at stations +(opportunities that husbands cannot always deny their wives), may be +easily managed in the house of the female friend or relative in whom +most confidence is reposed. Lothario said, too, that every married man +should have some friend who would point out to him any negligence he +might be guilty of in his conduct, for it will sometimes happen that +owing to the deep affection the husband bears his wife either he does +not caution her, or, not to vex her, refrains from telling her to do or +not to do certain things, doing or avoiding which may be a matter of +honour or reproach to him; and errors of this kind he could easily +correct if warned by a friend. But where is such a friend to be found +as Lothario would have, so judicious, so loyal, and so true? + +Of a truth I know not; Lothario alone was such a one, for with the +utmost care and vigilance he watched over the honour of his friend, and +strove to diminish, cut down, and reduce the number of days for going +to his house according to their agreement, lest the visits of a young +man, wealthy, high-born, and with the attractions he was conscious of +possessing, at the house of a woman so beautiful as Camilla, should be +regarded with suspicion by the inquisitive and malicious eyes of the +idle public. For though his integrity and reputation might bridle +slanderous tongues, still he was unwilling to hazard either his own +good name or that of his friend; and for this reason most of the days +agreed upon he devoted to some other business which he pretended was +unavoidable; so that a great portion of the day was taken up with +complaints on one side and excuses on the other. It happened, however, +that on one occasion when the two were strolling together outside the +city, Anselmo addressed the following words to Lothario. + +“Thou mayest suppose, Lothario my friend, that I am unable to give +sufficient thanks for the favours God has rendered me in making me the +son of such parents as mine were, and bestowing upon me with no niggard +hand what are called the gifts of nature as well as those of fortune, +and above all for what he has done in giving me thee for a friend and +Camilla for a wife—two treasures that I value, if not as highly as I +ought, at least as highly as I am able. And yet, with all these good +things, which are commonly all that men need to enable them to live +happily, I am the most discontented and dissatisfied man in the whole +world; for, I know not how long since, I have been harassed and +oppressed by a desire so strange and so unusual, that I wonder at +myself and blame and chide myself when I am alone, and strive to stifle +it and hide it from my own thoughts, and with no better success than if +I were endeavouring deliberately to publish it to all the world; and +as, in short, it must come out, I would confide it to thy safe keeping, +feeling sure that by this means, and by thy readiness as a true friend +to afford me relief, I shall soon find myself freed from the distress +it causes me, and that thy care will give me happiness in the same +degree as my own folly has caused me misery.” + +The words of Anselmo struck Lothario with astonishment, unable as he +was to conjecture the purport of such a lengthy preamble; and though he +strove to imagine what desire it could be that so troubled his friend, +his conjectures were all far from the truth, and to relieve the anxiety +which this perplexity was causing him, he told him he was doing a +flagrant injustice to their great friendship in seeking circuitous +methods of confiding to him his most hidden thoughts, for he well knew +he might reckon upon his counsel in diverting them, or his help in +carrying them into effect. + +“That is the truth,” replied Anselmo, “and relying upon that I will +tell thee, friend Lothario, that the desire which harasses me is that +of knowing whether my wife Camilla is as good and as perfect as I think +her to be; and I cannot satisfy myself of the truth on this point +except by testing her in such a way that the trial may prove the purity +of her virtue as the fire proves that of gold; because I am persuaded, +my friend, that a woman is virtuous only in proportion as she is or is +not tempted; and that she alone is strong who does not yield to the +promises, gifts, tears, and importunities of earnest lovers; for what +thanks does a woman deserve for being good if no one urges her to be +bad, and what wonder is it that she is reserved and circumspect to whom +no opportunity is given of going wrong and who knows she has a husband +that will take her life the first time he detects her in an +impropriety? I do not therefore hold her who is virtuous through fear +or want of opportunity in the same estimation as her who comes out of +temptation and trial with a crown of victory; and so, for these reasons +and many others that I could give thee to justify and support the +opinion I hold, I am desirous that my wife Camilla should pass this +crisis, and be refined and tested by the fire of finding herself wooed +and by one worthy to set his affections upon her; and if she comes out, +as I know she will, victorious from this struggle, I shall look upon my +good fortune as unequalled, I shall be able to say that the cup of my +desire is full, and that the virtuous woman of whom the sage says ‘Who +shall find her?’ has fallen to my lot. And if the result be the +contrary of what I expect, in the satisfaction of knowing that I have +been right in my opinion, I shall bear without complaint the pain which +my so dearly bought experience will naturally cause me. And, as nothing +of all thou wilt urge in opposition to my wish will avail to keep me +from carrying it into effect, it is my desire, friend Lothario, that +thou shouldst consent to become the instrument for effecting this +purpose that I am bent upon, for I will afford thee opportunities to +that end, and nothing shall be wanting that I may think necessary for +the pursuit of a virtuous, honourable, modest and high-minded woman. +And among other reasons, I am induced to entrust this arduous task to +thee by the consideration that if Camilla be conquered by thee the +conquest will not be pushed to extremes, but only far enough to account +that accomplished which from a sense of honour will be left undone; +thus I shall not be wronged in anything more than intention, and my +wrong will remain buried in the integrity of thy silence, which I know +well will be as lasting as that of death in what concerns me. If, +therefore, thou wouldst have me enjoy what can be called life, thou +wilt at once engage in this love struggle, not lukewarmly nor +slothfully, but with the energy and zeal that my desire demands, and +with the loyalty our friendship assures me of.” + +Such were the words Anselmo addressed to Lothario, who listened to them +with such attention that, except to say what has been already +mentioned, he did not open his lips until the other had finished. Then +perceiving that he had no more to say, after regarding him for a while, +as one would regard something never before seen that excited wonder and +amazement, he said to him, “I cannot persuade myself, Anselmo my +friend, that what thou hast said to me is not in jest; if I thought +that thou wert speaking seriously I would not have allowed thee to go +so far; so as to put a stop to thy long harangue by not listening to +thee I verily suspect that either thou dost not know me, or I do not +know thee; but no, I know well thou art Anselmo, and thou knowest that +I am Lothario; the misfortune is, it seems to me, that thou art not the +Anselmo thou wert, and must have thought that I am not the Lothario I +should be; for the things that thou hast said to me are not those of +that Anselmo who was my friend, nor are those that thou demandest of me +what should be asked of the Lothario thou knowest. True friends will +prove their friends and make use of them, as a poet has said, _usque ad +aras;_ whereby he meant that they will not make use of their friendship +in things that are contrary to God’s will. If this, then, was a +heathen’s feeling about friendship, how much more should it be a +Christian’s, who knows that the divine must not be forfeited for the +sake of any human friendship? And if a friend should go so far as to +put aside his duty to Heaven to fulfil his duty to his friend, it +should not be in matters that are trifling or of little moment, but in +such as affect the friend’s life and honour. Now tell me, Anselmo, in +which of these two art thou imperilled, that I should hazard myself to +gratify thee, and do a thing so detestable as that thou seekest of me? +Neither forsooth; on the contrary, thou dost ask of me, so far as I +understand, to strive and labour to rob thee of honour and life, and to +rob myself of them at the same time; for if I take away thy honour it +is plain I take away thy life, as a man without honour is worse than +dead; and being the instrument, as thou wilt have it so, of so much +wrong to thee, shall not I, too, be left without honour, and +consequently without life? Listen to me, Anselmo my friend, and be not +impatient to answer me until I have said what occurs to me touching the +object of thy desire, for there will be time enough left for thee to +reply and for me to hear.” + +“Be it so,” said Anselmo, “say what thou wilt.” + +Lothario then went on to say, “It seems to me, Anselmo, that thine is +just now the temper of mind which is always that of the Moors, who can +never be brought to see the error of their creed by quotations from the +Holy Scriptures, or by reasons which depend upon the examination of the +understanding or are founded upon the articles of faith, but must have +examples that are palpable, easy, intelligible, capable of proof, not +admitting of doubt, with mathematical demonstrations that cannot be +denied, like, ‘_If equals be taken from equals, the remainders are +equal:_’ and if they do not understand this in words, and indeed they +do not, it has to be shown to them with the hands, and put before their +eyes, and even with all this no one succeeds in convincing them of the +truth of our holy religion. This same mode of proceeding I shall have +to adopt with thee, for the desire which has sprung up in thee is so +absurd and remote from everything that has a semblance of reason, that +I feel it would be a waste of time to employ it in reasoning with thy +simplicity, for at present I will call it by no other name; and I am +even tempted to leave thee in thy folly as a punishment for thy +pernicious desire; but the friendship I bear thee, which will not allow +me to desert thee in such manifest danger of destruction, keeps me from +dealing so harshly by thee. And that thou mayest clearly see this, say, +Anselmo, hast thou not told me that I must force my suit upon a modest +woman, decoy one that is virtuous, make overtures to one that is +pure-minded, pay court to one that is prudent? Yes, thou hast told me +so. Then, if thou knowest that thou hast a wife, modest, virtuous, +pure-minded and prudent, what is it that thou seekest? And if thou +believest that she will come forth victorious from all my attacks—as +doubtless she would—what higher titles than those she possesses now +dost thou think thou canst bestow upon her then, or in what will she be +better then than she is now? Either thou dost not hold her to be what +thou sayest, or thou knowest not what thou dost demand. If thou dost +not hold her to be what thou sayest, why dost thou seek to prove her +instead of treating her as guilty in the way that may seem best to +thee? but if she be as virtuous as thou believest, it is an +uncalled-for proceeding to make trial of truth itself, for, after +trial, it will but be in the same estimation as before. Thus, then, it +is conclusive that to attempt things from which harm rather than +advantage may come to us is the part of unreasoning and reckless minds, +more especially when they are things which we are not forced or +compelled to attempt, and which show from afar that it is plainly +madness to attempt them. + +“Difficulties are attempted either for the sake of God or for the sake +of the world, or for both; those undertaken for God’s sake are those +which the saints undertake when they attempt to live the lives of +angels in human bodies; those undertaken for the sake of the world are +those of the men who traverse such a vast expanse of water, such a +variety of climates, so many strange countries, to acquire what are +called the blessings of fortune; and those undertaken for the sake of +God and the world together are those of brave soldiers, who no sooner +do they see in the enemy’s wall a breach as wide as a cannon ball could +make, than, casting aside all fear, without hesitating, or heeding the +manifest peril that threatens them, borne onward by the desire of +defending their faith, their country, and their king, they fling +themselves dauntlessly into the midst of the thousand opposing deaths +that await them. Such are the things that men are wont to attempt, and +there is honour, glory, gain, in attempting them, however full of +difficulty and peril they may be; but that which thou sayest it is thy +wish to attempt and carry out will not win thee the glory of God nor +the blessings of fortune nor fame among men; for even if the issue be +as thou wouldst have it, thou wilt be no happier, richer, or more +honoured than thou art this moment; and if it be otherwise thou wilt be +reduced to misery greater than can be imagined, for then it will avail +thee nothing to reflect that no one is aware of the misfortune that has +befallen thee; it will suffice to torture and crush thee that thou +knowest it thyself. And in confirmation of the truth of what I say, let +me repeat to thee a stanza made by the famous poet Luigi Tansillo at +the end of the first part of his ‘Tears of Saint Peter,’ which says +thus: + +The anguish and the shame but greater grew + In Peter’s heart as morning slowly came; +No eye was there to see him, well he knew, + Yet he himself was to himself a shame; +Exposed to all men’s gaze, or screened from view, + A noble heart will feel the pang the same; +A prey to shame the sinning soul will be, +Though none but heaven and earth its shame can see. + + +Thus by keeping it secret thou wilt not escape thy sorrow, but rather +thou wilt shed tears unceasingly, if not tears of the eyes, tears of +blood from the heart, like those shed by that simple doctor our poet +tells us of, that tried the test of the cup, which the wise Rinaldo, +better advised, refused to do; for though this may be a poetic fiction +it contains a moral lesson worthy of attention and study and imitation. +Moreover by what I am about to say to thee thou wilt be led to see the +great error thou wouldst commit. + +“Tell me, Anselmo, if Heaven or good fortune had made thee master and +lawful owner of a diamond of the finest quality, with the excellence +and purity of which all the lapidaries that had seen it had been +satisfied, saying with one voice and common consent that in purity, +quality, and fineness, it was all that a stone of the kind could +possibly be, thou thyself too being of the same belief, as knowing +nothing to the contrary, would it be reasonable in thee to desire to +take that diamond and place it between an anvil and a hammer, and by +mere force of blows and strength of arm try if it were as hard and as +fine as they said? And if thou didst, and if the stone should resist so +silly a test, that would add nothing to its value or reputation; and if +it were broken, as it might be, would not all be lost? Undoubtedly it +would, leaving its owner to be rated as a fool in the opinion of all. +Consider, then, Anselmo my friend, that Camilla is a diamond of the +finest quality as well in thy estimation as in that of others, and that +it is contrary to reason to expose her to the risk of being broken; for +if she remains intact she cannot rise to a higher value than she now +possesses; and if she give way and be unable to resist, bethink thee +now how thou wilt be deprived of her, and with what good reason thou +wilt complain of thyself for having been the cause of her ruin and +thine own. Remember there is no jewel in the world so precious as a +chaste and virtuous woman, and that the whole honour of women consists +in reputation; and since thy wife’s is of that high excellence that +thou knowest, wherefore shouldst thou seek to call that truth in +question? Remember, my friend, that woman is an imperfect animal, and +that impediments are not to be placed in her way to make her trip and +fall, but that they should be removed, and her path left clear of all +obstacles, so that without hindrance she may run her course freely to +attain the desired perfection, which consists in being virtuous. +Naturalists tell us that the ermine is a little animal which has a fur +of purest white, and that when the hunters wish to take it, they make +use of this artifice. Having ascertained the places which it frequents +and passes, they stop the way to them with mud, and then rousing it, +drive it towards the spot, and as soon as the ermine comes to the mud +it halts, and allows itself to be taken captive rather than pass +through the mire, and spoil and sully its whiteness, which it values +more than life and liberty. The virtuous and chaste woman is an ermine, +and whiter and purer than snow is the virtue of modesty; and he who +wishes her not to lose it, but to keep and preserve it, must adopt a +course different from that employed with the ermine; he must not put +before her the mire of the gifts and attentions of persevering lovers, +because perhaps—and even without a perhaps—she may not have sufficient +virtue and natural strength in herself to pass through and tread under +foot these impediments; they must be removed, and the brightness of +virtue and the beauty of a fair fame must be put before her. A virtuous +woman, too, is like a mirror, of clear shining crystal, liable to be +tarnished and dimmed by every breath that touches it. She must be +treated as relics are; adored, not touched. She must be protected and +prized as one protects and prizes a fair garden full of roses and +flowers, the owner of which allows no one to trespass or pluck a +blossom; enough for others that from afar and through the iron grating +they may enjoy its fragrance and its beauty. Finally let me repeat to +thee some verses that come to my mind; I heard them in a modern comedy, +and it seems to me they bear upon the point we are discussing. A +prudent old man was giving advice to another, the father of a young +girl, to lock her up, watch over her and keep her in seclusion, and +among other arguments he used these: + +Woman is a thing of glass; + But her brittleness ’tis best + Not too curiously to test: +Who knows what may come to pass? + +Breaking is an easy matter, + And it’s folly to expose + What you cannot mend to blows; +What you can’t make whole to shatter. + +This, then, all may hold as true, + And the reason’s plain to see; + For if Danaës there be, +There are golden showers too. + + +“All that I have said to thee so far, Anselmo, has had reference to +what concerns thee; now it is right that I should say something of what +regards myself; and if I be prolix, pardon me, for the labyrinth into +which thou hast entered and from which thou wouldst have me extricate +thee makes it necessary. + +“Thou dost reckon me thy friend, and thou wouldst rob me of honour, a +thing wholly inconsistent with friendship; and not only dost thou aim +at this, but thou wouldst have me rob thee of it also. That thou +wouldst rob me of it is clear, for when Camilla sees that I pay court +to her as thou requirest, she will certainly regard me as a man without +honour or right feeling, since I attempt and do a thing so much opposed +to what I owe to my own position and thy friendship. That thou wouldst +have me rob thee of it is beyond a doubt, for Camilla, seeing that I +press my suit upon her, will suppose that I have perceived in her +something light that has encouraged me to make known to her my base +desire; and if she holds herself dishonoured, her dishonour touches +thee as belonging to her; and hence arises what so commonly takes +place, that the husband of the adulterous woman, though he may not be +aware of or have given any cause for his wife’s failure in her duty, or +(being careless or negligent) have had it in his power to prevent his +dishonour, nevertheless is stigmatised by a vile and reproachful name, +and in a manner regarded with eyes of contempt instead of pity by all +who know of his wife’s guilt, though they see that he is unfortunate +not by his own fault, but by the lust of a vicious consort. But I will +tell thee why with good reason dishonour attaches to the husband of the +unchaste wife, though he know not that she is so, nor be to blame, nor +have done anything, or given any provocation to make her so; and be not +weary with listening to me, for it will be for thy good. + +“When God created our first parent in the earthly paradise, the Holy +Scripture says that he infused sleep into Adam and while he slept took +a rib from his left side of which he formed our mother Eve, and when +Adam awoke and beheld her he said, ‘This is flesh of my flesh, and bone +of my bone.’ And God said ‘For this shall a man leave his father and +his mother, and they shall be two in one flesh; and then was instituted +the divine sacrament of marriage, with such ties that death alone can +loose them. And such is the force and virtue of this miraculous +sacrament that it makes two different persons one and the same flesh; +and even more than this when the virtuous are married; for though they +have two souls they have but one will. And hence it follows that as the +flesh of the wife is one and the same with that of her husband the +stains that may come upon it, or the injuries it incurs fall upon the +husband’s flesh, though he, as has been said, may have given no cause +for them; for as the pain of the foot or any member of the body is felt +by the whole body, because all is one flesh, as the head feels the hurt +to the ankle without having caused it, so the husband, being one with +her, shares the dishonour of the wife; and as all worldly honour or +dishonour comes of flesh and blood, and the erring wife’s is of that +kind, the husband must needs bear his part of it and be held +dishonoured without knowing it. See, then, Anselmo, the peril thou art +encountering in seeking to disturb the peace of thy virtuous consort; +see for what an empty and ill-advised curiosity thou wouldst rouse up +passions that now repose in quiet in the breast of thy chaste wife; +reflect that what thou art staking all to win is little, and what thou +wilt lose so much that I leave it undescribed, not having the words to +express it. But if all I have said be not enough to turn thee from thy +vile purpose, thou must seek some other instrument for thy dishonour +and misfortune; for such I will not consent to be, though I lose thy +friendship, the greatest loss that I can conceive.” + +Having said this, the wise and virtuous Lothario was silent, and +Anselmo, troubled in mind and deep in thought, was unable for a while +to utter a word in reply; but at length he said, “I have listened, +Lothario my friend, attentively, as thou hast seen, to what thou hast +chosen to say to me, and in thy arguments, examples, and comparisons I +have seen that high intelligence thou dost possess, and the perfection +of true friendship thou hast reached; and likewise I see and confess +that if I am not guided by thy opinion, but follow my own, I am flying +from the good and pursuing the evil. This being so, thou must remember +that I am now labouring under that infirmity which women sometimes +suffer from, when the craving seizes them to eat clay, plaster, +charcoal, and things even worse, disgusting to look at, much more to +eat; so that it will be necessary to have recourse to some artifice to +cure me; and this can be easily effected if only thou wilt make a +beginning, even though it be in a lukewarm and make-believe fashion, to +pay court to Camilla, who will not be so yielding that her virtue will +give way at the first attack: with this mere attempt I shall rest +satisfied, and thou wilt have done what our friendship binds thee to +do, not only in giving me life, but in persuading me not to discard my +honour. And this thou art bound to do for one reason alone, that, +being, as I am, resolved to apply this test, it is not for thee to +permit me to reveal my weakness to another, and so imperil that honour +thou art striving to keep me from losing; and if thine may not stand as +high as it ought in the estimation of Camilla while thou art paying +court to her, that is of little or no importance, because ere long, on +finding in her that constancy which we expect, thou canst tell her the +plain truth as regards our stratagem, and so regain thy place in her +esteem; and as thou art venturing so little, and by the venture canst +afford me so much satisfaction, refuse not to undertake it, even if +further difficulties present themselves to thee; for, as I have said, +if thou wilt only make a beginning I will acknowledge the issue +decided.” + +Lothario seeing the fixed determination of Anselmo, and not knowing +what further examples to offer or arguments to urge in order to +dissuade him from it, and perceiving that he threatened to confide his +pernicious scheme to someone else, to avoid a greater evil resolved to +gratify him and do what he asked, intending to manage the business so +as to satisfy Anselmo without corrupting the mind of Camilla; so in +reply he told him not to communicate his purpose to any other, for he +would undertake the task himself, and would begin it as soon as he +pleased. Anselmo embraced him warmly and affectionately, and thanked +him for his offer as if he had bestowed some great favour upon him; and +it was agreed between them to set about it the next day, Anselmo +affording opportunity and time to Lothario to converse alone with +Camilla, and furnishing him with money and jewels to offer and present +to her. He suggested, too, that he should treat her to music, and write +verses in her praise, and if he was unwilling to take the trouble of +composing them, he offered to do it himself. Lothario agreed to all +with an intention very different from what Anselmo supposed, and with +this understanding they returned to Anselmo’s house, where they found +Camilla awaiting her husband anxiously and uneasily, for he was later +than usual in returning that day. Lothario repaired to his own house, +and Anselmo remained in his, as well satisfied as Lothario was troubled +in mind; for he could see no satisfactory way out of this ill-advised +business. That night, however, he thought of a plan by which he might +deceive Anselmo without any injury to Camilla. The next day he went to +dine with his friend, and was welcomed by Camilla, who received and +treated him with great cordiality, knowing the affection her husband +felt for him. When dinner was over and the cloth removed, Anselmo told +Lothario to stay there with Camilla while he attended to some pressing +business, as he would return in an hour and a half. Camilla begged him +not to go, and Lothario offered to accompany him, but nothing could +persuade Anselmo, who on the contrary pressed Lothario to remain +waiting for him as he had a matter of great importance to discuss with +him. At the same time he bade Camilla not to leave Lothario alone until +he came back. In short he contrived to put so good a face on the +reason, or the folly, of his absence that no one could have suspected +it was a pretence. + +Anselmo took his departure, and Camilla and Lothario were left alone at +the table, for the rest of the household had gone to dinner. Lothario +saw himself in the lists according to his friend’s wish, and facing an +enemy that could by her beauty alone vanquish a squadron of armed +knights; judge whether he had good reason to fear; but what he did was +to lean his elbow on the arm of the chair, and his cheek upon his hand, +and, asking Camilla’s pardon for his ill manners, he said he wished to +take a little sleep until Anselmo returned. Camilla in reply said he +could repose more at his ease in the reception-room than in his chair, +and begged of him to go in and sleep there; but Lothario declined, and +there he remained asleep until the return of Anselmo, who finding +Camilla in her own room, and Lothario asleep, imagined that he had +stayed away so long as to have afforded them time enough for +conversation and even for sleep, and was all impatience until Lothario +should wake up, that he might go out with him and question him as to +his success. Everything fell out as he wished; Lothario awoke, and the +two at once left the house, and Anselmo asked what he was anxious to +know, and Lothario in answer told him that he had not thought it +advisable to declare himself entirely the first time, and therefore had +only extolled the charms of Camilla, telling her that all the city +spoke of nothing else but her beauty and wit, for this seemed to him an +excellent way of beginning to gain her good-will and render her +disposed to listen to him with pleasure the next time, thus availing +himself of the device the devil has recourse to when he would deceive +one who is on the watch; for he being the angel of darkness transforms +himself into an angel of light, and, under cover of a fair seeming, +discloses himself at length, and effects his purpose if at the +beginning his wiles are not discovered. All this gave great +satisfaction to Anselmo, and he said he would afford the same +opportunity every day, but without leaving the house, for he would find +things to do at home so that Camilla should not detect the plot. + +Thus, then, several days went by, and Lothario, without uttering a word +to Camilla, reported to Anselmo that he had talked with her and that he +had never been able to draw from her the slightest indication of +consent to anything dishonourable, nor even a sign or shadow of hope; +on the contrary, he said she would inform her husband of it. + +“So far well,” said Anselmo; “Camilla has thus far resisted words; we +must now see how she will resist deeds. I will give you to-morrow two +thousand crowns in gold for you to offer or even present, and as many +more to buy jewels to lure her, for women are fond of being becomingly +attired and going gaily dressed, and all the more so if they are +beautiful, however chaste they may be; and if she resists this +temptation, I will rest satisfied and will give you no more trouble.” + +Lothario replied that now he had begun he would carry on the +undertaking to the end, though he perceived he was to come out of it +wearied and vanquished. The next day he received the four thousand +crowns, and with them four thousand perplexities, for he knew not what +to say by way of a new falsehood; but in the end he made up his mind to +tell him that Camilla stood as firm against gifts and promises as +against words, and that there was no use in taking any further trouble, +for the time was all spent to no purpose. + +But chance, directing things in a different manner, so ordered it that +Anselmo, having left Lothario and Camilla alone as on other occasions, +shut himself into a chamber and posted himself to watch and listen +through the keyhole to what passed between them, and perceived that for +more than half an hour Lothario did not utter a word to Camilla, nor +would utter a word though he were to be there for an age; and he came +to the conclusion that what his friend had told him about the replies +of Camilla was all invention and falsehood, and to ascertain if it were +so, he came out, and calling Lothario aside asked him what news he had +and in what humour Camilla was. Lothario replied that he was not +disposed to go on with the business, for she had answered him so +angrily and harshly that he had no heart to say anything more to her. + +“Ah, Lothario, Lothario,” said Anselmo, “how ill dost thou meet thy +obligations to me, and the great confidence I repose in thee! I have +been just now watching through this keyhole, and I have seen that thou +hast not said a word to Camilla, whence I conclude that on the former +occasions thou hast not spoken to her either, and if this be so, as no +doubt it is, why dost thou deceive me, or wherefore seekest thou by +craft to deprive me of the means I might find of attaining my desire?” + +Anselmo said no more, but he had said enough to cover Lothario with +shame and confusion, and he, feeling as it were his honour touched by +having been detected in a lie, swore to Anselmo that he would from that +moment devote himself to satisfying him without any deception, as he +would see if he had the curiosity to watch; though he need not take the +trouble, for the pains he would take to satisfy him would remove all +suspicions from his mind. Anselmo believed him, and to afford him an +opportunity more free and less liable to surprise, he resolved to +absent himself from his house for eight days, betaking himself to that +of a friend of his who lived in a village not far from the city; and, +the better to account for his departure to Camilla, he so arranged it +that the friend should send him a very pressing invitation. + +Unhappy, shortsighted Anselmo, what art thou doing, what art thou +plotting, what art thou devising? Bethink thee thou art working against +thyself, plotting thine own dishonour, devising thine own ruin. Thy +wife Camilla is virtuous, thou dost possess her in peace and quietness, +no one assails thy happiness, her thoughts wander not beyond the walls +of thy house, thou art her heaven on earth, the object of her wishes, +the fulfilment of her desires, the measure wherewith she measures her +will, making it conform in all things to thine and Heaven’s. If, then, +the mine of her honour, beauty, virtue, and modesty yields thee without +labour all the wealth it contains and thou canst wish for, why wilt +thou dig the earth in search of fresh veins, of new unknown treasure, +risking the collapse of all, since it but rests on the feeble props of +her weak nature? Bethink thee that from him who seeks impossibilities +that which is possible may with justice be withheld, as was better +expressed by a poet who said: + +’Tis mine to seek for life in death, + Health in disease seek I, +I seek in prison freedom’s breath, + In traitors loyalty. + +So Fate that ever scorns to grant + Or grace or boon to me, +Since what can never be I want, + Denies me what might be. + + +The next day Anselmo took his departure for the village, leaving +instructions with Camilla that during his absence Lothario would come +to look after his house and to dine with her, and that she was to treat +him as she would himself. Camilla was distressed, as a discreet and +right-minded woman would be, at the orders her husband left her, and +bade him remember that it was not becoming that anyone should occupy +his seat at the table during his absence, and if he acted thus from not +feeling confidence that she would be able to manage his house, let him +try her this time, and he would find by experience that she was equal +to greater responsibilities. Anselmo replied that it was his pleasure +to have it so, and that she had only to submit and obey. Camilla said +she would do so, though against her will. + +Anselmo went, and the next day Lothario came to his house, where he was +received by Camilla with a friendly and modest welcome; but she never +suffered Lothario to see her alone, for she was always attended by her +men and women servants, especially by a handmaid of hers, Leonela by +name, to whom she was much attached (for they had been brought up +together from childhood in her father’s house), and whom she had kept +with her after her marriage with Anselmo. The first three days Lothario +did not speak to her, though he might have done so when they removed +the cloth and the servants retired to dine hastily; for such were +Camilla’s orders; nay more, Leonela had directions to dine earlier than +Camilla and never to leave her side. She, however, having her thoughts +fixed upon other things more to her taste, and wanting that time and +opportunity for her own pleasures, did not always obey her mistress’s +commands, but on the contrary left them alone, as if they had ordered +her to do so; but the modest bearing of Camilla, the calmness of her +countenance, the composure of her aspect were enough to bridle the +tongue of Lothario. But the influence which the many virtues of Camilla +exerted in imposing silence on Lothario’s tongue proved mischievous for +both of them, for if his tongue was silent his thoughts were busy, and +could dwell at leisure upon the perfections of Camilla’s goodness and +beauty one by one, charms enough to warm with love a marble statue, not +to say a heart of flesh. Lothario gazed upon her when he might have +been speaking to her, and thought how worthy of being loved she was; +and thus reflection began little by little to assail his allegiance to +Anselmo, and a thousand times he thought of withdrawing from the city +and going where Anselmo should never see him nor he see Camilla. But +already the delight he found in gazing on her interposed and held him +fast. He put a constraint upon himself, and struggled to repel and +repress the pleasure he found in contemplating Camilla; when alone he +blamed himself for his weakness, called himself a bad friend, nay a bad +Christian; then he argued the matter and compared himself with Anselmo; +always coming to the conclusion that the folly and rashness of Anselmo +had been worse than his faithlessness, and that if he could excuse his +intentions as easily before God as with man, he had no reason to fear +any punishment for his offence. + +In short the beauty and goodness of Camilla, joined with the +opportunity which the blind husband had placed in his hands, overthrew +the loyalty of Lothario; and giving heed to nothing save the object +towards which his inclinations led him, after Anselmo had been three +days absent, during which he had been carrying on a continual struggle +with his passion, he began to make love to Camilla with so much +vehemence and warmth of language that she was overwhelmed with +amazement, and could only rise from her place and retire to her room +without answering him a word. But the hope which always springs up with +love was not weakened in Lothario by this repelling demeanour; on the +contrary his passion for Camilla increased, and she discovering in him +what she had never expected, knew not what to do; and considering it +neither safe nor right to give him the chance or opportunity of +speaking to her again, she resolved to send, as she did that very +night, one of her servants with a letter to Anselmo, in which she +addressed the following words to him. + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. +IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE NOVEL OF “THE ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY” + +“It is commonly said that an army looks ill without its general and a +castle without its castellan, and I say that a young married woman +looks still worse without her husband unless there are very good +reasons for it. I find myself so ill at ease without you, and so +incapable of enduring this separation, that unless you return quickly I +shall have to go for relief to my parents’ house, even if I leave yours +without a protector; for the one you left me, if indeed he deserved +that title, has, I think, more regard to his own pleasure than to what +concerns you: as you are possessed of discernment I need say no more to +you, nor indeed is it fitting I should say more.” + +Anselmo received this letter, and from it he gathered that Lothario had +already begun his task and that Camilla must have replied to him as he +would have wished; and delighted beyond measure at such intelligence he +sent word to her not to leave his house on any account, as he would +very shortly return. Camilla was astonished at Anselmo’s reply, which +placed her in greater perplexity than before, for she neither dared to +remain in her own house, nor yet to go to her parents’; for in +remaining her virtue was imperilled, and in going she was opposing her +husband’s commands. Finally she decided upon what was the worse course +for her, to remain, resolving not to fly from the presence of Lothario, +that she might not give food for gossip to her servants; and she now +began to regret having written as she had to her husband, fearing he +might imagine that Lothario had perceived in her some lightness which +had impelled him to lay aside the respect he owed her; but confident of +her rectitude she put her trust in God and in her own virtuous +intentions, with which she hoped to resist in silence all the +solicitations of Lothario, without saying anything to her husband so as +not to involve him in any quarrel or trouble; and she even began to +consider how to excuse Lothario to Anselmo when he should ask her what +it was that induced her to write that letter. With these resolutions, +more honourable than judicious or effectual, she remained the next day +listening to Lothario, who pressed his suit so strenuously that +Camilla’s firmness began to waver, and her virtue had enough to do to +come to the rescue of her eyes and keep them from showing signs of a +certain tender compassion which the tears and appeals of Lothario had +awakened in her bosom. Lothario observed all this, and it inflamed him +all the more. In short he felt that while Anselmo’s absence afforded +time and opportunity he must press the siege of the fortress, and so he +assailed her self-esteem with praises of her beauty, for there is +nothing that more quickly reduces and levels the castle towers of fair +women’s vanity than vanity itself upon the tongue of flattery. In fact +with the utmost assiduity he undermined the rock of her purity with +such engines that had Camilla been of brass she must have fallen. He +wept, he entreated, he promised, he flattered, he importuned, he +pretended with so much feeling and apparent sincerity, that he +overthrew the virtuous resolves of Camilla and won the triumph he least +expected and most longed for. Camilla yielded, Camilla fell; but what +wonder if the friendship of Lothario could not stand firm? A clear +proof to us that the passion of love is to be conquered only by flying +from it, and that no one should engage in a struggle with an enemy so +mighty; for divine strength is needed to overcome his human power. +Leonela alone knew of her mistress’s weakness, for the two false +friends and new lovers were unable to conceal it. Lothario did not care +to tell Camilla the object Anselmo had in view, nor that he had +afforded him the opportunity of attaining such a result, lest she +should undervalue his love and think that it was by chance and without +intending it and not of his own accord that he had made love to her. + +A few days later Anselmo returned to his house and did not perceive +what it had lost, that which he so lightly treated and so highly +prized. He went at once to see Lothario, and found him at home; they +embraced each other, and Anselmo asked for the tidings of his life or +his death. + +“The tidings I have to give thee, Anselmo my friend,” said Lothario, +“are that thou dost possess a wife that is worthy to be the pattern and +crown of all good wives. The words that I have addressed to her were +borne away on the wind, my promises have been despised, my presents +have been refused, such feigned tears as I shed have been turned into +open ridicule. In short, as Camilla is the essence of all beauty, so is +she the treasure-house where purity dwells, and gentleness and modesty +abide with all the virtues that can confer praise, honour, and +happiness upon a woman. Take back thy money, my friend; here it is, and +I have had no need to touch it, for the chastity of Camilla yields not +to things so base as gifts or promises. Be content, Anselmo, and +refrain from making further proof; and as thou hast passed dryshod +through the sea of those doubts and suspicions that are and may be +entertained of women, seek not to plunge again into the deep ocean of +new embarrassments, or with another pilot make trial of the goodness +and strength of the bark that Heaven has granted thee for thy passage +across the sea of this world; but reckon thyself now safe in port, moor +thyself with the anchor of sound reflection, and rest in peace until +thou art called upon to pay that debt which no nobility on earth can +escape paying.” + +Anselmo was completely satisfied by the words of Lothario, and believed +them as fully as if they had been spoken by an oracle; nevertheless he +begged of him not to relinquish the undertaking, were it but for the +sake of curiosity and amusement; though thenceforward he need not make +use of the same earnest endeavours as before; all he wished him to do +was to write some verses to her, praising her under the name of +Chloris, for he himself would give her to understand that he was in +love with a lady to whom he had given that name to enable him to sing +her praises with the decorum due to her modesty; and if Lothario were +unwilling to take the trouble of writing the verses he would compose +them himself. + +“That will not be necessary,” said Lothario, “for the muses are not +such enemies of mine but that they visit me now and then in the course +of the year. Do thou tell Camilla what thou hast proposed about a +pretended amour of mine; as for the verses I will make them, and if not +as good as the subject deserves, they shall be at least the best I can +produce.” An agreement to this effect was made between the friends, the +ill-advised one and the treacherous, and Anselmo returning to his house +asked Camilla the question she already wondered he had not asked +before—what it was that had caused her to write the letter she had sent +him. Camilla replied that it had seemed to her that Lothario looked at +her somewhat more freely than when he had been at home; but that now +she was undeceived and believed it to have been only her own +imagination, for Lothario now avoided seeing her, or being alone with +her. Anselmo told her she might be quite easy on the score of that +suspicion, for he knew that Lothario was in love with a damsel of rank +in the city whom he celebrated under the name of Chloris, and that even +if he were not, his fidelity and their great friendship left no room +for fear. Had not Camilla, however, been informed beforehand by +Lothario that this love for Chloris was a pretence, and that he himself +had told Anselmo of it in order to be able sometimes to give utterance +to the praises of Camilla herself, no doubt she would have fallen into +the despairing toils of jealousy; but being forewarned she received the +startling news without uneasiness. + +The next day as the three were at table Anselmo asked Lothario to +recite something of what he had composed for his mistress Chloris; for +as Camilla did not know her, he might safely say what he liked. + +“Even did she know her,” returned Lothario, “I would hide nothing, for +when a lover praises his lady’s beauty, and charges her with cruelty, +he casts no imputation upon her fair name; at any rate, all I can say +is that yesterday I made a sonnet on the ingratitude of this Chloris, +which goes thus: + +SONNET + +At midnight, in the silence, when the eyes +Of happier mortals balmy slumbers close, +The weary tale of my unnumbered woes +To Chloris and to Heaven is wont to rise. +And when the light of day returning dyes +The portals of the east with tints of rose, +With undiminished force my sorrow flows +In broken accents and in burning sighs. +And when the sun ascends his star-girt throne, +And on the earth pours down his midday beams, +Noon but renews my wailing and my tears; +And with the night again goes up my moan. +Yet ever in my agony it seems +To me that neither Heaven nor Chloris hears.” + + +The sonnet pleased Camilla, and still more Anselmo, for he praised it +and said the lady was excessively cruel who made no return for +sincerity so manifest. On which Camilla said, “Then all that +love-smitten poets say is true?” + +“As poets they do not tell the truth,” replied Lothario; “but as lovers +they are not more defective in expression than they are truthful.” + +“There is no doubt of that,” observed Anselmo, anxious to support and +uphold Lothario’s ideas with Camilla, who was as regardless of his +design as she was deep in love with Lothario; and so taking delight in +anything that was his, and knowing that his thoughts and writings had +her for their object, and that she herself was the real Chloris, she +asked him to repeat some other sonnet or verses if he recollected any. + +“I do,” replied Lothario, “but I do not think it as good as the first +one, or, more correctly speaking, less bad; but you can easily judge, +for it is this. + +SONNET + +I know that I am doomed; death is to me +As certain as that thou, ungrateful fair, +Dead at thy feet shouldst see me lying, ere +My heart repented of its love for thee. +If buried in oblivion I should be, +Bereft of life, fame, favour, even there +It would be found that I thy image bear +Deep graven in my breast for all to see. +This like some holy relic do I prize +To save me from the fate my truth entails, +Truth that to thy hard heart its vigour owes. +Alas for him that under lowering skies, +In peril o’er a trackless ocean sails, +Where neither friendly port nor pole-star shows.” + + +Anselmo praised this second sonnet too, as he had praised the first; +and so he went on adding link after link to the chain with which he was +binding himself and making his dishonour secure; for when Lothario was +doing most to dishonour him he told him he was most honoured; and thus +each step that Camilla descended towards the depths of her abasement, +she mounted, in his opinion, towards the summit of virtue and fair +fame. + +It so happened that finding herself on one occasion alone with her +maid, Camilla said to her, “I am ashamed to think, my dear Leonela, how +lightly I have valued myself that I did not compel Lothario to purchase +by at least some expenditure of time that full possession of me that I +so quickly yielded him of my own free will. I fear that he will think +ill of my pliancy or lightness, not considering the irresistible +influence he brought to bear upon me.” + +“Let not that trouble you, my lady,” said Leonela, “for it does not +take away the value of the thing given or make it the less precious to +give it quickly if it be really valuable and worthy of being prized; +nay, they are wont to say that he who gives quickly gives twice.” + +“They say also,” said Camilla, “that what costs little is valued less.” + +“That saying does not hold good in your case,” replied Leonela, “for +love, as I have heard say, sometimes flies and sometimes walks; with +this one it runs, with that it moves slowly; some it cools, others it +burns; some it wounds, others it slays; it begins the course of its +desires, and at the same moment completes and ends it; in the morning +it will lay siege to a fortress and by night will have taken it, for +there is no power that can resist it; so what are you in dread of, what +do you fear, when the same must have befallen Lothario, love having +chosen the absence of my lord as the instrument for subduing you? and +it was absolutely necessary to complete then what love had resolved +upon, without affording the time to let Anselmo return and by his +presence compel the work to be left unfinished; for love has no better +agent for carrying out his designs than opportunity; and of opportunity +he avails himself in all his feats, especially at the outset. All this +I know well myself, more by experience than by hearsay, and some day, +señora, I will enlighten you on the subject, for I am of your flesh and +blood too. Moreover, lady Camilla, you did not surrender yourself or +yield so quickly but that first you saw Lothario’s whole soul in his +eyes, in his sighs, in his words, his promises and his gifts, and by it +and his good qualities perceived how worthy he was of your love. This, +then, being the case, let not these scrupulous and prudish ideas +trouble your imagination, but be assured that Lothario prizes you as +you do him, and rest content and satisfied that as you are caught in +the noose of love it is one of worth and merit that has taken you, and +one that has not only the four S’s that they say true lovers ought to +have, but a complete alphabet; only listen to me and you will see how I +can repeat it by rote. He is to my eyes and thinking, Amiable, Brave, +Courteous, Distinguished, Elegant, Fond, Gay, Honourable, Illustrious, +Loyal, Manly, Noble, Open, Polite, Quickwitted, Rich, and the S’s +according to the saying, and then Tender, Veracious: X does not suit +him, for it is a rough letter; Y has been given already; and Z Zealous +for your honour.” + +Camilla laughed at her maid’s alphabet, and perceived her to be more +experienced in love affairs than she said, which she admitted, +confessing to Camilla that she had love passages with a young man of +good birth of the same city. Camilla was uneasy at this, dreading lest +it might prove the means of endangering her honour, and asked whether +her intrigue had gone beyond words, and she with little shame and much +effrontery said it had; for certain it is that ladies’ imprudences make +servants shameless, who, when they see their mistresses make a false +step, think nothing of going astray themselves, or of its being known. +All that Camilla could do was to entreat Leonela to say nothing about +her doings to him whom she called her lover, and to conduct her own +affairs secretly lest they should come to the knowledge of Anselmo or +of Lothario. Leonela said she would, but kept her word in such a way +that she confirmed Camilla’s apprehension of losing her reputation +through her means; for this abandoned and bold Leonela, as soon as she +perceived that her mistress’s demeanour was not what it was wont to be, +had the audacity to introduce her lover into the house, confident that +even if her mistress saw him she would not dare to expose him; for the +sins of mistresses entail this mischief among others; they make +themselves the slaves of their own servants, and are obliged to hide +their laxities and depravities; as was the case with Camilla, who +though she perceived, not once but many times, that Leonela was with +her lover in some room of the house, not only did not dare to chide +her, but afforded her opportunities for concealing him and removed all +difficulties, lest he should be seen by her husband. She was unable, +however, to prevent him from being seen on one occasion, as he sallied +forth at daybreak, by Lothario, who, not knowing who he was, at first +took him for a spectre; but, as soon as he saw him hasten away, +muffling his face with his cloak and concealing himself carefully and +cautiously, he rejected this foolish idea, and adopted another, which +would have been the ruin of all had not Camilla found a remedy. It did +not occur to Lothario that this man he had seen issuing at such an +untimely hour from Anselmo’s house could have entered it on Leonela’s +account, nor did he even remember there was such a person as Leonela; +all he thought was that as Camilla had been light and yielding with +him, so she had been with another; for this further penalty the erring +woman’s sin brings with it, that her honour is distrusted even by him +to whose overtures and persuasions she has yielded; and he believes her +to have surrendered more easily to others, and gives implicit credence +to every suspicion that comes into his mind. All Lothario’s good sense +seems to have failed him at this juncture; all his prudent maxims +escaped his memory; for without once reflecting rationally, and without +more ado, in his impatience and in the blindness of the jealous rage +that gnawed his heart, and dying to revenge himself upon Camilla, who +had done him no wrong, before Anselmo had risen he hastened to him and +said to him, “Know, Anselmo, that for several days past I have been +struggling with myself, striving to withhold from thee what it is no +longer possible or right that I should conceal from thee. Know that +Camilla’s fortress has surrendered and is ready to submit to my will; +and if I have been slow to reveal this fact to thee, it was in order to +see if it were some light caprice of hers, or if she sought to try me +and ascertain if the love I began to make to her with thy permission +was made with a serious intention. I thought, too, that she, if she +were what she ought to be, and what we both believed her, would have +ere this given thee information of my addresses; but seeing that she +delays, I believe the truth of the promise she has given me that the +next time thou art absent from the house she will grant me an interview +in the closet where thy jewels are kept (and it was true that Camilla +used to meet him there); but I do not wish thee to rush precipitately +to take vengeance, for the sin is as yet only committed in intention, +and Camilla’s may change perhaps between this and the appointed time, +and repentance spring up in its place. As hitherto thou hast always +followed my advice wholly or in part, follow and observe this that I +will give thee now, so that, without mistake, and with mature +deliberation, thou mayest satisfy thyself as to what may seem the best +course; pretend to absent thyself for two or three days as thou hast +been wont to do on other occasions, and contrive to hide thyself in the +closet; for the tapestries and other things there afford great +facilities for thy concealment, and then thou wilt see with thine own +eyes and I with mine what Camilla’s purpose may be. And if it be a +guilty one, which may be feared rather than expected, with silence, +prudence, and discretion thou canst thyself become the instrument of +punishment for the wrong done thee.” + +Anselmo was amazed, overwhelmed, and astounded at the words of +Lothario, which came upon him at a time when he least expected to hear +them, for he now looked upon Camilla as having triumphed over the +pretended attacks of Lothario, and was beginning to enjoy the glory of +her victory. He remained silent for a considerable time, looking on the +ground with fixed gaze, and at length said, “Thou hast behaved, +Lothario, as I expected of thy friendship: I will follow thy advice in +everything; do as thou wilt, and keep this secret as thou seest it +should be kept in circumstances so unlooked for.” + +Lothario gave him his word, but after leaving him he repented +altogether of what he had said to him, perceiving how foolishly he had +acted, as he might have revenged himself upon Camilla in some less +cruel and degrading way. He cursed his want of sense, condemned his +hasty resolution, and knew not what course to take to undo the mischief +or find some ready escape from it. At last he decided upon revealing +all to Camilla, and, as there was no want of opportunity for doing so, +he found her alone the same day; but she, as soon as she had the chance +of speaking to him, said, “Lothario my friend, I must tell thee I have +a sorrow in my heart which fills it so that it seems ready to burst; +and it will be a wonder if it does not; for the audacity of Leonela has +now reached such a pitch that every night she conceals a gallant of +hers in this house and remains with him till morning, at the expense of +my reputation; inasmuch as it is open to anyone to question it who may +see him quitting my house at such unseasonable hours; but what +distresses me is that I cannot punish or chide her, for her privity to +our intrigue bridles my mouth and keeps me silent about hers, while I +am dreading that some catastrophe will come of it.” + +As Camilla said this Lothario at first imagined it was some device to +delude him into the idea that the man he had seen going out was +Leonela’s lover and not hers; but when he saw how she wept and +suffered, and begged him to help her, he became convinced of the truth, +and the conviction completed his confusion and remorse; however, he +told Camilla not to distress herself, as he would take measures to put +a stop to the insolence of Leonela. At the same time he told her what, +driven by the fierce rage of jealousy, he had said to Anselmo, and how +he had arranged to hide himself in the closet that he might there see +plainly how little she preserved her fidelity to him; and he entreated +her pardon for this madness, and her advice as to how to repair it, and +escape safely from the intricate labyrinth in which his imprudence had +involved him. Camilla was struck with alarm at hearing what Lothario +said, and with much anger, and great good sense, she reproved him and +rebuked his base design and the foolish and mischievous resolution he +had made; but as woman has by nature a nimbler wit than man for good +and for evil, though it is apt to fail when she sets herself +deliberately to reason, Camilla on the spur of the moment thought of a +way to remedy what was to all appearance irremediable, and told +Lothario to contrive that the next day Anselmo should conceal himself +in the place he mentioned, for she hoped from his concealment to obtain +the means of their enjoying themselves for the future without any +apprehension; and without revealing her purpose to him entirely she +charged him to be careful, as soon as Anselmo was concealed, to come to +her when Leonela should call him, and to all she said to him to answer +as he would have answered had he not known that Anselmo was listening. +Lothario pressed her to explain her intention fully, so that he might +with more certainty and precaution take care to do what he saw to be +needful. + +“I tell you,” said Camilla, “there is nothing to take care of except to +answer me what I shall ask you;” for she did not wish to explain to him +beforehand what she meant to do, fearing lest he should be unwilling to +follow out an idea which seemed to her such a good one, and should try +or devise some other less practicable plan. + +Lothario then retired, and the next day Anselmo, under pretence of +going to his friend’s country house, took his departure, and then +returned to conceal himself, which he was able to do easily, as Camilla +and Leonela took care to give him the opportunity; and so he placed +himself in hiding in the state of agitation that it may be imagined he +would feel who expected to see the vitals of his honour laid bare +before his eyes, and found himself on the point of losing the supreme +blessing he thought he possessed in his beloved Camilla. Having made +sure of Anselmo’s being in his hiding-place, Camilla and Leonela +entered the closet, and the instant she set foot within it Camilla +said, with a deep sigh, “Ah! dear Leonela, would it not be better, +before I do what I am unwilling you should know lest you should seek to +prevent it, that you should take Anselmo’s dagger that I have asked of +you and with it pierce this vile heart of mine? But no; there is no +reason why I should suffer the punishment of another’s fault. I will +first know what it is that the bold licentious eyes of Lothario have +seen in me that could have encouraged him to reveal to me a design so +base as that which he has disclosed regardless of his friend and of my +honour. Go to the window, Leonela, and call him, for no doubt he is in +the street waiting to carry out his vile project; but mine, cruel it +may be, but honourable, shall be carried out first.” + +“Ah, señora,” said the crafty Leonela, who knew her part, “what is it +you want to do with this dagger? Can it be that you mean to take your +own life, or Lothario’s? for whichever you mean to do, it will lead to +the loss of your reputation and good name. It is better to dissemble +your wrong and not give this wicked man the chance of entering the +house now and finding us alone; consider, señora, we are weak women and +he is a man, and determined, and as he comes with such a base purpose, +blind and urged by passion, perhaps before you can put yours into +execution he may do what will be worse for you than taking your life. +Ill betide my master, Anselmo, for giving such authority in his house +to this shameless fellow! And supposing you kill him, señora, as I +suspect you mean to do, what shall we do with him when he is dead?” + +“What, my friend?” replied Camilla, “we shall leave him for Anselmo to +bury him; for in reason it will be to him a light labour to hide his +own infamy under ground. Summon him, make haste, for all the time I +delay in taking vengeance for my wrong seems to me an offence against +the loyalty I owe my husband.” + +Anselmo was listening to all this, and every word that Camilla uttered +made him change his mind; but when he heard that it was resolved to +kill Lothario his first impulse was to come out and show himself to +avert such a disaster; but in his anxiety to see the issue of a +resolution so bold and virtuous he restrained himself, intending to +come forth in time to prevent the deed. At this moment Camilla, +throwing herself upon a bed that was close by, swooned away, and +Leonela began to weep bitterly, exclaiming, “Woe is me! that I should +be fated to have dying here in my arms the flower of virtue upon earth, +the crown of true wives, the pattern of chastity!” with more to the +same effect, so that anyone who heard her would have taken her for the +most tender-hearted and faithful handmaid in the world, and her +mistress for another persecuted Penelope. + +Camilla was not long in recovering from her fainting fit and on coming +to herself she said, “Why do you not go, Leonela, to call hither that +friend, the falsest to his friend the sun ever shone upon or night +concealed? Away, run, haste, speed! lest the fire of my wrath burn +itself out with delay, and the righteous vengeance that I hope for melt +away in menaces and maledictions.” + +“I am just going to call him, señora,” said Leonela; “but you must +first give me that dagger, lest while I am gone you should by means of +it give cause to all who love you to weep all their lives.” + +“Go in peace, dear Leonela, I will not do so,” said Camilla, “for rash +and foolish as I may be, to your mind, in defending my honour, I am not +going to be so much so as that Lucretia who they say killed herself +without having done anything wrong, and without having first killed him +on whom the guilt of her misfortune lay. I shall die, if I am to die; +but it must be after full vengeance upon him who has brought me here to +weep over audacity that no fault of mine gave birth to.” + +Leonela required much pressing before she would go to summon Lothario, +but at last she went, and while awaiting her return Camilla continued, +as if speaking to herself, “Good God! would it not have been more +prudent to have repulsed Lothario, as I have done many a time before, +than to allow him, as I am now doing, to think me unchaste and vile, +even for the short time I must wait until I undeceive him? No doubt it +would have been better; but I should not be avenged, nor the honour of +my husband vindicated, should he find so clear and easy an escape from +the strait into which his depravity has led him. Let the traitor pay +with his life for the temerity of his wanton wishes, and let the world +know (if haply it shall ever come to know) that Camilla not only +preserved her allegiance to her husband, but avenged him of the man who +dared to wrong him. Still, I think it might be better to disclose this +to Anselmo. But then I have called his attention to it in the letter I +wrote to him in the country, and, if he did nothing to prevent the +mischief I there pointed out to him, I suppose it was that from pure +goodness of heart and trustfulness he would not and could not believe +that any thought against his honour could harbour in the breast of so +stanch a friend; nor indeed did I myself believe it for many days, nor +should I have ever believed it if his insolence had not gone so far as +to make it manifest by open presents, lavish promises, and ceaseless +tears. But why do I argue thus? Does a bold determination stand in need +of arguments? Surely not. Then traitors avaunt! Vengeance to my aid! +Let the false one come, approach, advance, die, yield up his life, and +then befall what may. Pure I came to him whom Heaven bestowed upon me, +pure I shall leave him; and at the worst bathed in my own chaste blood +and in the foul blood of the falsest friend that friendship ever saw in +the world;” and as she uttered these words she paced the room holding +the unsheathed dagger, with such irregular and disordered steps, and +such gestures that one would have supposed her to have lost her senses, +and taken her for some violent desperado instead of a delicate woman. + +Anselmo, concealed behind some tapestries where he had hidden himself, +beheld and was amazed at all, and already felt that what he had seen +and heard was a sufficient answer to even greater suspicions; and he +would have been now well pleased if the proof afforded by Lothario’s +coming were dispensed with, as he feared some sudden mishap; but as he +was on the point of showing himself and coming forth to embrace and +undeceive his wife he paused as he saw Leonela returning, leading +Lothario. Camilla when she saw him, drawing a long line in front of her +on the floor with the dagger, said to him, “Lothario, pay attention to +what I say to thee: if by any chance thou darest to cross this line +thou seest, or even approach it, the instant I see thee attempt it that +same instant will I pierce my bosom with this dagger that I hold in my +hand; and before thou answerest me a word I desire thee to listen to a +few from me, and afterwards thou shalt reply as may please thee. First, +I desire thee to tell me, Lothario, if thou knowest my husband Anselmo, +and in what light thou regardest him; and secondly I desire to know if +thou knowest me too. Answer me this, without embarrassment or +reflecting deeply what thou wilt answer, for they are no riddles I put +to thee.” + +Lothario was not so dull but that from the first moment when Camilla +directed him to make Anselmo hide himself he understood what she +intended to do, and therefore he fell in with her idea so readily and +promptly that between them they made the imposture look more true than +truth; so he answered her thus: “I did not think, fair Camilla, that +thou wert calling me to ask questions so remote from the object with +which I come; but if it is to defer the promised reward thou art doing +so, thou mightst have put it off still longer, for the longing for +happiness gives the more distress the nearer comes the hope of gaining +it; but lest thou shouldst say that I do not answer thy questions, I +say that I know thy husband Anselmo, and that we have known each other +from our earliest years; I will not speak of what thou too knowest, of +our friendship, that I may not compel myself to testify against the +wrong that love, the mighty excuse for greater errors, makes me inflict +upon him. Thee I know and hold in the same estimation as he does, for +were it not so I had not for a lesser prize acted in opposition to what +I owe to my station and the holy laws of true friendship, now broken +and violated by me through that powerful enemy, love.” + +“If thou dost confess that,” returned Camilla, “mortal enemy of all +that rightly deserves to be loved, with what face dost thou dare to +come before one whom thou knowest to be the mirror wherein he is +reflected on whom thou shouldst look to see how unworthily thou +wrongest him? But, woe is me, I now comprehend what has made thee give +so little heed to what thou owest to thyself; it must have been some +freedom of mine, for I will not call it immodesty, as it did not +proceed from any deliberate intention, but from some heedlessness such +as women are guilty of through inadvertence when they think they have +no occasion for reserve. But tell me, traitor, when did I by word or +sign give a reply to thy prayers that could awaken in thee a shadow of +hope of attaining thy base wishes? When were not thy professions of +love sternly and scornfully rejected and rebuked? When were thy +frequent pledges and still more frequent gifts believed or accepted? +But as I am persuaded that no one can long persevere in the attempt to +win love unsustained by some hope, I am willing to attribute to myself +the blame of thy assurance, for no doubt some thoughtlessness of mine +has all this time fostered thy hopes; and therefore will I punish +myself and inflict upon myself the penalty thy guilt deserves. And that +thou mayest see that being so relentless to myself I cannot possibly be +otherwise to thee, I have summoned thee to be a witness of the +sacrifice I mean to offer to the injured honour of my honoured husband, +wronged by thee with all the assiduity thou wert capable of, and by me +too through want of caution in avoiding every occasion, if I have given +any, of encouraging and sanctioning thy base designs. Once more I say +the suspicion in my mind that some imprudence of mine has engendered +these lawless thoughts in thee, is what causes me most distress and +what I desire most to punish with my own hands, for were any other +instrument of punishment employed my error might become perhaps more +widely known; but before I do so, in my death I mean to inflict death, +and take with me one that will fully satisfy my longing for the revenge +I hope for and have; for I shall see, wheresoever it may be that I go, +the penalty awarded by inflexible, unswerving justice on him who has +placed me in a position so desperate.” + +As she uttered these words, with incredible energy and swiftness she +flew upon Lothario with the naked dagger, so manifestly bent on burying +it in his breast that he was almost uncertain whether these +demonstrations were real or feigned, for he was obliged to have +recourse to all his skill and strength to prevent her from striking +him; and with such reality did she act this strange farce and +mystification that, to give it a colour of truth, she determined to +stain it with her own blood; for perceiving, or pretending, that she +could not wound Lothario, she said, “Fate, it seems, will not grant my +just desire complete satisfaction, but it will not be able to keep me +from satisfying it partially at least;” and making an effort to free +the hand with the dagger which Lothario held in his grasp, she released +it, and directing the point to a place where it could not inflict a +deep wound, she plunged it into her left side high up close to the +shoulder, and then allowed herself to fall to the ground as if in a +faint. + +Leonela and Lothario stood amazed and astounded at the catastrophe, and +seeing Camilla stretched on the ground and bathed in her blood they +were still uncertain as to the true nature of the act. Lothario, +terrified and breathless, ran in haste to pluck out the dagger; but +when he saw how slight the wound was he was relieved of his fears and +once more admired the subtlety, coolness, and ready wit of the fair +Camilla; and the better to support the part he had to play he began to +utter profuse and doleful lamentations over her body as if she were +dead, invoking maledictions not only on himself but also on him who had +been the means of placing him in such a position: and knowing that his +friend Anselmo heard him he spoke in such a way as to make a listener +feel much more pity for him than for Camilla, even though he supposed +her dead. Leonela took her up in her arms and laid her on the bed, +entreating Lothario to go in quest of someone to attend to her wound in +secret, and at the same time asking his advice and opinion as to what +they should say to Anselmo about his lady’s wound if he should chance +to return before it was healed. He replied they might say what they +liked, for he was not in a state to give advice that would be of any +use; all he could tell her was to try and stanch the blood, as he was +going where he should never more be seen; and with every appearance of +deep grief and sorrow he left the house; but when he found himself +alone, and where there was nobody to see him, he crossed himself +unceasingly, lost in wonder at the adroitness of Camilla and the +consistent acting of Leonela. He reflected how convinced Anselmo would +be that he had a second Portia for a wife, and he looked forward +anxiously to meeting him in order to rejoice together over falsehood +and truth the most craftily veiled that could be imagined. + +Leonela, as he told her, stanched her lady’s blood, which was no more +than sufficed to support her deception; and washing the wound with a +little wine she bound it up to the best of her skill, talking all the +time she was tending her in a strain that, even if nothing else had +been said before, would have been enough to assure Anselmo that he had +in Camilla a model of purity. To Leonela’s words Camilla added her own, +calling herself cowardly and wanting in spirit, since she had not +enough at the time she had most need of it to rid herself of the life +she so much loathed. She asked her attendant’s advice as to whether or +not she ought to inform her beloved husband of all that had happened, +but the other bade her say nothing about it, as she would lay upon him +the obligation of taking vengeance on Lothario, which he could not do +but at great risk to himself; and it was the duty of a true wife not to +give her husband provocation to quarrel, but, on the contrary, to +remove it as far as possible from him. + +Camilla replied that she believed she was right and that she would +follow her advice, but at any rate it would be well to consider how she +was to explain the wound to Anselmo, for he could not help seeing it; +to which Leonela answered that she did not know how to tell a lie even +in jest. + +“How then can I know, my dear?” said Camilla, “for I should not dare to +forge or keep up a falsehood if my life depended on it. If we can think +of no escape from this difficulty, it will be better to tell him the +plain truth than that he should find us out in an untrue story.” + +“Be not uneasy, señora,” said Leonela; “between this and to-morrow I +will think of what we must say to him, and perhaps the wound being +where it is it can be hidden from his sight, and Heaven will be pleased +to aid us in a purpose so good and honourable. Compose yourself, +señora, and endeavour to calm your excitement lest my lord find you +agitated; and leave the rest to my care and God’s, who always supports +good intentions.” + +Anselmo had with the deepest attention listened to and seen played out +the tragedy of the death of his honour, which the performers acted with +such wonderfully effective truth that it seemed as if they had become +the realities of the parts they played. He longed for night and an +opportunity of escaping from the house to go and see his good friend +Lothario, and with him give vent to his joy over the precious pearl he +had gained in having established his wife’s purity. Both mistress and +maid took care to give him time and opportunity to get away, and taking +advantage of it he made his escape, and at once went in quest of +Lothario, and it would be impossible to describe how he embraced him +when he found him, and the things he said to him in the joy of his +heart, and the praises he bestowed upon Camilla; all which Lothario +listened to without being able to show any pleasure, for he could not +forget how deceived his friend was, and how dishonourably he had +wronged him; and though Anselmo could see that Lothario was not glad, +still he imagined it was only because he had left Camilla wounded and +had been himself the cause of it; and so among other things he told him +not to be distressed about Camilla’s accident, for, as they had agreed +to hide it from him, the wound was evidently trifling; and that being +so, he had no cause for fear, but should henceforward be of good cheer +and rejoice with him, seeing that by his means and adroitness he found +himself raised to the greatest height of happiness that he could have +ventured to hope for, and desired no better pastime than making verses +in praise of Camilla that would preserve her name for all time to come. +Lothario commended his purpose, and promised on his own part to aid him +in raising a monument so glorious. + +And so Anselmo was left the most charmingly hoodwinked man there could +be in the world. He himself, persuaded he was conducting the instrument +of his glory, led home by the hand of him who had been the utter +destruction of his good name; whom Camilla received with averted +countenance, though with smiles in her heart. The deception was carried +on for some time, until at the end of a few months Fortune turned her +wheel and the guilt which had been until then so skilfully concealed +was published abroad, and Anselmo paid with his life the penalty of his +ill-advised curiosity. + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. +WHICH TREATS OF THE HEROIC AND PRODIGIOUS BATTLE DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH +CERTAIN SKINS OF RED WINE, AND BRINGS THE NOVEL OF “THE ILL-ADVISED +CURIOSITY” TO A CLOSE + +There remained but little more of the novel to be read, when Sancho +Panza burst forth in wild excitement from the garret where Don Quixote +was lying, shouting, “Run, sirs! quick; and help my master, who is in +the thick of the toughest and stiffest battle I ever laid eyes on. By +the living God he has given the giant, the enemy of my lady the +Princess Micomicona, such a slash that he has sliced his head clean off +as if it were a turnip.” + +“What are you talking about, brother?” said the curate, pausing as he +was about to read the remainder of the novel. “Are you in your senses, +Sancho? How the devil can it be as you say, when the giant is two +thousand leagues away?” + +Here they heard a loud noise in the chamber, and Don Quixote shouting +out, “Stand, thief, brigand, villain; now I have got thee, and thy +scimitar shall not avail thee!” And then it seemed as though he were +slashing vigorously at the wall. + +“Don’t stop to listen,” said Sancho, “but go in and part them or help +my master: though there is no need of that now, for no doubt the giant +is dead by this time and giving account to God of his past wicked life; +for I saw the blood flowing on the ground, and the head cut off and +fallen on one side, and it is as big as a large wine-skin.” + +“May I die,” said the landlord at this, “if Don Quixote or Don Devil +has not been slashing some of the skins of red wine that stand full at +his bed’s head, and the spilt wine must be what this good fellow takes +for blood;” and so saying he went into the room and the rest after him, +and there they found Don Quixote in the strangest costume in the world. +He was in his shirt, which was not long enough in front to cover his +thighs completely and was six fingers shorter behind; his legs were +very long and lean, covered with hair, and anything but clean; on his +head he had a little greasy red cap that belonged to the host, round +his left arm he had rolled the blanket of the bed, to which Sancho, for +reasons best known to himself, owed a grudge, and in his right hand he +held his unsheathed sword, with which he was slashing about on all +sides, uttering exclamations as if he were actually fighting some +giant: and the best of it was his eyes were not open, for he was fast +asleep, and dreaming that he was doing battle with the giant. For his +imagination was so wrought upon by the adventure he was going to +accomplish, that it made him dream he had already reached the kingdom +of Micomicon, and was engaged in combat with his enemy; and believing +he was laying on the giant, he had given so many sword cuts to the +skins that the whole room was full of wine. On seeing this the landlord +was so enraged that he fell on Don Quixote, and with his clenched fist +began to pummel him in such a way, that if Cardenio and the curate had +not dragged him off, he would have brought the war of the giant to an +end. But in spite of all the poor gentleman never woke until the barber +brought a great pot of cold water from the well and flung it with one +dash all over his body, on which Don Quixote woke up, but not so +completely as to understand what was the matter. Dorothea, seeing how +short and slight his attire was, would not go in to witness the battle +between her champion and her opponent. As for Sancho, he went searching +all over the floor for the head of the giant, and not finding it he +said, “I see now that it’s all enchantment in this house; for the last +time, on this very spot where I am now, I got ever so many thumps +without knowing who gave them to me, or being able to see anybody; and +now this head is not to be seen anywhere about, though I saw it cut off +with my own eyes and the blood running from the body as if from a +fountain.” + +“What blood and fountains are you talking about, enemy of God and his +saints?” said the landlord. “Don’t you see, you thief, that the blood +and the fountain are only these skins here that have been stabbed and +the red wine swimming all over the room?—and I wish I saw the soul of +him that stabbed them swimming in hell.” + +“I know nothing about that,” said Sancho; “all I know is it will be my +bad luck that through not finding this head my county will melt away +like salt in water;”—for Sancho awake was worse than his master asleep, +so much had his master’s promises addled his wits. + +The landlord was beside himself at the coolness of the squire and the +mischievous doings of the master, and swore it should not be like the +last time when they went without paying; and that their privileges of +chivalry should not hold good this time to let one or other of them off +without paying, even to the cost of the plugs that would have to be put +to the damaged wine-skins. The curate was holding Don Quixote’s hands, +who, fancying he had now ended the adventure and was in the presence of +the Princess Micomicona, knelt before the curate and said, “Exalted and +beauteous lady, your highness may live from this day forth fearless of +any harm this base being could do you; and I too from this day forth am +released from the promise I gave you, since by the help of God on high +and by the favour of her by whom I live and breathe, I have fulfilled +it so successfully.” + +“Did not I say so?” said Sancho on hearing this. “You see I wasn’t +drunk; there you see my master has already salted the giant; there’s no +doubt about the bulls; my county is all right!” + +Who could have helped laughing at the absurdities of the pair, master +and man? And laugh they did, all except the landlord, who cursed +himself; but at length the barber, Cardenio, and the curate contrived +with no small trouble to get Don Quixote on the bed, and he fell asleep +with every appearance of excessive weariness. They left him to sleep, +and came out to the gate of the inn to console Sancho Panza on not +having found the head of the giant; but much more work had they to +appease the landlord, who was furious at the sudden death of his +wine-skins; and said the landlady half scolding, half crying, “At an +evil moment and in an unlucky hour he came into my house, this +knight-errant—would that I had never set eyes on him, for dear he has +cost me; the last time he went off with the overnight score against him +for supper, bed, straw, and barley, for himself and his squire and a +hack and an ass, saying he was a knight adventurer—God send unlucky +adventures to him and all the adventurers in the world—and therefore +not bound to pay anything, for it was so settled by the knight-errantry +tariff: and then, all because of him, came the other gentleman and +carried off my tail, and gives it back more than two cuartillos the +worse, all stripped of its hair, so that it is no use for my husband’s +purpose; and then, for a finishing touch to all, to burst my wine-skins +and spill my wine! I wish I saw his own blood spilt! But let him not +deceive himself, for, by the bones of my father and the shade of my +mother, they shall pay me down every quarto; or my name is not what it +is, and I am not my father’s daughter.” All this and more to the same +effect the landlady delivered with great irritation, and her good maid +Maritornes backed her up, while the daughter held her peace and smiled +from time to time. The curate smoothed matters by promising to make +good all losses to the best of his power, not only as regarded the +wine-skins but also the wine, and above all the depreciation of the +tail which they set such store by. Dorothea comforted Sancho, telling +him that she pledged herself, as soon as it should appear certain that +his master had decapitated the giant, and she found herself peacefully +established in her kingdom, to bestow upon him the best county there +was in it. With this Sancho consoled himself, and assured the princess +she might rely upon it that he had seen the head of the giant, and more +by token it had a beard that reached to the girdle, and that if it was +not to be seen now it was because everything that happened in that +house went by enchantment, as he himself had proved the last time he +had lodged there. Dorothea said she fully believed it, and that he need +not be uneasy, for all would go well and turn out as he wished. All +therefore being appeased, the curate was anxious to go on with the +novel, as he saw there was but little more left to read. Dorothea and +the others begged him to finish it, and he, as he was willing to please +them, and enjoyed reading it himself, continued the tale in these +words: + +The result was, that from the confidence Anselmo felt in Camilla’s +virtue, he lived happy and free from anxiety, and Camilla purposely +looked coldly on Lothario, that Anselmo might suppose her feelings +towards him to be the opposite of what they were; and the better to +support the position, Lothario begged to be excused from coming to the +house, as the displeasure with which Camilla regarded his presence was +plain to be seen. But the befooled Anselmo said he would on no account +allow such a thing, and so in a thousand ways he became the author of +his own dishonour, while he believed he was insuring his happiness. +Meanwhile the satisfaction with which Leonela saw herself empowered to +carry on her amour reached such a height that, regardless of everything +else, she followed her inclinations unrestrainedly, feeling confident +that her mistress would screen her, and even show her how to manage it +safely. At last one night Anselmo heard footsteps in Leonela’s room, +and on trying to enter to see who it was, he found that the door was +held against him, which made him all the more determined to open it; +and exerting his strength he forced it open, and entered the room in +time to see a man leaping through the window into the street. He ran +quickly to seize him or discover who he was, but he was unable to +effect either purpose, for Leonela flung her arms round him crying, “Be +calm, señor; do not give way to passion or follow him who has escaped +from this; he belongs to me, and in fact he is my husband.” + +Anselmo would not believe it, but blind with rage drew a dagger and +threatened to stab Leonela, bidding her tell the truth or he would kill +her. She, in her fear, not knowing what she was saying, exclaimed, “Do +not kill me, señor, for I can tell you things more important than any +you can imagine.” + +“Tell me then at once or thou diest,” said Anselmo. + +“It would be impossible for me now,” said Leonela, “I am so agitated: +leave me till to-morrow, and then you shall hear from me what will fill +you with astonishment; but rest assured that he who leaped through the +window is a young man of this city, who has given me his promise to +become my husband.” + +Anselmo was appeased with this, and was content to wait the time she +asked of him, for he never expected to hear anything against Camilla, +so satisfied and sure of her virtue was he; and so he quitted the room, +and left Leonela locked in, telling her she should not come out until +she had told him all she had to make known to him. He went at once to +see Camilla, and tell her, as he did, all that had passed between him +and her handmaid, and the promise she had given him to inform him +matters of serious importance. + +There is no need of saying whether Camilla was agitated or not, for so +great was her fear and dismay, that, making sure, as she had good +reason to do, that Leonela would tell Anselmo all she knew of her +faithlessness, she had not the courage to wait and see if her +suspicions were confirmed; and that same night, as soon as she thought +that Anselmo was asleep, she packed up the most valuable jewels she had +and some money, and without being observed by anybody escaped from the +house and betook herself to Lothario’s, to whom she related what had +occurred, imploring him to convey her to some place of safety or fly +with her where they might be safe from Anselmo. The state of perplexity +to which Camilla reduced Lothario was such that he was unable to utter +a word in reply, still less to decide upon what he should do. At length +he resolved to conduct her to a convent of which a sister of his was +prioress; Camilla agreed to this, and with the speed which the +circumstances demanded, Lothario took her to the convent and left her +there, and then himself quitted the city without letting anyone know of +his departure. + +As soon as daylight came Anselmo, without missing Camilla from his +side, rose eager to learn what Leonela had to tell him, and hastened to +the room where he had locked her in. He opened the door, entered, but +found no Leonela; all he found was some sheets knotted to the window, a +plain proof that she had let herself down from it and escaped. He +returned, uneasy, to tell Camilla, but not finding her in bed or +anywhere in the house he was lost in amazement. He asked the servants +of the house about her, but none of them could give him any +explanation. As he was going in search of Camilla it happened by chance +that he observed her boxes were lying open, and that the greater part +of her jewels were gone; and now he became fully aware of his disgrace, +and that Leonela was not the cause of his misfortune; and, just as he +was, without delaying to dress himself completely, he repaired, sad at +heart and dejected, to his friend Lothario to make known his sorrow to +him; but when he failed to find him and the servants reported that he +had been absent from his house all night and had taken with him all the +money he had, he felt as though he were losing his senses; and to make +all complete on returning to his own house he found it deserted and +empty, not one of all his servants, male or female, remaining in it. He +knew not what to think, or say, or do, and his reason seemed to be +deserting him little by little. He reviewed his position, and saw +himself in a moment left without wife, friend, or servants, abandoned, +he felt, by the heaven above him, and more than all robbed of his +honour, for in Camilla’s disappearance he saw his own ruin. After long +reflection he resolved at last to go to his friend’s village, where he +had been staying when he afforded opportunities for the contrivance of +this complication of misfortune. He locked the doors of his house, +mounted his horse, and with a broken spirit set out on his journey; but +he had hardly gone half-way when, harassed by his reflections, he had +to dismount and tie his horse to a tree, at the foot of which he threw +himself, giving vent to piteous heartrending sighs; and there he +remained till nearly nightfall, when he observed a man approaching on +horseback from the city, of whom, after saluting him, he asked what was +the news in Florence. + +The citizen replied, “The strangest that have been heard for many a +day; for it is reported abroad that Lothario, the great friend of the +wealthy Anselmo, who lived at San Giovanni, carried off last night +Camilla, the wife of Anselmo, who also has disappeared. All this has +been told by a maid-servant of Camilla’s, whom the governor found last +night lowering herself by a sheet from the windows of Anselmo’s house. +I know not indeed, precisely, how the affair came to pass; all I know +is that the whole city is wondering at the occurrence, for no one could +have expected a thing of the kind, seeing the great and intimate +friendship that existed between them, so great, they say, that they +were called ‘The Two Friends.’” + +“Is it known at all,” said Anselmo, “what road Lothario and Camilla +took?” + +“Not in the least,” said the citizen, “though the governor has been +very active in searching for them.” + +“God speed you, señor,” said Anselmo. + +“God be with you,” said the citizen and went his way. + +This disastrous intelligence almost robbed Anselmo not only of his +senses but of his life. He got up as well as he was able and reached +the house of his friend, who as yet knew nothing of his misfortune, but +seeing him come pale, worn, and haggard, perceived that he was +suffering some heavy affliction. Anselmo at once begged to be allowed +to retire to rest, and to be given writing materials. His wish was +complied with and he was left lying down and alone, for he desired +this, and even that the door should be locked. Finding himself alone he +so took to heart the thought of his misfortune that by the signs of +death he felt within him he knew well his life was drawing to a close, +and therefore he resolved to leave behind him a declaration of the +cause of his strange end. He began to write, but before he had put down +all he meant to say, his breath failed him and he yielded up his life, +a victim to the suffering which his ill-advised curiosity had entailed +upon him. The master of the house observing that it was now late and +that Anselmo did not call, determined to go in and ascertain if his +indisposition was increasing, and found him lying on his face, his body +partly in the bed, partly on the writing-table, on which he lay with +the written paper open and the pen still in his hand. Having first +called to him without receiving any answer, his host approached him, +and taking him by the hand, found that it was cold, and saw that he was +dead. Greatly surprised and distressed he summoned the household to +witness the sad fate which had befallen Anselmo; and then he read the +paper, the handwriting of which he recognised as his, and which +contained these words: + +“A foolish and ill-advised desire has robbed me of life. If the news of +my death should reach the ears of Camilla, let her know that I forgive +her, for she was not bound to perform miracles, nor ought I to have +required her to perform them; and since I have been the author of my +own dishonour, there is no reason why—” + +So far Anselmo had written, and thus it was plain that at this point, +before he could finish what he had to say, his life came to an end. The +next day his friend sent intelligence of his death to his relatives, +who had already ascertained his misfortune, as well as the convent +where Camilla lay almost on the point of accompanying her husband on +that inevitable journey, not on account of the tidings of his death, +but because of those she received of her lover’s departure. Although +she saw herself a widow, it is said she refused either to quit the +convent or take the veil, until, not long afterwards, intelligence +reached her that Lothario had been killed in a battle in which M. de +Lautrec had been recently engaged with the Great Captain Gonzalo +Fernandez de Cordova in the kingdom of Naples, whither her too late +repentant lover had repaired. On learning this Camilla took the veil, +and shortly afterwards died, worn out by grief and melancholy. This was +the end of all three, an end that came of a thoughtless beginning. + +“I like this novel,” said the curate; “but I cannot persuade myself of +its truth; and if it has been invented, the author’s invention is +faulty, for it is impossible to imagine any husband so foolish as to +try such a costly experiment as Anselmo’s. If it had been represented +as occurring between a gallant and his mistress it might pass; but +between husband and wife there is something of an impossibility about +it. As to the way in which the story is told, however, I have no fault +to find.” + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. +WHICH TREATS OF MORE CURIOUS INCIDENTS THAT OCCURRED AT THE INN + + + + +c36a.jpg (124K) + +Full Size + + + + +Just at that instant the landlord, who was standing at the gate of the +inn, exclaimed, “Here comes a fine troop of guests; if they stop here +we may say _gaudeamus_.” + +“What are they?” said Cardenio. + +“Four men,” said the landlord, “riding _à la jineta_, with lances and +bucklers, and all with black veils, and with them there is a woman in +white on a side-saddle, whose face is also veiled, and two attendants +on foot.” + +“Are they very near?” said the curate. + +“So near,” answered the landlord, “that here they come.” + +Hearing this Dorothea covered her face, and Cardenio retreated into Don +Quixote’s room, and they hardly had time to do so before the whole +party the host had described entered the inn, and the four that were on +horseback, who were of highbred appearance and bearing, dismounted, and +came forward to take down the woman who rode on the side-saddle, and +one of them taking her in his arms placed her in a chair that stood at +the entrance of the room where Cardenio had hidden himself. All this +time neither she nor they had removed their veils or spoken a word, +only on sitting down on the chair the woman gave a deep sigh and let +her arms fall like one that was ill and weak. The attendants on foot +then led the horses away to the stable. Observing this the curate, +curious to know who these people in such a dress and preserving such +silence were, went to where the servants were standing and put the +question to one of them, who answered him. + +“Faith, sir, I cannot tell you who they are, I only know they seem to +be people of distinction, particularly he who advanced to take the lady +you saw in his arms; and I say so because all the rest show him +respect, and nothing is done except what he directs and orders.” + +“And the lady, who is she?” asked the curate. + +“That I cannot tell you either,” said the servant, “for I have not seen +her face all the way: I have indeed heard her sigh many times and utter +such groans that she seems to be giving up the ghost every time; but it +is no wonder if we do not know more than we have told you, as my +comrade and I have only been in their company two days, for having met +us on the road they begged and persuaded us to accompany them to +Andalusia, promising to pay us well.” + +“And have you heard any of them called by his name?” asked the curate. + +“No, indeed,” replied the servant; “they all preserve a marvellous +silence on the road, for not a sound is to be heard among them except +the poor lady’s sighs and sobs, which make us pity her; and we feel +sure that wherever it is she is going, it is against her will, and as +far as one can judge from her dress she is a nun or, what is more +likely, about to become one; and perhaps it is because taking the vows +is not of her own free will, that she is so unhappy as she seems to +be.” + +“That may well be,” said the curate, and leaving them he returned to +where Dorothea was, who, hearing the veiled lady sigh, moved by natural +compassion drew near to her and said, “What are you suffering from, +señora? If it be anything that women are accustomed and know how to +relieve, I offer you my services with all my heart.” + +To this the unhappy lady made no reply; and though Dorothea repeated +her offers more earnestly she still kept silence, until the gentleman +with the veil, who, the servant said, was obeyed by the rest, +approached and said to Dorothea, “Do not give yourself the trouble, +señora, of making any offers to that woman, for it is her way to give +no thanks for anything that is done for her; and do not try to make her +answer unless you want to hear some lie from her lips.” + +“I have never told a lie,” was the immediate reply of her who had been +silent until now; “on the contrary, it is because I am so truthful and +so ignorant of lying devices that I am now in this miserable condition; +and this I call you yourself to witness, for it is my unstained truth +that has made you false and a liar.” + +Cardenio heard these words clearly and distinctly, being quite close to +the speaker, for there was only the door of Don Quixote’s room between +them, and the instant he did so, uttering a loud exclamation he cried, +“Good God! what is this I hear? What voice is this that has reached my +ears?” Startled at the voice the lady turned her head; and not seeing +the speaker she stood up and attempted to enter the room; observing +which the gentleman held her back, preventing her from moving a step. +In her agitation and sudden movement the silk with which she had +covered her face fell off and disclosed a countenance of incomparable +and marvellous beauty, but pale and terrified; for she kept turning her +eyes, everywhere she could direct her gaze, with an eagerness that made +her look as if she had lost her senses, and so marked that it excited +the pity of Dorothea and all who beheld her, though they knew not what +caused it. The gentleman grasped her firmly by the shoulders, and being +so fully occupied with holding her back, he was unable to put a hand to +his veil which was falling off, as it did at length entirely, and +Dorothea, who was holding the lady in her arms, raising her eyes saw +that he who likewise held her was her husband, Don Fernando. The +instant she recognised him, with a prolonged plaintive cry drawn from +the depths of her heart, she fell backwards fainting, and but for the +barber being close by to catch her in his arms, she would have fallen +completely to the ground. The curate at once hastened to uncover her +face and throw water on it, and as he did so Don Fernando, for he it +was who held the other in his arms, recognised her and stood as if +death-stricken by the sight; not, however, relaxing his grasp of +Luscinda, for it was she that was struggling to release herself from +his hold, having recognised Cardenio by his voice, as he had recognised +her. Cardenio also heard Dorothea’s cry as she fell fainting, and +imagining that it came from his Luscinda burst forth in terror from the +room, and the first thing he saw was Don Fernando with Luscinda in his +arms. Don Fernando, too, knew Cardenio at once; and all three, +Luscinda, Cardenio, and Dorothea, stood in silent amazement scarcely +knowing what had happened to them. + +They gazed at one another without speaking, Dorothea at Don Fernando, +Don Fernando at Cardenio, Cardenio at Luscinda, and Luscinda at +Cardenio. The first to break silence was Luscinda, who thus addressed +Don Fernando: “Leave me, Señor Don Fernando, for the sake of what you +owe to yourself; if no other reason will induce you, leave me to cling +to the wall of which I am the ivy, to the support from which neither +your importunities, nor your threats, nor your promises, nor your gifts +have been able to detach me. See how Heaven, by ways strange and hidden +from our sight, has brought me face to face with my true husband; and +well you know by dear-bought experience that death alone will be able +to efface him from my memory. May this plain declaration, then, lead +you, as you can do nothing else, to turn your love into rage, your +affection into resentment, and so to take my life; for if I yield it up +in the presence of my beloved husband I count it well bestowed; it may +be by my death he will be convinced that I kept my faith to him to the +last moment of life.” + +Meanwhile Dorothea had come to herself, and had heard Luscinda’s words, +by means of which she divined who she was; but seeing that Don Fernando +did not yet release her or reply to her, summoning up her resolution as +well as she could she rose and knelt at his feet, and with a flood of +bright and touching tears addressed him thus: + +“If, my lord, the beams of that sun that thou holdest eclipsed in thine +arms did not dazzle and rob thine eyes of sight thou wouldst have seen +by this time that she who kneels at thy feet is, so long as thou wilt +have it so, the unhappy and unfortunate Dorothea. I am that lowly +peasant girl whom thou in thy goodness or for thy pleasure wouldst +raise high enough to call herself thine; I am she who in the seclusion +of innocence led a contented life until at the voice of thy +importunity, and thy true and tender passion, as it seemed, she opened +the gates of her modesty and surrendered to thee the keys of her +liberty; a gift received by thee but thanklessly, as is clearly shown +by my forced retreat to the place where thou dost find me, and by thy +appearance under the circumstances in which I see thee. Nevertheless, I +would not have thee suppose that I have come here driven by my shame; +it is only grief and sorrow at seeing myself forgotten by thee that +have led me. It was thy will to make me thine, and thou didst so follow +thy will, that now, even though thou repentest, thou canst not help +being mine. Bethink thee, my lord, the unsurpassable affection I bear +thee may compensate for the beauty and noble birth for which thou +wouldst desert me. Thou canst not be the fair Luscinda’s because thou +art mine, nor can she be thine because she is Cardenio’s; and it will +be easier, remember, to bend thy will to love one who adores thee, than +to lead one to love thee who abhors thee now. Thou didst address +thyself to my simplicity, thou didst lay siege to my virtue, thou wert +not ignorant of my station, well dost thou know how I yielded wholly to +thy will; there is no ground or reason for thee to plead deception, and +if it be so, as it is, and if thou art a Christian as thou art a +gentleman, why dost thou by such subterfuges put off making me as happy +at last as thou didst at first? And if thou wilt not have me for what I +am, thy true and lawful wife, at least take and accept me as thy slave, +for so long as I am thine I will count myself happy and fortunate. Do +not by deserting me let my shame become the talk of the gossips in the +streets; make not the old age of my parents miserable; for the loyal +services they as faithful vassals have ever rendered thine are not +deserving of such a return; and if thou thinkest it will debase thy +blood to mingle it with mine, reflect that there is little or no +nobility in the world that has not travelled the same road, and that in +illustrious lineages it is not the woman’s blood that is of account; +and, moreover, that true nobility consists in virtue, and if thou art +wanting in that, refusing me what in justice thou owest me, then even I +have higher claims to nobility than thine. To make an end, señor, these +are my last words to thee: whether thou wilt, or wilt not, I am thy +wife; witness thy words, which must not and ought not to be false, if +thou dost pride thyself on that for want of which thou scornest me; +witness the pledge which thou didst give me, and witness Heaven, which +thou thyself didst call to witness the promise thou hadst made me; and +if all this fail, thy own conscience will not fail to lift up its +silent voice in the midst of all thy gaiety, and vindicate the truth of +what I say and mar thy highest pleasure and enjoyment.” + +All this and more the injured Dorothea delivered with such earnest +feeling and such tears that all present, even those who came with Don +Fernando, were constrained to join her in them. Don Fernando listened +to her without replying, until, ceasing to speak, she gave way to such +sobs and sighs that it must have been a heart of brass that was not +softened by the sight of so great sorrow. Luscinda stood regarding her +with no less compassion for her sufferings than admiration for her +intelligence and beauty, and would have gone to her to say some words +of comfort to her, but was prevented by Don Fernando’s grasp which held +her fast. He, overwhelmed with confusion and astonishment, after +regarding Dorothea for some moments with a fixed gaze, opened his arms, +and, releasing Luscinda, exclaimed: + +“Thou hast conquered, fair Dorothea, thou hast conquered, for it is +impossible to have the heart to deny the united force of so many +truths.” + +Luscinda in her feebleness was on the point of falling to the ground +when Don Fernando released her, but Cardenio, who stood near, having +retreated behind Don Fernando to escape recognition, casting fear aside +and regardless of what might happen, ran forward to support her, and +said as he clasped her in his arms, “If Heaven in its compassion is +willing to let thee rest at last, mistress of my heart, true, constant, +and fair, nowhere canst thou rest more safely than in these arms that +now receive thee, and received thee before when fortune permitted me to +call thee mine.” + +At these words Luscinda looked up at Cardenio, at first beginning to +recognise him by his voice and then satisfying herself by her eyes that +it was he, and hardly knowing what she did, and heedless of all +considerations of decorum, she flung her arms around his neck and +pressing her face close to his, said, “Yes, my dear lord, you are the +true master of this your slave, even though adverse fate interpose +again, and fresh dangers threaten this life that hangs on yours.” + +A strange sight was this for Don Fernando and those that stood around, +filled with surprise at an incident so unlooked for. Dorothea fancied +that Don Fernando changed colour and looked as though he meant to take +vengeance on Cardenio, for she observed him put his hand to his sword; +and the instant the idea struck her, with wonderful quickness she +clasped him round the knees, and kissing them and holding him so as to +prevent his moving, she said, while her tears continued to flow, “What +is it thou wouldst do, my only refuge, in this unforeseen event? Thou +hast thy wife at thy feet, and she whom thou wouldst have for thy wife +is in the arms of her husband: reflect whether it will be right for +thee, whether it will be possible for thee to undo what Heaven has +done, or whether it will be becoming in thee to seek to raise her to be +thy mate who in spite of every obstacle, and strong in her truth and +constancy, is before thine eyes, bathing with the tears of love the +face and bosom of her lawful husband. For God’s sake I entreat of thee, +for thine own I implore thee, let not this open manifestation rouse thy +anger; but rather so calm it as to allow these two lovers to live in +peace and quiet without any interference from thee so long as Heaven +permits them; and in so doing thou wilt prove the generosity of thy +lofty noble spirit, and the world shall see that with thee reason has +more influence than passion.” + +All the time Dorothea was speaking, Cardenio, though he held Luscinda +in his arms, never took his eyes off Don Fernando, determined, if he +saw him make any hostile movement, to try and defend himself and resist +as best he could all who might assail him, though it should cost him +his life. But now Don Fernando’s friends, as well as the curate and the +barber, who had been present all the while, not forgetting the worthy +Sancho Panza, ran forward and gathered round Don Fernando, entreating +him to have regard for the tears of Dorothea, and not suffer her +reasonable hopes to be disappointed, since, as they firmly believed, +what she said was but the truth; and bidding him observe that it was +not, as it might seem, by accident, but by a special disposition of +Providence that they had all met in a place where no one could have +expected a meeting. And the curate bade him remember that only death +could part Luscinda from Cardenio; that even if some sword were to +separate them they would think their death most happy; and that in a +case that admitted of no remedy his wisest course was, by conquering +and putting a constraint upon himself, to show a generous mind, and of +his own accord suffer these two to enjoy the happiness Heaven had +granted them. He bade him, too, turn his eyes upon the beauty of +Dorothea and he would see that few if any could equal much less excel +her; while to that beauty should be added her modesty and the +surpassing love she bore him. But besides all this, he reminded him +that if he prided himself on being a gentleman and a Christian, he +could not do otherwise than keep his plighted word; and that in doing +so he would obey God and meet the approval of all sensible people, who +know and recognised it to be the privilege of beauty, even in one of +humble birth, provided virtue accompany it, to be able to raise itself +to the level of any rank, without any slur upon him who places it upon +an equality with himself; and furthermore that when the potent sway of +passion asserts itself, so long as there be no mixture of sin in it, he +is not to be blamed who gives way to it. + +To be brief, they added to these such other forcible arguments that Don +Fernando’s manly heart, being after all nourished by noble blood, was +touched, and yielded to the truth which, even had he wished it, he +could not gainsay; and he showed his submission, and acceptance of the +good advice that had been offered to him, by stooping down and +embracing Dorothea, saying to her, “Rise, dear lady, it is not right +that what I hold in my heart should be kneeling at my feet; and if +until now I have shown no sign of what I own, it may have been by +Heaven’s decree in order that, seeing the constancy with which you love +me, I may learn to value you as you deserve. What I entreat of you is +that you reproach me not with my transgression and grievous +wrong-doing; for the same cause and force that drove me to make you +mine impelled me to struggle against being yours; and to prove this, +turn and look at the eyes of the now happy Luscinda, and you will see +in them an excuse for all my errors: and as she has found and gained +the object of her desires, and I have found in you what satisfies all +my wishes, may she live in peace and contentment as many happy years +with her Cardenio, as on my knees I pray Heaven to allow me to live +with my Dorothea;” and with these words he once more embraced her and +pressed his face to hers with so much tenderness that he had to take +great heed to keep his tears from completing the proof of his love and +repentance in the sight of all. Not so Luscinda, and Cardenio, and +almost all the others, for they shed so many tears, some in their own +happiness, some at that of the others, that one would have supposed a +heavy calamity had fallen upon them all. Even Sancho Panza was weeping; +though afterwards he said he only wept because he saw that Dorothea was +not as he fancied the queen Micomicona, of whom he expected such great +favours. Their wonder as well as their weeping lasted some time, and +then Cardenio and Luscinda went and fell on their knees before Don +Fernando, returning him thanks for the favour he had rendered them in +language so grateful that he knew not how to answer them, and raising +them up embraced them with every mark of affection and courtesy. + +He then asked Dorothea how she had managed to reach a place so far +removed from her own home, and she in a few fitting words told all that +she had previously related to Cardenio, with which Don Fernando and his +companions were so delighted that they wished the story had been +longer; so charmingly did Dorothea describe her misadventures. When she +had finished Don Fernando recounted what had befallen him in the city +after he had found in Luscinda’s bosom the paper in which she declared +that she was Cardenio’s wife, and never could be his. He said he meant +to kill her, and would have done so had he not been prevented by her +parents, and that he quitted the house full of rage and shame, and +resolved to avenge himself when a more convenient opportunity should +offer. The next day he learned that Luscinda had disappeared from her +father’s house, and that no one could tell whither she had gone. +Finally, at the end of some months he ascertained that she was in a +convent and meant to remain there all the rest of her life, if she were +not to share it with Cardenio; and as soon as he had learned this, +taking these three gentlemen as his companions, he arrived at the place +where she was, but avoided speaking to her, fearing that if it were +known he was there stricter precautions would be taken in the convent; +and watching a time when the porter’s lodge was open he left two to +guard the gate, and he and the other entered the convent in quest of +Luscinda, whom they found in the cloisters in conversation with one of +the nuns, and carrying her off without giving her time to resist, they +reached a place with her where they provided themselves with what they +required for taking her away; all which they were able to do in +complete safety, as the convent was in the country at a considerable +distance from the city. He added that when Luscinda found herself in +his power she lost all consciousness, and after returning to herself +did nothing but weep and sigh without speaking a word; and thus in +silence and tears they reached that inn, which for him was reaching +heaven where all the mischances of earth are over and at an end. + + + +c36b.jpg (319K) + +Full Size + + + +c36e.jpg (36K) + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. +IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE STORY OF THE FAMOUS PRINCESS MICOMICONA, WITH +OTHER DROLL ADVENTURES + + + + +c37a.jpg (159K) + +Full Size + + + + +To all this Sancho listened with no little sorrow at heart to see how +his hopes of dignity were fading away and vanishing in smoke, and how +the fair Princess Micomicona had turned into Dorothea, and the giant +into Don Fernando, while his master was sleeping tranquilly, totally +unconscious of all that had come to pass. Dorothea was unable to +persuade herself that her present happiness was not all a dream; +Cardenio was in a similar state of mind, and Luscinda’s thoughts ran in +the same direction. Don Fernando gave thanks to Heaven for the favour +shown to him and for having been rescued from the intricate labyrinth +in which he had been brought so near the destruction of his good name +and of his soul; and in short everybody in the inn was full of +contentment and satisfaction at the happy issue of such a complicated +and hopeless business. The curate as a sensible man made sound +reflections upon the whole affair, and congratulated each upon his good +fortune; but the one that was in the highest spirits and good humour +was the landlady, because of the promise Cardenio and the curate had +given her to pay for all the losses and damage she had sustained +through Don Quixote’s means. Sancho, as has been already said, was the +only one who was distressed, unhappy, and dejected; and so with a long +face he went in to his master, who had just awoke, and said to him: + +“Sir Rueful Countenance, your worship may as well sleep on as much as +you like, without troubling yourself about killing any giant or +restoring her kingdom to the princess; for that is all over and settled +now.” + +“I should think it was,” replied Don Quixote, “for I have had the most +prodigious and stupendous battle with the giant that I ever remember +having had all the days of my life; and with one back-stroke—swish!—I +brought his head tumbling to the ground, and so much blood gushed forth +from him that it ran in rivulets over the earth like water.” + +“Like red wine, your worship had better say,” replied Sancho; “for I +would have you know, if you don’t know it, that the dead giant is a +hacked wine-skin, and the blood four-and-twenty gallons of red wine +that it had in its belly, and the cut-off head is the bitch that bore +me; and the devil take it all.” + +“What art thou talking about, fool?” said Don Quixote; “art thou in thy +senses?” + +“Let your worship get up,” said Sancho, “and you will see the nice +business you have made of it, and what we have to pay; and you will see +the queen turned into a private lady called Dorothea, and other things +that will astonish you, if you understand them.” + +“I shall not be surprised at anything of the kind,” returned Don +Quixote; “for if thou dost remember the last time we were here I told +thee that everything that happened here was a matter of enchantment, +and it would be no wonder if it were the same now.” + +“I could believe all that,” replied Sancho, “if my blanketing was the +same sort of thing also; only it wasn’t, but real and genuine; for I +saw the landlord, who is here to-day, holding one end of the blanket +and jerking me up to the skies very neatly and smartly, and with as +much laughter as strength; and when it comes to be a case of knowing +people, I hold for my part, simple and sinner as I am, that there is no +enchantment about it at all, but a great deal of bruising and bad +luck.” + +“Well, well, God will give a remedy,” said Don Quixote; “hand me my +clothes and let me go out, for I want to see these transformations and +things thou speakest of.” + +Sancho fetched him his clothes; and while he was dressing, the curate +gave Don Fernando and the others present an account of Don Quixote’s +madness and of the stratagem they had made use of to withdraw him from +that Pena Pobre where he fancied himself stationed because of his +lady’s scorn. He described to them also nearly all the adventures that +Sancho had mentioned, at which they marvelled and laughed not a little, +thinking it, as all did, the strangest form of madness a crazy +intellect could be capable of. But now, the curate said, that the lady +Dorothea’s good fortune prevented her from proceeding with their +purpose, it would be necessary to devise or discover some other way of +getting him home. + +Cardenio proposed to carry out the scheme they had begun, and suggested +that Luscinda would act and support Dorothea’s part sufficiently well. + +“No,” said Don Fernando, “that must not be, for I want Dorothea to +follow out this idea of hers; and if the worthy gentleman’s village is +not very far off, I shall be happy if I can do anything for his +relief.” + +“It is not more than two days’ journey from this,” said the curate. + +“Even if it were more,” said Don Fernando, “I would gladly travel so +far for the sake of doing so good a work.” + +At this moment Don Quixote came out in full panoply, with Mambrino’s +helmet, all dinted as it was, on his head, his buckler on his arm, and +leaning on his staff or pike. The strange figure he presented filled +Don Fernando and the rest with amazement as they contemplated his lean +yellow face half a league long, his armour of all sorts, and the +solemnity of his deportment. They stood silent waiting to see what he +would say, and he, fixing his eyes on the fair Dorothea, addressed her +with great gravity and composure: + +“I am informed, fair lady, by my squire here that your greatness has +been annihilated and your being abolished, since, from a queen and lady +of high degree as you used to be, you have been turned into a private +maiden. If this has been done by the command of the magician king your +father, through fear that I should not afford you the aid you need and +are entitled to, I may tell you he did not know and does not know half +the mass, and was little versed in the annals of chivalry; for, if he +had read and gone through them as attentively and deliberately as I +have, he would have found at every turn that knights of less renown +than mine have accomplished things more difficult: it is no great +matter to kill a whelp of a giant, however arrogant he may be; for it +is not many hours since I myself was engaged with one, and—I will not +speak of it, that they may not say I am lying; time, however, that +reveals all, will tell the tale when we least expect it.” + +“You were engaged with a couple of wine-skins, and not a giant,” said +the landlord at this; but Don Fernando told him to hold his tongue and +on no account interrupt Don Quixote, who continued, “I say in +conclusion, high and disinherited lady, that if your father has brought +about this metamorphosis in your person for the reason I have +mentioned, you ought not to attach any importance to it; for there is +no peril on earth through which my sword will not force a way, and with +it, before many days are over, I will bring your enemy’s head to the +ground and place on yours the crown of your kingdom.” + +Don Quixote said no more, and waited for the reply of the princess, who +aware of Don Fernando’s determination to carry on the deception until +Don Quixote had been conveyed to his home, with great ease of manner +and gravity made answer, “Whoever told you, valiant Knight of the +Rueful Countenance, that I had undergone any change or transformation +did not tell you the truth, for I am the same as I was yesterday. It is +true that certain strokes of good fortune, that have given me more than +I could have hoped for, have made some alteration in me; but I have not +therefore ceased to be what I was before, or to entertain the same +desire I have had all through of availing myself of the might of your +valiant and invincible arm. And so, señor, let your goodness reinstate +the father that begot me in your good opinion, and be assured that he +was a wise and prudent man, since by his craft he found out such a sure +and easy way of remedying my misfortune; for I believe, señor, that had +it not been for you I should never have lit upon the good fortune I now +possess; and in this I am saying what is perfectly true; as most of +these gentlemen who are present can fully testify. All that remains is +to set out on our journey to-morrow, for to-day we could not make much +way; and for the rest of the happy result I am looking forward to, I +trust to God and the valour of your heart.” + +So said the sprightly Dorothea, and on hearing her Don Quixote turned +to Sancho, and said to him, with an angry air, “I declare now, little +Sancho, thou art the greatest little villain in Spain. Say, thief and +vagabond, hast thou not just now told me that this princess had been +turned into a maiden called Dorothea, and that the head which I am +persuaded I cut off from a giant was the bitch that bore thee, and +other nonsense that put me in the greatest perplexity I have ever been +in all my life? I vow” (and here he looked to heaven and ground his +teeth) “I have a mind to play the mischief with thee, in a way that +will teach sense for the future to all lying squires of knights-errant +in the world.” + +“Let your worship be calm, señor,” returned Sancho, “for it may well be +that I have been mistaken as to the change of the lady princess +Micomicona; but as to the giant’s head, or at least as to the piercing +of the wine-skins, and the blood being red wine, I make no mistake, as +sure as there is a God; because the wounded skins are there at the head +of your worship’s bed, and the wine has made a lake of the room; if not +you will see when the eggs come to be fried; I mean when his worship +the landlord calls for all the damages: for the rest, I am heartily +glad that her ladyship the queen is as she was, for it concerns me as +much as anyone.” + +“I tell thee again, Sancho, thou art a fool,” said Don Quixote; +“forgive me, and that will do.” + +“That will do,” said Don Fernando; “let us say no more about it; and as +her ladyship the princess proposes to set out to-morrow because it is +too late to-day, so be it, and we will pass the night in pleasant +conversation, and to-morrow we will all accompany Señor Don Quixote; +for we wish to witness the valiant and unparalleled achievements he is +about to perform in the course of this mighty enterprise which he has +undertaken.” + +“It is I who shall wait upon and accompany you,” said Don Quixote; “and +I am much gratified by the favour that is bestowed upon me, and the +good opinion entertained of me, which I shall strive to justify or it +shall cost me my life, or even more, if it can possibly cost me more.” + +Many were the compliments and expressions of politeness that passed +between Don Quixote and Don Fernando; but they were brought to an end +by a traveller who at this moment entered the inn, and who seemed from +his attire to be a Christian lately come from the country of the Moors, +for he was dressed in a short-skirted coat of blue cloth with +half-sleeves and without a collar; his breeches were also of blue +cloth, and his cap of the same colour, and he wore yellow buskins and +had a Moorish cutlass slung from a baldric across his breast. Behind +him, mounted upon an ass, there came a woman dressed in Moorish +fashion, with her face veiled and a scarf on her head, and wearing a +little brocaded cap, and a mantle that covered her from her shoulders +to her feet. The man was of a robust and well-proportioned frame, in +age a little over forty, rather swarthy in complexion, with long +moustaches and a full beard, and, in short, his appearance was such +that if he had been well dressed he would have been taken for a person +of quality and good birth. On entering he asked for a room, and when +they told him there was none in the inn he seemed distressed, and +approaching her who by her dress seemed to be a Moor, he took her down +from the saddle in his arms. Luscinda, Dorothea, the landlady, her +daughter and Maritornes, attracted by the strange, and to them entirely +new costume, gathered round her; and Dorothea, who was always kindly, +courteous, and quick-witted, perceiving that both she and the man who +had brought her were annoyed at not finding a room, said to her, “Do +not be put out, señora, by the discomfort and want of luxuries here, +for it is the way of road-side inns to be without them; still, if you +will be pleased to share our lodging with us (pointing to Luscinda) +perhaps you will have found worse accommodation in the course of your +journey.” + +To this the veiled lady made no reply; all she did was to rise from her +seat, crossing her hands upon her bosom, bowing her head and bending +her body as a sign that she returned thanks. From her silence they +concluded that she must be a Moor and unable to speak a Christian +tongue. + +At this moment the captive came up, having been until now otherwise +engaged, and seeing that they all stood round his companion and that +she made no reply to what they addressed to her, he said, “Ladies, this +damsel hardly understands my language and can speak none but that of +her own country, for which reason she does not and cannot answer what +has been asked of her.” + +“Nothing has been asked of her,” returned Luscinda; “she has only been +offered our company for this evening and a share of the quarters we +occupy, where she shall be made as comfortable as the circumstances +allow, with the good-will we are bound to show all strangers that stand +in need of it, especially if it be a woman to whom the service is +rendered.” + +“On her part and my own, señora,” replied the captive, “I kiss your +hands, and I esteem highly, as I ought, the favour you have offered, +which, on such an occasion and coming from persons of your appearance, +is, it is plain to see, a very great one.” + +“Tell me, señor,” said Dorothea, “is this lady a Christian or a Moor? +for her dress and her silence lead us to imagine that she is what we +could wish she was not.” + +“In dress and outwardly,” said he, “she is a Moor, but at heart she is +a thoroughly good Christian, for she has the greatest desire to become +one.” + +“Then she has not been baptised?” returned Luscinda. + +“There has been no opportunity for that,” replied the captive, “since +she left Algiers, her native country and home; and up to the present +she has not found herself in any such imminent danger of death as to +make it necessary to baptise her before she has been instructed in all +the ceremonies our holy mother Church ordains; but, please God, ere +long she shall be baptised with the solemnity befitting her which is +higher than her dress or mine indicates.” + +By these words he excited a desire in all who heard him, to know who +the Moorish lady and the captive were, but no one liked to ask just +then, seeing that it was a fitter moment for helping them to rest +themselves than for questioning them about their lives. Dorothea took +the Moorish lady by the hand and leading her to a seat beside herself, +requested her to remove her veil. She looked at the captive as if to +ask him what they meant and what she was to do. He said to her in +Arabic that they asked her to take off her veil, and thereupon she +removed it and disclosed a countenance so lovely, that to Dorothea she +seemed more beautiful than Luscinda, and to Luscinda more beautiful +than Dorothea, and all the bystanders felt that if any beauty could +compare with theirs it was the Moorish lady’s, and there were even +those who were inclined to give it somewhat the preference. And as it +is the privilege and charm of beauty to win the heart and secure +good-will, all forthwith became eager to show kindness and attention to +the lovely Moor. + +Don Fernando asked the captive what her name was, and he replied that +it was Lela Zoraida; but the instant she heard him, she guessed what +the Christian had asked, and said hastily, with some displeasure and +energy, “No, not Zoraida; Maria, Maria!” giving them to understand that +she was called “Maria” and not “Zoraida.” These words, and the touching +earnestness with which she uttered them, drew more than one tear from +some of the listeners, particularly the women, who are by nature +tender-hearted and compassionate. Luscinda embraced her affectionately, +saying, “Yes, yes, Maria, Maria,” to which the Moor replied, “Yes, yes, +Maria; Zoraida macange,” which means “not Zoraida.” + +Night was now approaching, and by the orders of those who accompanied +Don Fernando the landlord had taken care and pains to prepare for them +the best supper that was in his power. The hour therefore having +arrived they all took their seats at a long table like a refectory one, +for round or square table there was none in the inn, and the seat of +honour at the head of it, though he was for refusing it, they assigned +to Don Quixote, who desired the lady Micomicona to place herself by his +side, as he was her protector. Luscinda and Zoraida took their places +next her, opposite to them were Don Fernando and Cardenio, and next the +captive and the other gentlemen, and by the side of the ladies, the +curate and the barber. And so they supped in high enjoyment, which was +increased when they observed Don Quixote leave off eating, and, moved +by an impulse like that which made him deliver himself at such length +when he supped with the goatherds, begin to address them: + +“Verily, gentlemen, if we reflect upon it, great and marvellous are the +things they see, who make profession of the order of knight-errantry. +Say, what being is there in this world, who entering the gate of this +castle at this moment, and seeing us as we are here, would suppose or +imagine us to be what we are? Who would say that this lady who is +beside me was the great queen that we all know her to be, or that I am +that Knight of the Rueful Countenance, trumpeted far and wide by the +mouth of Fame? Now, there can be no doubt that this art and calling +surpasses all those that mankind has invented, and is the more +deserving of being held in honour in proportion as it is the more +exposed to peril. Away with those who assert that letters have the +preeminence over arms; I will tell them, whosoever they may be, that +they know not what they say. For the reason which such persons commonly +assign, and upon which they chiefly rest, is, that the labours of the +mind are greater than those of the body, and that arms give employment +to the body alone; as if the calling were a porter’s trade, for which +nothing more is required than sturdy strength; or as if, in what we who +profess them call arms, there were not included acts of vigour for the +execution of which high intelligence is requisite; or as if the soul of +the warrior, when he has an army, or the defence of a city under his +care, did not exert itself as much by mind as by body. Nay; see whether +by bodily strength it be possible to learn or divine the intentions of +the enemy, his plans, stratagems, or obstacles, or to ward off +impending mischief; for all these are the work of the mind, and in them +the body has no share whatever. Since, therefore, arms have need of the +mind, as much as letters, let us see now which of the two minds, that +of the man of letters or that of the warrior, has most to do; and this +will be seen by the end and goal that each seeks to attain; for that +purpose is the more estimable which has for its aim the nobler object. +The end and goal of letters—I am not speaking now of divine letters, +the aim of which is to raise and direct the soul to Heaven; for with an +end so infinite no other can be compared—I speak of human letters, the +end of which is to establish distributive justice, give to every man +that which is his, and see and take care that good laws are observed: +an end undoubtedly noble, lofty, and deserving of high praise, but not +such as should be given to that sought by arms, which have for their +end and object peace, the greatest boon that men can desire in this +life. The first good news the world and mankind received was that which +the angels announced on the night that was our day, when they sang in +the air, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and peace on earth to men of +good-will;’ and the salutation which the great Master of heaven and +earth taught his disciples and chosen followers when they entered any +house, was to say, ‘Peace be on this house;’ and many other times he +said to them, ‘My peace I give unto you, my peace I leave you, peace be +with you;’ a jewel and a precious gift given and left by such a hand: a +jewel without which there can be no happiness either on earth or in +heaven. This peace is the true end of war; and war is only another name +for arms. This, then, being admitted, that the end of war is peace, and +that so far it has the advantage of the end of letters, let us turn to +the bodily labours of the man of letters, and those of him who follows +the profession of arms, and see which are the greater.” + +Don Quixote delivered his discourse in such a manner and in such +correct language, that for the time being he made it impossible for any +of his hearers to consider him a madman; on the contrary, as they were +mostly gentlemen, to whom arms are an appurtenance by birth, they +listened to him with great pleasure as he continued: “Here, then, I say +is what the student has to undergo; first of all poverty: not that all +are poor, but to put the case as strongly as possible: and when I have +said that he endures poverty, I think nothing more need be said about +his hard fortune, for he who is poor has no share of the good things of +life. This poverty he suffers from in various ways, hunger, or cold, or +nakedness, or all together; but for all that it is not so extreme but +that he gets something to eat, though it may be at somewhat +unseasonable hours and from the leavings of the rich; for the greatest +misery of the student is what they themselves call ‘going out for +soup,’ and there is always some neighbour’s brazier or hearth for them, +which, if it does not warm, at least tempers the cold to them, and +lastly, they sleep comfortably at night under a roof. I will not go +into other particulars, as for example want of shirts, and no +superabundance of shoes, thin and threadbare garments, and gorging +themselves to surfeit in their voracity when good luck has treated them +to a banquet of some sort. By this road that I have described, rough +and hard, stumbling here, falling there, getting up again to fall +again, they reach the rank they desire, and that once attained, we have +seen many who have passed these Syrtes and Scyllas and Charybdises, as +if borne flying on the wings of favouring fortune; we have seen them, I +say, ruling and governing the world from a chair, their hunger turned +into satiety, their cold into comfort, their nakedness into fine +raiment, their sleep on a mat into repose in holland and damask, the +justly earned reward of their virtue; but, contrasted and compared with +what the warrior undergoes, all they have undergone falls far short of +it, as I am now about to show.” + + + +c37e.jpg (13K) + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. +WHICH TREATS OF THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE DON QUIXOTE DELIVERED ON ARMS AND +LETTERS + + + + +c38a.jpg (180K) + +Full Size + + + + +Continuing his discourse Don Quixote said: “As we began in the +student’s case with poverty and its accompaniments, let us see now if +the soldier is richer, and we shall find that in poverty itself there +is no one poorer; for he is dependent on his miserable pay, which comes +late or never, or else on what he can plunder, seriously imperilling +his life and conscience; and sometimes his nakedness will be so great +that a slashed doublet serves him for uniform and shirt, and in the +depth of winter he has to defend himself against the inclemency of the +weather in the open field with nothing better than the breath of his +mouth, which I need not say, coming from an empty place, must come out +cold, contrary to the laws of nature. To be sure he looks forward to +the approach of night to make up for all these discomforts on the bed +that awaits him, which, unless by some fault of his, never sins by +being over narrow, for he can easily measure out on the ground as he +likes, and roll himself about in it to his heart’s content without any +fear of the sheets slipping away from him. Then, after all this, +suppose the day and hour for taking his degree in his calling to have +come; suppose the day of battle to have arrived, when they invest him +with the doctor’s cap made of lint, to mend some bullet-hole, perhaps, +that has gone through his temples, or left him with a crippled arm or +leg. Or if this does not happen, and merciful Heaven watches over him +and keeps him safe and sound, it may be he will be in the same poverty +he was in before, and he must go through more engagements and more +battles, and come victorious out of all before he betters himself; but +miracles of that sort are seldom seen. For tell me, sirs, if you have +ever reflected upon it, by how much do those who have gained by war +fall short of the number of those who have perished in it? No doubt you +will reply that there can be no comparison, that the dead cannot be +numbered, while the living who have been rewarded may be summed up with +three figures. All which is the reverse in the case of men of letters; +for by skirts, to say nothing of sleeves, they all find means of +support; so that though the soldier has more to endure, his reward is +much less. But against all this it may be urged that it is easier to +reward two thousand soldiers, for the former may be remunerated by +giving them places, which must perforce be conferred upon men of their +calling, while the latter can only be recompensed out of the very +property of the master they serve; but this impossibility only +strengthens my argument. + +“Putting this, however, aside, for it is a puzzling question for which +it is difficult to find a solution, let us return to the superiority of +arms over letters, a matter still undecided, so many are the arguments +put forward on each side; for besides those I have mentioned, letters +say that without them arms cannot maintain themselves, for war, too, +has its laws and is governed by them, and laws belong to the domain of +letters and men of letters. To this arms make answer that without them +laws cannot be maintained, for by arms states are defended, kingdoms +preserved, cities protected, roads made safe, seas cleared of pirates; +and, in short, if it were not for them, states, kingdoms, monarchies, +cities, ways by sea and land would be exposed to the violence and +confusion which war brings with it, so long as it lasts and is free to +make use of its privileges and powers. And then it is plain that +whatever costs most is valued and deserves to be valued most. To attain +to eminence in letters costs a man time, watching, hunger, nakedness, +headaches, indigestions, and other things of the sort, some of which I +have already referred to. But for a man to come in the ordinary course +of things to be a good soldier costs him all the student suffers, and +in an incomparably higher degree, for at every step he runs the risk of +losing his life. For what dread of want or poverty that can reach or +harass the student can compare with what the soldier feels, who finds +himself beleaguered in some stronghold mounting guard in some ravelin +or cavalier, knows that the enemy is pushing a mine towards the post +where he is stationed, and cannot under any circumstances retire or fly +from the imminent danger that threatens him? All he can do is to inform +his captain of what is going on so that he may try to remedy it by a +counter-mine, and then stand his ground in fear and expectation of the +moment when he will fly up to the clouds without wings and descend into +the deep against his will. And if this seems a trifling risk, let us +see whether it is equalled or surpassed by the encounter of two galleys +stem to stem, in the midst of the open sea, locked and entangled one +with the other, when the soldier has no more standing room than two +feet of the plank of the spur; and yet, though he sees before him +threatening him as many ministers of death as there are cannon of the +foe pointed at him, not a lance length from his body, and sees too that +with the first heedless step he will go down to visit the profundities +of Neptune’s bosom, still with dauntless heart, urged on by honour that +nerves him, he makes himself a target for all that musketry, and +struggles to cross that narrow path to the enemy’s ship. And what is +still more marvellous, no sooner has one gone down into the depths he +will never rise from till the end of the world, than another takes his +place; and if he too falls into the sea that waits for him like an +enemy, another and another will succeed him without a moment’s pause +between their deaths: courage and daring the greatest that all the +chances of war can show. Happy the blest ages that knew not the dread +fury of those devilish engines of artillery, whose inventor I am +persuaded is in hell receiving the reward of his diabolical invention, +by which he made it easy for a base and cowardly arm to take the life +of a gallant gentleman; and that, when he knows not how or whence, in +the height of the ardour and enthusiasm that fire and animate brave +hearts, there should come some random bullet, discharged perhaps by one +who fled in terror at the flash when he fired off his accursed machine, +which in an instant puts an end to the projects and cuts off the life +of one who deserved to live for ages to come. And thus when I reflect +on this, I am almost tempted to say that in my heart I repent of having +adopted this profession of knight-errant in so detestable an age as we +live in now; for though no peril can make me fear, still it gives me +some uneasiness to think that powder and lead may rob me of the +opportunity of making myself famous and renowned throughout the known +earth by the might of my arm and the edge of my sword. But Heaven’s +will be done; if I succeed in my attempt I shall be all the more +honoured, as I have faced greater dangers than the knights-errant of +yore exposed themselves to.” + +All this lengthy discourse Don Quixote delivered while the others +supped, forgetting to raise a morsel to his lips, though Sancho more +than once told him to eat his supper, as he would have time enough +afterwards to say all he wanted. It excited fresh pity in those who had +heard him to see a man of apparently sound sense, and with rational +views on every subject he discussed, so hopelessly wanting in all, when +his wretched unlucky chivalry was in question. The curate told him he +was quite right in all he had said in favour of arms, and that he +himself, though a man of letters and a graduate, was of the same +opinion. + +They finished their supper, the cloth was removed, and while the +hostess, her daughter, and Maritornes were getting Don Quixote of La +Mancha’s garret ready, in which it was arranged that the women were to +be quartered by themselves for the night, Don Fernando begged the +captive to tell them the story of his life, for it could not fail to be +strange and interesting, to judge by the hints he had let fall on his +arrival in company with Zoraida. To this the captive replied that he +would very willingly yield to his request, only he feared his tale +would not give them as much pleasure as he wished; nevertheless, not to +be wanting in compliance, he would tell it. The curate and the others +thanked him and added their entreaties, and he finding himself so +pressed said there was no occasion to ask, where a command had such +weight, and added, “If your worships will give me your attention you +will hear a true story which, perhaps, fictitious ones constructed with +ingenious and studied art cannot come up to.” These words made them +settle themselves in their places and preserve a deep silence, and he +seeing them waiting on his words in mute expectation, began thus in a +pleasant quiet voice. + + + +c38e.jpg (18K) + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. +WHEREIN THE CAPTIVE RELATES HIS LIFE AND ADVENTURES + + + + +c39a.jpg (137K) + +Full Size + + + + +My family had its origin in a village in the mountains of Leon, and +nature had been kinder and more generous to it than fortune; though in +the general poverty of those communities my father passed for being +even a rich man; and he would have been so in reality had he been as +clever in preserving his property as he was in spending it. This +tendency of his to be liberal and profuse he had acquired from having +been a soldier in his youth, for the soldier’s life is a school in +which the niggard becomes free-handed and the free-handed prodigal; and +if any soldiers are to be found who are misers, they are monsters of +rare occurrence. My father went beyond liberality and bordered on +prodigality, a disposition by no means advantageous to a married man +who has children to succeed to his name and position. My father had +three, all sons, and all of sufficient age to make choice of a +profession. Finding, then, that he was unable to resist his propensity, +he resolved to divest himself of the instrument and cause of his +prodigality and lavishness, to divest himself of wealth, without which +Alexander himself would have seemed parsimonious; and so calling us all +three aside one day into a room, he addressed us in words somewhat to +the following effect: + +“My sons, to assure you that I love you, no more need be known or said +than that you are my sons; and to encourage a suspicion that I do not +love you, no more is needed than the knowledge that I have no +self-control as far as preservation of your patrimony is concerned; +therefore, that you may for the future feel sure that I love you like a +father, and have no wish to ruin you like a stepfather, I propose to do +with you what I have for some time back meditated, and after mature +deliberation decided upon. You are now of an age to choose your line of +life or at least make choice of a calling that will bring you honour +and profit when you are older; and what I have resolved to do is to +divide my property into four parts; three I will give to you, to each +his portion without making any difference, and the other I will retain +to live upon and support myself for whatever remainder of life Heaven +may be pleased to grant me. But I wish each of you on taking possession +of the share that falls to him to follow one of the paths I shall +indicate. In this Spain of ours there is a proverb, to my mind very +true—as they all are, being short aphorisms drawn from long practical +experience—and the one I refer to says, ‘The church, or the sea, or the +king’s house;’ as much as to say, in plainer language, whoever wants to +flourish and become rich, let him follow the church, or go to sea, +adopting commerce as his calling, or go into the king’s service in his +household, for they say, ‘Better a king’s crumb than a lord’s favour.’ +I say so because it is my will and pleasure that one of you should +follow letters, another trade, and the third serve the king in the +wars, for it is a difficult matter to gain admission to his service in +his household, and if war does not bring much wealth it confers great +distinction and fame. Eight days hence I will give you your full shares +in money, without defrauding you of a farthing, as you will see in the +end. Now tell me if you are willing to follow out my idea and advice as +I have laid it before you.” + +Having called upon me as the eldest to answer, I, after urging him not +to strip himself of his property but to spend it all as he pleased, for +we were young men able to gain our living, consented to comply with his +wishes, and said that mine were to follow the profession of arms and +thereby serve God and my king. My second brother having made the same +proposal, decided upon going to the Indies, embarking the portion that +fell to him in trade. The youngest, and in my opinion the wisest, said +he would rather follow the church, or go to complete his studies at +Salamanca. As soon as we had come to an understanding, and made choice +of our professions, my father embraced us all, and in the short time he +mentioned carried into effect all he had promised; and when he had +given to each his share, which as well as I remember was three thousand +ducats apiece in cash (for an uncle of ours bought the estate and paid +for it down, not to let it go out of the family), we all three on the +same day took leave of our good father; and at the same time, as it +seemed to me inhuman to leave my father with such scanty means in his +old age, I induced him to take two of my three thousand ducats, as the +remainder would be enough to provide me with all a soldier needed. My +two brothers, moved by my example, gave him each a thousand ducats, so +that there was left for my father four thousand ducats in money, +besides three thousand, the value of the portion that fell to him which +he preferred to retain in land instead of selling it. Finally, as I +said, we took leave of him, and of our uncle whom I have mentioned, not +without sorrow and tears on both sides, they charging us to let them +know whenever an opportunity offered how we fared, whether well or ill. +We promised to do so, and when he had embraced us and given us his +blessing, one set out for Salamanca, the other for Seville, and I for +Alicante, where I had heard there was a Genoese vessel taking in a +cargo of wool for Genoa. + +It is now some twenty-two years since I left my father’s house, and all +that time, though I have written several letters, I have had no news +whatever of him or of my brothers; my own adventures during that period +I will now relate briefly. I embarked at Alicante, reached Genoa after +a prosperous voyage, and proceeded thence to Milan, where I provided +myself with arms and a few soldier’s accoutrements; thence it was my +intention to go and take service in Piedmont, but as I was already on +the road to Alessandria della Paglia, I learned that the great Duke of +Alva was on his way to Flanders. I changed my plans, joined him, served +under him in the campaigns he made, was present at the deaths of the +Counts Egmont and Horn, and was promoted to be ensign under a famous +captain of Guadalajara, Diego de Urbina by name. Some time after my +arrival in Flanders news came of the league that his Holiness Pope Pius +V. of happy memory, had made with Venice and Spain against the common +enemy, the Turk, who had just then with his fleet taken the famous +island of Cyprus, which belonged to the Venetians, a loss deplorable +and disastrous. It was known as a fact that the Most Serene Don John of +Austria, natural brother of our good king Don Philip, was coming as +commander-in-chief of the allied forces, and rumours were abroad of the +vast warlike preparations which were being made, all which stirred my +heart and filled me with a longing to take part in the campaign which +was expected; and though I had reason to believe, and almost certain +promises, that on the first opportunity that presented itself I should +be promoted to be captain, I preferred to leave all and betake myself, +as I did, to Italy; and it was my good fortune that Don John had just +arrived at Genoa, and was going on to Naples to join the Venetian +fleet, as he afterwards did at Messina. I may say, in short, that I +took part in that glorious expedition, promoted by this time to be a +captain of infantry, to which honourable charge my good luck rather +than my merits raised me; and that day—so fortunate for Christendom, +because then all the nations of the earth were disabused of the error +under which they lay in imagining the Turks to be invincible on sea—on +that day, I say, on which the Ottoman pride and arrogance were broken, +among all that were there made happy (for the Christians who died that +day were happier than those who remained alive and victorious) I alone +was miserable; for, instead of some naval crown that I might have +expected had it been in Roman times, on the night that followed that +famous day I found myself with fetters on my feet and manacles on my +hands. + +It happened in this way: El Uchali, the king of Algiers, a daring and +successful corsair, having attacked and taken the leading Maltese +galley (only three knights being left alive in it, and they badly +wounded), the chief galley of John Andrea, on board of which I and my +company were placed, came to its relief, and doing as was bound to do +in such a case, I leaped on board the enemy’s galley, which, sheering +off from that which had attacked it, prevented my men from following +me, and so I found myself alone in the midst of my enemies, who were in +such numbers that I was unable to resist; in short I was taken, covered +with wounds; El Uchali, as you know, sirs, made his escape with his +entire squadron, and I was left a prisoner in his power, the only sad +being among so many filled with joy, and the only captive among so many +free; for there were fifteen thousand Christians, all at the oar in the +Turkish fleet, that regained their longed-for liberty that day. + +They carried me to Constantinople, where the Grand Turk, Selim, made my +master general at sea for having done his duty in the battle and +carried off as evidence of his bravery the standard of the Order of +Malta. The following year, which was the year seventy-two, I found +myself at Navarino rowing in the leading galley with the three +lanterns. There I saw and observed how the opportunity of capturing the +whole Turkish fleet in harbour was lost; for all the marines and +janizzaries that belonged to it made sure that they were about to be +attacked inside the very harbour, and had their kits and pasamaques, or +shoes, ready to flee at once on shore without waiting to be assailed, +in so great fear did they stand of our fleet. But Heaven ordered it +otherwise, not for any fault or neglect of the general who commanded on +our side, but for the sins of Christendom, and because it was God’s +will and pleasure that we should always have instruments of punishment +to chastise us. As it was, El Uchali took refuge at Modon, which is an +island near Navarino, and landing forces fortified the mouth of the +harbour and waited quietly until Don John retired. On this expedition +was taken the galley called the Prize, whose captain was a son of the +famous corsair Barbarossa. It was taken by the chief Neapolitan galley +called the She-wolf, commanded by that thunderbolt of war, that father +of his men, that successful and unconquered captain Don Álvaro de +Bazan, Marquis of Santa Cruz; and I cannot help telling you what took +place at the capture of the Prize. + +The son of Barbarossa was so cruel, and treated his slaves so badly, +that, when those who were at the oars saw that the She-wolf galley was +bearing down upon them and gaining upon them, they all at once dropped +their oars and seized their captain who stood on the stage at the end +of the gangway shouting to them to row lustily; and passing him on from +bench to bench, from the poop to the prow, they so bit him that before +he had got much past the mast his soul had already got to hell; so +great, as I said, was the cruelty with which he treated them, and the +hatred with which they hated him. + +We returned to Constantinople, and the following year, seventy-three, +it became known that Don John had seized Tunis and taken the kingdom +from the Turks, and placed Muley Hamet in possession, putting an end to +the hopes which Muley Hamida, the cruelest and bravest Moor in the +world, entertained of returning to reign there. The Grand Turk took the +loss greatly to heart, and with the cunning which all his race possess, +he made peace with the Venetians (who were much more eager for it than +he was), and the following year, seventy-four, he attacked the Goletta +and the fort which Don John had left half built near Tunis. While all +these events were occurring, I was labouring at the oar without any +hope of freedom; at least I had no hope of obtaining it by ransom, for +I was firmly resolved not to write to my father telling him of my +misfortunes. At length the Goletta fell, and the fort fell, before +which places there were seventy-five thousand regular Turkish soldiers, +and more than four hundred thousand Moors and Arabs from all parts of +Africa, and in the train of all this great host such munitions and +engines of war, and so many pioneers that with their hands they might +have covered the Goletta and the fort with handfuls of earth. The first +to fall was the Goletta, until then reckoned impregnable, and it fell, +not by any fault of its defenders, who did all that they could and +should have done, but because experiment proved how easily +entrenchments could be made in the desert sand there; for water used to +be found at two palms depth, while the Turks found none at two yards; +and so by means of a quantity of sandbags they raised their works so +high that they commanded the walls of the fort, sweeping them as if +from a cavalier, so that no one was able to make a stand or maintain +the defence. + +It was a common opinion that our men should not have shut themselves up +in the Goletta, but should have waited in the open at the +landing-place; but those who say so talk at random and with little +knowledge of such matters; for if in the Goletta and in the fort there +were barely seven thousand soldiers, how could such a small number, +however resolute, sally out and hold their own against numbers like +those of the enemy? And how is it possible to help losing a stronghold +that is not relieved, above all when surrounded by a host of determined +enemies in their own country? But many thought, and I thought so too, +that it was special favour and mercy which Heaven showed to Spain in +permitting the destruction of that source and hiding place of mischief, +that devourer, sponge, and moth of countless money, fruitlessly wasted +there to no other purpose save preserving the memory of its capture by +the invincible Charles V.; as if to make that eternal, as it is and +will be, these stones were needed to support it. The fort also fell; +but the Turks had to win it inch by inch, for the soldiers who defended +it fought so gallantly and stoutly that the number of the enemy killed +in twenty-two general assaults exceeded twenty-five thousand. Of three +hundred that remained alive not one was taken unwounded, a clear and +manifest proof of their gallantry and resolution, and how sturdily they +had defended themselves and held their post. A small fort or tower +which was in the middle of the lagoon under the command of Don Juan +Zanoguera, a Valencian gentleman and a famous soldier, capitulated upon +terms. They took prisoner Don Pedro Puertocarrero, commandant of the +Goletta, who had done all in his power to defend his fortress, and took +the loss of it so much to heart that he died of grief on the way to +Constantinople, where they were carrying him a prisoner. They also took +the commandant of the fort, Gabrio Cerbellon by name, a Milanese +gentleman, a great engineer and a very brave soldier. In these two +fortresses perished many persons of note, among whom was Pagano Doria, +knight of the Order of St. John, a man of generous disposition, as was +shown by his extreme liberality to his brother, the famous John Andrea +Doria; and what made his death the more sad was that he was slain by +some Arabs to whom, seeing that the fort was now lost, he entrusted +himself, and who offered to conduct him in the disguise of a Moor to +Tabarca, a small fort or station on the coast held by the Genoese +employed in the coral fishery. These Arabs cut off his head and carried +it to the commander of the Turkish fleet, who proved on them the truth +of our Castilian proverb, that “though the treason may please, the +traitor is hated;” for they say he ordered those who brought him the +present to be hanged for not having brought him alive. + + + +c39b.jpg (371K) + +Full Size + + + + +Among the Christians who were taken in the fort was one named Don Pedro +de Aguilar, a native of some place, I know not what, in Andalusia, who +had been ensign in the fort, a soldier of great repute and rare +intelligence, who had in particular a special gift for what they call +poetry. I say so because his fate brought him to my galley and to my +bench, and made him a slave to the same master; and before we left the +port this gentleman composed two sonnets by way of epitaphs, one on the +Goletta and the other on the fort; indeed, I may as well repeat them, +for I have them by heart, and I think they will be liked rather than +disliked. + +The instant the captive mentioned the name of Don Pedro de Aguilar, Don +Fernando looked at his companions and they all three smiled; and when +he came to speak of the sonnets one of them said, “Before your worship +proceeds any further I entreat you to tell me what became of that Don +Pedro de Aguilar you have spoken of.” + +“All I know is,” replied the captive, “that after having been in +Constantinople two years, he escaped in the disguise of an Arnaut, in +company with a Greek spy; but whether he regained his liberty or not I +cannot tell, though I fancy he did, because a year afterwards I saw the +Greek at Constantinople, though I was unable to ask him what the result +of the journey was.” + +“Well then, you are right,” returned the gentleman, “for that Don Pedro +is my brother, and he is now in our village in good health, rich, +married, and with three children.” + +“Thanks be to God for all the mercies he has shown him,” said the +captive; “for to my mind there is no happiness on earth to compare with +recovering lost liberty.” + +“And what is more,” said the gentleman, “I know the sonnets my brother +made.” + +“Then let your worship repeat them,” said the captive, “for you will +recite them better than I can.” + +“With all my heart,” said the gentleman; “that on the Goletta runs +thus.” + + + +c39e.jpg (38K) + + + +CHAPTER XL. +IN WHICH THE STORY OF THE CAPTIVE IS CONTINUED. + + + + +c40a.jpg (131K) + +Full Size + + + + +SONNET + +“Blest souls, that, from this mortal husk set free, +In guerdon of brave deeds beatified, +Above this lowly orb of ours abide +Made heirs of heaven and immortality, +With noble rage and ardour glowing ye +Your strength, while strength was yours, in battle plied, +And with your own blood and the foeman’s dyed +The sandy soil and the encircling sea. +It was the ebbing life-blood first that failed +The weary arms; the stout hearts never quailed. +Though vanquished, yet ye earned the victor’s crown: +Though mourned, yet still triumphant was your fall +For there ye won, between the sword and wall, +In Heaven glory and on earth renown.” + + +“That is it exactly, according to my recollection,” said the captive. + +“Well then, that on the fort,” said the gentleman, “if my memory serves +me, goes thus: + +SONNET + +“Up from this wasted soil, this shattered shell, +Whose walls and towers here in ruin lie, +Three thousand soldier souls took wing on high, +In the bright mansions of the blest to dwell. +The onslaught of the foeman to repel +By might of arm all vainly did they try, +And when at length ’twas left them but to die, +Wearied and few the last defenders fell. +And this same arid soil hath ever been +A haunt of countless mournful memories, +As well in our day as in days of yore. +But never yet to Heaven it sent, I ween, +From its hard bosom purer souls than these, +Or braver bodies on its surface bore.” + + +The sonnets were not disliked, and the captive was rejoiced at the +tidings they gave him of his comrade, and continuing his tale, he went +on to say: + +The Goletta and the fort being thus in their hands, the Turks gave +orders to dismantle the Goletta—for the fort was reduced to such a +state that there was nothing left to level—and to do the work more +quickly and easily they mined it in three places; but nowhere were they +able to blow up the part which seemed to be the least strong, that is +to say, the old walls, while all that remained standing of the new +fortifications that the Fratin had made came to the ground with the +greatest ease. Finally the fleet returned victorious and triumphant to +Constantinople, and a few months later died my master, El Uchali, +otherwise Uchali Fartax, which means in Turkish “the scabby renegade;” +for that he was; it is the practice with the Turks to name people from +some defect or virtue they may possess; the reason being that there are +among them only four surnames belonging to families tracing their +descent from the Ottoman house, and the others, as I have said, take +their names and surnames either from bodily blemishes or moral +qualities. This “scabby one” rowed at the oar as a slave of the Grand +Signor’s for fourteen years, and when over thirty-four years of age, in +resentment at having been struck by a Turk while at the oar, turned +renegade and renounced his faith in order to be able to revenge +himself; and such was his valour that, without owing his advancement to +the base ways and means by which most favourites of the Grand Signor +rise to power, he came to be king of Algiers, and afterwards +general-on-sea, which is the third place of trust in the realm. He was +a Calabrian by birth, and a worthy man morally, and he treated his +slaves with great humanity. He had three thousand of them, and after +his death they were divided, as he directed by his will, between the +Grand Signor (who is heir of all who die and shares with the children +of the deceased) and his renegades. I fell to the lot of a Venetian +renegade who, when a cabin boy on board a ship, had been taken by +Uchali and was so much beloved by him that he became one of his most +favoured youths. He came to be the most cruel renegade I ever saw: his +name was Hassan Aga, and he grew very rich and became king of Algiers. +With him I went there from Constantinople, rather glad to be so near +Spain, not that I intended to write to anyone about my unhappy lot, but +to try if fortune would be kinder to me in Algiers than in +Constantinople, where I had attempted in a thousand ways to escape +without ever finding a favourable time or chance; but in Algiers I +resolved to seek for other means of effecting the purpose I cherished +so dearly; for the hope of obtaining my liberty never deserted me; and +when in my plots and schemes and attempts the result did not answer my +expectations, without giving way to despair I immediately began to look +out for or conjure up some new hope to support me, however faint or +feeble it might be. + +In this way I lived on immured in a building or prison called by the +Turks a baño in which they confine the Christian captives, as well +those that are the king’s as those belonging to private individuals, +and also what they call those of the Almacen, which is as much as to +say the slaves of the municipality, who serve the city in the public +works and other employments; but captives of this kind recover their +liberty with great difficulty, for, as they are public property and +have no particular master, there is no one with whom to treat for their +ransom, even though they may have the means. To these baños, as I have +said, some private individuals of the town are in the habit of bringing +their captives, especially when they are to be ransomed; because there +they can keep them in safety and comfort until their ransom arrives. +The king’s captives also, that are on ransom, do not go out to work +with the rest of the crew, unless when their ransom is delayed; for +then, to make them write for it more pressingly, they compel them to +work and go for wood, which is no light labour. + +I, however, was one of those on ransom, for when it was discovered that +I was a captain, although I declared my scanty means and want of +fortune, nothing could dissuade them from including me among the +gentlemen and those waiting to be ransomed. They put a chain on me, +more as a mark of this than to keep me safe, and so I passed my life in +that baño with several other gentlemen and persons of quality marked +out as held to ransom; but though at times, or rather almost always, we +suffered from hunger and scanty clothing, nothing distressed us so much +as hearing and seeing at every turn the unexampled and unheard-of +cruelties my master inflicted upon the Christians. Every day he hanged +a man, impaled one, cut off the ears of another; and all with so little +provocation, or so entirely without any, that the Turks acknowledged he +did it merely for the sake of doing it, and because he was by nature +murderously disposed towards the whole human race. The only one that +fared at all well with him was a Spanish soldier, something de Saavedra +by name, to whom he never gave a blow himself, or ordered a blow to be +given, or addressed a hard word, although he had done things that will +dwell in the memory of the people there for many a year, and all to +recover his liberty; and for the least of the many things he did we all +dreaded that he would be impaled, and he himself was in fear of it more +than once; and only that time does not allow, I could tell you now +something of what that soldier did, that would interest and astonish +you much more than the narration of my own tale. + +To go on with my story; the courtyard of our prison was overlooked by +the windows of the house belonging to a wealthy Moor of high position; +and these, as is usual in Moorish houses, were rather loopholes than +windows, and besides were covered with thick and close lattice-work. It +so happened, then, that as I was one day on the terrace of our prison +with three other comrades, trying, to pass away the time, how far we +could leap with our chains, we being alone, for all the other +Christians had gone out to work, I chanced to raise my eyes, and from +one of these little closed windows I saw a reed appear with a cloth +attached to the end of it, and it kept waving to and fro, and moving as +if making signs to us to come and take it. We watched it, and one of +those who were with me went and stood under the reed to see whether +they would let it drop, or what they would do, but as he did so the +reed was raised and moved from side to side, as if they meant to say +“no” by a shake of the head. The Christian came back, and it was again +lowered, making the same movements as before. Another of my comrades +went, and with him the same happened as with the first, and then the +third went forward, but with the same result as the first and second. +Seeing this I did not like not to try my luck, and as soon as I came +under the reed it was dropped and fell inside the baño at my feet. I +hastened to untie the cloth, in which I perceived a knot, and in this +were ten cianis, which are coins of base gold, current among the Moors, +and each worth ten reals of our money. + +It is needless to say I rejoiced over this godsend, and my joy was not +less than my wonder as I strove to imagine how this good fortune could +have come to us, but to me specially; for the evident unwillingness to +drop the reed for any but me showed that it was for me the favour was +intended. I took my welcome money, broke the reed, and returned to the +terrace, and looking up at the window, I saw a very white hand put out +that opened and shut very quickly. From this we gathered or fancied +that it must be some woman living in that house that had done us this +kindness, and to show that we were grateful for it, we made salaams +after the fashion of the Moors, bowing the head, bending the body, and +crossing the arms on the breast. Shortly afterwards at the same window +a small cross made of reeds was put out and immediately withdrawn. This +sign led us to believe that some Christian woman was a captive in the +house, and that it was she who had been so good to us; but the +whiteness of the hand and the bracelets we had perceived made us +dismiss that idea, though we thought it might be one of the Christian +renegades whom their masters very often take as lawful wives, and +gladly, for they prefer them to the women of their own nation. In all +our conjectures we were wide of the truth; so from that time forward +our sole occupation was watching and gazing at the window where the +cross had appeared to us, as if it were our pole-star; but at least +fifteen days passed without our seeing either it or the hand, or any +other sign and though meanwhile we endeavoured with the utmost pains to +ascertain who it was that lived in the house, and whether there were +any Christian renegade in it, nobody could ever tell us anything more +than that he who lived there was a rich Moor of high position, Hadji +Morato by name, formerly alcaide of La Pata, an office of high dignity +among them. But when we least thought it was going to rain any more +cianis from that quarter, we saw the reed suddenly appear with another +cloth tied in a larger knot attached to it, and this at a time when, as +on the former occasion, the baño was deserted and unoccupied. + + + +c40b.jpg (288K) + +Full Size + + + + +We made trial as before, each of the same three going forward before I +did; but the reed was delivered to none but me, and on my approach it +was let drop. I untied the knot and I found forty Spanish gold crowns +with a paper written in Arabic, and at the end of the writing there was +a large cross drawn. I kissed the cross, took the crowns and returned +to the terrace, and we all made our salaams; again the hand appeared, I +made signs that I would read the paper, and then the window was closed. +We were all puzzled, though filled with joy at what had taken place; +and as none of us understood Arabic, great was our curiosity to know +what the paper contained, and still greater the difficulty of finding +someone to read it. At last I resolved to confide in a renegade, a +native of Murcia, who professed a very great friendship for me, and had +given pledges that bound him to keep any secret I might entrust to him; +for it is the custom with some renegades, when they intend to return to +Christian territory, to carry about them certificates from captives of +mark testifying, in whatever form they can, that such and such a +renegade is a worthy man who has always shown kindness to Christians, +and is anxious to escape on the first opportunity that may present +itself. Some obtain these testimonials with good intentions, others put +them to a cunning use; for when they go to pillage on Christian +territory, if they chance to be cast away, or taken prisoners, they +produce their certificates and say that from these papers may be seen +the object they came for, which was to remain on Christian ground, and +that it was to this end they joined the Turks in their foray. In this +way they escape the consequences of the first outburst and make their +peace with the Church before it does them any harm, and then when they +have the chance they return to Barbary to become what they were before. +Others, however, there are who procure these papers and make use of +them honestly, and remain on Christian soil. This friend of mine, then, +was one of these renegades that I have described; he had certificates +from all our comrades, in which we testified in his favour as strongly +as we could; and if the Moors had found the papers they would have +burned him alive. + +I knew that he understood Arabic very well, and could not only speak +but also write it; but before I disclosed the whole matter to him, I +asked him to read for me this paper which I had found by accident in a +hole in my cell. He opened it and remained some time examining it and +muttering to himself as he translated it. I asked him if he understood +it, and he told me he did perfectly well, and that if I wished him to +tell me its meaning word for word, I must give him pen and ink that he +might do it more satisfactorily. We at once gave him what he required, +and he set about translating it bit by bit, and when he had done he +said: + +“All that is here in Spanish is what the Moorish paper contains, and +you must bear in mind that when it says ‘Lela Marien’ it means ‘Our +Lady the Virgin Mary.’” + +We read the paper and it ran thus: + +“When I was a child my father had a slave who taught me to pray the +Christian prayer in my own language, and told me many things about Lela +Marien. The Christian died, and I know that she did not go to the fire, +but to Allah, because since then I have seen her twice, and she told me +to go to the land of the Christians to see Lela Marien, who had great +love for me. I know not how to go. I have seen many Christians, but +except thyself none has seemed to me to be a gentleman. I am young and +beautiful, and have plenty of money to take with me. See if thou canst +contrive how we may go, and if thou wilt thou shalt be my husband +there, and if thou wilt not it will not distress me, for Lela Marien +will find me someone to marry me. I myself have written this: have a +care to whom thou givest it to read: trust no Moor, for they are all +perfidious. I am greatly troubled on this account, for I would not have +thee confide in anyone, because if my father knew it he would at once +fling me down a well and cover me with stones. I will put a thread to +the reed; tie the answer to it, and if thou hast no one to write for +thee in Arabic, tell it to me by signs, for Lela Marien will make me +understand thee. She and Allah and this cross, which I often kiss as +the captive bade me, protect thee.” + +Judge, sirs, whether we had reason for surprise and joy at the words of +this paper; and both one and the other were so great, that the renegade +perceived that the paper had not been found by chance, but had been in +reality addressed to someone of us, and he begged us, if what he +suspected were the truth, to trust him and tell him all, for he would +risk his life for our freedom; and so saying he took out from his +breast a metal crucifix, and with many tears swore by the God the image +represented, in whom, sinful and wicked as he was, he truly and +faithfully believed, to be loyal to us and keep secret whatever we +chose to reveal to him; for he thought and almost foresaw that by means +of her who had written that paper, he and all of us would obtain our +liberty, and he himself obtain the object he so much desired, his +restoration to the bosom of the Holy Mother Church, from which by his +own sin and ignorance he was now severed like a corrupt limb. The +renegade said this with so many tears and such signs of repentance, +that with one consent we all agreed to tell him the whole truth of the +matter, and so we gave him a full account of all, without hiding +anything from him. We pointed out to him the window at which the reed +appeared, and he by that means took note of the house, and resolved to +ascertain with particular care who lived in it. We agreed also that it +would be advisable to answer the Moorish lady’s letter, and the +renegade without a moment’s delay took down the words I dictated to +him, which were exactly what I shall tell you, for nothing of +importance that took place in this affair has escaped my memory, or +ever will while life lasts. This, then, was the answer returned to the +Moorish lady: + +“The true Allah protect thee, Lady, and that blessed Marien who is the +true mother of God, and who has put it into thy heart to go to the land +of the Christians, because she loves thee. Entreat her that she be +pleased to show thee how thou canst execute the command she gives thee, +for she will, such is her goodness. On my own part, and on that of all +these Christians who are with me, I promise to do all that we can for +thee, even to death. Fail not to write to me and inform me what thou +dost mean to do, and I will always answer thee; for the great Allah has +given us a Christian captive who can speak and write thy language well, +as thou mayest see by this paper; without fear, therefore, thou canst +inform us of all thou wouldst. As to what thou sayest, that if thou +dost reach the land of the Christians thou wilt be my wife, I give thee +my promise upon it as a good Christian; and know that the Christians +keep their promises better than the Moors. Allah and Marien his mother +watch over thee, my Lady.” + +The paper being written and folded I waited two days until the baño was +empty as before, and immediately repaired to the usual walk on the +terrace to see if there were any sign of the reed, which was not long +in making its appearance. As soon as I saw it, although I could not +distinguish who put it out, I showed the paper as a sign to attach the +thread, but it was already fixed to the reed, and to it I tied the +paper; and shortly afterwards our star once more made its appearance +with the white flag of peace, the little bundle. It was dropped, and I +picked it up, and found in the cloth, in gold and silver coins of all +sorts, more than fifty crowns, which fifty times more strengthened our +joy and doubled our hope of gaining our liberty. That very night our +renegade returned and said he had learned that the Moor we had been +told of lived in that house, that his name was Hadji Morato, that he +was enormously rich, that he had one only daughter the heiress of all +his wealth, and that it was the general opinion throughout the city +that she was the most beautiful woman in Barbary, and that several of +the viceroys who came there had sought her for a wife, but that she had +been always unwilling to marry; and he had learned, moreover, that she +had a Christian slave who was now dead; all which agreed with the +contents of the paper. We immediately took counsel with the renegade as +to what means would have to be adopted in order to carry off the +Moorish lady and bring us all to Christian territory; and in the end it +was agreed that for the present we should wait for a second +communication from Zoraida (for that was the name of her who now +desires to be called Maria), because we saw clearly that she and no one +else could find a way out of all these difficulties. When we had +decided upon this the renegade told us not to be uneasy, for he would +lose his life or restore us to liberty. For four days the baño was +filled with people, for which reason the reed delayed its appearance +for four days, but at the end of that time, when the baño was, as it +generally was, empty, it appeared with the cloth so bulky that it +promised a happy birth. Reed and cloth came down to me, and I found +another paper and a hundred crowns in gold, without any other coin. The +renegade was present, and in our cell we gave him the paper to read, +which was to this effect: + +“I cannot think of a plan, señor, for our going to Spain, nor has Lela +Marien shown me one, though I have asked her. All that can be done is +for me to give you plenty of money in gold from this window. With it +ransom yourself and your friends, and let one of you go to the land of +the Christians, and there buy a vessel and come back for the others; +and he will find me in my father’s garden, which is at the Babazon gate +near the seashore, where I shall be all this summer with my father and +my servants. You can carry me away from there by night without any +danger, and bring me to the vessel. And remember thou art to be my +husband, else I will pray to Marien to punish thee. If thou canst not +trust anyone to go for the vessel, ransom thyself and do thou go, for I +know thou wilt return more surely than any other, as thou art a +gentleman and a Christian. Endeavour to make thyself acquainted with +the garden; and when I see thee walking yonder I shall know that the +baño is empty and I will give thee abundance of money. Allah protect +thee, señor.” + +These were the words and contents of the second paper, and on hearing +them, each declared himself willing to be the ransomed one, and +promised to go and return with scrupulous good faith; and I too made +the same offer; but to all this the renegade objected, saying that he +would not on any account consent to one being set free before all went +together, as experience had taught him how ill those who have been set +free keep promises which they made in captivity; for captives of +distinction frequently had recourse to this plan, paying the ransom of +one who was to go to Valencia or Majorca with money to enable him to +arm a bark and return for the others who had ransomed him, but who +never came back; for recovered liberty and the dread of losing it again +efface from the memory all the obligations in the world. And to prove +the truth of what he said, he told us briefly what had happened to a +certain Christian gentleman almost at that very time, the strangest +case that had ever occurred even there, where astonishing and +marvellous things are happening every instant. In short, he ended by +saying that what could and ought to be done was to give the money +intended for the ransom of one of us Christians to him, so that he +might with it buy a vessel there in Algiers under the pretence of +becoming a merchant and trader at Tetuan and along the coast; and when +master of the vessel, it would be easy for him to hit on some way of +getting us all out of the baño and putting us on board; especially if +the Moorish lady gave, as she said, money enough to ransom all, because +once free it would be the easiest thing in the world for us to embark +even in open day; but the greatest difficulty was that the Moors do not +allow any renegade to buy or own any craft, unless it be a large vessel +for going on roving expeditions, because they are afraid that anyone +who buys a small vessel, especially if he be a Spaniard, only wants it +for the purpose of escaping to Christian territory. This however he +could get over by arranging with a Tagarin Moor to go shares with him +in the purchase of the vessel, and in the profit on the cargo; and +under cover of this he could become master of the vessel, in which case +he looked upon all the rest as accomplished. But though to me and my +comrades it had seemed a better plan to send to Majorca for the vessel, +as the Moorish lady suggested, we did not dare to oppose him, fearing +that if we did not do as he said he would denounce us, and place us in +danger of losing all our lives if he were to disclose our dealings with +Zoraida, for whose life we would have all given our own. We therefore +resolved to put ourselves in the hands of God and in the renegade’s; +and at the same time an answer was given to Zoraida, telling her that +we would do all she recommended, for she had given as good advice as if +Lela Marien had delivered it, and that it depended on her alone whether +we were to defer the business or put it in execution at once. I renewed +my promise to be her husband; and thus the next day that the baño +chanced to be empty she at different times gave us by means of the reed +and cloth two thousand gold crowns and a paper in which she said that +the next Juma, that is to say Friday, she was going to her father’s +garden, but that before she went she would give us more money; and if +it were not enough we were to let her know, as she would give us as +much as we asked, for her father had so much he would not miss it, and +besides she kept all the keys. + +We at once gave the renegade five hundred crowns to buy the vessel, and +with eight hundred I ransomed myself, giving the money to a Valencian +merchant who happened to be in Algiers at the time, and who had me +released on his word, pledging it that on the arrival of the first ship +from Valencia he would pay my ransom; for if he had given the money at +once it would have made the king suspect that my ransom money had been +for a long time in Algiers, and that the merchant had for his own +advantage kept it secret. In fact my master was so difficult to deal +with that I dared not on any account pay down the money at once. The +Thursday before the Friday on which the fair Zoraida was to go to the +garden she gave us a thousand crowns more, and warned us of her +departure, begging me, if I were ransomed, to find out her father’s +garden at once, and by all means to seek an opportunity of going there +to see her. I answered in a few words that I would do so, and that she +must remember to commend us to Lela Marien with all the prayers the +captive had taught her. This having been done, steps were taken to +ransom our three comrades, so as to enable them to quit the baño, and +lest, seeing me ransomed and themselves not, though the money was +forthcoming, they should make a disturbance about it and the devil +should prompt them to do something that might injure Zoraida; for +though their position might be sufficient to relieve me from this +apprehension, nevertheless I was unwilling to run any risk in the +matter; and so I had them ransomed in the same way as I was, handing +over all the money to the merchant so that he might with safety and +confidence give security; without, however, confiding our arrangement +and secret to him, which might have been dangerous. + + + +c40e.jpg (34K) + + + +CHAPTER XLI. +IN WHICH THE CAPTIVE STILL CONTINUES HIS ADVENTURES + + + + +c41a.jpg (106K) + +Full Size + + + + +Before fifteen days were over our renegade had already purchased an +excellent vessel with room for more than thirty persons; and to make +the transaction safe and lend a colour to it, he thought it well to +make, as he did, a voyage to a place called Shershel, twenty leagues +from Algiers on the Oran side, where there is an extensive trade in +dried figs. Two or three times he made this voyage in company with the +Tagarin already mentioned. The Moors of Aragon are called Tagarins in +Barbary, and those of Granada Mudéjares; but in the Kingdom of Fez they +call the Mudéjares Elches, and they are the people the king chiefly +employs in war. To proceed: every time he passed with his vessel he +anchored in a cove that was not two crossbow shots from the garden +where Zoraida was waiting; and there the renegade, together with the +two Moorish lads that rowed, used purposely to station himself, either +going through his prayers, or else practising as a part what he meant +to perform in earnest. And thus he would go to Zoraida’s garden and ask +for fruit, which her father gave him, not knowing him; but though, as +he afterwards told me, he sought to speak to Zoraida, and tell her who +he was, and that by my orders he was to take her to the land of the +Christians, so that she might feel satisfied and easy, he had never +been able to do so; for the Moorish women do not allow themselves to be +seen by any Moor or Turk, unless their husband or father bid them: with +Christian captives they permit freedom of intercourse and +communication, even more than might be considered proper. But for my +part I should have been sorry if he had spoken to her, for perhaps it +might have alarmed her to find her affairs talked of by renegades. But +God, who ordered it otherwise, afforded no opportunity for our +renegade’s well-meant purpose; and he, seeing how safely he could go to +Shershel and return, and anchor when and how and where he liked, and +that the Tagarin his partner had no will but his, and that, now I was +ransomed, all we wanted was to find some Christians to row, told me to +look out for any I should be willing to take with me, over and above +those who had been ransomed, and to engage them for the next Friday, +which he fixed upon for our departure. On this I spoke to twelve +Spaniards, all stout rowers, and such as could most easily leave the +city; but it was no easy matter to find so many just then, because +there were twenty ships out on a cruise and they had taken all the +rowers with them; and these would not have been found were it not that +their master remained at home that summer without going to sea in order +to finish a galliot that he had upon the stocks. To these men I said +nothing more than that the next Friday in the evening they were to come +out stealthily one by one and hang about Hadji Morato’s garden, waiting +for me there until I came. These directions I gave each one separately, +with orders that if they saw any other Christians there they were not +to say anything to them except that I had directed them to wait at that +spot. + +This preliminary having been settled, another still more necessary step +had to be taken, which was to let Zoraida know how matters stood that +she might be prepared and forewarned, so as not to be taken by surprise +if we were suddenly to seize upon her before she thought the +Christians’ vessel could have returned. I determined, therefore, to go +to the garden and try if I could speak to her; and the day before my +departure I went there under the pretence of gathering herbs. The first +person I met was her father, who addressed me in the language that all +over Barbary and even in Constantinople is the medium between captives +and Moors, and is neither Morisco nor Castilian, nor of any other +nation, but a mixture of all languages, by means of which we can all +understand one another. In this sort of language, I say, he asked me +what I wanted in his garden, and to whom I belonged. I replied that I +was a slave of the Arnaut Mami (for I knew as a certainty that he was a +very great friend of his), and that I wanted some herbs to make a +salad. He asked me then whether I were on ransom or not, and what my +master demanded for me. While these questions and answers were +proceeding, the fair Zoraida, who had already perceived me some time +before, came out of the house in the garden, and as Moorish women are +by no means particular about letting themselves be seen by Christians, +or, as I have said before, at all coy, she had no hesitation in coming +to where her father stood with me; moreover her father, seeing her +approaching slowly, called to her to come. It would be beyond my power +now to describe to you the great beauty, the high-bred air, the +brilliant attire of my beloved Zoraida as she presented herself before +my eyes. I will content myself with saying that more pearls hung from +her fair neck, her ears, and her hair than she had hairs on her head. +On her ankles, which as is customary were bare, she had carcajes (for +so bracelets or anklets are called in Morisco) of the purest gold, set +with so many diamonds that she told me afterwards her father valued +them at ten thousand doubloons, and those she had on her wrists were +worth as much more. The pearls were in profusion and very fine, for the +highest display and adornment of the Moorish women is decking +themselves with rich pearls and seed-pearls; and of these there are +therefore more among the Moors than among any other people. Zoraida’s +father had to the reputation of possessing a great number, and the +purest in all Algiers, and of possessing also more than two hundred +thousand Spanish crowns; and she, who is now mistress of me only, was +mistress of all this. Whether thus adorned she would have been +beautiful or not, and what she must have been in her prosperity, may be +imagined from the beauty remaining to her after so many hardships; for, +as everyone knows, the beauty of some women has its times and its +seasons, and is increased or diminished by chance causes; and naturally +the emotions of the mind will heighten or impair it, though indeed more +frequently they totally destroy it. In a word she presented herself +before me that day attired with the utmost splendour, and supremely +beautiful; at any rate, she seemed to me the most beautiful object I +had ever seen; and when, besides, I thought of all I owed to her I felt +as though I had before me some heavenly being come to earth to bring me +relief and happiness. + +As she approached her father told her in his own language that I was a +captive belonging to his friend the Arnaut Mami, and that I had come +for salad. + +She took up the conversation, and in that mixture of tongues I have +spoken of she asked me if I was a gentleman, and why I was not +ransomed. + +I answered that I was already ransomed, and that by the price it might +be seen what value my master set on me, as they had given one thousand +five hundred zoltanis for me; to which she replied, “Hadst thou been my +father’s, I can tell thee, I would not have let him part with thee for +twice as much, for you Christians always tell lies about yourselves and +make yourselves out poor to cheat the Moors.” + +“That may be, lady,” said I; “but indeed I dealt truthfully with my +master, as I do and mean to do with everybody in the world.” + +“And when dost thou go?” said Zoraida. + +“To-morrow, I think,” said I, “for there is a vessel here from France +which sails to-morrow, and I think I shall go in her.” + +“Would it not be better,” said Zoraida, “to wait for the arrival of +ships from Spain and go with them and not with the French who are not +your friends?” + +“No,” said I; “though if there were intelligence that a vessel were now +coming from Spain it is true I might, perhaps, wait for it; however, it +is more likely I shall depart to-morrow, for the longing I feel to +return to my country and to those I love is so great that it will not +allow me to wait for another opportunity, however more convenient, if +it be delayed.” + +“No doubt thou art married in thine own country,” said Zoraida, “and +for that reason thou art anxious to go and see thy wife.” + +“I am not married,” I replied, “but I have given my promise to marry on +my arrival there.” + +“And is the lady beautiful to whom thou hast given it?” said Zoraida. + +“So beautiful,” said I, “that, to describe her worthily and tell thee +the truth, she is very like thee.” + +At this her father laughed very heartily and said, “By Allah, +Christian, she must be very beautiful if she is like my daughter, who +is the most beautiful woman in all this kingdom: only look at her well +and thou wilt see I am telling the truth.” + +Zoraida’s father as the better linguist helped to interpret most of +these words and phrases, for though she spoke the bastard language, +that, as I have said, is employed there, she expressed her meaning more +by signs than by words. + +While we were still engaged in this conversation, a Moor came running +up, exclaiming that four Turks had leaped over the fence or wall of the +garden, and were gathering the fruit though it was not yet ripe. The +old man was alarmed and Zoraida too, for the Moors commonly, and, so to +speak, instinctively have a dread of the Turks, but particularly of the +soldiers, who are so insolent and domineering to the Moors who are +under their power that they treat them worse than if they were their +slaves. Her father said to Zoraida, “Daughter, retire into the house +and shut thyself in while I go and speak to these dogs; and thou, +Christian, pick thy herbs, and go in peace, and Allah bring thee safe +to thy own country.” + +I bowed, and he went away to look for the Turks, leaving me alone with +Zoraida, who made as if she were about to retire as her father bade +her; but the moment he was concealed by the trees of the garden, +turning to me with her eyes full of tears she said, “Tameji, cristiano, +tameji?” that is to say, “Art thou going, Christian, art thou going?” + +I made answer, “Yes, lady, but not without thee, come what may: be on +the watch for me on the next Juma, and be not alarmed when thou seest +us; for most surely we shall go to the land of the Christians.” + +This I said in such a way that she understood perfectly all that passed +between us, and throwing her arm round my neck she began with feeble +steps to move towards the house; but as fate would have it (and it +might have been very unfortunate if Heaven had not otherwise ordered +it), just as we were moving on in the manner and position I have +described, with her arm round my neck, her father, as he returned after +having sent away the Turks, saw how we were walking and we perceived +that he saw us; but Zoraida, ready and quickwitted, took care not to +remove her arm from my neck, but on the contrary drew closer to me and +laid her head on my breast, bending her knees a little and showing all +the signs and tokens of fainting, while I at the same time made it seem +as though I were supporting her against my will. Her father came +running up to where we were, and seeing his daughter in this state +asked what was the matter with her; she, however, giving no answer, he +said, “No doubt she has fainted in alarm at the entrance of those +dogs,” and taking her from mine he drew her to his own breast, while +she sighing, her eyes still wet with tears, said again, “Ameji, +cristiano, ameji”—“Go, Christian, go.” To this her father replied, +“There is no need, daughter, for the Christian to go, for he has done +thee no harm, and the Turks have now gone; feel no alarm, there is +nothing to hurt thee, for as I say, the Turks at my request have gone +back the way they came.” + + + +c41b.jpg (320K) + +Full Size + + + + +“It was they who terrified her, as thou hast said, señor,” said I to +her father; “but since she tells me to go, I have no wish to displease +her: peace be with thee, and with thy leave I will come back to this +garden for herbs if need be, for my master says there are nowhere +better herbs for salad than here.” + +“Come back for any thou hast need of,” replied Hadji Morato; “for my +daughter does not speak thus because she is displeased with thee or any +Christian: she only meant that the Turks should go, not thou; or that +it was time for thee to look for thy herbs.” + +With this I at once took my leave of both; and she, looking as though +her heart were breaking, retired with her father. While pretending to +look for herbs I made the round of the garden at my ease, and studied +carefully all the approaches and outlets, and the fastenings of the +house and everything that could be taken advantage of to make our task +easy. + + + +c41c.jpg (326K) + +Full Size + + + + +Having done so I went and gave an account of all that had taken place +to the renegade and my comrades, and looked forward with impatience to +the hour when, all fear at an end, I should find myself in possession +of the prize which fortune held out to me in the fair and lovely +Zoraida. The time passed at length, and the appointed day we so longed +for arrived; and, all following out the arrangement and plan which, +after careful consideration and many a long discussion, we had decided +upon, we succeeded as fully as we could have wished; for on the Friday +following the day upon which I spoke to Zoraida in the garden, the +renegade anchored his vessel at nightfall almost opposite the spot +where she was. The Christians who were to row were ready and in hiding +in different places round about, all waiting for me, anxious and +elated, and eager to attack the vessel they had before their eyes; for +they did not know the renegade’s plan, but expected that they were to +gain their liberty by force of arms and by killing the Moors who were +on board the vessel. As soon, then, as I and my comrades made our +appearance, all those that were in hiding seeing us came and joined us. +It was now the time when the city gates are shut, and there was no one +to be seen in all the space outside. When we were collected together we +debated whether it would be better first to go for Zoraida, or to make +prisoners of the Moorish rowers who rowed in the vessel; but while we +were still uncertain our renegade came up asking us what kept us, as it +was now the time, and all the Moors were off their guard and most of +them asleep. We told him why we hesitated, but he said it was of more +importance first to secure the vessel, which could be done with the +greatest ease and without any danger, and then we could go for Zoraida. +We all approved of what he said, and so without further delay, guided +by him we made for the vessel, and he leaping on board first, drew his +cutlass and said in Morisco, “Let no one stir from this if he does not +want it to cost him his life.” By this almost all the Christians were +on board, and the Moors, who were fainthearted, hearing their captain +speak in this way, were cowed, and without any one of them taking to +his arms (and indeed they had few or hardly any) they submitted without +saying a word to be bound by the Christians, who quickly secured them, +threatening them that if they raised any kind of outcry they would be +all put to the sword. This having been accomplished, and half of our +party being left to keep guard over them, the rest of us, again taking +the renegade as our guide, hastened towards Hadji Morato’s garden, and +as good luck would have it, on trying the gate it opened as easily as +if it had not been locked; and so, quite quietly and in silence, we +reached the house without being perceived by anybody. The lovely +Zoraida was watching for us at a window, and as soon as she perceived +that there were people there, she asked in a low voice if we were +“Nizarani,” as much as to say or ask if we were Christians. I answered +that we were, and begged her to come down. As soon as she recognised me +she did not delay an instant, but without answering a word came down +immediately, opened the door and presented herself before us all, so +beautiful and so richly attired that I cannot attempt to describe her. +The moment I saw her I took her hand and kissed it, and the renegade +and my two comrades did the same; and the rest, who knew nothing of the +circumstances, did as they saw us do, for it only seemed as if we were +returning thanks to her, and recognising her as the giver of our +liberty. The renegade asked her in the Morisco language if her father +was in the house. She replied that he was and that he was asleep. + +“Then it will be necessary to waken him and take him with us,” said the +renegade, “and everything of value in this fair mansion.” + +“Nay,” said she, “my father must not on any account be touched, and +there is nothing in the house except what I shall take, and that will +be quite enough to enrich and satisfy all of you; wait a little and you +shall see,” and so saying she went in, telling us she would return +immediately and bidding us keep quiet without making any noise. + +I asked the renegade what had passed between them, and when he told me, +I declared that nothing should be done except in accordance with the +wishes of Zoraida, who now came back with a little trunk so full of +gold crowns that she could scarcely carry it. Unfortunately her father +awoke while this was going on, and hearing a noise in the garden, came +to the window, and at once perceiving that all those who were there +were Christians, raising a prodigiously loud outcry, he began to call +out in Arabic, “Christians, Christians! thieves, thieves!” by which +cries we were all thrown into the greatest fear and embarrassment; but +the renegade seeing the danger we were in and how important it was for +him to effect his purpose before we were heard, mounted with the utmost +quickness to where Hadji Morato was, and with him went some of our +party; I, however, did not dare to leave Zoraida, who had fallen almost +fainting in my arms. To be brief, those who had gone upstairs acted so +promptly that in an instant they came down, carrying Hadji Morato with +his hands bound and a napkin tied over his mouth, which prevented him +from uttering a word, warning him at the same time that to attempt to +speak would cost him his life. When his daughter caught sight of him +she covered her eyes so as not to see him, and her father was +horror-stricken, not knowing how willingly she had placed herself in +our hands. But it was now most essential for us to be on the move, and +carefully and quickly we regained the vessel, where those who had +remained on board were waiting for us in apprehension of some mishap +having befallen us. It was barely two hours after night set in when we +were all on board the vessel, where the cords were removed from the +hands of Zoraida’s father, and the napkin from his mouth; but the +renegade once more told him not to utter a word, or they would take his +life. He, when he saw his daughter there, began to sigh piteously, and +still more when he perceived that I held her closely embraced and that +she lay quiet without resisting or complaining, or showing any +reluctance; nevertheless he remained silent lest they should carry into +effect the repeated threats the renegade had addressed to him. + +Finding herself now on board, and that we were about to give way with +the oars, Zoraida, seeing her father there, and the other Moors bound, +bade the renegade ask me to do her the favour of releasing the Moors +and setting her father at liberty, for she would rather drown herself +in the sea than suffer a father that had loved her so dearly to be +carried away captive before her eyes and on her account. The renegade +repeated this to me, and I replied that I was very willing to do so; +but he replied that it was not advisable, because if they were left +there they would at once raise the country and stir up the city, and +lead to the despatch of swift cruisers in pursuit, and our being taken, +by sea or land, without any possibility of escape; and that all that +could be done was to set them free on the first Christian ground we +reached. On this point we all agreed; and Zoraida, to whom it was +explained, together with the reasons that prevented us from doing at +once what she desired, was satisfied likewise; and then in glad silence +and with cheerful alacrity each of our stout rowers took his oar, and +commending ourselves to God with all our hearts, we began to shape our +course for the island of Majorca, the nearest Christian land. Owing, +however, to the Tramontana rising a little, and the sea growing +somewhat rough, it was impossible for us to keep a straight course for +Majorca, and we were compelled to coast in the direction of Oran, not +without great uneasiness on our part lest we should be observed from +the town of Shershel, which lies on that coast, not more than sixty +miles from Algiers. Moreover we were afraid of meeting on that course +one of the galliots that usually come with goods from Tetuan; although +each of us for himself and all of us together felt confident that, if +we were to meet a merchant galliot, so that it were not a cruiser, not +only should we not be lost, but that we should take a vessel in which +we could more safely accomplish our voyage. As we pursued our course +Zoraida kept her head between my hands so as not to see her father, and +I felt that she was praying to Lela Marien to help us. + + + +c41d.jpg (266K) + +Full Size + + + + +We might have made about thirty miles when daybreak found us some three +musket-shots off the land, which seemed to us deserted, and without +anyone to see us. For all that, however, by hard rowing we put out a +little to sea, for it was now somewhat calmer, and having gained about +two leagues the word was given to row by batches, while we ate +something, for the vessel was well provided; but the rowers said it was +not a time to take any rest; let food be served out to those who were +not rowing, but they would not leave their oars on any account. This +was done, but now a stiff breeze began to blow, which obliged us to +leave off rowing and make sail at once and steer for Oran, as it was +impossible to make any other course. All this was done very promptly, +and under sail we ran more than eight miles an hour without any fear, +except that of coming across some vessel out on a roving expedition. We +gave the Moorish rowers some food, and the renegade comforted them by +telling them that they were not held as captives, as we should set them +free on the first opportunity. + +The same was said to Zoraida’s father, who replied, “Anything else, +Christian, I might hope for or think likely from your generosity and +good behaviour, but do not think me so simple as to imagine you will +give me my liberty; for you would have never exposed yourselves to the +danger of depriving me of it only to restore it to me so generously, +especially as you know who I am and the sum you may expect to receive +on restoring it; and if you will only name that, I here offer you all +you require for myself and for my unhappy daughter there; or else for +her alone, for she is the greatest and most precious part of my soul.” + +As he said this he began to weep so bitterly that he filled us all with +compassion and forced Zoraida to look at him, and when she saw him +weeping she was so moved that she rose from my feet and ran to throw +her arms round him, and pressing her face to his, they both gave way to +such an outburst of tears that several of us were constrained to keep +them company. + +But when her father saw her in full dress and with all her jewels about +her, he said to her in his own language, “What means this, my daughter? +Last night, before this terrible misfortune in which we are plunged +befell us, I saw thee in thy everyday and indoor garments; and now, +without having had time to attire thyself, and without my bringing thee +any joyful tidings to furnish an occasion for adorning and bedecking +thyself, I see thee arrayed in the finest attire it would be in my +power to give thee when fortune was most kind to us. Answer me this; +for it causes me greater anxiety and surprise than even this misfortune +itself.” + +The renegade interpreted to us what the Moor said to his daughter; she, +however, returned him no answer. But when he observed in one corner of +the vessel the little trunk in which she used to keep her jewels, which +he well knew he had left in Algiers and had not brought to the garden, +he was still more amazed, and asked her how that trunk had come into +our hands, and what there was in it. To which the renegade, without +waiting for Zoraida to reply, made answer, “Do not trouble thyself by +asking thy daughter Zoraida so many questions, señor, for the one +answer I will give thee will serve for all; I would have thee know that +she is a Christian, and that it is she who has been the file for our +chains and our deliverer from captivity. She is here of her own free +will, as glad, I imagine, to find herself in this position as he who +escapes from darkness into the light, from death to life, and from +suffering to glory.” + +“Daughter, is this true, what he says?” cried the Moor. + +“It is,” replied Zoraida. + +“That thou art in truth a Christian,” said the old man, “and that thou +hast given thy father into the power of his enemies?” + +To which Zoraida made answer, “A Christian I am, but it is not I who +have placed thee in this position, for it never was my wish to leave +thee or do thee harm, but only to do good to myself.” + +“And what good hast thou done thyself, daughter?” said he. + +“Ask thou that,” said she, “of Lela Marien, for she can tell thee +better than I.” + +The Moor had hardly heard these words when with marvellous quickness he +flung himself headforemost into the sea, where no doubt he would have +been drowned had not the long and full dress he wore held him up for a +little on the surface of the water. Zoraida cried aloud to us to save +him, and we all hastened to help, and seizing him by his robe we drew +him in half drowned and insensible, at which Zoraida was in such +distress that she wept over him as piteously and bitterly as though he +were already dead. We turned him upon his face and he voided a great +quantity of water, and at the end of two hours came to himself. +Meanwhile, the wind having changed we were compelled to head for the +land, and ply our oars to avoid being driven on shore; but it was our +good fortune to reach a creek that lies on one side of a small +promontory or cape, called by the Moors that of the “Cava rumia,” which +in our language means “the wicked Christian woman;” for it is a +tradition among them that La Cava, through whom Spain was lost, lies +buried at that spot; “cava” in their language meaning “wicked woman,” +and “rumia” “Christian;” moreover, they count it unlucky to anchor +there when necessity compels them, and they never do so otherwise. For +us, however, it was not the resting-place of the wicked woman but a +haven of safety for our relief, so much had the sea now got up. We +posted a look-out on shore, and never let the oars out of our hands, +and ate of the stores the renegade had laid in, imploring God and Our +Lady with all our hearts to help and protect us, that we might give a +happy ending to a beginning so prosperous. At the entreaty of Zoraida +orders were given to set on shore her father and the other Moors who +were still bound, for she could not endure, nor could her tender heart +bear to see her father in bonds and her fellow-countrymen prisoners +before her eyes. We promised her to do this at the moment of departure, +for as it was uninhabited we ran no risk in releasing them at that +place. + +Our prayers were not so far in vain as to be unheard by Heaven, for +after a while the wind changed in our favour, and made the sea calm, +inviting us once more to resume our voyage with a good heart. Seeing +this we unbound the Moors, and one by one put them on shore, at which +they were filled with amazement; but when we came to land Zoraida’s +father, who had now completely recovered his senses, he said: + +“Why is it, think ye, Christians, that this wicked woman is rejoiced at +your giving me my liberty? Think ye it is because of the affection she +bears me? Nay verily, it is only because of the hindrance my presence +offers to the execution of her base designs. And think not that it is +her belief that yours is better than ours that has led her to change +her religion; it is only because she knows that immodesty is more +freely practised in your country than in ours.” Then turning to +Zoraida, while I and another of the Christians held him fast by both +arms, lest he should do some mad act, he said to her, “Infamous girl, +misguided maiden, whither in thy blindness and madness art thou going +in the hands of these dogs, our natural enemies? Cursed be the hour +when I begot thee! Cursed the luxury and indulgence in which I reared +thee!” + +But seeing that he was not likely soon to cease I made haste to put him +on shore, and thence he continued his maledictions and lamentations +aloud; calling on Mohammed to pray to Allah to destroy us, to confound +us, to make an end of us; and when, in consequence of having made sail, +we could no longer hear what he said we could see what he did; how he +plucked out his beard and tore his hair and lay writhing on the ground. +But once he raised his voice to such a pitch that we were able to hear +what he said. “Come back, dear daughter, come back to shore; I forgive +thee all; let those men have the money, for it is theirs now, and come +back to comfort thy sorrowing father, who will yield up his life on +this barren strand if thou dost leave him.” + + + +c41e.jpg (281K) + +Full Size + + + + +All this Zoraida heard, and heard with sorrow and tears, and all she +could say in answer was, “Allah grant that Lela Marien, who has made me +become a Christian, give thee comfort in thy sorrow, my father. Allah +knows that I could not do otherwise than I have done, and that these +Christians owe nothing to my will; for even had I wished not to +accompany them, but remain at home, it would have been impossible for +me, so eagerly did my soul urge me on to the accomplishment of this +purpose, which I feel to be as righteous as to thee, dear father, it +seems wicked.” + +But neither could her father hear her nor we see him when she said +this; and so, while I consoled Zoraida, we turned our attention to our +voyage, in which a breeze from the right point so favoured us that we +made sure of finding ourselves off the coast of Spain on the morrow by +daybreak. But, as good seldom or never comes pure and unmixed, without +being attended or followed by some disturbing evil that gives a shock +to it, our fortune, or perhaps the curses which the Moor had hurled at +his daughter (for whatever kind of father they may come from these are +always to be dreaded), brought it about that when we were now in +mid-sea, and the night about three hours spent, as we were running with +all sail set and oars lashed, for the favouring breeze saved us the +trouble of using them, we saw by the light of the moon, which shone +brilliantly, a square-rigged vessel in full sail close to us, luffing +up and standing across our course, and so close that we had to strike +sail to avoid running foul of her, while they too put the helm hard up +to let us pass. They came to the side of the ship to ask who we were, +whither we were bound, and whence we came, but as they asked this in +French our renegade said, “Let no one answer, for no doubt these are +French corsairs who plunder all comers.” + + + +c41f.jpg (268K) + +Full Size + + + + +Acting on this warning no one answered a word, but after we had gone a +little ahead, and the vessel was now lying to leeward, suddenly they +fired two guns, and apparently both loaded with chain-shot, for with +one they cut our mast in half and brought down both it and the sail +into the sea, and the other, discharged at the same moment, sent a ball +into our vessel amidships, staving her in completely, but without doing +any further damage. We, however, finding ourselves sinking began to +shout for help and call upon those in the ship to pick us up as we were +beginning to fill. They then lay to, and lowering a skiff or boat, as +many as a dozen Frenchmen, well armed with match-locks, and their +matches burning, got into it and came alongside; and seeing how few we +were, and that our vessel was going down, they took us in, telling us +that this had come to us through our incivility in not giving them an +answer. Our renegade took the trunk containing Zoraida’s wealth and +dropped it into the sea without anyone perceiving what he did. In short +we went on board with the Frenchmen, who, after having ascertained all +they wanted to know about us, rifled us of everything we had, as if +they had been our bitterest enemies, and from Zoraida they took even +the anklets she wore on her feet; but the distress they caused her did +not distress me so much as the fear I was in that from robbing her of +her rich and precious jewels they would proceed to rob her of the most +precious jewel that she valued more than all. The desires, however, of +those people do not go beyond money, but of that their covetousness is +insatiable, and on this occasion it was carried to such a pitch that +they would have taken even the clothes we wore as captives if they had +been worth anything to them. It was the advice of some of them to throw +us all into the sea wrapped up in a sail; for their purpose was to +trade at some of the ports of Spain, giving themselves out as Bretons, +and if they brought us alive they would be punished as soon as the +robbery was discovered; but the captain (who was the one who had +plundered my beloved Zoraida) said he was satisfied with the prize he +had got, and that he would not touch at any Spanish port, but pass the +Straits of Gibraltar by night, or as best he could, and make for La +Rochelle, from which he had sailed. So they agreed by common consent to +give us the skiff belonging to their ship and all we required for the +short voyage that remained to us, and this they did the next day on +coming in sight of the Spanish coast, with which, and the joy we felt, +all our sufferings and miseries were as completely forgotten as if they +had never been endured by us, such is the delight of recovering lost +liberty. + +It may have been about mid-day when they placed us in the boat, giving +us two kegs of water and some biscuit; and the captain, moved by I know +not what compassion, as the lovely Zoraida was about to embark, gave +her some forty gold crowns, and would not permit his men to take from +her those same garments which she has on now. We got into the boat, +returning them thanks for their kindness to us, and showing ourselves +grateful rather than indignant. They stood out to sea, steering for the +straits; we, without looking to any compass save the land we had before +us, set ourselves to row with such energy that by sunset we were so +near that we might easily, we thought, land before the night was far +advanced. But as the moon did not show that night, and the sky was +clouded, and as we knew not whereabouts we were, it did not seem to us +a prudent thing to make for the shore, as several of us advised, saying +we ought to run ourselves ashore even if it were on rocks and far from +any habitation, for in this way we should be relieved from the +apprehensions we naturally felt of the prowling vessels of the Tetuan +corsairs, who leave Barbary at nightfall and are on the Spanish coast +by daybreak, where they commonly take some prize, and then go home to +sleep in their own houses. But of the conflicting counsels the one +which was adopted was that we should approach gradually, and land where +we could if the sea were calm enough to permit us. This was done, and a +little before midnight we drew near to the foot of a huge and lofty +mountain, not so close to the sea but that it left a narrow space on +which to land conveniently. We ran our boat up on the sand, and all +sprang out and kissed the ground, and with tears of joyful satisfaction +returned thanks to God our Lord for all his incomparable goodness to us +on our voyage. We took out of the boat the provisions it contained, and +drew it up on the shore, and then climbed a long way up the mountain, +for even there we could not feel easy in our hearts, or persuade +ourselves that it was Christian soil that was now under our feet. + +The dawn came, more slowly, I think, than we could have wished; we +completed the ascent in order to see if from the summit any habitation +or any shepherds’ huts could be discovered, but strain our eyes as we +might, neither dwelling, nor human being, nor path nor road could we +perceive. However, we determined to push on farther, as it could not +but be that ere long we must see someone who could tell us where we +were. But what distressed me most was to see Zoraida going on foot over +that rough ground; for though I once carried her on my shoulders, she +was more wearied by my weariness than rested by the rest; and so she +would never again allow me to undergo the exertion, and went on very +patiently and cheerfully, while I led her by the hand. We had gone +rather less than a quarter of a league when the sound of a little bell +fell on our ears, a clear proof that there were flocks hard by, and +looking about carefully to see if any were within view, we observed a +young shepherd tranquilly and unsuspiciously trimming a stick with his +knife at the foot of a cork tree. We called to him, and he, raising his +head, sprang nimbly to his feet, for, as we afterwards learned, the +first who presented themselves to his sight were the renegade and +Zoraida, and seeing them in Moorish dress he imagined that all the +Moors of Barbary were upon him; and plunging with marvellous swiftness +into the thicket in front of him, he began to raise a prodigious +outcry, exclaiming, “The Moors—the Moors have landed! To arms, to +arms!” We were all thrown into perplexity by these cries, not knowing +what to do; but reflecting that the shouts of the shepherd would raise +the country and that the mounted coast-guard would come at once to see +what was the matter, we agreed that the renegade must strip off his +Turkish garments and put on a captive’s jacket or coat which one of our +party gave him at once, though he himself was reduced to his shirt; and +so commending ourselves to God, we followed the same road which we saw +the shepherd take, expecting every moment that the coast-guard would be +down upon us. Nor did our expectation deceive us, for two hours had not +passed when, coming out of the brushwood into the open ground, we +perceived some fifty mounted men swiftly approaching us at a +hand-gallop. As soon as we saw them we stood still, waiting for them; +but as they came close and, instead of the Moors they were in quest of, +saw a set of poor Christians, they were taken aback, and one of them +asked if it could be we who were the cause of the shepherd having +raised the call to arms. I said “Yes,” and as I was about to explain to +him what had occurred, and whence we came and who we were, one of the +Christians of our party recognised the horseman who had put the +question to us, and before I could say anything more he exclaimed: + +“Thanks be to God, sirs, for bringing us to such good quarters; for, if +I do not deceive myself, the ground we stand on is that of Velez Malaga +unless, indeed, all my years of captivity have made me unable to +recollect that you, señor, who ask who we are, are Pedro de Bustamante, +my uncle.” + +The Christian captive had hardly uttered these words, when the horseman +threw himself off his horse, and ran to embrace the young man, crying: + +“Nephew of my soul and life! I recognise thee now; and long have I +mourned thee as dead, I, and my sister, thy mother, and all thy kin +that are still alive, and whom God has been pleased to preserve that +they may enjoy the happiness of seeing thee. We knew long since that +thou wert in Algiers, and from the appearance of thy garments and those +of all this company, I conclude that ye have had a miraculous +restoration to liberty.” + +“It is true,” replied the young man, “and by-and-by we will tell you +all.” + +As soon as the horsemen understood that we were Christian captives, +they dismounted from their horses, and each offered his to carry us to +the city of Velez Malaga, which was a league and a half distant. Some +of them went to bring the boat to the city, we having told them where +we had left it; others took us up behind them, and Zoraida was placed +on the horse of the young man’s uncle. The whole town came out to meet +us, for they had by this time heard of our arrival from one who had +gone on in advance. They were not astonished to see liberated captives +or captive Moors, for people on that coast are well used to see both +one and the other; but they were astonished at the beauty of Zoraida, +which was just then heightened, as well by the exertion of travelling +as by joy at finding herself on Christian soil, and relieved of all +fear of being lost; for this had brought such a glow upon her face, +that unless my affection for her were deceiving me, I would venture to +say that there was not a more beautiful creature in the world—at least, +that I had ever seen. We went straight to the church to return thanks +to God for the mercies we had received, and when Zoraida entered it she +said there were faces there like Lela Marien’s. We told her they were +her images; and as well as he could the renegade explained to her what +they meant, that she might adore them as if each of them were the very +same Lela Marien that had spoken to her; and she, having great +intelligence and a quick and clear instinct, understood at once all he +said to her about them. Thence they took us away and distributed us all +in different houses in the town; but as for the renegade, Zoraida, and +myself, the Christian who came with us brought us to the house of his +parents, who had a fair share of the gifts of fortune, and treated us +with as much kindness as they did their own son. + +We remained six days in Velez, at the end of which the renegade, having +informed himself of all that was requisite for him to do, set out for +the city of Granada to restore himself to the sacred bosom of the +Church through the medium of the Holy Inquisition. The other released +captives took their departures, each the way that seemed best to him, +and Zoraida and I were left alone, with nothing more than the crowns +which the courtesy of the Frenchman had bestowed upon Zoraida, out of +which I bought the beast on which she rides; and, I for the present +attending her as her father and squire and not as her husband, we are +now going to ascertain if my father is living, or if any of my brothers +has had better fortune than mine has been; though, as Heaven has made +me the companion of Zoraida, I think no other lot could be assigned to +me, however happy, that I would rather have. The patience with which +she endures the hardships that poverty brings with it, and the +eagerness she shows to become a Christian, are such that they fill me +with admiration, and bind me to serve her all my life; though the +happiness I feel in seeing myself hers, and her mine, is disturbed and +marred by not knowing whether I shall find any corner to shelter her in +my own country, or whether time and death may not have made such +changes in the fortunes and lives of my father and brothers, that I +shall hardly find anyone who knows me, if they are not alive. + +I have no more of my story to tell you, gentlemen; whether it be an +interesting or a curious one let your better judgments decide; all I +can say is I would gladly have told it to you more briefly; although my +fear of wearying you has made me leave out more than one circumstance. + + + +c41g.jpg (33K) + + + +CHAPTER XLII. +WHICH TREATS OF WHAT FURTHER TOOK PLACE IN THE INN, AND OF SEVERAL +OTHER THINGS WORTH KNOWING + + + + +c42a.jpg (139K) + +Full Size + + + + +With these words the captive held his peace, and Don Fernando said to +him, “In truth, captain, the manner in which you have related this +remarkable adventure has been such as befitted the novelty and +strangeness of the matter. The whole story is curious and uncommon, and +abounds with incidents that fill the hearers with wonder and +astonishment; and so great is the pleasure we have found in listening +to it that we should be glad if it were to begin again, even though +to-morrow were to find us still occupied with the same tale.” And while +he said this Cardenio and the rest of them offered to be of service to +him in any way that lay in their power, and in words and language so +kindly and sincere that the captain was much gratified by their +good-will. In particular Don Fernando offered, if he would go back with +him, to get his brother the marquis to become godfather at the baptism +of Zoraida, and on his own part to provide him with the means of making +his appearance in his own country with the credit and comfort he was +entitled to. For all this the captive returned thanks very courteously, +although he would not accept any of their generous offers. + +By this time night closed in, and as it did, there came up to the inn a +coach attended by some men on horseback, who demanded accommodation; to +which the landlady replied that there was not a hand’s breadth of the +whole inn unoccupied. + +“Still, for all that,” said one of those who had entered on horseback, +“room must be found for his lordship the Judge here.” + +At this name the landlady was taken aback, and said, “Señor, the fact +is I have no beds; but if his lordship the Judge carries one with him, +as no doubt he does, let him come in and welcome; for my husband and I +will give up our room to accommodate his worship.” + +“Very good, so be it,” said the squire; but in the meantime a man had +got out of the coach whose dress indicated at a glance the office and +post he held, for the long robe with ruffled sleeves that he wore +showed that he was, as his servant said, a Judge of appeal. He led by +the hand a young girl in a travelling dress, apparently about sixteen +years of age, and of such a high-bred air, so beautiful and so +graceful, that all were filled with admiration when she made her +appearance, and but for having seen Dorothea, Luscinda, and Zoraida, +who were there in the inn, they would have fancied that a beauty like +that of this maiden’s would have been hard to find. Don Quixote was +present at the entrance of the Judge with the young lady, and as soon +as he saw him he said, “Your worship may with confidence enter and take +your ease in this castle; for though the accommodation be scanty and +poor, there are no quarters so cramped or inconvenient that they cannot +make room for arms and letters; above all if arms and letters have +beauty for a guide and leader, as letters represented by your worship +have in this fair maiden, to whom not only ought castles to throw +themselves open and yield themselves up, but rocks should rend +themselves asunder and mountains divide and bow themselves down to give +her a reception. Enter, your worship, I say, into this paradise, for +here you will find stars and suns to accompany the heaven your worship +brings with you, here you will find arms in their supreme excellence, +and beauty in its highest perfection.” + +The Judge was struck with amazement at the language of Don Quixote, +whom he scrutinized very carefully, no less astonished by his figure +than by his talk; and before he could find words to answer him he had a +fresh surprise, when he saw opposite to him Luscinda, Dorothea, and +Zoraida, who, having heard of the new guests and of the beauty of the +young lady, had come to see her and welcome her; Don Fernando, +Cardenio, and the curate, however, greeted him in a more intelligible +and polished style. In short, the Judge made his entrance in a state of +bewilderment, as well with what he saw as what he heard, and the fair +ladies of the inn gave the fair damsel a cordial welcome. On the whole +he could perceive that all who were there were people of quality; but +with the figure, countenance, and bearing of Don Quixote he was at his +wits’ end; and all civilities having been exchanged, and the +accommodation of the inn inquired into, it was settled, as it had been +before settled, that all the women should retire to the garret that has +been already mentioned, and that the men should remain outside as if to +guard them; the Judge, therefore, was very well pleased to allow his +daughter, for such the damsel was, to go with the ladies, which she did +very willingly; and with part of the host’s narrow bed and half of what +the Judge had brought with him, they made a more comfortable +arrangement for the night than they had expected. + +The captive, whose heart had leaped within him the instant he saw the +Judge, telling him somehow that this was his brother, asked one of the +servants who accompanied him what his name was, and whether he knew +from what part of the country he came. The servant replied that he was +called the Licentiate Juan Perez de Viedma, and that he had heard it +said he came from a village in the mountains of Leon. From this +statement, and what he himself had seen, he felt convinced that this +was his brother who had adopted letters by his father’s advice; and +excited and rejoiced, he called Don Fernando and Cardenio and the +curate aside, and told them how the matter stood, assuring them that +the judge was his brother. The servant had further informed him that he +was now going to the Indies with the appointment of Judge of the +Supreme Court of Mexico; and he had learned, likewise, that the young +lady was his daughter, whose mother had died in giving birth to her, +and that he was very rich in consequence of the dowry left to him with +the daughter. He asked their advice as to what means he should adopt to +make himself known, or to ascertain beforehand whether, when he had +made himself known, his brother, seeing him so poor, would be ashamed +of him, or would receive him with a warm heart. + +“Leave it to me to find out that,” said the curate; “though there is no +reason for supposing, señor captain, that you will not be kindly +received, because the worth and wisdom that your brother’s bearing +shows him to possess do not make it likely that he will prove haughty +or insensible, or that he will not know how to estimate the accidents +of fortune at their proper value.” + +“Still,” said the captain, “I would not make myself known abruptly, but +in some indirect way.” + +“I have told you already,” said the curate, “that I will manage it in a +way to satisfy us all.” + +By this time supper was ready, and they all took their seats at the +table, except the captive, and the ladies, who supped by themselves in +their own room. In the middle of supper the curate said: + +“I had a comrade of your worship’s name, Señor Judge, in +Constantinople, where I was a captive for several years, and that same +comrade was one of the stoutest soldiers and captains in the whole +Spanish infantry; but he had as large a share of misfortune as he had +of gallantry and courage.” + +“And how was the captain called, señor?” asked the Judge. + +“He was called Ruy Perez de Viedma,” replied the curate, “and he was +born in a village in the mountains of Leon; and he mentioned a +circumstance connected with his father and his brothers which, had it +not been told me by so truthful a man as he was, I should have set down +as one of those fables the old women tell over the fire in winter; for +he said his father had divided his property among his three sons and +had addressed words of advice to them sounder than any of Cato’s. But I +can say this much, that the choice he made of going to the wars was +attended with such success, that by his gallant conduct and courage, +and without any help save his own merit, he rose in a few years to be +captain of infantry, and to see himself on the high-road and in +position to be given the command of a corps before long; but Fortune +was against him, for where he might have expected her favour he lost +it, and with it his liberty, on that glorious day when so many +recovered theirs, at the battle of Lepanto. I lost mine at the Goletta, +and after a variety of adventures we found ourselves comrades at +Constantinople. Thence he went to Algiers, where he met with one of the +most extraordinary adventures that ever befell anyone in the world.” + +Here the curate went on to relate briefly his brother’s adventure with +Zoraida; to all which the Judge gave such an attentive hearing that he +never before had been so much of a hearer. The curate, however, only +went so far as to describe how the Frenchmen plundered those who were +in the boat, and the poverty and distress in which his comrade and the +fair Moor were left, of whom he said he had not been able to learn what +became of them, or whether they had reached Spain, or been carried to +France by the Frenchmen. + +The captain, standing a little to one side, was listening to all the +curate said, and watching every movement of his brother, who, as soon +as he perceived the curate had made an end of his story, gave a deep +sigh and said with his eyes full of tears, “Oh, señor, if you only knew +what news you have given me and how it comes home to me, making me show +how I feel it with these tears that spring from my eyes in spite of all +my worldly wisdom and self-restraint! That brave captain that you speak +of is my eldest brother, who, being of a bolder and loftier mind than +my other brother or myself, chose the honourable and worthy calling of +arms, which was one of the three careers our father proposed to us, as +your comrade mentioned in that fable you thought he was telling you. I +followed that of letters, in which God and my own exertions have raised +me to the position in which you see me. My second brother is in Peru, +so wealthy that with what he has sent to my father and to me he has +fully repaid the portion he took with him, and has even furnished my +father’s hands with the means of gratifying his natural generosity, +while I too have been enabled to pursue my studies in a more becoming +and creditable fashion, and so to attain my present standing. My father +is still alive, though dying with anxiety to hear of his eldest son, +and he prays God unceasingly that death may not close his eyes until he +has looked upon those of his son; but with regard to him what surprises +me is, that having so much common sense as he had, he should have +neglected to give any intelligence about himself, either in his +troubles and sufferings, or in his prosperity, for if his father or any +of us had known of his condition he need not have waited for that +miracle of the reed to obtain his ransom; but what now disquiets me is +the uncertainty whether those Frenchmen may have restored him to +liberty, or murdered him to hide the robbery. All this will make me +continue my journey, not with the satisfaction in which I began it, but +in the deepest melancholy and sadness. Oh dear brother! that I only +knew where thou art now, and I would hasten to seek thee out and +deliver thee from thy sufferings, though it were to cost me suffering +myself! Oh that I could bring news to our old father that thou art +alive, even wert thou in the deepest dungeon of Barbary; for his wealth +and my brother’s and mine would rescue thee thence! Oh beautiful and +generous Zoraida, that I could repay thy goodness to a brother! That I +could be present at the new birth of thy soul, and at thy bridal that +would give us all such happiness!” + +All this and more the Judge uttered with such deep emotion at the news +he had received of his brother that all who heard him shared in it, +showing their sympathy with his sorrow. The curate, seeing, then, how +well he had succeeded in carrying out his purpose and the captain’s +wishes, had no desire to keep them unhappy any longer, so he rose from +the table and going into the room where Zoraida was he took her by the +hand, Luscinda, Dorothea, and the Judge’s daughter following her. The +captain was waiting to see what the curate would do, when the latter, +taking him with the other hand, advanced with both of them to where the +Judge and the other gentlemen were and said, “Let your tears cease to +flow, Señor Judge, and the wish of your heart be gratified as fully as +you could desire, for you have before you your worthy brother and your +good sister-in-law. He whom you see here is the Captain Viedma, and +this is the fair Moor who has been so good to him. The Frenchmen I told +you of have reduced them to the state of poverty you see that you may +show the generosity of your kind heart.” + +The captain ran to embrace his brother, who placed both hands on his +breast so as to have a good look at him, holding him a little way off +but as soon as he had fully recognised him he clasped him in his arms +so closely, shedding such tears of heartfelt joy, that most of those +present could not but join in them. The words the brothers exchanged, +the emotion they showed can scarcely be imagined, I fancy, much less +put down in writing. They told each other in a few words the events of +their lives; they showed the true affection of brothers in all its +strength; then the judge embraced Zoraida, putting all he possessed at +her disposal; then he made his daughter embrace her, and the fair +Christian and the lovely Moor drew fresh tears from every eye. And +there was Don Quixote observing all these strange proceedings +attentively without uttering a word, and attributing the whole to +chimeras of knight-errantry. Then they agreed that the captain and +Zoraida should return with his brother to Seville, and send news to his +father of his having been delivered and found, so as to enable him to +come and be present at the marriage and baptism of Zoraida, for it was +impossible for the Judge to put off his journey, as he was informed +that in a month from that time the fleet was to sail from Seville for +New Spain, and to miss the passage would have been a great +inconvenience to him. In short, everybody was well pleased and glad at +the captive’s good fortune; and as now almost two-thirds of the night +were past, they resolved to retire to rest for the remainder of it. Don +Quixote offered to mount guard over the castle lest they should be +attacked by some giant or other malevolent scoundrel, covetous of the +great treasure of beauty the castle contained. Those who understood him +returned him thanks for this service, and they gave the Judge an +account of his extraordinary humour, with which he was not a little +amused. Sancho Panza alone was fuming at the lateness of the hour for +retiring to rest; and he of all was the one that made himself most +comfortable, as he stretched himself on the trappings of his ass, +which, as will be told farther on, cost him so dear. + +The ladies, then, having retired to their chamber, and the others +having disposed themselves with as little discomfort as they could, Don +Quixote sallied out of the inn to act as sentinel of the castle as he +had promised. It happened, however, that a little before the approach +of dawn a voice so musical and sweet reached the ears of the ladies +that it forced them all to listen attentively, but especially Dorothea, +who had been awake, and by whose side Doña Clara de Viedma, for so the +Judge’s daughter was called, lay sleeping. No one could imagine who it +was that sang so sweetly, and the voice was unaccompanied by any +instrument. At one moment it seemed to them as if the singer were in +the courtyard, at another in the stable; and as they were all +attention, wondering, Cardenio came to the door and said, “Listen, +whoever is not asleep, and you will hear a muleteer’s voice that +enchants as it chants.” + +“We are listening to it already, señor,” said Dorothea; on which +Cardenio went away; and Dorothea, giving all her attention to it, made +out the words of the song to be these: + + + +c42e.jpg (11K) + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. +WHEREIN IS RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE MULETEER, TOGETHER WITH +OTHER STRANGE THINGS THAT CAME TO PASS IN THE INN + + + + +c43a.jpg (127K) + +Full Size + + + + +Ah me, Love’s mariner am I +On Love’s deep ocean sailing; +I know not where the haven lies, +I dare not hope to gain it. + +One solitary distant star +Is all I have to guide me, +A brighter orb than those of old +That Palinurus lighted. + +And vaguely drifting am I borne, +I know not where it leads me; +I fix my gaze on it alone, +Of all beside it heedless. + +But over-cautious prudery, +And coyness cold and cruel, +When most I need it, these, like clouds, +Its longed-for light refuse me. + +Bright star, goal of my yearning eyes +As thou above me beamest, +When thou shalt hide thee from my sight +I’ll know that death is near me. + + +The singer had got so far when it struck Dorothea that it was not fair +to let Clara miss hearing such a sweet voice, so, shaking her from side +to side, she woke her, saying: + +“Forgive me, child, for waking thee, but I do so that thou mayest have +the pleasure of hearing the best voice thou hast ever heard, perhaps, +in all thy life.” + +Clara awoke quite drowsy, and not understanding at the moment what +Dorothea said, asked her what it was; she repeated what she had said, +and Clara became attentive at once; but she had hardly heard two lines, +as the singer continued, when a strange trembling seized her, as if she +were suffering from a severe attack of quartan ague, and throwing her +arms round Dorothea she said: + +“Ah, dear lady of my soul and life! why did you wake me? The greatest +kindness fortune could do me now would be to close my eyes and ears so +as neither to see or hear that unhappy musician.” + +“What art thou talking about, child?” said Dorothea. “Why, they say +this singer is a muleteer!” + +“Nay, he is the lord of many places,” replied Clara, “and that one in +my heart which he holds so firmly shall never be taken from him, unless +he be willing to surrender it.” + +Dorothea was amazed at the ardent language of the girl, for it seemed +to be far beyond such experience of life as her tender years gave any +promise of, so she said to her: + +“You speak in such a way that I cannot understand you, Señora Clara; +explain yourself more clearly, and tell me what is this you are saying +about hearts and places and this musician whose voice has so moved you? +But do not tell me anything now; I do not want to lose the pleasure I +get from listening to the singer by giving my attention to your +transports, for I perceive he is beginning to sing a new strain and a +new air.” + +“Let him, in Heaven’s name,” returned Clara; and not to hear him she +stopped both ears with her hands, at which Dorothea was again +surprised; but turning her attention to the song she found that it ran +in this fashion: + +Sweet Hope, my stay, +That onward to the goal of thy intent +Dost make thy way, +Heedless of hindrance or impediment, +Have thou no fear +If at each step thou findest death is near. + +No victory, +No joy of triumph doth the faint heart know; +Unblest is he +That a bold front to Fortune dares not show, +But soul and sense +In bondage yieldeth up to indolence. + +If Love his wares +Do dearly sell, his right must be contest; +What gold compares +With that whereon his stamp he hath imprest? +And all men know +What costeth little that we rate but low. + +Love resolute +Knows not the word “impossibility;” +And though my suit +Beset by endless obstacles I see, +Yet no despair +Shall hold me bound to earth while heaven is there. + + +Here the voice ceased and Clara’s sobs began afresh, all which excited +Dorothea’s curiosity to know what could be the cause of singing so +sweet and weeping so bitter, so she again asked her what it was she was +going to say before. On this Clara, afraid that Luscinda might overhear +her, winding her arms tightly round Dorothea put her mouth so close to +her ear that she could speak without fear of being heard by anyone +else, and said: + +“This singer, dear señora, is the son of a gentleman of Aragon, lord of +two villages, who lives opposite my father’s house at Madrid; and +though my father had curtains to the windows of his house in winter, +and lattice-work in summer, in some way—I know not how—this gentleman, +who was pursuing his studies, saw me, whether in church or elsewhere, I +cannot tell, and, in fact, fell in love with me, and gave me to know it +from the windows of his house, with so many signs and tears that I was +forced to believe him, and even to love him, without knowing what it +was he wanted of me. One of the signs he used to make me was to link +one hand in the other, to show me he wished to marry me; and though I +should have been glad if that could be, being alone and motherless I +knew not whom to open my mind to, and so I left it as it was, showing +him no favour, except when my father, and his too, were from home, to +raise the curtain or the lattice a little and let him see me plainly, +at which he would show such delight that he seemed as if he were going +mad. Meanwhile the time for my father’s departure arrived, which he +became aware of, but not from me, for I had never been able to tell him +of it. He fell sick, of grief I believe, and so the day we were going +away I could not see him to take farewell of him, were it only with the +eyes. But after we had been two days on the road, on entering the +posada of a village a day’s journey from this, I saw him at the inn +door in the dress of a muleteer, and so well disguised, that if I did +not carry his image graven on my heart it would have been impossible +for me to recognise him. But I knew him, and I was surprised, and glad; +he watched me, unsuspected by my father, from whom he always hides +himself when he crosses my path on the road, or in the posadas where we +halt; and, as I know what he is, and reflect that for love of me he +makes this journey on foot in all this hardship, I am ready to die of +sorrow; and where he sets foot there I set my eyes. I know not with +what object he has come; or how he could have got away from his father, +who loves him beyond measure, having no other heir, and because he +deserves it, as you will perceive when you see him. And moreover, I can +tell you, all that he sings is out of his own head; for I have heard +them say he is a great scholar and poet; and what is more, every time I +see him or hear him sing I tremble all over, and am terrified lest my +father should recognise him and come to know of our loves. I have never +spoken a word to him in my life; and for all that I love him so that I +could not live without him. This, dear señora, is all I have to tell +you about the musician whose voice has delighted you so much; and from +it alone you might easily perceive he is no muleteer, but a lord of +hearts and towns, as I told you already.” + +“Say no more, Doña Clara,” said Dorothea at this, at the same time +kissing her a thousand times over, “say no more, I tell you, but wait +till day comes; when I trust in God to arrange this affair of yours so +that it may have the happy ending such an innocent beginning deserves.” + +“Ah, señora,” said Doña Clara, “what end can be hoped for when his +father is of such lofty position, and so wealthy, that he would think I +was not fit to be even a servant to his son, much less wife? And as to +marrying without the knowledge of my father, I would not do it for all +the world. I would not ask anything more than that this youth should go +back and leave me; perhaps with not seeing him, and the long distance +we shall have to travel, the pain I suffer now may become easier; +though I daresay the remedy I propose will do me very little good. I +don’t know how the devil this has come about, or how this love I have +for him got in; I such a young girl, and he such a mere boy; for I +verily believe we are both of an age, and I am not sixteen yet; for I +will be sixteen Michaelmas Day, next, my father says.” + +Dorothea could not help laughing to hear how like a child Doña Clara +spoke. “Let us go to sleep now, señora,” said she, “for the little of +the night that I fancy is left to us: God will soon send us daylight, +and we will set all to rights, or it will go hard with me.” + +With this they fell asleep, and deep silence reigned all through the +inn. The only persons not asleep were the landlady’s daughter and her +servant Maritornes, who, knowing the weak point of Don Quixote’s +humour, and that he was outside the inn mounting guard in armour and on +horseback, resolved, the pair of them, to play some trick upon him, or +at any rate to amuse themselves for a while by listening to his +nonsense. As it so happened there was not a window in the whole inn +that looked outwards except a hole in the wall of a straw-loft through +which they used to throw out the straw. At this hole the two +demi-damsels posted themselves, and observed Don Quixote on his horse, +leaning on his pike and from time to time sending forth such deep and +doleful sighs, that he seemed to pluck up his soul by the roots with +each of them; and they could hear him, too, saying in a soft, tender, +loving tone, “Oh my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, perfection of all beauty, +summit and crown of discretion, treasure house of grace, depositary of +virtue, and finally, ideal of all that is good, honourable, and +delectable in this world! What is thy grace doing now? Art thou, +perchance, mindful of thy enslaved knight who of his own free will hath +exposed himself to so great perils, and all to serve thee? Give me +tidings of her, oh luminary of the three faces! Perhaps at this moment, +envious of hers, thou art regarding her, either as she paces to and fro +some gallery of her sumptuous palaces, or leans over some balcony, +meditating how, whilst preserving her purity and greatness, she may +mitigate the tortures this wretched heart of mine endures for her sake, +what glory should recompense my sufferings, what repose my toil, and +lastly what death my life, and what reward my services? And thou, oh +sun, that art now doubtless harnessing thy steeds in haste to rise +betimes and come forth to see my lady; when thou seest her I entreat of +thee to salute her on my behalf: but have a care, when thou shalt see +her and salute her, that thou kiss not her face; for I shall be more +jealous of thee than thou wert of that light-footed ingrate that made +thee sweat and run so on the plains of Thessaly, or on the banks of the +Peneus (for I do not exactly recollect where it was thou didst run on +that occasion) in thy jealousy and love.” + +Don Quixote had got so far in his pathetic speech when the landlady’s +daughter began to signal to him, saying, “Señor, come over here, +please.” + +At these signals and voice Don Quixote turned his head and saw by the +light of the moon, which then was in its full splendour, that someone +was calling to him from the hole in the wall, which seemed to him to be +a window, and what is more, with a gilt grating, as rich castles, such +as he believed the inn to be, ought to have; and it immediately +suggested itself to his imagination that, as on the former occasion, +the fair damsel, the daughter of the lady of the castle, overcome by +love for him, was once more endeavouring to win his affections; and +with this idea, not to show himself discourteous, or ungrateful, he +turned Rocinante’s head and approached the hole, and as he perceived +the two wenches he said: + +“I pity you, beauteous lady, that you should have directed your +thoughts of love to a quarter from whence it is impossible that such a +return can be made to you as is due to your great merit and gentle +birth, for which you must not blame this unhappy knight-errant whom +love renders incapable of submission to any other than her whom, the +first moment his eyes beheld her, he made absolute mistress of his +soul. Forgive me, noble lady, and retire to your apartment, and do not, +by any further declaration of your passion, compel me to show myself +more ungrateful; and if, of the love you bear me, you should find that +there is anything else in my power wherein I can gratify you, provided +it be not love itself, demand it of me; for I swear to you by that +sweet absent enemy of mine to grant it this instant, though it be that +you require of me a lock of Medusa’s hair, which was all snakes, or +even the very beams of the sun shut up in a vial.” + +“My mistress wants nothing of that sort, sir knight,” said Maritornes +at this. + +“What then, discreet dame, is it that your mistress wants?” replied Don +Quixote. + +“Only one of your fair hands,” said Maritornes, “to enable her to vent +over it the great passion, passion which has brought her to this +loophole, so much to the risk of her honour; for if the lord her father +had heard her, the least slice he would cut off her would be her ear.” + +“I should like to see that tried,” said Don Quixote; “but he had better +beware of that, if he does not want to meet the most disastrous end +that ever father in the world met for having laid hands on the tender +limbs of a love-stricken daughter.” + +Maritornes felt sure that Don Quixote would present the hand she had +asked, and making up her mind what to do, she got down from the hole +and went into the stable, where she took the halter of Sancho Panza’s +ass, and in all haste returned to the hole, just as Don Quixote had +planted himself standing on Rocinante’s saddle in order to reach the +grated window where he supposed the lovelorn damsel to be; and giving +her his hand, he said, “Lady, take this hand, or rather this scourge of +the evil-doers of the earth; take, I say, this hand which no other hand +of woman has ever touched, not even hers who has complete possession of +my entire body. I present it to you, not that you may kiss it, but that +you may observe the contexture of the sinews, the close network of the +muscles, the breadth and capacity of the veins, whence you may infer +what must be the strength of the arm that has such a hand.” + +“That we shall see presently,” said Maritornes, and making a running +knot on the halter, she passed it over his wrist and coming down from +the hole tied the other end very firmly to the bolt of the door of the +straw-loft. + +Don Quixote, feeling the roughness of the rope on his wrist, exclaimed, +“Your grace seems to be grating rather than caressing my hand; treat it +not so harshly, for it is not to blame for the offence my resolution +has given you, nor is it just to wreak all your vengeance on so small a +part; remember that one who loves so well should not revenge herself so +cruelly.” + +But there was nobody now to listen to these words of Don Quixote’s, for +as soon as Maritornes had tied him she and the other made off, ready to +die with laughing, leaving him fastened in such a way that it was +impossible for him to release himself. + +He was, as has been said, standing on Rocinante, with his arm passed +through the hole and his wrist tied to the bolt of the door, and in +mighty fear and dread of being left hanging by the arm if Rocinante +were to stir one side or the other; so he did not dare to make the +least movement, although from the patience and imperturbable +disposition of Rocinante, he had good reason to expect that he would +stand without budging for a whole century. Finding himself fast, then, +and that the ladies had retired, he began to fancy that all this was +done by enchantment, as on the former occasion when in that same castle +that enchanted Moor of a carrier had belaboured him; and he cursed in +his heart his own want of sense and judgment in venturing to enter the +castle again, after having come off so badly the first time; it being a +settled point with knights-errant that when they have tried an +adventure, and have not succeeded in it, it is a sign that it is not +reserved for them but for others, and that therefore they need not try +it again. Nevertheless he pulled his arm to see if he could release +himself, but it had been made so fast that all his efforts were in +vain. It is true he pulled it gently lest Rocinante should move, but +try as he might to seat himself in the saddle, he had nothing for it +but to stand upright or pull his hand off. Then it was he wished for +the sword of Amadis, against which no enchantment whatever had any +power; then he cursed his ill fortune; then he magnified the loss the +world would sustain by his absence while he remained there enchanted, +for that he believed he was beyond all doubt; then he once more took to +thinking of his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso; then he called to his +worthy squire Sancho Panza, who, buried in sleep and stretched upon the +pack-saddle of his ass, was oblivious, at that moment, of the mother +that bore him; then he called upon the sages Lirgandeo and Alquife to +come to his aid; then he invoked his good friend Urganda to succour +him; and then, at last, morning found him in such a state of +desperation and perplexity that he was bellowing like a bull, for he +had no hope that day would bring any relief to his suffering, which he +believed would last for ever, inasmuch as he was enchanted; and of this +he was convinced by seeing that Rocinante never stirred, much or +little, and he felt persuaded that he and his horse were to remain in +this state, without eating or drinking or sleeping, until the malign +influence of the stars was overpast, or until some other more sage +enchanter should disenchant him. + +But he was very much deceived in this conclusion, for daylight had +hardly begun to appear when there came up to the inn four men on +horseback, well equipped and accoutred, with firelocks across their +saddle-bows. They called out and knocked loudly at the gate of the inn, +which was still shut; on seeing which, Don Quixote, even there where he +was, did not forget to act as sentinel, and said in a loud and +imperious tone, “Knights, or squires, or whatever ye be, ye have no +right to knock at the gates of this castle; for it is plain enough that +they who are within are either asleep, or else are not in the habit of +throwing open the fortress until the sun’s rays are spread over the +whole surface of the earth. Withdraw to a distance, and wait till it is +broad daylight, and then we shall see whether it will be proper or not +to open to you.” + +“What the devil fortress or castle is this,” said one, “to make us +stand on such ceremony? If you are the innkeeper bid them open to us; +we are travellers who only want to feed our horses and go on, for we +are in haste.” + +“Do you think, gentlemen, that I look like an innkeeper?” said Don +Quixote. + +“I don’t know what you look like,” replied the other; “but I know that +you are talking nonsense when you call this inn a castle.” + +“A castle it is,” returned Don Quixote, “nay, more, one of the best in +this whole province, and it has within it people who have had the +sceptre in the hand and the crown on the head.” + +“It would be better if it were the other way,” said the traveller, “the +sceptre on the head and the crown in the hand; but if so, maybe there +is within some company of players, with whom it is a common thing to +have those crowns and sceptres you speak of; for in such a small inn as +this, and where such silence is kept, I do not believe any people +entitled to crowns and sceptres can have taken up their quarters.” + +“You know but little of the world,” returned Don Quixote, “since you +are ignorant of what commonly occurs in knight-errantry.” + +But the comrades of the spokesman, growing weary of the dialogue with +Don Quixote, renewed their knocks with great vehemence, so much so that +the host, and not only he but everybody in the inn, awoke, and he got +up to ask who knocked. It happened at this moment that one of the +horses of the four who were seeking admittance went to smell Rocinante, +who melancholy, dejected, and with drooping ears stood motionless, +supporting his sorely stretched master; and as he was, after all, +flesh, though he looked as if he were made of wood, he could not help +giving way and in return smelling the one who had come to offer him +attentions. But he had hardly moved at all when Don Quixote lost his +footing; and slipping off the saddle, he would have come to the ground, +but for being suspended by the arm, which caused him such agony that he +believed either his wrist would be cut through or his arm torn off; and +he hung so near the ground that he could just touch it with his feet, +which was all the worse for him; for, finding how little was wanted to +enable him to plant his feet firmly, he struggled and stretched himself +as much as he could to gain a footing; just like those undergoing the +torture of the strappado, when they are fixed at “touch and no touch,” +who aggravate their own sufferings by their violent efforts to stretch +themselves, deceived by the hope which makes them fancy that with a +very little more they will reach the ground. + + + +c43b.jpg (272K) + +Full Size + + + +c43e.jpg (20K) + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. +IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURES OF THE INN + + + + +c44a.jpg (144K) + +Full Size + + + + +So loud, in fact, were the shouts of Don Quixote, that the landlord +opening the gate of the inn in all haste, came out in dismay, and ran +to see who was uttering such cries, and those who were outside joined +him. Maritornes, who had been by this time roused up by the same +outcry, suspecting what it was, ran to the loft and, without anyone +seeing her, untied the halter by which Don Quixote was suspended, and +down he came to the ground in the sight of the landlord and the +travellers, who approaching asked him what was the matter with him that +he shouted so. He without replying a word took the rope off his wrist, +and rising to his feet leaped upon Rocinante, braced his buckler on his +arm, put his lance in rest, and making a considerable circuit of the +plain came back at a half-gallop exclaiming: + +“Whoever shall say that I have been enchanted with just cause, provided +my lady the Princess Micomicona grants me permission to do so, I give +him the lie, challenge him and defy him to single combat.” + +The newly arrived travellers were amazed at the words of Don Quixote; +but the landlord removed their surprise by telling them who he was, and +not to mind him as he was out of his senses. They then asked the +landlord if by any chance a youth of about fifteen years of age had +come to that inn, one dressed like a muleteer, and of such and such an +appearance, describing that of Doña Clara’s lover. The landlord replied +that there were so many people in the inn he had not noticed the person +they were inquiring for; but one of them observing the coach in which +the Judge had come, said, “He is here no doubt, for this is the coach +he is following: let one of us stay at the gate, and the rest go in to +look for him; or indeed it would be as well if one of us went round the +inn, lest he should escape over the wall of the yard.” “So be it,” said +another; and while two of them went in, one remained at the gate and +the other made the circuit of the inn; observing all which, the +landlord was unable to conjecture for what reason they were taking all +these precautions, though he understood they were looking for the youth +whose description they had given him. + +It was by this time broad daylight; and for that reason, as well as in +consequence of the noise Don Quixote had made, everybody was awake and +up, but particularly Doña Clara and Dorothea; for they had been able to +sleep but badly that night, the one from agitation at having her lover +so near her, the other from curiosity to see him. Don Quixote, when he +saw that not one of the four travellers took any notice of him or +replied to his challenge, was furious and ready to die with indignation +and wrath; and if he could have found in the ordinances of chivalry +that it was lawful for a knight-errant to undertake or engage in +another enterprise, when he had plighted his word and faith not to +involve himself in any until he had made an end of the one to which he +was pledged, he would have attacked the whole of them, and would have +made them return an answer in spite of themselves. But considering that +it would not become him, nor be right, to begin any new emprise until +he had established Micomicona in her kingdom, he was constrained to +hold his peace and wait quietly to see what would be the upshot of the +proceedings of those same travellers; one of whom found the youth they +were seeking lying asleep by the side of a muleteer, without a thought +of anyone coming in search of him, much less finding him. + +The man laid hold of him by the arm, saying, “It becomes you well +indeed, Señor Don Luis, to be in the dress you wear, and well the bed +in which I find you agrees with the luxury in which your mother reared +you.” + +The youth rubbed his sleepy eyes and stared for a while at him who held +him, but presently recognised him as one of his father’s servants, at +which he was so taken aback that for some time he could not find or +utter a word; while the servant went on to say, “There is nothing for +it now, Señor Don Luis, but to submit quietly and return home, unless +it is your wish that my lord, your father, should take his departure +for the other world, for nothing else can be the consequence of the +grief he is in at your absence.” + +“But how did my father know that I had gone this road and in this +dress?” said Don Luis. + +“It was a student to whom you confided your intentions,” answered the +servant, “that disclosed them, touched with pity at the distress he saw +your father suffer on missing you; he therefore despatched four of his +servants in quest of you, and here we all are at your service, better +pleased than you can imagine that we shall return so soon and be able +to restore you to those eyes that so yearn for you.” + +“That shall be as I please, or as heaven orders,” returned Don Luis. + +“What can you please or heaven order,” said the other, “except to agree +to go back? Anything else is impossible.” + +All this conversation between the two was overheard by the muleteer at +whose side Don Luis lay, and rising, he went to report what had taken +place to Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the others, who had by this time +dressed themselves; and told them how the man had addressed the youth +as “Don,” and what words had passed, and how he wanted him to return to +his father, which the youth was unwilling to do. With this, and what +they already knew of the rare voice that heaven had bestowed upon him, +they all felt very anxious to know more particularly who he was, and +even to help him if it was attempted to employ force against him; so +they hastened to where he was still talking and arguing with his +servant. Dorothea at this instant came out of her room, followed by +Doña Clara all in a tremor; and calling Cardenio aside, she told him in +a few words the story of the musician and Doña Clara, and he at the +same time told her what had happened, how his father’s servants had +come in search of him; but in telling her so, he did not speak low +enough but that Doña Clara heard what he said, at which she was so much +agitated that had not Dorothea hastened to support her she would have +fallen to the ground. Cardenio then bade Dorothea return to her room, +as he would endeavour to make the whole matter right, and they did as +he desired. All the four who had come in quest of Don Luis had now come +into the inn and surrounded him, urging him to return and console his +father at once and without a moment’s delay. He replied that he could +not do so on any account until he had concluded some business in which +his life, honour, and heart were at stake. The servants pressed him, +saying that most certainly they would not return without him, and that +they would take him away whether he liked it or not. + +“You shall not do that,” replied Don Luis, “unless you take me dead; +though however you take me, it will be without life.” + +By this time most of those in the inn had been attracted by the +dispute, but particularly Cardenio, Don Fernando, his companions, the +Judge, the curate, the barber, and Don Quixote; for he now considered +there was no necessity for mounting guard over the castle any longer. +Cardenio being already acquainted with the young man’s story, asked the +men who wanted to take him away, what object they had in seeking to +carry off this youth against his will. + +“Our object,” said one of the four, “is to save the life of his father, +who is in danger of losing it through this gentleman’s disappearance.” + +Upon this Don Luis exclaimed, “There is no need to make my affairs +public here; I am free, and I will return if I please; and if not, none +of you shall compel me.” + +“Reason will compel your worship,” said the man, “and if it has no +power over you, it has power over us, to make us do what we came for, +and what it is our duty to do.” + +“Let us hear what the whole affair is about,” said the Judge at this; +but the man, who knew him as a neighbour of theirs, replied, “Do you +not know this gentleman, Señor Judge? He is the son of your neighbour, +who has run away from his father’s house in a dress so unbecoming his +rank, as your worship may perceive.” + +The judge on this looked at him more carefully and recognised him, and +embracing him said, “What folly is this, Señor Don Luis, or what can +have been the cause that could have induced you to come here in this +way, and in this dress, which so ill becomes your condition?” + +Tears came into the eyes of the young man, and he was unable to utter a +word in reply to the Judge, who told the four servants not to be +uneasy, for all would be satisfactorily settled; and then taking Don +Luis by the hand, he drew him aside and asked the reason of his having +come there. + +But while he was questioning him they heard a loud outcry at the gate +of the inn, the cause of which was that two of the guests who had +passed the night there, seeing everybody busy about finding out what it +was the four men wanted, had conceived the idea of going off without +paying what they owed; but the landlord, who minded his own affairs +more than other people’s, caught them going out of the gate and +demanded his reckoning, abusing them for their dishonesty with such +language that he drove them to reply with their fists, and so they +began to lay on him in such a style that the poor man was forced to cry +out, and call for help. The landlady and her daughter could see no one +more free to give aid than Don Quixote, and to him the daughter said, +“Sir knight, by the virtue God has given you, help my poor father, for +two wicked men are beating him to a mummy.” + +To which Don Quixote very deliberately and phlegmatically replied, +“Fair damsel, at the present moment your request is inopportune, for I +am debarred from involving myself in any adventure until I have brought +to a happy conclusion one to which my word has pledged me; but that +which I can do for you is what I will now mention: run and tell your +father to stand his ground as well as he can in this battle, and on no +account to allow himself to be vanquished, while I go and request +permission of the Princess Micomicona to enable me to succour him in +his distress; and if she grants it, rest assured I will relieve him +from it.” + +“Sinner that I am,” exclaimed Maritornes, who stood by; “before you +have got your permission my master will be in the other world.” + +“Give me leave, señora, to obtain the permission I speak of,” returned +Don Quixote; “and if I get it, it will matter very little if he is in +the other world; for I will rescue him thence in spite of all the same +world can do; or at any rate I will give you such a revenge over those +who shall have sent him there that you will be more than moderately +satisfied;” and without saying anything more he went and knelt before +Dorothea, requesting her Highness in knightly and errant phrase to be +pleased to grant him permission to aid and succour the castellan of +that castle, who now stood in grievous jeopardy. The princess granted +it graciously, and he at once, bracing his buckler on his arm and +drawing his sword, hastened to the inn-gate, where the two guests were +still handling the landlord roughly; but as soon as he reached the spot +he stopped short and stood still, though Maritornes and the landlady +asked him why he hesitated to help their master and husband. + +“I hesitate,” said Don Quixote, “because it is not lawful for me to +draw sword against persons of squirely condition; but call my squire +Sancho to me; for this defence and vengeance are his affair and +business.” + +Thus matters stood at the inn-gate, where there was a very lively +exchange of fisticuffs and punches, to the sore damage of the landlord +and to the wrath of Maritornes, the landlady, and her daughter, who +were furious when they saw the pusillanimity of Don Quixote, and the +hard treatment their master, husband and father was undergoing. But let +us leave him there; for he will surely find someone to help him, and if +not, let him suffer and hold his tongue who attempts more than his +strength allows him to do; and let us go back fifty paces to see what +Don Luis said in reply to the Judge whom we left questioning him +privately as to his reasons for coming on foot and so meanly dressed. + +To which the youth, pressing his hand in a way that showed his heart +was troubled by some great sorrow, and shedding a flood of tears, made +answer: + +“Señor, I have no more to tell you than that from the moment when, +through heaven’s will and our being near neighbours, I first saw Doña +Clara, your daughter and my lady, from that instant I made her the +mistress of my will, and if yours, my true lord and father, offers no +impediment, this very day she shall become my wife. For her I left my +father’s house, and for her I assumed this disguise, to follow her +whithersoever she may go, as the arrow seeks its mark or the sailor the +pole-star. She knows nothing more of my passion than what she may have +learned from having sometimes seen from a distance that my eyes were +filled with tears. You know already, señor, the wealth and noble birth +of my parents, and that I am their sole heir; if this be a sufficient +inducement for you to venture to make me completely happy, accept me at +once as your son; for if my father, influenced by other objects of his +own, should disapprove of this happiness I have sought for myself, time +has more power to alter and change things, than human will.” + +With this the love-smitten youth was silent, while the Judge, after +hearing him, was astonished, perplexed, and surprised, as well at the +manner and intelligence with which Don Luis had confessed the secret of +his heart, as at the position in which he found himself, not knowing +what course to take in a matter so sudden and unexpected. All the +answer, therefore, he gave him was to bid him to make his mind easy for +the present, and arrange with his servants not to take him back that +day, so that there might be time to consider what was best for all +parties. Don Luis kissed his hands by force, nay, bathed them with his +tears, in a way that would have touched a heart of marble, not to say +that of the Judge, who, as a shrewd man, had already perceived how +advantageous the marriage would be to his daughter; though, were it +possible, he would have preferred that it should be brought about with +the consent of the father of Don Luis, who he knew looked for a title +for his son. + +The guests had by this time made peace with the landlord, for, by +persuasion and Don Quixote’s fair words more than by threats, they had +paid him what he demanded, and the servants of Don Luis were waiting +for the end of the conversation with the Judge and their master’s +decision, when the devil, who never sleeps, contrived that the barber, +from whom Don Quixote had taken Mambrino’s helmet, and Sancho Panza the +trappings of his ass in exchange for those of his own, should at this +instant enter the inn; which said barber, as he led his ass to the +stable, observed Sancho Panza engaged in repairing something or other +belonging to the pack-saddle; and the moment he saw it he knew it, and +made bold to attack Sancho, exclaiming, “Ho, sir thief, I have caught +you! hand over my basin and my pack-saddle, and all my trappings that +you robbed me of.” + +Sancho, finding himself so unexpectedly assailed, and hearing the abuse +poured upon him, seized the pack-saddle with one hand, and with the +other gave the barber a cuff that bathed his teeth in blood. The +barber, however, was not so ready to relinquish the prize he had made +in the pack-saddle; on the contrary, he raised such an outcry that +everyone in the inn came running to know what the noise and quarrel +meant. “Here, in the name of the king and justice!” he cried, “this +thief and highwayman wants to kill me for trying to recover my +property.” + +“You lie,” said Sancho, “I am no highwayman; it was in fair war my +master Don Quixote won these spoils.” + +Don Quixote was standing by at the time, highly pleased to see his +squire’s stoutness, both offensive and defensive, and from that time +forth he reckoned him a man of mettle, and in his heart resolved to dub +him a knight on the first opportunity that presented itself, feeling +sure that the order of chivalry would be fittingly bestowed upon him. + +In the course of the altercation, among other things the barber said, +“Gentlemen, this pack-saddle is mine as surely as I owe God a death, +and I know it as well as if I had given birth to it, and here is my ass +in the stable who will not let me lie; only try it, and if it does not +fit him like a glove, call me a rascal; and what is more, the same day +I was robbed of this, they robbed me likewise of a new brass basin, +never yet handselled, that would fetch a crown any day.” + +At this Don Quixote could not keep himself from answering; and +interposing between the two, and separating them, he placed the +pack-saddle on the ground, to lie there in sight until the truth was +established, and said, “Your worships may perceive clearly and plainly +the error under which this worthy squire lies when he calls a basin +which was, is, and shall be the helmet of Mambrino which I won from him +in fair war, and made myself master of by legitimate and lawful +possession. With the pack-saddle I do not concern myself; but I may +tell you on that head that my squire Sancho asked my permission to +strip off the caparison of this vanquished poltroon’s steed, and with +it adorn his own; I allowed him, and he took it; and as to its having +been changed from a caparison into a pack-saddle, I can give no +explanation except the usual one, that such transformations will take +place in adventures of chivalry. To confirm all which, run, Sancho my +son, and fetch hither the helmet which this good fellow calls a basin.” + +“Egad, master,” said Sancho, “if we have no other proof of our case +than what your worship puts forward, Mambrino’s helmet is just as much +a basin as this good fellow’s caparison is a pack-saddle.” + +“Do as I bid thee,” said Don Quixote; “it cannot be that everything in +this castle goes by enchantment.” + +Sancho hastened to where the basin was, and brought it back with him, +and when Don Quixote saw it, he took hold of it and said: + +“Your worships may see with what a face this squire can assert that +this is a basin and not the helmet I told you of; and I swear by the +order of chivalry I profess, that this helmet is the identical one I +took from him, without anything added to or taken from it.” + +“There is no doubt of that,” said Sancho, “for from the time my master +won it until now he has only fought one battle in it, when he let loose +those unlucky men in chains; and if it had not been for this +basin-helmet he would not have come off over well that time, for there +was plenty of stone-throwing in that affair.” + + + +c44e.jpg (13K) + + + +CHAPTER XLV. +IN WHICH THE DOUBTFUL QUESTION OF MAMBRINO’S HELMET AND THE PACK-SADDLE +IS FINALLY SETTLED, WITH OTHER ADVENTURES THAT OCCURRED IN TRUTH AND +EARNEST + + + + +c45a.jpg (154K) + +Full Size + + + + +“What do you think now, gentlemen,” said the barber, “of what these +gentles say, when they want to make out that this is a helmet?” + +“And whoever says the contrary,” said Don Quixote, “I will let him know +he lies if he is a knight, and if he is a squire that he lies again a +thousand times.” + +Our own barber, who was present at all this, and understood Don +Quixote’s humour so thoroughly, took it into his head to back up his +delusion and carry on the joke for the general amusement; so addressing +the other barber he said: + +“Señor barber, or whatever you are, you must know that I belong to your +profession too, and have had a licence to practise for more than twenty +years, and I know the implements of the barber craft, every one of +them, perfectly well; and I was likewise a soldier for some time in the +days of my youth, and I know also what a helmet is, and a morion, and a +headpiece with a visor, and other things pertaining to soldiering, I +meant to say to soldiers’ arms; and I say—saving better opinions and +always with submission to sounder judgments—that this piece we have now +before us, which this worthy gentleman has in his hands, not only is no +barber’s basin, but is as far from being one as white is from black, +and truth from falsehood; I say, moreover, that this, although it is a +helmet, is not a complete helmet.” + +“Certainly not,” said Don Quixote, “for half of it is wanting, that is +to say the beaver.” + +“It is quite true,” said the curate, who saw the object of his friend +the barber; and Cardenio, Don Fernando and his companions agreed with +him, and even the Judge, if his thoughts had not been so full of Don +Luis’s affair, would have helped to carry on the joke; but he was so +taken up with the serious matters he had on his mind that he paid +little or no attention to these facetious proceedings. + +“God bless me!” exclaimed their butt the barber at this; “is it +possible that such an honourable company can say that this is not a +basin but a helmet? Why, this is a thing that would astonish a whole +university, however wise it might be! That will do; if this basin is a +helmet, why, then the pack-saddle must be a horse’s caparison, as this +gentleman has said.” + +“To me it looks like a pack-saddle,” said Don Quixote; “but I have +already said that with that question I do not concern myself.” + +“As to whether it be pack-saddle or caparison,” said the curate, “it is +only for Señor Don Quixote to say; for in these matters of chivalry all +these gentlemen and I bow to his authority.” + +“By God, gentlemen,” said Don Quixote, “so many strange things have +happened to me in this castle on the two occasions on which I have +sojourned in it, that I will not venture to assert anything positively +in reply to any question touching anything it contains; for it is my +belief that everything that goes on within it goes by enchantment. The +first time, an enchanted Moor that there is in it gave me sore trouble, +nor did Sancho fare well among certain followers of his; and last night +I was kept hanging by this arm for nearly two hours, without knowing +how or why I came by such a mishap. So that now, for me to come forward +to give an opinion in such a puzzling matter, would be to risk a rash +decision. As regards the assertion that this is a basin and not a +helmet I have already given an answer; but as to the question whether +this is a pack-saddle or a caparison I will not venture to give a +positive opinion, but will leave it to your worships’ better judgment. +Perhaps as you are not dubbed knights like myself, the enchantments of +this place have nothing to do with you, and your faculties are +unfettered, and you can see things in this castle as they really and +truly are, and not as they appear to me.” + +“There can be no question,” said Don Fernando on this, “but that Señor +Don Quixote has spoken very wisely, and that with us rests the decision +of this matter; and that we may have surer ground to go on, I will take +the votes of the gentlemen in secret, and declare the result clearly +and fully.” + +To those who were in on the secret of Don Quixote’s humour all this +afforded great amusement; but to those who knew nothing about it, it +seemed the greatest nonsense in the world, in particular to the four +servants of Don Luis, as well as to Don Luis himself, and to three +other travellers who had by chance come to the inn, and had the +appearance of officers of the Holy Brotherhood, as indeed they were; +but the one who above all was at his wits’ end was the barber whose +basin, there before his very eyes, had been turned into Mambrino’s +helmet, and whose pack-saddle he had no doubt whatever was about to +become a rich caparison for a horse. All laughed to see Don Fernando +going from one to another collecting the votes, and whispering to them +to give him their private opinion whether the treasure over which there +had been so much fighting was a pack-saddle or a caparison; but after +he had taken the votes of those who knew Don Quixote, he said aloud, +“The fact is, my good fellow, that I am tired collecting such a number +of opinions, for I find that there is not one of whom I ask what I +desire to know, who does not tell me that it is absurd to say that this +is the pack-saddle of an ass, and not the caparison of a horse, nay, of +a thoroughbred horse; so you must submit, for, in spite of you and your +ass, this is a caparison and no pack-saddle, and you have stated and +proved your case very badly.” + +“May I never share heaven,” said the poor barber, “if your worships are +not all mistaken; and may my soul appear before God as that appears to +me a pack-saddle and not a caparison; but, ‘laws go,’—I say no more; +and indeed I am not drunk, for I am fasting, except it be from sin.” + +The simple talk of the barber did not afford less amusement than the +absurdities of Don Quixote, who now observed: + +“There is no more to be done now than for each to take what belongs to +him, and to whom God has given it, may St. Peter add his blessing.” + +But said one of the four servants, “Unless, indeed, this is a +deliberate joke, I cannot bring myself to believe that men so +intelligent as those present are, or seem to be, can venture to declare +and assert that this is not a basin, and that not a pack-saddle; but as +I perceive that they do assert and declare it, I can only come to the +conclusion that there is some mystery in this persistence in what is so +opposed to the evidence of experience and truth itself; for I swear +by”—and here he rapped out a round oath—“all the people in the world +will not make me believe that this is not a barber’s basin and that a +jackass’s pack-saddle.” + +“It might easily be a she-ass’s,” observed the curate. + +“It is all the same,” said the servant; “that is not the point; but +whether it is or is not a pack-saddle, as your worships say.” + +On hearing this one of the newly arrived officers of the Brotherhood, +who had been listening to the dispute and controversy, unable to +restrain his anger and impatience, exclaimed, “It is a pack-saddle as +sure as my father is my father, and whoever has said or will say +anything else must be drunk.” + +“You lie like a rascally clown,” returned Don Quixote; and lifting his +pike, which he had never let out of his hand, he delivered such a blow +at his head that, had not the officer dodged it, it would have +stretched him at full length. The pike was shivered in pieces against +the ground, and the rest of the officers, seeing their comrade +assaulted, raised a shout, calling for help for the Holy Brotherhood. +The landlord, who was of the fraternity, ran at once to fetch his staff +of office and his sword, and ranged himself on the side of his +comrades; the servants of Don Luis clustered round him, lest he should +escape from them in the confusion; the barber, seeing the house turned +upside down, once more laid hold of his pack-saddle and Sancho did the +same; Don Quixote drew his sword and charged the officers; Don Luis +cried out to his servants to leave him alone and go and help Don +Quixote, and Cardenio and Don Fernando, who were supporting him; the +curate was shouting at the top of his voice, the landlady was +screaming, her daughter was wailing, Maritornes was weeping, Dorothea +was aghast, Luscinda terror-stricken, and Doña Clara in a faint. The +barber cudgelled Sancho, and Sancho pommelled the barber; Don Luis gave +one of his servants, who ventured to catch him by the arm to keep him +from escaping, a cuff that bathed his teeth in blood; the Judge took +his part; Don Fernando had got one of the officers down and was +belabouring him heartily; the landlord raised his voice again calling +for help for the Holy Brotherhood; so that the whole inn was nothing +but cries, shouts, shrieks, confusion, terror, dismay, mishaps, +sword-cuts, fisticuffs, cudgellings, kicks, and bloodshed; and in the +midst of all this chaos, complication, and general entanglement, Don +Quixote took it into his head that he had been plunged into the thick +of the discord of Agramante’s camp; and, in a voice that shook the inn +like thunder, he cried out: + +“Hold all, let all sheathe their swords, let all be calm and attend to +me as they value their lives!” + +All paused at his mighty voice, and he went on to say, “Did I not tell +you, sirs, that this castle was enchanted, and that a legion or so of +devils dwelt in it? In proof whereof I call upon you to behold with +your own eyes how the discord of Agramante’s camp has come hither, and +been transferred into the midst of us. See how they fight, there for +the sword, here for the horse, on that side for the eagle, on this for +the helmet; we are all fighting, and all at cross purposes. Come then, +you, Señor Judge, and you, señor curate; let the one represent King +Agramante and the other King Sobrino, and make peace among us; for by +God Almighty it is a sorry business that so many persons of quality as +we are should slay one another for such trifling cause.” The officers, +who did not understand Don Quixote’s mode of speaking, and found +themselves roughly handled by Don Fernando, Cardenio, and their +companions, were not to be appeased; the barber was, however, for both +his beard and his pack-saddle were the worse for the struggle; Sancho +like a good servant obeyed the slightest word of his master; while the +four servants of Don Luis kept quiet when they saw how little they +gained by not being so. The landlord alone insisted upon it that they +must punish the insolence of this madman, who at every turn raised a +disturbance in the inn; but at length the uproar was stilled for the +present; the pack-saddle remained a caparison till the day of judgment, +and the basin a helmet and the inn a castle in Don Quixote’s +imagination. + +All having been now pacified and made friends by the persuasion of the +Judge and the curate, the servants of Don Luis began again to urge him +to return with them at once; and while he was discussing the matter +with them, the Judge took counsel with Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the +curate as to what he ought to do in the case, telling them how it +stood, and what Don Luis had said to him. It was agreed at length that +Don Fernando should tell the servants of Don Luis who he was, and that +it was his desire that Don Luis should accompany him to Andalusia, +where he would receive from the marquis his brother the welcome his +quality entitled him to; for, otherwise, it was easy to see from the +determination of Don Luis that he would not return to his father at +present, though they tore him to pieces. On learning the rank of Don +Fernando and the resolution of Don Luis the four then settled it +between themselves that three of them should return to tell his father +how matters stood, and that the other should remain to wait upon Don +Luis, and not leave him until they came back for him, or his father’s +orders were known. Thus by the authority of Agramante and the wisdom of +King Sobrino all this complication of disputes was arranged; but the +enemy of concord and hater of peace, feeling himself slighted and made +a fool of, and seeing how little he had gained after having involved +them all in such an elaborate entanglement, resolved to try his hand +once more by stirring up fresh quarrels and disturbances. + +It came about in this wise: the officers were pacified on learning the +rank of those with whom they had been engaged, and withdrew from the +contest, considering that whatever the result might be they were likely +to get the worst of the battle; but one of them, the one who had been +thrashed and kicked by Don Fernando, recollected that among some +warrants he carried for the arrest of certain delinquents, he had one +against Don Quixote, whom the Holy Brotherhood had ordered to be +arrested for setting the galley slaves free, as Sancho had, with very +good reason, apprehended. Suspecting how it was, then, he wished to +satisfy himself as to whether Don Quixote’s features corresponded; and +taking a parchment out of his bosom he lit upon what he was in search +of, and setting himself to read it deliberately, for he was not a quick +reader, as he made out each word he fixed his eyes on Don Quixote, and +went on comparing the description in the warrant with his face, and +discovered that beyond all doubt he was the person described in it. As +soon as he had satisfied himself, folding up the parchment, he took the +warrant in his left hand and with his right seized Don Quixote by the +collar so tightly that he did not allow him to breathe, and shouted +aloud, “Help for the Holy Brotherhood! and that you may see I demand it +in earnest, read this warrant which says this highwayman is to be +arrested.” + +The curate took the warrant and saw that what the officer said was +true, and that it agreed with Don Quixote’s appearance, who, on his +part, when he found himself roughly handled by this rascally clown, +worked up to the highest pitch of wrath, and all his joints cracking +with rage, with both hands seized the officer by the throat with all +his might, so that had he not been helped by his comrades he would have +yielded up his life ere Don Quixote released his hold. The landlord, +who had perforce to support his brother officers, ran at once to aid +them. The landlady, when she saw her husband engaged in a fresh +quarrel, lifted up her voice afresh, and its note was immediately +caught up by Maritornes and her daughter, calling upon heaven and all +present for help; and Sancho, seeing what was going on, exclaimed, “By +the Lord, it is quite true what my master says about the enchantments +of this castle, for it is impossible to live an hour in peace in it!” + +Don Fernando parted the officer and Don Quixote, and to their mutual +contentment made them relax the grip by which they held, the one the +coat collar, the other the throat of his adversary; for all this, +however, the officers did not cease to demand their prisoner and call +on them to help, and deliver him over bound into their power, as was +required for the service of the King and of the Holy Brotherhood, on +whose behalf they again demanded aid and assistance to effect the +capture of this robber and footpad of the highways. + +Don Quixote smiled when he heard these words, and said very calmly, +“Come now, base, ill-born brood; call ye it highway robbery to give +freedom to those in bondage, to release the captives, to succour the +miserable, to raise up the fallen, to relieve the needy? Infamous +beings, who by your vile grovelling intellects deserve that heaven +should not make known to you the virtue that lies in knight-errantry, +or show you the sin and ignorance in which ye lie when ye refuse to +respect the shadow, not to say the presence, of any knight-errant! Come +now; band, not of officers, but of thieves; footpads with the licence +of the Holy Brotherhood; tell me who was the ignoramus who signed a +warrant of arrest against such a knight as I am? Who was he that did +not know that knights-errant are independent of all jurisdictions, that +their law is their sword, their charter their prowess, and their edicts +their will? Who, I say again, was the fool that knows not that there +are no letters patent of nobility that confer such privileges or +exemptions as a knight-errant acquires the day he is dubbed a knight, +and devotes himself to the arduous calling of chivalry? What +knight-errant ever paid poll-tax, duty, queen’s pin-money, king’s dues, +toll or ferry? What tailor ever took payment of him for making his +clothes? What castellan that received him in his castle ever made him +pay his shot? What king did not seat him at his table? What damsel was +not enamoured of him and did not yield herself up wholly to his will +and pleasure? And, lastly, what knight-errant has there been, is there, +or will there ever be in the world, not bold enough to give, +single-handed, four hundred cudgellings to four hundred officers of the +Holy Brotherhood if they come in his way?” + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. +OF THE END OF THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE OFFICERS OF THE HOLY +BROTHERHOOD; AND OF THE GREAT FEROCITY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT, DON +QUIXOTE + + + + +c46a.jpg (163K) + +Full Size + + + + +While Don Quixote was talking in this strain, the curate was +endeavouring to persuade the officers that he was out of his senses, as +they might perceive by his deeds and his words, and that they need not +press the matter any further, for even if they arrested him and carried +him off, they would have to release him by-and-by as a madman; to which +the holder of the warrant replied that he had nothing to do with +inquiring into Don Quixote’s madness, but only to execute his +superior’s orders, and that once taken they might let him go three +hundred times if they liked. + +“For all that,” said the curate, “you must not take him away this time, +nor will he, it is my opinion, let himself be taken away.” + +In short, the curate used such arguments, and Don Quixote did such mad +things, that the officers would have been more mad than he was if they +had not perceived his want of wits, and so they thought it best to +allow themselves to be pacified, and even to act as peacemakers between +the barber and Sancho Panza, who still continued their altercation with +much bitterness. In the end they, as officers of justice, settled the +question by arbitration in such a manner that both sides were, if not +perfectly contented, at least to some extent satisfied; for they +changed the pack-saddles, but not the girths or head-stalls; and as to +Mambrino’s helmet, the curate, under the rose and without Don Quixote’s +knowing it, paid eight reals for the basin, and the barber executed a +full receipt and engagement to make no further demand then or +thenceforth for evermore, amen. These two disputes, which were the most +important and gravest, being settled, it only remained for the servants +of Don Luis to consent that three of them should return while one was +left to accompany him whither Don Fernando desired to take him; and +good luck and better fortune, having already begun to solve +difficulties and remove obstructions in favour of the lovers and +warriors of the inn, were pleased to persevere and bring everything to +a happy issue; for the servants agreed to do as Don Luis wished; which +gave Doña Clara such happiness that no one could have looked into her +face just then without seeing the joy of her heart. Zoraida, though she +did not fully comprehend all she saw, was grave or gay without knowing +why, as she watched and studied the various countenances, but +particularly her Spaniard’s, whom she followed with her eyes and clung +to with her soul. The gift and compensation which the curate gave the +barber had not escaped the landlord’s notice, and he demanded Don +Quixote’s reckoning, together with the amount of the damage to his +wine-skins, and the loss of his wine, swearing that neither Rocinante +nor Sancho’s ass should leave the inn until he had been paid to the +very last farthing. The curate settled all amicably, and Don Fernando +paid; though the Judge had also very readily offered to pay the score; +and all became so peaceful and quiet that the inn no longer reminded +one of the discord of Agramante’s camp, as Don Quixote said, but of the +peace and tranquillity of the days of Octavianus: for all which it was +the universal opinion that their thanks were due to the great zeal and +eloquence of the curate, and to the unexampled generosity of Don +Fernando. + +Finding himself now clear and quit of all quarrels, his squire’s as +well as his own, Don Quixote considered that it would be advisable to +continue the journey he had begun, and bring to a close that great +adventure for which he had been called and chosen; and with this high +resolve he went and knelt before Dorothea, who, however, would not +allow him to utter a word until he had risen; so to obey her he rose, +and said, “It is a common proverb, fair lady, that ‘diligence is the +mother of good fortune,’ and experience has often shown in important +affairs that the earnestness of the negotiator brings the doubtful case +to a successful termination; but in nothing does this truth show itself +more plainly than in war, where quickness and activity forestall the +devices of the enemy, and win the victory before the foe has time to +defend himself. All this I say, exalted and esteemed lady, because it +seems to me that for us to remain any longer in this castle now is +useless, and may be injurious to us in a way that we shall find out +some day; for who knows but that your enemy the giant may have learned +by means of secret and diligent spies that I am going to destroy him, +and if the opportunity be given him he may seize it to fortify himself +in some impregnable castle or stronghold, against which all my efforts +and the might of my indefatigable arm may avail but little? Therefore, +lady, let us, as I say, forestall his schemes by our activity, and let +us depart at once in quest of fair fortune; for your highness is only +kept from enjoying it as fully as you could desire by my delay in +encountering your adversary.” + +Don Quixote held his peace and said no more, calmly awaiting the reply +of the beauteous princess, who, with commanding dignity and in a style +adapted to Don Quixote’s own, replied to him in these words, “I give +you thanks, sir knight, for the eagerness you, like a good knight to +whom it is a natural obligation to succour the orphan and the needy, +display to afford me aid in my sore trouble; and heaven grant that your +wishes and mine may be realised, so that you may see that there are +women in this world capable of gratitude; as to my departure, let it be +forthwith, for I have no will but yours; dispose of me entirely in +accordance with your good pleasure; for she who has once entrusted to +you the defence of her person, and placed in your hands the recovery of +her dominions, must not think of offering opposition to that which your +wisdom may ordain.” + +“On, then, in God’s name,” said Don Quixote; “for, when a lady humbles +herself to me, I will not lose the opportunity of raising her up and +placing her on the throne of her ancestors. Let us depart at once, for +the common saying that in delay there is danger, lends spurs to my +eagerness to take the road; and as neither heaven has created nor hell +seen any that can daunt or intimidate me, saddle Rocinante, Sancho, and +get ready thy ass and the queen’s palfrey, and let us take leave of the +castellan and these gentlemen, and go hence this very instant.” + +Sancho, who was standing by all the time, said, shaking his head, “Ah! +master, master, there is more mischief in the village than one hears +of, begging all good bodies’ pardon.” + +“What mischief can there be in any village, or in all the cities of the +world, you booby, that can hurt my reputation?” said Don Quixote. + +“If your worship is angry,” replied Sancho, “I will hold my tongue and +leave unsaid what as a good squire I am bound to say, and what a good +servant should tell his master.” + +“Say what thou wilt,” returned Don Quixote, “provided thy words be not +meant to work upon my fears; for thou, if thou fearest, art behaving +like thyself; but I like myself, in not fearing.” + +“It is nothing of the sort, as I am a sinner before God,” said Sancho, +“but that I take it to be sure and certain that this lady, who calls +herself queen of the great kingdom of Micomicon, is no more so than my +mother; for, if she was what she says, she would not go rubbing noses +with one that is here every instant and behind every door.” + +Dorothea turned red at Sancho’s words, for the truth was that her +husband Don Fernando had now and then, when the others were not +looking, gathered from her lips some of the reward his love had earned, +and Sancho seeing this had considered that such freedom was more like a +courtesan than a queen of a great kingdom; she, however, being unable +or not caring to answer him, allowed him to proceed, and he continued, +“This I say, señor, because, if after we have travelled roads and +highways, and passed bad nights and worse days, one who is now enjoying +himself in this inn is to reap the fruit of our labours, there is no +need for me to be in a hurry to saddle Rocinante, put the pad on the +ass, or get ready the palfrey; for it will be better for us to stay +quiet, and let every jade mind her spinning, and let us go to dinner.” + +Good God, what was the indignation of Don Quixote when he heard the +audacious words of his squire! So great was it, that in a voice +inarticulate with rage, with a stammering tongue, and eyes that flashed +living fire, he exclaimed, “Rascally clown, boorish, insolent, and +ignorant, ill-spoken, foul-mouthed, impudent backbiter and slanderer! +Hast thou dared to utter such words in my presence and in that of these +illustrious ladies? Hast thou dared to harbour such gross and shameless +thoughts in thy muddled imagination? Begone from my presence, thou born +monster, storehouse of lies, hoard of untruths, garner of knaveries, +inventor of scandals, publisher of absurdities, enemy of the respect +due to royal personages! Begone, show thyself no more before me under +pain of my wrath;” and so saying he knitted his brows, puffed out his +cheeks, gazed around him, and stamped on the ground violently with his +right foot, showing in every way the rage that was pent up in his +heart; and at his words and furious gestures Sancho was so scared and +terrified that he would have been glad if the earth had opened that +instant and swallowed him, and his only thought was to turn round and +make his escape from the angry presence of his master. + +But the ready-witted Dorothea, who by this time so well understood Don +Quixote’s humour, said, to mollify his wrath, “Be not irritated at the +absurdities your good squire has uttered, Sir Knight of the Rueful +Countenance, for perhaps he did not utter them without cause, and from +his good sense and Christian conscience it is not likely that he would +bear false witness against anyone. We may therefore believe, without +any hesitation, that since, as you say, sir knight, everything in this +castle goes and is brought about by means of enchantment, Sancho, I +say, may possibly have seen, through this diabolical medium, what he +says he saw so much to the detriment of my modesty.” + +“I swear by God Omnipotent,” exclaimed Don Quixote at this, “your +highness has hit the point; and that some vile illusion must have come +before this sinner of a Sancho, that made him see what it would have +been impossible to see by any other means than enchantments; for I know +well enough, from the poor fellow’s goodness and harmlessness, that he +is incapable of bearing false witness against anybody.” + +“True, no doubt,” said Don Fernando, “for which reason, Señor Don +Quixote, you ought to forgive him and restore him to the bosom of your +favour, _sicut erat in principio_, before illusions of this sort had +taken away his senses.” + +Don Quixote said he was ready to pardon him, and the curate went for +Sancho, who came in very humbly, and falling on his knees begged for +the hand of his master, who having presented it to him and allowed him +to kiss it, gave him his blessing and said, “Now, Sancho my son, thou +wilt be convinced of the truth of what I have many a time told thee, +that everything in this castle is done by means of enchantment.” + +“So it is, I believe,” said Sancho, “except the affair of the blanket, +which came to pass in reality by ordinary means.” + +“Believe it not,” said Don Quixote, “for had it been so, I would have +avenged thee that instant, or even now; but neither then nor now could +I, nor have I seen anyone upon whom to avenge thy wrong.” + +They were all eager to know what the affair of the blanket was, and the +landlord gave them a minute account of Sancho’s flights, at which they +laughed not a little, and at which Sancho would have been no less out +of countenance had not his master once more assured him it was all +enchantment. For all that his simplicity never reached so high a pitch +that he could persuade himself it was not the plain and simple truth, +without any deception whatever about it, that he had been blanketed by +beings of flesh and blood, and not by visionary and imaginary phantoms, +as his master believed and protested. + +The illustrious company had now been two days in the inn; and as it +seemed to them time to depart, they devised a plan so that, without +giving Dorothea and Don Fernando the trouble of going back with Don +Quixote to his village under pretence of restoring Queen Micomicona, +the curate and the barber might carry him away with them as they +proposed, and the curate be able to take his madness in hand at home; +and in pursuance of their plan they arranged with the owner of an +oxcart who happened to be passing that way to carry him after this +fashion. They constructed a kind of cage with wooden bars, large enough +to hold Don Quixote comfortably; and then Don Fernando and his +companions, the servants of Don Luis, and the officers of the +Brotherhood, together with the landlord, by the directions and advice +of the curate, covered their faces and disguised themselves, some in +one way, some in another, so as to appear to Don Quixote quite +different from the persons he had seen in the castle. This done, in +profound silence they entered the room where he was asleep, taking his +rest after the past frays, and advancing to where he was sleeping +tranquilly, not dreaming of anything of the kind happening, they seized +him firmly and bound him fast hand and foot, so that, when he awoke +startled, he was unable to move, and could only marvel and wonder at +the strange figures he saw before him; upon which he at once gave way +to the idea which his crazed fancy invariably conjured up before him, +and took it into his head that all these shapes were phantoms of the +enchanted castle, and that he himself was unquestionably enchanted as +he could neither move nor help himself; precisely what the curate, the +concoctor of the scheme, expected would happen. Of all that were there +Sancho was the only one who was at once in his senses and in his own +proper character, and he, though he was within very little of sharing +his master’s infirmity, did not fail to perceive who all these +disguised figures were; but he did not dare to open his lips until he +saw what came of this assault and capture of his master; nor did the +latter utter a word, waiting to the upshot of his mishap; which was +that bringing in the cage, they shut him up in it and nailed the bars +so firmly that they could not be easily burst open. + + + +c46b.jpg (342K) + +Full Size + + + + +They then took him on their shoulders, and as they passed out of the +room an awful voice—as much so as the barber, not he of the pack-saddle +but the other, was able to make it—was heard to say, “O Knight of the +Rueful Countenance, let not this captivity in which thou art placed +afflict thee, for this must needs be, for the more speedy +accomplishment of the adventure in which thy great heart has engaged +thee; the which shall be accomplished when the raging Manchegan lion +and the white Tobosan dove shall be linked together, having first +humbled their haughty necks to the gentle yoke of matrimony. And from +this marvellous union shall come forth to the light of the world brave +whelps that shall rival the ravening claws of their valiant father; and +this shall come to pass ere the pursuer of the flying nymph shall in +his swift natural course have twice visited the starry signs. And thou, +O most noble and obedient squire that ever bore sword at side, beard on +face, or nose to smell with, be not dismayed or grieved to see the +flower of knight-errantry carried away thus before thy very eyes; for +soon, if it so please the Framer of the universe, thou shalt see +thyself exalted to such a height that thou shalt not know thyself, and +the promises which thy good master has made thee shall not prove false; +and I assure thee, on the authority of the sage Mentironiana, that thy +wages shall be paid thee, as thou shalt see in due season. Follow then +the footsteps of the valiant enchanted knight, for it is expedient that +thou shouldst go to the destination assigned to both of you; and as it +is not permitted to me to say more, God be with thee; for I return to +that place I wot of;” and as he brought the prophecy to a close he +raised his voice to a high pitch, and then lowered it to such a soft +tone, that even those who knew it was all a joke were almost inclined +to take what they heard seriously. + +Don Quixote was comforted by the prophecy he heard, for he at once +comprehended its meaning perfectly, and perceived it was promised to +him that he should see himself united in holy and lawful matrimony with +his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso, from whose blessed womb should proceed +the whelps, his sons, to the eternal glory of La Mancha; and being +thoroughly and firmly persuaded of this, he lifted up his voice, and +with a deep sigh exclaimed, “Oh thou, whoever thou art, who hast +foretold me so much good, I implore of thee that on my part thou +entreat that sage enchanter who takes charge of my interests, that he +leave me not to perish in this captivity in which they are now carrying +me away, ere I see fulfilled promises so joyful and incomparable as +those which have been now made me; for, let this but come to pass, and +I shall glory in the pains of my prison, find comfort in these chains +wherewith they bind me, and regard this bed whereon they stretch me, +not as a hard battle-field, but as a soft and happy nuptial couch; and +touching the consolation of Sancho Panza, my squire, I rely upon his +goodness and rectitude that he will not desert me in good or evil +fortune; for if, by his ill luck or mine, it may not happen to be in my +power to give him the island I have promised, or any equivalent for it, +at least his wages shall not be lost; for in my will, which is already +made, I have declared the sum that shall be paid to him, measured, not +by his many faithful services, but by the means at my disposal.” + +Sancho bowed his head very respectfully and kissed both his hands, for, +being tied together, he could not kiss one; and then the apparitions +lifted the cage upon their shoulders and fixed it upon the ox-cart. + + + +c46e.jpg (56K) + +Full Size + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. +OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WAS CARRIED +AWAY ENCHANTED, TOGETHER WITH OTHER REMARKABLE INCIDENTS + + + + +c47a.jpg (181K) + +Full Size + + + + +When Don Quixote saw himself caged and hoisted on the cart in this way, +he said, “Many grave histories of knights-errant have I read; but never +yet have I read, seen, or heard of their carrying off enchanted +knights-errant in this fashion, or at the slow pace that these lazy, +sluggish animals promise; for they always take them away through the +air with marvellous swiftness, enveloped in a dark thick cloud, or on a +chariot of fire, or it may be on some hippogriff or other beast of the +kind; but to carry me off like this on an ox-cart! By God, it puzzles +me! But perhaps the chivalry and enchantments of our day take a +different course from that of those in days gone by; and it may be, +too, that as I am a new knight in the world, and the first to revive +the already forgotten calling of knight-adventurers, they may have +newly invented other kinds of enchantments and other modes of carrying +off the enchanted. What thinkest thou of the matter, Sancho my son?” + + + +c47b.jpg (357K) + +Full Size + + + + +“I don’t know what to think,” answered Sancho, “not being as well read +as your worship in errant writings; but for all that I venture to say +and swear that these apparitions that are about us are not quite +catholic.” + +“Catholic!” said Don Quixote. “Father of me! how can they be Catholic +when they are all devils that have taken fantastic shapes to come and +do this, and bring me to this condition? And if thou wouldst prove it, +touch them, and feel them, and thou wilt find they have only bodies of +air, and no consistency except in appearance.” + +“By God, master,” returned Sancho, “I have touched them already; and +that devil, that goes about there so busily, has firm flesh, and +another property very different from what I have heard say devils have, +for by all accounts they all smell of brimstone and other bad smells; +but this one smells of amber half a league off.” Sancho was here +speaking of Don Fernando, who, like a gentleman of his rank, was very +likely perfumed as Sancho said. + +“Marvel not at that, Sancho my friend,” said Don Quixote; “for let me +tell thee devils are crafty; and even if they do carry odours about +with them, they themselves have no smell, because they are spirits; or, +if they have any smell, they cannot smell of anything sweet, but of +something foul and fetid; and the reason is that as they carry hell +with them wherever they go, and can get no ease whatever from their +torments, and as a sweet smell is a thing that gives pleasure and +enjoyment, it is impossible that they can smell sweet; if, then, this +devil thou speakest of seems to thee to smell of amber, either thou art +deceiving thyself, or he wants to deceive thee by making thee fancy he +is not a devil.” + +Such was the conversation that passed between master and man; and Don +Fernando and Cardenio, apprehensive of Sancho’s making a complete +discovery of their scheme, towards which he had already gone some way, +resolved to hasten their departure, and calling the landlord aside, +they directed him to saddle Rocinante and put the pack-saddle on +Sancho’s ass, which he did with great alacrity. In the meantime the +curate had made an arrangement with the officers that they should bear +them company as far as his village, he paying them so much a day. +Cardenio hung the buckler on one side of the bow of Rocinante’s saddle +and the basin on the other, and by signs commanded Sancho to mount his +ass and take Rocinante’s bridle, and at each side of the cart he placed +two officers with their muskets; but before the cart was put in motion, +out came the landlady and her daughter and Maritornes to bid Don +Quixote farewell, pretending to weep with grief at his misfortune; and +to them Don Quixote said: + +“Weep not, good ladies, for all these mishaps are the lot of those who +follow the profession I profess; and if these reverses did not befall +me I should not esteem myself a famous knight-errant; for such things +never happen to knights of little renown and fame, because nobody in +the world thinks about them; to valiant knights they do, for these are +envied for their virtue and valour by many princes and other knights +who compass the destruction of the worthy by base means. Nevertheless, +virtue is of herself so mighty, that, in spite of all the magic that +Zoroaster its first inventor knew, she will come victorious out of +every trial, and shed her light upon the earth as the sun does upon the +heavens. Forgive me, fair ladies, if, through inadvertence, I have in +aught offended you; for intentionally and wittingly I have never done +so to any; and pray to God that he deliver me from this captivity to +which some malevolent enchanter has consigned me; and should I find +myself released therefrom, the favours that ye have bestowed upon me in +this castle shall be held in memory by me, that I may acknowledge, +recognise, and requite them as they deserve.” + +While this was passing between the ladies of the castle and Don +Quixote, the curate and the barber bade farewell to Don Fernando and +his companions, to the captain, his brother, and the ladies, now all +made happy, and in particular to Dorothea and Luscinda. They all +embraced one another, and promised to let each other know how things +went with them, and Don Fernando directed the curate where to write to +him, to tell him what became of Don Quixote, assuring him that there +was nothing that could give him more pleasure than to hear of it, and +that he too, on his part, would send him word of everything he thought +he would like to know, about his marriage, Zoraida’s baptism, Don +Luis’s affair, and Luscinda’s return to her home. The curate promised +to comply with his request carefully, and they embraced once more, and +renewed their promises. + +The landlord approached the curate and handed him some papers, saying +he had discovered them in the lining of the valise in which the novel +of “The Ill-advised Curiosity” had been found, and that he might take +them all away with him as their owner had not since returned; for, as +he could not read, he did not want them himself. The curate thanked +him, and opening them he saw at the beginning of the manuscript the +words, “Novel of Rinconete and Cortadillo,” by which he perceived that +it was a novel, and as that of “The Ill-advised Curiosity” had been +good he concluded this would be so too, as they were both probably by +the same author; so he kept it, intending to read it when he had an +opportunity. He then mounted and his friend the barber did the same, +both masked, so as not to be recognised by Don Quixote, and set out +following in the rear of the cart. The order of march was this: first +went the cart with the owner leading it; at each side of it marched the +officers of the Brotherhood, as has been said, with their muskets; then +followed Sancho Panza on his ass, leading Rocinante by the bridle; and +behind all came the curate and the barber on their mighty mules, with +faces covered, as aforesaid, and a grave and serious air, measuring +their pace to suit the slow steps of the oxen. Don Quixote was seated +in the cage, with his hands tied and his feet stretched out, leaning +against the bars as silent and as patient as if he were a stone statue +and not a man of flesh. Thus slowly and silently they made, it might +be, two leagues, until they reached a valley which the carter thought a +convenient place for resting and feeding his oxen, and he said so to +the curate, but the barber was of opinion that they ought to push on a +little farther, as at the other side of a hill which appeared close by +he knew there was a valley that had more grass and much better than the +one where they proposed to halt; and his advice was taken and they +continued their journey. + +Just at that moment the curate, looking back, saw coming on behind them +six or seven mounted men, well found and equipped, who soon overtook +them, for they were travelling, not at the sluggish, deliberate pace of +oxen, but like men who rode canons’ mules, and in haste to take their +noontide rest as soon as possible at the inn which was in sight not a +league off. The quick travellers came up with the slow, and courteous +salutations were exchanged; and one of the new comers, who was, in +fact, a canon of Toledo and master of the others who accompanied him, +observing the regular order of the procession, the cart, the officers, +Sancho, Rocinante, the curate and the barber, and above all Don Quixote +caged and confined, could not help asking what was the meaning of +carrying the man in that fashion; though, from the badges of the +officers, he already concluded that he must be some desperate +highwayman or other malefactor whose punishment fell within the +jurisdiction of the Holy Brotherhood. One of the officers to whom he +had put the question, replied, “Let the gentleman himself tell you the +meaning of his going this way, señor, for we do not know.” + +Don Quixote overheard the conversation and said, “Haply, gentlemen, you +are versed and learned in matters of errant chivalry? Because if you +are I will tell you my misfortunes; if not, there is no good in my +giving myself the trouble of relating them;” but here the curate and +the barber, seeing that the travellers were engaged in conversation +with Don Quixote, came forward, in order to answer in such a way as to +save their stratagem from being discovered. + +The canon, replying to Don Quixote, said, “In truth, brother, I know +more about books of chivalry than I do about Villalpando’s elements of +logic; so if that be all, you may safely tell me what you please.” + +“In God’s name, then, señor,” replied Don Quixote; “if that be so, I +would have you know that I am held enchanted in this cage by the envy +and fraud of wicked enchanters; for virtue is more persecuted by the +wicked than loved by the good. I am a knight-errant, and not one of +those whose names Fame has never thought of immortalising in her +record, but of those who, in defiance and in spite of envy itself, and +all the magicians that Persia, or Brahmans that India, or Gymnosophists +that Ethiopia ever produced, will place their names in the temple of +immortality, to serve as examples and patterns for ages to come, +whereby knights-errant may see the footsteps in which they must tread +if they would attain the summit and crowning point of honour in arms.” + +“What Señor Don Quixote of La Mancha says,” observed the curate, “is +the truth; for he goes enchanted in this cart, not from any fault or +sins of his, but because of the malevolence of those to whom virtue is +odious and valour hateful. This, señor, is the Knight of the Rueful +Countenance, if you have ever heard him named, whose valiant +achievements and mighty deeds shall be written on lasting brass and +imperishable marble, notwithstanding all the efforts of envy to obscure +them and malice to hide them.” + +When the canon heard both the prisoner and the man who was at liberty +talk in such a strain he was ready to cross himself in his +astonishment, and could not make out what had befallen him; and all his +attendants were in the same state of amazement. + +At this point Sancho Panza, who had drawn near to hear the +conversation, said, in order to make everything plain, “Well, sirs, you +may like or dislike what I am going to say, but the fact of the matter +is, my master, Don Quixote, is just as much enchanted as my mother. He +is in his full senses, he eats and he drinks, and he has his calls like +other men and as he had yesterday, before they caged him. And if that’s +the case, what do they mean by wanting me to believe that he is +enchanted? For I have heard many a one say that enchanted people +neither eat, nor sleep, nor talk; and my master, if you don’t stop him, +will talk more than thirty lawyers.” Then turning to the curate he +exclaimed, “Ah, señor curate, señor curate! do you think I don’t know +you? Do you think I don’t guess and see the drift of these new +enchantments? Well then, I can tell you I know you, for all your face +is covered, and I can tell you I am up to you, however you may hide +your tricks. After all, where envy reigns virtue cannot live, and where +there is niggardliness there can be no liberality. Ill betide the +devil! if it had not been for your worship my master would be married +to the Princess Micomicona this minute, and I should be a count at +least; for no less was to be expected, as well from the goodness of my +master, him of the Rueful Countenance, as from the greatness of my +services. But I see now how true it is what they say in these parts, +that the wheel of fortune turns faster than a mill-wheel, and that +those who were up yesterday are down to-day. I am sorry for my wife and +children, for when they might fairly and reasonably expect to see their +father return to them a governor or viceroy of some island or kingdom, +they will see him come back a horse-boy. I have said all this, señor +curate, only to urge your paternity to lay to your conscience your +ill-treatment of my master; and have a care that God does not call you +to account in another life for making a prisoner of him in this way, +and charge against you all the succours and good deeds that my lord Don +Quixote leaves undone while he is shut up. + +“Trim those lamps there!” exclaimed the barber at this; “so you are of +the same fraternity as your master, too, Sancho? By God, I begin to see +that you will have to keep him company in the cage, and be enchanted +like him for having caught some of his humour and chivalry. It was an +evil hour when you let yourself be got with child by his promises, and +that island you long so much for found its way into your head.” + +“I am not with child by anyone,” returned Sancho, “nor am I a man to +let myself be got with child, if it was by the King himself. Though I +am poor I am an old Christian, and I owe nothing to nobody, and if I +long for an island, other people long for worse. Each of us is the son +of his own works; and being a man I may come to be pope, not to say +governor of an island, especially as my master may win so many that he +will not know whom to give them to. Mind how you talk, master barber; +for shaving is not everything, and there is some difference between +Peter and Peter. I say this because we all know one another, and it +will not do to throw false dice with me; and as to the enchantment of +my master, God knows the truth; leave it as it is; it only makes it +worse to stir it.” + +The barber did not care to answer Sancho lest by his plain speaking he +should disclose what the curate and he himself were trying so hard to +conceal; and under the same apprehension the curate had asked the canon +to ride on a little in advance, so that he might tell him the mystery +of this man in the cage, and other things that would amuse him. The +canon agreed, and going on ahead with his servants, listened with +attention to the account of the character, life, madness, and ways of +Don Quixote, given him by the curate, who described to him briefly the +beginning and origin of his craze, and told him the whole story of his +adventures up to his being confined in the cage, together with the plan +they had of taking him home to try if by any means they could discover +a cure for his madness. The canon and his servants were surprised anew +when they heard Don Quixote’s strange story, and when it was finished +he said, “To tell the truth, señor curate, I for my part consider what +they call books of chivalry to be mischievous to the State; and though, +led by idle and false taste, I have read the beginnings of almost all +that have been printed, I never could manage to read any one of them +from beginning to end; for it seems to me they are all more or less the +same thing; and one has nothing more in it than another; this no more +than that. And in my opinion this sort of writing and composition is of +the same species as the fables they call the Milesian, nonsensical +tales that aim solely at giving amusement and not instruction, exactly +the opposite of the apologue fables which amuse and instruct at the +same time. And though it may be the chief object of such books to +amuse, I do not know how they can succeed, when they are so full of +such monstrous nonsense. For the enjoyment the mind feels must come +from the beauty and harmony which it perceives or contemplates in the +things that the eye or the imagination brings before it; and nothing +that has any ugliness or disproportion about it can give any pleasure. +What beauty, then, or what proportion of the parts to the whole, or of +the whole to the parts, can there be in a book or fable where a lad of +sixteen cuts down a giant as tall as a tower and makes two halves of +him as if he was an almond cake? And when they want to give us a +picture of a battle, after having told us that there are a million of +combatants on the side of the enemy, let the hero of the book be +opposed to them, and we have perforce to believe, whether we like it or +not, that the said knight wins the victory by the single might of his +strong arm. And then, what shall we say of the facility with which a +born queen or empress will give herself over into the arms of some +unknown wandering knight? What mind, that is not wholly barbarous and +uncultured, can find pleasure in reading of how a great tower full of +knights sails away across the sea like a ship with a fair wind, and +will be to-night in Lombardy and to-morrow morning in the land of +Prester John of the Indies, or some other that Ptolemy never described +nor Marco Polo saw? And if, in answer to this, I am told that the +authors of books of the kind write them as fiction, and therefore are +not bound to regard niceties of truth, I would reply that fiction is +all the better the more it looks like truth, and gives the more +pleasure the more probability and possibility there is about it. Plots +in fiction should be wedded to the understanding of the reader, and be +constructed in such a way that, reconciling impossibilities, smoothing +over difficulties, keeping the mind on the alert, they may surprise, +interest, divert, and entertain, so that wonder and delight joined may +keep pace one with the other; all which he will fail to effect who +shuns verisimilitude and truth to nature, wherein lies the perfection +of writing. I have never yet seen any book of chivalry that puts +together a connected plot complete in all its numbers, so that the +middle agrees with the beginning, and the end with the beginning and +middle; on the contrary, they construct them with such a multitude of +members that it seems as though they meant to produce a chimera or +monster rather than a well-proportioned figure. And besides all this +they are harsh in their style, incredible in their achievements, +licentious in their amours, uncouth in their courtly speeches, prolix +in their battles, silly in their arguments, absurd in their travels, +and, in short, wanting in everything like intelligent art; for which +reason they deserve to be banished from the Christian commonwealth as a +worthless breed.” + + + +c47c.jpg (300K) + +Full Size + + + + +The curate listened to him attentively and felt that he was a man of +sound understanding, and that there was good reason in what he said; so +he told him that, being of the same opinion himself, and bearing a +grudge to books of chivalry, he had burned all Don Quixote’s, which +were many; and gave him an account of the scrutiny he had made of them, +and of those he had condemned to the flames and those he had spared, +with which the canon was not a little amused, adding that though he had +said so much in condemnation of these books, still he found one good +thing in them, and that was the opportunity they afforded to a gifted +intellect for displaying itself; for they presented a wide and spacious +field over which the pen might range freely, describing shipwrecks, +tempests, combats, battles, portraying a valiant captain with all the +qualifications requisite to make one, showing him sagacious in +foreseeing the wiles of the enemy, eloquent in speech to encourage or +restrain his soldiers, ripe in counsel, rapid in resolve, as bold in +biding his time as in pressing the attack; now picturing some sad +tragic incident, now some joyful and unexpected event; here a beauteous +lady, virtuous, wise, and modest; there a Christian knight, brave and +gentle; here a lawless, barbarous braggart; there a courteous prince, +gallant and gracious; setting forth the devotion and loyalty of +vassals, the greatness and generosity of nobles. “Or again,” said he, +“the author may show himself to be an astronomer, or a skilled +cosmographer, or musician, or one versed in affairs of state, and +sometimes he will have a chance of coming forward as a magician if he +likes. He can set forth the craftiness of Ulysses, the piety of Æneas, +the valour of Achilles, the misfortunes of Hector, the treachery of +Sinon, the friendship of Euryalus, the generosity of Alexander, the +boldness of Cæsar, the clemency and truth of Trajan, the fidelity of +Zopyrus, the wisdom of Cato, and in short all the faculties that serve +to make an illustrious man perfect, now uniting them in one individual, +again distributing them among many; and if this be done with charm of +style and ingenious invention, aiming at the truth as much as possible, +he will assuredly weave a web of bright and varied threads that, when +finished, will display such perfection and beauty that it will attain +the worthiest object any writing can seek, which, as I said before, is +to give instruction and pleasure combined; for the unrestricted range +of these books enables the author to show his powers, epic, lyric, +tragic, or comic, and all the moods the sweet and winning arts of poesy +and oratory are capable of; for the epic may be written in prose just +as well as in verse.” + + + +c47e.jpg (67K) + +Full Size + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. +IN WHICH THE CANON PURSUES THE SUBJECT OF THE BOOKS OF CHIVALRY, WITH +OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF HIS WIT + + + + +c48a.jpg (80K) + +Full Size + + + + +“It is as you say, señor canon,” said the curate; “and for that reason +those who have hitherto written books of the sort deserve all the more +censure for writing without paying any attention to good taste or the +rules of art, by which they might guide themselves and become as famous +in prose as the two princes of Greek and Latin poetry are in verse.” + +“I myself, at any rate,” said the canon, “was once tempted to write a +book of chivalry in which all the points I have mentioned were to be +observed; and if I must own the truth I have more than a hundred sheets +written; and to try if it came up to my own opinion of it, I showed +them to persons who were fond of this kind of reading, to learned and +intelligent men as well as to ignorant people who cared for nothing but +the pleasure of listening to nonsense, and from all I obtained +flattering approval; nevertheless I proceeded no farther with it, as +well because it seemed to me an occupation inconsistent with my +profession, as because I perceived that the fools are more numerous +than the wise; and, though it is better to be praised by the wise few +than applauded by the foolish many, I have no mind to submit myself to +the stupid judgment of the silly public, to whom the reading of such +books falls for the most part. + +“But what most of all made me hold my hand and even abandon all idea of +finishing it was an argument I put to myself taken from the plays that +are acted now-a-days, which was in this wise: if those that are now in +vogue, as well those that are pure invention as those founded on +history, are, all or most of them, downright nonsense and things that +have neither head nor tail, and yet the public listens to them with +delight, and regards and cries them up as perfection when they are so +far from it; and if the authors who write them, and the players who act +them, say that this is what they must be, for the public wants this and +will have nothing else; and that those that go by rule and work out a +plot according to the laws of art will only find some half-dozen +intelligent people to understand them, while all the rest remain blind +to the merit of their composition; and that for themselves it is better +to get bread from the many than praise from the few; then my book will +fare the same way, after I have burnt off my eyebrows in trying to +observe the principles I have spoken of, and I shall be ‘the tailor of +the corner.’ And though I have sometimes endeavoured to convince actors +that they are mistaken in this notion they have adopted, and that they +would attract more people, and get more credit, by producing plays in +accordance with the rules of art, than by absurd ones, they are so +thoroughly wedded to their own opinion that no argument or evidence can +wean them from it. + +“I remember saying one day to one of these obstinate fellows, ‘Tell me, +do you not recollect that a few years ago, there were three tragedies +acted in Spain, written by a famous poet of these kingdoms, which were +such that they filled all who heard them with admiration, delight, and +interest, the ignorant as well as the wise, the masses as well as the +higher orders, and brought in more money to the performers, these three +alone, than thirty of the best that have been since produced?’ + +“‘No doubt,’ replied the actor in question, ‘you mean the “Isabella,” +the “Phyllis,” and the “Alexandra.”’ + +“‘Those are the ones I mean,’ said I; ‘and see if they did not observe +the principles of art, and if, by observing them, they failed to show +their superiority and please all the world; so that the fault does not +lie with the public that insists upon nonsense, but with those who +don’t know how to produce something else. “The Ingratitude Revenged” +was not nonsense, nor was there any in “The Numantia,” nor any to be +found in “The Merchant Lover,” nor yet in “The Friendly Fair Foe,” nor +in some others that have been written by certain gifted poets, to their +own fame and renown, and to the profit of those that brought them out;’ +some further remarks I added to these, with which, I think, I left him +rather dumbfoundered, but not so satisfied or convinced that I could +disabuse him of his error.” + +“You have touched upon a subject, señor canon,” observed the curate +here, “that has awakened an old enmity I have against the plays in +vogue at the present day, quite as strong as that which I bear to the +books of chivalry; for while the drama, according to Tully, should be +the mirror of human life, the model of manners, and the image of the +truth, those which are presented now-a-days are mirrors of nonsense, +models of folly, and images of lewdness. For what greater nonsense can +there be in connection with what we are now discussing than for an +infant to appear in swaddling clothes in the first scene of the first +act, and in the second a grown-up bearded man? Or what greater +absurdity can there be than putting before us an old man as a +swashbuckler, a young man as a poltroon, a lackey using fine language, +a page giving sage advice, a king plying as a porter, a princess who is +a kitchen-maid? And then what shall I say of their attention to the +time in which the action they represent may or can take place, save +that I have seen a play where the first act began in Europe, the second +in Asia, the third finished in Africa, and no doubt, had it been in +four acts, the fourth would have ended in America, and so it would have +been laid in all four quarters of the globe? And if truth to life is +the main thing the drama should keep in view, how is it possible for +any average understanding to be satisfied when the action is supposed +to pass in the time of King Pepin or Charlemagne, and the principal +personage in it they represent to be the Emperor Heraclius who entered +Jerusalem with the cross and won the Holy Sepulchre, like Godfrey of +Bouillon, there being years innumerable between the one and the other? +or, if the play is based on fiction and historical facts are +introduced, or bits of what occurred to different people and at +different times mixed up with it, all, not only without any semblance +of probability, but with obvious errors that from every point of view +are inexcusable? And the worst of it is, there are ignorant people who +say that this is perfection, and that anything beyond this is affected +refinement. And then if we turn to sacred dramas—what miracles they +invent in them! What apocryphal, ill-devised incidents, attributing to +one saint the miracles of another! And even in secular plays they +venture to introduce miracles without any reason or object except that +they think some such miracle, or transformation as they call it, will +come in well to astonish stupid people and draw them to the play. All +this tends to the prejudice of the truth and the corruption of history, +nay more, to the reproach of the wits of Spain; for foreigners who +scrupulously observe the laws of the drama look upon us as barbarous +and ignorant, when they see the absurdity and nonsense of the plays we +produce. Nor will it be a sufficient excuse to say that the chief +object well-ordered governments have in view when they permit plays to +be performed in public is to entertain the people with some harmless +amusement occasionally, and keep it from those evil humours which +idleness is apt to engender; and that, as this may be attained by any +sort of play, good or bad, there is no need to lay down laws, or bind +those who write or act them to make them as they ought to be made, +since, as I say, the object sought for may be secured by any sort. To +this I would reply that the same end would be, beyond all comparison, +better attained by means of good plays than by those that are not so; +for after listening to an artistic and properly constructed play, the +hearer will come away enlivened by the jests, instructed by the serious +parts, full of admiration at the incidents, his wits sharpened by the +arguments, warned by the tricks, all the wiser for the examples, +inflamed against vice, and in love with virtue; for in all these ways a +good play will stimulate the mind of the hearer be he ever so boorish +or dull; and of all impossibilities the greatest is that a play endowed +with all these qualities will not entertain, satisfy, and please much +more than one wanting in them, like the greater number of those which +are commonly acted now-a-days. Nor are the poets who write them to be +blamed for this; for some there are among them who are perfectly well +aware of their faults, and know what they ought to do; but as plays +have become a salable commodity, they say, and with truth, that the +actors will not buy them unless they are after this fashion; and so the +poet tries to adapt himself to the requirements of the actor who is to +pay him for his work. And that this is the truth may be seen by the +countless plays that a most fertile wit of these kingdoms has written, +with so much brilliancy, so much grace and gaiety, such polished +versification, such choice language, such profound reflections, and in +a word, so rich in eloquence and elevation of style, that he has filled +the world with his fame; and yet, in consequence of his desire to suit +the taste of the actors, they have not all, as some of them have, come +as near perfection as they ought. Others write plays with such +heedlessness that, after they have been acted, the actors have to fly +and abscond, afraid of being punished, as they often have been, for +having acted something offensive to some king or other, or insulting to +some noble family. All which evils, and many more that I say nothing +of, would be removed if there were some intelligent and sensible person +at the capital to examine all plays before they were acted, not only +those produced in the capital itself, but all that were intended to be +acted in Spain; without whose approval, seal, and signature, no local +magistracy should allow any play to be acted. In that case actors would +take care to send their plays to the capital, and could act them in +safety, and those who write them would be more careful and take more +pains with their work, standing in awe of having to submit it to the +strict examination of one who understood the matter; and so good plays +would be produced and the objects they aim at happily attained; as well +the amusement of the people, as the credit of the wits of Spain, the +interest and safety of the actors, and the saving of trouble in +inflicting punishment on them. And if the same or some other person +were authorised to examine the newly written books of chivalry, no +doubt some would appear with all the perfections you have described, +enriching our language with the gracious and precious treasure of +eloquence, and driving the old books into obscurity before the light of +the new ones that would come out for the harmless entertainment, not +merely of the idle but of the very busiest; for the bow cannot be +always bent, nor can weak human nature exist without some lawful +amusement.” + +The canon and the curate had proceeded thus far with their +conversation, when the barber, coming forward, joined them, and said to +the curate, “This is the spot, señor licentiate, that I said was a good +one for fresh and plentiful pasture for the oxen, while we take our +noontide rest.” + +“And so it seems,” returned the curate, and he told the canon what he +proposed to do, on which he too made up his mind to halt with them, +attracted by the aspect of the fair valley that lay before their eyes; +and to enjoy it as well as the conversation of the curate, to whom he +had begun to take a fancy, and also to learn more particulars about the +doings of Don Quixote, he desired some of his servants to go on to the +inn, which was not far distant, and fetch from it what eatables there +might be for the whole party, as he meant to rest for the afternoon +where he was; to which one of his servants replied that the sumpter +mule, which by this time ought to have reached the inn, carried +provisions enough to make it unnecessary to get anything from the inn +except barley. + +“In that case,” said the canon, “take all the beasts there, and bring +the sumpter mule back.” + +While this was going on, Sancho, perceiving that he could speak to his +master without having the curate and the barber, of whom he had his +suspicions, present all the time, approached the cage in which Don +Quixote was placed, and said, “Señor, to ease my conscience I want to +tell you the state of the case as to your enchantment, and that is that +these two here, with their faces covered, are the curate of our village +and the barber; and I suspect they have hit upon this plan of carrying +you off in this fashion, out of pure envy because your worship +surpasses them in doing famous deeds; and if this be the truth it +follows that you are not enchanted, but hoodwinked and made a fool of. +And to prove this I want to ask you one thing; and if you answer me as +I believe you will answer, you will be able to lay your finger on the +trick, and you will see that you are not enchanted but gone wrong in +your wits.” + +“Ask what thou wilt, Sancho my son,” returned Don Quixote, “for I will +satisfy thee and answer all thou requirest. As to what thou sayest, +that these who accompany us yonder are the curate and the barber, our +neighbours and acquaintances, it is very possible that they may seem to +be those same persons; but that they are so in reality and in fact, +believe it not on any account; what thou art to believe and think is +that, if they look like them, as thou sayest, it must be that those who +have enchanted me have taken this shape and likeness; for it is easy +for enchanters to take any form they please, and they may have taken +those of our friends in order to make thee think as thou dost, and lead +thee into a labyrinth of fancies from which thou wilt find no escape +though thou hadst the cord of Theseus; and they may also have done it +to make me uncertain in my mind, and unable to conjecture whence this +evil comes to me; for if on the one hand thou dost tell me that the +barber and curate of our village are here in company with us, and on +the other I find myself shut up in a cage, and know in my heart that no +power on earth that was not supernatural would have been able to shut +me in, what wouldst thou have me say or think, but that my enchantment +is of a sort that transcends all I have ever read of in all the +histories that deal with knights-errant that have been enchanted? So +thou mayest set thy mind at rest as to the idea that they are what thou +sayest, for they are as much so as I am a Turk. But touching thy desire +to ask me something, say on, and I will answer thee, though thou +shouldst ask questions from this till to-morrow morning.” + +“May Our Lady be good to me!” said Sancho, lifting up his voice; “and +is it possible that your worship is so thick of skull and so short of +brains that you cannot see that what I say is the simple truth, and +that malice has more to do with your imprisonment and misfortune than +enchantment? But as it is so, I will prove plainly to you that you are +not enchanted. Now tell me, so may God deliver you from this +affliction, and so may you find yourself when you least expect it in +the arms of my lady Dulcinea—” + +“Leave off conjuring me,” said Don Quixote, “and ask what thou wouldst +know; I have already told thee I will answer with all possible +precision.” + +“That is what I want,” said Sancho; “and what I would know, and have +you tell me, without adding or leaving out anything, but telling the +whole truth as one expects it to be told, and as it is told, by all who +profess arms, as your worship professes them, under the title of +knights-errant—” + +“I tell thee I will not lie in any particular,” said Don Quixote; +“finish thy question; for in truth thou weariest me with all these +asseverations, requirements, and precautions, Sancho.” + +“Well, I rely on the goodness and truth of my master,” said Sancho; +“and so, because it bears upon what we are talking about, I would ask, +speaking with all reverence, whether since your worship has been shut +up and, as you think, enchanted in this cage, you have felt any desire +or inclination to go anywhere, as the saying is?” + +“I do not understand ‘going anywhere,’” said Don Quixote; “explain +thyself more clearly, Sancho, if thou wouldst have me give an answer to +the point.” + +“Is it possible,” said Sancho, “that your worship does not understand +‘going anywhere’? Why, the schoolboys know that from the time they were +babes. Well then, you must know I mean have you had any desire to do +what cannot be avoided?” + +“Ah! now I understand thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “yes, often, and +even this minute; get me out of this strait, or all will not go right.” + + + +c48e.jpg (32K) + + + +CHAPTER XLIX. +WHICH TREATS OF THE SHREWD CONVERSATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH +HIS MASTER DON QUIXOTE + + + + +c49a.jpg (181K) + +Full Size + + + + +“Aha, I have caught you,” said Sancho; “this is what in my heart and +soul I was longing to know. Come now, señor, can you deny what is +commonly said around us, when a person is out of humour, ‘I don’t know +what ails so-and-so, that he neither eats, nor drinks, nor sleeps, nor +gives a proper answer to any question; one would think he was +enchanted’? From which it is to be gathered that those who do not eat, +or drink, or sleep, or do any of the natural acts I am speaking of—that +such persons are enchanted; but not those that have the desire your +worship has, and drink when drink is given them, and eat when there is +anything to eat, and answer every question that is asked them.” + +“What thou sayest is true, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; “but I have +already told thee there are many sorts of enchantments, and it may be +that in the course of time they have been changed one for another, and +that now it may be the way with enchanted people to do all that I do, +though they did not do so before; so it is vain to argue or draw +inferences against the usage of the time. I know and feel that I am +enchanted, and that is enough to ease my conscience; for it would weigh +heavily on it if I thought that I was not enchanted, and that in a +faint-hearted and cowardly way I allowed myself to lie in this cage, +defrauding multitudes of the succour I might afford to those in need +and distress, who at this very moment may be in sore want of my aid and +protection.” + +“Still for all that,” replied Sancho, “I say that, for your greater and +fuller satisfaction, it would be well if your worship were to try to +get out of this prison (and I promise to do all in my power to help, +and even to take you out of it), and see if you could once more mount +your good Rocinante, who seems to be enchanted too, he is so melancholy +and dejected; and then we might try our chance in looking for +adventures again; and if we have no luck there will be time enough to +go back to the cage; in which, on the faith of a good and loyal squire, +I promise to shut myself up along with your worship, if so be you are +so unfortunate, or I so stupid, as not to be able to carry out my +plan.” + +“I am content to do as thou sayest, brother Sancho,” said Don Quixote, +“and when thou seest an opportunity for effecting my release I will +obey thee absolutely; but thou wilt see, Sancho, how mistaken thou art +in thy conception of my misfortune.” + +The knight-errant and the ill-errant squire kept up their conversation +till they reached the place where the curate, the canon, and the +barber, who had already dismounted, were waiting for them. The carter +at once unyoked the oxen and left them to roam at large about the +pleasant green spot, the freshness of which seemed to invite, not +enchanted people like Don Quixote, but wide-awake, sensible folk like +his squire, who begged the curate to allow his master to leave the cage +for a little; for if they did not let him out, the prison might not be +as clean as the propriety of such a gentleman as his master required. +The curate understood him, and said he would very gladly comply with +his request, only that he feared his master, finding himself at +liberty, would take to his old courses and make off where nobody could +ever find him again. + +“I will answer for his not running away,” said Sancho. + +“And I also,” said the canon, “especially if he gives me his word as a +knight not to leave us without our consent.” + +Don Quixote, who was listening to all this, said, “I give it;—moreover +one who is enchanted as I am cannot do as he likes with himself; for he +who had enchanted him could prevent his moving from one place for three +ages, and if he attempted to escape would bring him back flying.”—And +that being so, they might as well release him, particularly as it would +be to the advantage of all; for, if they did not let him out, he +protested he would be unable to avoid offending their nostrils unless +they kept their distance. + +The canon took his hand, tied together as they both were, and on his +word and promise they unbound him, and rejoiced beyond measure he was +to find himself out of the cage. The first thing he did was to stretch +himself all over, and then he went to where Rocinante was standing and +giving him a couple of slaps on the haunches said, “I still trust in +God and in his blessed mother, O flower and mirror of steeds, that we +shall soon see ourselves, both of us, as we wish to be, thou with thy +master on thy back, and I mounted upon thee, following the calling for +which God sent me into the world.” And so saying, accompanied by +Sancho, he withdrew to a retired spot, from which he came back much +relieved and more eager than ever to put his squire’s scheme into +execution. + +The canon gazed at him, wondering at the extraordinary nature of his +madness, and that in all his remarks and replies he should show such +excellent sense, and only lose his stirrups, as has been already said, +when the subject of chivalry was broached. And so, moved by compassion, +he said to him, as they all sat on the green grass awaiting the arrival +of the provisions: + +“Is it possible, gentle sir, that the nauseous and idle reading of +books of chivalry can have had such an effect on your worship as to +upset your reason so that you fancy yourself enchanted, and the like, +all as far from the truth as falsehood itself is? How can there be any +human understanding that can persuade itself there ever was all that +infinity of Amadises in the world, or all that multitude of famous +knights, all those emperors of Trebizond, all those Felixmartes of +Hircania, all those palfreys, and damsels-errant, and serpents, and +monsters, and giants, and marvellous adventures, and enchantments of +every kind, and battles, and prodigious encounters, splendid costumes, +love-sick princesses, squires made counts, droll dwarfs, love letters, +billings and cooings, swashbuckler women, and, in a word, all that +nonsense the books of chivalry contain? For myself, I can only say that +when I read them, so long as I do not stop to think that they are all +lies and frivolity, they give me a certain amount of pleasure; but when +I come to consider what they are, I fling the very best of them at the +wall, and would fling it into the fire if there were one at hand, as +richly deserving such punishment as cheats and impostors out of the +range of ordinary toleration, and as founders of new sects and modes of +life, and teachers that lead the ignorant public to believe and accept +as truth all the folly they contain. And such is their audacity, they +even dare to unsettle the wits of gentlemen of birth and intelligence, +as is shown plainly by the way they have served your worship, when they +have brought you to such a pass that you have to be shut up in a cage +and carried on an ox-cart as one would carry a lion or a tiger from +place to place to make money by showing it. Come, Señor Don Quixote, +have some compassion for yourself, return to the bosom of common sense, +and make use of the liberal share of it that heaven has been pleased to +bestow upon you, employing your abundant gifts of mind in some other +reading that may serve to benefit your conscience and add to your +honour. And if, still led away by your natural bent, you desire to read +books of achievements and of chivalry, read the Book of Judges in the +Holy Scriptures, for there you will find grand reality, and deeds as +true as they are heroic. Lusitania had a Viriatus, Rome a Cæsar, +Carthage a Hannibal, Greece an Alexander, Castile a Count Fernan +Gonzalez, Valencia a Cid, Andalusia a Gonzalo Fernandez, Estremadura a +Diego García de Paredes, Jerez a Garci Perez de Vargas, Toledo a +Garcilaso, Seville a Don Manuel de Leon, to read of whose valiant deeds +will entertain and instruct the loftiest minds and fill them with +delight and wonder. Here, Señor Don Quixote, will be reading worthy of +your sound understanding; from which you will rise learned in history, +in love with virtue, strengthened in goodness, improved in manners, +brave without rashness, prudent without cowardice; and all to the +honour of God, your own advantage and the glory of La Mancha, whence, I +am informed, your worship derives your birth.” + +Don Quixote listened with the greatest attention to the canon’s words, +and when he found he had finished, after regarding him for some time, +he replied to him: + +“It appears to me, gentle sir, that your worship’s discourse is +intended to persuade me that there never were any knights-errant in the +world, and that all the books of chivalry are false, lying, mischievous +and useless to the State, and that I have done wrong in reading them, +and worse in believing them, and still worse in imitating them, when I +undertook to follow the arduous calling of knight-errantry which they +set forth; for you deny that there ever were Amadises of Gaul or of +Greece, or any other of the knights of whom the books are full.” + +“It is all exactly as you state it,” said the canon; to which Don +Quixote returned, “You also went on to say that books of this kind had +done me much harm, inasmuch as they had upset my senses, and shut me up +in a cage, and that it would be better for me to reform and change my +studies, and read other truer books which would afford more pleasure +and instruction.” + +“Just so,” said the canon. + +“Well then,” returned Don Quixote, “to my mind it is you who are the +one that is out of his wits and enchanted, as you have ventured to +utter such blasphemies against a thing so universally acknowledged and +accepted as true that whoever denies it, as you do, deserves the same +punishment which you say you inflict on the books that irritate you +when you read them. For to try to persuade anybody that Amadis, and all +the other knights-adventurers with whom the books are filled, never +existed, would be like trying to persuade him that the sun does not +yield light, or ice cold, or earth nourishment. What wit in the world +can persuade another that the story of the Princess Floripes and Guy of +Burgundy is not true, or that of Fierabras and the bridge of Mantible, +which happened in the time of Charlemagne? For by all that is good it +is as true as that it is daylight now; and if it be a lie, it must be a +lie too that there was a Hector, or Achilles, or Trojan war, or Twelve +Peers of France, or Arthur of England, who still lives changed into a +raven, and is unceasingly looked for in his kingdom. One might just as +well try to make out that the history of Guarino Mezquino, or of the +quest of the Holy Grail, is false, or that the loves of Tristram and +the Queen Yseult are apocryphal, as well as those of Guinevere and +Lancelot, when there are persons who can almost remember having seen +the Dame Quintañona, who was the best cupbearer in Great Britain. And +so true is this, that I recollect a grandmother of mine on the father’s +side, whenever she saw any dame in a venerable hood, used to say to me, +‘Grandson, that one is like Dame Quintañona,’ from which I conclude +that she must have known her, or at least had managed to see some +portrait of her. Then who can deny that the story of Pierres and the +fair Magalona is true, when even to this day may be seen in the king’s +armoury the pin with which the valiant Pierres guided the wooden horse +he rode through the air, and it is a trifle bigger than the pole of a +cart? And alongside of the pin is Babieca’s saddle, and at Roncesvalles +there is Roland’s horn, as large as a large beam; whence we may infer +that there were Twelve Peers, and a Pierres, and a Cid, and other +knights like them, of the sort people commonly call adventurers. Or +perhaps I shall be told, too, that there was no such knight-errant as +the valiant Lusitanian Juan de Merlo, who went to Burgundy and in the +city of Arras fought with the famous lord of Charny, Mosen Pierres by +name, and afterwards in the city of Basle with Mosen Enrique de +Remesten, coming out of both encounters covered with fame and honour; +or adventures and challenges achieved and delivered, also in Burgundy, +by the valiant Spaniards Pedro Barba and Gutierre Quixada (of whose +family I come in the direct male line), when they vanquished the sons +of the Count of San Polo. I shall be told, too, that Don Fernando de +Guevara did not go in quest of adventures to Germany, where he engaged +in combat with Micer George, a knight of the house of the Duke of +Austria. I shall be told that the jousts of Suero de Quiñones, him of +the ‘Paso,’ and the emprise of Mosen Luis de Falces against the +Castilian knight, Don Gonzalo de Guzman, were mere mockeries; as well +as many other achievements of Christian knights of these and foreign +realms, which are so authentic and true, that, I repeat, he who denies +them must be totally wanting in reason and good sense.” + +The canon was amazed to hear the medley of truth and fiction Don +Quixote uttered, and to see how well acquainted he was with everything +relating or belonging to the achievements of his knight-errantry; so he +said in reply: + +“I cannot deny, Señor Don Quixote, that there is some truth in what you +say, especially as regards the Spanish knights-errant; and I am willing +to grant too that the Twelve Peers of France existed, but I am not +disposed to believe that they did all the things that the Archbishop +Turpin relates of them. For the truth of the matter is they were +knights chosen by the kings of France, and called ‘Peers’ because they +were all equal in worth, rank and prowess (at least if they were not +they ought to have been), and it was a kind of religious order like +those of Santiago and Calatrava in the present day, in which it is +assumed that those who take it are valiant knights of distinction and +good birth; and just as we say now a Knight of St. John, or of +Alcántara, they used to say then a Knight of the Twelve Peers, because +twelve equals were chosen for that military order. That there was a +Cid, as well as a Bernardo del Carpio, there can be no doubt; but that +they did the deeds people say they did, I hold to be very doubtful. In +that other matter of the pin of Count Pierres that you speak of, and +say is near Babieca’s saddle in the Armoury, I confess my sin; for I am +either so stupid or so short-sighted, that, though I have seen the +saddle, I have never been able to see the pin, in spite of it being as +big as your worship says it is.” + +“For all that it is there, without any manner of doubt,” said Don +Quixote; “and more by token they say it is inclosed in a sheath of +cowhide to keep it from rusting.” + +“All that may be,” replied the canon; “but, by the orders I have +received, I do not remember seeing it. However, granting it is there, +that is no reason why I am bound to believe the stories of all those +Amadises and of all that multitude of knights they tell us about, nor +is it reasonable that a man like your worship, so worthy, and with so +many good qualities, and endowed with such a good understanding, should +allow himself to be persuaded that such wild crazy things as are +written in those absurd books of chivalry are really true.” + + + +c49e.jpg (22K) + + + +CHAPTER L. +OF THE SHREWD CONTROVERSY WHICH DON QUIXOTE AND THE CANON HELD, +TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS + + + + +c50a.jpg (160K) + +Full Size + + + + +“A good joke, that!” returned Don Quixote. “Books that have been +printed with the king’s licence, and with the approbation of those to +whom they have been submitted, and read with universal delight, and +extolled by great and small, rich and poor, learned and ignorant, +gentle and simple, in a word by people of every sort, of whatever rank +or condition they may be—that these should be lies! And above all when +they carry such an appearance of truth with them; for they tell us the +father, mother, country, kindred, age, place, and the achievements, +step by step, and day by day, performed by such a knight or knights! +Hush, sir; utter not such blasphemy; trust me I am advising you now to +act as a sensible man should; only read them, and you will see the +pleasure you will derive from them. For, come, tell me, can there be +anything more delightful than to see, as it were, here now displayed +before us a vast lake of bubbling pitch with a host of snakes and +serpents and lizards, and ferocious and terrible creatures of all sorts +swimming about in it, while from the middle of the lake there comes a +plaintive voice saying: ‘Knight, whosoever thou art who beholdest this +dread lake, if thou wouldst win the prize that lies hidden beneath +these dusky waves, prove the valour of thy stout heart and cast thyself +into the midst of its dark burning waters, else thou shalt not be +worthy to see the mighty wonders contained in the seven castles of the +seven Fays that lie beneath this black expanse;’ and then the knight, +almost ere the awful voice has ceased, without stopping to consider, +without pausing to reflect upon the danger to which he is exposing +himself, without even relieving himself of the weight of his massive +armour, commending himself to God and to his lady, plunges into the +midst of the boiling lake, and when he little looks for it, or knows +what his fate is to be, he finds himself among flowery meadows, with +which the Elysian fields are not to be compared. + + + +c50b.jpg (344K) + +Full Size + + + + +“The sky seems more transparent there, and the sun shines with a +strange brilliancy, and a delightful grove of green leafy trees +presents itself to the eyes and charms the sight with its verdure, +while the ear is soothed by the sweet untutored melody of the countless +birds of gay plumage that flit to and fro among the interlacing +branches. Here he sees a brook whose limpid waters, like liquid +crystal, ripple over fine sands and white pebbles that look like sifted +gold and purest pearls. There he perceives a cunningly wrought fountain +of many-coloured jasper and polished marble; here another of rustic +fashion where the little mussel-shells and the spiral white and yellow +mansions of the snail disposed in studious disorder, mingled with +fragments of glittering crystal and mock emeralds, make up a work of +varied aspect, where art, imitating nature, seems to have outdone it. + + + +c50c.jpg (334K) + +Full Size + + + + +“Suddenly there is presented to his sight a strong castle or gorgeous +palace with walls of massy gold, turrets of diamond and gates of +jacinth; in short, so marvellous is its structure that though the +materials of which it is built are nothing less than diamonds, +carbuncles, rubies, pearls, gold, and emeralds, the workmanship is +still more rare. And after having seen all this, what can be more +charming than to see how a bevy of damsels comes forth from the gate of +the castle in gay and gorgeous attire, such that, were I to set myself +now to depict it as the histories describe it to us, I should never +have done; and then how she who seems to be the first among them all +takes the bold knight who plunged into the boiling lake by the hand, +and without addressing a word to him leads him into the rich palace or +castle, and strips him as naked as when his mother bore him, and bathes +him in lukewarm water, and anoints him all over with sweet-smelling +unguents, and clothes him in a shirt of the softest sendal, all scented +and perfumed, while another damsel comes and throws over his shoulders +a mantle which is said to be worth at the very least a city, and even +more? How charming it is, then, when they tell us how, after all this, +they lead him to another chamber where he finds the tables set out in +such style that he is filled with amazement and wonder; to see how they +pour out water for his hands distilled from amber and sweet-scented +flowers; how they seat him on an ivory chair; to see how the damsels +wait on him all in profound silence; how they bring him such a variety +of dainties so temptingly prepared that the appetite is at a loss which +to select; to hear the music that resounds while he is at table, by +whom or whence produced he knows not. And then when the repast is over +and the tables removed, for the knight to recline in the chair, picking +his teeth perhaps as usual, and a damsel, much lovelier than any of the +others, to enter unexpectedly by the chamber door, and herself by his +side, and begin to tell him what the castle is, and how she is held +enchanted there, and other things that amaze the knight and astonish +the readers who are perusing his history. + + + +c50d.jpg (433K) + +Full Size + + + + +“But I will not expatiate any further upon this, as it may be gathered +from it that whatever part of whatever history of a knight-errant one +reads, it will fill the reader, whoever he be, with delight and wonder; +and take my advice, sir, and, as I said before, read these books and +you will see how they will banish any melancholy you may feel and raise +your spirits should they be depressed. For myself I can say that since +I have been a knight-errant I have become valiant, polite, generous, +well-bred, magnanimous, courteous, dauntless, gentle, patient, and have +learned to bear hardships, imprisonments, and enchantments; and though +it be such a short time since I have seen myself shut up in a cage like +a madman, I hope by the might of my arm, if heaven aid me and fortune +thwart me not, to see myself king of some kingdom where I may be able +to show the gratitude and generosity that dwell in my heart; for by my +faith, señor, the poor man is incapacitated from showing the virtue of +generosity to anyone, though he may possess it in the highest degree; +and gratitude that consists of disposition only is a dead thing, just +as faith without works is dead. For this reason I should be glad were +fortune soon to offer me some opportunity of making myself an emperor, +so as to show my heart in doing good to my friends, particularly to +this poor Sancho Panza, my squire, who is the best fellow in the world; +and I would gladly give him a county I have promised him this ever so +long, only that I am afraid he has not the capacity to govern his +realm.” + +Sancho partly heard these last words of his master, and said to him, +“Strive hard you, Señor Don Quixote, to give me that county so often +promised by you and so long looked for by me, for I promise you there +will be no want of capacity in me to govern it; and even if there is, I +have heard say there are men in the world who farm seigniories, paying +so much a year, and they themselves taking charge of the government, +while the lord, with his legs stretched out, enjoys the revenue they +pay him, without troubling himself about anything else. That’s what +I’ll do, and not stand haggling over trifles, but wash my hands at once +of the whole business, and enjoy my rents like a duke, and let things +go their own way.” + +“That, brother Sancho,” said the canon, “only holds good as far as the +enjoyment of the revenue goes; but the lord of the seigniory must +attend to the administration of justice, and here capacity and sound +judgment come in, and above all a firm determination to find out the +truth; for if this be wanting in the beginning, the middle and the end +will always go wrong; and God as commonly aids the honest intentions of +the simple as he frustrates the evil designs of the crafty.” + +“I don’t understand those philosophies,” returned Sancho Panza; “all I +know is I would I had the county as soon as I shall know how to govern +it; for I have as much soul as another, and as much body as anyone, and +I shall be as much king of my realm as any other of his; and being so I +should do as I liked, and doing as I liked I should please myself, and +pleasing myself I should be content, and when one is content he has +nothing more to desire, and when one has nothing more to desire there +is an end of it; so let the county come, and God be with you, and let +us see one another, as one blind man said to the other.” + +“That is not bad philosophy thou art talking, Sancho,” said the canon; +“but for all that there is a good deal to be said on this matter of +counties.” + +To which Don Quixote returned, “I know not what more there is to be +said; I only guide myself by the example set me by the great Amadis of +Gaul, when he made his squire count of the Insula Firme; and so, +without any scruples of conscience, I can make a count of Sancho Panza, +for he is one of the best squires that ever knight-errant had.” + +The canon was astonished at the methodical nonsense (if nonsense be +capable of method) that Don Quixote uttered, at the way in which he had +described the adventure of the knight of the lake, at the impression +that the deliberate lies of the books he read had made upon him, and +lastly he marvelled at the simplicity of Sancho, who desired so eagerly +to obtain the county his master had promised him. + +By this time the canon’s servants, who had gone to the inn to fetch the +sumpter mule, had returned, and making a carpet and the green grass of +the meadow serve as a table, they seated themselves in the shade of +some trees and made their repast there, that the carter might not be +deprived of the advantage of the spot, as has been already said. As +they were eating they suddenly heard a loud noise and the sound of a +bell that seemed to come from among some brambles and thick bushes that +were close by, and the same instant they observed a beautiful goat, +spotted all over black, white, and brown, spring out of the thicket +with a goatherd after it, calling to it and uttering the usual cries to +make it stop or turn back to the fold. The fugitive goat, scared and +frightened, ran towards the company as if seeking their protection and +then stood still, and the goatherd coming up seized it by the horns and +began to talk to it as if it were possessed of reason and +understanding: “Ah wanderer, wanderer, Spotty, Spotty; how have you +gone limping all this time? What wolves have frightened you, my +daughter? Won’t you tell me what is the matter, my beauty? But what +else can it be except that you are a she, and cannot keep quiet? A +plague on your humours and the humours of those you take after! Come +back, come back, my darling; and if you will not be so happy, at any +rate you will be safe in the fold or with your companions; for if you +who ought to keep and lead them, go wandering astray, what will become +of them?” + +The goatherd’s talk amused all who heard it, but especially the canon, +who said to him, “As you live, brother, take it easy, and be not in +such a hurry to drive this goat back to the fold; for, being a female, +as you say, she will follow her natural instinct in spite of all you +can do to prevent it. Take this morsel and drink a sup, and that will +soothe your irritation, and in the meantime the goat will rest +herself,” and so saying, he handed him the loins of a cold rabbit on a +fork. + +The goatherd took it with thanks, and drank and calmed himself, and +then said, “I should be sorry if your worships were to take me for a +simpleton for having spoken so seriously as I did to this animal; but +the truth is there is a certain mystery in the words I used. I am a +clown, but not so much of one but that I know how to behave to men and +to beasts.” + +“That I can well believe,” said the curate, “for I know already by +experience that the woods breed men of learning, and shepherds’ huts +harbour philosophers.” + +“At all events, señor,” returned the goatherd, “they shelter men of +experience; and that you may see the truth of this and grasp it, though +I may seem to put myself forward without being asked, I will, if it +will not tire you, gentlemen, and you will give me your attention for a +little, tell you a true story which will confirm this gentleman’s word +(and he pointed to the curate) as well as my own.” + +To this Don Quixote replied, “Seeing that this affair has a certain +colour of chivalry about it, I for my part, brother, will hear you most +gladly, and so will all these gentlemen, from the high intelligence +they possess and their love of curious novelties that interest, charm, +and entertain the mind, as I feel quite sure your story will do. So +begin, friend, for we are all prepared to listen.” + +“I draw my stakes,” said Sancho, “and will retreat with this pasty to +the brook there, where I mean to victual myself for three days; for I +have heard my lord, Don Quixote, say that a knight-errant’s squire +should eat until he can hold no more, whenever he has the chance, +because it often happens them to get by accident into a wood so thick +that they cannot find a way out of it for six days; and if the man is +not well filled or his alforjas well stored, there he may stay, as very +often he does, turned into a dried mummy.” + +“Thou art in the right of it, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “go where thou +wilt and eat all thou canst, for I have had enough, and only want to +give my mind its refreshment, as I shall by listening to this good +fellow’s story.” + +“It is what we shall all do,” said the canon; and then begged the +goatherd to begin the promised tale. + +The goatherd gave the goat which he held by the horns a couple of slaps +on the back, saying, “Lie down here beside me, Spotty, for we have time +enough to return to our fold.” The goat seemed to understand him, for +as her master seated himself, she stretched herself quietly beside him +and looked up in his face to show him she was all attention to what he +was going to say, and then in these words he began his story. + + + +c50e.jpg (27K) + + + +CHAPTER LI. +WHICH DEALS WITH WHAT THE GOATHERD TOLD THOSE WHO WERE CARRYING OFF DON +QUIXOTE + + + + +c51a.jpg (115K) + +Full Size + + + + +Three leagues from this valley there is a village which, though small, +is one of the richest in all this neighbourhood, and in it there lived +a farmer, a very worthy man, and so much respected that, although to be +so is the natural consequence of being rich, he was even more respected +for his virtue than for the wealth he had acquired. But what made him +still more fortunate, as he said himself, was having a daughter of such +exceeding beauty, rare intelligence, gracefulness, and virtue, that +everyone who knew her and beheld her marvelled at the extraordinary +gifts with which heaven and nature had endowed her. As a child she was +beautiful, she continued to grow in beauty, and at the age of sixteen +she was most lovely. The fame of her beauty began to spread abroad +through all the villages around—but why do I say the villages around, +merely, when it spread to distant cities, and even made its way into +the halls of royalty and reached the ears of people of every class, who +came from all sides to see her as if to see something rare and curious, +or some wonder-working image? + +Her father watched over her and she watched over herself; for there are +no locks, or guards, or bolts that can protect a young girl better than +her own modesty. The wealth of the father and the beauty of the +daughter led many neighbours as well as strangers to seek her for a +wife; but he, as one might well be who had the disposal of so rich a +jewel, was perplexed and unable to make up his mind to which of her +countless suitors he should entrust her. I was one among the many who +felt a desire so natural, and, as her father knew who I was, and I was +of the same town, of pure blood, in the bloom of life, and very rich in +possessions, I had great hopes of success. There was another of the +same place and qualifications who also sought her, and this made her +father’s choice hang in the balance, for he felt that on either of us +his daughter would be well bestowed; so to escape from this state of +perplexity he resolved to refer the matter to Leandra (for that is the +name of the rich damsel who has reduced me to misery), reflecting that +as we were both equal it would be best to leave it to his dear daughter +to choose according to her inclination—a course that is worthy of +imitation by all fathers who wish to settle their children in life. I +do not mean that they ought to leave them to make a choice of what is +contemptible and bad, but that they should place before them what is +good and then allow them to make a good choice as they please. I do not +know which Leandra chose; I only know her father put us both off with +the tender age of his daughter and vague words that neither bound him +nor dismissed us. My rival is called Anselmo and I myself Eugenio—that +you may know the names of the personages that figure in this tragedy, +the end of which is still in suspense, though it is plain to see it +must be disastrous. + +About this time there arrived in our town one Vicente de la Roca, the +son of a poor peasant of the same town, the said Vicente having +returned from service as a soldier in Italy and divers other parts. A +captain who chanced to pass that way with his company had carried him +off from our village when he was a boy of about twelve years, and now +twelve years later the young man came back in a soldier’s uniform, +arrayed in a thousand colours, and all over glass trinkets and fine +steel chains. To-day he would appear in one gay dress, to-morrow in +another; but all flimsy and gaudy, of little substance and less worth. +The peasant folk, who are naturally malicious, and when they have +nothing to do can be malice itself, remarked all this, and took note of +his finery and jewellery, piece by piece, and discovered that he had +three suits of different colours, with garters and stockings to match; +but he made so many arrangements and combinations out of them, that if +they had not counted them, anyone would have sworn that he had made a +display of more than ten suits of clothes and twenty plumes. Do not +look upon all this that I am telling you about the clothes as uncalled +for or spun out, for they have a great deal to do with the story. He +used to seat himself on a bench under the great poplar in our plaza, +and there he would keep us all hanging open-mouthed on the stories he +told us of his exploits. There was no country on the face of the globe +he had not seen, nor battle he had not been engaged in; he had killed +more Moors than there are in Morocco and Tunis, and fought more single +combats, according to his own account, than Garcilaso, Diego García de +Paredes and a thousand others he named, and out of all he had come +victorious without losing a drop of blood. On the other hand he showed +marks of wounds, which, though they could not be made out, he said were +gunshot wounds received in divers encounters and actions. Lastly, with +monstrous impudence he used to say “you” to his equals and even those +who knew what he was, and declare that his arm was his father and his +deeds his pedigree, and that being a soldier he was as good as the king +himself. And to add to these swaggering ways he was a trifle of a +musician, and played the guitar with such a flourish that some said he +made it speak; nor did his accomplishments end here, for he was +something of a poet too, and on every trifle that happened in the town +he made a ballad a league long. + + + +c51b.jpg (372K) + +Full Size + + + + +This soldier, then, that I have described, this Vicente de la Roca, +this bravo, gallant, musician, poet, was often seen and watched by +Leandra from a window of her house which looked out on the plaza. The +glitter of his showy attire took her fancy, his ballads bewitched her +(for he gave away twenty copies of every one he made), the tales of his +exploits which he told about himself came to her ears; and in short, as +the devil no doubt had arranged it, she fell in love with him before +the presumption of making love to her had suggested itself to him; and +as in love-affairs none are more easily brought to an issue than those +which have the inclination of the lady for an ally, Leandra and Vicente +came to an understanding without any difficulty; and before any of her +numerous suitors had any suspicion of her design, she had already +carried it into effect, having left the house of her dearly beloved +father (for mother she had none), and disappeared from the village with +the soldier, who came more triumphantly out of this enterprise than out +of any of the large number he laid claim to. All the village and all +who heard of it were amazed at the affair; I was aghast, Anselmo +thunderstruck, her father full of grief, her relations indignant, the +authorities all in a ferment, the officers of the Brotherhood in arms. +They scoured the roads, they searched the woods and all quarters, and +at the end of three days they found the flighty Leandra in a mountain +cave, stript to her shift, and robbed of all the money and precious +jewels she had carried away from home with her. + + + +c51c.jpg (275K) + +Full Size + + + + +They brought her back to her unhappy father, and questioned her as to +her misfortune, and she confessed without pressure that Vicente de la +Roca had deceived her, and under promise of marrying her had induced +her to leave her father’s house, as he meant to take her to the richest +and most delightful city in the whole world, which was Naples; and that +she, ill-advised and deluded, had believed him, and robbed her father, +and handed over all to him the night she disappeared; and that he had +carried her away to a rugged mountain and shut her up in the cave where +they had found her. She said, moreover, that the soldier, without +robbing her of her honour, had taken from her everything she had, and +made off, leaving her in the cave, a thing that still further surprised +everybody. It was not easy for us to credit the young man’s continence, +but she asserted it with such earnestness that it helped to console her +distressed father, who thought nothing of what had been taken since the +jewel that once lost can never be recovered had been left to his +daughter. The same day that Leandra made her appearance her father +removed her from our sight and took her away to shut her up in a +convent in a town near this, in the hope that time may wear away some +of the disgrace she has incurred. Leandra’s youth furnished an excuse +for her fault, at least with those to whom it was of no consequence +whether she was good or bad; but those who knew her shrewdness and +intelligence did not attribute her misdemeanour to ignorance but to +wantonness and the natural disposition of women, which is for the most +part flighty and ill-regulated. + +Leandra withdrawn from sight, Anselmo’s eyes grew blind, or at any rate +found nothing to look at that gave them any pleasure, and mine were in +darkness without a ray of light to direct them to anything enjoyable +while Leandra was away. Our melancholy grew greater, our patience grew +less; we cursed the soldier’s finery and railed at the carelessness of +Leandra’s father. At last Anselmo and I agreed to leave the village and +come to this valley; and, he feeding a great flock of sheep of his own, +and I a large herd of goats of mine, we pass our life among the trees, +giving vent to our sorrows, together singing the fair Leandra’s +praises, or upbraiding her, or else sighing alone, and to heaven +pouring forth our complaints in solitude. Following our example, many +more of Leandra’s lovers have come to these rude mountains and adopted +our mode of life, and they are so numerous that one would fancy the +place had been turned into the pastoral Arcadia, so full is it of +shepherds and sheep-folds; nor is there a spot in it where the name of +the fair Leandra is not heard. Here one curses her and calls her +capricious, fickle, and immodest, there another condemns her as frail +and frivolous; this pardons and absolves her, that spurns and reviles +her; one extols her beauty, another assails her character, and in short +all abuse her, and all adore her, and to such a pitch has this general +infatuation gone that there are some who complain of her scorn without +ever having exchanged a word with her, and even some that bewail and +mourn the raging fever of jealousy, for which she never gave anyone +cause, for, as I have already said, her misconduct was known before her +passion. There is no nook among the rocks, no brookside, no shade +beneath the trees that is not haunted by some shepherd telling his woes +to the breezes; wherever there is an echo it repeats the name of +Leandra; the mountains ring with “Leandra,” “Leandra” murmur the +brooks, and Leandra keeps us all bewildered and bewitched, hoping +without hope and fearing without knowing what we fear. Of all this +silly set the one that shows the least and also the most sense is my +rival Anselmo, for having so many other things to complain of, he only +complains of separation, and to the accompaniment of a rebeck, which he +plays admirably, he sings his complaints in verses that show his +ingenuity. I follow another, easier, and to my mind wiser course, and +that is to rail at the frivolity of women, at their inconstancy, their +double dealing, their broken promises, their unkept pledges, and in +short the want of reflection they show in fixing their affections and +inclinations. This, sirs, was the reason of words and expressions I +made use of to this goat when I came up just now; for as she is a +female I have a contempt for her, though she is the best in all my +fold. This is the story I promised to tell you, and if I have been +tedious in telling it, I will not be slow to serve you; my hut is close +by, and I have fresh milk and dainty cheese there, as well as a variety +of toothsome fruit, no less pleasing to the eye than to the palate. + + + +c51e.jpg (14K) + + + +CHAPTER LII. +OF THE QUARREL THAT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE GOATHERD, TOGETHER WITH +THE RARE ADVENTURE OF THE PENITENTS, WHICH WITH AN EXPENDITURE OF SWEAT +HE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION + + + + +c52a.jpg (40K) + +Full Size + + + + +The goatherd’s tale gave great satisfaction to all the hearers, and the +canon especially enjoyed it, for he had remarked with particular +attention the manner in which it had been told, which was as unlike the +manner of a clownish goatherd as it was like that of a polished city +wit; and he observed that the curate had been quite right in saying +that the woods bred men of learning. They all offered their services to +Eugenio but he who showed himself most liberal in this way was Don +Quixote, who said to him, “Most assuredly, brother goatherd, if I found +myself in a position to attempt any adventure, I would, this very +instant, set out on your behalf, and would rescue Leandra from that +convent (where no doubt she is kept against her will), in spite of the +abbess and all who might try to prevent me, and would place her in your +hands to deal with her according to your will and pleasure, observing, +however, the laws of chivalry which lay down that no violence of any +kind is to be offered to any damsel. But I trust in God our Lord that +the might of one malignant enchanter may not prove so great but that +the power of another better disposed may prove superior to it, and then +I promise you my support and assistance, as I am bound to do by my +profession, which is none other than to give aid to the weak and +needy.” + +The goatherd eyed him, and noticing Don Quixote’s sorry appearance and +looks, he was filled with wonder, and asked the barber, who was next +him, “Señor, who is this man who makes such a figure and talks in such +a strain?” + +“Who should it be,” said the barber, “but the famous Don Quixote of La +Mancha, the undoer of injustice, the righter of wrongs, the protector +of damsels, the terror of giants, and the winner of battles?” + +“That,” said the goatherd, “sounds like what one reads in the books of +the knights-errant, who did all that you say this man does; though it +is my belief that either you are joking, or else this gentleman has +empty lodgings in his head.” + +“You are a great scoundrel,” said Don Quixote, “and it is you who are +empty and a fool. I am fuller than ever was the whoreson bitch that +bore you;” and passing from words to deeds, he caught up a loaf that +was near him and sent it full in the goatherd’s face, with such force +that he flattened his nose; but the goatherd, who did not understand +jokes, and found himself roughly handled in such good earnest, paying +no respect to carpet, tablecloth, or diners, sprang upon Don Quixote, +and seizing him by the throat with both hands would no doubt have +throttled him, had not Sancho Panza that instant come to the rescue, +and grasping him by the shoulders flung him down on the table, smashing +plates, breaking glasses, and upsetting and scattering everything on +it. Don Quixote, finding himself free, strove to get on top of the +goatherd, who, with his face covered with blood, and soundly kicked by +Sancho, was on all fours feeling about for one of the table-knives to +take a bloody revenge with. The canon and the curate, however, +prevented him, but the barber so contrived it that he got Don Quixote +under him, and rained down upon him such a shower of fisticuffs that +the poor knight’s face streamed with blood as freely as his own. The +canon and the curate were bursting with laughter, the officers were +capering with delight, and both the one and the other hissed them on as +they do dogs that are worrying one another in a fight. Sancho alone was +frantic, for he could not free himself from the grasp of one of the +canon’s servants, who kept him from going to his master’s assistance. + + + +c52b.jpg (348K) + +Full Size + + + + +At last, while they were all, with the exception of the two bruisers +who were mauling each other, in high glee and enjoyment, they heard a +trumpet sound a note so doleful that it made them all look in the +direction whence the sound seemed to come. But the one that was most +excited by hearing it was Don Quixote, who though sorely against his +will he was under the goatherd, and something more than pretty well +pummelled, said to him, “Brother devil (for it is impossible but that +thou must be one since thou hast had might and strength enough to +overcome mine), I ask thee to agree to a truce for but one hour for the +solemn note of yonder trumpet that falls on our ears seems to me to +summon me to some new adventure.” The goatherd, who was by this time +tired of pummelling and being pummelled, released him at once, and Don +Quixote rising to his feet and turning his eyes to the quarter where +the sound had been heard, suddenly saw coming down the slope of a hill +several men clad in white like penitents. + +The fact was that the clouds had that year withheld their moisture from +the earth, and in all the villages of the district they were organising +processions, rogations, and penances, imploring God to open the hands +of his mercy and send the rain; and to this end the people of a village +that was hard by were going in procession to a holy hermitage there was +on one side of that valley. Don Quixote when he saw the strange garb of +the penitents, without reflecting how often he had seen it before, took +it into his head that this was a case of adventure, and that it fell to +him alone as a knight-errant to engage in it; and he was all the more +confirmed in this notion, by the idea that an image draped in black +they had with them was some illustrious lady that these villains and +discourteous thieves were carrying off by force. As soon as this +occurred to him he ran with all speed to Rocinante who was grazing at +large, and taking the bridle and the buckler from the saddle-bow, he +had him bridled in an instant, and calling to Sancho for his sword he +mounted Rocinante, braced his buckler on his arm, and in a loud voice +exclaimed to those who stood by, “Now, noble company, ye shall see how +important it is that there should be knights in the world professing +the order of knight-errantry; now, I say, ye shall see, by the +deliverance of that worthy lady who is borne captive there, whether +knights-errant deserve to be held in estimation,” and so saying he +brought his legs to bear on Rocinante—for he had no spurs—and at a full +canter (for in all this veracious history we never read of Rocinante +fairly galloping) set off to encounter the penitents, though the +curate, the canon, and the barber ran to prevent him. But it was out of +their power, nor did he even stop for the shouts of Sancho calling +after him, “Where are you going, Señor Don Quixote? What devils have +possessed you to set you on against our Catholic faith? Plague take me! +mind, that is a procession of penitents, and the lady they are carrying +on that stand there is the blessed image of the immaculate Virgin. Take +care what you are doing, señor, for this time it may be safely said you +don’t know what you are about.” Sancho laboured in vain, for his master +was so bent on coming to quarters with these sheeted figures and +releasing the lady in black that he did not hear a word; and even had +he heard, he would not have turned back if the king had ordered him. He +came up with the procession and reined in Rocinante, who was already +anxious enough to slacken speed a little, and in a hoarse, excited +voice he exclaimed, “You who hide your faces, perhaps because you are +not good subjects, pay attention and listen to what I am about to say +to you.” The first to halt were those who were carrying the image, and +one of the four ecclesiastics who were chanting the Litany, struck by +the strange figure of Don Quixote, the leanness of Rocinante, and the +other ludicrous peculiarities he observed, said in reply to him, +“Brother, if you have anything to say to us say it quickly, for these +brethren are whipping themselves, and we cannot stop, nor is it +reasonable we should stop to hear anything, unless indeed it is short +enough to be said in two words.” + +“I will say it in one,” replied Don Quixote, “and it is this; that at +once, this very instant, ye release that fair lady whose tears and sad +aspect show plainly that ye are carrying her off against her will, and +that ye have committed some scandalous outrage against her; and I, who +was born into the world to redress all such like wrongs, will not +permit you to advance another step until you have restored to her the +liberty she pines for and deserves.” + +From these words all the hearers concluded that he must be a madman, +and began to laugh heartily, and their laughter acted like gunpowder on +Don Quixote’s fury, for drawing his sword without another word he made +a rush at the stand. One of those who supported it, leaving the burden +to his comrades, advanced to meet him, flourishing a forked stick that +he had for propping up the stand when resting, and with this he caught +a mighty cut Don Quixote made at him that severed it in two; but with +the portion that remained in his hand he dealt such a thwack on the +shoulder of Don Quixote’s sword arm (which the buckler could not +protect against the clownish assault) that poor Don Quixote came to the +ground in a sad plight. + +Sancho Panza, who was coming on close behind puffing and blowing, +seeing him fall, cried out to his assailant not to strike him again, +for he was a poor enchanted knight, who had never harmed anyone all the +days of his life; but what checked the clown was, not Sancho’s +shouting, but seeing that Don Quixote did not stir hand or foot; and +so, fancying he had killed him, he hastily hitched up his tunic under +his girdle and took to his heels across the country like a deer. + +By this time all Don Quixote’s companions had come up to where he lay; +but the processionists seeing them come running, and with them the +officers of the Brotherhood with their crossbows, apprehended mischief, +and clustering round the image, raised their hoods, and grasped their +scourges, as the priests did their tapers, and awaited the attack, +resolved to defend themselves and even to take the offensive against +their assailants if they could. Fortune, however, arranged the matter +better than they expected, for all Sancho did was to fling himself on +his master’s body, raising over him the most doleful and laughable +lamentation that ever was heard, for he believed he was dead. The +curate was known to another curate who walked in the procession, and +their recognition of one another set at rest the apprehensions of both +parties; the first then told the other in two words who Don Quixote +was, and he and the whole troop of penitents went to see if the poor +gentleman was dead, and heard Sancho Panza saying, with tears in his +eyes, “Oh flower of chivalry, that with one blow of a stick hast ended +the course of thy well-spent life! Oh pride of thy race, honour and +glory of all La Mancha, nay, of all the world, that for want of thee +will be full of evil-doers, no longer in fear of punishment for their +misdeeds! Oh thou, generous above all the Alexanders, since for only +eight months of service thou hast given me the best island the sea +girds or surrounds! Humble with the proud, haughty with the humble, +encounterer of dangers, endurer of outrages, enamoured without reason, +imitator of the good, scourge of the wicked, enemy of the mean, in +short, knight-errant, which is all that can be said!” + + + +c52c.jpg (325K) + +Full Size + + + + +At the cries and moans of Sancho, Don Quixote came to himself, and the +first word he said was, “He who lives separated from you, sweetest +Dulcinea, has greater miseries to endure than these. Aid me, friend +Sancho, to mount the enchanted cart, for I am not in a condition to +press the saddle of Rocinante, as this shoulder is all knocked to +pieces.” + +“That I will do with all my heart, señor,” said Sancho; “and let us +return to our village with these gentlemen, who seek your good, and +there we will prepare for making another sally, which may turn out more +profitable and creditable to us.” + +“Thou art right, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote; “It will be wise to let +the malign influence of the stars which now prevails pass off.” + +The canon, the curate, and the barber told him he would act very wisely +in doing as he said; and so, highly amused at Sancho Panza’s +simplicities, they placed Don Quixote in the cart as before. The +procession once more formed itself in order and proceeded on its road; +the goatherd took his leave of the party; the officers of the +Brotherhood declined to go any farther, and the curate paid them what +was due to them; the canon begged the curate to let him know how Don +Quixote did, whether he was cured of his madness or still suffered from +it, and then begged leave to continue his journey; in short, they all +separated and went their ways, leaving to themselves the curate and the +barber, Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and the good Rocinante, who regarded +everything with as great resignation as his master. The carter yoked +his oxen and made Don Quixote comfortable on a truss of hay, and at his +usual deliberate pace took the road the curate directed, and at the end +of six days they reached Don Quixote’s village, and entered it about +the middle of the day, which it so happened was a Sunday, and the +people were all in the plaza, through which Don Quixote’s cart passed. +They all flocked to see what was in the cart, and when they recognised +their townsman they were filled with amazement, and a boy ran off to +bring the news to his housekeeper and his niece that their master and +uncle had come back all lean and yellow and stretched on a truss of hay +on an ox-cart. It was piteous to hear the cries the two good ladies +raised, how they beat their breasts and poured out fresh maledictions +on those accursed books of chivalry; all which was renewed when they +saw Don Quixote coming in at the gate. + +At the news of Don Quixote’s arrival Sancho Panza’s wife came running, +for she by this time knew that her husband had gone away with him as +his squire, and on seeing Sancho, the first thing she asked him was if +the ass was well. Sancho replied that he was, better than his master +was. + +“Thanks be to God,” said she, “for being so good to me; but now tell +me, my friend, what have you made by your squirings? What gown have you +brought me back? What shoes for your children?” + +“I bring nothing of that sort, wife,” said Sancho; “though I bring +other things of more consequence and value.” + +“I am very glad of that,” returned his wife; “show me these things of +more value and consequence, my friend; for I want to see them to cheer +my heart that has been so sad and heavy all these ages that you have +been away.” + +“I will show them to you at home, wife,” said Sancho; “be content for +the present; for if it please God that we should again go on our +travels in search of adventures, you will soon see me a count, or +governor of an island, and that not one of those everyday ones, but the +best that is to be had.” + +“Heaven grant it, husband,” said she, “for indeed we have need of it. +But tell me, what’s this about islands, for I don’t understand it?” + +“Honey is not for the mouth of the ass,” returned Sancho; “all in good +time thou shalt see, wife—nay, thou wilt be surprised to hear thyself +called ‘your ladyship’ by all thy vassals.” + +“What are you talking about, Sancho, with your ladyships, islands, and +vassals?” returned Teresa Panza—for so Sancho’s wife was called, though +they were not relations, for in La Mancha it is customary for wives to +take their husbands’ surnames. + +“Don’t be in such a hurry to know all this, Teresa,” said Sancho; “it +is enough that I am telling you the truth, so shut your mouth. But I +may tell you this much by the way, that there is nothing in the world +more delightful than to be a person of consideration, squire to a +knight-errant, and a seeker of adventures. To be sure most of those one +finds do not end as pleasantly as one could wish, for out of a hundred, +ninety-nine will turn out cross and contrary. I know it by experience, +for out of some I came blanketed, and out of others belaboured. Still, +for all that, it is a fine thing to be on the look-out for what may +happen, crossing mountains, searching woods, climbing rocks, visiting +castles, putting up at inns, all at free quarters, and devil take the +maravedi to pay.” + +While this conversation passed between Sancho Panza and his wife, Don +Quixote’s housekeeper and niece took him in and undressed him and laid +him in his old bed. He eyed them askance, and could not make out where +he was. The curate charged his niece to be very careful to make her +uncle comfortable and to keep a watch over him lest he should make his +escape from them again, telling her what they had been obliged to do to +bring him home. On this the pair once more lifted up their voices and +renewed their maledictions upon the books of chivalry, and implored +heaven to plunge the authors of such lies and nonsense into the midst +of the bottomless pit. They were, in short, kept in anxiety and dread +lest their uncle and master should give them the slip the moment he +found himself somewhat better, and as they feared so it fell out. + +But the author of this history, though he has devoted research and +industry to the discovery of the deeds achieved by Don Quixote in his +third sally, has been unable to obtain any information respecting them, +at any rate derived from authentic documents; tradition has merely +preserved in the memory of La Mancha the fact that Don Quixote, the +third time he sallied forth from his home, betook himself to Saragossa, +where he was present at some famous jousts which came off in that city, +and that he had adventures there worthy of his valour and high +intelligence. Of his end and death he could learn no particulars, nor +would he have ascertained it or known of it, if good fortune had not +produced an old physician for him who had in his possession a leaden +box, which, according to his account, had been discovered among the +crumbling foundations of an ancient hermitage that was being rebuilt; +in which box were found certain parchment manuscripts in Gothic +character, but in Castilian verse, containing many of his achievements, +and setting forth the beauty of Dulcinea, the form of Rocinante, the +fidelity of Sancho Panza, and the burial of Don Quixote himself, +together with sundry epitaphs and eulogies on his life and character; +but all that could be read and deciphered were those which the +trustworthy author of this new and unparalleled history here presents. +And the said author asks of those that shall read it nothing in return +for the vast toil which it has cost him in examining and searching the +Manchegan archives in order to bring it to light, save that they give +him the same credit that people of sense give to the books of chivalry +that pervade the world and are so popular; for with this he will +consider himself amply paid and fully satisfied, and will be encouraged +to seek out and produce other histories, if not as truthful, at least +equal in invention and not less entertaining. The first words written +on the parchment found in the leaden box were these: + +THE ACADEMICIANS OF ARGAMASILLA, +A VILLAGE OF LA MANCHA, +ON THE LIFE AND DEATH OF DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA, +HOC SCRIPSERUNT +MONICONGO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, +ON THE TOMB OF DON QUIXOTE + + +EPITAPH + +The scatterbrain that gave La Mancha more +Rich spoils than Jason’s; who a point so keen +Had to his wit, and happier far had been +If his wit’s weathercock a blunter bore; +The arm renowned far as Gaeta’s shore, +Cathay, and all the lands that lie between; +The muse discreet and terrible in mien +As ever wrote on brass in days of yore; +He who surpassed the Amadises all, +And who as naught the Galaors accounted, +Supported by his love and gallantry: +Who made the Belianises sing small, +And sought renown on Rocinante mounted; +Here, underneath this cold stone, doth he lie. + + +PANIAGUADO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, +IN LAUDEM DULCINEAE DEL TOBOSO + + +SONNET + +She, whose full features may be here descried, +High-bosomed, with a bearing of disdain, +Is Dulcinea, she for whom in vain +The great Don Quixote of La Mancha sighed. +For her, Toboso’s queen, from side to side +He traversed the grim sierra, the champaign +Of Aranjuez, and Montiel’s famous plain: +On Rocinante oft a weary ride. +Malignant planets, cruel destiny, +Pursued them both, the fair Manchegan dame, +And the unconquered star of chivalry. +Nor youth nor beauty saved her from the claim +Of death; he paid love’s bitter penalty, +And left the marble to preserve his name. + + +CAPRICHOSO, A MOST ACUTE ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, +IN PRAISE OF ROCINANTE, STEED OF DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA + + +SONNET + +On that proud throne of diamantine sheen, +Which the blood-reeking feet of Mars degrade, +The mad Manchegan’s banner now hath been +By him in all its bravery displayed. +There hath he hung his arms and trenchant blade +Wherewith, achieving deeds till now unseen, +He slays, lays low, cleaves, hews; but art hath made +A novel style for our new paladin. +If Amadis be the proud boast of Gaul, +If by his progeny the fame of Greece +Through all the regions of the earth be spread, +Great Quixote crowned in grim Bellona’s hall +To-day exalts La Mancha over these, +And above Greece or Gaul she holds her head. +Nor ends his glory here, for his good steed +Doth Brillador and Bayard far exceed; +As mettled steeds compared with Rocinante, +The reputation they have won is scanty. + + +BURLADOR, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, +ON SANCHO PANZA + + +SONNET + +The worthy Sancho Panza here you see; +A great soul once was in that body small, +Nor was there squire upon this earthly ball +So plain and simple, or of guile so free. +Within an ace of being Count was he, +And would have been but for the spite and gall +Of this vile age, mean and illiberal, +That cannot even let a donkey be. +For mounted on an ass (excuse the word), +By Rocinante’s side this gentle squire +Was wont his wandering master to attend. +Delusive hopes that lure the common herd +With promises of ease, the heart’s desire, +In shadows, dreams, and smoke ye always end. + + +CACHIDIABLO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, +ON THE TOMB OF DON QUIXOTE + + +EPITAPH + +The knight lies here below, +Ill-errant and bruised sore, +Whom Rocinante bore +In his wanderings to and fro. +By the side of the knight is laid +Stolid man Sancho too, +Than whom a squire more true +Was not in the esquire trade. + + +TIQUITOC, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, +ON THE TOMB OF DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO + + +EPITAPH + +Here Dulcinea lies. +Plump was she and robust: +Now she is ashes and dust: +The end of all flesh that dies. +A lady of high degree, +With the port of a lofty dame, +And the great Don Quixote’s flame, +And the pride of her village was she. + + +These were all the verses that could be deciphered; the rest, the +writing being worm-eaten, were handed over to one of the Academicians +to make out their meaning conjecturally. We have been informed that at +the cost of many sleepless nights and much toil he has succeeded, and +that he means to publish them in hopes of Don Quixote’s third sally. + +_“Forse altro cantera con miglior plettro.”_ + + + + +c52e.jpg (54K) + + + +Volume II + +p003.jpg (307K) + +Full Size + + + +DEDICATION OF VOLUME II. + + + + +TO THE COUNT OF LEMOS: + + + +These days past, when sending Your Excellency my plays, that had +appeared in print before being shown on the stage, I said, if I +remember well, that Don Quixote was putting on his spurs to go and +render homage to Your Excellency. Now I say that “with his spurs, he is +on his way.” Should he reach destination methinks I shall have rendered +some service to Your Excellency, as from many parts I am urged to send +him off, so as to dispel the loathing and disgust caused by another Don +Quixote who, under the name of Second Part, has run masquerading +through the whole world. And he who has shown the greatest longing for +him has been the great Emperor of China, who wrote me a letter in +Chinese a month ago and sent it by a special courier. He asked me, or +to be truthful, he begged me to send him Don Quixote, for he intended +to found a college where the Spanish tongue would be taught, and it was +his wish that the book to be read should be the History of Don Quixote. +He also added that I should go and be the rector of this college. I +asked the bearer if His Majesty had afforded a sum in aid of my travel +expenses. He answered, “No, not even in thought.” + +“Then, brother,” I replied, “you can return to your China, post haste +or at whatever haste you are bound to go, as I am not fit for so long a +travel and, besides being ill, I am very much without money, while +Emperor for Emperor and Monarch for Monarch, I have at Naples the great +Count of Lemos, who, without so many petty titles of colleges and +rectorships, sustains me, protects me and does me more favour than I +can wish for.” + +Thus I gave him his leave and I beg mine from you, offering Your +Excellency the “Trabajos de Persiles y Sigismunda,” a book I shall +finish within four months, Deo volente, and which will be either the +worst or the best that has been composed in our language, I mean of +those intended for entertainment; at which I repent of having called it +the worst, for, in the opinion of friends, it is bound to attain the +summit of possible quality. May Your Excellency return in such health +that is wished you; Persiles will be ready to kiss your hand and I your +feet, being as I am, Your Excellency’s most humble servant. + +From Madrid, this last day of October of the year one thousand six +hundred and fifteen. + +At the service of Your Excellency: + +MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA + + + +THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE + + + +part2.jpg (130K) + +Full Size + + + +God bless me, gentle (or it may be plebeian) reader, how eagerly must +thou be looking forward to this preface, expecting to find there +retaliation, scolding, and abuse against the author of the second Don +Quixote—I mean him who was, they say, begotten at Tordesillas and born +at Tarragona! Well then, the truth is, I am not going to give thee that +satisfaction; for, though injuries stir up anger in humbler breasts, in +mine the rule must admit of an exception. Thou wouldst have me call him +ass, fool, and malapert, but I have no such intention; let his offence +be his punishment, with his bread let him eat it, and there’s an end of +it. What I cannot help taking amiss is that he charges me with being +old and one-handed, as if it had been in my power to keep time from +passing over me, or as if the loss of my hand had been brought about in +some tavern, and not on the grandest occasion the past or present has +seen, or the future can hope to see. If my wounds have no beauty to the +beholder’s eye, they are, at least, honourable in the estimation of +those who know where they were received; for the soldier shows to +greater advantage dead in battle than alive in flight; and so strongly +is this my feeling, that if now it were proposed to perform an +impossibility for me, I would rather have had my share in that mighty +action, than be free from my wounds this minute without having been +present at it. Those the soldier shows on his face and breast are stars +that direct others to the heaven of honour and ambition of merited +praise; and moreover it is to be observed that it is not with grey +hairs that one writes, but with the understanding, and that commonly +improves with years. I take it amiss, too, that he calls me envious, +and explains to me, as if I were ignorant, what envy is; for really and +truly, of the two kinds there are, I only know that which is holy, +noble, and high-minded; and if that be so, as it is, I am not likely to +attack a priest, above all if, in addition, he holds the rank of +familiar of the Holy Office. And if he said what he did on account of +him on whose behalf it seems he spoke, he is entirely mistaken; for I +worship the genius of that person, and admire his works and his +unceasing and strenuous industry. After all, I am grateful to this +gentleman, the author, for saying that my novels are more satirical +than exemplary, but that they are good; for they could not be that +unless there was a little of everything in them. + +I suspect thou wilt say that I am taking a very humble line, and +keeping myself too much within the bounds of my moderation, from a +feeling that additional suffering should not be inflicted upon a +sufferer, and that what this gentleman has to endure must doubtless be +very great, as he does not dare to come out into the open field and +broad daylight, but hides his name and disguises his country as if he +had been guilty of some lese majesty. If perchance thou shouldst come +to know him, tell him from me that I do not hold myself aggrieved; for +I know well what the temptations of the devil are, and that one of the +greatest is putting it into a man’s head that he can write and print a +book by which he will get as much fame as money, and as much money as +fame; and to prove it I will beg of you, in your own sprightly, +pleasant way, to tell him this story. + +There was a madman in Seville who took to one of the drollest +absurdities and vagaries that ever madman in the world gave way to. It +was this: he made a tube of reed sharp at one end, and catching a dog +in the street, or wherever it might be, he with his foot held one of +its legs fast, and with his hand lifted up the other, and as best he +could fixed the tube where, by blowing, he made the dog as round as a +ball; then holding it in this position, he gave it a couple of slaps on +the belly, and let it go, saying to the bystanders (and there were +always plenty of them): “Do your worships think, now, that it is an +easy thing to blow up a dog?”—Does your worship think now, that it is +an easy thing to write a book? + +And if this story does not suit him, you may, dear reader, tell him +this one, which is likewise of a madman and a dog. + +In Cordova there was another madman, whose way it was to carry a piece +of marble slab or a stone, not of the lightest, on his head, and when +he came upon any unwary dog he used to draw close to him and let the +weight fall right on top of him; on which the dog in a rage, barking +and howling, would run three streets without stopping. It so happened, +however, that one of the dogs he discharged his load upon was a +cap-maker’s dog, of which his master was very fond. The stone came down +hitting it on the head, the dog raised a yell at the blow, the master +saw the affair and was wroth, and snatching up a measuring-yard rushed +out at the madman and did not leave a sound bone in his body, and at +every stroke he gave him he said, “You dog, you thief! my lurcher! +Don’t you see, you brute, that my dog is a lurcher?” and so, repeating +the word “lurcher” again and again, he sent the madman away beaten to a +jelly. The madman took the lesson to heart, and vanished, and for more +than a month never once showed himself in public; but after that he +came out again with his old trick and a heavier load than ever. He came +up to where there was a dog, and examining it very carefully without +venturing to let the stone fall, he said: “This is a lurcher; ware!” In +short, all the dogs he came across, be they mastiffs or terriers, he +said were lurchers; and he discharged no more stones. Maybe it will be +the same with this historian; that he will not venture another time to +discharge the weight of his wit in books, which, being bad, are harder +than stones. Tell him, too, that I do not care a farthing for the +threat he holds out to me of depriving me of my profit by means of his +book; for, to borrow from the famous interlude of “The Perendenga,” I +say in answer to him, “Long life to my lord the Veintiquatro, and +Christ be with us all.” Long life to the great Conde de Lemos, whose +Christian charity and well-known generosity support me against all the +strokes of my curst fortune; and long life to the supreme benevolence +of His Eminence of Toledo, Don Bernardo de Sandoval y Rojas; and what +matter if there be no printing-presses in the world, or if they print +more books against me than there are letters in the verses of Mingo +Revulgo! These two princes, unsought by any adulation or flattery of +mine, of their own goodness alone, have taken it upon them to show me +kindness and protect me, and in this I consider myself happier and +richer than if Fortune had raised me to her greatest height in the +ordinary way. The poor man may retain honour, but not the vicious; +poverty may cast a cloud over nobility, but cannot hide it altogether; +and as virtue of itself sheds a certain light, even though it be +through the straits and chinks of penury, it wins the esteem of lofty +and noble spirits, and in consequence their protection. Thou needst say +no more to him, nor will I say anything more to thee, save to tell thee +to bear in mind that this Second Part of “Don Quixote” which I offer +thee is cut by the same craftsman and from the same cloth as the First, +and that in it I present thee Don Quixote continued, and at length dead +and buried, so that no one may dare to bring forward any further +evidence against him, for that already produced is sufficient; and +suffice it, too, that some reputable person should have given an +account of all these shrewd lunacies of his without going into the +matter again; for abundance, even of good things, prevents them from +being valued; and scarcity, even in the case of what is bad, confers a +certain value. I was forgetting to tell thee that thou mayest expect +the “Persiles,” which I am now finishing, and also the Second Part of +“Galatea.” + + + +part2e.jpg (37K) + + + +CHAPTER I. +OF THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER HAD WITH DON QUIXOTE ABOUT +HIS MALADY + + + + +p01a.jpg (156K) + +Full Size + + + +Cide Hamete Benengeli, in the Second Part of this history, and third +sally of Don Quixote, says that the curate and the barber remained +nearly a month without seeing him, lest they should recall or bring +back to his recollection what had taken place. They did not, however, +omit to visit his niece and housekeeper, and charge them to be careful +to treat him with attention, and give him comforting things to eat, and +such as were good for the heart and the brain, whence, it was plain to +see, all his misfortune proceeded. The niece and housekeeper replied +that they did so, and meant to do so with all possible care and +assiduity, for they could perceive that their master was now and then +beginning to show signs of being in his right mind. This gave great +satisfaction to the curate and the barber, for they concluded they had +taken the right course in carrying him off enchanted on the ox-cart, as +has been described in the First Part of this great as well as accurate +history, in the last chapter thereof. So they resolved to pay him a +visit and test the improvement in his condition, although they thought +it almost impossible that there could be any; and they agreed not to +touch upon any point connected with knight-errantry so as not to run +the risk of reopening wounds which were still so tender. + +They came to see him consequently, and found him sitting up in bed in a +green baize waistcoat and a red Toledo cap, and so withered and dried +up that he looked as if he had been turned into a mummy. They were very +cordially received by him; they asked him after his health, and he +talked to them about himself very naturally and in very well-chosen +language. In the course of their conversation they fell to discussing +what they call State-craft and systems of government, correcting this +abuse and condemning that, reforming one practice and abolishing +another, each of the three setting up for a new legislator, a modern +Lycurgus, or a brand-new Solon; and so completely did they remodel the +State, that they seemed to have thrust it into a furnace and taken out +something quite different from what they had put in; and on all the +subjects they dealt with, Don Quixote spoke with such good sense that +the pair of examiners were fully convinced that he was quite recovered +and in his full senses. + +The niece and housekeeper were present at the conversation and could +not find words enough to express their thanks to God at seeing their +master so clear in his mind; the curate, however, changing his original +plan, which was to avoid touching upon matters of chivalry, resolved to +test Don Quixote’s recovery thoroughly, and see whether it were genuine +or not; and so, from one subject to another, he came at last to talk of +the news that had come from the capital, and, among other things, he +said it was considered certain that the Turk was coming down with a +powerful fleet, and that no one knew what his purpose was, or when the +great storm would burst; and that all Christendom was in apprehension +of this, which almost every year calls us to arms, and that his Majesty +had made provision for the security of the coasts of Naples and Sicily +and the island of Malta. + +To this Don Quixote replied, “His Majesty has acted like a prudent +warrior in providing for the safety of his realms in time, so that the +enemy may not find him unprepared; but if my advice were taken I would +recommend him to adopt a measure which at present, no doubt, his +Majesty is very far from thinking of.” + +The moment the curate heard this he said to himself, “God keep thee in +his hand, poor Don Quixote, for it seems to me thou art precipitating +thyself from the height of thy madness into the profound abyss of thy +simplicity.” + +But the barber, who had the same suspicion as the curate, asked Don +Quixote what would be his advice as to the measures that he said ought +to be adopted; for perhaps it might prove to be one that would have to +be added to the list of the many impertinent suggestions that people +were in the habit of offering to princes. + +“Mine, master shaver,” said Don Quixote, “will not be impertinent, but, +on the contrary, pertinent.” + +“I don’t mean that,” said the barber, “but that experience has shown +that all or most of the expedients which are proposed to his Majesty +are either impossible, or absurd, or injurious to the King and to the +kingdom.” + +“Mine, however,” replied Don Quixote, “is neither impossible nor +absurd, but the easiest, the most reasonable, the readiest and most +expeditious that could suggest itself to any projector’s mind.” + +“You take a long time to tell it, Señor Don Quixote,” said the curate. + +“I don’t choose to tell it here, now,” said Don Quixote, “and have it +reach the ears of the lords of the council to-morrow morning, and some +other carry off the thanks and rewards of my trouble.” + +“For my part,” said the barber, “I give my word here and before God +that I will not repeat what your worship says, to King, Rook or earthly +man—an oath I learned from the ballad of the curate, who, in the +prelude, told the king of the thief who had robbed him of the hundred +gold crowns and his pacing mule.” + +“I am not versed in stories,” said Don Quixote; “but I know the oath is +a good one, because I know the barber to be an honest fellow.” + +“Even if he were not,” said the curate, “I will go bail and answer for +him that in this matter he will be as silent as a dummy, under pain of +paying any penalty that may be pronounced.” + +“And who will be security for you, señor curate?” said Don Quixote. + +“My profession,” replied the curate, “which is to keep secrets.” + +“Ods body!” said Don Quixote at this, “what more has his Majesty to do +but to command, by public proclamation, all the knights-errant that are +scattered over Spain to assemble on a fixed day in the capital, for +even if no more than half a dozen come, there may be one among them who +alone will suffice to destroy the entire might of the Turk. Give me +your attention and follow me. Is it, pray, any new thing for a single +knight-errant to demolish an army of two hundred thousand men, as if +they all had but one throat or were made of sugar paste? Nay, tell me, +how many histories are there filled with these marvels? If only (in an +evil hour for me: I don’t speak for anyone else) the famous Don +Belianis were alive now, or anyone of the innumerable progeny of Amadis +of Gaul! If any these were alive to-day, and were to come face to face +with the Turk, by my faith, I would not give much for the Turk’s +chance. But God will have regard for his people, and will provide +someone, who, if not so valiant as the knights-errant of yore, at least +will not be inferior to them in spirit; but God knows what I mean, and +I say no more.” + +“Alas!” exclaimed the niece at this, “may I die if my master does not +want to turn knight-errant again;” to which Don Quixote replied, “A +knight-errant I shall die, and let the Turk come down or go up when he +likes, and in as strong force as he can, once more I say, God knows +what I mean.” But here the barber said, “I ask your worships to give me +leave to tell a short story of something that happened in Seville, +which comes so pat to the purpose just now that I should like greatly +to tell it.” Don Quixote gave him leave, and the rest prepared to +listen, and he began thus: + +“In the madhouse at Seville there was a man whom his relations had +placed there as being out of his mind. He was a graduate of Osuna in +canon law; but even if he had been of Salamanca, it was the opinion of +most people that he would have been mad all the same. This graduate, +after some years of confinement, took it into his head that he was sane +and in his full senses, and under this impression wrote to the +Archbishop, entreating him earnestly, and in very correct language, to +have him released from the misery in which he was living; for by God’s +mercy he had now recovered his lost reason, though his relations, in +order to enjoy his property, kept him there, and, in spite of the +truth, would make him out to be mad until his dying day. The +Archbishop, moved by repeated sensible, well-written letters, directed +one of his chaplains to make inquiry of the madhouse as to the truth of +the licentiate’s statements, and to have an interview with the madman +himself, and, if it should appear that he was in his senses, to take +him out and restore him to liberty. The chaplain did so, and the +governor assured him that the man was still mad, and that though he +often spoke like a highly intelligent person, he would in the end break +out into nonsense that in quantity and quality counterbalanced all the +sensible things he had said before, as might be easily tested by +talking to him. The chaplain resolved to try the experiment, and +obtaining access to the madman conversed with him for an hour or more, +during the whole of which time he never uttered a word that was +incoherent or absurd, but, on the contrary, spoke so rationally that +the chaplain was compelled to believe him to be sane. Among other +things, he said the governor was against him, not to lose the presents +his relations made him for reporting him still mad but with lucid +intervals; and that the worst foe he had in his misfortune was his +large property; for in order to enjoy it his enemies disparaged and +threw doubts upon the mercy our Lord had shown him in turning him from +a brute beast into a man. In short, he spoke in such a way that he cast +suspicion on the governor, and made his relations appear covetous and +heartless, and himself so rational that the chaplain determined to take +him away with him that the Archbishop might see him, and ascertain for +himself the truth of the matter. Yielding to this conviction, the +worthy chaplain begged the governor to have the clothes in which the +licentiate had entered the house given to him. The governor again bade +him beware of what he was doing, as the licentiate was beyond a doubt +still mad; but all his cautions and warnings were unavailing to +dissuade the chaplain from taking him away. The governor, seeing that +it was the order of the Archbishop, obeyed, and they dressed the +licentiate in his own clothes, which were new and decent. He, as soon +as he saw himself clothed like one in his senses, and divested of the +appearance of a madman, entreated the chaplain to permit him in charity +to go and take leave of his comrades the madmen. The chaplain said he +would go with him to see what madmen there were in the house; so they +went upstairs, and with them some of those who were present. +Approaching a cage in which there was a furious madman, though just at +that moment calm and quiet, the licentiate said to him, ‘Brother, think +if you have any commands for me, for I am going home, as God has been +pleased, in his infinite goodness and mercy, without any merit of mine, +to restore me my reason. I am now cured and in my senses, for with +God’s power nothing is impossible. Have strong hope and trust in him, +for as he has restored me to my original condition, so likewise he will +restore you if you trust in him. I will take care to send you some good +things to eat; and be sure you eat them; for I would have you know I am +convinced, as one who has gone through it, that all this madness of +ours comes of having the stomach empty and the brains full of wind. +Take courage! take courage! for despondency in misfortune breaks down +health and brings on death.’ + +“To all these words of the licentiate another madman in a cage opposite +that of the furious one was listening; and raising himself up from an +old mat on which he lay stark naked, he asked in a loud voice who it +was that was going away cured and in his senses. The licentiate +answered, ‘It is I, brother, who am going; I have now no need to remain +here any longer, for which I return infinite thanks to Heaven that has +had so great mercy upon me.’ + +“‘Mind what you are saying, licentiate; don’t let the devil deceive +you,’ replied the madman. ‘Keep quiet, stay where you are, and you will +save yourself the trouble of coming back.’ + +“‘I know I am cured,’ returned the licentiate, ‘and that I shall not +have to go stations again.’ + +“‘You cured!’ said the madman; ‘well, we shall see; God be with you; +but I swear to you by Jupiter, whose majesty I represent on earth, that +for this crime alone, which Seville is committing to-day in releasing +you from this house, and treating you as if you were in your senses, I +shall have to inflict such a punishment on it as will be remembered for +ages and ages, amen. Dost thou not know, thou miserable little +licentiate, that I can do it, being, as I say, Jupiter the Thunderer, +who hold in my hands the fiery bolts with which I am able and am wont +to threaten and lay waste the world? But in one way only will I punish +this ignorant town, and that is by not raining upon it, nor on any part +of its district or territory, for three whole years, to be reckoned +from the day and moment when this threat is pronounced. Thou free, thou +cured, thou in thy senses! and I mad, I disordered, I bound! I will as +soon think of sending rain as of hanging myself. + +“Those present stood listening to the words and exclamations of the +madman; but our licentiate, turning to the chaplain and seizing him by +the hands, said to him, ‘Be not uneasy, señor; attach no importance to +what this madman has said; for if he is Jupiter and will not send rain, +I, who am Neptune, the father and god of the waters, will rain as often +as it pleases me and may be needful.’ + +“The governor and the bystanders laughed, and at their laughter the +chaplain was half ashamed, and he replied, ‘For all that, Señor +Neptune, it will not do to vex Señor Jupiter; remain where you are, and +some other day, when there is a better opportunity and more time, we +will come back for you.’ So they stripped the licentiate, and he was +left where he was; and that’s the end of the story.” + +“So that’s the story, master barber,” said Don Quixote, “which came in +so pat to the purpose that you could not help telling it? Master +shaver, master shaver! how blind is he who cannot see through a sieve. +Is it possible that you do not know that comparisons of wit with wit, +valour with valour, beauty with beauty, birth with birth, are always +odious and unwelcome? I, master barber, am not Neptune, the god of the +waters, nor do I try to make anyone take me for an astute man, for I am +not one. My only endeavour is to convince the world of the mistake it +makes in not reviving in itself the happy time when the order of +knight-errantry was in the field. But our depraved age does not deserve +to enjoy such a blessing as those ages enjoyed when knights-errant took +upon their shoulders the defence of kingdoms, the protection of +damsels, the succour of orphans and minors, the chastisement of the +proud, and the recompense of the humble. With the knights of these +days, for the most part, it is the damask, brocade, and rich stuffs +they wear, that rustle as they go, not the chain mail of their armour; +no knight now-a-days sleeps in the open field exposed to the inclemency +of heaven, and in full panoply from head to foot; no one now takes a +nap, as they call it, without drawing his feet out of the stirrups, and +leaning upon his lance, as the knights-errant used to do; no one now, +issuing from the wood, penetrates yonder mountains, and then treads the +barren, lonely shore of the sea—mostly a tempestuous and stormy one—and +finding on the beach a little bark without oars, sail, mast, or +tackling of any kind, in the intrepidity of his heart flings himself +into it and commits himself to the wrathful billows of the deep sea, +that one moment lift him up to heaven and the next plunge him into the +depths; and opposing his breast to the irresistible gale, finds +himself, when he least expects it, three thousand leagues and more away +from the place where he embarked; and leaping ashore in a remote and +unknown land has adventures that deserve to be written, not on +parchment, but on brass. But now sloth triumphs over energy, indolence +over exertion, vice over virtue, arrogance over courage, and theory +over practice in arms, which flourished and shone only in the golden +ages and in knights-errant. For tell me, who was more virtuous and more +valiant than the famous Amadis of Gaul? Who more discreet than Palmerin +of England? Who more gracious and easy than Tirante el Blanco? Who more +courtly than Lisuarte of Greece? Who more slashed or slashing than Don +Belianis? Who more intrepid than Perion of Gaul? Who more ready to face +danger than Felixmarte of Hircania? Who more sincere than Esplandian? +Who more impetuous than Don Cirongilio of Thrace? Who more bold than +Rodamonte? Who more prudent than King Sobrino? Who more daring than +Reinaldos? Who more invincible than Roland? and who more gallant and +courteous than Ruggiero, from whom the dukes of Ferrara of the present +day are descended, according to Turpin in his ‘Cosmography.’ All these +knights, and many more that I could name, señor curate, were +knights-errant, the light and glory of chivalry. These, or such as +these, I would have to carry out my plan, and in that case his Majesty +would find himself well served and would save great expense, and the +Turk would be left tearing his beard. And so I will stay where I am, as +the chaplain does not take me away; and if Jupiter, as the barber has +told us, will not send rain, here am I, and I will rain when I please. +I say this that Master Basin may know that I understand him.” + +“Indeed, Señor Don Quixote,” said the barber, “I did not mean it in +that way, and, so help me God, my intention was good, and your worship +ought not to be vexed.” + +“As to whether I ought to be vexed or not,” returned Don Quixote, “I +myself am the best judge.” + +Hereupon the curate observed, “I have hardly said a word as yet; and I +would gladly be relieved of a doubt, arising from what Don Quixote has +said, that worries and works my conscience.” + +“The señor curate has leave for more than that,” returned Don Quixote, +“so he may declare his doubt, for it is not pleasant to have a doubt on +one’s conscience.” + +“Well then, with that permission,” said the curate, “I say my doubt is +that, all I can do, I cannot persuade myself that the whole pack of +knights-errant you, Señor Don Quixote, have mentioned, were really and +truly persons of flesh and blood, that ever lived in the world; on the +contrary, I suspect it to be all fiction, fable, and falsehood, and +dreams told by men awakened from sleep, or rather still half asleep.” + +“That is another mistake,” replied Don Quixote, “into which many have +fallen who do not believe that there ever were such knights in the +world, and I have often, with divers people and on divers occasions, +tried to expose this almost universal error to the light of truth. +Sometimes I have not been successful in my purpose, sometimes I have, +supporting it upon the shoulders of the truth; which truth is so clear +that I can almost say I have with my own eyes seen Amadis of Gaul, who +was a man of lofty stature, fair complexion, with a handsome though +black beard, of a countenance between gentle and stern in expression, +sparing of words, slow to anger, and quick to put it away from him; and +as I have depicted Amadis, so I could, I think, portray and describe +all the knights-errant that are in all the histories in the world; for +by the perception I have that they were what their histories describe, +and by the deeds they did and the dispositions they displayed, it is +possible, with the aid of sound philosophy, to deduce their features, +complexion, and stature.” + +“How big, in your worship’s opinion, may the giant Morgante have been, +Señor Don Quixote?” asked the barber. + +“With regard to giants,” replied Don Quixote, “opinions differ as to +whether there ever were any or not in the world; but the Holy +Scripture, which cannot err by a jot from the truth, shows us that +there were, when it gives us the history of that big Philistine, +Goliath, who was seven cubits and a half in height, which is a huge +size. Likewise, in the island of Sicily, there have been found +leg-bones and arm-bones so large that their size makes it plain that +their owners were giants, and as tall as great towers; geometry puts +this fact beyond a doubt. But, for all that, I cannot speak with +certainty as to the size of Morgante, though I suspect he cannot have +been very tall; and I am inclined to be of this opinion because I find +in the history in which his deeds are particularly mentioned, that he +frequently slept under a roof and as he found houses to contain him, it +is clear that his bulk could not have been anything excessive.” + +“That is true,” said the curate, and yielding to the enjoyment of +hearing such nonsense, he asked him what was his notion of the features +of Reinaldos of Montalban, and Don Roland and the rest of the Twelve +Peers of France, for they were all knights-errant. + +“As for Reinaldos,” replied Don Quixote, “I venture to say that he was +broad-faced, of ruddy complexion, with roguish and somewhat prominent +eyes, excessively punctilious and touchy, and given to the society of +thieves and scapegraces. With regard to Roland, or Rotolando, or +Orlando (for the histories call him by all these names), I am of +opinion, and hold, that he was of middle height, broad-shouldered, +rather bow-legged, swarthy-complexioned, red-bearded, with a hairy body +and a severe expression of countenance, a man of few words, but very +polite and well-bred.” + +“If Roland was not a more graceful person than your worship has +described,” said the curate, “it is no wonder that the fair Lady +Angelica rejected him and left him for the gaiety, liveliness, and +grace of that budding-bearded little Moor to whom she surrendered +herself; and she showed her sense in falling in love with the gentle +softness of Medoro rather than the roughness of Roland.” + +“That Angelica, señor curate,” returned Don Quixote, “was a giddy +damsel, flighty and somewhat wanton, and she left the world as full of +her vagaries as of the fame of her beauty. She treated with scorn a +thousand gentlemen, men of valour and wisdom, and took up with a +smooth-faced sprig of a page, without fortune or fame, except such +reputation for gratitude as the affection he bore his friend got for +him. The great poet who sang her beauty, the famous Ariosto, not caring +to sing her adventures after her contemptible surrender (which probably +were not over and above creditable), dropped her where he says: + +How she received the sceptre of Cathay, +Some bard of defter quill may sing some day; + + +and this was no doubt a kind of prophecy, for poets are also called +_vates_, that is to say diviners; and its truth was made plain; for +since then a famous Andalusian poet has lamented and sung her tears, +and another famous and rare poet, a Castilian, has sung her beauty.” + +“Tell me, Señor Don Quixote,” said the barber here, “among all those +who praised her, has there been no poet to write a satire on this Lady +Angelica?” + +“I can well believe,” replied Don Quixote, “that if Sacripante or +Roland had been poets they would have given the damsel a trimming; for +it is naturally the way with poets who have been scorned and rejected +by their ladies, whether fictitious or not, in short by those whom they +select as the ladies of their thoughts, to avenge themselves in satires +and libels—a vengeance, to be sure, unworthy of generous hearts; but up +to the present I have not heard of any defamatory verse against the +Lady Angelica, who turned the world upside down.” + +“Strange,” said the curate; but at this moment they heard the +housekeeper and the niece, who had previously withdrawn from the +conversation, exclaiming aloud in the courtyard, and at the noise they +all ran out. + + + +p01e.jpg (15K) + + + +CHAPTER II. +WHICH TREATS OF THE NOTABLE ALTERCATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HAD WITH DON +QUIXOTE’S NIECE, AND HOUSEKEEPER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER DROLL MATTERS + + + + +p02a.jpg (159K) + +Full Size + + + +The history relates that the outcry Don Quixote, the curate, and the +barber heard came from the niece and the housekeeper exclaiming to +Sancho, who was striving to force his way in to see Don Quixote while +they held the door against him, “What does the vagabond want in this +house? Be off to your own, brother, for it is you, and no one else, +that delude my master, and lead him astray, and take him tramping about +the country.” + +To which Sancho replied, “Devil’s own housekeeper! it is I who am +deluded, and led astray, and taken tramping about the country, and not +thy master! He has carried me all over the world, and you are mightily +mistaken. He enticed me away from home by a trick, promising me an +island, which I am still waiting for.” + +“May evil islands choke thee, thou detestable Sancho,” said the niece; +“What are islands? Is it something to eat, glutton and gormandiser that +thou art?” + +“It is not something to eat,” replied Sancho, “but something to govern +and rule, and better than four cities or four judgeships at court.” + +“For all that,” said the housekeeper, “you don’t enter here, you bag of +mischief and sack of knavery; go govern your house and dig your +seed-patch, and give over looking for islands or shylands.” + +The curate and the barber listened with great amusement to the words of +the three; but Don Quixote, uneasy lest Sancho should blab and blurt +out a whole heap of mischievous stupidities, and touch upon points that +might not be altogether to his credit, called to him and made the other +two hold their tongues and let him come in. Sancho entered, and the +curate and the barber took their leave of Don Quixote, of whose +recovery they despaired when they saw how wedded he was to his crazy +ideas, and how saturated with the nonsense of his unlucky chivalry; and +said the curate to the barber, “You will see, gossip, that when we are +least thinking of it, our gentleman will be off once more for another +flight.” + +“I have no doubt of it,” returned the barber; “but I do not wonder so +much at the madness of the knight as at the simplicity of the squire, +who has such a firm belief in all that about the island, that I suppose +all the exposures that could be imagined would not get it out of his +head.” + +“God help them,” said the curate; “and let us be on the look-out to see +what comes of all these absurdities of the knight and squire, for it +seems as if they had both been cast in the same mould, and the madness +of the master without the simplicity of the man would not be worth a +farthing.” + +“That is true,” said the barber, “and I should like very much to know +what the pair are talking about at this moment.” + +“I promise you,” said the curate, “the niece or the housekeeper will +tell us by-and-by, for they are not the ones to forget to listen.” + +Meanwhile Don Quixote shut himself up in his room with Sancho, and when +they were alone he said to him, “It grieves me greatly, Sancho, that +thou shouldst have said, and sayest, that I took thee out of thy +cottage, when thou knowest I did not remain in my house. We sallied +forth together, we took the road together, we wandered abroad together; +we have had the same fortune and the same luck; if they blanketed thee +once, they belaboured me a hundred times, and that is the only +advantage I have of thee.” + +“That was only reasonable,” replied Sancho, “for, by what your worship +says, misfortunes belong more properly to knights-errant than to their +squires.” + +“Thou art mistaken, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “according to the maxim +_quando caput dolet_, etc.” + +“I don’t understand any language but my own,” said Sancho. + +“I mean to say,” said Don Quixote, “that when the head suffers all the +members suffer; and so, being thy lord and master, I am thy head, and +thou a part of me as thou art my servant; and therefore any evil that +affects or shall affect me should give thee pain, and what affects thee +give pain to me.” + +“It should be so,” said Sancho; “but when I was blanketed as a member, +my head was on the other side of the wall, looking on while I was +flying through the air, and did not feel any pain whatever; and if the +members are obliged to feel the suffering of the head, it should be +obliged to feel their sufferings.” + +“Dost thou mean to say now, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that I did not +feel when they were blanketing thee? If thou dost, thou must not say so +or think so, for I felt more pain then in spirit than thou didst in +body. But let us put that aside for the present, for we shall have +opportunities enough for considering and settling the point; tell me, +Sancho my friend, what do they say about me in the village here? What +do the common people think of me? What do the hidalgos? What do the +caballeros? What do they say of my valour; of my achievements; of my +courtesy? How do they treat the task I have undertaken in reviving and +restoring to the world the now forgotten order of chivalry? In short, +Sancho, I would have thee tell me all that has come to thine ears on +this subject; and thou art to tell me, without adding anything to the +good or taking away anything from the bad; for it is the duty of loyal +vassals to tell the truth to their lords just as it is and in its +proper shape, not allowing flattery to add to it or any idle deference +to lessen it. And I would have thee know, Sancho, that if the naked +truth, undisguised by flattery, came to the ears of princes, times +would be different, and other ages would be reckoned iron ages more +than ours, which I hold to be the golden of these latter days. Profit +by this advice, Sancho, and report to me clearly and faithfully the +truth of what thou knowest touching what I have demanded of thee.” + +“That I will do with all my heart, master,” replied Sancho, “provided +your worship will not be vexed at what I say, as you wish me to say it +out in all its nakedness, without putting any more clothes on it than +it came to my knowledge in.” + +“I will not be vexed at all,” returned Don Quixote; “thou mayest speak +freely, Sancho, and without any beating about the bush.” + +“Well then,” said he, “first of all, I have to tell you that the common +people consider your worship a mighty great madman, and me no less a +fool. The hidalgos say that, not keeping within the bounds of your +quality of gentleman, you have assumed the ‘Don,’ and made a knight of +yourself at a jump, with four vine-stocks and a couple of acres of +land, and never a shirt to your back. The caballeros say they do not +want to have hidalgos setting up in opposition to them, particularly +squire hidalgos who polish their own shoes and darn their black +stockings with green silk.” + +“That,” said Don Quixote, “does not apply to me, for I always go well +dressed and never patched; ragged I may be, but ragged more from the +wear and tear of arms than of time.” + +“As to your worship’s valour, courtesy, accomplishments, and task, +there is a variety of opinions. Some say, ‘mad but droll;’ others, +‘valiant but unlucky;’ others, ‘courteous but meddling,’ and then they +go into such a number of things that they don’t leave a whole bone +either in your worship or in myself.” + +“Recollect, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that wherever virtue exists in +an eminent degree it is persecuted. Few or none of the famous men that +have lived escaped being calumniated by malice. Julius Cæsar, the +boldest, wisest, and bravest of captains, was charged with being +ambitious, and not particularly cleanly in his dress, or pure in his +morals. Of Alexander, whose deeds won him the name of Great, they say +that he was somewhat of a drunkard. Of Hercules, him of the many +labours, it is said that he was lewd and luxurious. Of Don Galaor, the +brother of Amadis of Gaul, it was whispered that he was +over-quarrelsome, and of his brother that he was lachrymose. So that, O +Sancho, amongst all these calumnies against good men, mine may be let +pass, since they are no more than thou hast said.” + +“That’s just where it is, body of my father!” + +“Is there more, then?” asked Don Quixote. + +“There’s the tail to be skinned yet,” said Sancho; “all so far is cakes +and fancy bread; but if your worship wants to know all about the +calumnies they bring against you, I will fetch you one this instant who +can tell you the whole of them without missing an atom; for last night +the son of Bartholomew Carrasco, who has been studying at Salamanca, +came home after having been made a bachelor, and when I went to welcome +him, he told me that your worship’s history is already abroad in books, +with the title of THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA; and +he says they mention me in it by my own name of Sancho Panza, and the +lady Dulcinea del Toboso too, and divers things that happened to us +when we were alone; so that I crossed myself in my wonder how the +historian who wrote them down could have known them.” + +“I promise thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “the author of our history +will be some sage enchanter; for to such nothing that they choose to +write about is hidden.” + +“What!” said Sancho, “a sage and an enchanter! Why, the bachelor Samson +Carrasco (that is the name of him I spoke of) says the author of the +history is called Cide Hamete Berengena.” + +“That is a Moorish name,” said Don Quixote. + +“May be so,” replied Sancho; “for I have heard say that the Moors are +mostly great lovers of berengenas.” + +“Thou must have mistaken the surname of this ‘Cide’—which means in +Arabic ‘Lord’—Sancho,” observed Don Quixote. + +“Very likely,” replied Sancho, “but if your worship wishes me to fetch +the bachelor I will go for him in a twinkling.” + +“Thou wilt do me a great pleasure, my friend,” said Don Quixote, “for +what thou hast told me has amazed me, and I shall not eat a morsel that +will agree with me until I have heard all about it.” + +“Then I am off for him,” said Sancho; and leaving his master he went in +quest of the bachelor, with whom he returned in a short time, and, all +three together, they had a very droll colloquy. + + + +p02e.jpg (23K) + + + +CHAPTER III. +OF THE LAUGHABLE CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE, SANCHO +PANZA, AND THE BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO + + + + +p03a.jpg (131K) + +Full Size + + + +Don Quixote remained very deep in thought, waiting for the bachelor +Carrasco, from whom he was to hear how he himself had been put into a +book as Sancho said; and he could not persuade himself that any such +history could be in existence, for the blood of the enemies he had +slain was not yet dry on the blade of his sword, and now they wanted to +make out that his mighty achievements were going about in print. For +all that, he fancied some sage, either a friend or an enemy, might, by +the aid of magic, have given them to the press; if a friend, in order +to magnify and exalt them above the most famous ever achieved by any +knight-errant; if an enemy, to bring them to naught and degrade them +below the meanest ever recorded of any low squire, though as he said to +himself, the achievements of squires never were recorded. If, however, +it were the fact that such a history were in existence, it must +necessarily, being the story of a knight-errant, be grandiloquent, +lofty, imposing, grand and true. With this he comforted himself +somewhat, though it made him uncomfortable to think that the author was +a Moor, judging by the title of “Cide;” and that no truth was to be +looked for from Moors, as they are all impostors, cheats, and schemers. +He was afraid he might have dealt with his love affairs in some +indecorous fashion, that might tend to the discredit and prejudice of +the purity of his lady Dulcinea del Toboso; he would have had him set +forth the fidelity and respect he had always observed towards her, +spurning queens, empresses, and damsels of all sorts, and keeping in +check the impetuosity of his natural impulses. Absorbed and wrapped up +in these and divers other cogitations, he was found by Sancho and +Carrasco, whom Don Quixote received with great courtesy. + +The bachelor, though he was called Samson, was of no great bodily size, +but he was a very great wag; he was of a sallow complexion, but very +sharp-witted, somewhere about four-and-twenty years of age, with a +round face, a flat nose, and a large mouth, all indications of a +mischievous disposition and a love of fun and jokes; and of this he +gave a sample as soon as he saw Don Quixote, by falling on his knees +before him and saying, “Let me kiss your mightiness’s hand, Señor Don +Quixote of La Mancha, for, by the habit of St. Peter that I wear, +though I have no more than the first four orders, your worship is one +of the most famous knights-errant that have ever been, or will be, all +the world over. A blessing on Cide Hamete Benengeli, who has written +the history of your great deeds, and a double blessing on that +connoisseur who took the trouble of having it translated out of the +Arabic into our Castilian vulgar tongue for the universal entertainment +of the people!” + +Don Quixote made him rise, and said, “So, then, it is true that there +is a history of me, and that it was a Moor and a sage who wrote it?” + +“So true is it, señor,” said Samson, “that my belief is there are more +than twelve thousand volumes of the said history in print this very +day. Only ask Portugal, Barcelona, and Valencia, where they have been +printed, and moreover there is a report that it is being printed at +Antwerp, and I am persuaded there will not be a country or language in +which there will not be a translation of it.” + +“One of the things,” here observed Don Quixote, “that ought to give +most pleasure to a virtuous and eminent man is to find himself in his +lifetime in print and in type, familiar in people’s mouths with a good +name; I say with a good name, for if it be the opposite, then there is +no death to be compared to it.” + +“If it goes by good name and fame,” said the bachelor, “your worship +alone bears away the palm from all the knights-errant; for the Moor in +his own language, and the Christian in his, have taken care to set +before us your gallantry, your high courage in encountering dangers, +your fortitude in adversity, your patience under misfortunes as well as +wounds, the purity and continence of the platonic loves of your worship +and my lady Doña Dulcinea del Toboso—” + +“I never heard my lady Dulcinea called Doña,” observed Sancho here; +“nothing more than the lady Dulcinea del Toboso; so here already the +history is wrong.” + +“That is not an objection of any importance,” replied Carrasco. + +“Certainly not,” said Don Quixote; “but tell me, señor bachelor, what +deeds of mine are they that are made most of in this history?” + +“On that point,” replied the bachelor, “opinions differ, as tastes do; +some swear by the adventure of the windmills that your worship took to +be Briareuses and giants; others by that of the fulling mills; one +cries up the description of the two armies that afterwards took the +appearance of two droves of sheep; another that of the dead body on its +way to be buried at Segovia; a third says the liberation of the galley +slaves is the best of all, and a fourth that nothing comes up to the +affair with the Benedictine giants, and the battle with the valiant +Biscayan.” + +“Tell me, señor bachelor,” said Sancho at this point, “does the +adventure with the Yanguesans come in, when our good Rocinante went +hankering after dainties?” + +“The sage has left nothing in the ink-bottle,” replied Samson; “he +tells all and sets down everything, even to the capers that worthy +Sancho cut in the blanket.” + +“I cut no capers in the blanket,” returned Sancho; “in the air I did, +and more of them than I liked.” + +“There is no human history in the world, I suppose,” said Don Quixote, +“that has not its ups and downs, but more than others such as deal with +chivalry, for they can never be entirely made up of prosperous +adventures.” + +“For all that,” replied the bachelor, “there are those who have read +the history who say they would have been glad if the author had left +out some of the countless cudgellings that were inflicted on Señor Don +Quixote in various encounters.” + +“That’s where the truth of the history comes in,” said Sancho. + +“At the same time they might fairly have passed them over in silence,” +observed Don Quixote; “for there is no need of recording events which +do not change or affect the truth of a history, if they tend to bring +the hero of it into contempt. Æneas was not in truth and earnest so +pious as Virgil represents him, nor Ulysses so wise as Homer describes +him.” + +“That is true,” said Samson; “but it is one thing to write as a poet, +another to write as a historian; the poet may describe or sing things, +not as they were, but as they ought to have been; but the historian has +to write them down, not as they ought to have been, but as they were, +without adding anything to the truth or taking anything from it.” + +“Well then,” said Sancho, “if this señor Moor goes in for telling the +truth, no doubt among my master’s drubbings mine are to be found; for +they never took the measure of his worship’s shoulders without doing +the same for my whole body; but I have no right to wonder at that, for, +as my master himself says, the members must share the pain of the +head.” + +“You are a sly dog, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “i’ faith, you have no +want of memory when you choose to remember.” + +“If I were to try to forget the thwacks they gave me,” said Sancho, “my +weals would not let me, for they are still fresh on my ribs.” + +“Hush, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and don’t interrupt the bachelor, +whom I entreat to go on and tell all that is said about me in this +history.” + +“And about me,” said Sancho, “for they say, too, that I am one of the +principal presonages in it.” + +“Personages, not presonages, friend Sancho,” said Samson. + +“What! Another word-catcher!” said Sancho; “if that’s to be the way we +shall not make an end in a lifetime.” + +“May God shorten mine, Sancho,” returned the bachelor, “if you are not +the second person in the history, and there are even some who would +rather hear you talk than the cleverest in the whole book; though there +are some, too, who say you showed yourself over-credulous in believing +there was any possibility in the government of that island offered you +by Señor Don Quixote.” + +“There is still sunshine on the wall,” said Don Quixote; “and when +Sancho is somewhat more advanced in life, with the experience that +years bring, he will be fitter and better qualified for being a +governor than he is at present.” + +“By God, master,” said Sancho, “the island that I cannot govern with +the years I have, I’ll not be able to govern with the years of +Methuselah; the difficulty is that the said island keeps its distance +somewhere, I know not where; and not that there is any want of head in +me to govern it.” + +“Leave it to God, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for all will be and +perhaps better than you think; no leaf on the tree stirs but by God’s +will.” + +“That is true,” said Samson; “and if it be God’s will, there will not +be any want of a thousand islands, much less one, for Sancho to +govern.” + +“I have seen governors in these parts,” said Sancho, “that are not to +be compared to my shoe-sole; and for all that they are called ‘your +lordship’ and served on silver.” + +“Those are not governors of islands,” observed Samson, “but of other +governments of an easier kind: those that govern islands must at least +know grammar.” + +“I could manage the gram well enough,” said Sancho; “but for the mar I +have neither leaning nor liking, for I don’t know what it is; but +leaving this matter of the government in God’s hands, to send me +wherever it may be most to his service, I may tell you, señor bachelor +Samson Carrasco, it has pleased me beyond measure that the author of +this history should have spoken of me in such a way that what is said +of me gives no offence; for, on the faith of a true squire, if he had +said anything about me that was at all unbecoming an old Christian, +such as I am, the deaf would have heard of it.” + +“That would be working miracles,” said Samson. + +“Miracles or no miracles,” said Sancho, “let everyone mind how he +speaks or writes about people, and not set down at random the first +thing that comes into his head.” + +“One of the faults they find with this history,” said the bachelor, “is +that its author inserted in it a novel called ‘The Ill-advised +Curiosity;’ not that it is bad or ill-told, but that it is out of place +and has nothing to do with the history of his worship Señor Don +Quixote.” + +“I will bet the son of a dog has mixed the cabbages and the baskets,” +said Sancho. + +“Then, I say,” said Don Quixote, “the author of my history was no sage, +but some ignorant chatterer, who, in a haphazard and heedless way, set +about writing it, let it turn out as it might, just as Orbaneja, the +painter of Úbeda, used to do, who, when they asked him what he was +painting, answered, ‘What it may turn out.’ Sometimes he would paint a +cock in such a fashion, and so unlike, that he had to write alongside +of it in Gothic letters, ‘This is a cock;’ and so it will be with my +history, which will require a commentary to make it intelligible.” + +“No fear of that,” returned Samson, “for it is so plain that there is +nothing in it to puzzle over; the children turn its leaves, the young +people read it, the grown men understand it, the old folk praise it; in +a word, it is so thumbed, and read, and got by heart by people of all +sorts, that the instant they see any lean hack, they say, ‘There goes +Rocinante.’ And those that are most given to reading it are the pages, +for there is not a lord’s ante-chamber where there is not a ‘Don +Quixote’ to be found; one takes it up if another lays it down; this one +pounces upon it, and that begs for it. In short, the said history is +the most delightful and least injurious entertainment that has been +hitherto seen, for there is not to be found in the whole of it even the +semblance of an immodest word, or a thought that is other than +Catholic.” + +“To write in any other way,” said Don Quixote, “would not be to write +truth, but falsehood, and historians who have recourse to falsehood +ought to be burned, like those who coin false money; and I know not +what could have led the author to have recourse to novels and +irrelevant stories, when he had so much to write about in mine; no +doubt he must have gone by the proverb ‘with straw or with hay, &c.,’ +for by merely setting forth my thoughts, my sighs, my tears, my lofty +purposes, my enterprises, he might have made a volume as large, or +larger than all the works of El Tostado would make up. In fact, the +conclusion I arrive at, señor bachelor, is, that to write histories, or +books of any kind, there is need of great judgment and a ripe +understanding. To give expression to humour, and write in a strain of +graceful pleasantry, is the gift of great geniuses. The cleverest +character in comedy is the clown, for he who would make people take him +for a fool, must not be one. History is in a measure a sacred thing, +for it should be true, and where the truth is, there God is; but +notwithstanding this, there are some who write and fling books +broadcast on the world as if they were fritters.” + +“There is no book so bad but it has something good in it,” said the +bachelor. + +“No doubt of that,” replied Don Quixote; “but it often happens that +those who have acquired and attained a well-deserved reputation by +their writings, lose it entirely, or damage it in some degree, when +they give them to the press.” + +“The reason of that,” said Samson, “is, that as printed works are +examined leisurely, their faults are easily seen; and the greater the +fame of the writer, the more closely are they scrutinised. Men famous +for their genius, great poets, illustrious historians, are always, or +most commonly, envied by those who take a particular delight and +pleasure in criticising the writings of others, without having produced +any of their own.” + +“That is no wonder,” said Don Quixote; “for there are many divines who +are no good for the pulpit, but excellent in detecting the defects or +excesses of those who preach.” + +“All that is true, Señor Don Quixote,” said Carrasco; “but I wish such +fault-finders were more lenient and less exacting, and did not pay so +much attention to the spots on the bright sun of the work they grumble +at; for if _aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus_, they should remember how +long he remained awake to shed the light of his work with as little +shade as possible; and perhaps it may be that what they find fault with +may be moles, that sometimes heighten the beauty of the face that bears +them; and so I say very great is the risk to which he who prints a book +exposes himself, for of all impossibilities the greatest is to write +one that will satisfy and please all readers.” + +“That which treats of me must have pleased few,” said Don Quixote. + +“Quite the contrary,” said the bachelor; “for, as _stultorum infinitum +est numerus_, innumerable are those who have relished the said history; +but some have brought a charge against the author’s memory, inasmuch as +he forgot to say who the thief was who stole Sancho’s Dapple; for it is +not stated there, but only to be inferred from what is set down, that +he was stolen, and a little farther on we see Sancho mounted on the +same ass, without any reappearance of it. They say, too, that he forgot +to state what Sancho did with those hundred crowns that he found in the +valise in the Sierra Morena, as he never alludes to them again, and +there are many who would be glad to know what he did with them, or what +he spent them on, for it is one of the serious omissions of the work.” + +“Señor Samson, I am not in a humour now for going into accounts or +explanations,” said Sancho; “for there’s a sinking of the stomach come +over me, and unless I doctor it with a couple of sups of the old stuff +it will put me on the thorn of Santa Lucia. I have it at home, and my +old woman is waiting for me; after dinner I’ll come back, and will +answer you and all the world every question you may choose to ask, as +well about the loss of the ass as about the spending of the hundred +crowns;” and without another word or waiting for a reply he made off +home. + +Don Quixote begged and entreated the bachelor to stay and do penance +with him. The bachelor accepted the invitation and remained, a couple +of young pigeons were added to the ordinary fare, at dinner they talked +chivalry, Carrasco fell in with his host’s humour, the banquet came to +an end, they took their afternoon sleep, Sancho returned, and their +conversation was resumed. + + + +p03e.jpg (49K) + + + +CHAPTER IV. +IN WHICH SANCHO PANZA GIVES A SATISFACTORY REPLY TO THE DOUBTS AND +QUESTIONS OF THE BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS +WORTH KNOWING AND TELLING + + + + +p04a.jpg (143K) + +Full Size + + + +Sancho came back to Don Quixote’s house, and returning to the late +subject of conversation, he said, “As to what Señor Samson said, that +he would like to know by whom, or how, or when my ass was stolen, I say +in reply that the same night we went into the Sierra Morena, flying +from the Holy Brotherhood after that unlucky adventure of the galley +slaves, and the other of the corpse that was going to Segovia, my +master and I ensconced ourselves in a thicket, and there, my master +leaning on his lance, and I seated on my Dapple, battered and weary +with the late frays we fell asleep as if it had been on four feather +mattresses; and I in particular slept so sound, that, whoever he was, +he was able to come and prop me up on four stakes, which he put under +the four corners of the pack-saddle in such a way that he left me +mounted on it, and took away Dapple from under me without my feeling +it.” + + + +p04b.jpg (270K) + +Full Size + + + +“That is an easy matter,” said Don Quixote, “and it is no new +occurrence, for the same thing happened to Sacripante at the siege of +Albracca; the famous thief, Brunello, by the same contrivance, took his +horse from between his legs.” + +“Day came,” continued Sancho, “and the moment I stirred the stakes gave +way and I fell to the ground with a mighty come down; I looked about +for the ass, but could not see him; the tears rushed to my eyes and I +raised such a lamentation that, if the author of our history has not +put it in, he may depend upon it he has left out a good thing. Some +days after, I know not how many, travelling with her ladyship the +Princess Micomicona, I saw my ass, and mounted upon him, in the dress +of a gipsy, was that Gines de Pasamonte, the great rogue and rascal +that my master and I freed from the chain.” + +“That is not where the mistake is,” replied Samson; “it is, that before +the ass has turned up, the author speaks of Sancho as being mounted on +it.” + +“I don’t know what to say to that,” said Sancho, “unless that the +historian made a mistake, or perhaps it might be a blunder of the +printer’s.” + +“No doubt that’s it,” said Samson; “but what became of the hundred +crowns? Did they vanish?” + +To which Sancho answered, “I spent them for my own good, and my wife’s, +and my children’s, and it is they that have made my wife bear so +patiently all my wanderings on highways and byways, in the service of +my master, Don Quixote; for if after all this time I had come back to +the house without a rap and without the ass, it would have been a poor +look-out for me; and if anyone wants to know anything more about me, +here I am, ready to answer the king himself in person; and it is no +affair of anyone’s whether I took or did not take, whether I spent or +did not spend; for the whacks that were given me in these journeys were +to be paid for in money, even if they were valued at no more than four +maravedis apiece, another hundred crowns would not pay me for half of +them. Let each look to himself and not try to make out white black, and +black white; for each of us is as God made him, aye, and often worse.” + +“I will take care,” said Carrasco, “to impress upon the author of the +history that, if he prints it again, he must not forget what worthy +Sancho has said, for it will raise it a good span higher.” + +“Is there anything else to correct in the history, señor bachelor?” +asked Don Quixote. + +“No doubt there is,” replied he; “but not anything that will be of the +same importance as those I have mentioned.” + +“Does the author promise a second part at all?” said Don Quixote. + +“He does promise one,” replied Samson; “but he says he has not found +it, nor does he know who has got it; and we cannot say whether it will +appear or not; and so, on that head, as some say that no second part +has ever been good, and others that enough has been already written +about Don Quixote, it is thought there will be no second part; though +some, who are jovial rather than saturnine, say, ‘Let us have more +Quixotades, let Don Quixote charge and Sancho chatter, and no matter +what it may turn out, we shall be satisfied with that.’” + +“And what does the author mean to do?” said Don Quixote. + +“What?” replied Samson; “why, as soon as he has found the history which +he is now searching for with extraordinary diligence, he will at once +give it to the press, moved more by the profit that may accrue to him +from doing so than by any thought of praise.” + +Whereat Sancho observed, “The author looks for money and profit, does +he? It will be a wonder if he succeeds, for it will be only hurry, +hurry, with him, like the tailor on Easter Eve; and works done in a +hurry are never finished as perfectly as they ought to be. Let master +Moor, or whatever he is, pay attention to what he is doing, and I and +my master will give him as much grouting ready to his hand, in the way +of adventures and accidents of all sorts, as would make up not only one +second part, but a hundred. The good man fancies, no doubt, that we are +fast asleep in the straw here, but let him hold up our feet to be shod +and he will see which foot it is we go lame on. All I say is, that if +my master would take my advice, we would be now afield, redressing +outrages and righting wrongs, as is the use and custom of good +knights-errant.” + +Sancho had hardly uttered these words when the neighing of Rocinante +fell upon their ears, which neighing Don Quixote accepted as a happy +omen, and he resolved to make another sally in three or four days from +that time. Announcing his intention to the bachelor, he asked his +advice as to the quarter in which he ought to commence his expedition, +and the bachelor replied that in his opinion he ought to go to the +kingdom of Aragon, and the city of Saragossa, where there were to be +certain solemn joustings at the festival of St. George, at which he +might win renown above all the knights of Aragon, which would be +winning it above all the knights of the world. He commended his very +praiseworthy and gallant resolution, but admonished him to proceed with +greater caution in encountering dangers, because his life did not +belong to him, but to all those who had need of him to protect and aid +them in their misfortunes. + +“There’s where it is, what I abominate, Señor Samson,” said Sancho +here; “my master will attack a hundred armed men as a greedy boy would +half a dozen melons. Body of the world, señor bachelor! there is a time +to attack and a time to retreat, and it is not to be always ‘Santiago, +and close Spain!’ Moreover, I have heard it said (and I think by my +master himself, if I remember rightly) that the mean of valour lies +between the extremes of cowardice and rashness; and if that be so, I +don’t want him to fly without having good reason, or to attack when the +odds make it better not. But, above all things, I warn my master that +if he is to take me with him it must be on the condition that he is to +do all the fighting, and that I am not to be called upon to do anything +except what concerns keeping him clean and comfortable; in this I will +dance attendance on him readily; but to expect me to draw sword, even +against rascally churls of the hatchet and hood, is idle. I don’t set +up to be a fighting man, Señor Samson, but only the best and most loyal +squire that ever served knight-errant; and if my master Don Quixote, in +consideration of my many faithful services, is pleased to give me some +island of the many his worship says one may stumble on in these parts, +I will take it as a great favour; and if he does not give it to me, I +was born like everyone else, and a man must not live in dependence on +anyone except God; and what is more, my bread will taste as well, and +perhaps even better, without a government than if I were a governor; +and how do I know but that in these governments the devil may have +prepared some trip for me, to make me lose my footing and fall and +knock my grinders out? Sancho I was born and Sancho I mean to die. But +for all that, if heaven were to make me a fair offer of an island or +something else of the kind, without much trouble and without much risk, +I am not such a fool as to refuse it; for they say, too, ‘when they +offer thee a heifer, run with a halter; and ‘when good luck comes to +thee, take it in.’” + +“Brother Sancho,” said Carrasco, “you have spoken like a professor; +but, for all that, put your trust in God and in Señor Don Quixote, for +he will give you a kingdom, not to say an island.” + +“It is all the same, be it more or be it less,” replied Sancho; “though +I can tell Señor Carrasco that my master would not throw the kingdom he +might give me into a sack all in holes; for I have felt my own pulse +and I find myself sound enough to rule kingdoms and govern islands; and +I have before now told my master as much.” + +“Take care, Sancho,” said Samson; “honours change manners, and perhaps +when you find yourself a governor you won’t know the mother that bore +you.” + +“That may hold good of those that are born in the ditches,” said +Sancho, “not of those who have the fat of an old Christian four fingers +deep on their souls, as I have. Nay, only look at my disposition, is +that likely to show ingratitude to anyone?” + +“God grant it,” said Don Quixote; “we shall see when the government +comes; and I seem to see it already.” + +He then begged the bachelor, if he were a poet, to do him the favour of +composing some verses for him conveying the farewell he meant to take +of his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and to see that a letter of her name +was placed at the beginning of each line, so that, at the end of the +verses, “Dulcinea del Toboso” might be read by putting together the +first letters. The bachelor replied that although he was not one of the +famous poets of Spain, who were, they said, only three and a half, he +would not fail to compose the required verses; though he saw a great +difficulty in the task, as the letters which made up the name were +seventeen; so, if he made four ballad stanzas of four lines each, there +would be a letter over, and if he made them of five, what they called +decimas or redondillas, there were three letters short; nevertheless he +would try to drop a letter as well as he could, so that the name +“Dulcinea del Toboso” might be got into four ballad stanzas. + +“It must be, by some means or other,” said Don Quixote, “for unless the +name stands there plain and manifest, no woman would believe the verses +were made for her.” + +They agreed upon this, and that the departure should take place in +three days from that time. Don Quixote charged the bachelor to keep it +a secret, especially from the curate and Master Nicholas, and from his +niece and the housekeeper, lest they should prevent the execution of +his praiseworthy and valiant purpose. Carrasco promised all, and then +took his leave, charging Don Quixote to inform him of his good or evil +fortunes whenever he had an opportunity; and thus they bade each other +farewell, and Sancho went away to make the necessary preparations for +their expedition. + + + +p04e.jpg (55K) + + + +CHAPTER V. +OF THE SHREWD AND DROLL CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA +AND HIS WIFE TERESA PANZA, AND OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF BEING DULY +RECORDED + + + + +p05a.jpg (129K) + +Full Size + + + +The translator of this history, when he comes to write this fifth +chapter, says that he considers it apocryphal, because in it Sancho +Panza speaks in a style unlike that which might have been expected from +his limited intelligence, and says things so subtle that he does not +think it possible he could have conceived them; however, desirous of +doing what his task imposed upon him, he was unwilling to leave it +untranslated, and therefore he went on to say: + +Sancho came home in such glee and spirits that his wife noticed his +happiness a bowshot off, so much so that it made her ask him, “What +have you got, Sancho friend, that you are so glad?” + +To which he replied, “Wife, if it were God’s will, I should be very +glad not to be so well pleased as I show myself.” + +“I don’t understand you, husband,” said she, “and I don’t know what you +mean by saying you would be glad, if it were God’s will, not to be well +pleased; for, fool as I am, I don’t know how one can find pleasure in +not having it.” + +“Hark ye, Teresa,” replied Sancho, “I am glad because I have made up my +mind to go back to the service of my master Don Quixote, who means to +go out a third time to seek for adventures; and I am going with him +again, for my necessities will have it so, and also the hope that +cheers me with the thought that I may find another hundred crowns like +those we have spent; though it makes me sad to have to leave thee and +the children; and if God would be pleased to let me have my daily +bread, dry-shod and at home, without taking me out into the byways and +cross-roads—and he could do it at small cost by merely willing it—it is +clear my happiness would be more solid and lasting, for the happiness I +have is mingled with sorrow at leaving thee; so that I was right in +saying I would be glad, if it were God’s will, not to be well pleased.” + +“Look here, Sancho,” said Teresa; “ever since you joined on to a +knight-errant you talk in such a roundabout way that there is no +understanding you.” + +“It is enough that God understands me, wife,” replied Sancho; “for he +is the understander of all things; that will do; but mind, sister, you +must look to Dapple carefully for the next three days, so that he may +be fit to take arms; double his feed, and see to the pack-saddle and +other harness, for it is not to a wedding we are bound, but to go round +the world, and play at give and take with giants and dragons and +monsters, and hear hissings and roarings and bellowings and howlings; +and even all this would be lavender, if we had not to reckon with +Yanguesans and enchanted Moors.” + +“I know well enough, husband,” said Teresa, “that squires-errant don’t +eat their bread for nothing, and so I will be always praying to our +Lord to deliver you speedily from all that hard fortune.” + +“I can tell you, wife,” said Sancho, “if I did not expect to see myself +governor of an island before long, I would drop down dead on the spot.” + +“Nay, then, husband,” said Teresa; “let the hen live, though it be with +her pip, live, and let the devil take all the governments in the world; +you came out of your mother’s womb without a government, you have lived +until now without a government, and when it is God’s will you will go, +or be carried, to your grave without a government. How many there are +in the world who live without a government, and continue to live all +the same, and are reckoned in the number of the people. The best sauce +in the world is hunger, and as the poor are never without that, they +always eat with a relish. But mind, Sancho, if by good luck you should +find yourself with some government, don’t forget me and your children. +Remember that Sanchico is now full fifteen, and it is right he should +go to school, if his uncle the abbot has a mind to have him trained for +the Church. Consider, too, that your daughter Mari-Sancha will not die +of grief if we marry her; for I have my suspicions that she is as eager +to get a husband as you to get a government; and, after all, a daughter +looks better ill married than well whored.” + +“By my faith,” replied Sancho, “if God brings me to get any sort of a +government, I intend, wife, to make such a high match for Mari-Sancha +that there will be no approaching her without calling her ‘my lady.” + +“Nay, Sancho,” returned Teresa; “marry her to her equal, that is the +safest plan; for if you put her out of wooden clogs into high-heeled +shoes, out of her grey flannel petticoat into hoops and silk gowns, out +of the plain ‘Marica’ and ‘thou,’ into ‘Doña So-and-so’ and ‘my lady,’ +the girl won’t know where she is, and at every turn she will fall into +a thousand blunders that will show the thread of her coarse homespun +stuff.” + +“Tut, you fool,” said Sancho; “it will be only to practise it for two +or three years; and then dignity and decorum will fit her as easily as +a glove; and if not, what matter? Let her be ‘my lady,’ and never mind +what happens.” + +“Keep to your own station, Sancho,” replied Teresa; “don’t try to raise +yourself higher, and bear in mind the proverb that says, ‘wipe the nose +of your neigbbour’s son, and take him into your house.’ A fine thing it +would be, indeed, to marry our Maria to some great count or grand +gentleman, who, when the humour took him, would abuse her and call her +clown-bred and clodhopper’s daughter and spinning wench. I have not +been bringing up my daughter for that all this time, I can tell you, +husband. Do you bring home money, Sancho, and leave marrying her to my +care; there is Lope Tocho, Juan Tocho’s son, a stout, sturdy young +fellow that we know, and I can see he does not look sour at the girl; +and with him, one of our own sort, she will be well married, and we +shall have her always under our eyes, and be all one family, parents +and children, grandchildren and sons-in-law, and the peace and blessing +of God will dwell among us; so don’t you go marrying her in those +courts and grand palaces where they won’t know what to make of her, or +she what to make of herself.” + +“Why, you idiot and wife for Barabbas,” said Sancho, “what do you mean +by trying, without why or wherefore, to keep me from marrying my +daughter to one who will give me grandchildren that will be called +‘your lordship’? Look ye, Teresa, I have always heard my elders say +that he who does not know how to take advantage of luck when it comes +to him, has no right to complain if it gives him the go-by; and now +that it is knocking at our door, it will not do to shut it out; let us +go with the favouring breeze that blows upon us.” + +It is this sort of talk, and what Sancho says lower down, that made the +translator of the history say he considered this chapter apocryphal. + +“Don’t you see, you animal,” continued Sancho, “that it will be well +for me to drop into some profitable government that will lift us out of +the mire, and marry Mari-Sancha to whom I like; and you yourself will +find yourself called ‘Doña Teresa Panza,’ and sitting in church on a +fine carpet and cushions and draperies, in spite and in defiance of all +the born ladies of the town? No, stay as you are, growing neither +greater nor less, like a tapestry figure—Let us say no more about it, +for Sanchica shall be a countess, say what you will.” + +“Are you sure of all you say, husband?” replied Teresa. “Well, for all +that, I am afraid this rank of countess for my daughter will be her +ruin. You do as you like, make a duchess or a princess of her, but I +can tell you it will not be with my will and consent. I was always a +lover of equality, brother, and I can’t bear to see people give +themselves airs without any right. They called me Teresa at my baptism, +a plain, simple name, without any additions or tags or fringes of Dons +or Doñas; Cascajo was my father’s name, and as I am your wife, I am +called Teresa Panza, though by right I ought to be called Teresa +Cascajo; but ‘kings go where laws like,’ and I am content with this +name without having the ‘Don’ put on top of it to make it so heavy that +I cannot carry it; and I don’t want to make people talk about me when +they see me go dressed like a countess or governor’s wife; for they +will say at once, ‘See what airs the slut gives herself! Only yesterday +she was always spinning flax, and used to go to mass with the tail of +her petticoat over her head instead of a mantle, and there she goes +to-day in a hooped gown with her broaches and airs, as if we didn’t +know her!’ If God keeps me in my seven senses, or five, or whatever +number I have, I am not going to bring myself to such a pass; go you, +brother, and be a government or an island man, and swagger as much as +you like; for by the soul of my mother, neither my daughter nor I are +going to stir a step from our village; a respectable woman should have +a broken leg and keep at home; and to be busy at something is a +virtuous damsel’s holiday; be off to your adventures along with your +Don Quixote, and leave us to our misadventures, for God will mend them +for us according as we deserve it. I don’t know, I’m sure, who fixed +the ‘Don’ to him, what neither his father nor grandfather ever had.” + +“I declare thou hast a devil of some sort in thy body!” said Sancho. +“God help thee, what a lot of things thou hast strung together, one +after the other, without head or tail! What have Cascajo, and the +broaches and the proverbs and the airs, to do with what I say? Look +here, fool and dolt (for so I may call you, when you don’t understand +my words, and run away from good fortune), if I had said that my +daughter was to throw herself down from a tower, or go roaming the +world, as the Infanta Doña Urraca wanted to do, you would be right in +not giving way to my will; but if in an instant, in less than the +twinkling of an eye, I put the ‘Don’ and ‘my lady’ on her back, and +take her out of the stubble, and place her under a canopy, on a dais, +and on a couch, with more velvet cushions than all the Almohades of +Morocco ever had in their family, why won’t you consent and fall in +with my wishes?” + +“Do you know why, husband?” replied Teresa; “because of the proverb +that says ‘who covers thee, discovers thee.’ At the poor man people +only throw a hasty glance; on the rich man they fix their eyes; and if +the said rich man was once on a time poor, it is then there is the +sneering and the tattle and spite of backbiters; and in the streets +here they swarm as thick as bees.” + +“Look here, Teresa,” said Sancho, “and listen to what I am now going to +say to you; maybe you never heard it in all your life; and I do not +give my own notions, for what I am about to say are the opinions of his +reverence the preacher, who preached in this town last Lent, and who +said, if I remember rightly, that all things present that our eyes +behold, bring themselves before us, and remain and fix themselves on +our memory much better and more forcibly than things past.” + +These observations which Sancho makes here are the other ones on +account of which the translator says he regards this chapter as +apocryphal, inasmuch as they are beyond Sancho’s capacity. + +“Whence it arises,” he continued, “that when we see any person well +dressed and making a figure with rich garments and retinue of servants, +it seems to lead and impel us perforce to respect him, though memory +may at the same moment recall to us some lowly condition in which we +have seen him, but which, whether it may have been poverty or low +birth, being now a thing of the past, has no existence; while the only +thing that has any existence is what we see before us; and if this +person whom fortune has raised from his original lowly state (these +were the very words the padre used) to his present height of +prosperity, be well bred, generous, courteous to all, without seeking +to vie with those whose nobility is of ancient date, depend upon it, +Teresa, no one will remember what he was, and everyone will respect +what he is, except indeed the envious, from whom no fair fortune is +safe.” + +“I do not understand you, husband,” replied Teresa; “do as you like, +and don’t break my head with any more speechifying and rethoric; and if +you have revolved to do what you say—” + +“Resolved, you should say, woman,” said Sancho, “not revolved.” + +“Don’t set yourself to wrangle with me, husband,” said Teresa; “I speak +as God pleases, and don’t deal in out-of-the-way phrases; and I say if +you are bent upon having a government, take your son Sancho with you, +and teach him from this time on how to hold a government; for sons +ought to inherit and learn the trades of their fathers.” + +“As soon as I have the government,” said Sancho, “I will send for him +by post, and I will send thee money, of which I shall have no lack, for +there is never any want of people to lend it to governors when they +have not got it; and do thou dress him so as to hide what he is and +make him look what he is to be.” + +“You send the money,” said Teresa, “and I’ll dress him up for you as +fine as you please.” + +“Then we are agreed that our daughter is to be a countess,” said +Sancho. + +“The day that I see her a countess,” replied Teresa, “it will be the +same to me as if I was burying her; but once more I say do as you +please, for we women are born to this burden of being obedient to our +husbands, though they be dogs;” and with this she began to weep in +earnest, as if she already saw Sanchica dead and buried. + +Sancho consoled her by saying that though he must make her a countess, +he would put it off as long as possible. Here their conversation came +to an end, and Sancho went back to see Don Quixote, and make +arrangements for their departure. + + + +p05e.jpg (49K) + +Full Size + + + +CHAPTER VI. +OF WHAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS NIECE AND HOUSEKEEPER; +ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT CHAPTERS IN THE WHOLE HISTORY + + + + +p06a.jpg (93K) + +Full Size + + + +While Sancho Panza and his wife, Teresa Cascajo, held the above +irrelevant conversation, Don Quixote’s niece and housekeeper were not +idle, for by a thousand signs they began to perceive that their uncle +and master meant to give them the slip the third time, and once more +betake himself to his, for them, ill-errant chivalry. They strove by +all the means in their power to divert him from such an unlucky scheme; +but it was all preaching in the desert and hammering cold iron. +Nevertheless, among many other representations made to him, the +housekeeper said to him, “In truth, master, if you do not keep still +and stay quiet at home, and give over roaming mountains and valleys +like a troubled spirit, looking for what they say are called +adventures, but what I call misfortunes, I shall have to make complaint +to God and the king with loud supplication to send some remedy.” + +To which Don Quixote replied, “What answer God will give to your +complaints, housekeeper, I know not, nor what his Majesty will answer +either; I only know that if I were king I should decline to answer the +numberless silly petitions they present every day; for one of the +greatest among the many troubles kings have is being obliged to listen +to all and answer all, and therefore I should be sorry that any affairs +of mine should worry him.” + +Whereupon the housekeeper said, “Tell us, señor, at his Majesty’s court +are there no knights?” + +“There are,” replied Don Quixote, “and plenty of them; and it is right +there should be, to set off the dignity of the prince, and for the +greater glory of the king’s majesty.” + +“Then might not your worship,” said she, “be one of those that, without +stirring a step, serve their king and lord in his court?” + +“Recollect, my friend,” said Don Quixote, “all knights cannot be +courtiers, nor can all courtiers be knights-errant, nor need they be. +There must be all sorts in the world; and though we may be all knights, +there is a great difference between one and another; for the courtiers, +without quitting their chambers, or the threshold of the court, range +the world over by looking at a map, without its costing them a +farthing, and without suffering heat or cold, hunger or thirst; but we, +the true knights-errant, measure the whole earth with our own feet, +exposed to the sun, to the cold, to the air, to the inclemencies of +heaven, by day and night, on foot and on horseback; nor do we only know +enemies in pictures, but in their own real shapes; and at all risks and +on all occasions we attack them, without any regard to childish points +or rules of single combat, whether one has or has not a shorter lance +or sword, whether one carries relics or any secret contrivance about +him, whether or not the sun is to be divided and portioned out, and +other niceties of the sort that are observed in set combats of man to +man, that you know nothing about, but I do. And you must know besides, +that the true knight-errant, though he may see ten giants, that not +only touch the clouds with their heads but pierce them, and that go, +each of them, on two tall towers by way of legs, and whose arms are +like the masts of mighty ships, and each eye like a great mill-wheel, +and glowing brighter than a glass furnace, must not on any account be +dismayed by them. On the contrary, he must attack and fall upon them +with a gallant bearing and a fearless heart, and, if possible, vanquish +and destroy them, even though they have for armour the shells of a +certain fish, that they say are harder than diamonds, and in place of +swords wield trenchant blades of Damascus steel, or clubs studded with +spikes also of steel, such as I have more than once seen. All this I +say, housekeeper, that you may see the difference there is between the +one sort of knight and the other; and it would be well if there were no +prince who did not set a higher value on this second, or more properly +speaking first, kind of knights-errant; for, as we read in their +histories, there have been some among them who have been the salvation, +not merely of one kingdom, but of many.” + +“Ah, señor,” here exclaimed the niece, “remember that all this you are +saying about knights-errant is fable and fiction; and their histories, +if indeed they were not burned, would deserve, each of them, to have a +sambenito put on it, or some mark by which it might be known as +infamous and a corrupter of good manners.” + +“By the God that gives me life,” said Don Quixote, “if thou wert not my +full niece, being daughter of my own sister, I would inflict a +chastisement upon thee for the blasphemy thou hast uttered that all the +world should ring with. What! can it be that a young hussy that hardly +knows how to handle a dozen lace-bobbins dares to wag her tongue and +criticise the histories of knights-errant? What would Señor Amadis say +if he heard of such a thing? He, however, no doubt would forgive thee, +for he was the most humble-minded and courteous knight of his time, and +moreover a great protector of damsels; but some there are that might +have heard thee, and it would not have been well for thee in that case; +for they are not all courteous or mannerly; some are ill-conditioned +scoundrels; nor is it everyone that calls himself a gentleman, that is +so in all respects; some are gold, others pinchbeck, and all look like +gentlemen, but not all can stand the touchstone of truth. There are men +of low rank who strain themselves to bursting to pass for gentlemen, +and high gentlemen who, one would fancy, were dying to pass for men of +low rank; the former raise themselves by their ambition or by their +virtues, the latter debase themselves by their lack of spirit or by +their vices; and one has need of experience and discernment to +distinguish these two kinds of gentlemen, so much alike in name and so +different in conduct.” + +“God bless me!” said the niece, “that you should know so much, +uncle—enough, if need be, to get up into a pulpit and go preach in the +streets—and yet that you should fall into a delusion so great and a +folly so manifest as to try to make yourself out vigorous when you are +old, strong when you are sickly, able to put straight what is crooked +when you yourself are bent by age, and, above all, a caballero when you +are not one; for though gentlefolk may be so, poor men are nothing of +the kind!” + +“There is a great deal of truth in what you say, niece,” returned Don +Quixote, “and I could tell you somewhat about birth that would astonish +you; but, not to mix up things human and divine, I refrain. Look you, +my dears, all the lineages in the world (attend to what I am saying) +can be reduced to four sorts, which are these: those that had humble +beginnings, and went on spreading and extending themselves until they +attained surpassing greatness; those that had great beginnings and +maintained them, and still maintain and uphold the greatness of their +origin; those, again, that from a great beginning have ended in a point +like a pyramid, having reduced and lessened their original greatness +till it has come to nought, like the point of a pyramid, which, +relatively to its base or foundation, is nothing; and then there are +those—and it is they that are the most numerous—that have had neither +an illustrious beginning nor a remarkable mid-course, and so will have +an end without a name, like an ordinary plebeian line. Of the first, +those that had an humble origin and rose to the greatness they still +preserve, the Ottoman house may serve as an example, which from an +humble and lowly shepherd, its founder, has reached the height at which +we now see it. For examples of the second sort of lineage, that began +with greatness and maintains it still without adding to it, there are +the many princes who have inherited the dignity, and maintain +themselves in their inheritance, without increasing or diminishing it, +keeping peacefully within the limits of their states. Of those that +began great and ended in a point, there are thousands of examples, for +all the Pharaohs and Ptolemies of Egypt, the Cæsars of Rome, and the +whole herd (if I may apply such a word to them) of countless princes, +monarchs, lords, Medes, Assyrians, Persians, Greeks, and barbarians, +all these lineages and lordships have ended in a point and come to +nothing, they themselves as well as their founders, for it would be +impossible now to find one of their descendants, and, even should we +find one, it would be in some lowly and humble condition. Of plebeian +lineages I have nothing to say, save that they merely serve to swell +the number of those that live, without any eminence to entitle them to +any fame or praise beyond this. From all I have said I would have you +gather, my poor innocents, that great is the confusion among lineages, +and that only those are seen to be great and illustrious that show +themselves so by the virtue, wealth, and generosity of their +possessors. I have said virtue, wealth, and generosity, because a great +man who is vicious will be a great example of vice, and a rich man who +is not generous will be merely a miserly beggar; for the possessor of +wealth is not made happy by possessing it, but by spending it, and not +by spending as he pleases, but by knowing how to spend it well. The +poor gentleman has no way of showing that he is a gentleman but by +virtue, by being affable, well-bred, courteous, gentle-mannered, and +kindly, not haughty, arrogant, or censorious, but above all by being +charitable; for by two maravedis given with a cheerful heart to the +poor, he will show himself as generous as he who distributes alms with +bell-ringing, and no one that perceives him to be endowed with the +virtues I have named, even though he know him not, will fail to +recognise and set him down as one of good blood; and it would be +strange were it not so; praise has ever been the reward of virtue, and +those who are virtuous cannot fail to receive commendation. There are +two roads, my daughters, by which men may reach wealth and honours; one +is that of letters, the other that of arms. I have more of arms than of +letters in my composition, and, judging by my inclination to arms, was +born under the influence of the planet Mars. I am, therefore, in a +measure constrained to follow that road, and by it I must travel in +spite of all the world, and it will be labour in vain for you to urge +me to resist what heaven wills, fate ordains, reason requires, and, +above all, my own inclination favours; for knowing as I do the +countless toils that are the accompaniments of knight-errantry, I know, +too, the infinite blessings that are attained by it; I know that the +path of virtue is very narrow, and the road of vice broad and spacious; +I know their ends and goals are different, for the broad and easy road +of vice ends in death, and the narrow and toilsome one of virtue in +life, and not transitory life, but in that which has no end; I know, as +our great Castilian poet says, that- + +It is by rugged paths like these they go +That scale the heights of immortality, +Unreached by those that falter here below.” + + +“Woe is me!” exclaimed the niece, “my lord is a poet, too! He knows +everything, and he can do everything; I will bet, if he chose to turn +mason, he could make a house as easily as a cage.” + +“I can tell you, niece,” replied Don Quixote, “if these chivalrous +thoughts did not engage all my faculties, there would be nothing that I +could not do, nor any sort of knickknack that would not come from my +hands, particularly cages and tooth-picks.” + +At this moment there came a knocking at the door, and when they asked +who was there, Sancho Panza made answer that it was he. The instant the +housekeeper knew who it was, she ran to hide herself so as not to see +him; in such abhorrence did she hold him. The niece let him in, and his +master Don Quixote came forward to receive him with open arms, and the +pair shut themselves up in his room, where they had another +conversation not inferior to the previous one. + + + +p06e.jpg (19K) + + + +CHAPTER VII. +OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER +VERY NOTABLE INCIDENTS + + + + +p07a.jpg (140K) + +Full Size + + + +The instant the housekeeper saw Sancho Panza shut himself in with her +master, she guessed what they were about; and suspecting that the +result of the consultation would be a resolve to undertake a third +sally, she seized her mantle, and in deep anxiety and distress, ran to +find the bachelor Samson Carrasco, as she thought that, being a +well-spoken man, and a new friend of her master’s, he might be able to +persuade him to give up any such crazy notion. She found him pacing the +patio of his house, and, perspiring and flurried, she fell at his feet +the moment she saw him. + +Carrasco, seeing how distressed and overcome she was, said to her, +“What is this, mistress housekeeper? What has happened to you? One +would think you heart-broken.” + +“Nothing, Señor Samson,” said she, “only that my master is breaking +out, plainly breaking out.” + +“Whereabouts is he breaking out, señora?” asked Samson; “has any part +of his body burst?” + +“He is only breaking out at the door of his madness,” she replied; “I +mean, dear señor bachelor, that he is going to break out again (and +this will be the third time) to hunt all over the world for what he +calls ventures, though I can’t make out why he gives them that name. +The first time he was brought back to us slung across the back of an +ass, and belaboured all over; and the second time he came in an +ox-cart, shut up in a cage, in which he persuaded himself he was +enchanted, and the poor creature was in such a state that the mother +that bore him would not have known him; lean, yellow, with his eyes +sunk deep in the cells of his skull; so that to bring him round again, +ever so little, cost me more than six hundred eggs, as God knows, and +all the world, and my hens too, that won’t let me tell a lie.” + +“That I can well believe,” replied the bachelor, “for they are so good +and so fat, and so well-bred, that they would not say one thing for +another, though they were to burst for it. In short then, mistress +housekeeper, that is all, and there is nothing the matter, except what +it is feared Don Quixote may do?” + +“No, señor,” said she. + +“Well then,” returned the bachelor, “don’t be uneasy, but go home in +peace; get me ready something hot for breakfast, and while you are on +the way say the prayer of Santa Apollonia, that is if you know it; for +I will come presently and you will see miracles.” + +“Woe is me,” cried the housekeeper, “is it the prayer of Santa +Apollonia you would have me say? That would do if it was the toothache +my master had; but it is in the brains, what he has got.” + +“I know what I am saying, mistress housekeeper; go, and don’t set +yourself to argue with me, for you know I am a bachelor of Salamanca, +and one can’t be more of a bachelor than that,” replied Carrasco; and +with this the housekeeper retired, and the bachelor went to look for +the curate, and arrange with him what will be told in its proper place. + +While Don Quixote and Sancho were shut up together, they had a +discussion which the history records with great precision and +scrupulous exactness. Sancho said to his master, “Señor, I have educed +my wife to let me go with your worship wherever you choose to take me.” + +“Induced, you should say, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “not educed.” + +“Once or twice, as well as I remember,” replied Sancho, “I have begged +of your worship not to mend my words, if so be as you understand what I +mean by them; and if you don’t understand them to say ‘Sancho,’ or +‘devil,’ ‘I don’t understand thee; and if I don’t make my meaning +plain, then you may correct me, for I am so focile—” + +“I don’t understand thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote at once; “for I +know not what ‘I am so focile’ means.” + +“‘So focile’ means I am so much that way,” replied Sancho. + +“I understand thee still less now,” said Don Quixote. + +“Well, if you can’t understand me,” said Sancho, “I don’t know how to +put it; I know no more, God help me.” + +“Oh, now I have hit it,” said Don Quixote; “thou wouldst say thou art +so docile, tractable, and gentle that thou wilt take what I say to +thee, and submit to what I teach thee.” + +“I would bet,” said Sancho, “that from the very first you understood +me, and knew what I meant, but you wanted to put me out that you might +hear me make another couple of dozen blunders.” + +“May be so,” replied Don Quixote; “but to come to the point, what does +Teresa say?” + +“Teresa says,” replied Sancho, “that I should make sure with your +worship, and ‘let papers speak and beards be still,’ for ‘he who binds +does not wrangle,’ since one ‘take’ is better than two ‘I’ll give +thee’s;’ and I say a woman’s advice is no great thing, and he who won’t +take it is a fool.” + +“And so say I,” said Don Quixote; “continue, Sancho my friend; go on; +you talk pearls to-day.” + +“The fact is,” continued Sancho, “that, as your worship knows better +than I do, we are all of us liable to death, and to-day we are, and +to-morrow we are not, and the lamb goes as soon as the sheep, and +nobody can promise himself more hours of life in this world than God +may be pleased to give him; for death is deaf, and when it comes to +knock at our life’s door, it is always urgent, and neither prayers, nor +struggles, nor sceptres, nor mitres, can keep it back, as common talk +and report say, and as they tell us from the pulpits every day.” + +“All that is very true,” said Don Quixote; “but I cannot make out what +thou art driving at.” + +“What I am driving at,” said Sancho, “is that your worship settle some +fixed wages for me, to be paid monthly while I am in your service, and +that the same be paid me out of your estate; for I don’t care to stand +on rewards which either come late, or ill, or never at all; God help me +with my own. In short, I would like to know what I am to get, be it +much or little; for the hen will lay on one egg, and many littles make +a much, and so long as one gains something there is nothing lost. To be +sure, if it should happen (what I neither believe nor expect) that your +worship were to give me that island you have promised me, I am not so +ungrateful nor so grasping but that I would be willing to have the +revenue of such island valued and stopped out of my wages in due +promotion.” + +“Sancho, my friend,” replied Don Quixote, “sometimes proportion may be +as good as promotion.” + +“I see,” said Sancho; “I’ll bet I ought to have said proportion, and +not promotion; but it is no matter, as your worship has understood me.” + +“And so well understood,” returned Don Quixote, “that I have seen into +the depths of thy thoughts, and know the mark thou art shooting at with +the countless shafts of thy proverbs. Look here, Sancho, I would +readily fix thy wages if I had ever found any instance in the histories +of the knights-errant to show or indicate, by the slightest hint, what +their squires used to get monthly or yearly; but I have read all or the +best part of their histories, and I cannot remember reading of any +knight-errant having assigned fixed wages to his squire; I only know +that they all served on reward, and that when they least expected it, +if good luck attended their masters, they found themselves recompensed +with an island or something equivalent to it, or at the least they were +left with a title and lordship. If with these hopes and additional +inducements you, Sancho, please to return to my service, well and good; +but to suppose that I am going to disturb or unhinge the ancient usage +of knight-errantry, is all nonsense. And so, my Sancho, get you back to +your house and explain my intentions to your Teresa, and if she likes +and you like to be on reward with me, _bene quidem;_ if not, we remain +friends; for if the pigeon-house does not lack food, it will not lack +pigeons; and bear in mind, my son, that a good hope is better than a +bad holding, and a good grievance better than a bad compensation. I +speak in this way, Sancho, to show you that I can shower down proverbs +just as well as yourself; and in short, I mean to say, and I do say, +that if you don’t like to come on reward with me, and run the same +chance that I run, God be with you and make a saint of you; for I shall +find plenty of squires more obedient and painstaking, and not so +thickheaded or talkative as you are.” + +When Sancho heard his master’s firm, resolute language, a cloud came +over the sky with him and the wings of his heart drooped, for he had +made sure that his master would not go without him for all the wealth +of the world; and as he stood there dumbfoundered and moody, Samson +Carrasco came in with the housekeeper and niece, who were anxious to +hear by what arguments he was about to dissuade their master from going +to seek adventures. The arch wag Samson came forward, and embracing him +as he had done before, said with a loud voice, “O flower of +knight-errantry! O shining light of arms! O honour and mirror of the +Spanish nation! may God Almighty in his infinite power grant that any +person or persons, who would impede or hinder thy third sally, may find +no way out of the labyrinth of their schemes, nor ever accomplish what +they most desire!” And then, turning to the housekeeper, he said, +“Mistress housekeeper may just as well give over saying the prayer of +Santa Apollonia, for I know it is the positive determination of the +spheres that Señor Don Quixote shall proceed to put into execution his +new and lofty designs; and I should lay a heavy burden on my conscience +did I not urge and persuade this knight not to keep the might of his +strong arm and the virtue of his valiant spirit any longer curbed and +checked, for by his inactivity he is defrauding the world of the +redress of wrongs, of the protection of orphans, of the honour of +virgins, of the aid of widows, and of the support of wives, and other +matters of this kind appertaining, belonging, proper and peculiar to +the order of knight-errantry. On, then, my lord Don Quixote, beautiful +and brave, let your worship and highness set out to-day rather than +to-morrow; and if anything be needed for the execution of your purpose, +here am I ready in person and purse to supply the want; and were it +requisite to attend your magnificence as squire, I should esteem it the +happiest good fortune.” + +At this, Don Quixote, turning to Sancho, said, “Did I not tell thee, +Sancho, there would be squires enough and to spare for me? See now who +offers to become one; no less than the illustrious bachelor Samson +Carrasco, the perpetual joy and delight of the courts of the Salamancan +schools, sound in body, discreet, patient under heat or cold, hunger or +thirst, with all the qualifications requisite to make a knight-errant’s +squire! But heaven forbid that, to gratify my own inclination, I should +shake or shatter this pillar of letters and vessel of the sciences, and +cut down this towering palm of the fair and liberal arts. Let this new +Samson remain in his own country, and, bringing honour to it, bring +honour at the same time on the grey heads of his venerable parents; for +I will be content with any squire that comes to hand, as Sancho does +not deign to accompany me.” + +“I do deign,” said Sancho, deeply moved and with tears in his eyes; “it +shall not be said of me, master mine,” he continued, “‘the bread eaten +and the company dispersed.’ Nay, I come of no ungrateful stock, for all +the world knows, but particularly my own town, who the Panzas from whom +I am descended were; and, what is more, I know and have learned, by +many good words and deeds, your worship’s desire to show me favour; and +if I have been bargaining more or less about my wages, it was only to +please my wife, who, when she sets herself to press a point, no hammer +drives the hoops of a cask as she drives one to do what she wants; but, +after all, a man must be a man, and a woman a woman; and as I am a man +anyhow, which I can’t deny, I will be one in my own house too, let who +will take it amiss; and so there’s nothing more to do but for your +worship to make your will with its codicil in such a way that it can’t +be provoked, and let us set out at once, to save Señor Samson’s soul +from suffering, as he says his conscience obliges him to persuade your +worship to sally out upon the world a third time; so I offer again to +serve your worship faithfully and loyally, as well and better than all +the squires that served knights-errant in times past or present.” + +The bachelor was filled with amazement when he heard Sancho’s +phraseology and style of talk, for though he had read the first part of +his master’s history he never thought that he could be so droll as he +was there described; but now, hearing him talk of a “will and codicil +that could not be provoked,” instead of “will and codicil that could +not be revoked,” he believed all he had read of him, and set him down +as one of the greatest simpletons of modern times; and he said to +himself that two such lunatics as master and man the world had never +seen. In fine, Don Quixote and Sancho embraced one another and made +friends, and by the advice and with the approval of the great Carrasco, +who was now their oracle, it was arranged that their departure should +take place three days thence, by which time they could have all that +was requisite for the journey ready, and procure a closed helmet, which +Don Quixote said he must by all means take. Samson offered him one, as +he knew a friend of his who had it would not refuse it to him, though +it was more dingy with rust and mildew than bright and clean like +burnished steel. + +The curses which both housekeeper and niece poured out on the bachelor +were past counting; they tore their hair, they clawed their faces, and +in the style of the hired mourners that were once in fashion, they +raised a lamentation over the departure of their master and uncle, as +if it had been his death. Samson’s intention in persuading him to sally +forth once more was to do what the history relates farther on; all by +the advice of the curate and barber, with whom he had previously +discussed the subject. Finally, then, during those three days, Don +Quixote and Sancho provided themselves with what they considered +necessary, and Sancho having pacified his wife, and Don Quixote his +niece and housekeeper, at nightfall, unseen by anyone except the +bachelor, who thought fit to accompany them half a league out of the +village, they set out for El Toboso, Don Quixote on his good Rocinante +and Sancho on his old Dapple, his alforjas furnished with certain +matters in the way of victuals, and his purse with money that Don +Quixote gave him to meet emergencies. Samson embraced him, and +entreated him to let him hear of his good or evil fortunes, so that he +might rejoice over the former or condole with him over the latter, as +the laws of friendship required. Don Quixote promised him he would do +so, and Samson returned to the village, and the other two took the road +for the great city of El Toboso. + + + +p07e.jpg (24K) + + + +CHAPTER VIII. +WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY TO SEE HIS LADY +DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO + + + + +p08a.jpg (65K) + +Full Size + + + +“Blessed be Allah the all-powerful!” says Hamete Benengeli on beginning +this eighth chapter; “blessed be Allah!” he repeats three times; and he +says he utters these thanksgivings at seeing that he has now got Don +Quixote and Sancho fairly afield, and that the readers of his +delightful history may reckon that the achievements and humours of Don +Quixote and his squire are now about to begin; and he urges them to +forget the former chivalries of the ingenious gentleman and to fix +their eyes on those that are to come, which now begin on the road to El +Toboso, as the others began on the plains of Montiel; nor is it much +that he asks in consideration of all he promises, and so he goes on to +say: + +Don Quixote and Sancho were left alone, and the moment Samson took his +departure, Rocinante began to neigh, and Dapple to sigh, which, by both +knight and squire, was accepted as a good sign and a very happy omen; +though, if the truth is to be told, the sighs and brays of Dapple were +louder than the neighings of the hack, from which Sancho inferred that +his good fortune was to exceed and overtop that of his master, +building, perhaps, upon some judicial astrology that he may have known, +though the history says nothing about it; all that can be said is, that +when he stumbled or fell, he was heard to say he wished he had not come +out, for by stumbling or falling there was nothing to be got but a +damaged shoe or a broken rib; and, fool as he was, he was not much +astray in this. + +Said Don Quixote, “Sancho, my friend, night is drawing on upon us as we +go, and more darkly than will allow us to reach El Toboso by daylight; +for there I am resolved to go before I engage in another adventure, and +there I shall obtain the blessing and generous permission of the +peerless Dulcinea, with which permission I expect and feel assured that +I shall conclude and bring to a happy termination every perilous +adventure; for nothing in life makes knights-errant more valorous than +finding themselves favoured by their ladies.” + + + +p08b.jpg (283K) + +Full Size + + + +“So I believe,” replied Sancho; “but I think it will be difficult for +your worship to speak with her or see her, at any rate where you will +be able to receive her blessing; unless, indeed, she throws it over the +wall of the yard where I saw her the time before, when I took her the +letter that told of the follies and mad things your worship was doing +in the heart of Sierra Morena.” + +“Didst thou take that for a yard wall, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, +“where or at which thou sawest that never sufficiently extolled grace +and beauty? It must have been the gallery, corridor, or portico of some +rich and royal palace.” + +“It might have been all that,” returned Sancho, “but to me it looked +like a wall, unless I am short of memory.” + +“At all events, let us go there, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “for, so +that I see her, it is the same to me whether it be over a wall, or at a +window, or through the chink of a door, or the grate of a garden; for +any beam of the sun of her beauty that reaches my eyes will give light +to my reason and strength to my heart, so that I shall be unmatched and +unequalled in wisdom and valour.” + +“Well, to tell the truth, señor,” said Sancho, “when I saw that sun of +the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, it was not bright enough to throw out +beams at all; it must have been, that as her grace was sifting that +wheat I told you of, the thick dust she raised came before her face +like a cloud and dimmed it.” + +“What! dost thou still persist, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “in saying, +thinking, believing, and maintaining that my lady Dulcinea was sifting +wheat, that being an occupation and task entirely at variance with what +is and should be the employment of persons of distinction, who are +constituted and reserved for other avocations and pursuits that show +their rank a bowshot off? Thou hast forgotten, O Sancho, those lines of +our poet wherein he paints for us how, in their crystal abodes, those +four nymphs employed themselves who rose from their loved Tagus and +seated themselves in a verdant meadow to embroider those tissues which +the ingenious poet there describes to us, how they were worked and +woven with gold and silk and pearls; and something of this sort must +have been the employment of my lady when thou sawest her, only that the +spite which some wicked enchanter seems to have against everything of +mine changes all those things that give me pleasure, and turns them +into shapes unlike their own; and so I fear that in that history of my +achievements which they say is now in print, if haply its author was +some sage who is an enemy of mine, he will have put one thing for +another, mingling a thousand lies with one truth, and amusing himself +by relating transactions which have nothing to do with the sequence of +a true history. O envy, root of all countless evils, and cankerworm of +the virtues! All the vices, Sancho, bring some kind of pleasure with +them; but envy brings nothing but irritation, bitterness, and rage.” + +“So I say too,” replied Sancho; “and I suspect in that legend or +history of us that the bachelor Samson Carrasco told us he saw, my +honour goes dragged in the dirt, knocked about, up and down, sweeping +the streets, as they say. And yet, on the faith of an honest man, I +never spoke ill of any enchanter, and I am not so well off that I am to +be envied; to be sure, I am rather sly, and I have a certain spice of +the rogue in me; but all is covered by the great cloak of my +simplicity, always natural and never acted; and if I had no other merit +save that I believe, as I always do, firmly and truly in God, and all +the holy Roman Catholic Church holds and believes, and that I am a +mortal enemy of the Jews, the historians ought to have mercy on me and +treat me well in their writings. But let them say what they like; naked +was I born, naked I find myself, I neither lose nor gain; nay, while I +see myself put into a book and passed on from hand to hand over the +world, I don’t care a fig, let them say what they like of me.” + +“That, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote, “reminds me of what happened to a +famous poet of our own day, who, having written a bitter satire against +all the courtesan ladies, did not insert or name in it a certain lady +of whom it was questionable whether she was one or not. She, seeing she +was not in the list of the poet, asked him what he had seen in her that +he did not include her in the number of the others, telling him he must +add to his satire and put her in the new part, or else look out for the +consequences. The poet did as she bade him, and left her without a +shred of reputation, and she was satisfied by getting fame though it +was infamy. In keeping with this is what they relate of that shepherd +who set fire to the famous temple of Diana, by repute one of the seven +wonders of the world, and burned it with the sole object of making his +name live in after ages; and, though it was forbidden to name him, or +mention his name by word of mouth or in writing, lest the object of his +ambition should be attained, nevertheless it became known that he was +called Erostratus. And something of the same sort is what happened in +the case of the great emperor Charles V. and a gentleman in Rome. The +emperor was anxious to see that famous temple of the Rotunda, called in +ancient times the temple ‘of all the gods,’ but now-a-days, by a better +nomenclature, ‘of all the saints,’ which is the best preserved building +of all those of pagan construction in Rome, and the one which best +sustains the reputation of mighty works and magnificence of its +founders. It is in the form of a half orange, of enormous dimensions, +and well lighted, though no light penetrates it save that which is +admitted by a window, or rather round skylight, at the top; and it was +from this that the emperor examined the building. A Roman gentleman +stood by his side and explained to him the skilful construction and +ingenuity of the vast fabric and its wonderful architecture, and when +they had left the skylight he said to the emperor, ‘A thousand times, +your Sacred Majesty, the impulse came upon me to seize your Majesty in +my arms and fling myself down from yonder skylight, so as to leave +behind me in the world a name that would last for ever.’ ‘I am thankful +to you for not carrying such an evil thought into effect,’ said the +emperor, ‘and I shall give you no opportunity in future of again +putting your loyalty to the test; and I therefore forbid you ever to +speak to me or to be where I am; and he followed up these words by +bestowing a liberal bounty upon him. My meaning is, Sancho, that the +desire of acquiring fame is a very powerful motive. What, thinkest +thou, was it that flung Horatius in full armour down from the bridge +into the depths of the Tiber? What burned the hand and arm of Mutius? +What impelled Curtius to plunge into the deep burning gulf that opened +in the midst of Rome? What, in opposition to all the omens that +declared against him, made Julius Cæsar cross the Rubicon? And to come +to more modern examples, what scuttled the ships, and left stranded and +cut off the gallant Spaniards under the command of the most courteous +Cortés in the New World? All these and a variety of other great +exploits are, were and will be, the work of fame that mortals desire as +a reward and a portion of the immortality their famous deeds deserve; +though we Catholic Christians and knights-errant look more to that +future glory that is everlasting in the ethereal regions of heaven than +to the vanity of the fame that is to be acquired in this present +transitory life; a fame that, however long it may last, must after all +end with the world itself, which has its own appointed end. So that, O +Sancho, in what we do we must not overpass the bounds which the +Christian religion we profess has assigned to us. We have to slay pride +in giants, envy by generosity and nobleness of heart, anger by calmness +of demeanour and equanimity, gluttony and sloth by the spareness of our +diet and the length of our vigils, lust and lewdness by the loyalty we +preserve to those whom we have made the mistresses of our thoughts, +indolence by traversing the world in all directions seeking +opportunities of making ourselves, besides Christians, famous knights. +Such, Sancho, are the means by which we reach those extremes of praise +that fair fame carries with it.” + +“All that your worship has said so far,” said Sancho, “I have +understood quite well; but still I would be glad if your worship would +dissolve a doubt for me, which has just this minute come into my mind.” + +“Solve, thou meanest, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “say on, in God’s +name, and I will answer as well as I can.” + +“Tell me, señor,” Sancho went on to say, “those Julys or Augusts, and +all those venturous knights that you say are now dead—where are they +now?” + +“The heathens,” replied Don Quixote, “are, no doubt, in hell; the +Christians, if they were good Christians, are either in purgatory or in +heaven.” + +“Very good,” said Sancho; “but now I want to know—the tombs where the +bodies of those great lords are, have they silver lamps before them, or +are the walls of their chapels ornamented with crutches, +winding-sheets, tresses of hair, legs and eyes in wax? Or what are they +ornamented with?” + +To which Don Quixote made answer: “The tombs of the heathens were +generally sumptuous temples; the ashes of Julius Cæsar’s body were +placed on the top of a stone pyramid of vast size, which they now call +in Rome Saint Peter’s needle. The emperor Hadrian had for a tomb a +castle as large as a good-sized village, which they called the _Moles +Adriani_, and is now the castle of St. Angelo in Rome. The queen +Artemisia buried her husband Mausolus in a tomb which was reckoned one +of the seven wonders of the world; but none of these tombs, or of the +many others of the heathens, were ornamented with winding-sheets or any +of those other offerings and tokens that show that they who are buried +there are saints.” + +“That’s the point I’m coming to,” said Sancho; “and now tell me, which +is the greater work, to bring a dead man to life or to kill a giant?” + +“The answer is easy,” replied Don Quixote; “it is a greater work to +bring to life a dead man.” + +“Now I have got you,” said Sancho; “in that case the fame of them who +bring the dead to life, who give sight to the blind, cure cripples, +restore health to the sick, and before whose tombs there are lamps +burning, and whose chapels are filled with devout folk on their knees +adoring their relics be a better fame in this life and in the other +than that which all the heathen emperors and knights-errant that have +ever been in the world have left or may leave behind them?” + +“That I grant, too,” said Don Quixote. + +“Then this fame, these favours, these privileges, or whatever you call +it,” said Sancho, “belong to the bodies and relics of the saints who, +with the approbation and permission of our holy mother Church, have +lamps, tapers, winding-sheets, crutches, pictures, eyes and legs, by +means of which they increase devotion and add to their own Christian +reputation. Kings carry the bodies or relics of saints on their +shoulders, and kiss bits of their bones, and enrich and adorn their +oratories and favourite altars with them.” + +“What wouldst thou have me infer from all thou hast said, Sancho?” +asked Don Quixote. + +“My meaning is,” said Sancho, “let us set about becoming saints, and we +shall obtain more quickly the fair fame we are striving after; for you +know, señor, yesterday or the day before yesterday (for it is so lately +one may say so) they canonised and beatified two little barefoot +friars, and it is now reckoned the greatest good luck to kiss or touch +the iron chains with which they girt and tortured their bodies, and +they are held in greater veneration, so it is said, than the sword of +Roland in the armoury of our lord the King, whom God preserve. So that, +señor, it is better to be an humble little friar of no matter what +order, than a valiant knight-errant; with God a couple of dozen of +penance lashings are of more avail than two thousand lance-thrusts, be +they given to giants, or monsters, or dragons.” + +“All that is true,” returned Don Quixote, “but we cannot all be friars, +and many are the ways by which God takes his own to heaven; chivalry is +a religion, there are sainted knights in glory.” + +“Yes,” said Sancho, “but I have heard say that there are more friars in +heaven than knights-errant.” + +“That,” said Don Quixote, “is because those in religious orders are +more numerous than knights.” + +“The errants are many,” said Sancho. + +“Many,” replied Don Quixote, “but few they who deserve the name of +knights.” + +With these, and other discussions of the same sort, they passed that +night and the following day, without anything worth mention happening +to them, whereat Don Quixote was not a little dejected; but at length +the next day, at daybreak, they descried the great city of El Toboso, +at the sight of which Don Quixote’s spirits rose and Sancho’s fell, for +he did not know Dulcinea’s house, nor in all his life had he ever seen +her, any more than his master; so that they were both uneasy, the one +to see her, the other at not having seen her, and Sancho was at a loss +to know what he was to do when his master sent him to El Toboso. In the +end, Don Quixote made up his mind to enter the city at nightfall, and +they waited until the time came among some oak trees that were near El +Toboso; and when the moment they had agreed upon arrived, they made +their entrance into the city, where something happened them that may +fairly be called something. + + + +p08e.jpg (49K) + +Full Size + + + +CHAPTER IX. +WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT WILL BE SEEN THERE + + + + +p09a.jpg (79K) + +Full Size + + + +’Twas at the very midnight hour—more or less—when Don Quixote and +Sancho quitted the wood and entered El Toboso. The town was in deep +silence, for all the inhabitants were asleep, and stretched on the +broad of their backs, as the saying is. The night was darkish, though +Sancho would have been glad had it been quite dark, so as to find in +the darkness an excuse for his blundering. All over the place nothing +was to be heard except the barking of dogs, which deafened the ears of +Don Quixote and troubled the heart of Sancho. Now and then an ass +brayed, pigs grunted, cats mewed, and the various noises they made +seemed louder in the silence of the night; all which the enamoured +knight took to be of evil omen; nevertheless he said to Sancho, +“Sancho, my son, lead on to the palace of Dulcinea, it may be that we +shall find her awake.” + +“Body of the sun! what palace am I to lead to,” said Sancho, “when what +I saw her highness in was only a very little house?” + +“Most likely she had then withdrawn into some small apartment of her +palace,” said Don Quixote, “to amuse herself with damsels, as great +ladies and princesses are accustomed to do.” + +“Señor,” said Sancho, “if your worship will have it in spite of me that +the house of my lady Dulcinea is a palace, is this an hour, think you, +to find the door open; and will it be right for us to go knocking till +they hear us and open the door; making a disturbance and confusion all +through the household? Are we going, do you fancy, to the house of our +wenches, like gallants who come and knock and go in at any hour, +however late it may be?” + +“Let us first of all find out the palace for certain,” replied Don +Quixote, “and then I will tell thee, Sancho, what we had best do; but +look, Sancho, for either I see badly, or that dark mass that one sees +from here should be Dulcinea’s palace.” + +“Then let your worship lead the way,” said Sancho, “perhaps it may be +so; though I see it with my eyes and touch it with my hands, I’ll +believe it as much as I believe it is daylight now.” + +Don Quixote took the lead, and having gone a matter of two hundred +paces he came upon the mass that produced the shade, and found it was a +great tower, and then he perceived that the building in question was no +palace, but the chief church of the town, and said he, “It’s the church +we have lit upon, Sancho.” + +“So I see,” said Sancho, “and God grant we may not light upon our +graves; it is no good sign to find oneself wandering in a graveyard at +this time of night; and that, after my telling your worship, if I don’t +mistake, that the house of this lady will be in an alley without an +outlet.” + +“The curse of God on thee for a blockhead!” said Don Quixote; “where +hast thou ever heard of castles and royal palaces being built in alleys +without an outlet?” + +“Señor,” replied Sancho, “every country has a way of its own; perhaps +here in El Toboso it is the way to build palaces and grand buildings in +alleys; so I entreat your worship to let me search about among these +streets or alleys before me, and perhaps, in some corner or other, I +may stumble on this palace—and I wish I saw the dogs eating it for +leading us such a dance.” + +“Speak respectfully of what belongs to my lady, Sancho,” said Don +Quixote; “let us keep the feast in peace, and not throw the rope after +the bucket.” + +“I’ll hold my tongue,” said Sancho, “but how am I to take it patiently +when your worship wants me, with only once seeing the house of our +mistress, to know always, and find it in the middle of the night, when +your worship can’t find it, who must have seen it thousands of times?” + +“Thou wilt drive me to desperation, Sancho,” said Don Quixote. “Look +here, heretic, have I not told thee a thousand times that I have never +once in my life seen the peerless Dulcinea or crossed the threshold of +her palace, and that I am enamoured solely by hearsay and by the great +reputation she bears for beauty and discretion?” + +“I hear it now,” returned Sancho; “and I may tell you that if you have +not seen her, no more have I.” + +“That cannot be,” said Don Quixote, “for, at any rate, thou saidst, on +bringing back the answer to the letter I sent by thee, that thou sawest +her sifting wheat.” + +“Don’t mind that, señor,” said Sancho; “I must tell you that my seeing +her and the answer I brought you back were by hearsay too, for I can no +more tell who the lady Dulcinea is than I can hit the sky.” + +“Sancho, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “there are times for jests and +times when jests are out of place; if I tell thee that I have neither +seen nor spoken to the lady of my heart, it is no reason why thou +shouldst say thou hast not spoken to her or seen her, when the contrary +is the case, as thou well knowest.” + +While the two were engaged in this conversation, they perceived someone +with a pair of mules approaching the spot where they stood, and from +the noise the plough made, as it dragged along the ground, they guessed +him to be some labourer who had got up before daybreak to go to his +work, and so it proved to be. He came along singing the ballad that +says- + +Ill did ye fare, ye men of France, +In Roncesvalles chase— + + +“May I die, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, when he heard him, “if any good +will come to us to-night! Dost thou not hear what that clown is +singing?” + +“I do,” said Sancho, “but what has Roncesvalles chase to do with what +we have in hand? He might just as well be singing the ballad of +Calainos, for any good or ill that can come to us in our business.” + +By this time the labourer had come up, and Don Quixote asked him, “Can +you tell me, worthy friend, and God speed you, whereabouts here is the +palace of the peerless princess Doña Dulcinea del Toboso?” + +“Señor,” replied the lad, “I am a stranger, and I have been only a few +days in the town, doing farm work for a rich farmer. In that house +opposite there live the curate of the village and the sacristan, and +both or either of them will be able to give your worship some account +of this lady princess, for they have a list of all the people of El +Toboso; though it is my belief there is not a princess living in the +whole of it; many ladies there are, of quality, and in her own house +each of them may be a princess.” + +“Well, then, she I am inquiring for will be one of these, my friend,” +said Don Quixote. + +“May be so,” replied the lad; “God be with you, for here comes the +daylight;” and without waiting for any more of his questions, he +whipped on his mules. + +Sancho, seeing his master downcast and somewhat dissatisfied, said to +him, “Señor, daylight will be here before long, and it will not do for +us to let the sun find us in the street; it will be better for us to +quit the city, and for your worship to hide in some forest in the +neighbourhood, and I will come back in the daytime, and I won’t leave a +nook or corner of the whole village that I won’t search for the house, +castle, or palace, of my lady, and it will be hard luck for me if I +don’t find it; and as soon as I have found it I will speak to her +grace, and tell her where and how your worship is waiting for her to +arrange some plan for you to see her without any damage to her honour +and reputation.” + +“Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “thou hast delivered a thousand sentences +condensed in the compass of a few words; I thank thee for the advice +thou hast given me, and take it most gladly. Come, my son, let us go +look for some place where I may hide, while thou dost return, as thou +sayest, to seek, and speak with my lady, from whose discretion and +courtesy I look for favours more than miraculous.” + +Sancho was in a fever to get his master out of the town, lest he should +discover the falsehood of the reply he had brought to him in the Sierra +Morena on behalf of Dulcinea; so he hastened their departure, which +they took at once, and two miles out of the village they found a forest +or thicket wherein Don Quixote ensconced himself, while Sancho returned +to the city to speak to Dulcinea, in which embassy things befell him +which demand fresh attention and a new chapter. + + + +p09e.jpg (34K) + + + +CHAPTER X. +WHEREIN IS RELATED THE CRAFTY DEVICE SANCHO ADOPTED TO ENCHANT THE LADY +DULCINEA, AND OTHER INCIDENTS AS LUDICROUS AS THEY ARE TRUE + + + + +p10a.jpg (142K) + +Full Size + + + +When the author of this great history comes to relate what is set down +in this chapter he says he would have preferred to pass it over in +silence, fearing it would not be believed, because here Don Quixote’s +madness reaches the confines of the greatest that can be conceived, and +even goes a couple of bowshots beyond the greatest. But after all, +though still under the same fear and apprehension, he has recorded it +without adding to the story or leaving out a particle of the truth, and +entirely disregarding the charges of falsehood that might be brought +against him; and he was right, for the truth may run fine but will not +break, and always rises above falsehood as oil above water; and so, +going on with his story, he says that as soon as Don Quixote had +ensconced himself in the forest, oak grove, or wood near El Toboso, he +bade Sancho return to the city, and not come into his presence again +without having first spoken on his behalf to his lady, and begged of +her that it might be her good pleasure to permit herself to be seen by +her enslaved knight, and deign to bestow her blessing upon him, so that +he might thereby hope for a happy issue in all his encounters and +difficult enterprises. Sancho undertook to execute the task according +to the instructions, and to bring back an answer as good as the one he +brought back before. + +“Go, my son,” said Don Quixote, “and be not dazed when thou findest +thyself exposed to the light of that sun of beauty thou art going to +seek. Happy thou, above all the squires in the world! Bear in mind, and +let it not escape thy memory, how she receives thee; if she changes +colour while thou art giving her my message; if she is agitated and +disturbed at hearing my name; if she cannot rest upon her cushion, +shouldst thou haply find her seated in the sumptuous state chamber +proper to her rank; and should she be standing, observe if she poises +herself now on one foot, now on the other; if she repeats two or three +times the reply she gives thee; if she passes from gentleness to +austerity, from asperity to tenderness; if she raises her hand to +smooth her hair though it be not disarranged. In short, my son, observe +all her actions and motions, for if thou wilt report them to me as they +were, I will gather what she hides in the recesses of her heart as +regards my love; for I would have thee know, Sancho, if thou knowest it +not, that with lovers the outward actions and motions they give way to +when their loves are in question are the faithful messengers that carry +the news of what is going on in the depths of their hearts. Go, my +friend, may better fortune than mine attend thee, and bring thee a +happier issue than that which I await in dread in this dreary +solitude.” + +“I will go and return quickly,” said Sancho; “cheer up that little +heart of yours, master mine, for at the present moment you seem to have +got one no bigger than a hazel nut; remember what they say, that a +stout heart breaks bad luck, and that where there are no fletches there +are no pegs; and moreover they say, the hare jumps up where it’s not +looked for. I say this because, if we could not find my lady’s palaces +or castles to-night, now that it is daylight I count upon finding them +when I least expect it, and once found, leave it to me to manage her.” + +“Verily, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “thou dost always bring in thy +proverbs happily, whatever we deal with; may God give me better luck in +what I am anxious about.” + +With this, Sancho wheeled about and gave Dapple the stick, and Don +Quixote remained behind, seated on his horse, resting in his stirrups +and leaning on the end of his lance, filled with sad and troubled +forebodings; and there we will leave him, and accompany Sancho, who +went off no less serious and troubled than he left his master; so much +so, that as soon as he had got out of the thicket, and looking round +saw that Don Quixote was not within sight, he dismounted from his ass, +and seating himself at the foot of a tree began to commune with +himself, saying, “Now, brother Sancho, let us know where your worship +is going. Are you going to look for some ass that has been lost? Not at +all. Then what are you going to look for? I am going to look for a +princess, that’s all; and in her for the sun of beauty and the whole +heaven at once. And where do you expect to find all this, Sancho? +Where? Why, in the great city of El Toboso. Well, and for whom are you +going to look for her? For the famous knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, +who rights wrongs, gives food to those who thirst and drink to the +hungry. That’s all very well, but do you know her house, Sancho? My +master says it will be some royal palace or grand castle. And have you +ever seen her by any chance? Neither I nor my master ever saw her. And +does it strike you that it would be just and right if the El Toboso +people, finding out that you were here with the intention of going to +tamper with their princesses and trouble their ladies, were to come and +cudgel your ribs, and not leave a whole bone in you? They would, +indeed, have very good reason, if they did not see that I am under +orders, and that ‘you are a messenger, my friend, no blame belongs to +you.’ Don’t you trust to that, Sancho, for the Manchegan folk are as +hot-tempered as they are honest, and won’t put up with liberties from +anybody. By the Lord, if they get scent of you, it will be worse for +you, I promise you. Be off, you scoundrel! Let the bolt fall. Why +should I go looking for three feet on a cat, to please another man; and +what is more, when looking for Dulcinea will be looking for Marica in +Ravena, or the bachelor in Salamanca? The devil, the devil and nobody +else, has mixed me up in this business!” + +Such was the soliloquy Sancho held with himself, and all the conclusion +he could come to was to say to himself again, “Well, there’s remedy for +everything except death, under whose yoke we have all to pass, whether +we like it or not, when life’s finished. I have seen by a thousand +signs that this master of mine is a madman fit to be tied, and for that +matter, I too, am not behind him; for I’m a greater fool than he is +when I follow him and serve him, if there’s any truth in the proverb +that says, ‘Tell me what company thou keepest, and I’ll tell thee what +thou art,’ or in that other, ‘Not with whom thou art bred, but with +whom thou art fed.’ Well then, if he be mad, as he is, and with a +madness that mostly takes one thing for another, and white for black, +and black for white, as was seen when he said the windmills were +giants, and the monks’ mules dromedaries, flocks of sheep armies of +enemies, and much more to the same tune, it will not be very hard to +make him believe that some country girl, the first I come across here, +is the lady Dulcinea; and if he does not believe it, I’ll swear it; and +if he should swear, I’ll swear again; and if he persists I’ll persist +still more, so as, come what may, to have my quoit always over the peg. +Maybe, by holding out in this way, I may put a stop to his sending me +on messages of this kind another time; or maybe he will think, as I +suspect he will, that one of those wicked enchanters, who he says have +a spite against him, has changed her form for the sake of doing him an +ill turn and injuring him.” + +With this reflection Sancho made his mind easy, counting the business +as good as settled, and stayed there till the afternoon so as to make +Don Quixote think he had time enough to go to El Toboso and return; and +things turned out so luckily for him that as he got up to mount Dapple, +he spied, coming from El Toboso towards the spot where he stood, three +peasant girls on three colts, or fillies—for the author does not make +the point clear, though it is more likely they were she-asses, the +usual mount with village girls; but as it is of no great consequence, +we need not stop to prove it. + +To be brief, the instant Sancho saw the peasant girls, he returned full +speed to seek his master, and found him sighing and uttering a thousand +passionate lamentations. When Don Quixote saw him he exclaimed, “What +news, Sancho, my friend? Am I to mark this day with a white stone or a +black?” + +“Your worship,” replied Sancho, “had better mark it with ruddle, like +the inscriptions on the walls of class rooms, that those who see it may +see it plain.” + +“Then thou bringest good news,” said Don Quixote. + +“So good,” replied Sancho, “that your worship has only to spur +Rocinante and get out into the open field to see the lady Dulcinea del +Toboso, who, with two others, damsels of hers, is coming to see your +worship.” + +“Holy God! what art thou saying, Sancho, my friend?” exclaimed Don +Quixote. “Take care thou art not deceiving me, or seeking by false joy +to cheer my real sadness.” + +“What could I get by deceiving your worship,” returned Sancho, +“especially when it will so soon be shown whether I tell the truth or +not? Come, señor, push on, and you will see the princess our mistress +coming, robed and adorned—in fact, like what she is. Her damsels and +she are all one glow of gold, all bunches of pearls, all diamonds, all +rubies, all cloth of brocade of more than ten borders; with their hair +loose on their shoulders like so many sunbeams playing with the wind; +and moreover, they come mounted on three piebald cackneys, the finest +sight ever you saw.” + +“Hackneys, you mean, Sancho,” said Don Quixote. + +“There is not much difference between cackneys and hackneys,” said +Sancho; “but no matter what they come on, there they are, the finest +ladies one could wish for, especially my lady the princess Dulcinea, +who staggers one’s senses.” + +“Let us go, Sancho, my son,” said Don Quixote, “and in guerdon of this +news, as unexpected as it is good, I bestow upon thee the best spoil I +shall win in the first adventure I may have; or if that does not +satisfy thee, I promise thee the foals I shall have this year from my +three mares that thou knowest are in foal on our village common.” + +“I’ll take the foals,” said Sancho; “for it is not quite certain that +the spoils of the first adventure will be good ones.” + +By this time they had cleared the wood, and saw the three village +lasses close at hand. Don Quixote looked all along the road to El +Toboso, and as he could see nobody except the three peasant girls, he +was completely puzzled, and asked Sancho if it was outside the city he +had left them. + +“How outside the city?” returned Sancho. “Are your worship’s eyes in +the back of your head, that you can’t see that they are these who are +coming here, shining like the very sun at noonday?” + +“I see nothing, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “but three country girls on +three jackasses.” + +“Now, may God deliver me from the devil!” said Sancho, “and can it be +that your worship takes three hackneys—or whatever they’re called—as +white as the driven snow, for jackasses? By the Lord, I could tear my +beard if that was the case!” + +“Well, I can only say, Sancho, my friend,” said Don Quixote, “that it +is as plain they are jackasses—or jennyasses—as that I am Don Quixote, +and thou Sancho Panza: at any rate, they seem to me to be so.” + +“Hush, señor,” said Sancho, “don’t talk that way, but open your eyes, +and come and pay your respects to the lady of your thoughts, who is +close upon us now;” and with these words he advanced to receive the +three village lasses, and dismounting from Dapple, caught hold of one +of the asses of the three country girls by the halter, and dropping on +both knees on the ground, he said, “Queen and princess and duchess of +beauty, may it please your haughtiness and greatness to receive into +your favour and good-will your captive knight who stands there turned +into marble stone, and quite stupefied and benumbed at finding himself +in your magnificent presence. I am Sancho Panza, his squire, and he the +vagabond knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise called ‘The Knight +of the Rueful Countenance.’” + +Don Quixote had by this time placed himself on his knees beside Sancho, +and, with eyes starting out of his head and a puzzled gaze, was +regarding her whom Sancho called queen and lady; and as he could see +nothing in her except a village lass, and not a very well-favoured one, +for she was platter-faced and snub-nosed, he was perplexed and +bewildered, and did not venture to open his lips. The country girls, at +the same time, were astonished to see these two men, so different in +appearance, on their knees, preventing their companion from going on. +She, however, who had been stopped, breaking silence, said angrily and +testily, “Get out of the way, bad luck to you, and let us pass, for we +are in a hurry.” + + + +p10b.jpg (319K) + +Full Size + + + +To which Sancho returned, “Oh, princess and universal lady of El +Toboso, is not your magnanimous heart softened by seeing the pillar and +prop of knight-errantry on his knees before your sublimated presence?” + +On hearing this, one of the others exclaimed, “Woa then! why, I’m +rubbing thee down, she-ass of my father-in-law! See how the lordlings +come to make game of the village girls now, as if we here could not +chaff as well as themselves. Go your own way, and let us go ours, and +it will be better for you.” + +“Get up, Sancho,” said Don Quixote at this; “I see that fortune, ‘with +evil done to me unsated still,’ has taken possession of all the roads +by which any comfort may reach ‘this wretched soul’ that I carry in my +flesh. And thou, highest perfection of excellence that can be desired, +utmost limit of grace in human shape, sole relief of this afflicted +heart that adores thee, though the malign enchanter that persecutes me +has brought clouds and cataracts on my eyes, and to them, and them +only, transformed thy unparagoned beauty and changed thy features into +those of a poor peasant girl, if so be he has not at the same time +changed mine into those of some monster to render them loathsome in thy +sight, refuse not to look upon me with tenderness and love; seeing in +this submission that I make on my knees to thy transformed beauty the +humility with which my soul adores thee.” + +“Hey-day! My grandfather!” cried the girl, “much I care for your +love-making! Get out of the way and let us pass, and we’ll thank you.” + +Sancho stood aside and let her go, very well pleased to have got so +well out of the hobble he was in. The instant the village lass who had +done duty for Dulcinea found herself free, prodding her “cackney” with +a spike she had at the end of a stick, she set off at full speed across +the field. The she-ass, however, feeling the point more acutely than +usual, began cutting such capers, that it flung the lady Dulcinea to +the ground; seeing which, Don Quixote ran to raise her up, and Sancho +to fix and girth the pack-saddle, which also had slipped under the +ass’s belly. The pack-saddle being secured, as Don Quixote was about to +lift up his enchanted mistress in his arms and put her upon her beast, +the lady, getting up from the ground, saved him the trouble, for, going +back a little, she took a short run, and putting both hands on the +croup of the ass she dropped into the saddle more lightly than a +falcon, and sat astride like a man, whereat Sancho said, “Rogue! but +our lady is lighter than a lanner, and might teach the cleverest +Cordovan or Mexican how to mount; she cleared the back of the saddle in +one jump, and without spurs she is making the hackney go like a zebra; +and her damsels are no way behind her, for they all fly like the wind;” +which was the truth, for as soon as they saw Dulcinea mounted, they +pushed on after her, and sped away without looking back, for more than +half a league. + +Don Quixote followed them with his eyes, and when they were no longer +in sight, he turned to Sancho and said, “How now, Sancho? thou seest +how I am hated by enchanters! And see to what a length the malice and +spite they bear me go, when they seek to deprive me of the happiness it +would give me to see my lady in her own proper form. The fact is I was +born to be an example of misfortune, and the target and mark at which +the arrows of adversity are aimed and directed. Observe too, Sancho, +that these traitors were not content with changing and transforming my +Dulcinea, but they transformed and changed her into a shape as mean and +ill-favoured as that of the village girl yonder; and at the same time +they robbed her of that which is such a peculiar property of ladies of +distinction, that is to say, the sweet fragrance that comes of being +always among perfumes and flowers. For I must tell thee, Sancho, that +when I approached to put Dulcinea upon her hackney (as thou sayest it +was, though to me it appeared a she-ass), she gave me a whiff of raw +garlic that made my head reel, and poisoned my very heart.” + +“O scum of the earth!” cried Sancho at this, “O miserable, spiteful +enchanters! O that I could see you all strung by the gills, like +sardines on a twig! Ye know a great deal, ye can do a great deal, and +ye do a great deal more. It ought to have been enough for you, ye +scoundrels, to have changed the pearls of my lady’s eyes into oak +galls, and her hair of purest gold into the bristles of a red ox’s +tail, and in short, all her features from fair to foul, without +meddling with her smell; for by that we might somehow have found out +what was hidden underneath that ugly rind; though, to tell the truth, I +never perceived her ugliness, but only her beauty, which was raised to +the highest pitch of perfection by a mole she had on her right lip, +like a moustache, with seven or eight red hairs like threads of gold, +and more than a palm long.” + +“From the correspondence which exists between those of the face and +those of the body,” said Don Quixote, “Dulcinea must have another mole +resembling that on the thick of the thigh on that side on which she has +the one on her face; but hairs of the length thou hast mentioned are +very long for moles.” + +“Well, all I can say is there they were as plain as could be,” replied +Sancho. + +“I believe it, my friend,” returned Don Quixote; “for nature bestowed +nothing on Dulcinea that was not perfect and well-finished; and so, if +she had a hundred moles like the one thou hast described, in her they +would not be moles, but moons and shining stars. But tell me, Sancho, +that which seemed to me to be a pack-saddle as thou wert fixing it, was +it a flat-saddle or a side-saddle?” + +“It was neither,” replied Sancho, “but a jineta saddle, with a field +covering worth half a kingdom, so rich is it.” + +“And that I could not see all this, Sancho!” said Don Quixote; “once +more I say, and will say a thousand times, I am the most unfortunate of +men.” + +Sancho, the rogue, had enough to do to hide his laughter, at hearing +the simplicity of the master he had so nicely befooled. At length, +after a good deal more conversation had passed between them, they +remounted their beasts, and followed the road to Saragossa, which they +expected to reach in time to take part in a certain grand festival +which is held every year in that illustrious city; but before they got +there things happened to them, so many, so important, and so strange, +that they deserve to be recorded and read, as will be seen farther on. + + + +p10e.jpg (56K) + +Full Size + + + +CHAPTER XI. +OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE CAR +OR CART OF “THE CORTES OF DEATH” + + + + +p11a.jpg (172K) + +Full Size + + + +Dejected beyond measure did Don Quixote pursue his journey, turning +over in his mind the cruel trick the enchanters had played him in +changing his lady Dulcinea into the vile shape of the village lass, nor +could he think of any way of restoring her to her original form; and +these reflections so absorbed him, that without being aware of it he +let go Rocinante’s bridle, and he, perceiving the liberty that was +granted him, stopped at every step to crop the fresh grass with which +the plain abounded. + +Sancho recalled him from his reverie. “Melancholy, señor,” said he, +“was made, not for beasts, but for men; but if men give way to it +overmuch they turn to beasts; control yourself, your worship; be +yourself again; gather up Rocinante’s reins; cheer up, rouse yourself +and show that gallant spirit that knights-errant ought to have. What +the devil is this? What weakness is this? Are we here or in France? The +devil fly away with all the Dulcineas in the world; for the well-being +of a single knight-errant is of more consequence than all the +enchantments and transformations on earth.” + +“Hush, Sancho,” said Don Quixote in a weak and faint voice, “hush and +utter no blasphemies against that enchanted lady; for I alone am to +blame for her misfortune and hard fate; her calamity has come of the +hatred the wicked bear me.” + +“So say I,” returned Sancho; “his heart rend in twain, I trow, who saw +her once, to see her now.” + +“Thou mayest well say that, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “as thou +sawest her in the full perfection of her beauty; for the enchantment +does not go so far as to pervert thy vision or hide her loveliness from +thee; against me alone and against my eyes is the strength of its venom +directed. Nevertheless, there is one thing which has occurred to me, +and that is that thou didst ill describe her beauty to me, for, as well +as I recollect, thou saidst that her eyes were pearls; but eyes that +are like pearls are rather the eyes of a sea-bream than of a lady, and +I am persuaded that Dulcinea’s must be green emeralds, full and soft, +with two rainbows for eyebrows; take away those pearls from her eyes +and transfer them to her teeth; for beyond a doubt, Sancho, thou hast +taken the one for the other, the eyes for the teeth.” + +“Very likely,” said Sancho; “for her beauty bewildered me as much as +her ugliness did your worship; but let us leave it all to God, who +alone knows what is to happen in this vale of tears, in this evil world +of ours, where there is hardly a thing to be found without some mixture +of wickedness, roguery, and rascality. But one thing, señor, troubles +me more than all the rest, and that is thinking what is to be done when +your worship conquers some giant, or some other knight, and orders him +to go and present himself before the beauty of the lady Dulcinea. Where +is this poor giant, or this poor wretch of a vanquished knight, to find +her? I think I can see them wandering all over El Toboso, looking like +noddies, and asking for my lady Dulcinea; and even if they meet her in +the middle of the street they won’t know her any more than they would +my father.” + +“Perhaps, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote, “the enchantment does not go +so far as to deprive conquered and presented giants and knights of the +power of recognising Dulcinea; we will try by experiment with one or +two of the first I vanquish and send to her, whether they see her or +not, by commanding them to return and give me an account of what +happened to them in this respect.” + +“I declare, I think what your worship has proposed is excellent,” said +Sancho; “and that by this plan we shall find out what we want to know; +and if it be that it is only from your worship she is hidden, the +misfortune will be more yours than hers; but so long as the lady +Dulcinea is well and happy, we on our part will make the best of it, +and get on as well as we can, seeking our adventures, and leaving Time +to take his own course; for he is the best physician for these and +greater ailments.” + +Don Quixote was about to reply to Sancho Panza, but he was prevented by +a cart crossing the road full of the most diverse and strange +personages and figures that could be imagined. He who led the mules and +acted as carter was a hideous demon; the cart was open to the sky, +without a tilt or cane roof, and the first figure that presented itself +to Don Quixote’s eyes was that of Death itself with a human face; next +to it was an angel with large painted wings, and at one side an +emperor, with a crown, to all appearance of gold, on his head. At the +feet of Death was the god called Cupid, without his bandage, but with +his bow, quiver, and arrows; there was also a knight in full armour, +except that he had no morion or helmet, but only a hat decked with +plumes of divers colours; and along with these there were others with a +variety of costumes and faces. All this, unexpectedly encountered, took +Don Quixote somewhat aback, and struck terror into the heart of Sancho; +but the next instant Don Quixote was glad of it, believing that some +new perilous adventure was presenting itself to him, and under this +impression, and with a spirit prepared to face any danger, he planted +himself in front of the cart, and in a loud and menacing tone, +exclaimed, “Carter, or coachman, or devil, or whatever thou art, tell +me at once who thou art, whither thou art going, and who these folk are +thou carriest in thy wagon, which looks more like Charon’s boat than an +ordinary cart.” + +To which the devil, stopping the cart, answered quietly, “Señor, we are +players of Angulo el Malo’s company; we have been acting the play of +‘The Cortés of Death’ this morning, which is the octave of Corpus +Christi, in a village behind that hill, and we have to act it this +afternoon in that village which you can see from this; and as it is so +near, and to save the trouble of undressing and dressing again, we go +in the costumes in which we perform. That lad there appears as Death, +that other as an angel, that woman, the manager’s wife, plays the +queen, this one the soldier, that the emperor, and I the devil; and I +am one of the principal characters of the play, for in this company I +take the leading parts. If you want to know anything more about us, ask +me and I will answer with the utmost exactitude, for as I am a devil I +am up to everything.” + +“By the faith of a knight-errant,” replied Don Quixote, “when I saw +this cart I fancied some great adventure was presenting itself to me; +but I declare one must touch with the hand what appears to the eye, if +illusions are to be avoided. God speed you, good people; keep your +festival, and remember, if you demand of me ought wherein I can render +you a service, I will do it gladly and willingly, for from a child I +was fond of the play, and in my youth a keen lover of the actor’s art.” + +While they were talking, fate so willed it that one of the company in a +mummers’ dress with a great number of bells, and armed with three blown +ox-bladders at the end of a stick, joined them, and this merry-andrew +approaching Don Quixote, began flourishing his stick and banging the +ground with the bladders and cutting capers with great jingling of the +bells, which untoward apparition so startled Rocinante that, in spite +of Don Quixote’s efforts to hold him in, taking the bit between his +teeth he set off across the plain with greater speed than the bones of +his anatomy ever gave any promise of. + + + +p11b.jpg (327K) + +Full Size + + + +Sancho, who thought his master was in danger of being thrown, jumped +off Dapple, and ran in all haste to help him; but by the time he +reached him he was already on the ground, and beside him was Rocinante, +who had come down with his master, the usual end and upshot of +Rocinante’s vivacity and high spirits. But the moment Sancho quitted +his beast to go and help Don Quixote, the dancing devil with the +bladders jumped up on Dapple, and beating him with them, more by the +fright and the noise than by the pain of the blows, made him fly across +the fields towards the village where they were going to hold their +festival. Sancho witnessed Dapple’s career and his master’s fall, and +did not know which of the two cases of need he should attend to first; +but in the end, like a good squire and good servant, he let his love +for his master prevail over his affection for his ass; though every +time he saw the bladders rise in the air and come down on the hind +quarters of his Dapple he felt the pains and terrors of death, and he +would have rather had the blows fall on the apples of his own eyes than +on the least hair of his ass’s tail. In this trouble and perplexity he +came to where Don Quixote lay in a far sorrier plight than he liked, +and having helped him to mount Rocinante, he said to him, “Señor, the +devil has carried off my Dapple.” + +“What devil?” asked Don Quixote. + +“The one with the bladders,” said Sancho. + +“Then I will recover him,” said Don Quixote, “even if he be shut up +with him in the deepest and darkest dungeons of hell. Follow me, +Sancho, for the cart goes slowly, and with the mules of it I will make +good the loss of Dapple.” + +“You need not take the trouble, señor,” said Sancho; “keep cool, for as +I now see, the devil has let Dapple go and he is coming back to his old +quarters;” and so it turned out, for, having come down with Dapple, in +imitation of Don Quixote and Rocinante, the devil made off on foot to +the town, and the ass came back to his master. + +“For all that,” said Don Quixote, “it will be well to visit the +discourtesy of that devil upon some of those in the cart, even if it +were the emperor himself.” + +“Don’t think of it, your worship,” returned Sancho; “take my advice and +never meddle with actors, for they are a favoured class; I myself have +known an actor taken up for two murders, and yet come off scot-free; +remember that, as they are merry folk who give pleasure, everyone +favours and protects them, and helps and makes much of them, above all +when they are those of the royal companies and under patent, all or +most of whom in dress and appearance look like princes.” + +“Still, for all that,” said Don Quixote, “the player devil must not go +off boasting, even if the whole human race favours him.” + +So saying, he made for the cart, which was now very near the town, +shouting out as he went, “Stay! halt! ye merry, jovial crew! I want to +teach you how to treat asses and animals that serve the squires of +knights-errant for steeds.” + +So loud were the shouts of Don Quixote, that those in the cart heard +and understood them, and, guessing by the words what the speaker’s +intention was, Death in an instant jumped out of the cart, and the +emperor, the devil carter and the angel after him, nor did the queen or +the god Cupid stay behind; and all armed themselves with stones and +formed in line, prepared to receive Don Quixote on the points of their +pebbles. Don Quixote, when he saw them drawn up in such a gallant array +with uplifted arms ready for a mighty discharge of stones, checked +Rocinante and began to consider in what way he could attack them with +the least danger to himself. As he halted Sancho came up, and seeing +him disposed to attack this well-ordered squadron, said to him, “It +would be the height of madness to attempt such an enterprise; remember, +señor, that against sops from the brook, and plenty of them, there is +no defensive armour in the world, except to stow oneself away under a +brass bell; and besides, one should remember that it is rashness, and +not valour, for a single man to attack an army that has Death in it, +and where emperors fight in person, with angels, good and bad, to help +them; and if this reflection will not make you keep quiet, perhaps it +will to know for certain that among all these, though they look like +kings, princes, and emperors, there is not a single knight-errant.” + +“Now indeed thou hast hit the point, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “which +may and should turn me from the resolution I had already formed. I +cannot and must not draw sword, as I have many a time before told thee, +against anyone who is not a dubbed knight; it is for thee, Sancho, if +thou wilt, to take vengeance for the wrong done to thy Dapple; and I +will help thee from here by shouts and salutary counsels.” + +“There is no occasion to take vengeance on anyone, señor,” replied +Sancho; “for it is not the part of good Christians to revenge wrongs; +and besides, I will arrange it with my ass to leave his grievance to my +good-will and pleasure, and that is to live in peace as long as heaven +grants me life.” + +“Well,” said Don Quixote, “if that be thy determination, good Sancho, +sensible Sancho, Christian Sancho, honest Sancho, let us leave these +phantoms alone and turn to the pursuit of better and worthier +adventures; for, from what I see of this country, we cannot fail to +find plenty of marvellous ones in it.” + +He at once wheeled about, Sancho ran to take possession of his Dapple, +Death and his flying squadron returned to their cart and pursued their +journey, and thus the dread adventure of the cart of Death ended +happily, thanks to the advice Sancho gave his master; who had, the +following day, a fresh adventure, of no less thrilling interest than +the last, with an enamoured knight-errant. + + + +p11e.jpg (20K) + + + +CHAPTER XII. +OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE WITH THE +BOLD KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS + + + + +p12a.jpg (98K) + +Full Size + + + +The night succeeding the day of the encounter with Death, Don Quixote +and his squire passed under some tall shady trees, and Don Quixote at +Sancho’s persuasion ate a little from the store carried by Dapple, and +over their supper Sancho said to his master, “Señor, what a fool I +should have looked if I had chosen for my reward the spoils of the +first adventure your worship achieved, instead of the foals of the +three mares. After all, ‘a sparrow in the hand is better than a vulture +on the wing.’” + +“At the same time, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “if thou hadst let me +attack them as I wanted, at the very least the emperor’s gold crown and +Cupid’s painted wings would have fallen to thee as spoils, for I should +have taken them by force and given them into thy hands.” + +“The sceptres and crowns of those play-actor emperors,” said Sancho, +“were never yet pure gold, but only brass foil or tin.” + +“That is true,” said Don Quixote, “for it would not be right that the +accessories of the drama should be real, instead of being mere fictions +and semblances, like the drama itself; towards which, Sancho—and, as a +necessary consequence, towards those who represent and produce it—I +would that thou wert favourably disposed, for they are all instruments +of great good to the State, placing before us at every step a mirror in +which we may see vividly displayed what goes on in human life; nor is +there any similitude that shows us more faithfully what we are and +ought to be than the play and the players. Come, tell me, hast thou not +seen a play acted in which kings, emperors, pontiffs, knights, ladies, +and divers other personages were introduced? One plays the villain, +another the knave, this one the merchant, that the soldier, one the +sharp-witted fool, another the foolish lover; and when the play is +over, and they have put off the dresses they wore in it, all the actors +become equal.” + +“Yes, I have seen that,” said Sancho. + +“Well then,” said Don Quixote, “the same thing happens in the comedy +and life of this world, where some play emperors, others popes, and, in +short, all the characters that can be brought into a play; but when it +is over, that is to say when life ends, death strips them all of the +garments that distinguish one from the other, and all are equal in the +grave.” + +“A fine comparison!” said Sancho; “though not so new but that I have +heard it many and many a time, as well as that other one of the game of +chess; how, so long as the game lasts, each piece has its own +particular office, and when the game is finished they are all mixed, +jumbled up and shaken together, and stowed away in the bag, which is +much like ending life in the grave.” + +“Thou art growing less doltish and more shrewd every day, Sancho,” said +Don Quixote. + +“Ay,” said Sancho; “it must be that some of your worship’s shrewdness +sticks to me; land that, of itself, is barren and dry, will come to +yield good fruit if you dung it and till it; what I mean is that your +worship’s conversation has been the dung that has fallen on the barren +soil of my dry wit, and the time I have been in your service and +society has been the tillage; and with the help of this I hope to yield +fruit in abundance that will not fall away or slide from those paths of +good breeding that your worship has made in my parched understanding.” + +Don Quixote laughed at Sancho’s affected phraseology, and perceived +that what he said about his improvement was true, for now and then he +spoke in a way that surprised him; though always, or mostly, when +Sancho tried to talk fine and attempted polite language, he wound up by +toppling over from the summit of his simplicity into the abyss of his +ignorance; and where he showed his culture and his memory to the +greatest advantage was in dragging in proverbs, no matter whether they +had any bearing or not upon the subject in hand, as may have been seen +already and will be noticed in the course of this history. + + + +p12b.jpg (298K) + +Full Size + + + +In conversation of this kind they passed a good part of the night, but +Sancho felt a desire to let down the curtains of his eyes, as he used +to say when he wanted to go to sleep; and stripping Dapple he left him +at liberty to graze his fill. He did not remove Rocinante’s saddle, as +his master’s express orders were, that so long as they were in the +field or not sleeping under a roof Rocinante was not to be stripped—the +ancient usage established and observed by knights-errant being to take +off the bridle and hang it on the saddle-bow, but to remove the saddle +from the horse—never! Sancho acted accordingly, and gave him the same +liberty he had given Dapple, between whom and Rocinante there was a +friendship so unequalled and so strong, that it is handed down by +tradition from father to son, that the author of this veracious history +devoted some special chapters to it, which, in order to preserve the +propriety and decorum due to a history so heroic, he did not insert +therein; although at times he forgets this resolution of his and +describes how eagerly the two beasts would scratch one another when +they were together and how, when they were tired or full, Rocinante +would lay his neck across Dapple’s, stretching half a yard or more on +the other side, and the pair would stand thus, gazing thoughtfully on +the ground, for three days, or at least so long as they were left +alone, or hunger did not drive them to go and look for food. I may add +that they say the author left it on record that he likened their +friendship to that of Nisus and Euryalus, and Pylades and Orestes; and +if that be so, it may be perceived, to the admiration of mankind, how +firm the friendship must have been between these two peaceful animals, +shaming men, who preserve friendships with one another so badly. This +was why it was said- + +For friend no longer is there friend; +The reeds turn lances now. + + +And someone else has sung— + +Friend to friend the bug, etc. + + +and let no one fancy that the author was at all astray when he compared +the friendship of these animals to that of men; for men have received +many lessons from beasts, and learned many important things, as, for +example, the clyster from the stork, vomit and gratitude from the dog, +watchfulness from the crane, foresight from the ant, modesty from the +elephant, and loyalty from the horse. + +Sancho at last fell asleep at the foot of a cork tree, while Don +Quixote dozed at that of a sturdy oak; but a short time only had +elapsed when a noise he heard behind him awoke him, and rising up +startled, he listened and looked in the direction the noise came from, +and perceived two men on horseback, one of whom, letting himself drop +from the saddle, said to the other, “Dismount, my friend, and take the +bridles off the horses, for, so far as I can see, this place will +furnish grass for them, and the solitude and silence my love-sick +thoughts need of.” As he said this he stretched himself upon the +ground, and as he flung himself down, the armour in which he was clad +rattled, whereby Don Quixote perceived that he must be a knight-errant; +and going over to Sancho, who was asleep, he shook him by the arm and +with no small difficulty brought him back to his senses, and said in a +low voice to him, “Brother Sancho, we have got an adventure.” + +“God send us a good one,” said Sancho; “and where may her ladyship the +adventure be?” + +“Where, Sancho?” replied Don Quixote; “turn thine eyes and look, and +thou wilt see stretched there a knight-errant, who, it strikes me, is +not over and above happy, for I saw him fling himself off his horse and +throw himself on the ground with a certain air of dejection, and his +armour rattled as he fell.” + +“Well,” said Sancho, “how does your worship make out that to be an +adventure?” + +“I do not mean to say,” returned Don Quixote, “that it is a complete +adventure, but that it is the beginning of one, for it is in this way +adventures begin. But listen, for it seems he is tuning a lute or +guitar, and from the way he is spitting and clearing his chest he must +be getting ready to sing something.” + +“Faith, you are right,” said Sancho, “and no doubt he is some enamoured +knight.” + +“There is no knight-errant that is not,” said Don Quixote; “but let us +listen to him, for, if he sings, by that thread we shall extract the +ball of his thoughts; because out of the abundance of the heart the +mouth speaketh.” + +Sancho was about to reply to his master, but the Knight of the Grove’s +voice, which was neither very bad nor very good, stopped him, and +listening attentively the pair heard him sing this + +SONNET + +Your pleasure, prithee, lady mine, unfold; +Declare the terms that I am to obey; +My will to yours submissively I mould, +And from your law my feet shall never stray. +Would you I die, to silent grief a prey? +Then count me even now as dead and cold; +Would you I tell my woes in some new way? +Then shall my tale by Love itself be told. +The unison of opposites to prove, +Of the soft wax and diamond hard am I; +But still, obedient to the laws of love, +Here, hard or soft, I offer you my breast, +Whate’er you grave or stamp thereon shall rest +Indelible for all eternity. + + +With an “Ah me!” that seemed to be drawn from the inmost recesses of +his heart, the Knight of the Grove brought his lay to an end, and +shortly afterwards exclaimed in a melancholy and piteous voice, “O +fairest and most ungrateful woman on earth! What! can it be, most +serene Casildea de Vandalia, that thou wilt suffer this thy captive +knight to waste away and perish in ceaseless wanderings and rude and +arduous toils? It is not enough that I have compelled all the knights +of Navarre, all the Leonese, all the Tartesians, all the Castilians, +and finally all the knights of La Mancha, to confess thee the most +beautiful in the world?” + +“Not so,” said Don Quixote at this, “for I am of La Mancha, and I have +never confessed anything of the sort, nor could I nor should I confess +a thing so much to the prejudice of my lady’s beauty; thou seest how +this knight is raving, Sancho. But let us listen, perhaps he will tell +us more about himself.” + +“That he will,” returned Sancho, “for he seems in a mood to bewail +himself for a month at a stretch.” + +But this was not the case, for the Knight of the Grove, hearing voices +near him, instead of continuing his lamentation, stood up and exclaimed +in a distinct but courteous tone, “Who goes there? What are you? Do you +belong to the number of the happy or of the miserable?” + +“Of the miserable,” answered Don Quixote. + +“Then come to me,” said he of the Grove, “and rest assured that it is +to woe itself and affliction itself you come.” + +Don Quixote, finding himself answered in such a soft and courteous +manner, went over to him, and so did Sancho. + +The doleful knight took Don Quixote by the arm, saying, “Sit down here, +sir knight; for, that you are one, and of those that profess +knight-errantry, it is to me a sufficient proof to have found you in +this place, where solitude and night, the natural couch and proper +retreat of knights-errant, keep you company.” To which Don made answer, +“A knight I am of the profession you mention, and though sorrows, +misfortunes, and calamities have made my heart their abode, the +compassion I feel for the misfortunes of others has not been thereby +banished from it. From what you have just now sung I gather that yours +spring from love, I mean from the love you bear that fair ingrate you +named in your lament.” + +In the meantime, they had seated themselves together on the hard ground +peaceably and sociably, just as if, as soon as day broke, they were not +going to break one another’s heads. + +“Are you, sir knight, in love perchance?” asked he of the Grove of Don +Quixote. + +“By mischance I am,” replied Don Quixote; “though the ills arising from +well-bestowed affections should be esteemed favours rather than +misfortunes.” + +“That is true,” returned he of the Grove, “if scorn did not unsettle +our reason and understanding, for if it be excessive it looks like +revenge.” + +“I was never scorned by my lady,” said Don Quixote. + +“Certainly not,” said Sancho, who stood close by, “for my lady is as a +lamb, and softer than a roll of butter.” + +“Is this your squire?” asked he of the Grove. + +“He is,” said Don Quixote. + +“I never yet saw a squire,” said he of the Grove, “who ventured to +speak when his master was speaking; at least, there is mine, who is as +big as his father, and it cannot be proved that he has ever opened his +lips when I am speaking.” + +“By my faith then,” said Sancho, “I have spoken, and am fit to speak, +in the presence of one as much, or even—but never mind—it only makes it +worse to stir it.” + +The squire of the Grove took Sancho by the arm, saying to him, “Let us +two go where we can talk in squire style as much as we please, and +leave these gentlemen our masters to fight it out over the story of +their loves; and, depend upon it, daybreak will find them at it without +having made an end of it.” + +“So be it by all means,” said Sancho; “and I will tell your worship who +I am, that you may see whether I am to be reckoned among the number of +the most talkative squires.” + +With this the two squires withdrew to one side, and between them there +passed a conversation as droll as that which passed between their +masters was serious. + + + +p12e.jpg (15K) + + + +CHAPTER XIII. +IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GROVE, +TOGETHER WITH THE SENSIBLE, ORIGINAL, AND TRANQUIL COLLOQUY THAT PASSED +BETWEEN THE TWO SQUIRES + + + + +p13a.jpg (126K) + +Full Size + + + +The knights and the squires made two parties, these telling the story +of their lives, the others the story of their loves; but the history +relates first of all the conversation of the servants, and afterwards +takes up that of the masters; and it says that, withdrawing a little +from the others, he of the Grove said to Sancho, “A hard life it is we +lead and live, señor, we that are squires to knights-errant; verily, we +eat our bread in the sweat of our faces, which is one of the curses God +laid on our first parents.” + +“It may be said, too,” added Sancho, “that we eat it in the chill of +our bodies; for who gets more heat and cold than the miserable squires +of knight-errantry? Even so it would not be so bad if we had something +to eat, for woes are lighter if there’s bread; but sometimes we go a +day or two without breaking our fast, except with the wind that blows.” + +“All that,” said he of the Grove, “may be endured and put up with when +we have hopes of reward; for, unless the knight-errant he serves is +excessively unlucky, after a few turns the squire will at least find +himself rewarded with a fine government of some island or some fair +county.” + +“I,” said Sancho, “have already told my master that I shall be content +with the government of some island, and he is so noble and generous +that he has promised it to me ever so many times.” + +“I,” said he of the Grove, “shall be satisfied with a canonry for my +services, and my master has already assigned me one.” + +“Your master,” said Sancho, “no doubt is a knight in the Church line, +and can bestow rewards of that sort on his good squire; but mine is +only a layman; though I remember some clever, but, to my mind, +designing people, strove to persuade him to try and become an +archbishop. He, however, would not be anything but an emperor; but I +was trembling all the time lest he should take a fancy to go into the +Church, not finding myself fit to hold office in it; for I may tell +you, though I seem a man, I am no better than a beast for the Church.” + +“Well, then, you are wrong there,” said he of the Grove; “for those +island governments are not all satisfactory; some are awkward, some are +poor, some are dull, and, in short, the highest and choicest brings +with it a heavy burden of cares and troubles which the unhappy wight to +whose lot it has fallen bears upon his shoulders. Far better would it +be for us who have adopted this accursed service to go back to our own +houses, and there employ ourselves in pleasanter occupations—in hunting +or fishing, for instance; for what squire in the world is there so poor +as not to have a hack and a couple of greyhounds and a fishingrod to +amuse himself with in his own village?” + +“I am not in want of any of those things,” said Sancho; “to be sure I +have no hack, but I have an ass that is worth my master’s horse twice +over; God send me a bad Easter, and that the next one I am to see, if I +would swap, even if I got four bushels of barley to boot. You will +laugh at the value I put on my Dapple—for dapple is the colour of my +beast. As to greyhounds, I can’t want for them, for there are enough +and to spare in my town; and, moreover, there is more pleasure in sport +when it is at other people’s expense.” + +“In truth and earnest, sir squire,” said he of the Grove, “I have made +up my mind and determined to have done with these drunken vagaries of +these knights, and go back to my village, and bring up my children; for +I have three, like three Oriental pearls.” + +“I have two,” said Sancho, “that might be presented before the Pope +himself, especially a girl whom I am breeding up for a countess, please +God, though in spite of her mother.” + +“And how old is this lady that is being bred up for a countess?” asked +he of the Grove. + +“Fifteen, a couple of years more or less,” answered Sancho; “but she is +as tall as a lance, and as fresh as an April morning, and as strong as +a porter.” + +“Those are gifts to fit her to be not only a countess but a nymph of +the greenwood,” said he of the Grove; “whoreson strumpet! what pith the +rogue must have!” + +To which Sancho made answer, somewhat sulkily, “She’s no strumpet, nor +was her mother, nor will either of them be, please God, while I live; +speak more civilly; for one bred up among knights-errant, who are +courtesy itself, your words don’t seem to me to be very becoming.” + +“O how little you know about compliments, sir squire,” returned he of +the Grove. “What! don’t you know that when a horseman delivers a good +lance thrust at the bull in the plaza, or when anyone does anything +very well, the people are wont to say, ‘Ha, whoreson rip! how well he +has done it!’ and that what seems to be abuse in the expression is high +praise? Disown sons and daughters, señor, who don’t do what deserves +that compliments of this sort should be paid to their parents.” + +“I do disown them,” replied Sancho, “and in this way, and by the same +reasoning, you might call me and my children and my wife all the +strumpets in the world, for all they do and say is of a kind that in +the highest degree deserves the same praise; and to see them again I +pray God to deliver me from mortal sin, or, what comes to the same +thing, to deliver me from this perilous calling of squire into which I +have fallen a second time, decayed and beguiled by a purse with a +hundred ducats that I found one day in the heart of the Sierra Morena; +and the devil is always putting a bag full of doubloons before my eyes, +here, there, everywhere, until I fancy at every stop I am putting my +hand on it, and hugging it, and carrying it home with me, and making +investments, and getting interest, and living like a prince; and so +long as I think of this I make light of all the hardships I endure with +this simpleton of a master of mine, who, I well know, is more of a +madman than a knight.” + +“There’s why they say that ‘covetousness bursts the bag,’” said he of +the Grove; “but if you come to talk of that sort, there is not a +greater one in the world than my master, for he is one of those of whom +they say, ‘the cares of others kill the ass;’ for, in order that +another knight may recover the senses he has lost, he makes a madman of +himself and goes looking for what, when found, may, for all I know, fly +in his own face.” “And is he in love perchance?” asked Sancho. + +“He is,” said of the Grove, “with one Casildea de Vandalia, the rawest +and best roasted lady the whole world could produce; but that rawness +is not the only foot he limps on, for he has greater schemes rumbling +in his bowels, as will be seen before many hours are over.” + +“There’s no road so smooth but it has some hole or hindrance in it,” +said Sancho; “in other houses they cook beans, but in mine it’s by the +potful; madness will have more followers and hangers-on than sound +sense; but if there be any truth in the common saying, that to have +companions in trouble gives some relief, I may take consolation from +you, inasmuch as you serve a master as crazy as my own.” + +“Crazy but valiant,” replied he of the Grove, “and more roguish than +crazy or valiant.” + +“Mine is not that,” said Sancho; “I mean he has nothing of the rogue in +him; on the contrary, he has the soul of a pitcher; he has no thought +of doing harm to anyone, only good to all, nor has he any malice +whatever in him; a child might persuade him that it is night at +noonday; and for this simplicity I love him as the core of my heart, +and I can’t bring myself to leave him, let him do ever such foolish +things.” + +“For all that, brother and señor,” said he of the Grove, “if the blind +lead the blind, both are in danger of falling into the pit. It is +better for us to beat a quiet retreat and get back to our own quarters; +for those who seek adventures don’t always find good ones.” + +Sancho kept spitting from time to time, and his spittle seemed somewhat +ropy and dry, observing which the compassionate squire of the Grove +said, “It seems to me that with all this talk of ours our tongues are +sticking to the roofs of our mouths; but I have a pretty good loosener +hanging from the saddle-bow of my horse,” and getting up he came back +the next minute with a large bota of wine and a pasty half a yard +across; and this is no exaggeration, for it was made of a house rabbit +so big that Sancho, as he handled it, took it to be made of a goat, not +to say a kid, and looking at it he said, “And do you carry this with +you, señor?” + +“Why, what are you thinking about?” said the other; “do you take me for +some paltry squire? I carry a better larder on my horse’s croup than a +general takes with him when he goes on a march.” + +Sancho ate without requiring to be pressed, and in the dark bolted +mouthfuls like the knots on a tether, and said he, “You are a proper +trusty squire, one of the right sort, sumptuous and grand, as this +banquet shows, which, if it has not come here by magic art, at any rate +has the look of it; not like me, unlucky beggar, that have nothing more +in my alforjas than a scrap of cheese, so hard that one might brain a +giant with it, and, to keep it company, a few dozen carobs and as many +more filberts and walnuts; thanks to the austerity of my master, and +the idea he has and the rule he follows, that knights-errant must not +live or sustain themselves on anything except dried fruits and the +herbs of the field.” + +“By my faith, brother,” said he of the Grove, “my stomach is not made +for thistles, or wild pears, or roots of the woods; let our masters do +as they like, with their chivalry notions and laws, and eat what those +enjoin; I carry my prog-basket and this bota hanging to the saddle-bow, +whatever they may say; and it is such an object of worship with me, and +I love it so, that there is hardly a moment but I am kissing and +embracing it over and over again;” and so saying he thrust it into +Sancho’s hands, who raising it aloft pointed to his mouth, gazed at the +stars for a quarter of an hour; and when he had done drinking let his +head fall on one side, and giving a deep sigh, exclaimed, “Ah, whoreson +rogue, how catholic it is!” + +“There, you see,” said he of the Grove, hearing Sancho’s exclamation, +“how you have called this wine whoreson by way of praise.” + +“Well,” said Sancho, “I own it, and I grant it is no dishonour to call +anyone whoreson when it is to be understood as praise. But tell me, +señor, by what you love best, is this Ciudad Real wine?” + +“O rare wine-taster!” said he of the Grove; “nowhere else indeed does +it come from, and it has some years’ age too.” + +“Leave me alone for that,” said Sancho; “never fear but I’ll hit upon +the place it came from somehow. What would you say, sir squire, to my +having such a great natural instinct in judging wines that you have +only to let me smell one and I can tell positively its country, its +kind, its flavour and soundness, the changes it will undergo, and +everything that appertains to a wine? But it is no wonder, for I have +had in my family, on my father’s side, the two best wine-tasters that +have been known in La Mancha for many a long year, and to prove it I’ll +tell you now a thing that happened them. They gave the two of them some +wine out of a cask, to try, asking their opinion as to the condition, +quality, goodness or badness of the wine. One of them tried it with the +tip of his tongue, the other did no more than bring it to his nose. The +first said the wine had a flavour of iron, the second said it had a +stronger flavour of cordovan. The owner said the cask was clean, and +that nothing had been added to the wine from which it could have got a +flavour of either iron or leather. Nevertheless, these two great +wine-tasters held to what they had said. Time went by, the wine was +sold, and when they came to clean out the cask, they found in it a +small key hanging to a thong of cordovan; see now if one who comes of +the same stock has not a right to give his opinion in such like cases.” + +“Therefore, I say,” said he of the Grove, “let us give up going in +quest of adventures, and as we have loaves let us not go looking for +cakes, but return to our cribs, for God will find us there if it be his +will.” + +“Until my master reaches Saragossa,” said Sancho, “I’ll remain in his +service; after that we’ll see.” + +The end of it was that the two squires talked so much and drank so much +that sleep had to tie their tongues and moderate their thirst, for to +quench it was impossible; and so the pair of them fell asleep clinging +to the now nearly empty bota and with half-chewed morsels in their +mouths; and there we will leave them for the present, to relate what +passed between the Knight of the Grove and him of the Rueful +Countenance. + + + +p13e.jpg (43K) + + + +CHAPTER XIV. +WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GROVE + + + + +p14a.jpg (120K) + +Full Size + + + +Among the things that passed between Don Quixote and the Knight of the +Wood, the history tells us he of the Grove said to Don Quixote, “In +fine, sir knight, I would have you know that my destiny, or, more +properly speaking, my choice led me to fall in love with the peerless +Casildea de Vandalia. I call her peerless because she has no peer, +whether it be in bodily stature or in the supremacy of rank and beauty. +This same Casildea, then, that I speak of, requited my honourable +passion and gentle aspirations by compelling me, as his stepmother did +Hercules, to engage in many perils of various sorts, at the end of each +promising me that, with the end of the next, the object of my hopes +should be attained; but my labours have gone on increasing link by link +until they are past counting, nor do I know what will be the last one +that is to be the beginning of the accomplishment of my chaste desires. +On one occasion she bade me go and challenge the famous giantess of +Seville, La Giralda by name, who is as mighty and strong as if made of +brass, and though never stirring from one spot, is the most restless +and changeable woman in the world. I came, I saw, I conquered, and I +made her stay quiet and behave herself, for nothing but north winds +blew for more than a week. Another time I was ordered to lift those +ancient stones, the mighty bulls of Guisando, an enterprise that might +more fitly be entrusted to porters than to knights. Again, she bade me +fling myself into the cavern of Cabra—an unparalleled and awful +peril—and bring her a minute account of all that is concealed in those +gloomy depths. I stopped the motion of the Giralda, I lifted the bulls +of Guisando, I flung myself into the cavern and brought to light the +secrets of its abyss; and my hopes are as dead as dead can be, and her +scorn and her commands as lively as ever. To be brief, last of all she +has commanded me to go through all the provinces of Spain and compel +all the knights-errant wandering therein to confess that she surpasses +all women alive to-day in beauty, and that I am the most valiant and +the most deeply enamoured knight on earth; in support of which claim I +have already travelled over the greater part of Spain, and have there +vanquished several knights who have dared to contradict me; but what I +most plume and pride myself upon is having vanquished in single combat +that so famous knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, and made him confess +that my Casildea is more beautiful than his Dulcinea; and in this one +victory I hold myself to have conquered all the knights in the world; +for this Don Quixote that I speak of has vanquished them all, and I +having vanquished him, his glory, his fame, and his honour have passed +and are transferred to my person; for + +The more the vanquished hath of fair renown, +The greater glory gilds the victor’s crown. + + +Thus the innumerable achievements of the said Don Quixote are now set +down to my account and have become mine.” + +Don Quixote was amazed when he heard the Knight of the Grove, and was a +thousand times on the point of telling him he lied, and had the lie +direct already on the tip of his tongue; but he restrained himself as +well as he could, in order to force him to confess the lie with his own +lips; so he said to him quietly, “As to what you say, sir knight, about +having vanquished most of the knights of Spain, or even of the whole +world, I say nothing; but that you have vanquished Don Quixote of La +Mancha I consider doubtful; it may have been some other that resembled +him, although there are few like him.” + +“How! not vanquished?” said he of the Grove; “by the heaven that is +above us I fought Don Quixote and overcame him and made him yield; and +he is a man of tall stature, gaunt features, long, lank limbs, with +hair turning grey, an aquiline nose rather hooked, and large black +drooping moustaches; he does battle under the name of ‘The +Countenance,’ and he has for squire a peasant called Sancho Panza; he +presses the loins and rules the reins of a famous steed called +Rocinante; and lastly, he has for the mistress of his will a certain +Dulcinea del Toboso, once upon a time called Aldonza Lorenzo, just as I +call mine Casildea de Vandalia because her name is Casilda and she is +of Andalusia. If all these tokens are not enough to vindicate the truth +of what I say, here is my sword, that will compel incredulity itself to +give credence to it.” + +“Calm yourself, sir knight,” said Don Quixote, “and give ear to what I +am about to say to you. I would have you know that this Don Quixote you +speak of is the greatest friend I have in the world; so much so that I +may say I regard him in the same light as my own person; and from the +precise and clear indications you have given I cannot but think that he +must be the very one you have vanquished. On the other hand, I see with +my eyes and feel with my hands that it is impossible it can have been +the same; unless indeed it be that, as he has many enemies who are +enchanters, and one in particular who is always persecuting him, +someone of these may have taken his shape in order to allow himself to +be vanquished, so as to defraud him of the fame that his exalted +achievements as a knight have earned and acquired for him throughout +the known world. And in confirmation of this, I must tell you, too, +that it is but ten hours since these said enchanters his enemies +transformed the shape and person of the fair Dulcinea del Toboso into a +foul and mean village lass, and in the same way they must have +transformed Don Quixote; and if all this does not suffice to convince +you of the truth of what I say, here is Don Quixote himself, who will +maintain it by arms, on foot or on horseback or in any way you please.” + +And so saying he stood up and laid his hand on his sword, waiting to +see what the Knight of the Grove would do, who in an equally calm voice +said in reply, “Pledges don’t distress a good payer; he who has +succeeded in vanquishing you once when transformed, Sir Don Quixote, +may fairly hope to subdue you in your own proper shape; but as it is +not becoming for knights to perform their feats of arms in the dark, +like highwaymen and bullies, let us wait till daylight, that the sun +may behold our deeds; and the conditions of our combat shall be that +the vanquished shall be at the victor’s disposal, to do all that he may +enjoin, provided the injunction be such as shall be becoming a knight.” + +“I am more than satisfied with these conditions and terms,” replied Don +Quixote; and so saying, they betook themselves to where their squires +lay, and found them snoring, and in the same posture they were in when +sleep fell upon them. They roused them up, and bade them get the horses +ready, as at sunrise they were to engage in a bloody and arduous single +combat; at which intelligence Sancho was aghast and thunderstruck, +trembling for the safety of his master because of the mighty deeds he +had heard the squire of the Grove ascribe to his; but without a word +the two squires went in quest of their cattle; for by this time the +three horses and the ass had smelt one another out, and were all +together. + +On the way, he of the Grove said to Sancho, “You must know, brother, +that it is the custom with the fighting men of Andalusia, when they are +godfathers in any quarrel, not to stand idle with folded arms while +their godsons fight; I say so to remind you that while our masters are +fighting, we, too, have to fight, and knock one another to shivers.” + +“That custom, sir squire,” replied Sancho, “may hold good among those +bullies and fighting men you talk of, but certainly not among the +squires of knights-errant; at least, I have never heard my master speak +of any custom of the sort, and he knows all the laws of knight-errantry +by heart; but granting it true that there is an express law that +squires are to fight while their masters are fighting, I don’t mean to +obey it, but to pay the penalty that may be laid on peacefully minded +squires like myself; for I am sure it cannot be more than two pounds of +wax, and I would rather pay that, for I know it will cost me less than +the lint I shall be at the expense of to mend my head, which I look +upon as broken and split already; there’s another thing that makes it +impossible for me to fight, that I have no sword, for I never carried +one in my life.” + +“I know a good remedy for that,” said he of the Grove; “I have here two +linen bags of the same size; you shall take one, and I the other, and +we will fight at bag blows with equal arms.” + +“If that’s the way, so be it with all my heart,” said Sancho, “for that +sort of battle will serve to knock the dust out of us instead of +hurting us.” + +“That will not do,” said the other, “for we must put into the bags, to +keep the wind from blowing them away, half a dozen nice smooth pebbles, +all of the same weight; and in this way we shall be able to baste one +another without doing ourselves any harm or mischief.” + +“Body of my father!” said Sancho, “see what marten and sable, and pads +of carded cotton he is putting into the bags, that our heads may not be +broken and our bones beaten to jelly! But even if they are filled with +toss silk, I can tell you, señor, I am not going to fight; let our +masters fight, that’s their lookout, and let us drink and live; for +time will take care to ease us of our lives, without our going to look +for fillips so that they may be finished off before their proper time +comes and they drop from ripeness.” + +“Still,” returned he of the Grove, “we must fight, if it be only for +half an hour.” + +“By no means,” said Sancho; “I am not going to be so discourteous or so +ungrateful as to have any quarrel, be it ever so small, with one I have +eaten and drunk with; besides, who the devil could bring himself to +fight in cold blood, without anger or provocation?” + +“I can remedy that entirely,” said he of the Grove, “and in this way: +before we begin the battle, I will come up to your worship fair and +softly, and give you three or four buffets, with which I shall stretch +you at my feet and rouse your anger, though it were sleeping sounder +than a dormouse.” + +“To match that plan,” said Sancho, “I have another that is not a whit +behind it; I will take a cudgel, and before your worship comes near +enough to waken my anger I will send yours so sound to sleep with +whacks, that it won’t waken unless it be in the other world, where it +is known that I am not a man to let my face be handled by anyone; let +each look out for the arrow—though the surer way would be to let +everyone’s anger sleep, for nobody knows the heart of anyone, and a man +may come for wool and go back shorn; God gave his blessing to peace and +his curse to quarrels; if a hunted cat, surrounded and hard pressed, +turns into a lion, God knows what I, who am a man, may turn into; and +so from this time forth I warn you, sir squire, that all the harm and +mischief that may come of our quarrel will be put down to your +account.” + +“Very good,” said he of the Grove; “God will send the dawn and we shall +be all right.” + +And now gay-plumaged birds of all sorts began to warble in the trees, +and with their varied and gladsome notes seemed to welcome and salute +the fresh morn that was beginning to show the beauty of her countenance +at the gates and balconies of the east, shaking from her locks a +profusion of liquid pearls; in which dulcet moisture bathed, the +plants, too, seemed to shed and shower down a pearly spray, the willows +distilled sweet manna, the fountains laughed, the brooks babbled, the +woods rejoiced, and the meadows arrayed themselves in all their glory +at her coming. But hardly had the light of day made it possible to see +and distinguish things, when the first object that presented itself to +the eyes of Sancho Panza was the squire of the Grove’s nose, which was +so big that it almost overshadowed his whole body. It is, in fact, +stated, that it was of enormous size, hooked in the middle, covered +with warts, and of a mulberry colour like an egg-plant; it hung down +two fingers’ length below his mouth, and the size, the colour, the +warts, and the bend of it, made his face so hideous, that Sancho, as he +looked at him, began to tremble hand and foot like a child in +convulsions, and he vowed in his heart to let himself be given two +hundred buffets, sooner than be provoked to fight that monster. Don +Quixote examined his adversary, and found that he already had his +helmet on and visor lowered, so that he could not see his face; he +observed, however, that he was a sturdily built man, but not very tall +in stature. Over his armour he wore a surcoat or cassock of what seemed +to be the finest cloth of gold, all bespangled with glittering mirrors +like little moons, which gave him an extremely gallant and splendid +appearance; above his helmet fluttered a great quantity of plumes, +green, yellow, and white, and his lance, which was leaning against a +tree, was very long and stout, and had a steel point more than a palm +in length. + +Don Quixote observed all, and took note of all, and from what he saw +and observed he concluded that the said knight must be a man of great +strength, but he did not for all that give way to fear, like Sancho +Panza; on the contrary, with a composed and dauntless air, he said to +the Knight of the Mirrors, “If, sir knight, your great eagerness to +fight has not banished your courtesy, by it I would entreat you to +raise your visor a little, in order that I may see if the comeliness of +your countenance corresponds with that of your equipment.” + +“Whether you come victorious or vanquished out of this emprise, sir +knight,” replied he of the Mirrors, “you will have more than enough +time and leisure to see me; and if now I do not comply with your +request, it is because it seems to me I should do a serious wrong to +the fair Casildea de Vandalia in wasting time while I stopped to raise +my visor before compelling you to confess what you are already aware I +maintain.” + +“Well then,” said Don Quixote, “while we are mounting you can at least +tell me if I am that Don Quixote whom you said you vanquished.” + +“To that we answer you,” said he of the Mirrors, “that you are as like +the very knight I vanquished as one egg is like another, but as you say +enchanters persecute you, I will not venture to say positively whether +you are the said person or not.” + +“That,” said Don Quixote, “is enough to convince me that you are under +a deception; however, entirely to relieve you of it, let our horses be +brought, and in less time than it would take you to raise your visor, +if God, my lady, and my arm stand me in good stead, I shall see your +face, and you shall see that I am not the vanquished Don Quixote you +take me to be.” + +With this, cutting short the colloquy, they mounted, and Don Quixote +wheeled Rocinante round in order to take a proper distance to charge +back upon his adversary, and he of the Mirrors did the same; but Don +Quixote had not moved away twenty paces when he heard himself called by +the other, and, each returning half-way, he of the Mirrors said to him, +“Remember, sir knight, that the terms of our combat are, that the +vanquished, as I said before, shall be at the victor’s disposal.” + +“I am aware of it already,” said Don Quixote; “provided what is +commanded and imposed upon the vanquished be things that do not +transgress the limits of chivalry.” + +“That is understood,” replied he of the Mirrors. + +At this moment the extraordinary nose of the squire presented itself to +Don Quixote’s view, and he was no less amazed than Sancho at the sight; +insomuch that he set him down as a monster of some kind, or a human +being of some new species or unearthly breed. Sancho, seeing his master +retiring to run his course, did not like to be left alone with the nosy +man, fearing that with one flap of that nose on his own the battle +would be all over for him and he would be left stretched on the ground, +either by the blow or with fright; so he ran after his master, holding +on to Rocinante’s stirrup-leather, and when it seemed to him time to +turn about, he said, “I implore of your worship, señor, before you turn +to charge, to help me up into this cork tree, from which I will be able +to witness the gallant encounter your worship is going to have with +this knight, more to my taste and better than from the ground.” + +“It seems to me rather, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that thou wouldst +mount a scaffold in order to see the bulls without danger.” + +“To tell the truth,” returned Sancho, “the monstrous nose of that +squire has filled me with fear and terror, and I dare not stay near +him.” + +“It is,” said Don Quixote, “such a one that were I not what I am it +would terrify me too; so, come, I will help thee up where thou wilt.” + +While Don Quixote waited for Sancho to mount into the cork tree he of +the Mirrors took as much ground as he considered requisite, and, +supposing Don Quixote to have done the same, without waiting for any +sound of trumpet or other signal to direct them, he wheeled his horse, +which was not more agile or better-looking than Rocinante, and at his +top speed, which was an easy trot, he proceeded to charge his enemy; +seeing him, however, engaged in putting Sancho up, he drew rein, and +halted in mid career, for which his horse was very grateful, as he was +already unable to go. Don Quixote, fancying that his foe was coming +down upon him flying, drove his spurs vigorously into Rocinante’s lean +flanks and made him scud along in such style that the history tells us +that on this occasion only was he known to make something like running, +for on all others it was a simple trot with him; and with this +unparalleled fury he bore down where he of the Mirrors stood digging +his spurs into his horse up to buttons, without being able to make him +stir a finger’s length from the spot where he had come to a standstill +in his course. At this lucky moment and crisis, Don Quixote came upon +his adversary, in trouble with his horse, and embarrassed with his +lance, which he either could not manage, or had no time to lay in rest. +Don Quixote, however, paid no attention to these difficulties, and in +perfect safety to himself and without any risk encountered him of the +Mirrors with such force that he brought him to the ground in spite of +himself over the haunches of his horse, and with so heavy a fall that +he lay to all appearance dead, not stirring hand or foot. The instant +Sancho saw him fall he slid down from the cork tree, and made all haste +to where his master was, who, dismounting from Rocinante, went and +stood over him of the Mirrors, and unlacing his helmet to see if he was +dead, and to give him air if he should happen to be alive, he saw—who +can say what he saw, without filling all who hear it with astonishment, +wonder, and awe? He saw, the history says, the very countenance, the +very face, the very look, the very physiognomy, the very effigy, the +very image of the bachelor Samson Carrasco! As soon as he saw it he +called out in a loud voice, “Make haste here, Sancho, and behold what +thou art to see but not to believe; quick, my son, and learn what magic +can do, and wizards and enchanters are capable of.” + +Sancho came up, and when he saw the countenance of the bachelor +Carrasco, he fell to crossing himself a thousand times, and blessing +himself as many more. All this time the prostrate knight showed no +signs of life, and Sancho said to Don Quixote, “It is my opinion, +señor, that in any case your worship should take and thrust your sword +into the mouth of this one here that looks like the bachelor Samson +Carrasco; perhaps in him you will kill one of your enemies, the +enchanters.” + +“Thy advice is not bad,” said Don Quixote, “for of enemies the fewer +the better;” and he was drawing his sword to carry into effect Sancho’s +counsel and suggestion, when the squire of the Mirrors came up, now +without the nose which had made him so hideous, and cried out in a loud +voice, “Mind what you are about, Señor Don Quixote; that is your +friend, the bachelor Samson Carrasco, you have at your feet, and I am +his squire.” + +“And the nose?” said Sancho, seeing him without the hideous feature he +had before; to which he replied, “I have it here in my pocket,” and +putting his hand into his right pocket, he pulled out a masquerade nose +of varnished pasteboard of the make already described; and Sancho, +examining him more and more closely, exclaimed aloud in a voice of +amazement, “Holy Mary be good to me! Isn’t it Tom Cecial, my neighbour +and gossip?” + +“Why, to be sure I am!” returned the now unnosed squire; “Tom Cecial I +am, gossip and friend Sancho Panza; and I’ll tell you presently the +means and tricks and falsehoods by which I have been brought here; but +in the meantime, beg and entreat of your master not to touch, maltreat, +wound, or slay the Knight of the Mirrors whom he has at his feet; +because, beyond all dispute, it is the rash and ill-advised bachelor +Samson Carrasco, our fellow townsman.” + +At this moment he of the Mirrors came to himself, and Don Quixote +perceiving it, held the naked point of his sword over his face, and +said to him, “You are a dead man, knight, unless you confess that the +peerless Dulcinea del Toboso excels your Casildea de Vandalia in +beauty; and in addition to this you must promise, if you should survive +this encounter and fall, to go to the city of El Toboso and present +yourself before her on my behalf, that she deal with you according to +her good pleasure; and if she leaves you free to do yours, you are in +like manner to return and seek me out (for the trail of my mighty deeds +will serve you as a guide to lead you to where I may be), and tell me +what may have passed between you and her—conditions which, in +accordance with what we stipulated before our combat, do not transgress +the just limits of knight-errantry.” + +“I confess,” said the fallen knight, “that the dirty tattered shoe of +the lady Dulcinea del Toboso is better than the ill-combed though clean +beard of Casildea; and I promise to go and to return from her presence +to yours, and to give you a full and particular account of all you +demand of me.” + +“You must also confess and believe,” added Don Quixote, “that the +knight you vanquished was not and could not be Don Quixote of La +Mancha, but someone else in his likeness, just as I confess and believe +that you, though you seem to be the bachelor Samson Carrasco, are not +so, but some other resembling him, whom my enemies have here put before +me in his shape, in order that I may restrain and moderate the +vehemence of my wrath, and make a gentle use of the glory of my +victory.” + +“I confess, hold, and think everything to be as you believe, hold, and +think it,” the crippled knight; “let me rise, I entreat you; if, +indeed, the shock of my fall will allow me, for it has left me in a +sorry plight enough.” + +Don Quixote helped him to rise, with the assistance of his squire Tom +Cecial; from whom Sancho never took his eyes, and to whom he put +questions, the replies to which furnished clear proof that he was +really and truly the Tom Cecial he said; but the impression made on +Sancho’s mind by what his master said about the enchanters having +changed the face of the Knight of the Mirrors into that of the bachelor +Samson Carrasco, would not permit him to believe what he saw with his +eyes. In fine, both master and man remained under the delusion; and, +down in the mouth, and out of luck, he of the Mirrors and his squire +parted from Don Quixote and Sancho, he meaning to go look for some +village where he could plaster and strap his ribs. Don Quixote and +Sancho resumed their journey to Saragossa, and on it the history leaves +them in order that it may tell who the Knight of the Mirrors and his +long-nosed squire were. + + + +p14e.jpg (56K) + + + +CHAPTER XV. +WHEREIN IT IS TOLD AND KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS AND HIS +SQUIRE WERE + + + + +p15a.jpg (122K) + +Full Size + + + +Don Quixote went off satisfied, elated, and vain-glorious in the +highest degree at having won a victory over such a valiant knight as he +fancied him of the Mirrors to be, and one from whose knightly word he +expected to learn whether the enchantment of his lady still continued; +inasmuch as the said vanquished knight was bound, under the penalty of +ceasing to be one, to return and render him an account of what took +place between him and her. But Don Quixote was of one mind, he of the +Mirrors of another, for he just then had no thought of anything but +finding some village where he could plaster himself, as has been said +already. The history goes on to say, then, that when the bachelor +Samson Carrasco recommended Don Quixote to resume his knight-errantry +which he had laid aside, it was in consequence of having been +previously in conclave with the curate and the barber on the means to +be adopted to induce Don Quixote to stay at home in peace and quiet +without worrying himself with his ill-starred adventures; at which +consultation it was decided by the unanimous vote of all, and on the +special advice of Carrasco, that Don Quixote should be allowed to go, +as it seemed impossible to restrain him, and that Samson should sally +forth to meet him as a knight-errant, and do battle with him, for there +would be no difficulty about a cause, and vanquish him, that being +looked upon as an easy matter; and that it should be agreed and settled +that the vanquished was to be at the mercy of the victor. Then, Don +Quixote being vanquished, the bachelor knight was to command him to +return to his village and his house, and not quit it for two years, or +until he received further orders from him; all which it was clear Don +Quixote would unhesitatingly obey, rather than contravene or fail to +observe the laws of chivalry; and during the period of his seclusion he +might perhaps forget his folly, or there might be an opportunity of +discovering some ready remedy for his madness. Carrasco undertook the +task, and Tom Cecial, a gossip and neighbour of Sancho Panza’s, a +lively, feather-headed fellow, offered himself as his squire. Carrasco +armed himself in the fashion described, and Tom Cecial, that he might +not be known by his gossip when they met, fitted on over his own +natural nose the false masquerade one that has been mentioned; and so +they followed the same route Don Quixote took, and almost came up with +him in time to be present at the adventure of the cart of Death and +finally encountered them in the grove, where all that the sagacious +reader has been reading about took place; and had it not been for the +extraordinary fancies of Don Quixote, and his conviction that the +bachelor was not the bachelor, señor bachelor would have been +incapacitated for ever from taking his degree of licentiate, all +through not finding nests where he thought to find birds. + +Tom Cecial, seeing how ill they had succeeded, and what a sorry end +their expedition had come to, said to the bachelor, “Sure enough, Señor +Samson Carrasco, we are served right; it is easy enough to plan and set +about an enterprise, but it is often a difficult matter to come well +out of it. Don Quixote a madman, and we sane; he goes off laughing, +safe, and sound, and you are left sore and sorry! I’d like to know now +which is the madder, he who is so because he cannot help it, or he who +is so of his own choice?” + +To which Samson replied, “The difference between the two sorts of +madmen is, that he who is so will he nil he, will be one always, while +he who is so of his own accord can leave off being one whenever he +likes.” + +“In that case,” said Tom Cecial, “I was a madman of my own accord when +I volunteered to become your squire, and, of my own accord, I’ll leave +off being one and go home.” + +“That’s your affair,” returned Samson, “but to suppose that I am going +home until I have given Don Quixote a thrashing is absurd; and it is +not any wish that he may recover his senses that will make me hunt him +out now, but a wish for the sore pain I am in with my ribs won’t let me +entertain more charitable thoughts.” + +Thus discoursing, the pair proceeded until they reached a town where it +was their good luck to find a bone-setter, with whose help the +unfortunate Samson was cured. Tom Cecial left him and went home, while +he stayed behind meditating vengeance; and the history will return to +him again at the proper time, so as not to omit making merry with Don +Quixote now. + + + +p15e.jpg (17K) + + + +CHAPTER XVI. +OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH A DISCREET GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA + + + + +p16a.jpg (85K) + +Full Size + + + +Don Quixote pursued his journey in the high spirits, satisfaction, and +self-complacency already described, fancying himself the most valorous +knight-errant of the age in the world because of his late victory. All +the adventures that could befall him from that time forth he regarded +as already done and brought to a happy issue; he made light of +enchantments and enchanters; he thought no more of the countless +drubbings that had been administered to him in the course of his +knight-errantry, nor of the volley of stones that had levelled half his +teeth, nor of the ingratitude of the galley slaves, nor of the audacity +of the Yanguesans and the shower of stakes that fell upon him; in +short, he said to himself that could he discover any means, mode, or +way of disenchanting his lady Dulcinea, he would not envy the highest +fortune that the most fortunate knight-errant of yore ever reached or +could reach. + +He was going along entirely absorbed in these fancies, when Sancho said +to him, “Isn’t it odd, señor, that I have still before my eyes that +monstrous enormous nose of my gossip, Tom Cecial?” + +“And dost thou, then, believe, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that the +Knight of the Mirrors was the bachelor Carrasco, and his squire Tom +Cecial thy gossip?” + +“I don’t know what to say to that,” replied Sancho; “all I know is that +the tokens he gave me about my own house, wife and children, nobody +else but himself could have given me; and the face, once the nose was +off, was the very face of Tom Cecial, as I have seen it many a time in +my town and next door to my own house; and the sound of the voice was +just the same.” + +“Let us reason the matter, Sancho,” said Don Quixote. “Come now, by +what process of thinking can it be supposed that the bachelor Samson +Carrasco would come as a knight-errant, in arms offensive and +defensive, to fight with me? Have I ever been by any chance his enemy? +Have I ever given him any occasion to owe me a grudge? Am I his rival, +or does he profess arms, that he should envy the fame I have acquired +in them?” + +“Well, but what are we to say, señor,” returned Sancho, “about that +knight, whoever he is, being so like the bachelor Carrasco, and his +squire so like my gossip, Tom Cecial? And if that be enchantment, as +your worship says, was there no other pair in the world for them to +take the likeness of?” + +“It is all,” said Don Quixote, “a scheme and plot of the malignant +magicians that persecute me, who, foreseeing that I was to be +victorious in the conflict, arranged that the vanquished knight should +display the countenance of my friend the bachelor, in order that the +friendship I bear him should interpose to stay the edge of my sword and +might of my arm, and temper the just wrath of my heart; so that he who +sought to take my life by fraud and falsehood should save his own. And +to prove it, thou knowest already, Sancho, by experience which cannot +lie or deceive, how easy it is for enchanters to change one countenance +into another, turning fair into foul, and foul into fair; for it is not +two days since thou sawest with thine own eyes the beauty and elegance +of the peerless Dulcinea in all its perfection and natural harmony, +while I saw her in the repulsive and mean form of a coarse country +wench, with cataracts in her eyes and a foul smell in her mouth; and +when the perverse enchanter ventured to effect so wicked a +transformation, it is no wonder if he effected that of Samson Carrasco +and thy gossip in order to snatch the glory of victory out of my grasp. +For all that, however, I console myself, because, after all, in +whatever shape he may have been, I have been victorious over my enemy.” + +“God knows what’s the truth of it all,” said Sancho; and knowing as he +did that the transformation of Dulcinea had been a device and +imposition of his own, his master’s illusions were not satisfactory to +him; but he did not like to reply lest he should say something that +might disclose his trickery. + +As they were engaged in this conversation they were overtaken by a man +who was following the same road behind them, mounted on a very handsome +flea-bitten mare, and dressed in a gaban of fine green cloth, with +tawny velvet facings, and a montera of the same velvet. The trappings +of the mare were of the field and jineta fashion, and of mulberry +colour and green. He carried a Moorish cutlass hanging from a broad +green and gold baldric; the buskins were of the same make as the +baldric; the spurs were not gilt, but lacquered green, and so brightly +polished that, matching as they did the rest of his apparel, they +looked better than if they had been of pure gold. + +When the traveller came up with them he saluted them courteously, and +spurring his mare was passing them without stopping, but Don Quixote +called out to him, “Gallant sir, if so be your worship is going our +road, and has no occasion for speed, it would be a pleasure to me if we +were to join company.” + +“In truth,” replied he on the mare, “I would not pass you so hastily +but for fear that horse might turn restive in the company of my mare.” + +“You may safely hold in your mare, señor,” said Sancho in reply to +this, “for our horse is the most virtuous and well-behaved horse in the +world; he never does anything wrong on such occasions, and the only +time he misbehaved, my master and I suffered for it sevenfold; I say +again your worship may pull up if you like; for if she was offered to +him between two plates the horse would not hanker after her.” + +The traveller drew rein, amazed at the trim and features of Don +Quixote, who rode without his helmet, which Sancho carried like a +valise in front of Dapple’s pack-saddle; and if the man in green +examined Don Quixote closely, still more closely did Don Quixote +examine the man in green, who struck him as being a man of +intelligence. In appearance he was about fifty years of age, with but +few grey hairs, an aquiline cast of features, and an expression between +grave and gay; and his dress and accoutrements showed him to be a man +of good condition. What he in green thought of Don Quixote of La Mancha +was that a man of that sort and shape he had never yet seen; he +marvelled at the length of his hair, his lofty stature, the lankness +and sallowness of his countenance, his armour, his bearing and his +gravity—a figure and picture such as had not been seen in those regions +for many a long day. + +Don Quixote saw very plainly the attention with which the traveller was +regarding him, and read his curiosity in his astonishment; and +courteous as he was and ready to please everybody, before the other +could ask him any question he anticipated him by saying, “The +appearance I present to your worship being so strange and so out of the +common, I should not be surprised if it filled you with wonder; but you +will cease to wonder when I tell you, as I do, that I am one of those +knights who, as people say, go seeking adventures. I have left my home, +I have mortgaged my estate, I have given up my comforts, and committed +myself to the arms of Fortune, to bear me whithersoever she may please. +My desire was to bring to life again knight-errantry, now dead, and for +some time past, stumbling here, falling there, now coming down +headlong, now raising myself up again, I have carried out a great +portion of my design, succouring widows, protecting maidens, and giving +aid to wives, orphans, and minors, the proper and natural duty of +knights-errant; and, therefore, because of my many valiant and +Christian achievements, I have been already found worthy to make my way +in print to well-nigh all, or most, of the nations of the earth. Thirty +thousand volumes of my history have been printed, and it is on the +high-road to be printed thirty thousand thousands of times, if heaven +does not put a stop to it. In short, to sum up all in a few words, or +in a single one, I may tell you I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, +otherwise called ‘The Knight of the Rueful Countenance;’ for though +self-praise is degrading, I must perforce sound my own sometimes, that +is to say, when there is no one at hand to do it for me. So that, +gentle sir, neither this horse, nor this lance, nor this shield, nor +this squire, nor all these arms put together, nor the sallowness of my +countenance, nor my gaunt leanness, will henceforth astonish you, now +that you know who I am and what profession I follow.” + +With these words Don Quixote held his peace, and, from the time he took +to answer, the man in green seemed to be at a loss for a reply; after a +long pause, however, he said to him, “You were right when you saw +curiosity in my amazement, sir knight; but you have not succeeded in +removing the astonishment I feel at seeing you; for although you say, +señor, that knowing who you are ought to remove it, it has not done so; +on the contrary, now that I know, I am left more amazed and astonished +than before. What! is it possible that there are knights-errant in the +world in these days, and histories of real chivalry printed? I cannot +realise the fact that there can be anyone on earth now-a-days who aids +widows, or protects maidens, or defends wives, or succours orphans; nor +should I believe it had I not seen it in your worship with my own eyes. +Blessed be heaven! for by means of this history of your noble and +genuine chivalrous deeds, which you say has been printed, the countless +stories of fictitious knights-errant with which the world is filled, so +much to the injury of morality and the prejudice and discredit of good +histories, will have been driven into oblivion.” + +“There is a good deal to be said on that point,” said Don Quixote, “as +to whether the histories of the knights-errant are fiction or not.” + +“Why, is there anyone who doubts that those histories are false?” said +the man in green. + +“I doubt it,” said Don Quixote, “but never mind that just now; if our +journey lasts long enough, I trust in God I shall show your worship +that you do wrong in going with the stream of those who regard it as a +matter of certainty that they are not true.” + +From this last observation of Don Quixote’s, the traveller began to +have a suspicion that he was some crazy being, and was waiting for him +to confirm it by something further; but before they could turn to any +new subject Don Quixote begged him to tell him who he was, since he +himself had rendered account of his station and life. To this, he in +the green gaban replied “I, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, am a +gentleman by birth, native of the village where, please God, we are +going to dine to-day; I am more than fairly well off, and my name is +Don Diego de Miranda. I pass my life with my wife, children, and +friends; my pursuits are hunting and fishing, but I keep neither hawks +nor greyhounds, nothing but a tame partridge or a bold ferret or two; I +have six dozen or so of books, some in our mother tongue, some Latin, +some of them history, others devotional; those of chivalry have not as +yet crossed the threshold of my door; I am more given to turning over +the profane than the devotional, so long as they are books of honest +entertainment that charm by their style and attract and interest by the +invention they display, though of these there are very few in Spain. +Sometimes I dine with my neighbours and friends, and often invite them; +my entertainments are neat and well served without stint of anything. I +have no taste for tattle, nor do I allow tattling in my presence; I pry +not into my neighbours’ lives, nor have I lynx-eyes for what others do. +I hear mass every day; I share my substance with the poor, making no +display of good works, lest I let hypocrisy and vainglory, those +enemies that subtly take possession of the most watchful heart, find an +entrance into mine. I strive to make peace between those whom I know to +be at variance; I am the devoted servant of Our Lady, and my trust is +ever in the infinite mercy of God our Lord.” + +Sancho listened with the greatest attention to the account of the +gentleman’s life and occupation; and thinking it a good and a holy +life, and that he who led it ought to work miracles, he threw himself +off Dapple, and running in haste seized his right stirrup and kissed +his foot again and again with a devout heart and almost with tears. + +Seeing this the gentleman asked him, “What are you about, brother? What +are these kisses for?” + +“Let me kiss,” said Sancho, “for I think your worship is the first +saint in the saddle I ever saw all the days of my life.” + +“I am no saint,” replied the gentleman, “but a great sinner; but you +are, brother, for you must be a good fellow, as your simplicity shows.” + +Sancho went back and regained his pack-saddle, having extracted a laugh +from his master’s profound melancholy, and excited fresh amazement in +Don Diego. Don Quixote then asked him how many children he had, and +observed that one of the things wherein the ancient philosophers, who +were without the true knowledge of God, placed the _summum bonum_ was +in the gifts of nature, in those of fortune, in having many friends, +and many and good children. + +“I, Señor Don Quixote,” answered the gentleman, “have one son, without +whom, perhaps, I should count myself happier than I am, not because he +is a bad son, but because he is not so good as I could wish. He is +eighteen years of age; he has been for six at Salamanca studying Latin +and Greek, and when I wished him to turn to the study of other sciences +I found him so wrapped up in that of poetry (if that can be called a +science) that there is no getting him to take kindly to the law, which +I wished him to study, or to theology, the queen of them all. I would +like him to be an honour to his family, as we live in days when our +kings liberally reward learning that is virtuous and worthy; for +learning without virtue is a pearl on a dunghill. He spends the whole +day in settling whether Homer expressed himself correctly or not in +such and such a line of the Iliad, whether Martial was indecent or not +in such and such an epigram, whether such and such lines of Virgil are +to be understood in this way or in that; in short, all his talk is of +the works of these poets, and those of Horace, Perseus, Juvenal, and +Tibullus; for of the moderns in our own language he makes no great +account; but with all his seeming indifference to Spanish poetry, just +now his thoughts are absorbed in making a gloss on four lines that have +been sent him from Salamanca, which I suspect are for some poetical +tournament.” + +To all this Don Quixote said in reply, “Children, señor, are portions +of their parents’ bowels, and therefore, be they good or bad, are to be +loved as we love the souls that give us life; it is for the parents to +guide them from infancy in the ways of virtue, propriety, and worthy +Christian conduct, so that when grown up they may be the staff of their +parents’ old age, and the glory of their posterity; and to force them +to study this or that science I do not think wise, though it may be no +harm to persuade them; and when there is no need to study for the sake +of _pane lucrando_, and it is the student’s good fortune that heaven +has given him parents who provide him with it, it would be my advice to +them to let him pursue whatever science they may see him most inclined +to; and though that of poetry is less useful than pleasurable, it is +not one of those that bring discredit upon the possessor. Poetry, +gentle sir, is, as I take it, like a tender young maiden of supreme +beauty, to array, bedeck, and adorn whom is the task of several other +maidens, who are all the rest of the sciences; and she must avail +herself of the help of all, and all derive their lustre from her. But +this maiden will not bear to be handled, nor dragged through the +streets, nor exposed either at the corners of the market-places, or in +the closets of palaces. She is the product of an Alchemy of such virtue +that he who is able to practise it, will turn her into pure gold of +inestimable worth. He that possesses her must keep her within bounds, +not permitting her to break out in ribald satires or soulless sonnets. +She must on no account be offered for sale, unless, indeed, it be in +heroic poems, moving tragedies, or sprightly and ingenious comedies. +She must not be touched by the buffoons, nor by the ignorant vulgar, +incapable of comprehending or appreciating her hidden treasures. And do +not suppose, señor, that I apply the term vulgar here merely to +plebeians and the lower orders; for everyone who is ignorant, be he +lord or prince, may and should be included among the vulgar. He, then, +who shall embrace and cultivate poetry under the conditions I have +named, shall become famous, and his name honoured throughout all the +civilised nations of the earth. And with regard to what you say, señor, +of your son having no great opinion of Spanish poetry, I am inclined to +think that he is not quite right there, and for this reason: the great +poet Homer did not write in Latin, because he was a Greek, nor did +Virgil write in Greek, because he was a Latin; in short, all the +ancient poets wrote in the language they imbibed with their mother’s +milk, and never went in quest of foreign ones to express their sublime +conceptions; and that being so, the usage should in justice extend to +all nations, and the German poet should not be undervalued because he +writes in his own language, nor the Castilian, nor even the Biscayan, +for writing in his. But your son, señor, I suspect, is not prejudiced +against Spanish poetry, but against those poets who are mere Spanish +verse writers, without any knowledge of other languages or sciences to +adorn and give life and vigour to their natural inspiration; and yet +even in this he may be wrong; for, according to a true belief, a poet +is born one; that is to say, the poet by nature comes forth a poet from +his mother’s womb; and following the bent that heaven has bestowed upon +him, without the aid of study or art, he produces things that show how +truly he spoke who said, ‘_Est Deus in nobis_,’ etc. At the same time, +I say that the poet by nature who calls in art to his aid will be a far +better poet, and will surpass him who tries to be one relying upon his +knowledge of art alone. The reason is, that art does not surpass +nature, but only brings it to perfection; and thus, nature combined +with art, and art with nature, will produce a perfect poet. To bring my +argument to a close, I would say then, gentle sir, let your son go on +as his star leads him, for being so studious as he seems to be, and +having already successfully surmounted the first step of the sciences, +which is that of the languages, with their help he will by his own +exertions reach the summit of polite literature, which so well becomes +an independent gentleman, and adorns, honours, and distinguishes him, +as much as the mitre does the bishop, or the gown the learned +counsellor. If your son write satires reflecting on the honour of +others, chide and correct him, and tear them up; but if he compose +discourses in which he rebukes vice in general, in the style of Horace, +and with elegance like his, commend him; for it is legitimate for a +poet to write against envy and lash the envious in his verse, and the +other vices too, provided he does not single out individuals; there +are, however, poets who, for the sake of saying something spiteful, +would run the risk of being banished to the coast of Pontus. If the +poet be pure in his morals, he will be pure in his verses too; the pen +is the tongue of the mind, and as the thought engendered there, so will +be the things that it writes down. And when kings and princes observe +this marvellous science of poetry in wise, virtuous, and thoughtful +subjects, they honour, value, exalt them, and even crown them with the +leaves of that tree which the thunderbolt strikes not, as if to show +that they whose brows are honoured and adorned with such a crown are +not to be assailed by anyone.” + +He of the green gaban was filled with astonishment at Don Quixote’s +argument, so much so that he began to abandon the notion he had taken +up about his being crazy. But in the middle of the discourse, it being +not very much to his taste, Sancho had turned aside out of the road to +beg a little milk from some shepherds, who were milking their ewes hard +by; and just as the gentleman, highly pleased, was about to renew the +conversation, Don Quixote, raising his head, perceived a cart covered +with royal flags coming along the road they were travelling; and +persuaded that this must be some new adventure, he called aloud to +Sancho to come and bring him his helmet. Sancho, hearing himself +called, quitted the shepherds, and, prodding Dapple vigorously, came up +to his master, to whom there fell a terrific and desperate adventure. + + + +p16e.jpg (49K) + + + +CHAPTER XVII. +WHEREIN IS SHOWN THE FURTHEST AND HIGHEST POINT WHICH THE UNEXAMPLED +COURAGE OF DON QUIXOTE REACHED OR COULD REACH; TOGETHER WITH THE +HAPPILY ACHIEVED ADVENTURE OF THE LIONS + + + + +p17a.jpg (137K) + +Full Size + + + +The history tells that when Don Quixote called out to Sancho to bring +him his helmet, Sancho was buying some curds the shepherds agreed to +sell him, and flurried by the great haste his master was in did not +know what to do with them or what to carry them in; so, not to lose +them, for he had already paid for them, he thought it best to throw +them into his master’s helmet, and acting on this bright idea he went +to see what his master wanted with him. He, as he approached, exclaimed +to him: + +“Give me that helmet, my friend, for either I know little of +adventures, or what I observe yonder is one that will, and does, call +upon me to arm myself.” + +He of the green gaban, on hearing this, looked in all directions, but +could perceive nothing, except a cart coming towards them with two or +three small flags, which led him to conclude it must be carrying +treasure of the King’s, and he said so to Don Quixote. He, however, +would not believe him, being always persuaded and convinced that all +that happened to him must be adventures and still more adventures; so +he replied to the gentleman, “He who is prepared has his battle half +fought; nothing is lost by my preparing myself, for I know by +experience that I have enemies, visible and invisible, and I know not +when, or where, or at what moment, or in what shapes they will attack +me;” and turning to Sancho, he called for his helmet; and Sancho, as he +had no time to take out the curds, had to give it just as it was. Don +Quixote took it, and without perceiving what was in it thrust it down +in hot haste upon his head; but as the curds were pressed and squeezed +the whey began to run all over his face and beard, whereat he was so +startled that he cried out to Sancho: + +“Sancho, what’s this? I think my head is softening, or my brains are +melting, or I am sweating from head to foot! If I am sweating it is not +indeed from fear. I am convinced beyond a doubt that the adventure +which is about to befall me is a terrible one. Give me something to +wipe myself with, if thou hast it, for this profuse sweat is blinding +me.” + +Sancho held his tongue, and gave him a cloth, and gave thanks to God at +the same time that his master had not found out what was the matter. +Don Quixote then wiped himself, and took off his helmet to see what it +was that made his head feel so cool, and seeing all that white mash +inside his helmet he put it to his nose, and as soon as he had smelt it +he exclaimed: + +“By the life of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, but it is curds thou hast +put here, thou treacherous, impudent, ill-mannered squire!” + +To which, with great composure and pretended innocence, Sancho replied, +“If they are curds let me have them, your worship, and I’ll eat them; +but let the devil eat them, for it must have been he who put them +there. I dare to dirty your helmet! You have guessed the offender +finely! Faith, sir, by the light God gives me, it seems I must have +enchanters too, that persecute me as a creature and limb of your +worship, and they must have put that nastiness there in order to +provoke your patience to anger, and make you baste my ribs as you are +wont to do. Well, this time, indeed, they have missed their aim, for I +trust to my master’s good sense to see that I have got no curds or +milk, or anything of the sort; and that if I had it is in my stomach I +would put it and not in the helmet.” + +“May be so,” said Don Quixote. All this the gentleman was observing, +and with astonishment, more especially when, after having wiped himself +clean, his head, face, beard, and helmet, Don Quixote put it on, and +settling himself firmly in his stirrups, easing his sword in the +scabbard, and grasping his lance, he cried, “Now, come who will, here +am I, ready to try conclusions with Satan himself in person!” + +By this time the cart with the flags had come up, unattended by anyone +except the carter on a mule, and a man sitting in front. Don Quixote +planted himself before it and said, “Whither are you going, brothers? +What cart is this? What have you got in it? What flags are those?” + +To this the carter replied, “The cart is mine; what is in it is a pair +of wild caged lions, which the governor of Oran is sending to court as +a present to his Majesty; and the flags are our lord the King’s, to +show that what is here is his property.” + +“And are the lions large?” asked Don Quixote. + +“So large,” replied the man who sat at the door of the cart, “that +larger, or as large, have never crossed from Africa to Spain; I am the +keeper, and I have brought over others, but never any like these. They +are male and female; the male is in that first cage and the female in +the one behind, and they are hungry now, for they have eaten nothing +to-day, so let your worship stand aside, for we must make haste to the +place where we are to feed them.” + +Hereupon, smiling slightly, Don Quixote exclaimed, “Lion-whelps to me! +to me whelps of lions, and at such a time! Then, by God! those +gentlemen who send them here shall see if I am a man to be frightened +by lions. Get down, my good fellow, and as you are the keeper open the +cages, and turn me out those beasts, and in the midst of this plain I +will let them know who Don Quixote of La Mancha is, in spite and in the +teeth of the enchanters who send them to me.” + +“So, so,” said the gentleman to himself at this; “our worthy knight has +shown of what sort he is; the curds, no doubt, have softened his skull +and brought his brains to a head.” + +At this instant Sancho came up to him, saying, “Señor, for God’s sake +do something to keep my master, Don Quixote, from tackling these lions; +for if he does they’ll tear us all to pieces here.” + +“Is your master then so mad,” asked the gentleman, “that you believe +and are afraid he will engage such fierce animals?” + +“He is not mad,” said Sancho, “but he is venturesome.” + +“I will prevent it,” said the gentleman; and going over to Don Quixote, +who was insisting upon the keeper’s opening the cages, he said to him, +“Sir knight, knights-errant should attempt adventures which encourage +the hope of a successful issue, not those which entirely withhold it; +for valour that trenches upon temerity savours rather of madness than +of courage; moreover, these lions do not come to oppose you, nor do +they dream of such a thing; they are going as presents to his Majesty, +and it will not be right to stop them or delay their journey.” + +“Gentle sir,” replied Don Quixote, “you go and mind your tame partridge +and your bold ferret, and leave everyone to manage his own business; +this is mine, and I know whether these gentlemen the lions come to me +or not;” and then turning to the keeper he exclaimed, “By all that’s +good, sir scoundrel, if you don’t open the cages this very instant, +I’ll pin you to the cart with this lance.” + +The carter, seeing the determination of this apparition in armour, said +to him, “Please your worship, for charity’s sake, señor, let me unyoke +the mules and place myself in safety along with them before the lions +are turned out; for if they kill them on me I am ruined for life, for +all I possess is this cart and mules.” + +“O man of little faith,” replied Don Quixote, “get down and unyoke; you +will soon see that you are exerting yourself for nothing, and that you +might have spared yourself the trouble.” + +The carter got down and with all speed unyoked the mules, and the +keeper called out at the top of his voice, “I call all here to witness +that against my will and under compulsion I open the cages and let the +lions loose, and that I warn this gentleman that he will be accountable +for all the harm and mischief which these beasts may do, and for my +salary and dues as well. You, gentlemen, place yourselves in safety +before I open, for I know they will do me no harm.” + +Once more the gentleman strove to persuade Don Quixote not to do such a +mad thing, as it was tempting God to engage in such a piece of folly. +To this, Don Quixote replied that he knew what he was about. The +gentleman in return entreated him to reflect, for he knew he was under +a delusion. + +“Well, señor,” answered Don Quixote, “if you do not like to be a +spectator of this tragedy, as in your opinion it will be, spur your +flea-bitten mare, and place yourself in safety.” + +Hearing this, Sancho with tears in his eyes entreated him to give up an +enterprise compared with which the one of the windmills, and the awful +one of the fulling mills, and, in fact, all the feats he had attempted +in the whole course of his life, were cakes and fancy bread. “Look ye, +señor,” said Sancho, “there’s no enchantment here, nor anything of the +sort, for between the bars and chinks of the cage I have seen the paw +of a real lion, and judging by that I reckon the lion such a paw could +belong to must be bigger than a mountain.” + +“Fear at any rate,” replied Don Quixote, “will make him look bigger to +thee than half the world. Retire, Sancho, and leave me; and if I die +here thou knowest our old compact; thou wilt repair to Dulcinea—I say +no more.” To these he added some further words that banished all hope +of his giving up his insane project. He of the green gaban would have +offered resistance, but he found himself ill-matched as to arms, and +did not think it prudent to come to blows with a madman, for such Don +Quixote now showed himself to be in every respect; and the latter, +renewing his commands to the keeper and repeating his threats, gave +warning to the gentleman to spur his mare, Sancho his Dapple, and the +carter his mules, all striving to get away from the cart as far as they +could before the lions broke loose. Sancho was weeping over his +master’s death, for this time he firmly believed it was in store for +him from the claws of the lions; and he cursed his fate and called it +an unlucky hour when he thought of taking service with him again; but +with all his tears and lamentations he did not forget to thrash Dapple +so as to put a good space between himself and the cart. The keeper, +seeing that the fugitives were now some distance off, once more +entreated and warned him as before; but he replied that he heard him, +and that he need not trouble himself with any further warnings or +entreaties, as they would be fruitless, and bade him make haste. + +During the delay that occurred while the keeper was opening the first +cage, Don Quixote was considering whether it would not be well to do +battle on foot, instead of on horseback, and finally resolved to fight +on foot, fearing that Rocinante might take fright at the sight of the +lions; he therefore sprang off his horse, flung his lance aside, braced +his buckler on his arm, and drawing his sword, advanced slowly with +marvellous intrepidity and resolute courage, to plant himself in front +of the cart, commending himself with all his heart to God and to his +lady Dulcinea. + +It is to be observed, that on coming to this passage, the author of +this veracious history breaks out into exclamations. “O doughty Don +Quixote! high-mettled past extolling! Mirror, wherein all the heroes of +the world may see themselves! Second modern Don Manuel de Leon, once +the glory and honour of Spanish knighthood! In what words shall I +describe this dread exploit, by what language shall I make it credible +to ages to come, what eulogies are there unmeet for thee, though they +be hyperboles piled on hyperboles! On foot, alone, undaunted, +high-souled, with but a simple sword, and that no trenchant blade of +the Perrillo brand, a shield, but no bright polished steel one, there +stoodst thou, biding and awaiting the two fiercest lions that Africa’s +forests ever bred! Thy own deeds be thy praise, valiant Manchegan, and +here I leave them as they stand, wanting the words wherewith to glorify +them!” + + + +p17b.jpg (352K) + +Full Size + + + +Here the author’s outburst came to an end, and he proceeded to take up +the thread of his story, saying that the keeper, seeing that Don +Quixote had taken up his position, and that it was impossible for him +to avoid letting out the male without incurring the enmity of the fiery +and daring knight, flung open the doors of the first cage, containing, +as has been said, the lion, which was now seen to be of enormous size, +and grim and hideous mien. The first thing he did was to turn round in +the cage in which he lay, and protrude his claws, and stretch himself +thoroughly; he next opened his mouth, and yawned very leisurely, and +with near two palms’ length of tongue that he had thrust forth, he +licked the dust out of his eyes and washed his face; having done this, +he put his head out of the cage and looked all round with eyes like +glowing coals, a spectacle and demeanour to strike terror into temerity +itself. Don Quixote merely observed him steadily, longing for him to +leap from the cart and come to close quarters with him, when he hoped +to hew him in pieces. + +So far did his unparalleled madness go; but the noble lion, more +courteous than arrogant, not troubling himself about silly bravado, +after having looked all round, as has been said, turned about and +presented his hind-quarters to Don Quixote, and very coolly and +tranquilly lay down again in the cage. Seeing this, Don Quixote ordered +the keeper to take a stick to him and provoke him to make him come out. + +“That I won’t,” said the keeper; “for if I anger him, the first he’ll +tear in pieces will be myself. Be satisfied, sir knight, with what you +have done, which leaves nothing more to be said on the score of +courage, and do not seek to tempt fortune a second time. The lion has +the door open; he is free to come out or not to come out; but as he has +not come out so far, he will not come out to-day. Your worship’s great +courage has been fully manifested already; no brave champion, so it +strikes me, is bound to do more than challenge his enemy and wait for +him on the field; if his adversary does not come, on him lies the +disgrace, and he who waits for him carries off the crown of victory.” + +“That is true,” said Don Quixote; “close the door, my friend, and let +me have, in the best form thou canst, what thou hast seen me do, by way +of certificate; to wit, that thou didst open for the lion, that I +waited for him, that he did not come out, that I still waited for him, +and that still he did not come out, and lay down again. I am not bound +to do more; enchantments avaunt, and God uphold the right, the truth, +and true chivalry! Close the door as I bade thee, while I make signals +to the fugitives that have left us, that they may learn this exploit +from thy lips.” + +The keeper obeyed, and Don Quixote, fixing on the point of his lance +the cloth he had wiped his face with after the deluge of curds, +proceeded to recall the others, who still continued to fly, looking +back at every step, all in a body, the gentleman bringing up the rear. +Sancho, however, happening to observe the signal of the white cloth, +exclaimed, “May I die, if my master has not overcome the wild beasts, +for he is calling to us.” + +They all stopped, and perceived that it was Don Quixote who was making +signals, and shaking off their fears to some extent, they approached +slowly until they were near enough to hear distinctly Don Quixote’s +voice calling to them. They returned at length to the cart, and as they +came up, Don Quixote said to the carter, “Put your mules to once more, +brother, and continue your journey; and do thou, Sancho, give him two +gold crowns for himself and the keeper, to compensate for the delay +they have incurred through me.” + +“That will I give with all my heart,” said Sancho; “but what has become +of the lions? Are they dead or alive?” + +The keeper, then, in full detail, and bit by bit, described the end of +the contest, exalting to the best of his power and ability the valour +of Don Quixote, at the sight of whom the lion quailed, and would not +and dared not come out of the cage, although he had held the door open +ever so long; and showing how, in consequence of his having represented +to the knight that it was tempting God to provoke the lion in order to +force him out, which he wished to have done, he very reluctantly, and +altogether against his will, had allowed the door to be closed. + +“What dost thou think of this, Sancho?” said Don Quixote. “Are there +any enchantments that can prevail against true valour? The enchanters +may be able to rob me of good fortune, but of fortitude and courage +they cannot.” + +Sancho paid the crowns, the carter put to, the keeper kissed Don +Quixote’s hands for the bounty bestowed upon him, and promised to give +an account of the valiant exploit to the King himself, as soon as he +saw him at court. + +“Then,” said Don Quixote, “if his Majesty should happen to ask who +performed it, you must say THE KNIGHT OF THE LIONS; for it is my desire +that into this the name I have hitherto borne of Knight of the Rueful +Countenance be from this time forward changed, altered, transformed, +and turned; and in this I follow the ancient usage of knights-errant, +who changed their names when they pleased, or when it suited their +purpose.” + +The cart went its way, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and he of the green +gaban went theirs. All this time, Don Diego de Miranda had not spoken a +word, being entirely taken up with observing and noting all that Don +Quixote did and said, and the opinion he formed was that he was a man +of brains gone mad, and a madman on the verge of rationality. The first +part of his history had not yet reached him, for, had he read it, the +amazement with which his words and deeds filled him would have +vanished, as he would then have understood the nature of his madness; +but knowing nothing of it, he took him to be rational one moment, and +crazy the next, for what he said was sensible, elegant, and well +expressed, and what he did, absurd, rash, and foolish; and said he to +himself, “What could be madder than putting on a helmet full of curds, +and then persuading oneself that enchanters are softening one’s skull; +or what could be greater rashness and folly than wanting to fight lions +tooth and nail?” + +Don Quixote roused him from these reflections and this soliloquy by +saying, “No doubt, Señor Don Diego de Miranda, you set me down in your +mind as a fool and a madman, and it would be no wonder if you did, for +my deeds do not argue anything else. But for all that, I would have you +take notice that I am neither so mad nor so foolish as I must have +seemed to you. A gallant knight shows to advantage bringing his lance +to bear adroitly upon a fierce bull under the eyes of his sovereign, in +the midst of a spacious plaza; a knight shows to advantage arrayed in +glittering armour, pacing the lists before the ladies in some joyous +tournament, and all those knights show to advantage that entertain, +divert, and, if we may say so, honour the courts of their princes by +warlike exercises, or what resemble them; but to greater advantage than +all these does a knight-errant show when he traverses deserts, +solitudes, cross-roads, forests, and mountains, in quest of perilous +adventures, bent on bringing them to a happy and successful issue, all +to win a glorious and lasting renown. To greater advantage, I maintain, +does the knight-errant show bringing aid to some widow in some lonely +waste, than the court knight dallying with some city damsel. All +knights have their own special parts to play; let the courtier devote +himself to the ladies, let him add lustre to his sovereign’s court by +his liveries, let him entertain poor gentlemen with the sumptuous fare +of his table, let him arrange joustings, marshal tournaments, and prove +himself noble, generous, and magnificent, and above all a good +Christian, and so doing he will fulfil the duties that are especially +his; but let the knight-errant explore the corners of the earth and +penetrate the most intricate labyrinths, at each step let him attempt +impossibilities, on desolate heaths let him endure the burning rays of +the midsummer sun, and the bitter inclemency of the winter winds and +frosts; let no lions daunt him, no monsters terrify him, no dragons +make him quail; for to seek these, to attack those, and to vanquish +all, are in truth his main duties. I, then, as it has fallen to my lot +to be a member of knight-errantry, cannot avoid attempting all that to +me seems to come within the sphere of my duties; thus it was my bounden +duty to attack those lions that I just now attacked, although I knew it +to be the height of rashness; for I know well what valour is, that it +is a virtue that occupies a place between two vicious extremes, +cowardice and temerity; but it will be a lesser evil for him who is +valiant to rise till he reaches the point of rashness, than to sink +until he reaches the point of cowardice; for, as it is easier for the +prodigal than for the miser to become generous, so it is easier for a +rash man to prove truly valiant than for a coward to rise to true +valour; and believe me, Señor Don Diego, in attempting adventures it is +better to lose by a card too many than by a card too few; for to hear +it said, ‘such a knight is rash and daring,’ sounds better than ‘such a +knight is timid and cowardly.’” + +“I protest, Señor Don Quixote,” said Don Diego, “everything you have +said and done is proved correct by the test of reason itself; and I +believe, if the laws and ordinances of knight-errantry should be lost, +they might be found in your worship’s breast as in their own proper +depository and muniment-house; but let us make haste, and reach my +village, where you shall take rest after your late exertions; for if +they have not been of the body they have been of the spirit, and these +sometimes tend to produce bodily fatigue.” + +“I take the invitation as a great favour and honour, Señor Don Diego,” +replied Don Quixote; and pressing forward at a better pace than before, +at about two in the afternoon they reached the village and house of Don +Diego, or, as Don Quixote called him, “The Knight of the Green Gaban.” + + + +p17e.jpg (76K) + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. +OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE OR HOUSE OF THE KNIGHT OF +THE GREEN GABAN, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS OUT OF THE COMMON + + + + +p18a.jpg (133K) + +Full Size + + + +Don Quixote found Don Diego de Miranda’s house built in village style, +with his arms in rough stone over the street door; in the patio was the +store-room, and at the entrance the cellar, with plenty of wine-jars +standing round, which, coming from El Toboso, brought back to his +memory his enchanted and transformed Dulcinea; and with a sigh, and not +thinking of what he was saying, or in whose presence he was, he +exclaimed- + +“O ye sweet treasures, to my sorrow found! +Once sweet and welcome when ’twas heaven’s good-will. + +“O ye Tobosan jars, how ye bring back to my memory the +sweet object of my bitter regrets!” + + + +p18b.jpg (300K) + +Full Size + + + +The student poet, Don Diego’s son, who had come out with his mother to +receive him, heard this exclamation, and both mother and son were +filled with amazement at the extraordinary figure he presented; he, +however, dismounting from Rocinante, advanced with great politeness to +ask permission to kiss the lady’s hand, while Don Diego said, “Señora, +pray receive with your wonted kindness Señor Don Quixote of La Mancha, +whom you see before you, a knight-errant, and the bravest and wisest in +the world.” + +The lady, whose name was Doña Christina, received him with every sign +of good-will and great courtesy, and Don Quixote placed himself at her +service with an abundance of well-chosen and polished phrases. Almost +the same civilities were exchanged between him and the student, who +listening to Don Quixote, took him to be a sensible, clear-headed +person. + +Here the author describes minutely everything belonging to Don Diego’s +mansion, putting before us in his picture the whole contents of a rich +gentleman-farmer’s house; but the translator of the history thought it +best to pass over these and other details of the same sort in silence, +as they are not in harmony with the main purpose of the story, the +strong point of which is truth rather than dull digressions. + +They led Don Quixote into a room, and Sancho removed his armour, +leaving him in loose Walloon breeches and chamois-leather doublet, all +stained with the rust of his armour; his collar was a falling one of +scholastic cut, without starch or lace, his buskins buff-coloured, and +his shoes polished. He wore his good sword, which hung in a baldric of +sea-wolf’s skin, for he had suffered for many years, they say, from an +ailment of the kidneys; and over all he threw a long cloak of good grey +cloth. But first of all, with five or six buckets of water (for as +regard the number of buckets there is some dispute), he washed his head +and face, and still the water remained whey-coloured, thanks to +Sancho’s greediness and purchase of those unlucky curds that turned his +master so white. Thus arrayed, and with an easy, sprightly, and gallant +air, Don Quixote passed out into another room, where the student was +waiting to entertain him while the table was being laid; for on the +arrival of so distinguished a guest, Doña Christina was anxious to show +that she knew how and was able to give a becoming reception to those +who came to her house. + +While Don Quixote was taking off his armour, Don Lorenzo (for so Don +Diego’s son was called) took the opportunity to say to his father, +“What are we to make of this gentleman you have brought home to us, +sir? For his name, his appearance, and your describing him as a +knight-errant have completely puzzled my mother and me.” + +“I don’t know what to say, my son,” replied. Don Diego; “all I can tell +thee is that I have seen him act the acts of the greatest madman in the +world, and heard him make observations so sensible that they efface and +undo all he does; do thou talk to him and feel the pulse of his wits, +and as thou art shrewd, form the most reasonable conclusion thou canst +as to his wisdom or folly; though, to tell the truth, I am more +inclined to take him to be mad than sane.” + +With this Don Lorenzo went away to entertain Don Quixote as has been +said, and in the course of the conversation that passed between them +Don Quixote said to Don Lorenzo, “Your father, Señor Don Diego de +Miranda, has told me of the rare abilities and subtle intellect you +possess, and, above all, that you are a great poet.” + +“A poet, it may be,” replied Don Lorenzo, “but a great one, by no +means. It is true that I am somewhat given to poetry and to reading +good poets, but not so much so as to justify the title of ‘great’ which +my father gives me.” + +“I do not dislike that modesty,” said Don Quixote; “for there is no +poet who is not conceited and does not think he is the best poet in the +world.” + +“There is no rule without an exception,” said Don Lorenzo; “there may +be some who are poets and yet do not think they are.” + +“Very few,” said Don Quixote; “but tell me, what verses are those which +you have now in hand, and which your father tells me keep you somewhat +restless and absorbed? If it be some gloss, I know something about +glosses, and I should like to hear them; and if they are for a poetical +tournament, contrive to carry off the second prize; for the first +always goes by favour or personal standing, the second by simple +justice; and so the third comes to be the second, and the first, +reckoning in this way, will be third, in the same way as licentiate +degrees are conferred at the universities; but, for all that, the title +of first is a great distinction.” + +“So far,” said Don Lorenzo to himself, “I should not take you to be a +madman; but let us go on.” So he said to him, “Your worship has +apparently attended the schools; what sciences have you studied?” + +“That of knight-errantry,” said Don Quixote, “which is as good as that +of poetry, and even a finger or two above it.” + +“I do not know what science that is,” said Don Lorenzo, “and until now +I have never heard of it.” + +“It is a science,” said Don Quixote, “that comprehends in itself all or +most of the sciences in the world, for he who professes it must be a +jurist, and must know the rules of justice, distributive and equitable, +so as to give to each one what belongs to him and is due to him. He +must be a theologian, so as to be able to give a clear and distinctive +reason for the Christian faith he professes, wherever it may be asked +of him. He must be a physician, and above all a herbalist, so as in +wastes and solitudes to know the herbs that have the property of +healing wounds, for a knight-errant must not go looking for someone to +cure him at every step. He must be an astronomer, so as to know by the +stars how many hours of the night have passed, and what clime and +quarter of the world he is in. He must know mathematics, for at every +turn some occasion for them will present itself to him; and, putting it +aside that he must be adorned with all the virtues, cardinal and +theological, to come down to minor particulars, he must, I say, be able +to swim as well as Nicholas or Nicolao the Fish could, as the story +goes; he must know how to shoe a horse, and repair his saddle and +bridle; and, to return to higher matters, he must be faithful to God +and to his lady; he must be pure in thought, decorous in words, +generous in works, valiant in deeds, patient in suffering, +compassionate towards the needy, and, lastly, an upholder of the truth +though its defence should cost him his life. Of all these qualities, +great and small, is a true knight-errant made up; judge then, Señor Don +Lorenzo, whether it be a contemptible science which the knight who +studies and professes it has to learn, and whether it may not compare +with the very loftiest that are taught in the schools.” + +“If that be so,” replied Don Lorenzo, “this science, I protest, +surpasses all.” + +“How, if that be so?” said Don Quixote. + +“What I mean to say,” said Don Lorenzo, “is, that I doubt whether there +are now, or ever were, any knights-errant, and adorned with such +virtues.” + +“Many a time,” replied Don Quixote, “have I said what I now say once +more, that the majority of the world are of opinion that there never +were any knights-errant in it; and as it is my opinion that, unless +heaven by some miracle brings home to them the truth that there were +and are, all the pains one takes will be in vain (as experience has +often proved to me), I will not now stop to disabuse you of the error +you share with the multitude. All I shall do is to pray to heaven to +deliver you from it, and show you how beneficial and necessary +knights-errant were in days of yore, and how useful they would be in +these days were they but in vogue; but now, for the sins of the people, +sloth and indolence, gluttony and luxury are triumphant.” + +“Our guest has broken out on our hands,” said Don Lorenzo to himself at +this point; “but, for all that, he is a glorious madman, and I should +be a dull blockhead to doubt it.” + +Here, being summoned to dinner, they brought their colloquy to a close. +Don Diego asked his son what he had been able to make out as to the +wits of their guest. To which he replied, “All the doctors and clever +scribes in the world will not make sense of the scrawl of his madness; +he is a madman full of streaks, full of lucid intervals.” + +They went in to dinner, and the repast was such as Don Diego said on +the road he was in the habit of giving to his guests, neat, plentiful, +and tasty; but what pleased Don Quixote most was the marvellous silence +that reigned throughout the house, for it was like a Carthusian +monastery. + +When the cloth had been removed, grace said and their hands washed, Don +Quixote earnestly pressed Don Lorenzo to repeat to him his verses for +the poetical tournament, to which he replied, “Not to be like those +poets who, when they are asked to recite their verses, refuse, and when +they are not asked for them vomit them up, I will repeat my gloss, for +which I do not expect any prize, having composed it merely as an +exercise of ingenuity.” + +“A discerning friend of mine,” said Don Quixote, “was of opinion that +no one ought to waste labour in glossing verses; and the reason he gave +was that the gloss can never come up to the text, and that often or +most frequently it wanders away from the meaning and purpose aimed at +in the glossed lines; and besides, that the laws of the gloss were too +strict, as they did not allow interrogations, nor ‘said he,’ nor ‘I +say,’ nor turning verbs into nouns, or altering the construction, not +to speak of other restrictions and limitations that fetter +gloss-writers, as you no doubt know.” + +“Verily, Señor Don Quixote,” said Don Lorenzo, “I wish I could catch +your worship tripping at a stretch, but I cannot, for you slip through +my fingers like an eel.” + +“I don’t understand what you say, or mean by slipping,” said Don +Quixote. + +“I will explain myself another time,” said Don Lorenzo; “for the +present pray attend to the glossed verses and the gloss, which run +thus: + +Could ‘was’ become an ‘is’ for me, +Then would I ask no more than this; +Or could, for me, the time that is +Become the time that is to be!— + + + +GLOSS + +Dame Fortune once upon a day +To me was bountiful and kind; +But all things change; she changed her mind, +And what she gave she took away. +O Fortune, long I’ve sued to thee; +The gifts thou gavest me restore, +For, trust me, I would ask no more, +Could ‘was’ become an ‘is’ for me. + +No other prize I seek to gain, +No triumph, glory, or success, +Only the long-lost happiness, +The memory whereof is pain. +One taste, methinks, of bygone bliss +The heart-consuming fire might stay; +And, so it come without delay, +Then would I ask no more than this. + +I ask what cannot be, alas! +That time should ever be, and then +Come back to us, and be again, +No power on earth can bring to pass; +For fleet of foot is he, I wis, +And idly, therefore, do we pray +That what for aye hath left us may +Become for us the time that is. + +Perplexed, uncertain, to remain +’Twixt hope and fear, is death, not life; +’Twere better, sure, to end the strife, +And dying, seek release from pain. +And yet, thought were the best for me. +Anon the thought aside I fling, +And to the present fondly cling, +And dread the time that is to be.” + + +When Don Lorenzo had finished reciting his gloss, Don Quixote stood up, +and in a loud voice, almost a shout, exclaimed as he grasped Don +Lorenzo’s right hand in his, “By the highest heavens, noble youth, but +you are the best poet on earth, and deserve to be crowned with laurel, +not by Cyprus or by Gaeta—as a certain poet, God forgive him, said—but +by the Academies of Athens, if they still flourished, and by those that +flourish now, Paris, Bologna, Salamanca. Heaven grant that the judges +who rob you of the first prize—that Phœbus may pierce them with his +arrows, and the Muses never cross the thresholds of their doors. Repeat +me some of your long-measure verses, señor, if you will be so good, for +I want thoroughly to feel the pulse of your rare genius.” + +Is there any need to say that Don Lorenzo enjoyed hearing himself +praised by Don Quixote, albeit he looked upon him as a madman? power of +flattery, how far-reaching art thou, and how wide are the bounds of thy +pleasant jurisdiction! Don Lorenzo gave a proof of it, for he complied +with Don Quixote’s request and entreaty, and repeated to him this +sonnet on the fable or story of Pyramus and Thisbe. + +SONNET + +The lovely maid, she pierces now the wall; +Heart-pierced by her young Pyramus doth lie; +And Love spreads wing from Cyprus isle to fly, +A chink to view so wondrous great and small. +There silence speaketh, for no voice at all +Can pass so strait a strait; but love will ply +Where to all other power ’twere vain to try; +For love will find a way whate’er befall. +Impatient of delay, with reckless pace +The rash maid wins the fatal spot where she +Sinks not in lover’s arms but death’s embrace. +So runs the strange tale, how the lovers twain +One sword, one sepulchre, one memory, +Slays, and entombs, and brings to life again. + + +“Blessed be God,” said Don Quixote when he had heard Don Lorenzo’s +sonnet, “that among the hosts there are of irritable poets I have found +one consummate one, which, señor, the art of this sonnet proves to me +that you are!” + +For four days was Don Quixote most sumptuously entertained in Don +Diego’s house, at the end of which time he asked his permission to +depart, telling him he thanked him for the kindness and hospitality he +had received in his house, but that, as it did not become +knights-errant to give themselves up for long to idleness and luxury, +he was anxious to fulfill the duties of his calling in seeking +adventures, of which he was informed there was an abundance in that +neighbourhood, where he hoped to employ his time until the day came +round for the jousts at Saragossa, for that was his proper destination; +and that, first of all, he meant to enter the cave of Montesinos, of +which so many marvellous things were reported all through the country, +and at the same time to investigate and explore the origin and true +source of the seven lakes commonly called the lakes of Ruidera. + +Don Diego and his son commended his laudable resolution, and bade him +furnish himself with all he wanted from their house and belongings, as +they would most gladly be of service to him; which, indeed, his +personal worth and his honourable profession made incumbent upon them. + +The day of his departure came at length, as welcome to Don Quixote as +it was sad and sorrowful to Sancho Panza, who was very well satisfied +with the abundance of Don Diego’s house, and objected to return to the +starvation of the woods and wilds and the short-commons of his +ill-stocked alforjas; these, however, he filled and packed with what he +considered needful. On taking leave, Don Quixote said to Don Lorenzo, +“I know not whether I have told you already, but if I have I tell you +once more, that if you wish to spare yourself fatigue and toil in +reaching the inaccessible summit of the temple of fame, you have +nothing to do but to turn aside out of the somewhat narrow path of +poetry and take the still narrower one of knight-errantry, wide enough, +however, to make you an emperor in the twinkling of an eye.” + +In this speech Don Quixote wound up the evidence of his madness, but +still better in what he added when he said, “God knows, I would gladly +take Don Lorenzo with me to teach him how to spare the humble, and +trample the proud under foot, virtues that are part and parcel of the +profession I belong to; but since his tender age does not allow of it, +nor his praiseworthy pursuits permit it, I will simply content myself +with impressing it upon your worship that you will become famous as a +poet if you are guided by the opinion of others rather than by your +own; because no fathers or mothers ever think their own children +ill-favoured, and this sort of deception prevails still more strongly +in the case of the children of the brain.” + +Both father and son were amazed afresh at the strange medley Don +Quixote talked, at one moment sense, at another nonsense, and at the +pertinacity and persistence he displayed in going through thick and +thin in quest of his unlucky adventures, which he made the end and aim +of his desires. There was a renewal of offers of service and +civilities, and then, with the gracious permission of the lady of the +castle, they took their departure, Don Quixote on Rocinante, and Sancho +on Dapple. + + + +p18e.jpg (18K) + + + +CHAPTER XIX. +IN WHICH IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD, TOGETHER +WITH OTHER TRULY DROLL INCIDENTS + +p19a.jpg (131K) + +Full Size + + + +Don Quixote had gone but a short distance beyond Don Diego’s village, +when he fell in with a couple of either priests or students, and a +couple of peasants, mounted on four beasts of the ass kind. One of the +students carried, wrapped up in a piece of green buckram by way of a +portmanteau, what seemed to be a little linen and a couple of pairs of +ribbed stockings; the other carried nothing but a pair of new +fencing-foils with buttons. The peasants carried divers articles that +showed they were on their way from some large town where they had +bought them, and were taking them home to their village; and both +students and peasants were struck with the same amazement that +everybody felt who saw Don Quixote for the first time, and were dying +to know who this man, so different from ordinary men, could be. Don +Quixote saluted them, and after ascertaining that their road was the +same as his, made them an offer of his company, and begged them to +slacken their pace, as their young asses travelled faster than his +horse; and then, to gratify them, he told them in a few words who he +was and the calling and profession he followed, which was that of a +knight-errant seeking adventures in all parts of the world. He informed +them that his own name was Don Quixote of La Mancha, and that he was +called, by way of surname, the Knight of the Lions. + +All this was Greek or gibberish to the peasants, but not so to the +students, who very soon perceived the crack in Don Quixote’s pate; for +all that, however, they regarded him with admiration and respect, and +one of them said to him, “If you, sir knight, have no fixed road, as it +is the way with those who seek adventures not to have any, let your +worship come with us; you will see one of the finest and richest +weddings that up to this day have ever been celebrated in La Mancha, or +for many a league round.” + +Don Quixote asked him if it was some prince’s, that he spoke of it in +this way. “Not at all,” said the student; “it is the wedding of a +farmer and a farmer’s daughter, he the richest in all this country, and +she the fairest mortal ever set eyes on. The display with which it is +to be attended will be something rare and out of the common, for it +will be celebrated in a meadow adjoining the town of the bride, who is +called, _par excellence_, Quiteria the fair, as the bridegroom is +called Camacho the rich. She is eighteen, and he twenty-two, and they +are fairly matched, though some knowing ones, who have all the +pedigrees in the world by heart, will have it that the family of the +fair Quiteria is better than Camacho’s; but no one minds that +now-a-days, for wealth can solder a great many flaws. At any rate, +Camacho is free-handed, and it is his fancy to screen the whole meadow +with boughs and cover it in overhead, so that the sun will have hard +work if he tries to get in to reach the grass that covers the soil. He +has provided dancers too, not only sword but also bell-dancers, for in +his own town there are those who ring the changes and jingle the bells +to perfection; of shoe-dancers I say nothing, for of them he has +engaged a host. But none of these things, nor of the many others I have +omitted to mention, will do more to make this a memorable wedding than +the part which I suspect the despairing Basilio will play in it. This +Basilio is a youth of the same village as Quiteria, and he lived in the +house next door to that of her parents, of which circumstance Love took +advantage to reproduce to the word the long-forgotten loves of Pyramus +and Thisbe; for Basilio loved Quiteria from his earliest years, and she +responded to his passion with countless modest proofs of affection, so +that the loves of the two children, Basilio and Quiteria, were the talk +and the amusement of the town. As they grew up, the father of Quiteria +made up his mind to refuse Basilio his wonted freedom of access to the +house, and to relieve himself of constant doubts and suspicions, he +arranged a match for his daughter with the rich Camacho, as he did not +approve of marrying her to Basilio, who had not so large a share of the +gifts of fortune as of nature; for if the truth be told ungrudgingly, +he is the most agile youth we know, a mighty thrower of the bar, a +first-rate wrestler, and a great ball-player; he runs like a deer, and +leaps better than a goat, bowls over the nine-pins as if by magic, +sings like a lark, plays the guitar so as to make it speak, and, above +all, handles a sword as well as the best.” + +“For that excellence alone,” said Don Quixote at this, “the youth +deserves to marry, not merely the fair Quiteria, but Queen Guinevere +herself, were she alive now, in spite of Launcelot and all who would +try to prevent it.” + +“Say that to my wife,” said Sancho, who had until now listened in +silence, “for she won’t hear of anything but each one marrying his +equal, holding with the proverb ‘each ewe to her like.’ What I would +like is that this good Basilio (for I am beginning to take a fancy to +him already) should marry this lady Quiteria; and a blessing and good +luck—I meant to say the opposite—on people who would prevent those who +love one another from marrying.” + +“If all those who love one another were to marry,” said Don Quixote, +“it would deprive parents of the right to choose, and marry their +children to the proper person and at the proper time; and if it was +left to daughters to choose husbands as they pleased, one would be for +choosing her father’s servant, and another, someone she has seen +passing in the street and fancies gallant and dashing, though he may be +a drunken bully; for love and fancy easily blind the eyes of the +judgment, so much wanted in choosing one’s way of life; and the +matrimonial choice is very liable to error, and it needs great caution +and the special favour of heaven to make it a good one. He who has to +make a long journey, will, if he is wise, look out for some trusty and +pleasant companion to accompany him before he sets out. Why, then, +should not he do the same who has to make the whole journey of life +down to the final halting-place of death, more especially when the +companion has to be his companion in bed, at board, and everywhere, as +the wife is to her husband? The companionship of one’s wife is no +article of merchandise, that, after it has been bought, may be +returned, or bartered, or changed; for it is an inseparable accident +that lasts as long as life lasts; it is a noose that, once you put it +round your neck, turns into a Gordian knot, which, if the scythe of +Death does not cut it, there is no untying. I could say a great deal +more on this subject, were I not prevented by the anxiety I feel to +know if the señor licentiate has anything more to tell about the story +of Basilio.” + +To this the student, bachelor, or, as Don Quixote called him, +licentiate, replied, “I have nothing whatever to say further, but that +from the moment Basilio learned that the fair Quiteria was to be +married to Camacho the rich, he has never been seen to smile, or heard +to utter rational word, and he always goes about moody and dejected, +talking to himself in a way that shows plainly he is out of his senses. +He eats little and sleeps little, and all he eats is fruit, and when he +sleeps, if he sleeps at all, it is in the field on the hard earth like +a brute beast. Sometimes he gazes at the sky, at other times he fixes +his eyes on the earth in such an abstracted way that he might be taken +for a clothed statue, with its drapery stirred by the wind. In short, +he shows such signs of a heart crushed by suffering, that all we who +know him believe that when to-morrow the fair Quiteria says ‘yes,’ it +will be his sentence of death.” + +“God will guide it better,” said Sancho, “for God who gives the wound +gives the salve; nobody knows what will happen; there are a good many +hours between this and to-morrow, and any one of them, or any moment, +the house may fall; I have seen the rain coming down and the sun +shining all at one time; many a one goes to bed in good health who +can’t stir the next day. And tell me, is there anyone who can boast of +having driven a nail into the wheel of fortune? No, faith; and between +a woman’s ‘yes’ and ‘no’ I wouldn’t venture to put the point of a pin, +for there would not be room for it; if you tell me Quiteria loves +Basilio heart and soul, then I’ll give him a bag of good luck; for +love, I have heard say, looks through spectacles that make copper seem +gold, poverty wealth, and bleary eyes pearls.” + +“What art thou driving at, Sancho? curses on thee!” said Don Quixote; +“for when thou takest to stringing proverbs and sayings together, no +one can understand thee but Judas himself, and I wish he had thee. Tell +me, thou animal, what dost thou know about nails or wheels, or anything +else?” + +“Oh, if you don’t understand me,” replied Sancho, “it is no wonder my +words are taken for nonsense; but no matter; I understand myself, and I +know I have not said anything very foolish in what I have said; only +your worship, señor, is always gravelling at everything I say, nay, +everything I do.” + +“Cavilling, not gravelling,” said Don Quixote, “thou prevaricator of +honest language, God confound thee!” + +“Don’t find fault with me, your worship,” returned Sancho, “for you +know I have not been bred up at court or trained at Salamanca, to know +whether I am adding or dropping a letter or so in my words. Why! God +bless me, it’s not fair to force a Sayago-man to speak like a Toledan; +maybe there are Toledans who do not hit it off when it comes to +polished talk.” + +“That is true,” said the licentiate, “for those who have been bred up +in the Tanneries and the Zocodover cannot talk like those who are +almost all day pacing the cathedral cloisters, and yet they are all +Toledans. Pure, correct, elegant and lucid language will be met with in +men of courtly breeding and discrimination, though they may have been +born in Majalahonda; I say of discrimination, because there are many +who are not so, and discrimination is the grammar of good language, if +it be accompanied by practice. I, sirs, for my sins have studied canon +law at Salamanca, and I rather pique myself on expressing my meaning in +clear, plain, and intelligible language.” + +“If you did not pique yourself more on your dexterity with those foils +you carry than on dexterity of tongue,” said the other student, “you +would have been head of the degrees, where you are now tail.” + +“Look here, bachelor Corchuelo,” returned the licentiate, “you have the +most mistaken idea in the world about skill with the sword, if you +think it useless.” + +“It is no idea on my part, but an established truth,” replied +Corchuelo; “and if you wish me to prove it to you by experiment, you +have swords there, and it is a good opportunity; I have a steady hand +and a strong arm, and these joined with my resolution, which is not +small, will make you confess that I am not mistaken. Dismount and put +in practice your positions and circles and angles and science, for I +hope to make you see stars at noonday with my rude raw swordsmanship, +in which, next to God, I place my trust that the man is yet to be born +who will make me turn my back, and that there is not one in the world I +will not compel to give ground.” + +“As to whether you turn your back or not, I do not concern myself,” +replied the master of fence; “though it might be that your grave would +be dug on the spot where you planted your foot the first time; I mean +that you would be stretched dead there for despising skill with the +sword.” + +“We shall soon see,” replied Corchuelo, and getting off his ass +briskly, he drew out furiously one of the swords the licentiate carried +on his beast. + +“It must not be that way,” said Don Quixote at this point; “I will be +the director of this fencing match, and judge of this often disputed +question;” and dismounting from Rocinante and grasping his lance, he +planted himself in the middle of the road, just as the licentiate, with +an easy, graceful bearing and step, advanced towards Corchuelo, who +came on against him, darting fire from his eyes, as the saying is. The +other two of the company, the peasants, without dismounting from their +asses, served as spectators of the mortal tragedy. The cuts, thrusts, +down strokes, back strokes and doubles, that Corchuelo delivered were +past counting, and came thicker than hops or hail. He attacked like an +angry lion, but he was met by a tap on the mouth from the button of the +licentiate’s sword that checked him in the midst of his furious onset, +and made him kiss it as if it were a relic, though not as devoutly as +relics are and ought to be kissed. The end of it was that the +licentiate reckoned up for him by thrusts every one of the buttons of +the short cassock he wore, tore the skirts into strips, like the tails +of a cuttlefish, knocked off his hat twice, and so completely tired him +out, that in vexation, anger, and rage, he took the sword by the hilt +and flung it away with such force, that one of the peasants that were +there, who was a notary, and who went for it, made an affidavit +afterwards that he sent it nearly three-quarters of a league, which +testimony will serve, and has served, to show and establish with all +certainty that strength is overcome by skill. + +Corchuelo sat down wearied, and Sancho approaching him said, “By my +faith, señor bachelor, if your worship takes my advice, you will never +challenge anyone to fence again, only to wrestle and throw the bar, for +you have the youth and strength for that; but as for these fencers as +they call them, I have heard say they can put the point of a sword +through the eye of a needle.” + +“I am satisfied with having tumbled off my donkey,” said Corchuelo, +“and with having had the truth I was so ignorant of proved to me by +experience;” and getting up he embraced the licentiate, and they were +better friends than ever; and not caring to wait for the notary who had +gone for the sword, as they saw he would be a long time about it, they +resolved to push on so as to reach the village of Quiteria, to which +they all belonged, in good time. + +During the remainder of the journey the licentiate held forth to them +on the excellences of the sword, with such conclusive arguments, and +such figures and mathematical proofs, that all were convinced of the +value of the science, and Corchuelo cured of his dogmatism. + +It grew dark; but before they reached the town it seemed to them all as +if there was a heaven full of countless glittering stars in front of +it. They heard, too, the pleasant mingled notes of a variety of +instruments, flutes, drums, psalteries, pipes, tabors, and timbrels, +and as they drew near they perceived that the trees of a leafy arcade +that had been constructed at the entrance of the town were filled with +lights unaffected by the wind, for the breeze at the time was so gentle +that it had not power to stir the leaves on the trees. The musicians +were the life of the wedding, wandering through the pleasant grounds in +separate bands, some dancing, others singing, others playing the +various instruments already mentioned. In short, it seemed as though +mirth and gaiety were frisking and gambolling all over the meadow. +Several other persons were engaged in erecting raised benches from +which people might conveniently see the plays and dances that were to +be performed the next day on the spot dedicated to the celebration of +the marriage of Camacho the rich and the obsequies of Basilio. Don +Quixote would not enter the village, although the peasant as well as +the bachelor pressed him; he excused himself, however, on the grounds, +amply sufficient in his opinion, that it was the custom of +knights-errant to sleep in the fields and woods in preference to towns, +even were it under gilded ceilings; and so turned aside a little out of +the road, very much against Sancho’s will, as the good quarters he had +enjoyed in the castle or house of Don Diego came back to his mind. + + + +p19e.jpg (29K) + + + +CHAPTER XX. +WHEREIN AN ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF THE WEDDING OF CAMACHO THE RICH, +TOGETHER WITH THE INCIDENT OF BASILIO THE POOR + + + + +p20a.jpg (125K) + +Full Size + + + +Scarce had the fair Aurora given bright Phœbus time to dry the liquid +pearls upon her golden locks with the heat of his fervent rays, when +Don Quixote, shaking off sloth from his limbs, sprang to his feet and +called to his squire Sancho, who was still snoring; seeing which Don +Quixote ere he roused him thus addressed him: “Happy thou, above all +the dwellers on the face of the earth, that, without envying or being +envied, sleepest with tranquil mind, and that neither enchanters +persecute nor enchantments affright. Sleep, I say, and will say a +hundred times, without any jealous thoughts of thy mistress to make +thee keep ceaseless vigils, or any cares as to how thou art to pay the +debts thou owest, or find to-morrow’s food for thyself and thy needy +little family, to interfere with thy repose. Ambition breaks not thy +rest, nor doth this world’s empty pomp disturb thee, for the utmost +reach of thy anxiety is to provide for thy ass, since upon my shoulders +thou hast laid the support of thyself, the counterpoise and burden that +nature and custom have imposed upon masters. The servant sleeps and the +master lies awake thinking how he is to feed him, advance him, and +reward him. The distress of seeing the sky turn brazen, and withhold +its needful moisture from the earth, is not felt by the servant but by +the master, who in time of scarcity and famine must support him who has +served him in times of plenty and abundance.” + + + +p20b.jpg (365K) + +Full Size + + + +To all this Sancho made no reply because he was asleep, nor would he +have wakened up so soon as he did had not Don Quixote brought him to +his senses with the butt of his lance. He awoke at last, drowsy and +lazy, and casting his eyes about in every direction, observed, “There +comes, if I don’t mistake, from the quarter of that arcade a steam and +a smell a great deal more like fried rashers than galingale or thyme; a +wedding that begins with smells like that, by my faith, ought to be +plentiful and unstinting.” + +“Have done, thou glutton,” said Don Quixote; “come, let us go and +witness this bridal, and see what the rejected Basilio does.” + +“Let him do what he likes,” returned Sancho; “be he not poor, he would +marry Quiteria. To make a grand match for himself, and he without a +farthing; is there nothing else? Faith, señor, it’s my opinion the poor +man should be content with what he can get, and not go looking for +dainties in the bottom of the sea. I will bet my arm that Camacho could +bury Basilio in reals; and if that be so, as no doubt it is, what a +fool Quiteria would be to refuse the fine dresses and jewels Camacho +must have given her and will give her, and take Basilio’s bar-throwing +and sword-play. They won’t give a pint of wine at the tavern for a good +cast of the bar or a neat thrust of the sword. Talents and +accomplishments that can’t be turned into money, let Count Dirlos have +them; but when such gifts fall to one that has hard cash, I wish my +condition of life was as becoming as they are. On a good foundation you +can raise a good building, and the best foundation in the world is +money.” + +“For God’s sake, Sancho,” said Don Quixote here, “stop that harangue; +it is my belief, if thou wert allowed to continue all thou beginnest +every instant, thou wouldst have no time left for eating or sleeping; +for thou wouldst spend it all in talking.” + +“If your worship had a good memory,” replied Sancho, “you would +remember the articles of our agreement before we started from home this +last time; one of them was that I was to be let say all I liked, so +long as it was not against my neighbour or your worship’s authority; +and so far, it seems to me, I have not broken the said article.” + +“I remember no such article, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “and even if it +were so, I desire you to hold your tongue and come along; for the +instruments we heard last night are already beginning to enliven the +valleys again, and no doubt the marriage will take place in the cool of +the morning, and not in the heat of the afternoon.” + +Sancho did as his master bade him, and putting the saddle on Rocinante +and the pack-saddle on Dapple, they both mounted and at a leisurely +pace entered the arcade. The first thing that presented itself to +Sancho’s eyes was a whole ox spitted on a whole elm tree, and in the +fire at which it was to be roasted there was burning a middling-sized +mountain of faggots, and six stewpots that stood round the blaze had +not been made in the ordinary mould of common pots, for they were six +half wine-jars, each fit to hold the contents of a slaughter-house; +they swallowed up whole sheep and hid them away in their insides +without showing any more sign of them than if they were pigeons. +Countless were the hares ready skinned and the plucked fowls that hung +on the trees for burial in the pots, numberless the wildfowl and game +of various sorts suspended from the branches that the air might keep +them cool. Sancho counted more than sixty wine skins of over six +gallons each, and all filled, as it proved afterwards, with generous +wines. There were, besides, piles of the whitest bread, like the heaps +of corn one sees on the threshing-floors. There was a wall made of +cheeses arranged like open brick-work, and two cauldrons full of oil, +bigger than those of a dyer’s shop, served for cooking fritters, which +when fried were taken out with two mighty shovels, and plunged into +another cauldron of prepared honey that stood close by. Of cooks and +cook-maids there were over fifty, all clean, brisk, and blithe. In the +capacious belly of the ox were a dozen soft little sucking-pigs, which, +sewn up there, served to give it tenderness and flavour. The spices of +different kinds did not seem to have been bought by the pound but by +the quarter, and all lay open to view in a great chest. In short, all +the preparations made for the wedding were in rustic style, but +abundant enough to feed an army. + + + +p20c.jpg (415K) + +Full Size + + + +Sancho observed all, contemplated all, and everything won his heart. +The first to captivate and take his fancy were the pots, out of which +he would have very gladly helped himself to a moderate pipkinful; then +the wine skins secured his affections; and lastly, the produce of the +frying-pans, if, indeed, such imposing cauldrons may be called +frying-pans; and unable to control himself or bear it any longer, he +approached one of the busy cooks and civilly but hungrily begged +permission to soak a scrap of bread in one of the pots; to which the +cook made answer, “Brother, this is not a day on which hunger is to +have any sway, thanks to the rich Camacho; get down and look about for +a ladle and skim off a hen or two, and much good may they do you.” + +“I don’t see one,” said Sancho. + +“Wait a bit,” said the cook; “sinner that I am! how particular and +bashful you are!” and so saying, he seized a bucket and plunging it +into one of the half jars took up three hens and a couple of geese, and +said to Sancho, “Fall to, friend, and take the edge off your appetite +with these skimmings until dinner-time comes.” + + + +p20d.jpg (351K) + +Full Size + + + +“I have nothing to put them in,” said Sancho. + +“Well then,” said the cook, “take spoon and all; for Camacho’s wealth +and happiness furnish everything.” + +While Sancho fared thus, Don Quixote was watching the entrance, at one +end of the arcade, of some twelve peasants, all in holiday and gala +dress, mounted on twelve beautiful mares with rich handsome field +trappings and a number of little bells attached to their petrals, who, +marshalled in regular order, ran not one but several courses over the +meadow, with jubilant shouts and cries of “Long live Camacho and +Quiteria! he as rich as she is fair; and she the fairest on earth!” + +Hearing this, Don Quixote said to himself, “It is easy to see these +folk have never seen my Dulcinea del Toboso; for if they had they would +be more moderate in their praises of this Quiteria of theirs.” + +Shortly after this, several bands of dancers of various sorts began to +enter the arcade at different points, and among them one of +sword-dancers composed of some four-and-twenty lads of gallant and +high-spirited mien, clad in the finest and whitest of linen, and with +handkerchiefs embroidered in various colours with fine silk; and one of +those on the mares asked an active youth who led them if any of the +dancers had been wounded. “As yet, thank God, no one has been wounded,” +said he, “we are all safe and sound;” and he at once began to execute +complicated figures with the rest of his comrades, with so many turns +and so great dexterity, that although Don Quixote was well used to see +dances of the same kind, he thought he had never seen any so good as +this. He also admired another that came in composed of fair young +maidens, none of whom seemed to be under fourteen or over eighteen +years of age, all clad in green stuff, with their locks partly braided, +partly flowing loose, but all of such bright gold as to vie with the +sunbeams, and over them they wore garlands of jessamine, roses, +amaranth, and honeysuckle. At their head were a venerable old man and +an ancient dame, more brisk and active, however, than might have been +expected from their years. The notes of a Zamora bagpipe accompanied +them, and with modesty in their countenances and in their eyes, and +lightness in their feet, they looked the best dancers in the world. + + + +p20e.jpg (361K) + +Full Size + + + +Following these there came an artistic dance of the sort they call +“speaking dances.” It was composed of eight nymphs in two files, with +the god Cupid leading one and Interest the other, the former furnished +with wings, bow, quiver and arrows, the latter in a rich dress of gold +and silk of divers colours. The nymphs that followed Love bore their +names written on white parchment in large letters on their backs. +“Poetry” was the name of the first, “Wit” of the second, “Birth” of the +third, and “Valour” of the fourth. Those that followed Interest were +distinguished in the same way; the badge of the first announced +“Liberality,” that of the second “Largess,” the third “Treasure,” and +the fourth “Peaceful Possession.” In front of them all came a wooden +castle drawn by four wild men, all clad in ivy and hemp stained green, +and looking so natural that they nearly terrified Sancho. On the front +of the castle and on each of the four sides of its frame it bore the +inscription “Castle of Caution.” Four skillful tabor and flute players +accompanied them, and the dance having been opened, Cupid, after +executing two figures, raised his eyes and bent his bow against a +damsel who stood between the turrets of the castle, and thus addressed +her: + +I am the mighty God whose sway +Is potent over land and sea. +The heavens above us own me; nay, +The shades below acknowledge me. +I know not fear, I have my will, +Whate’er my whim or fancy be; +For me there’s no impossible, +I order, bind, forbid, set free. + + +Having concluded the stanza he discharged an arrow at the top of the +castle, and went back to his place. Interest then came forward and went +through two more figures, and as soon as the tabors ceased, he said: + +But mightier than Love am I, +Though Love it be that leads me on, +Than mine no lineage is more high, +Or older, underneath the sun. +To use me rightly few know how, +To act without me fewer still, +For I am Interest, and I vow +For evermore to do thy will. + + +Interest retired, and Poetry came forward, and when she had gone +through her figures like the others, fixing her eyes on the damsel of +the castle, she said: + +With many a fanciful conceit, +Fair Lady, winsome Poesy +Her soul, an offering at thy feet, +Presents in sonnets unto thee. +If thou my homage wilt not scorn, +Thy fortune, watched by envious eyes, +On wings of poesy upborne +Shall be exalted to the skies. + + +Poetry withdrew, and on the side of Interest Liberality advanced, and +after having gone through her figures, said: + +To give, while shunning each extreme, +The sparing hand, the over-free, +Therein consists, so wise men deem, +The virtue Liberality. +But thee, fair lady, to enrich, +Myself a prodigal I’ll prove, +A vice not wholly shameful, which +May find its fair excuse in love. + + +In the same manner all the characters of the two bands advanced and +retired, and each executed its figures, and delivered its verses, some +of them graceful, some burlesque, but Don Quixote’s memory (though he +had an excellent one) only carried away those that have been just +quoted. All then mingled together, forming chains and breaking off +again with graceful, unconstrained gaiety; and whenever Love passed in +front of the castle he shot his arrows up at it, while Interest broke +gilded pellets against it. At length, after they had danced a good +while, Interest drew out a great purse, made of the skin of a large +brindled cat and to all appearance full of money, and flung it at the +castle, and with the force of the blow the boards fell asunder and +tumbled down, leaving the damsel exposed and unprotected. Interest and +the characters of his band advanced, and throwing a great chain of gold +over her neck pretended to take her and lead her away captive, on +seeing which, Love and his supporters made as though they would release +her, the whole action being to the accompaniment of the tabors and in +the form of a regular dance. The wild men made peace between them, and +with great dexterity readjusted and fixed the boards of the castle, and +the damsel once more ensconced herself within; and with this the dance +wound up, to the great enjoyment of the beholders. + +Don Quixote asked one of the nymphs who it was that had composed and +arranged it. She replied that it was a beneficiary of the town who had +a nice taste in devising things of the sort. “I will lay a wager,” said +Don Quixote, “that the same bachelor or beneficiary is a greater friend +of Camacho’s than of Basilio’s, and that he is better at satire than at +vespers; he has introduced the accomplishments of Basilio and the +riches of Camacho very neatly into the dance.” Sancho Panza, who was +listening to all this, exclaimed, “The king is my cock; I stick to +Camacho.” “It is easy to see thou art a clown, Sancho,” said Don +Quixote, “and one of that sort that cry ‘Long life to the conqueror.’” + +“I don’t know of what sort I am,” returned Sancho, “but I know very +well I’ll never get such elegant skimmings off Basilio’s pots as these +I have got off Camacho’s;” and he showed him the bucketful of geese and +hens, and seizing one began to eat with great gaiety and appetite, +saying, “A fig for the accomplishments of Basilio! As much as thou hast +so much art thou worth, and as much as thou art worth so much hast +thou. As a grandmother of mine used to say, there are only two families +in the world, the Haves and the Haven’ts; and she stuck to the Haves; +and to this day, Señor Don Quixote, people would sooner feel the pulse +of ‘Have,’ than of ‘Know;’ an ass covered with gold looks better than a +horse with a pack-saddle. So once more I say I stick to Camacho, the +bountiful skimmings of whose pots are geese and hens, hares and +rabbits; but of Basilio’s, if any ever come to hand, or even to foot, +they’ll be only rinsings.” + +“Hast thou finished thy harangue, Sancho?” said Don Quixote. “Of course +I have finished it,” replied Sancho, “because I see your worship takes +offence at it; but if it was not for that, there was work enough cut +out for three days.” + +“God grant I may see thee dumb before I die, Sancho,” said Don Quixote. + +“At the rate we are going,” said Sancho, “I’ll be chewing clay before +your worship dies; and then, maybe, I’ll be so dumb that I’ll not say a +word until the end of the world, or, at least, till the day of +judgment.” + +“Even should that happen, O Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “thy silence +will never come up to all thou hast talked, art talking, and wilt talk +all thy life; moreover, it naturally stands to reason, that my death +will come before thine; so I never expect to see thee dumb, not even +when thou art drinking or sleeping, and that is the utmost I can say.” + +“In good faith, señor,” replied Sancho, “there’s no trusting that +fleshless one, I mean Death, who devours the lamb as soon as the sheep, +and, as I have heard our curate say, treads with equal foot upon the +lofty towers of kings and the lowly huts of the poor. That lady is more +mighty than dainty, she is in no way squeamish, she devours all and is +ready for all, and fills her alforjas with people of all sorts, ages, +and ranks. She is no reaper that sleeps out the noontide; at all times +she is reaping and cutting down, as well the dry grass as the green; +she never seems to chew, but bolts and swallows all that is put before +her, for she has a canine appetite that is never satisfied; and though +she has no belly, she shows she has a dropsy and is athirst to drink +the lives of all that live, as one would drink a jug of cold water.” + +“Say no more, Sancho,” said Don Quixote at this; “don’t try to better +it, and risk a fall; for in truth what thou hast said about death in +thy rustic phrase is what a good preacher might have said. I tell thee, +Sancho, if thou hadst discretion equal to thy mother wit, thou mightst +take a pulpit in hand, and go about the world preaching fine sermons.” +“He preaches well who lives well,” said Sancho, “and I know no more +theology than that.” + +“Nor needst thou,” said Don Quixote, “but I cannot conceive or make out +how it is that, the fear of God being the beginning of wisdom, thou, +who art more afraid of a lizard than of him, knowest so much.” + +“Pass judgment on your chivalries, señor,” returned Sancho, “and don’t +set yourself up to judge of other men’s fears or braveries, for I am as +good a fearer of God as my neighbours; but leave me to despatch these +skimmings, for all the rest is only idle talk that we shall be called +to account for in the other world;” and so saying, he began a fresh +attack on the bucket, with such a hearty appetite that he aroused Don +Quixote’s, who no doubt would have helped him had he not been prevented +by what must be told farther on. + + + +p20f.jpg (41K) + + + +CHAPTER XXI. +IN WHICH CAMACHO’S WEDDING IS CONTINUED, WITH OTHER DELIGHTFUL +INCIDENTS + + + + +p21a.jpg (118K) + +Full Size + + + +While Don Quixote and Sancho were engaged in the discussion set forth +the last chapter, they heard loud shouts and a great noise, which were +uttered and made by the men on the mares as they went at full gallop, +shouting, to receive the bride and bridegroom, who were approaching +with musical instruments and pageantry of all sorts around them, and +accompanied by the priest and the relatives of both, and all the most +distinguished people of the surrounding villages. When Sancho saw the +bride, he exclaimed, “By my faith, she is not dressed like a country +girl, but like some fine court lady; egad, as well as I can make out, +the patena she wears rich coral, and her green Cuenca stuff is +thirty-pile velvet; and then the white linen trimming—by my oath, but +it’s satin! Look at her hands—jet rings on them! May I never have luck +if they’re not gold rings, and real gold, and set with pearls as white +as a curdled milk, and every one of them worth an eye of one’s head! +Whoreson baggage, what hair she has! if it’s not a wig, I never saw +longer or fairer all the days of my life. See how bravely she bears +herself—and her shape! Wouldn’t you say she was like a walking palm +tree loaded with clusters of dates? for the trinkets she has hanging +from her hair and neck look just like them. I swear in my heart she is +a brave lass, and fit ‘to pass over the banks of Flanders.’” + +Don Quixote laughed at Sancho’s boorish eulogies and thought that, +saving his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he had never seen a more beautiful +woman. The fair Quiteria appeared somewhat pale, which was, no doubt, +because of the bad night brides always pass dressing themselves out for +their wedding on the morrow. They advanced towards a theatre that stood +on one side of the meadow decked with carpets and boughs, where they +were to plight their troth, and from which they were to behold the +dances and plays; but at the moment of their arrival at the spot they +heard a loud outcry behind them, and a voice exclaiming, “Wait a +little, ye, as inconsiderate as ye are hasty!” At these words all +turned round, and perceived that the speaker was a man clad in what +seemed to be a loose black coat garnished with crimson patches like +flames. He was crowned (as was presently seen) with a crown of gloomy +cypress, and in his hand he held a long staff. As he approached he was +recognised by everyone as the gay Basilio, and all waited anxiously to +see what would come of his words, in dread of some catastrophe in +consequence of his appearance at such a moment. He came up at last +weary and breathless, and planting himself in front of the bridal pair, +drove his staff, which had a steel spike at the end, into the ground, +and, with a pale face and eyes fixed on Quiteria, he thus addressed her +in a hoarse, trembling voice: + +“Well dost thou know, ungrateful Quiteria, that according to the holy +law we acknowledge, so long as live thou canst take no husband; nor art +thou ignorant either that, in my hopes that time and my own exertions +would improve my fortunes, I have never failed to observe the respect +due to thy honour; but thou, casting behind thee all thou owest to my +true love, wouldst surrender what is mine to another whose wealth +serves to bring him not only good fortune but supreme happiness; and +now to complete it (not that I think he deserves it, but inasmuch as +heaven is pleased to bestow it upon him), I will, with my own hands, do +away with the obstacle that may interfere with it, and remove myself +from between you. Long live the rich Camacho! many a happy year may he +live with the ungrateful Quiteria! and let the poor Basilio die, +Basilio whose poverty clipped the wings of his happiness, and brought +him to the grave!” + +And so saying, he seized the staff he had driven into the ground, and +leaving one half of it fixed there, showed it to be a sheath that +concealed a tolerably long rapier; and, what may be called its hilt +being planted in the ground, he swiftly, coolly, and deliberately threw +himself upon it, and in an instant the bloody point and half the steel +blade appeared at his back, the unhappy man falling to the earth bathed +in his blood, and transfixed by his own weapon. + +His friends at once ran to his aid, filled with grief at his misery and +sad fate, and Don Quixote, dismounting from Rocinante, hastened to +support him, and took him in his arms, and found he had not yet ceased +to breathe. They were about to draw out the rapier, but the priest who +was standing by objected to its being withdrawn before he had confessed +him, as the instant of its withdrawal would be that of this death. +Basilio, however, reviving slightly, said in a weak voice, as though in +pain, “If thou wouldst consent, cruel Quiteria, to give me thy hand as +my bride in this last fatal moment, I might still hope that my rashness +would find pardon, as by its means I attained the bliss of being +thine.” + +Hearing this the priest bade him think of the welfare of his soul +rather than of the cravings of the body, and in all earnestness implore +God’s pardon for his sins and for his rash resolve; to which Basilio +replied that he was determined not to confess unless Quiteria first +gave him her hand in marriage, for that happiness would compose his +mind and give him courage to make his confession. + +Don Quixote hearing the wounded man’s entreaty, exclaimed aloud that +what Basilio asked was just and reasonable, and moreover a request that +might be easily complied with; and that it would be as much to Señor +Camacho’s honour to receive the lady Quiteria as the widow of the brave +Basilio as if he received her direct from her father. + +“In this case,” said he, “it will be only to say ‘yes,’ and no +consequences can follow the utterance of the word, for the nuptial +couch of this marriage must be the grave.” + +Camacho was listening to all this, perplexed and bewildered and not +knowing what to say or do; but so urgent were the entreaties of +Basilio’s friends, imploring him to allow Quiteria to give him her +hand, so that his soul, quitting this life in despair, should not be +lost, that they moved, nay, forced him, to say that if Quiteria were +willing to give it he was satisfied, as it was only putting off the +fulfillment of his wishes for a moment. At once all assailed Quiteria +and pressed her, some with prayers, and others with tears, and others +with persuasive arguments, to give her hand to poor Basilio; but she, +harder than marble and more unmoved than any statue, seemed unable or +unwilling to utter a word, nor would she have given any reply had not +the priest bade her decide quickly what she meant to do, as Basilio now +had his soul at his teeth, and there was no time for hesitation. + + + +p21b.jpg (374K) + +Full Size + + + +On this the fair Quiteria, to all appearance distressed, grieved, and +repentant, advanced without a word to where Basilio lay, his eyes +already turned in his head, his breathing short and painful, murmuring +the name of Quiteria between his teeth, and apparently about to die +like a heathen and not like a Christian. Quiteria approached him, and +kneeling, demanded his hand by signs without speaking. Basilio opened +his eyes and gazing fixedly at her, said, “O Quiteria, why hast thou +turned compassionate at a moment when thy compassion will serve as a +dagger to rob me of life, for I have not now the strength left either +to bear the happiness thou givest me in accepting me as thine, or to +suppress the pain that is rapidly drawing the dread shadow of death +over my eyes? What I entreat of thee, O thou fatal star to me, is that +the hand thou demandest of me and wouldst give me, be not given out of +complaisance or to deceive me afresh, but that thou confess and declare +that without any constraint upon thy will thou givest it to me as to +thy lawful husband; for it is not meet that thou shouldst trifle with +me at such a moment as this, or have recourse to falsehoods with one +who has dealt so truly by thee.” + +While uttering these words he showed such weakness that the bystanders +expected each return of faintness would take his life with it. Then +Quiteria, overcome with modesty and shame, holding in her right hand +the hand of Basilio, said, “No force would bend my will; as freely, +therefore, as it is possible for me to do so, I give thee the hand of a +lawful wife, and take thine if thou givest it to me of thine own free +will, untroubled and unaffected by the calamity thy hasty act has +brought upon thee.” + +“Yes, I give it,” said Basilio, “not agitated or distracted, but with +unclouded reason that heaven is pleased to grant me, thus do I give +myself to be thy husband.” + +“And I give myself to be thy wife,” said Quiteria, “whether thou livest +many years, or they carry thee from my arms to the grave.” + +“For one so badly wounded,” observed Sancho at this point, “this young +man has a great deal to say; they should make him leave off billing and +cooing, and attend to his soul; for to my thinking he has it more on +his tongue than at his teeth.” + +Basilio and Quiteria having thus joined hands, the priest, deeply moved +and with tears in his eyes, pronounced the blessing upon them, and +implored heaven to grant an easy passage to the soul of the newly +wedded man, who, the instant he received the blessing, started nimbly +to his feet and with unparalleled effrontery pulled out the rapier that +had been sheathed in his body. All the bystanders were astounded, and +some, more simple than inquiring, began shouting, “A miracle, a +miracle!” But Basilio replied, “No miracle, no miracle; only a trick, a +trick!” The priest, perplexed and amazed, made haste to examine the +wound with both hands, and found that the blade had passed, not through +Basilio’s flesh and ribs, but through a hollow iron tube full of blood, +which he had adroitly fixed at the place, the blood, as was afterwards +ascertained, having been so prepared as not to congeal. In short, the +priest and Camacho and most of those present saw they were tricked and +made fools of. The bride showed no signs of displeasure at the +deception; on the contrary, hearing them say that the marriage, being +fraudulent, would not be valid, she said that she confirmed it afresh, +whence they all concluded that the affair had been planned by agreement +and understanding between the pair, whereat Camacho and his supporters +were so mortified that they proceeded to revenge themselves by +violence, and a great number of them drawing their swords attacked +Basilio, in whose protection as many more swords were in an instant +unsheathed, while Don Quixote taking the lead on horseback, with his +lance over his arm and well covered with his shield, made all give way +before him. Sancho, who never found any pleasure or enjoyment in such +doings, retreated to the wine-jars from which he had taken his +delectable skimmings, considering that, as a holy place, that spot +would be respected. + +“Hold, sirs, hold!” cried Don Quixote in a loud voice; “we have no +right to take vengeance for wrongs that love may do to us: remember +love and war are the same thing, and as in war it is allowable and +common to make use of wiles and stratagems to overcome the enemy, so in +the contests and rivalries of love the tricks and devices employed to +attain the desired end are justifiable, provided they be not to the +discredit or dishonour of the loved object. Quiteria belonged to +Basilio and Basilio to Quiteria by the just and beneficent disposal of +heaven. Camacho is rich, and can purchase his pleasure when, where, and +as it pleases him. Basilio has but this ewe-lamb, and no one, however +powerful he may be, shall take her from him; these two whom God hath +joined man cannot separate; and he who attempts it must first pass the +point of this lance;” and so saying he brandished it so stoutly and +dexterously that he overawed all who did not know him. + +But so deep an impression had the rejection of Quiteria made on +Camacho’s mind that it banished her at once from his thoughts; and so +the counsels of the priest, who was a wise and kindly disposed man, +prevailed with him, and by their means he and his partisans were +pacified and tranquillised, and to prove it put up their swords again, +inveighing against the pliancy of Quiteria rather than the craftiness +of Basilio; Camacho maintaining that, if Quiteria as a maiden had such +a love for Basilio, she would have loved him too as a married woman, +and that he ought to thank heaven more for having taken her than for +having given her. + +Camacho and those of his following, therefore, being consoled and +pacified, those on Basilio’s side were appeased; and the rich Camacho, +to show that he felt no resentment for the trick, and did not care +about it, desired the festival to go on just as if he were married in +reality. Neither Basilio, however, nor his bride, nor their followers +would take any part in it, and they withdrew to Basilio’s village; for +the poor, if they are persons of virtue and good sense, have those who +follow, honour, and uphold them, just as the rich have those who +flatter and dance attendance on them. With them they carried Don +Quixote, regarding him as a man of worth and a stout one. Sancho alone +had a cloud on his soul, for he found himself debarred from waiting for +Camacho’s splendid feast and festival, which lasted until night; and +thus dragged away, he moodily followed his master, who accompanied +Basilio’s party, and left behind him the flesh-pots of Egypt; though in +his heart he took them with him, and their now nearly finished +skimmings that he carried in the bucket conjured up visions before his +eyes of the glory and abundance of the good cheer he was losing. And +so, vexed and dejected though not hungry, without dismounting from +Dapple he followed in the footsteps of Rocinante. + + + +p21c.jpg (417K) + +Full Size + + + +p21e.jpg (49K) + + + +CHAPTER XXII. +WHEREIN IS RELATED THE GRAND ADVENTURE OF THE CAVE OF MONTESINOS IN THE +HEART OF LA MANCHA, WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY +TERMINATION + + + + +p22a.jpg (112K) + +Full Size + + + +Many and great were the attentions shown to Don Quixote by the newly +married couple, who felt themselves under an obligation to him for +coming forward in defence of their cause; and they exalted his wisdom +to the same level with his courage, rating him as a Cid in arms, and a +Cicero in eloquence. Worthy Sancho enjoyed himself for three days at +the expense of the pair, from whom they learned that the sham wound was +not a scheme arranged with the fair Quiteria, but a device of +Basilio’s, who counted on exactly the result they had seen; he +confessed, it is true, that he had confided his idea to some of his +friends, so that at the proper time they might aid him in his purpose +and insure the success of the deception. + + + +p22b.jpg (344K) + +Full Size + + + +“That,” said Don Quixote, “is not and ought not to be called deception +which aims at virtuous ends;” and the marriage of lovers he maintained +to be a most excellent end, reminding them, however, that love has no +greater enemy than hunger and constant want; for love is all gaiety, +enjoyment, and happiness, especially when the lover is in the +possession of the object of his love, and poverty and want are the +declared enemies of all these; which he said to urge Señor Basilio to +abandon the practice of those accomplishments he was skilled in, for +though they brought him fame, they brought him no money, and apply +himself to the acquisition of wealth by legitimate industry, which will +never fail those who are prudent and persevering. The poor man who is a +man of honour (if indeed a poor man can be a man of honour) has a jewel +when he has a fair wife, and if she is taken from him, his honour is +taken from him and slain. The fair woman who is a woman of honour, and +whose husband is poor, deserves to be crowned with the laurels and +crowns of victory and triumph. Beauty by itself attracts the desires of +all who behold it, and the royal eagles and birds of towering flight +stoop on it as on a dainty lure; but if beauty be accompanied by want +and penury, then the ravens and the kites and other birds of prey +assail it, and she who stands firm against such attacks well deserves +to be called the crown of her husband. “Remember, O prudent Basilio,” +added Don Quixote, “it was the opinion of a certain sage, I know not +whom, that there was not more than one good woman in the whole world; +and his advice was that each one should think and believe that this one +good woman was his own wife, and in this way he would live happy. I +myself am not married, nor, so far, has it ever entered my thoughts to +be so; nevertheless I would venture to give advice to anyone who might +ask it, as to the mode in which he should seek a wife such as he would +be content to marry. The first thing I would recommend him, would be to +look to good name rather than to wealth, for a good woman does not win +a good name merely by being good, but by letting it be seen that she is +so, and open looseness and freedom do much more damage to a woman’s +honour than secret depravity. If you take a good woman into your house +it will be an easy matter to keep her good, and even to make her still +better; but if you take a bad one you will find it hard work to mend +her, for it is no very easy matter to pass from one extreme to another. +I do not say it is impossible, but I look upon it as difficult.” + +Sancho, listening to all this, said to himself, “This master of mine, +when I say anything that has weight and substance, says I might take a +pulpit in hand, and go about the world preaching fine sermons; but I +say of him that, when he begins stringing maxims together and giving +advice not only might he take a pulpit in hand, but two on each finger, +and go into the market-places to his heart’s content. Devil take you +for a knight-errant, what a lot of things you know! I used to think in +my heart that the only thing he knew was what belonged to his chivalry; +but there is nothing he won’t have a finger in.” + +Sancho muttered this somewhat aloud, and his master overheard him, and +asked, “What art thou muttering there, Sancho?” + +“I’m not saying anything or muttering anything,” said Sancho; “I was +only saying to myself that I wish I had heard what your worship has +said just now before I married; perhaps I’d say now, ‘The ox that’s +loose licks himself well.’” + +“Is thy Teresa so bad then, Sancho?” + +“She is not very bad,” replied Sancho; “but she is not very good; at +least she is not as good as I could wish.” + +“Thou dost wrong, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “to speak ill of thy wife; +for after all she is the mother of thy children.” “We are quits,” +returned Sancho; “for she speaks ill of me whenever she takes it into +her head, especially when she is jealous; and Satan himself could not +put up with her then.” + +In fine, they remained three days with the newly married couple, by +whom they were entertained and treated like kings. Don Quixote begged +the fencing licentiate to find him a guide to show him the way to the +cave of Montesinos, as he had a great desire to enter it and see with +his own eyes if the wonderful tales that were told of it all over the +country were true. The licentiate said he would get him a cousin of his +own, a famous scholar, and one very much given to reading books of +chivalry, who would have great pleasure in conducting him to the mouth +of the very cave, and would show him the lakes of Ruidera, which were +likewise famous all over La Mancha, and even all over Spain; and he +assured him he would find him entertaining, for he was a youth who +could write books good enough to be printed and dedicated to princes. +The cousin arrived at last, leading an ass in foal, with a pack-saddle +covered with a parti-coloured carpet or sackcloth; Sancho saddled +Rocinante, got Dapple ready, and stocked his alforjas, along with which +went those of the cousin, likewise well filled; and so, commending +themselves to God and bidding farewell to all, they set out, taking the +road for the famous cave of Montesinos. + +On the way Don Quixote asked the cousin of what sort and character his +pursuits, avocations, and studies were, to which he replied that he was +by profession a humanist, and that his pursuits and studies were making +books for the press, all of great utility and no less entertainment to +the nation. One was called “The Book of Liveries,” in which he +described seven hundred and three liveries, with their colours, +mottoes, and ciphers, from which gentlemen of the court might pick and +choose any they fancied for festivals and revels, without having to go +a-begging for them from anyone, or puzzling their brains, as the saying +is, to have them appropriate to their objects and purposes; “for,” said +he, “I give the jealous, the rejected, the forgotten, the absent, what +will suit them, and fit them without fail. I have another book, too, +which I shall call ‘Metamorphoses, or the Spanish Ovid,’ one of rare +and original invention, for imitating Ovid in burlesque style, I show +in it who the Giralda of Seville and the Angel of the Magdalena were, +what the sewer of Vecinguerra at Cordova was, what the bulls of +Guisando, the Sierra Morena, the Leganitos and Lavapies fountains at +Madrid, not forgetting those of the Piojo, of the Cano Dorado, and of +the Priora; and all with their allegories, metaphors, and changes, so +that they are amusing, interesting, and instructive, all at once. +Another book I have which I call ‘The Supplement to Polydore Vergil,’ +which treats of the invention of things, and is a work of great +erudition and research, for I establish and elucidate elegantly some +things of great importance which Polydore omitted to mention. He forgot +to tell us who was the first man in the world that had a cold in his +head, and who was the first to try salivation for the French disease, +but I give it accurately set forth, and quote more than five-and-twenty +authors in proof of it, so you may perceive I have laboured to good +purpose and that the book will be of service to the whole world.” + +Sancho, who had been very attentive to the cousin’s words, said to him, +“Tell me, señor—and God give you luck in printing your books—can you +tell me (for of course you know, as you know everything) who was the +first man that scratched his head? For to my thinking it must have been +our father Adam.” + +“So it must,” replied the cousin; “for there is no doubt but Adam had a +head and hair; and being the first man in the world he would have +scratched himself sometimes.” + +“So I think,” said Sancho; “but now tell me, who was the first tumbler +in the world?” + +“Really, brother,” answered the cousin, “I could not at this moment say +positively without having investigated it; I will look it up when I go +back to where I have my books, and will satisfy you the next time we +meet, for this will not be the last time.” + +“Look here, señor,” said Sancho, “don’t give yourself any trouble about +it, for I have just this minute hit upon what I asked you. The first +tumbler in the world, you must know, was Lucifer, when they cast or +pitched him out of heaven; for he came tumbling into the bottomless +pit.” + +“You are right, friend,” said the cousin; and said Don Quixote, +“Sancho, that question and answer are not thine own; thou hast heard +them from someone else.” + +“Hold your peace, señor,” said Sancho; “faith, if I take to asking +questions and answering, I’ll go on from this till to-morrow morning. +Nay! to ask foolish things and answer nonsense I needn’t go looking for +help from my neighbours.” + +“Thou hast said more than thou art aware of, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; +“for there are some who weary themselves out in learning and proving +things that, after they are known and proved, are not worth a farthing +to the understanding or memory.” + +In this and other pleasant conversation the day went by, and that night +they put up at a small hamlet whence it was not more than two leagues +to the cave of Montesinos, so the cousin told Don Quixote, adding, that +if he was bent upon entering it, it would be requisite for him to +provide himself with ropes, so that he might be tied and lowered into +its depths. Don Quixote said that even if it reached to the bottomless +pit he meant to see where it went to; so they bought about a hundred +fathoms of rope, and next day at two in the afternoon they arrived at +the cave, the mouth of which is spacious and wide, but full of thorn +and wild-fig bushes and brambles and briars, so thick and matted that +they completely close it up and cover it over. + +On coming within sight of it the cousin, Sancho, and Don Quixote +dismounted, and the first two immediately tied the latter very firmly +with the ropes, and as they were girding and swathing him Sancho said +to him, “Mind what you are about, master mine; don’t go burying +yourself alive, or putting yourself where you’ll be like a bottle put +to cool in a well; it’s no affair or business of your worship’s to +become the explorer of this, which must be worse than a Moorish +dungeon.” + +“Tie me and hold thy peace,” said Don Quixote, “for an emprise like +this, friend Sancho, was reserved for me;” and said the guide, “I beg +of you, Señor Don Quixote, to observe carefully and examine with a +hundred eyes everything that is within there; perhaps there may be some +things for me to put into my book of ‘Transformations.’” + +“The drum is in hands that will know how to beat it well enough,” said +Sancho Panza. + +When he had said this and finished the tying (which was not over the +armour but only over the doublet) Don Quixote observed, “It was +careless of us not to have provided ourselves with a small cattle-bell +to be tied on the rope close to me, the sound of which would show that +I was still descending and alive; but as that is out of the question +now, in God’s hand be it to guide me;” and forthwith he fell on his +knees and in a low voice offered up a prayer to heaven, imploring God +to aid him and grant him success in this to all appearance perilous and +untried adventure, and then exclaimed aloud, “O mistress of my actions +and movements, illustrious and peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, if so be +the prayers and supplications of this fortunate lover can reach thy +ears, by thy incomparable beauty I entreat thee to listen to them, for +they but ask thee not to refuse me thy favour and protection now that I +stand in such need of them. I am about to precipitate, to sink, to +plunge myself into the abyss that is here before me, only to let the +world know that while thou dost favour me there is no impossibility I +will not attempt and accomplish.” With these words he approached the +cavern, and perceived that it was impossible to let himself down or +effect an entrance except by sheer force or cleaving a passage; so +drawing his sword he began to demolish and cut away the brambles at the +mouth of the cave, at the noise of which a vast multitude of crows and +choughs flew out of it so thick and so fast that they knocked Don +Quixote down; and if he had been as much of a believer in augury as he +was a Catholic Christian he would have taken it as a bad omen and +declined to bury himself in such a place. He got up, however, and as +there came no more crows, or night-birds like the bats that flew out at +the same time with the crows, the cousin and Sancho giving him rope, he +lowered himself into the depths of the dread cavern; and as he entered +it Sancho sent his blessing after him, making a thousand crosses over +him and saying, “God, and the Peña de Francia, and the Trinity of Gaeta +guide thee, flower and cream of knights-errant. There thou goest, thou +dare-devil of the earth, heart of steel, arm of brass; once more, God +guide thee and send thee back safe, sound, and unhurt to the light of +this world thou art leaving to bury thyself in the darkness thou art +seeking there;” and the cousin offered up almost the same prayers and +supplications. + + + +p22c.jpg (365K) + +Full Size + + + +Don Quixote kept calling to them to give him rope and more rope, and +they gave it out little by little, and by the time the calls, which +came out of the cave as out of a pipe, ceased to be heard they had let +down the hundred fathoms of rope. They were inclined to pull Don +Quixote up again, as they could give him no more rope; however, they +waited about half an hour, at the end of which time they began to +gather in the rope again with great ease and without feeling any +weight, which made them fancy Don Quixote was remaining below; and +persuaded that it was so, Sancho wept bitterly, and hauled away in +great haste in order to settle the question. When, however, they had +come to, as it seemed, rather more than eighty fathoms they felt a +weight, at which they were greatly delighted; and at last, at ten +fathoms more, they saw Don Quixote distinctly, and Sancho called out to +him, saying, “Welcome back, señor, for we had begun to think you were +going to stop there to found a family.” But Don Quixote answered not a +word, and drawing him out entirely they perceived he had his eyes shut +and every appearance of being fast asleep. + +They stretched him on the ground and untied him, but still he did not +awake; however, they rolled him back and forwards and shook and pulled +him about, so that after some time he came to himself, stretching +himself just as if he were waking up from a deep and sound sleep, and +looking about him he said, “God forgive you, friends; ye have taken me +away from the sweetest and most delightful existence and spectacle that +ever human being enjoyed or beheld. Now indeed do I know that all the +pleasures of this life pass away like a shadow and a dream, or fade +like the flower of the field. O ill-fated Montesinos! O sore-wounded +Durandarte! O unhappy Belerma! O tearful Guadiana, and ye O hapless +daughters of Ruidera who show in your waves the tears that flowed from +your beauteous eyes!” + + + +p22d.jpg (318K) + +Full Size + + + +The cousin and Sancho Panza listened with deep attention to the words +of Don Quixote, who uttered them as though with immense pain he drew +them up from his very bowels. They begged of him to explain himself, +and tell them what he had seen in that hell down there. + +“Hell do you call it?” said Don Quixote; “call it by no such name, for +it does not deserve it, as ye shall soon see.” + +He then begged them to give him something to eat, as he was very +hungry. They spread the cousin’s sackcloth on the grass, and put the +stores of the alforjas into requisition, and all three sitting down +lovingly and sociably, they made a luncheon and a supper of it all in +one; and when the sackcloth was removed, Don Quixote of La Mancha said, +“Let no one rise, and attend to me, my sons, both of you.” + + + +p22e.jpg (48K) + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. +OF THE WONDERFUL THINGS THE INCOMPARABLE DON QUIXOTE SAID HE SAW IN THE +PROFOUND CAVE OF MONTESINOS, THE IMPOSSIBILITY AND MAGNITUDE OF WHICH +CAUSE THIS ADVENTURE TO BE DEEMED APOCRYPHAL + + + + +p23a.jpg (148K) + +Full Size + + + +It was about four in the afternoon when the sun, veiled in clouds, with +subdued light and tempered beams, enabled Don Quixote to relate, +without heat or inconvenience, what he had seen in the cave of +Montesinos to his two illustrious hearers, and he began as follows: + +“A matter of some twelve or fourteen times a man’s height down in this +pit, on the right-hand side, there is a recess or space, roomy enough +to contain a large cart with its mules. A little light reaches it +through some chinks or crevices, communicating with it and open to the +surface of the earth. This recess or space I perceived when I was +already growing weary and disgusted at finding myself hanging suspended +by the rope, travelling downwards into that dark region without any +certainty or knowledge of where I was going, so I resolved to enter it +and rest myself for a while. I called out, telling you not to let out +more rope until I bade you, but you cannot have heard me. I then +gathered in the rope you were sending me, and making a coil or pile of +it I seated myself upon it, ruminating and considering what I was to do +to lower myself to the bottom, having no one to hold me up; and as I +was thus deep in thought and perplexity, suddenly and without +provocation a profound sleep fell upon me, and when I least expected +it, I know not how, I awoke and found myself in the midst of the most +beautiful, delightful meadow that nature could produce or the most +lively human imagination conceive. I opened my eyes, I rubbed them, and +found I was not asleep but thoroughly awake. Nevertheless, I felt my +head and breast to satisfy myself whether it was I myself who was there +or some empty delusive phantom; but touch, feeling, the collected +thoughts that passed through my mind, all convinced me that I was the +same then and there that I am this moment. Next there presented itself +to my sight a stately royal palace or castle, with walls that seemed +built of clear transparent crystal; and through two great doors that +opened wide therein, I saw coming forth and advancing towards me a +venerable old man, clad in a long gown of mulberry-coloured serge that +trailed upon the ground. On his shoulders and breast he had a green +satin collegiate hood, and covering his head a black Milanese bonnet, +and his snow-white beard fell below his girdle. He carried no arms +whatever, nothing but a rosary of beads bigger than fair-sized +filberts, each tenth bead being like a moderate ostrich egg; his +bearing, his gait, his dignity and imposing presence held me spellbound +and wondering. He approached me, and the first thing he did was to +embrace me closely, and then he said to me, ‘For a long time now, O +valiant knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, we who are here enchanted in +these solitudes have been hoping to see thee, that thou mayest make +known to the world what is shut up and concealed in this deep cave, +called the cave of Montesinos, which thou hast entered, an achievement +reserved for thy invincible heart and stupendous courage alone to +attempt. Come with me, illustrious sir, and I will show thee the +marvels hidden within this transparent castle, whereof I am the alcaide +and perpetual warden; for I am Montesinos himself, from whom the cave +takes its name.’ + +“The instant he told me he was Montesinos, I asked him if the story +they told in the world above here was true, that he had taken out the +heart of his great friend Durandarte from his breast with a little +dagger, and carried it to the lady Belerma, as his friend when at the +point of death had commanded him. He said in reply that they spoke the +truth in every respect except as to the dagger, for it was not a +dagger, nor little, but a burnished poniard sharper than an awl.” + +“That poniard must have been made by Ramon de Hoces the Sevillian,” +said Sancho. + +“I do not know,” said Don Quixote; “it could not have been by that +poniard maker, however, because Ramon de Hoces was a man of yesterday, +and the affair of Roncesvalles, where this mishap occurred, was long +ago; but the question is of no great importance, nor does it affect or +make any alteration in the truth or substance of the story.” + +“That is true,” said the cousin; “continue, Señor Don Quixote, for I am +listening to you with the greatest pleasure in the world.” + +“And with no less do I tell the tale,” said Don Quixote; “and so, to +proceed—the venerable Montesinos led me into the palace of crystal, +where, in a lower chamber, strangely cool and entirely of alabaster, +was an elaborately wrought marble tomb, upon which I beheld, stretched +at full length, a knight, not of bronze, or marble, or jasper, as are +seen on other tombs, but of actual flesh and bone. His right hand +(which seemed to me somewhat hairy and sinewy, a sign of great strength +in its owner) lay on the side of his heart; but before I could put any +question to Montesinos, he, seeing me gazing at the tomb in amazement, +said to me, ‘This is my friend Durandarte, flower and mirror of the +true lovers and valiant knights of his time. He is held enchanted here, +as I myself and many others are, by that French enchanter Merlin, who, +they say, was the devil’s son; but my belief is, not that he was the +devil’s son, but that he knew, as the saying is, a point more than the +devil. How or why he enchanted us, no one knows, but time will tell, +and I suspect that time is not far off. What I marvel at is, that I +know it to be as sure as that it is now day, that Durandarte ended his +life in my arms, and that, after his death, I took out his heart with +my own hands; and indeed it must have weighed more than two pounds, +for, according to naturalists, he who has a large heart is more largely +endowed with valour than he who has a small one. Then, as this is the +case, and as the knight did really die, how comes it that he now moans +and sighs from time to time, as if he were still alive?’ + + + +p23b.jpg (243K) + +Full Size + + + +“As he said this, the wretched Durandarte cried out in a loud voice: + +O cousin Montesinos! +’Twas my last request of thee, +When my soul hath left the body, +And that lying dead I be, +With thy poniard or thy dagger +Cut the heart from out my breast, +And bear it to Belerma. +This was my last request.” + + +“On hearing which, the venerable Montesinos fell on his knees before +the unhappy knight, and with tearful eyes exclaimed, ‘Long since, Señor +Durandarte, my beloved cousin, long since have I done what you bade me +on that sad day when I lost you; I took out your heart as well as I +could, not leaving an atom of it in your breast, I wiped it with a lace +handkerchief, and I took the road to France with it, having first laid +you in the bosom of the earth with tears enough to wash and cleanse my +hands of the blood that covered them after wandering among your bowels; +and more by token, O cousin of my soul, at the first village I came to +after leaving Roncesvalles, I sprinkled a little salt upon your heart +to keep it sweet, and bring it, if not fresh, at least pickled, into +the presence of the lady Belerma, whom, together with you, myself, +Guadiana your squire, the duenna Ruidera and her seven daughters and +two nieces, and many more of your friends and acquaintances, the sage +Merlin has been keeping enchanted here these many years; and although +more than five hundred have gone by, not one of us has died; Ruidera +and her daughters and nieces alone are missing, and these, because of +the tears they shed, Merlin, out of the compassion he seems to have +felt for them, changed into so many lakes, which to this day in the +world of the living, and in the province of La Mancha, are called the +Lakes of Ruidera. The seven daughters belong to the kings of Spain and +the two nieces to the knights of a very holy order called the Order of +St. John. Guadiana your squire, likewise bewailing your fate, was +changed into a river of his own name, but when he came to the surface +and beheld the sun of another heaven, so great was his grief at finding +he was leaving you, that he plunged into the bowels of the earth; +however, as he cannot help following his natural course, he from time +to time comes forth and shows himself to the sun and the world. The +lakes aforesaid send him their waters, and with these, and others that +come to him, he makes a grand and imposing entrance into Portugal; but +for all that, go where he may, he shows his melancholy and sadness, and +takes no pride in breeding dainty choice fish, only coarse and +tasteless sorts, very different from those of the golden Tagus. All +this that I tell you now, O cousin mine, I have told you many times +before, and as you make no answer, I fear that either you believe me +not, or do not hear me, whereat I feel God knows what grief. I have now +news to give you, which, if it serves not to alleviate your sufferings, +will not in any wise increase them. Know that you have here before you +(open your eyes and you will see) that great knight of whom the sage +Merlin has prophesied such great things; that Don Quixote of La Mancha +I mean, who has again, and to better purpose than in past times, +revived in these days knight-errantry, long since forgotten, and by +whose intervention and aid it may be we shall be disenchanted; for +great deeds are reserved for great men.’ + +“‘And if that may not be,’ said the wretched Durandarte in a low and +feeble voice, ‘if that may not be, then, my cousin, I say “patience and +shuffle;”’ and turning over on his side, he relapsed into his former +silence without uttering another word. + + + +p23c.jpg (331K) + +Full Size + + + +“And now there was heard a great outcry and lamentation, accompanied by +deep sighs and bitter sobs. I looked round, and through the crystal +wall I saw passing through another chamber a procession of two lines of +fair damsels all clad in mourning, and with white turbans of Turkish +fashion on their heads. Behind, in the rear of these, there came a +lady, for so from her dignity she seemed to be, also clad in black, +with a white veil so long and ample that it swept the ground. Her +turban was twice as large as the largest of any of the others; her +eyebrows met, her nose was rather flat, her mouth was large but with +ruddy lips, and her teeth, of which at times she allowed a glimpse, +were seen to be sparse and ill-set, though as white as peeled almonds. +She carried in her hands a fine cloth, and in it, as well as I could +make out, a heart that had been mummied, so parched and dried was it. +Montesinos told me that all those forming the procession were the +attendants of Durandarte and Belerma, who were enchanted there with +their master and mistress, and that the last, she who carried the heart +in the cloth, was the lady Belerma, who, with her damsels, four days in +the week went in procession singing, or rather weeping, dirges over the +body and miserable heart of his cousin; and that if she appeared to me +somewhat ill-favoured or not so beautiful as fame reported her, it was +because of the bad nights and worse days that she passed in that +enchantment, as I could see by the great dark circles round her eyes, +and her sickly complexion; ‘her sallowness, and the rings round her +eyes,’ said he, ‘are not caused by the periodical ailment usual with +women, for it is many months and even years since she has had any, but +by the grief her own heart suffers because of that which she holds in +her hand perpetually, and which recalls and brings back to her memory +the sad fate of her lost lover; were it not for this, hardly would the +great Dulcinea del Toboso, so celebrated in all these parts, and even +in the world, come up to her for beauty, grace, and gaiety.’ + +“‘Hold hard!’ said I at this, ‘tell your story as you ought, Señor Don +Montesinos, for you know very well that all comparisons are odious, and +there is no occasion to compare one person with another; the peerless +Dulcinea del Toboso is what she is, and the lady Doña Belerma is what +_she_ is and has been, and that’s enough.’ To which he made answer, +‘Forgive me, Señor Don Quixote; I own I was wrong and spoke unadvisedly +in saying that the lady Dulcinea could scarcely come up to the lady +Belerma; for it were enough for me to have learned, by what means I +know not, that you are her knight, to make me bite my tongue out before +I compared her to anything save heaven itself.’ After this apology +which the great Montesinos made me, my heart recovered itself from the +shock I had received in hearing my lady compared with Belerma.” + +“Still I wonder,” said Sancho, “that your worship did not get upon the +old fellow and bruise every bone of him with kicks, and pluck his beard +until you didn’t leave a hair in it.” + +“Nay, Sancho, my friend,” said Don Quixote, “it would not have been +right in me to do that, for we are all bound to pay respect to the +aged, even though they be not knights, but especially to those who are, +and who are enchanted; I only know I gave him as good as he brought in +the many other questions and answers we exchanged.” + +“I cannot understand, Señor Don Quixote,” remarked the cousin here, +“how it is that your worship, in such a short space of time as you have +been below there, could have seen so many things, and said and answered +so much.” + +“How long is it since I went down?” asked Don Quixote. + +“Little better than an hour,” replied Sancho. + +“That cannot be,” returned Don Quixote, “because night overtook me +while I was there, and day came, and it was night again and day again +three times; so that, by my reckoning, I have been three days in those +remote regions beyond our ken.” + +“My master must be right,” replied Sancho; “for as everything that has +happened to him is by enchantment, maybe what seems to us an hour would +seem three days and nights there.” + +“That’s it,” said Don Quixote. + +“And did your worship eat anything all that time, señor?” asked the +cousin. + +“I never touched a morsel,” answered Don Quixote, “nor did I feel +hunger, or think of it.” + +“And do the enchanted eat?” said the cousin. + +“They neither eat,” said Don Quixote; “nor are they subject to the +greater excrements, though it is thought that their nails, beards, and +hair grow.” + +“And do the enchanted sleep, now, señor?” asked Sancho. + +“Certainly not,” replied Don Quixote; “at least, during those three +days I was with them not one of them closed an eye, nor did I either.” + +“The proverb, ‘Tell me what company thou keepest and I’ll tell thee +what thou art,’ is to the point here,” said Sancho; “your worship keeps +company with enchanted people that are always fasting and watching; +what wonder is it, then, that you neither eat nor sleep while you are +with them? But forgive me, señor, if I say that of all this you have +told us now, may God take me—I was just going to say the devil—if I +believe a single particle.” + +“What!” said the cousin, “has Señor Don Quixote, then, been lying? Why, +even if he wished it he has not had time to imagine and put together +such a host of lies.” + +“I don’t believe my master lies,” said Sancho. + +“If not, what dost thou believe?” asked Don Quixote. + +“I believe,” replied Sancho, “that this Merlin, or those enchanters who +enchanted the whole crew your worship says you saw and discoursed with +down there, stuffed your imagination or your mind with all this +rigmarole you have been treating us to, and all that is still to come.” + +“All that might be, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; “but it is not so, +for everything that I have told you I saw with my own eyes, and touched +with my own hands. But what will you say when I tell you now how, among +the countless other marvellous things Montesinos showed me (of which at +leisure and at the proper time I will give thee an account in the +course of our journey, for they would not be all in place here), he +showed me three country girls who went skipping and capering like goats +over the pleasant fields there, and the instant I beheld them I knew +one to be the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, and the other two those +same country girls that were with her and that we spoke to on the road +from El Toboso! I asked Montesinos if he knew them, and he told me he +did not, but he thought they must be some enchanted ladies of +distinction, for it was only a few days before that they had made their +appearance in those meadows; but I was not to be surprised at that, +because there were a great many other ladies there of times past and +present, enchanted in various strange shapes, and among them he had +recognised Queen Guinevere and her dame Quintañona, she who poured out +the wine for Lancelot when he came from Britain.” + +When Sancho Panza heard his master say this he was ready to take leave +of his senses, or die with laughter; for, as he knew the real truth +about the pretended enchantment of Dulcinea, in which he himself had +been the enchanter and concocter of all the evidence, he made up his +mind at last that, beyond all doubt, his master was out of his wits and +stark mad, so he said to him, “It was an evil hour, a worse season, and +a sorrowful day, when your worship, dear master mine, went down to the +other world, and an unlucky moment when you met with Señor Montesinos, +who has sent you back to us like this. You were well enough here above +in your full senses, such as God had given you, delivering maxims and +giving advice at every turn, and not as you are now, talking the +greatest nonsense that can be imagined.” + +“As I know thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “I heed not thy words.” + +“Nor I your worship’s,” said Sancho, “whether you beat me or kill me +for those I have spoken, and will speak if you don’t correct and mend +your own. But tell me, while we are still at peace, how or by what did +you recognise the lady our mistress; and if you spoke to her, what did +you say, and what did she answer?” + +“I recognised her,” said Don Quixote, “by her wearing the same garments +she wore when thou didst point her out to me. I spoke to her, but she +did not utter a word in reply; on the contrary, she turned her back on +me and took to flight, at such a pace that crossbow bolt could not have +overtaken her. I wished to follow her, and would have done so had not +Montesinos recommended me not to take the trouble as it would be +useless, particularly as the time was drawing near when it would be +necessary for me to quit the cavern. He told me, moreover, that in +course of time he would let me know how he and Belerma, and Durandarte, +and all who were there, were to be disenchanted. But of all I saw and +observed down there, what gave me most pain was, that while Montesinos +was speaking to me, one of the two companions of the hapless Dulcinea +approached me on one without my having seen her coming, and with tears +in her eyes said to me, in a low, agitated voice, ‘My lady Dulcinea del +Toboso kisses your worship’s hands, and entreats you to do her the +favour of letting her know how you are; and, being in great need, she +also entreats your worship as earnestly as she can to be so good as to +lend her half a dozen reals, or as much as you may have about you, on +this new dimity petticoat that I have here; and she promises to repay +them very speedily.’ I was amazed and taken aback by such a message, +and turning to Señor Montesinos I asked him, ‘Is it possible, Señor +Montesinos, that persons of distinction under enchantment can be in +need?’ To which he replied, ‘Believe me, Señor Don Quixote, that which +is called need is to be met with everywhere, and penetrates all +quarters and reaches everyone, and does not spare even the enchanted; +and as the lady Dulcinea del Toboso sends to beg those six reals, and +the pledge is to all appearance a good one, there is nothing for it but +to give them to her, for no doubt she must be in some great strait.’ ‘I +will take no pledge of her,’ I replied, ‘nor yet can I give her what +she asks, for all I have is four reals; which I gave (they were those +which thou, Sancho, gavest me the other day to bestow in alms upon the +poor I met along the road), and I said, ‘Tell your mistress, my dear, +that I am grieved to the heart because of her distresses, and wish I +was a Fucar to remedy them, and that I would have her know that I +cannot be, and ought not be, in health while deprived of the happiness +of seeing her and enjoying her discreet conversation, and that I +implore her as earnestly as I can, to allow herself to be seen and +addressed by this her captive servant and forlorn knight. Tell her, +too, that when she least expects it she will hear it announced that I +have made an oath and vow after the fashion of that which the Marquis +of Mantua made to avenge his nephew Baldwin, when he found him at the +point of death in the heart of the mountains, which was, not to eat +bread off a tablecloth, and other trifling matters which he added, +until he had avenged him; and I will make the same to take no rest, and +to roam the seven regions of the earth more thoroughly than the Infante +Don Pedro of Portugal ever roamed them, until I have disenchanted her.’ +‘All that and more, you owe my lady,’ the damsel’s answer to me, and +taking the four reals, instead of making me a curtsey she cut a caper, +springing two full yards into the air.” + +“O blessed God!” exclaimed Sancho aloud at this, “is it possible that +such things can be in the world, and that enchanters and enchantments +can have such power in it as to have changed my master’s right senses +into a craze so full of absurdity! O señor, señor, for God’s sake, +consider yourself, have a care for your honour, and give no credit to +this silly stuff that has left you scant and short of wits.” + +“Thou talkest in this way because thou lovest me, Sancho,” said Don +Quixote; “and not being experienced in the things of the world, +everything that has some difficulty about it seems to thee impossible; +but time will pass, as I said before, and I will tell thee some of the +things I saw down there which will make thee believe what I have +related now, the truth of which admits of neither reply nor question.” + + + +p23e.jpg (54K) + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. +WHEREIN ARE RELATED A THOUSAND TRIFLING MATTERS, AS TRIVIAL AS THEY ARE +NECESSARY TO THE RIGHT UNDERSTANDING OF THIS GREAT HISTORY + + + + +p24a.jpg (137K) + +Full Size + + + +He who translated this great history from the original written by its +first author, Cide Hamete Benengeli, says that on coming to the chapter +giving the adventures of the cave of Montesinos he found written on the +margin of it, in Hamete’s own hand, these exact words: + +“I cannot convince or persuade myself that everything that is written +in the preceding chapter could have precisely happened to the valiant +Don Quixote; and for this reason, that all the adventures that have +occurred up to the present have been possible and probable; but as for +this one of the cave, I see no way of accepting it as true, as it +passes all reasonable bounds. For me to believe that Don Quixote could +lie, he being the most truthful gentleman and the noblest knight of his +time, is impossible; he would not have told a lie though he were shot +to death with arrows. On the other hand, I reflect that he related and +told the story with all the circumstances detailed, and that he could +not in so short a space have fabricated such a vast complication of +absurdities; if, then, this adventure seems apocryphal, it is no fault +of mine; and so, without affirming its falsehood or its truth, I write +it down. Decide for thyself in thy wisdom, reader; for I am not bound, +nor is it in my power, to do more; though certain it is they say that +at the time of his death he retracted, and said he had invented it, +thinking it matched and tallied with the adventures he had read of in +his histories.” And then he goes on to say: + +The cousin was amazed as well at Sancho’s boldness as at the patience +of his master, and concluded that the good temper the latter displayed +arose from the happiness he felt at having seen his lady Dulcinea, even +enchanted as she was; because otherwise the words and language Sancho +had addressed to him deserved a thrashing; for indeed he seemed to him +to have been rather impudent to his master, to whom he now observed, +“I, Señor Don Quixote of La Mancha, look upon the time I have spent in +travelling with your worship as very well employed, for I have gained +four things in the course of it; the first is that I have made your +acquaintance, which I consider great good fortune; the second, that I +have learned what the cave of Montesinos contains, together with the +transformations of Guadiana and of the lakes of Ruidera; which will be +of use to me for the Spanish Ovid that I have in hand; the third, to +have discovered the antiquity of cards, that they were in use at least +in the time of Charlemagne, as may be inferred from the words you say +Durandarte uttered when, at the end of that long spell while Montesinos +was talking to him, he woke up and said, ‘Patience and shuffle.’ This +phrase and expression he could not have learned while he was enchanted, +but only before he had become so, in France, and in the time of the +aforesaid emperor Charlemagne. And this demonstration is just the thing +for me for that other book I am writing, the ‘Supplement to Polydore +Vergil on the Invention of Antiquities;’ for I believe he never thought +of inserting that of cards in his book, as I mean to do in mine, and it +will be a matter of great importance, particularly when I can cite so +grave and veracious an authority as Señor Durandarte. And the fourth +thing is, that I have ascertained the source of the river Guadiana, +heretofore unknown to mankind.” + +“You are right,” said Don Quixote; “but I should like to know, if by +God’s favour they grant you a licence to print those books of +yours—which I doubt—to whom do you mean to dedicate them?” + +“There are lords and grandees in Spain to whom they can be dedicated,” +said the cousin. + +“Not many,” said Don Quixote; “not that they are unworthy of it, but +because they do not care to accept books and incur the obligation of +making the return that seems due to the author’s labour and courtesy. +One prince I know who makes up for all the rest, and more—how much +more, if I ventured to say, perhaps I should stir up envy in many a +noble breast; but let this stand over for some more convenient time, +and let us go and look for some place to shelter ourselves in +to-night.” + +“Not far from this,” said the cousin, “there is a hermitage, where +there lives a hermit, who they say was a soldier, and who has the +reputation of being a good Christian and a very intelligent and +charitable man. Close to the hermitage he has a small house which he +built at his own cost, but though small it is large enough for the +reception of guests.” + +“Has this hermit any hens, do you think?” asked Sancho. + +“Few hermits are without them,” said Don Quixote; “for those we see +now-a-days are not like the hermits of the Egyptian deserts who were +clad in palm-leaves, and lived on the roots of the earth. But do not +think that by praising these I am disparaging the others; all I mean to +say is that the penances of those of the present day do not come up to +the asceticism and austerity of former times; but it does not follow +from this that they are not all worthy; at least I think them so; and +at the worst the hypocrite who pretends to be good does less harm than +the open sinner.” + +At this point they saw approaching the spot where they stood a man on +foot, proceeding at a rapid pace, and beating a mule loaded with lances +and halberds. When he came up to them, he saluted them and passed on +without stopping. Don Quixote called to him, “Stay, good fellow; you +seem to be making more haste than suits that mule.” + +“I cannot stop, señor,” answered the man; “for the arms you see I carry +here are to be used to-morrow, so I must not delay; God be with you. +But if you want to know what I am carrying them for, I mean to lodge +to-night at the inn that is beyond the hermitage, and if you be going +the same road you will find me there, and I will tell you some curious +things; once more God be with you;” and he urged on his mule at such a +pace that Don Quixote had no time to ask him what these curious things +were that he meant to tell them; and as he was somewhat inquisitive, +and always tortured by his anxiety to learn something new, he decided +to set out at once, and go and pass the night at the inn instead of +stopping at the hermitage, where the cousin would have had them halt. +Accordingly they mounted and all three took the direct road for the +inn, which they reached a little before nightfall. On the road the +cousin proposed they should go up to the hermitage to drink a sup. The +instant Sancho heard this he steered his Dapple towards it, and Don +Quixote and the cousin did the same; but it seems Sancho’s bad luck so +ordered it that the hermit was not at home, for so a sub-hermit they +found in the hermitage told them. They called for some of the best. She +replied that her master had none, but that if they liked cheap water +she would give it with great pleasure. + +“If I found any in water,” said Sancho, “there are wells along the road +where I could have had enough of it. Ah, Camacho’s wedding, and +plentiful house of Don Diego, how often do I miss you!” + +Leaving the hermitage, they pushed on towards the inn, and a little +farther they came upon a youth who was pacing along in front of them at +no great speed, so that they overtook him. He carried a sword over his +shoulder, and slung on it a budget or bundle of his clothes apparently, +probably his breeches or pantaloons, and his cloak and a shirt or two; +for he had on a short jacket of velvet with a gloss like satin on it in +places, and had his shirt out; his stockings were of silk, and his +shoes square-toed as they wear them at court. His age might have been +eighteen or nineteen; he was of a merry countenance, and to all +appearance of an active habit, and he went along singing seguidillas to +beguile the wearisomeness of the road. As they came up with him he was +just finishing one, which the cousin got by heart and they say ran +thus— + +I’m off to the wars +For the want of pence, +Oh, had I but money +I’d show more sense. + + +The first to address him was Don Quixote, who said, “You travel very +airily, sir gallant; whither bound, may we ask, if it is your pleasure +to tell us?” + +To which the youth replied, “The heat and my poverty are the reason of +my travelling so airily, and it is to the wars that I am bound.” + +“How poverty?” asked Don Quixote; “the heat one can understand.” + +“Señor,” replied the youth, “in this bundle I carry velvet pantaloons +to match this jacket; if I wear them out on the road, I shall not be +able to make a decent appearance in them in the city, and I have not +the wherewithal to buy others; and so for this reason, as well as to +keep myself cool, I am making my way in this fashion to overtake some +companies of infantry that are not twelve leagues off, in which I shall +enlist, and there will be no want of baggage trains to travel with +after that to the place of embarkation, which they say will be +Carthagena; I would rather have the King for a master, and serve him in +the wars, than serve a court pauper.” + +“And did you get any bounty, now?” asked the cousin. + +“If I had been in the service of some grandee of Spain or personage of +distinction,” replied the youth, “I should have been safe to get it; +for that is the advantage of serving good masters, that out of the +servants’ hall men come to be ancients or captains, or get a good +pension. But I, to my misfortune, always served place-hunters and +adventurers, whose keep and wages were so miserable and scanty that +half went in paying for the starching of one’s collars; it would be a +miracle indeed if a page volunteer ever got anything like a reasonable +bounty.” + +“And tell me, for heaven’s sake,” asked Don Quixote, “is it possible, +my friend, that all the time you served you never got any livery?” + +“They gave me two,” replied the page; “but just as when one quits a +religious community before making profession, they strip him of the +dress of the order and give him back his own clothes, so did my masters +return me mine; for as soon as the business on which they came to court +was finished, they went home and took back the liveries they had given +merely for show.” + +“What spilorceria!—as an Italian would say,” said Don Quixote; “but for +all that, consider yourself happy in having left court with as worthy +an object as you have, for there is nothing on earth more honourable or +profitable than serving, first of all God, and then one’s king and +natural lord, particularly in the profession of arms, by which, if not +more wealth, at least more honour is to be won than by letters, as I +have said many a time; for though letters may have founded more great +houses than arms, still those founded by arms have I know not what +superiority over those founded by letters, and a certain splendour +belonging to them that distinguishes them above all. And bear in mind +what I am now about to say to you, for it will be of great use and +comfort to you in time of trouble; it is, not to let your mind dwell on +the adverse chances that may befall you; for the worst of all is death, +and if it be a good death, the best of all is to die. They asked Julius +Cæsar, the valiant Roman emperor, what was the best death. He answered, +that which is unexpected, which comes suddenly and unforeseen; and +though he answered like a pagan, and one without the knowledge of the +true God, yet, as far as sparing our feelings is concerned, he was +right; for suppose you are killed in the first engagement or skirmish, +whether by a cannon ball or blown up by mine, what matters it? It is +only dying, and all is over; and according to Terence, a soldier shows +better dead in battle, than alive and safe in flight; and the good +soldier wins fame in proportion as he is obedient to his captains and +those in command over him. And remember, my son, that it is better for +the soldier to smell of gunpowder than of civet, and that if old age +should come upon you in this honourable calling, though you may be +covered with wounds and crippled and lame, it will not come upon you +without honour, and that such as poverty cannot lessen; especially now +that provisions are being made for supporting and relieving old and +disabled soldiers; for it is not right to deal with them after the +fashion of those who set free and get rid of their black slaves when +they are old and useless, and, turning them out of their houses under +the pretence of making them free, make them slaves to hunger, from +which they cannot expect to be released except by death. But for the +present I won’t say more than get ye up behind me on my horse as far as +the inn, and sup with me there, and to-morrow you shall pursue your +journey, and God give you as good speed as your intentions deserve.” + +The page did not accept the invitation to mount, though he did that to +supper at the inn; and here they say Sancho said to himself, “God be +with you for a master; is it possible that a man who can say things so +many and so good as he has said just now, can say that he saw the +impossible absurdities he reports about the cave of Montesinos? Well, +well, we shall see.” + +And now, just as night was falling, they reached the inn, and it was +not without satisfaction that Sancho perceived his master took it for a +real inn, and not for a castle as usual. The instant they entered Don +Quixote asked the landlord after the man with the lances and halberds, +and was told that he was in the stable seeing to his mule; which was +what Sancho and the cousin proceeded to do for their beasts, giving the +best manger and the best place in the stable to Rocinante. + + + +p24e.jpg (61K) + + + +CHAPTER XXV. +WHEREIN IS SET DOWN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, AND THE DROLL ONE OF THE +PUPPET-SHOWMAN, TOGETHER WITH THE MEMORABLE DIVINATIONS OF THE DIVINING +APE + + + + +p25a.jpg (154K) + +Full Size + + + +Don Quixote’s bread would not bake, as the common saying is, until he +had heard and learned the curious things promised by the man who +carried the arms. He went to seek him where the innkeeper said he was +and having found him, bade him say now at any rate what he had to say +in answer to the question he had asked him on the road. “The tale of my +wonders must be taken more leisurely and not standing,” said the man; +“let me finish foddering my beast, good sir; and then I’ll tell you +things that will astonish you.” + +“Don’t wait for that,” said Don Quixote; “I’ll help you in everything,” +and so he did, sifting the barley for him and cleaning out the manger; +a degree of humility which made the other feel bound to tell him with a +good grace what he had asked; so seating himself on a bench, with Don +Quixote beside him, and the cousin, the page, Sancho Panza, and the +landlord, for a senate and an audience, he began his story in this way: + +“You must know that in a village four leagues and a half from this inn, +it so happened that one of the regidors, by the tricks and roguery of a +servant girl of his (it’s too long a tale to tell), lost an ass; and +though he did all he possibly could to find it, it was all to no +purpose. A fortnight might have gone by, so the story goes, since the +ass had been missing, when, as the regidor who had lost it was standing +in the plaza, another regidor of the same town said to him, ‘Pay me for +good news, gossip; your ass has turned up.’ ‘That I will, and well, +gossip,’ said the other; ‘but tell us, where has he turned up?’ ‘In the +forest,’ said the finder; ‘I saw him this morning without pack-saddle +or harness of any sort, and so lean that it went to one’s heart to see +him. I tried to drive him before me and bring him to you, but he is +already so wild and shy that when I went near him he made off into the +thickest part of the forest. If you have a mind that we two should go +back and look for him, let me put up this she-ass at my house and I’ll +be back at once.’ ‘You will be doing me a great kindness,’ said the +owner of the ass, ‘and I’ll try to pay it back in the same coin.’ It is +with all these circumstances, and in the very same way I am telling it +now, that those who know all about the matter tell the story. Well +then, the two regidors set off on foot, arm in arm, for the forest, and +coming to the place where they hoped to find the ass they could not +find him, nor was he to be seen anywhere about, search as they might. +Seeing, then, that there was no sign of him, the regidor who had seen +him said to the other, ‘Look here, gossip; a plan has occurred to me, +by which, beyond a doubt, we shall manage to discover the animal, even +if he is stowed away in the bowels of the earth, not to say the forest. +Here it is. I can bray to perfection, and if you can ever so little, +the thing’s as good as done.’ ‘Ever so little did you say, gossip?’ +said the other; ‘by God, I’ll not give in to anybody, not even to the +asses themselves.’ ‘We’ll soon see,’ said the second regidor, ‘for my +plan is that you should go one side of the forest, and I the other, so +as to go all round about it; and every now and then you will bray and I +will bray; and it cannot be but that the ass will hear us, and answer +us if he is in the forest.’ To which the owner of the ass replied, +‘It’s an excellent plan, I declare, gossip, and worthy of your great +genius;’ and the two separating as agreed, it so fell out that they +brayed almost at the same moment, and each, deceived by the braying of +the other, ran to look, fancying the ass had turned up at last. When +they came in sight of one another, said the loser, ‘Is it possible, +gossip, that it was not my ass that brayed?’ ‘No, it was I,’ said the +other. ‘Well then, I can tell you, gossip,’ said the ass’s owner, ‘that +between you and an ass there is not an atom of difference as far as +braying goes, for I never in all my life saw or heard anything more +natural.’ ‘Those praises and compliments belong to you more justly than +to me, gossip,’ said the inventor of the plan; ‘for, by the God that +made me, you might give a couple of brays odds to the best and most +finished brayer in the world; the tone you have got is deep, your voice +is well kept up as to time and pitch, and your finishing notes come +thick and fast; in fact, I own myself beaten, and yield the palm to +you, and give in to you in this rare accomplishment.’ ‘Well then,’ said +the owner, ‘I’ll set a higher value on myself for the future, and +consider that I know something, as I have an excellence of some sort; +for though I always thought I brayed well, I never supposed I came up +to the pitch of perfection you say.’ ‘And I say too,’ said the second, +‘that there are rare gifts going to loss in the world, and that they +are ill bestowed upon those who don’t know how to make use of them.’ +‘Ours,’ said the owner of the ass, ‘unless it is in cases like this we +have now in hand, cannot be of any service to us, and even in this God +grant they may be of some use.’ So saying they separated, and took to +their braying once more, but every instant they were deceiving one +another, and coming to meet one another again, until they arranged by +way of countersign, so as to know that it was they and not the ass, to +give two brays, one after the other. In this way, doubling the brays at +every step, they made the complete circuit of the forest, but the lost +ass never gave them an answer or even the sign of one. How could the +poor ill-starred brute have answered, when, in the thickest part of the +forest, they found him devoured by wolves? As soon as he saw him his +owner said, ‘I was wondering he did not answer, for if he wasn’t dead +he’d have brayed when he heard us, or he’d have been no ass; but for +the sake of having heard you bray to such perfection, gossip, I count +the trouble I have taken to look for him well bestowed, even though I +have found him dead.’ ‘It’s in a good hand, gossip,’ said the other; +‘if the abbot sings well, the acolyte is not much behind him.’ So they +returned disconsolate and hoarse to their village, where they told +their friends, neighbours, and acquaintances what had befallen them in +their search for the ass, each crying up the other’s perfection in +braying. The whole story came to be known and spread abroad through the +villages of the neighbourhood; and the devil, who never sleeps, with +his love for sowing dissensions and scattering discord everywhere, +blowing mischief about and making quarrels out of nothing, contrived to +make the people of the other towns fall to braying whenever they saw +anyone from our village, as if to throw the braying of our regidors in +our teeth. Then the boys took to it, which was the same thing for it as +getting into the hands and mouths of all the devils of hell; and +braying spread from one town to another in such a way that the men of +the braying town are as easy to be known as blacks are to be known from +whites, and the unlucky joke has gone so far that several times the +scoffed have come out in arms and in a body to do battle with the +scoffers, and neither king nor rook, fear nor shame, can mend matters. +To-morrow or the day after, I believe, the men of my town, that is, of +the braying town, are going to take the field against another village +two leagues away from ours, one of those that persecute us most; and +that we may turn out well prepared I have bought these lances and +halberds you have seen. These are the curious things I told you I had +to tell, and if you don’t think them so, I have got no others;” and +with this the worthy fellow brought his story to a close. + +Just at this moment there came in at the gate of the inn a man entirely +clad in chamois leather, hose, breeches, and doublet, who said in a +loud voice, “Señor host, have you room? Here’s the divining ape and the +show of the Release of Melisendra just coming.” + +“Ods body!” said the landlord, “why, it’s Master Pedro! We’re in for a +grand night!” I forgot to mention that the said Master Pedro had his +left eye and nearly half his cheek covered with a patch of green +taffety, showing that something ailed all that side. “Your worship is +welcome, Master Pedro,” continued the landlord; “but where are the ape +and the show, for I don’t see them?” “They are close at hand,” said he +in the chamois leather, “but I came on first to know if there was any +room.” “I’d make the Duke of Alva himself clear out to make room for +Master Pedro,” said the landlord; “bring in the ape and the show; +there’s company in the inn to-night that will pay to see that and the +cleverness of the ape.” “So be it by all means,” said the man with the +patch; “I’ll lower the price, and be well satisfied if I only pay my +expenses; and now I’ll go back and hurry on the cart with the ape and +the show;” and with this he went out of the inn. + +Don Quixote at once asked the landlord what this Master Pedro was, and +what was the show and what was the ape he had with him; which the +landlord replied, “This is a famous puppet-showman, who for some time +past has been going about this Mancha de Aragon, exhibiting a show of +the release of Melisendra by the famous Don Gaiferos, one of the best +and best-represented stories that have been seen in this part of the +kingdom for many a year; he has also with him an ape with the most +extraordinary gift ever seen in an ape or imagined in a human being; +for if you ask him anything, he listens attentively to the question, +and then jumps on his master’s shoulder, and pressing close to his ear +tells him the answer which Master Pedro then delivers. He says a great +deal more about things past than about things to come; and though he +does not always hit the truth in every case, most times he is not far +wrong, so that he makes us fancy he has got the devil in him. He gets +two reals for every question if the ape answers; I mean if his master +answers for him after he has whispered into his ear; and so it is +believed that this same Master Pedro is very rich. He is a ‘gallant +man’ as they say in Italy, and good company, and leads the finest life +in the world; talks more than six, drinks more than a dozen, and all by +his tongue, and his ape, and his show.” + +Master Pedro now came back, and in a cart followed the show and the +ape—a big one, without a tail and with buttocks as bare as felt, but +not vicious-looking. As soon as Don Quixote saw him, he asked him, “Can +you tell me, sir fortune-teller, what fish do we catch, and how will it +be with us? See, here are my two reals,” and he bade Sancho give them +to Master Pedro; but he answered for the ape and said, “Señor, this +animal does not give any answer or information touching things that are +to come; of things past he knows something, and more or less of things +present.” + +“Gad,” said Sancho, “I would not give a farthing to be told what’s past +with me, for who knows that better than I do myself? And to pay for +being told what I know would be mighty foolish. But as you know things +present, here are my two reals, and tell me, most excellent sir ape, +what is my wife Teresa Panza doing now, and what is she diverting +herself with?” + +Master Pedro refused to take the money, saying, “I will not receive +payment in advance or until the service has been first rendered;” and +then with his right hand he gave a couple of slaps on his left +shoulder, and with one spring the ape perched himself upon it, and +putting his mouth to his master’s ear began chattering his teeth +rapidly; and having kept this up as long as one would be saying a +credo, with another spring he brought himself to the ground, and the +same instant Master Pedro ran in great haste and fell upon his knees +before Don Quixote, and embracing his legs exclaimed, “These legs do I +embrace as I would embrace the two pillars of Hercules, O illustrious +reviver of knight-errantry, so long consigned to oblivion! O never yet +duly extolled knight, Don Quixote of La Mancha, courage of the +faint-hearted, prop of the tottering, arm of the fallen, staff and +counsel of all who are unfortunate!” + + + +p25b.jpg (373K) + +Full Size + + + +Don Quixote was thunderstruck, Sancho astounded, the cousin staggered, +the page astonished, the man from the braying town agape, the landlord +in perplexity, and, in short, everyone amazed at the words of the +puppet-showman, who went on to say, “And thou, worthy Sancho Panza, the +best squire and squire to the best knight in the world! Be of good +cheer, for thy good wife Teresa is well, and she is at this moment +hackling a pound of flax; and more by token she has at her left hand a +jug with a broken spout that holds a good drop of wine, with which she +solaces herself at her work.” + +“That I can well believe,” said Sancho. “She is a lucky one, and if it +was not for her jealousy I would not change her for the giantess +Andandona, who by my master’s account was a very clever and worthy +woman; my Teresa is one of those that won’t let themselves want for +anything, though their heirs may have to pay for it.” + +“Now I declare,” said Don Quixote, “he who reads much and travels much +sees and knows a great deal. I say so because what amount of persuasion +could have persuaded me that there are apes in the world that can +divine as I have seen now with my own eyes? For I am that very Don +Quixote of La Mancha this worthy animal refers to, though he has gone +rather too far in my praise; but whatever I may be, I thank heaven that +it has endowed me with a tender and compassionate heart, always +disposed to do good to all and harm to none.” + +“If I had money,” said the page, “I would ask señor ape what will +happen to me in the peregrination I am making.” + +To this Master Pedro, who had by this time risen from Don Quixote’s +feet, replied, “I have already said that this little beast gives no +answer as to the future; but if he did, not having money would be of no +consequence, for to oblige Señor Don Quixote, here present, I would +give up all the profits in the world. And now, because I have promised +it, and to afford him pleasure, I will set up my show and offer +entertainment to all who are in the inn, without any charge whatever.” +As soon as he heard this, the landlord, delighted beyond measure, +pointed out a place where the show might be fixed, which was done at +once. + +Don Quixote was not very well satisfied with the divinations of the +ape, as he did not think it proper that an ape should divine anything, +either past or future; so while Master Pedro was arranging the show, he +retired with Sancho into a corner of the stable, where, without being +overheard by anyone, he said to him, “Look here, Sancho, I have been +seriously thinking over this ape’s extraordinary gift, and have come to +the conclusion that beyond doubt this Master Pedro, his master, has a +pact, tacit or express, with the devil.” + +“If the packet is express from the devil,” said Sancho, “it must be a +very dirty packet no doubt; but what good can it do Master Pedro to +have such packets?” + +“Thou dost not understand me, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “I only mean +he must have made some compact with the devil to infuse this power into +the ape, that he may get his living, and after he has grown rich he +will give him his soul, which is what the enemy of mankind wants; this +I am led to believe by observing that the ape only answers about things +past or present, and the devil’s knowledge extends no further; for the +future he knows only by guesswork, and that not always; for it is +reserved for God alone to know the times and the seasons, and for him +there is neither past nor future; all is present. This being as it is, +it is clear that this ape speaks by the spirit of the devil; and I am +astonished they have not denounced him to the Holy Office, and put him +to the question, and forced it out of him by whose virtue it is that he +divines; because it is certain this ape is not an astrologer; neither +his master nor he sets up, or knows how to set up, those figures they +call judiciary, which are now so common in Spain that there is not a +jade, or page, or old cobbler, that will not undertake to set up a +figure as readily as pick up a knave of cards from the ground, bringing +to nought the marvellous truth of the science by their lies and +ignorance. I know of a lady who asked one of these figure schemers +whether her little lap-dog would be in pup and would breed, and how +many and of what colour the little pups would be. To which señor +astrologer, after having set up his figure, made answer that the bitch +would be in pup, and would drop three pups, one green, another bright +red, and the third parti-coloured, provided she conceived between +eleven and twelve either of the day or night, and on a Monday or +Saturday; but as things turned out, two days after this the bitch died +of a surfeit, and señor planet-ruler had the credit all over the place +of being a most profound astrologer, as most of these planet-rulers +have.” + +“Still,” said Sancho, “I would be glad if your worship would make +Master Pedro ask his ape whether what happened your worship in the cave +of Montesinos is true; for, begging your worship’s pardon, I, for my +part, take it to have been all flam and lies, or at any rate something +you dreamt.” + +“That may be,” replied Don Quixote; “however, I will do what you +suggest; though I have my own scruples about it.” + +At this point Master Pedro came up in quest of Don Quixote, to tell him +the show was now ready and to come and see it, for it was worth seeing. +Don Quixote explained his wish, and begged him to ask his ape at once +to tell him whether certain things which had happened to him in the +cave of Montesinos were dreams or realities, for to him they appeared +to partake of both. Upon this Master Pedro, without answering, went +back to fetch the ape, and, having placed it in front of Don Quixote +and Sancho, said: “See here, señor ape, this gentleman wishes to know +whether certain things which happened to him in the cave called the +cave of Montesinos were false or true.” On his making the usual sign +the ape mounted on his left shoulder and seemed to whisper in his ear, +and Master Pedro said at once, “The ape says that the things you saw or +that happened to you in that cave are, part of them false, part true; +and that he only knows this and no more as regards this question; but +if your worship wishes to know more, on Friday next he will answer all +that may be asked him, for his virtue is at present exhausted, and will +not return to him till Friday, as he has said.” + +“Did I not say, señor,” said Sancho, “that I could not bring myself to +believe that all your worship said about the adventures in the cave was +true, or even the half of it?” + +“The course of events will tell, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; “time, +that discloses all things, leaves nothing that it does not drag into +the light of day, though it be buried in the bosom of the earth. But +enough of that for the present; let us go and see Master Pedro’s show, +for I am sure there must be something novel in it.” + +“Something!” said Master Pedro; “this show of mine has sixty thousand +novel things in it; let me tell you, Señor Don Quixote, it is one of +the best-worth-seeing things in the world this day; but _operibus +credite et non verbis_, and now let’s get to work, for it is growing +late, and we have a great deal to do and to say and show.” + +Don Quixote and Sancho obeyed him and went to where the show was +already put up and uncovered, set all around with lighted wax tapers +which made it look splendid and bright. When they came to it Master +Pedro ensconced himself inside it, for it was he who had to work the +puppets, and a boy, a servant of his, posted himself outside to act as +showman and explain the mysteries of the exhibition, having a wand in +his hand to point to the figures as they came out. And so, all who were +in the inn being arranged in front of the show, some of them standing, +and Don Quixote, Sancho, the page, and cousin, accommodated with the +best places, the interpreter began to say what he will hear or see who +reads or hears the next chapter. + + + +p25e.jpg (28K) + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. +WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE DROLL ADVENTURE OF THE PUPPET-SHOWMAN, +TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS IN TRUTH RIGHT GOOD + + + + +p26a.jpg (157K) + +Full Size + + + +All were silent, Tyrians and Trojans; I mean all who were watching the +show were hanging on the lips of the interpreter of its wonders, when +drums and trumpets were heard to sound inside it and cannon to go off. +The noise was soon over, and then the boy lifted up his voice and said, +“This true story which is here represented to your worships is taken +word for word from the French chronicles and from the Spanish ballads +that are in everybody’s mouth, and in the mouth of the boys about the +streets. Its subject is the release by Señor Don Gaiferos of his wife +Melisendra, when a captive in Spain at the hands of the Moors in the +city of Sansueña, for so they called then what is now called Saragossa; +and there you may see how Don Gaiferos is playing at the tables, just +as they sing it— + +At tables playing Don Gaiferos sits, +For Melisendra is forgotten now. + + +And that personage who appears there with a crown on his head and a +sceptre in his hand is the Emperor Charlemagne, the supposed father of +Melisendra, who, angered to see his son-in-law’s inaction and +unconcern, comes in to chide him; and observe with what vehemence and +energy he chides him, so that you would fancy he was going to give him +half a dozen raps with his sceptre; and indeed there are authors who +say he did give them, and sound ones too; and after having said a great +deal to him about imperilling his honour by not effecting the release +of his wife, he said, so the tale runs, + +Enough I’ve said, see to it now. + + +Observe, too, how the emperor turns away, and leaves Don Gaiferos +fuming; and you see now how in a burst of anger, he flings the table +and the board far from him and calls in haste for his armour, and asks +his cousin Don Roland for the loan of his sword, Durindana, and how Don +Roland refuses to lend it, offering him his company in the difficult +enterprise he is undertaking; but he, in his valour and anger, will not +accept it, and says that he alone will suffice to rescue his wife, even +though she were imprisoned deep in the centre of the earth, and with +this he retires to arm himself and set out on his journey at once. Now +let your worships turn your eyes to that tower that appears there, +which is supposed to be one of the towers of the alcazar of Saragossa, +now called the Aljaferia; that lady who appears on that balcony dressed +in Moorish fashion is the peerless Melisendra, for many a time she used +to gaze from thence upon the road to France, and seek consolation in +her captivity by thinking of Paris and her husband. Observe, too, a new +incident which now occurs, such as, perhaps, never was seen. Do you not +see that Moor, who silently and stealthily, with his finger on his lip, +approaches Melisendra from behind? Observe now how he prints a kiss +upon her lips, and what a hurry she is in to spit, and wipe them with +the white sleeve of her smock, and how she bewails herself, and tears +her fair hair as though it were to blame for the wrong. Observe, too, +that the stately Moor who is in that corridor is King Marsilio of +Sansueña, who, having seen the Moor’s insolence, at once orders him +(though his kinsman and a great favourite of his) to be seized and +given two hundred lashes, while carried through the streets of the city +according to custom, with criers going before him and officers of +justice behind; and here you see them come out to execute the sentence, +although the offence has been scarcely committed; for among the Moors +there are no indictments nor remands as with us.” + +Here Don Quixote called out, “Child, child, go straight on with your +story, and don’t run into curves and slants, for to establish a fact +clearly there is need of a great deal of proof and confirmation;” and +said Master Pedro from within, “Boy, stick to your text and do as the +gentleman bids you; it’s the best plan; keep to your plain song, and +don’t attempt harmonies, for they are apt to break down from being over +fine.” + +“I will,” said the boy, and he went on to say, “This figure that you +see here on horseback, covered with a Gascon cloak, is Don Gaiferos +himself, whom his wife, now avenged of the insult of the amorous Moor, +and taking her stand on the balcony of the tower with a calmer and more +tranquil countenance, has perceived without recognising him; and she +addresses her husband, supposing him to be some traveller, and holds +with him all that conversation and colloquy in the ballad that runs— + +If you, sir knight, to France are bound, +Oh! for Gaiferos ask— + + +which I do not repeat here because prolixity begets disgust; suffice it +to observe how Don Gaiferos discovers himself, and that by her joyful +gestures Melisendra shows us she has recognised him; and what is more, +we now see she lowers herself from the balcony to place herself on the +haunches of her good husband’s horse. But ah! unhappy lady, the edge of +her petticoat has caught on one of the bars of the balcony and she is +left hanging in the air, unable to reach the ground. But you see how +compassionate heaven sends aid in our sorest need; Don Gaiferos +advances, and without minding whether the rich petticoat is torn or +not, he seizes her and by force brings her to the ground, and then with +one jerk places her on the haunches of his horse, astraddle like a man, +and bids her hold on tight and clasp her arms round his neck, crossing +them on his breast so as not to fall, for the lady Melisendra was not +used to that style of riding. You see, too, how the neighing of the +horse shows his satisfaction with the gallant and beautiful burden he +bears in his lord and lady. You see how they wheel round and quit the +city, and in joy and gladness take the road to Paris. Go in peace, O +peerless pair of true lovers! May you reach your longed-for fatherland +in safety, and may fortune interpose no impediment to your prosperous +journey; may the eyes of your friends and kinsmen behold you enjoying +in peace and tranquillity the remaining days of your life—and that they +may be as many as those of Nestor!” + +Here Master Pedro called out again and said, “Simplicity, boy! None of +your high flights; all affectation is bad.” + +The interpreter made no answer, but went on to say, “There was no want +of idle eyes, that see everything, to see Melisendra come down and +mount, and word was brought to King Marsilio, who at once gave orders +to sound the alarm; and see what a stir there is, and how the city is +drowned with the sound of the bells pealing in the towers of all the +mosques.” + +“Nay, nay,” said Don Quixote at this; “on that point of the bells +Master Pedro is very inaccurate, for bells are not in use among the +Moors; only kettledrums, and a kind of small trumpet somewhat like our +clarion; to ring bells this way in Sansueña is unquestionably a great +absurdity.” + +On hearing this, Master Pedro stopped ringing, and said, “Don’t look +into trifles, Señor Don Quixote, or want to have things up to a pitch +of perfection that is out of reach. Are there not almost every day a +thousand comedies represented all round us full of thousands of +inaccuracies and absurdities, and, for all that, they have a successful +run, and are listened to not only with applause, but with admiration +and all the rest of it? Go on, boy, and don’t mind; for so long as I +fill my pouch, no matter if I show as many inaccuracies as there are +motes in a sunbeam.” + +“True enough,” said Don Quixote; and the boy went on: “See what a +numerous and glittering crowd of horsemen issues from the city in +pursuit of the two faithful lovers, what a blowing of trumpets there +is, what sounding of horns, what beating of drums and tabors; I fear me +they will overtake them and bring them back tied to the tail of their +own horse, which would be a dreadful sight.” + + + +p26b.jpg (342K) + +Full Size + + + +Don Quixote, however, seeing such a swarm of Moors and hearing such a +din, thought it would be right to aid the fugitives, and standing up he +exclaimed in a loud voice, “Never, while I live, will I permit foul +play to be practised in my presence on such a famous knight and +fearless lover as Don Gaiferos. Halt! ill-born rabble, follow him not +nor pursue him, or ye will have to reckon with me in battle!” and +suiting the action to the word, he drew his sword, and with one bound +placed himself close to the show, and with unexampled rapidity and fury +began to shower down blows on the puppet troop of Moors, knocking over +some, decapitating others, maiming this one and demolishing that; and +among many more he delivered one down stroke which, if Master Pedro had +not ducked, made himself small, and got out of the way, would have +sliced off his head as easily as if it had been made of almond-paste. +Master Pedro kept shouting, “Hold hard! Señor Don Quixote! can’t you +see they’re not real Moors you’re knocking down and killing and +destroying, but only little pasteboard figures! Look—sinner that I +am!—how you’re wrecking and ruining all that I’m worth!” But in spite +of this, Don Quixote did not leave off discharging a continuous rain of +cuts, slashes, downstrokes, and backstrokes, and at length, in less +than the space of two credos, he brought the whole show to the ground, +with all its fittings and figures shivered and knocked to pieces, King +Marsilio badly wounded, and the Emperor Charlemagne with his crown and +head split in two. The whole audience was thrown into confusion, the +ape fled to the roof of the inn, the cousin was frightened, and even +Sancho Panza himself was in mighty fear, for, as he swore after the +storm was over, he had never seen his master in such a furious passion. + +The complete destruction of the show being thus accomplished, Don +Quixote became a little calmer, said, “I wish I had here before me now +all those who do not or will not believe how useful knights-errant are +in the world; just think, if I had not been here present, what would +have become of the brave Don Gaiferos and the fair Melisendra! Depend +upon it, by this time those dogs would have overtaken them and +inflicted some outrage upon them. So, then, long live knight-errantry +beyond everything living on earth this day!” + +“Let it live, and welcome,” said Master Pedro at this in a feeble +voice, “and let me die, for I am so unfortunate that I can say with +King Don Rodrigo— + +Yesterday was I lord of Spain +To-day I’ve not a turret left +That I may call mine own. + + +Not half an hour, nay, barely a minute ago, I saw myself lord of kings +and emperors, with my stables filled with countless horses, and my +trunks and bags with gay dresses unnumbered; and now I find myself +ruined and laid low, destitute and a beggar, and above all without my +ape, for, by my faith, my teeth will have to sweat for it before I have +him caught; and all through the reckless fury of sir knight here, who, +they say, protects the fatherless, and rights wrongs, and does other +charitable deeds; but whose generous intentions have been found wanting +in my case only, blessed and praised be the highest heavens! Verily, +knight of the rueful figure he must be to have disfigured mine.” + +Sancho Panza was touched by Master Pedro’s words, and said to him, +“Don’t weep and lament, Master Pedro; you break my heart; let me tell +you my master, Don Quixote, is so catholic and scrupulous a Christian +that, if he can make out that he has done you any wrong, he will own +it, and be willing to pay for it and make it good, and something over +and above.” + +“Only let Señor Don Quixote pay me for some part of the work he has +destroyed,” said Master Pedro, “and I would be content, and his worship +would ease his conscience, for he cannot be saved who keeps what is +another’s against the owner’s will, and makes no restitution.” + +“That is true,” said Don Quixote; “but at present I am not aware that I +have got anything of yours, Master Pedro.” + +“What!” returned Master Pedro; “and these relics lying here on the bare +hard ground—what scattered and shattered them but the invincible +strength of that mighty arm? And whose were the bodies they belonged to +but mine? And what did I get my living by but by them?” + +“Now am I fully convinced,” said Don Quixote, “of what I had many a +time before believed; that the enchanters who persecute me do nothing +more than put figures like these before my eyes, and then change and +turn them into what they please. In truth and earnest, I assure you +gentlemen who now hear me, that to me everything that has taken place +here seemed to take place literally, that Melisendra was Melisendra, +Don Gaiferos Don Gaiferos, Marsilio Marsilio, and Charlemagne +Charlemagne. That was why my anger was roused; and to be faithful to my +calling as a knight-errant I sought to give aid and protection to those +who fled, and with this good intention I did what you have seen. If the +result has been the opposite of what I intended, it is no fault of +mine, but of those wicked beings that persecute me; but, for all that, +I am willing to condemn myself in costs for this error of mine, though +it did not proceed from malice; let Master Pedro see what he wants for +the spoiled figures, for I agree to pay it at once in good and current +money of Castile.” + +Master Pedro made him a bow, saying, “I expected no less of the rare +Christianity of the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha, true helper and +protector of all destitute and needy vagabonds; master landlord here +and the great Sancho Panza shall be the arbitrators and appraisers +between your worship and me of what these dilapidated figures are worth +or may be worth.” + +The landlord and Sancho consented, and then Master Pedro picked up from +the ground King Marsilio of Saragossa with his head off, and said, +“Here you see how impossible it is to restore this king to his former +state, so I think, saving your better judgments, that for his death, +decease, and demise, four reals and a half may be given me.” + +“Proceed,” said Don Quixote. + +“Well then, for this cleavage from top to bottom,” continued Master +Pedro, taking up the split Emperor Charlemagne, “it would not be much +if I were to ask five reals and a quarter.” + +“It’s not little,” said Sancho. + +“Nor is it much,” said the landlord; “make it even, and say five +reals.” + +“Let him have the whole five and a quarter,” said Don Quixote; “for the +sum total of this notable disaster does not stand on a quarter more or +less; and make an end of it quickly, Master Pedro, for it’s getting on +to supper-time, and I have some hints of hunger.” + +“For this figure,” said Master Pedro, “that is without a nose, and +wants an eye, and is the fair Melisendra, I ask, and I am reasonable in +my charge, two reals and twelve maravedis.” + +“The very devil must be in it,” said Don Quixote, “if Melisendra and +her husband are not by this time at least on the French border, for the +horse they rode on seemed to me to fly rather than gallop; so you +needn’t try to sell me the cat for the hare, showing me here a noseless +Melisendra when she is now, may be, enjoying herself at her ease with +her husband in France. God help every one to his own, Master Pedro, and +let us all proceed fairly and honestly; and now go on.” + +Master Pedro, perceiving that Don Quixote was beginning to wander, and +return to his original fancy, was not disposed to let him escape, so he +said to him, “This cannot be Melisendra, but must be one of the damsels +that waited on her; so if I’m given sixty maravedis for her, I’ll be +content and sufficiently paid.” + +And so he went on, putting values on ever so many more smashed figures, +which, after the two arbitrators had adjusted them to the satisfaction +of both parties, came to forty reals and three-quarters; and over and +above this sum, which Sancho at once disbursed, Master Pedro asked for +two reals for his trouble in catching the ape. + +“Let him have them, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “not to catch the ape, +but to get drunk; and two hundred would I give this minute for the good +news, to anyone who could tell me positively, that the lady Doña +Melisandra and Señor Don Gaiferos were now in France and with their own +people.” + +“No one could tell us that better than my ape,” said Master Pedro; “but +there’s no devil that could catch him now; I suspect, however, that +affection and hunger will drive him to come looking for me to-night; +but to-morrow will soon be here and we shall see.” + +In short, the puppet-show storm passed off, and all supped in peace and +good fellowship at Don Quixote’s expense, for he was the height of +generosity. Before it was daylight the man with the lances and halberds +took his departure, and soon after daybreak the cousin and the page +came to bid Don Quixote farewell, the former returning home, the latter +resuming his journey, towards which, to help him, Don Quixote gave him +twelve reals. Master Pedro did not care to engage in any more palaver +with Don Quixote, whom he knew right well; so he rose before the sun, +and having got together the remains of his show and caught his ape, he +too went off to seek his adventures. The landlord, who did not know Don +Quixote, was as much astonished at his mad freaks as at his generosity. +To conclude, Sancho, by his master’s orders, paid him very liberally, +and taking leave of him they quitted the inn at about eight in the +morning and took to the road, where we will leave them to pursue their +journey, for this is necessary in order to allow certain other matters +to be set forth, which are required to clear up this famous history. + + + +p26e.jpg (34K) + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. +WHEREIN IT IS SHOWN WHO MASTER PEDRO AND HIS APE WERE, TOGETHER WITH +THE MISHAP DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, WHICH HE DID NOT +CONCLUDE AS HE WOULD HAVE LIKED OR AS HE HAD EXPECTED + + + + +p27a.jpg (135K) + +Full Size + + + +Cide Hamete, the chronicler of this great history, begins this chapter +with these words, “I swear as a Catholic Christian;” with regard to +which his translator says that Cide Hamete’s swearing as a Catholic +Christian, he being—as no doubt he was—a Moor, only meant that, just as +a Catholic Christian taking an oath swears, or ought to swear, what is +true, and tell the truth in what he avers, so he was telling the truth, +as much as if he swore as a Catholic Christian, in all he chose to +write about Quixote, especially in declaring who Master Pedro was and +what was the divining ape that astonished all the villages with his +divinations. He says, then, that he who has read the First Part of this +history will remember well enough the Gines de Pasamonte whom, with +other galley slaves, Don Quixote set free in the Sierra Morena: a +kindness for which he afterwards got poor thanks and worse payment from +that evil-minded, ill-conditioned set. This Gines de Pasamonte—Don +Ginesillo de Parapilla, Don Quixote called him—it was that stole Dapple +from Sancho Panza; which, because by the fault of the printers neither +the how nor the when was stated in the First Part, has been a puzzle to +a good many people, who attribute to the bad memory of the author what +was the error of the press. In fact, however, Gines stole him while +Sancho Panza was asleep on his back, adopting the plan and device that +Brunello had recourse to when he stole Sacripante’s horse from between +his legs at the siege of Albracca; and, as has been told, Sancho +afterwards recovered him. This Gines, then, afraid of being caught by +the officers of justice, who were looking for him to punish him for his +numberless rascalities and offences (which were so many and so great +that he himself wrote a big book giving an account of them), resolved +to shift his quarters into the kingdom of Aragon, and cover up his left +eye, and take up the trade of a puppet-showman; for this, as well as +juggling, he knew how to practise to perfection. From some released +Christians returning from Barbary, it so happened, he bought the ape, +which he taught to mount upon his shoulder on his making a certain +sign, and to whisper, or seem to do so, in his ear. Thus prepared, +before entering any village whither he was bound with his show and his +ape, he used to inform himself at the nearest village, or from the most +likely person he could find, as to what particular things had happened +there, and to whom; and bearing them well in mind, the first thing he +did was to exhibit his show, sometimes one story, sometimes another, +but all lively, amusing, and familiar. As soon as the exhibition was +over he brought forward the accomplishments of his ape, assuring the +public that he divined all the past and the present, but as to the +future he had no skill. For each question answered he asked two reals, +and for some he made a reduction, just as he happened to feel the pulse +of the questioners; and when now and then he came to houses where +things that he knew of had happened to the people living there, even if +they did not ask him a question, not caring to pay for it, he would +make the sign to the ape and then declare that it had said so and so, +which fitted the case exactly. In this way he acquired a prodigious +name and all ran after him; on other occasions, being very crafty, he +would answer in such a way that the answers suited the questions; and +as no one cross-questioned him or pressed him to tell how his ape +divined, he made fools of them all and filled his pouch. The instant he +entered the inn he knew Don Quixote and Sancho, and with that knowledge +it was easy for him to astonish them and all who were there; but it +would have cost him dear had Don Quixote brought down his hand a little +lower when he cut off King Marsilio’s head and destroyed all his +horsemen, as related in the preceeding chapter. + +So much for Master Pedro and his ape; and now to return to Don Quixote +of La Mancha. After he had left the inn he determined to visit, first +of all, the banks of the Ebro and that neighbourhood, before entering +the city of Saragossa, for the ample time there was still to spare +before the jousts left him enough for all. With this object in view he +followed the road and travelled along it for two days, without meeting +any adventure worth committing to writing until on the third day, as he +was ascending a hill, he heard a great noise of drums, trumpets, and +musket-shots. At first he imagined some regiment of soldiers was +passing that way, and to see them he spurred Rocinante and mounted the +hill. On reaching the top he saw at the foot of it over two hundred +men, as it seemed to him, armed with weapons of various sorts, lances, +crossbows, partisans, halberds, and pikes, and a few muskets and a +great many bucklers. He descended the slope and approached the band +near enough to see distinctly the flags, make out the colours and +distinguish the devices they bore, especially one on a standard or +ensign of white satin, on which there was painted in a very life-like +style an ass like a little sard, with its head up, its mouth open and +its tongue out, as if it were in the act and attitude of braying; and +round it were inscribed in large characters these two lines— + +They did not bray in vain, +Our alcaldes twain. + + +From this device Don Quixote concluded that these people must be from +the braying town, and he said so to Sancho, explaining to him what was +written on the standard. At the same time be observed that the man who +had told them about the matter was wrong in saying that the two who +brayed were regidors, for according to the lines of the standard they +were alcaldes. To which Sancho replied, “Señor, there’s nothing to +stick at in that, for maybe the regidors who brayed then came to be +alcaldes of their town afterwards, and so they may go by both titles; +moreover, it has nothing to do with the truth of the story whether the +brayers were alcaldes or regidors, provided at any rate they did bray; +for an alcalde is just as likely to bray as a regidor.” They perceived, +in short, clearly that the town which had been twitted had turned out +to do battle with some other that had jeered it more than was fair or +neighbourly. + +Don Quixote proceeded to join them, not a little to Sancho’s +uneasiness, for he never relished mixing himself up in expeditions of +that sort. The members of the troop received him into the midst of +them, taking him to be someone who was on their side. Don Quixote, +putting up his visor, advanced with an easy bearing and demeanour to +the standard with the ass, and all the chief men of the army gathered +round him to look at him, staring at him with the usual amazement that +everybody felt on seeing him for the first time. Don Quixote, seeing +them examining him so attentively, and that none of them spoke to him +or put any question to him, determined to take advantage of their +silence; so, breaking his own, he lifted up his voice and said, “Worthy +sirs, I entreat you as earnestly as I can not to interrupt an argument +I wish to address to you, until you find it displeases or wearies you; +and if that come to pass, on the slightest hint you give me I will put +a seal upon my lips and a gag upon my tongue.” + +They all bade him say what he liked, for they would listen to him +willingly. + + + +p27b.jpg (330K) + +Full Size + + + +With this permission Don Quixote went on to say, “I, sirs, am a +knight-errant whose calling is that of arms, and whose profession is to +protect those who require protection, and give help to such as stand in +need of it. Some days ago I became acquainted with your misfortune and +the cause which impels you to take up arms again and again to revenge +yourselves upon your enemies; and having many times thought over your +business in my mind, I find that, according to the laws of combat, you +are mistaken in holding yourselves insulted; for a private individual +cannot insult an entire community; unless it be by defying it +collectively as a traitor, because he cannot tell who in particular is +guilty of the treason for which he defies it. Of this we have an +example in Don Diego Ordoñez de Lara, who defied the whole town of +Zamora, because he did not know that Vellido Dolfos alone had committed +the treachery of slaying his king; and therefore he defied them all, +and the vengeance and the reply concerned all; though, to be sure, +Señor Don Diego went rather too far, indeed very much beyond the limits +of a defiance; for he had no occasion to defy the dead, or the waters, +or the fishes, or those yet unborn, and all the rest of it as set +forth; but let that pass, for when anger breaks out there’s no father, +governor, or bridle to check the tongue. The case being, then, that no +one person can insult a kingdom, province, city, state, or entire +community, it is clear there is no reason for going out to avenge the +defiance of such an insult, inasmuch as it is not one. A fine thing it +would be if the people of the clock town were to be at loggerheads +every moment with everyone who called them by that name,—or the +Cazoleros, Berengeneros, Ballenatos, Jaboneros, or the bearers of all +the other names and titles that are always in the mouth of the boys and +common people! It would be a nice business indeed if all these +illustrious cities were to take huff and revenge themselves and go +about perpetually making trombones of their swords in every petty +quarrel! No, no; God forbid! There are four things for which sensible +men and well-ordered States ought to take up arms, draw their swords, +and risk their persons, lives, and properties. The first is to defend +the Catholic faith; the second, to defend one’s life, which is in +accordance with natural and divine law; the third, in defence of one’s +honour, family, and property; the fourth, in the service of one’s king +in a just war; and if to these we choose to add a fifth (which may be +included in the second), in defence of one’s country. To these five, as +it were capital causes, there may be added some others that may be just +and reasonable, and make it a duty to take up arms; but to take them up +for trifles and things to laugh at and be amused by rather than +offended, looks as though he who did so was altogether wanting in +common sense. Moreover, to take an unjust revenge (and there cannot be +any just one) is directly opposed to the sacred law that we +acknowledge, wherein we are commanded to do good to our enemies and to +love them that hate us; a command which, though it seems somewhat +difficult to obey, is only so to those who have in them less of God +than of the world, and more of the flesh than of the spirit; for Jesus +Christ, God and true man, who never lied, and could not and cannot lie, +said, as our law-giver, that his yoke was easy and his burden light; he +would not, therefore, have laid any command upon us that it was +impossible to obey. Thus, sirs, you are bound to keep quiet by human +and divine law.” + +“The devil take me,” said Sancho to himself at this, “but this master +of mine is a theologian; or, if not, faith, he’s as like one as one egg +is like another.” + +Don Quixote stopped to take breath, and, observing that silence was +still preserved, had a mind to continue his discourse, and would have +done so had not Sancho interposed with his smartness; for he, seeing +his master pause, took the lead, saying, “My lord Don Quixote of La +Mancha, who once was called the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, but +now is called the Knight of the Lions, is a gentleman of great +discretion who knows Latin and his mother tongue like a bachelor, and +in everything that he deals with or advises proceeds like a good +soldier, and has all the laws and ordinances of what they call combat +at his fingers’ ends; so you have nothing to do but to let yourselves +be guided by what he says, and on my head be it if it is wrong. Besides +which, you have been told that it is folly to take offence at merely +hearing a bray. I remember when I was a boy I brayed as often as I had +a fancy, without anyone hindering me, and so elegantly and naturally +that when I brayed all the asses in the town would bray; but I was none +the less for that the son of my parents who were greatly respected; and +though I was envied because of the gift by more than one of the high +and mighty ones of the town, I did not care two farthings for it; and +that you may see I am telling the truth, wait a bit and listen, for +this art, like swimming, once learnt is never forgotten;” and then, +taking hold of his nose, he began to bray so vigorously that all the +valleys around rang again. + +One of those, however, that stood near him, fancying he was mocking +them, lifted up a long staff he had in his hand and smote him such a +blow with it that Sancho dropped helpless to the ground. Don Quixote, +seeing him so roughly handled, attacked the man who had struck him +lance in hand, but so many thrust themselves between them that he could +not avenge him. Far from it, finding a shower of stones rained upon +him, and crossbows and muskets unnumbered levelled at him, he wheeled +Rocinante round and, as fast as his best gallop could take him, fled +from the midst of them, commending himself to God with all his heart to +deliver him out of this peril, in dread every step of some ball coming +in at his back and coming out at his breast, and every minute drawing +his breath to see whether it had gone from him. The members of the +band, however, were satisfied with seeing him take to flight, and did +not fire on him. They put up Sancho, scarcely restored to his senses, +on his ass, and let him go after his master; not that he was +sufficiently in his wits to guide the beast, but Dapple followed the +footsteps of Rocinante, from whom he could not remain a moment +separated. Don Quixote having got some way off looked back, and seeing +Sancho coming, waited for him, as he perceived that no one followed +him. The men of the troop stood their ground till night, and as the +enemy did not come out to battle, they returned to their town exulting; +and had they been aware of the ancient custom of the Greeks, they would +have erected a trophy on the spot. + + + +p27e.jpg (47K) + +Full Size + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. +OF MATTERS THAT BENENGELI SAYS HE WHO READS THEM WILL KNOW, IF HE READS +THEM WITH ATTENTION + + + + +p28a.jpg (111K) + +Full Size + + + +When the brave man flees, treachery is manifest and it is for wise men +to reserve themselves for better occasions. This proved to be the case +with Don Quixote, who, giving way before the fury of the townsfolk and +the hostile intentions of the angry troop, took to flight and, without +a thought of Sancho or the danger in which he was leaving him, +retreated to such a distance as he thought made him safe. Sancho, lying +across his ass, followed him, as has been said, and at length came up, +having by this time recovered his senses, and on joining him let +himself drop off Dapple at Rocinante’s feet, sore, bruised, and +belaboured. Don Quixote dismounted to examine his wounds, but finding +him whole from head to foot, he said to him, angrily enough, “In an +evil hour didst thou take to braying, Sancho! Where hast thou learned +that it is well done to mention the rope in the house of the man that +has been hanged? To the music of brays what harmonies couldst thou +expect to get but cudgels? Give thanks to God, Sancho, that they signed +the cross on thee just now with a stick, and did not mark thee _per +signum crucis_ with a cutlass.” + +“I’m not equal to answering,” said Sancho, “for I feel as if I was +speaking through my shoulders; let us mount and get away from this; +I’ll keep from braying, but not from saying that knights-errant fly and +leave their good squires to be pounded like privet, or made meal of at +the hands of their enemies.” + +“He does not fly who retires,” returned Don Quixote; “for I would have +thee know, Sancho, that the valour which is not based upon a foundation +of prudence is called rashness, and the exploits of the rash man are to +be attributed rather to good fortune than to courage; and so I own that +I retired, but not that I fled; and therein I have followed the example +of many valiant men who have reserved themselves for better times; the +histories are full of instances of this, but as it would not be any +good to thee or pleasure to me, I will not recount them to thee now.” + +Sancho was by this time mounted with the help of Don Quixote, who then +himself mounted Rocinante, and at a leisurely pace they proceeded to +take shelter in a grove which was in sight about a quarter of a league +off. Every now and then Sancho gave vent to deep sighs and dismal +groans, and on Don Quixote asking him what caused such acute suffering, +he replied that, from the end of his back-bone up to the nape of his +neck, he was so sore that it nearly drove him out of his senses. + +“The cause of that soreness,” said Don Quixote, “will be, no doubt, +that the staff wherewith they smote thee being a very long one, it +caught thee all down the back, where all the parts that are sore are +situated, and had it reached any further thou wouldst be sorer still.” + +“By God,” said Sancho, “your worship has relieved me of a great doubt, +and cleared up the point for me in elegant style! Body o’ me! is the +cause of my soreness such a mystery that there’s any need to tell me I +am sore everywhere the staff hit me? If it was my ankles that pained me +there might be something in going divining why they did, but it is not +much to divine that I’m sore where they thrashed me. By my faith, +master mine, the ills of others hang by a hair; every day I am +discovering more and more how little I have to hope for from keeping +company with your worship; for if this time you have allowed me to be +drubbed, the next time, or a hundred times more, we’ll have the +blanketings of the other day over again, and all the other pranks +which, if they have fallen on my shoulders now, will be thrown in my +teeth by-and-by. I would do a great deal better (if I was not an +ignorant brute that will never do any good all my life), I would do a +great deal better, I say, to go home to my wife and children and +support them and bring them up on what God may please to give me, +instead of following your worship along roads that lead nowhere and +paths that are none at all, with little to drink and less to eat. And +then when it comes to sleeping! Measure out seven feet on the earth, +brother squire, and if that’s not enough for you, take as many more, +for you may have it all your own way and stretch yourself to your +heart’s content. Oh that I could see burnt and turned to ashes the +first man that meddled with knight-errantry or at any rate the first +who chose to be squire to such fools as all the knights-errant of past +times must have been! Of those of the present day I say nothing, +because, as your worship is one of them, I respect them, and because I +know your worship knows a point more than the devil in all you say and +think.” + +“I would lay a good wager with you, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that +now that you are talking on without anyone to stop you, you don’t feel +a pain in your whole body. Talk away, my son, say whatever comes into +your head or mouth, for so long as you feel no pain, the irritation +your impertinences give me will be a pleasure to me; and if you are so +anxious to go home to your wife and children, God forbid that I should +prevent you; you have money of mine; see how long it is since we left +our village this third time, and how much you can and ought to earn +every month, and pay yourself out of your own hand.” + +“When I worked for Tom Carrasco, the father of the bachelor Samson +Carrasco that your worship knows,” replied Sancho, “I used to earn two +ducats a month besides my food; I can’t tell what I can earn with your +worship, though I know a knight-errant’s squire has harder times of it +than he who works for a farmer; for after all, we who work for farmers, +however much we toil all day, at the worst, at night, we have our olla +supper and sleep in a bed, which I have not slept in since I have been +in your worship’s service, if it wasn’t the short time we were in Don +Diego de Miranda’s house, and the feast I had with the skimmings I took +off Camacho’s pots, and what I ate, drank, and slept in Basilio’s +house; all the rest of the time I have been sleeping on the hard ground +under the open sky, exposed to what they call the inclemencies of +heaven, keeping life in me with scraps of cheese and crusts of bread, +and drinking water either from the brooks or from the springs we come +to on these by-paths we travel.” + +“I own, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that all thou sayest is true; how +much, thinkest thou, ought I to give thee over and above what Tom +Carrasco gave thee?” + +“I think,” said Sancho, “that if your worship was to add on two reals a +month I’d consider myself well paid; that is, as far as the wages of my +labour go; but to make up to me for your worship’s pledge and promise +to me to give me the government of an island, it would be fair to add +six reals more, making thirty in all.” + +“Very good,” said Don Quixote; “it is twenty-five days since we left +our village, so reckon up, Sancho, according to the wages you have made +out for yourself, and see how much I owe you in proportion, and pay +yourself, as I said before, out of your own hand.” + +“O body o’ me!” said Sancho, “but your worship is very much out in that +reckoning; for when it comes to the promise of the island we must count +from the day your worship promised it to me to this present hour we are +at now.” + +“Well, how long is it, Sancho, since I promised it to you?” said Don +Quixote. + +“If I remember rightly,” said Sancho, “it must be over twenty years, +three days more or less.” + +Don Quixote gave himself a great slap on the forehead and began to +laugh heartily, and said he, “Why, I have not been wandering, either in +the Sierra Morena or in the whole course of our sallies, but barely two +months, and thou sayest, Sancho, that it is twenty years since I +promised thee the island. I believe now thou wouldst have all the money +thou hast of mine go in thy wages. If so, and if that be thy pleasure, +I give it to thee now, once and for all, and much good may it do thee, +for so long as I see myself rid of such a good-for-nothing squire I’ll +be glad to be left a pauper without a rap. But tell me, thou perverter +of the squirely rules of knight-errantry, where hast thou ever seen or +read that any knight-errant’s squire made terms with his lord, ‘you +must give me so much a month for serving you’? Plunge, scoundrel, +rogue, monster—for such I take thee to be—plunge, I say, into the _mare +magnum_ of their histories; and if thou shalt find that any squire ever +said or thought what thou hast said now, I will let thee nail it on my +forehead, and give me, over and above, four sound slaps in the face. +Turn the rein, or the halter, of thy Dapple, and begone home; for one +single step further thou shalt not make in my company. O bread +thanklessly received! O promises ill-bestowed! O man more beast than +human being! Now, when I was about to raise thee to such a position, +that, in spite of thy wife, they would call thee ‘my lord,’ thou art +leaving me? Thou art going now when I had a firm and fixed intention of +making thee lord of the best island in the world? Well, as thou thyself +hast said before now, honey is not for the mouth of the ass. Ass thou +art, ass thou wilt be, and ass thou wilt end when the course of thy +life is run; for I know it will come to its close before thou dost +perceive or discern that thou art a beast.” + +Sancho regarded Don Quixote earnestly while he was giving him this +rating, and was so touched by remorse that the tears came to his eyes, +and in a piteous and broken voice he said to him, “Master mine, I +confess that, to be a complete ass, all I want is a tail; if your +worship will only fix one on to me, I’ll look on it as rightly placed, +and I’ll serve you as an ass all the remaining days of my life. Forgive +me and have pity on my folly, and remember I know but little, and, if I +talk much, it’s more from infirmity than malice; but he who sins and +mends commends himself to God.” + +“I should have been surprised, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “if thou +hadst not introduced some bit of a proverb into thy speech. Well, well, +I forgive thee, provided thou dost mend and not show thyself in future +so fond of thine own interest, but try to be of good cheer and take +heart, and encourage thyself to look forward to the fulfillment of my +promises, which, by being delayed, does not become impossible.” + +Sancho said he would do so, and keep up his heart as best he could. +They then entered the grove, and Don Quixote settled himself at the +foot of an elm, and Sancho at that of a beech, for trees of this kind +and others like them always have feet but no hands. Sancho passed the +night in pain, for with the evening dews the blow of the staff made +itself felt all the more. Don Quixote passed it in his never-failing +meditations; but, for all that, they had some winks of sleep, and with +the appearance of daylight they pursued their journey in quest of the +banks of the famous Ebro, where that befell them which will be told in +the following chapter. + + + +p28e.jpg (36K) + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. +OF THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED BARK + + + + +p29a.jpg (127K) + +Full Size + + + +By stages as already described or left undescribed, two days after +quitting the grove Don Quixote and Sancho reached the river Ebro, and +the sight of it was a great delight to Don Quixote as he contemplated +and gazed upon the charms of its banks, the clearness of its stream, +the gentleness of its current and the abundance of its crystal waters; +and the pleasant view revived a thousand tender thoughts in his mind. +Above all, he dwelt upon what he had seen in the cave of Montesinos; +for though Master Pedro’s ape had told him that of those things part +was true, part false, he clung more to their truth than to their +falsehood, the very reverse of Sancho, who held them all to be +downright lies. + +As they were thus proceeding, then, they discovered a small boat, +without oars or any other gear, that lay at the water’s edge tied to +the stem of a tree growing on the bank. Don Quixote looked all round, +and seeing nobody, at once, without more ado, dismounted from Rocinante +and bade Sancho get down from Dapple and tie both beasts securely to +the trunk of a poplar or willow that stood there. Sancho asked him the +reason of this sudden dismounting and tying. Don Quixote made answer, +“Thou must know, Sancho, that this bark is plainly, and without the +possibility of any alternative, calling and inviting me to enter it, +and in it go to give aid to some knight or other person of distinction +in need of it, who is no doubt in some sore strait; for this is the way +of the books of chivalry and of the enchanters who figure and speak in +them. When a knight is involved in some difficulty from which he cannot +be delivered save by the hand of another knight, though they may be at +a distance of two or three thousand leagues or more one from the other, +they either take him up on a cloud, or they provide a bark for him to +get into, and in less than the twinkling of an eye they carry him where +they will and where his help is required; and so, Sancho, this bark is +placed here for the same purpose; this is as true as that it is now +day, and ere this one passes tie Dapple and Rocinante together, and +then in God’s hand be it to guide us; for I would not hold back from +embarking, though barefooted friars were to beg me.” + +“As that’s the case,” said Sancho, “and your worship chooses to give in +to these—I don’t know if I may call them absurdities—at every turn, +there’s nothing for it but to obey and bow the head, bearing in mind +the proverb, ‘Do as thy master bids thee, and sit down to table with +him;’ but for all that, for the sake of easing my conscience, I warn +your worship that it is my opinion this bark is no enchanted one, but +belongs to some of the fishermen of the river, for they catch the best +shad in the world here.” + +As Sancho said this, he tied the beasts, leaving them to the care and +protection of the enchanters with sorrow enough in his heart. Don +Quixote bade him not be uneasy about deserting the animals, “for he who +would carry themselves over such longinquous roads and regions would +take care to feed them.” + +“I don’t understand that logiquous,” said Sancho, “nor have I ever +heard the word all the days of my life.” + +“Longinquous,” replied Don Quixote, “means far off; but it is no wonder +thou dost not understand it, for thou art not bound to know Latin, like +some who pretend to know it and don’t.” + +“Now they are tied,” said Sancho; “what are we to do next?” + +“What?” said Don Quixote, “cross ourselves and weigh anchor; I mean, +embark and cut the moorings by which the bark is held;” and the bark +began to drift away slowly from the bank. But when Sancho saw himself +somewhere about two yards out in the river, he began to tremble and +give himself up for lost; but nothing distressed him more than hearing +Dapple bray and seeing Rocinante struggling to get loose, and said he +to his master, “Dapple is braying in grief at our leaving him, and +Rocinante is trying to escape and plunge in after us. O dear friends, +peace be with you, and may this madness that is taking us away from +you, turned into sober sense, bring us back to you.” And with this he +fell weeping so bitterly, that Don Quixote said to him, sharply and +angrily, “What art thou afraid of, cowardly creature? What art thou +weeping at, heart of butter-paste? Who pursues or molests thee, thou +soul of a tame mouse? What dost thou want, unsatisfied in the very +heart of abundance? Art thou, perchance, tramping barefoot over the +Riphaean mountains, instead of being seated on a bench like an archduke +on the tranquil stream of this pleasant river, from which in a short +space we shall come out upon the broad sea? But we must have already +emerged and gone seven hundred or eight hundred leagues; and if I had +here an astrolabe to take the altitude of the pole, I could tell thee +how many we have travelled, though either I know little, or we have +already crossed or shall shortly cross the equinoctial line which parts +the two opposite poles midway.” + +“And when we come to that line your worship speaks of,” said Sancho, +“how far shall we have gone?” + +“Very far,” said Don Quixote, “for of the three hundred and sixty +degrees that this terraqueous globe contains, as computed by Ptolemy, +the greatest cosmographer known, we shall have travelled one-half when +we come to the line I spoke of.” + +“By God,” said Sancho, “your worship gives me a nice authority for what +you say, putrid Dolly something transmogrified, or whatever it is.” + +Don Quixote laughed at the interpretation Sancho put upon “computed,” +and the name of the cosmographer Ptolemy, and said he, “Thou must know, +Sancho, that with the Spaniards and those who embark at Cadiz for the +East Indies, one of the signs they have to show them when they have +passed the equinoctial line I told thee of, is, that the lice die upon +everybody on board the ship, and not a single one is left, or to be +found in the whole vessel if they gave its weight in gold for it; so, +Sancho, thou mayest as well pass thy hand down thy thigh, and if thou +comest upon anything alive we shall be no longer in doubt; if not, then +we have crossed.” + +“I don’t believe a bit of it,” said Sancho; “still, I’ll do as your +worship bids me; though I don’t know what need there is for trying +these experiments, for I can see with my own eyes that we have not +moved five yards away from the bank, or shifted two yards from where +the animals stand, for there are Rocinante and Dapple in the very same +place where we left them; and watching a point, as I do now, I swear by +all that’s good, we are not stirring or moving at the pace of an ant.” + +“Try the test I told thee of, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and don’t +mind any other, for thou knowest nothing about colures, lines, +parallels, zodiacs, ecliptics, poles, solstices, equinoxes, planets, +signs, bearings, the measures of which the celestial and terrestrial +spheres are composed; if thou wert acquainted with all these things, or +any portion of them, thou wouldst see clearly how many parallels we +have cut, what signs we have seen, and what constellations we have left +behind and are now leaving behind. But again I tell thee, feel and +hunt, for I am certain thou art cleaner than a sheet of smooth white +paper.” + +Sancho felt, and passing his hand gently and carefully down to the +hollow of his left knee, he looked up at his master and said, “Either +the test is a false one, or we have not come to where your worship +says, nor within many leagues of it.” + +“Why, how so?” asked Don Quixote; “hast thou come upon aught?” + +“Ay, and aughts,” replied Sancho; and shaking his fingers he washed his +whole hand in the river along which the boat was quietly gliding in +midstream, not moved by any occult intelligence or invisible enchanter, +but simply by the current, just there smooth and gentle. + +They now came in sight of some large water mills that stood in the +middle of the river, and the instant Don Quixote saw them he cried out, +“Seest thou there, my friend? there stands the castle or fortress, +where there is, no doubt, some knight in durance, or ill-used queen, or +infanta, or princess, in whose aid I am brought hither.” + +“What the devil city, fortress, or castle is your worship talking +about, señor?” said Sancho; “don’t you see that those are mills that +stand in the river to grind corn?” + +“Hold thy peace, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “though they look like +mills they are not so; I have already told thee that enchantments +transform things and change their proper shapes; I do not mean to say +they really change them from one form into another, but that it seems +as though they did, as experience proved in the transformation of +Dulcinea, sole refuge of my hopes.” + +By this time, the boat, having reached the middle of the stream, began +to move less slowly than hitherto. The millers belonging to the mills, +when they saw the boat coming down the river, and on the point of being +sucked in by the draught of the wheels, ran out in haste, several of +them, with long poles to stop it, and being all mealy, with faces and +garments covered with flour, they presented a sinister appearance. They +raised loud shouts, crying, “Devils of men, where are you going to? Are +you mad? Do you want to drown yourselves, or dash yourselves to pieces +among these wheels?” + +“Did I not tell thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote at this, “that we had +reached the place where I am to show what the might of my arm can do? +See what ruffians and villains come out against me; see what monsters +oppose me; see what hideous countenances come to frighten us! You shall +soon see, scoundrels!” And then standing up in the boat he began in a +loud voice to hurl threats at the millers, exclaiming, “Ill-conditioned +and worse-counselled rabble, restore to liberty and freedom the person +ye hold in durance in this your fortress or prison, high or low or of +whatever rank or quality he be, for I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, +otherwise called the Knight of the Lions, for whom, by the disposition +of heaven above, it is reserved to give a happy issue to this +adventure;” and so saying he drew his sword and began making passes in +the air at the millers, who, hearing but not understanding all this +nonsense, strove to stop the boat, which was now getting into the +rushing channel of the wheels. Sancho fell upon his knees devoutly +appealing to heaven to deliver him from such imminent peril; which it +did by the activity and quickness of the millers, who, pushing against +the boat with their poles, stopped it, not, however, without upsetting +and throwing Don Quixote and Sancho into the water; and lucky it was +for Don Quixote that he could swim like a goose, though the weight of +his armour carried him twice to the bottom; and had it not been for the +millers, who plunged in and hoisted them both out, it would have been +Troy town with the pair of them. As soon as, more drenched than +thirsty, they were landed, Sancho went down on his knees and with +clasped hands and eyes raised to heaven, prayed a long and fervent +prayer to God to deliver him evermore from the rash projects and +attempts of his master. The fishermen, the owners of the boat, which +the mill-wheels had knocked to pieces, now came up, and seeing it +smashed they proceeded to strip Sancho and to demand payment for it +from Don Quixote; but he with great calmness, just as if nothing had +happened him, told the millers and fishermen that he would pay for the +bark most cheerfully, on condition that they delivered up to him, free +and unhurt, the person or persons that were in durance in that castle +of theirs. + + + +p29b.jpg (314K) + +Full Size + + + +“What persons or what castle art thou talking of, madman? Art thou for +carrying off the people who come to grind corn in these mills?” + +“That’s enough,” said Don Quixote to himself, “it would be preaching in +the desert to attempt by entreaties to induce this rabble to do any +virtuous action. In this adventure two mighty enchanters must have +encountered one another, and one frustrates what the other attempts; +one provided the bark for me, and the other upset me; God help us, this +world is all machinations and schemes at cross purposes one with the +other. I can do no more.” And then turning towards the mills he said +aloud, “Friends, whoe’er ye be that are immured in that prison, forgive +me that, to my misfortune and yours, I cannot deliver you from your +misery; this adventure is doubtless reserved and destined for some +other knight.” + +So saying he settled with the fishermen, and paid fifty reals for the +boat, which Sancho handed to them very much against the grain, saying, +“With a couple more bark businesses like this we shall have sunk our +whole capital.” + +The fishermen and the millers stood staring in amazement at the two +figures, so very different to all appearance from ordinary men, and +were wholly unable to make out the drift of the observations and +questions Don Quixote addressed to them; and coming to the conclusion +that they were madmen, they left them and betook themselves, the +millers to their mills, and the fishermen to their huts. Don Quixote +and Sancho returned to their beasts, and to their life of beasts, and +so ended the adventure of the enchanted bark. + + + +p29e.jpg (54K) + + + +CHAPTER XXX. +OF DON QUIXOTE’S ADVENTURE WITH A FAIR HUNTRESS + + + + +p30a.jpg (134K) + +Full Size + + + +They reached their beasts in low spirits and bad humour enough, knight +and squire, Sancho particularly, for with him what touched the stock of +money touched his heart, and when any was taken from him he felt as if +he was robbed of the apples of his eyes. In fine, without exchanging a +word, they mounted and quitted the famous river, Don Quixote absorbed +in thoughts of his love, Sancho in thinking of his advancement, which +just then, it seemed to him, he was very far from securing; for, fool +as he was, he saw clearly enough that his master’s acts were all or +most of them utterly senseless; and he began to cast about for an +opportunity of retiring from his service and going home some day, +without entering into any explanations or taking any farewell of him. +Fortune, however, ordered matters after a fashion very much the +opposite of what he contemplated. + +It so happened that the next day towards sunset, on coming out of a +wood, Don Quixote cast his eyes over a green meadow, and at the far end +of it observed some people, and as he drew nearer saw that it was a +hawking party. Coming closer, he distinguished among them a lady of +graceful mien, on a pure white palfrey or hackney caparisoned with +green trappings and a silver-mounted side-saddle. The lady was also in +green, and so richly and splendidly dressed that splendour itself +seemed personified in her. On her left hand she bore a hawk, a proof to +Don Quixote’s mind that she must be some great lady and the mistress of +the whole hunting party, which was the fact; so he said to Sancho, “Run +Sancho, my son, and say to that lady on the palfrey with the hawk that +I, the Knight of the Lions, kiss the hands of her exalted beauty, and +if her excellence will grant me leave I will go and kiss them in person +and place myself at her service for aught that may be in my power and +her highness may command; and mind, Sancho, how thou speakest, and take +care not to thrust in any of thy proverbs into thy message.” + + + +p30b.jpg (334K) + +Full Size + + + +“You’ve got a likely one here to thrust any in!” said Sancho; “leave me +alone for that! Why, this is not the first time in my life I have +carried messages to high and exalted ladies.” + +“Except that thou didst carry to the lady Dulcinea,” said Don Quixote, +“I know not that thou hast carried any other, at least in my service.” + +“That is true,” replied Sancho; “but pledges don’t distress a good +payer, and in a house where there’s plenty supper is soon cooked; I +mean there’s no need of telling or warning me about anything; for I’m +ready for everything and know a little of everything.” + +“That I believe, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “go and good luck to thee, +and God speed thee.” + +Sancho went off at top speed, forcing Dapple out of his regular pace, +and came to where the fair huntress was standing, and dismounting knelt +before her and said, “Fair lady, that knight that you see there, the +Knight of the Lions by name, is my master, and I am a squire of his, +and at home they call me Sancho Panza. This same Knight of the Lions, +who was called not long since the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, +sends by me to say may it please your highness to give him leave that, +with your permission, approbation, and consent, he may come and carry +out his wishes, which are, as he says and I believe, to serve your +exalted loftiness and beauty; and if you give it, your ladyship will do +a thing which will redound to your honour, and he will receive a most +distinguished favour and happiness.” + +“You have indeed, squire,” said the lady, “delivered your message with +all the formalities such messages require; rise up, for it is not right +that the squire of a knight so great as he of the Rueful Countenance, +of whom we have heard a great deal here, should remain on his knees; +rise, my friend, and bid your master welcome to the services of myself +and the duke my husband, in a country house we have here.” + +Sancho got up, charmed as much by the beauty of the good lady as by her +high-bred air and her courtesy, but, above all, by what she had said +about having heard of his master, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance; +for if she did not call him Knight of the Lions it was no doubt because +he had so lately taken the name. “Tell me, brother squire,” asked the +duchess (whose title, however, is not known), “this master of yours, is +he not one of whom there is a history extant in print, called ‘The +Ingenious Gentleman, Don Quixote of La Mancha,’ who has for the lady of +his heart a certain Dulcinea del Toboso?” + +“He is the same, señora,” replied Sancho; “and that squire of his who +figures, or ought to figure, in the said history under the name of +Sancho Panza, is myself, unless they have changed me in the cradle, I +mean in the press.” + +“I am rejoiced at all this,” said the duchess; “go, brother Panza, and +tell your master that he is welcome to my estate, and that nothing +could happen to me that could give me greater pleasure.” + +Sancho returned to his master mightily pleased with this gratifying +answer, and told him all the great lady had said to him, lauding to the +skies, in his rustic phrase, her rare beauty, her graceful gaiety, and +her courtesy. Don Quixote drew himself up briskly in his saddle, fixed +himself in his stirrups, settled his visor, gave Rocinante the spur, +and with an easy bearing advanced to kiss the hands of the duchess, +who, having sent to summon the duke her husband, told him while Don +Quixote was approaching all about the message; and as both of them had +read the First Part of this history, and from it were aware of Don +Quixote’s crazy turn, they awaited him with the greatest delight and +anxiety to make his acquaintance, meaning to fall in with his humour +and agree with everything he said, and, so long as he stayed with them, +to treat him as a knight-errant, with all the ceremonies usual in the +books of chivalry they had read, for they themselves were very fond of +them. + +Don Quixote now came up with his visor raised, and as he seemed about +to dismount Sancho made haste to go and hold his stirrup for him; but +in getting down off Dapple he was so unlucky as to hitch his foot in +one of the ropes of the pack-saddle in such a way that he was unable to +free it, and was left hanging by it with his face and breast on the +ground. Don Quixote, who was not used to dismount without having the +stirrup held, fancying that Sancho had by this time come to hold it for +him, threw himself off with a lurch and brought Rocinante’s saddle +after him, which was no doubt badly girthed, and saddle and he both +came to the ground; not without discomfiture to him and abundant curses +muttered between his teeth against the unlucky Sancho, who had his foot +still in the shackles. The duke ordered his huntsmen to go to the help +of knight and squire, and they raised Don Quixote, sorely shaken by his +fall; and he, limping, advanced as best he could to kneel before the +noble pair. This, however, the duke would by no means permit; on the +contrary, dismounting from his horse, he went and embraced Don Quixote, +saying, “I am grieved, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, that your +first experience on my ground should have been such an unfortunate one +as we have seen; but the carelessness of squires is often the cause of +worse accidents.” + +“That which has happened me in meeting you, mighty prince,” replied Don +Quixote, “cannot be unfortunate, even if my fall had not stopped short +of the depths of the bottomless pit, for the glory of having seen you +would have lifted me up and delivered me from it. My squire, God’s +curse upon him, is better at unloosing his tongue in talking +impertinence than in tightening the girths of a saddle to keep it +steady; but however I may be, fallen or raised up, on foot or on +horseback, I shall always be at your service and that of my lady the +duchess, your worthy consort, worthy queen of beauty and paramount +princess of courtesy.” + +“Gently, Señor Don Quixote of La Mancha,” said the duke; “where my lady +Doña Dulcinea del Toboso is, it is not right that other beauties should +be praised.” + +Sancho, by this time released from his entanglement, was standing by, +and before his master could answer he said, “There is no denying, and +it must be maintained, that my lady Dulcinea del Toboso is very +beautiful; but the hare jumps up where one least expects it; and I have +heard say that what we call nature is like a potter that makes vessels +of clay, and he who makes one fair vessel can as well make two, or +three, or a hundred; I say so because, by my faith, my lady the duchess +is in no way behind my mistress the lady Dulcinea del Toboso.” + +Don Quixote turned to the duchess and said, “Your highness may conceive +that never had knight-errant in this world a more talkative or a +droller squire than I have, and he will prove the truth of what I say, +if your highness is pleased to accept of my services for a few days.” + +To which the duchess made answer, “that worthy Sancho is droll I +consider a very good thing, because it is a sign that he is shrewd; for +drollery and sprightliness, Señor Don Quixote, as you very well know, +do not take up their abode with dull wits; and as good Sancho is droll +and sprightly I here set him down as shrewd.” + +“And talkative,” added Don Quixote. + +“So much the better,” said the duke, “for many droll things cannot be +said in few words; but not to lose time in talking, come, great Knight +of the Rueful Countenance—” + +“Of the Lions, your highness must say,” said Sancho, “for there is no +Rueful Countenance nor any such character now.” + +“He of the Lions be it,” continued the duke; “I say, let Sir Knight of +the Lions come to a castle of mine close by, where he shall be given +that reception which is due to so exalted a personage, and which the +duchess and I are wont to give to all knights-errant who come there.” + +By this time Sancho had fixed and girthed Rocinante’s saddle, and Don +Quixote having got on his back and the duke mounted a fine horse, they +placed the duchess in the middle and set out for the castle. The +duchess desired Sancho to come to her side, for she found infinite +enjoyment in listening to his shrewd remarks. Sancho required no +pressing, but pushed himself in between them and the duke, who thought +it rare good fortune to receive such a knight-errant and such a homely +squire in their castle. + + + +p30e.jpg (54K) + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. +WHICH TREATS OF MANY AND GREAT MATTERS + + + + +p31a.jpg (155K) + +Full Size + + + +Supreme was the satisfaction that Sancho felt at seeing himself, as it +seemed, an established favourite with the duchess, for he looked +forward to finding in her castle what he had found in Don Diego’s house +and in Basilio’s; he was always fond of good living, and always seized +by the forelock any opportunity of feasting himself whenever it +presented itself. The history informs us, then, that before they +reached the country house or castle, the duke went on in advance and +instructed all his servants how they were to treat Don Quixote; and so +the instant he came up to the castle gates with the duchess, two +lackeys or equerries, clad in what they call morning gowns of fine +crimson satin reaching to their feet, hastened out, and catching Don +Quixote in their arms before he saw or heard them, said to him, “Your +highness should go and take my lady the duchess off her horse.” + + + +p31b.jpg (334K) + +Full Size + + + +Don Quixote obeyed, and great bandying of compliments followed between +the two over the matter; but in the end the duchess’s determination +carried the day, and she refused to get down or dismount from her +palfrey except in the arms of the duke, saying she did not consider +herself worthy to impose so unnecessary a burden on so great a knight. +At length the duke came out to take her down, and as they entered a +spacious court two fair damsels came forward and threw over Don +Quixote’s shoulders a large mantle of the finest scarlet cloth, and at +the same instant all the galleries of the court were lined with the +men-servants and women-servants of the household, crying, “Welcome, +flower and cream of knight-errantry!” while all or most of them flung +pellets filled with scented water over Don Quixote and the duke and +duchess; at all which Don Quixote was greatly astonished, and this was +the first time that he thoroughly felt and believed himself to be a +knight-errant in reality and not merely in fancy, now that he saw +himself treated in the same way as he had read of such knights being +treated in days of yore. + +Sancho, deserting Dapple, hung on to the duchess and entered the +castle, but feeling some twinges of conscience at having left the ass +alone, he approached a respectable duenna who had come out with the +rest to receive the duchess, and in a low voice he said to her, “Señora +Gonzalez, or however your grace may be called—” + +“I am called Doña Rodriguez de Grijalba,” replied the duenna; “what is +your will, brother?” To which Sancho made answer, “I should be glad if +your worship would do me the favour to go out to the castle gate, where +you will find a grey ass of mine; make them, if you please, put him in +the stable, or put him there yourself, for the poor little beast is +rather easily frightened, and cannot bear being alone at all.” + +“If the master is as wise as the man,” said the duenna, “we have got a +fine bargain. Be off with you, brother, and bad luck to you and him who +brought you here; go, look after your ass, for we, the duennas of this +house, are not used to work of that sort.” + +“Well then, in troth,” returned Sancho, “I have heard my master, who is +the very treasure-finder of stories, telling the story of Lancelot when +he came from Britain, say that ladies waited upon him and duennas upon +his hack; and, if it comes to my ass, I wouldn’t change him for Señor +Lancelot’s hack.” + +“If you are a jester, brother,” said the duenna, “keep your drolleries +for some place where they’ll pass muster and be paid for; for you’ll +get nothing from me but a fig.” + +“At any rate, it will be a very ripe one,” said Sancho, “for you won’t +lose the trick in years by a point too little.” + +“Son of a bitch,” said the duenna, all aglow with anger, “whether I’m +old or not, it’s with God I have to reckon, not with you, you +garlic-stuffed scoundrel!” and she said it so loud, that the duchess +heard it, and turning round and seeing the duenna in such a state of +excitement, and her eyes flaming so, asked whom she was wrangling with. + +“With this good fellow here,” said the duenna, “who has particularly +requested me to go and put an ass of his that is at the castle gate +into the stable, holding it up to me as an example that they did the +same I don’t know where—that some ladies waited on one Lancelot, and +duennas on his hack; and what is more, to wind up with, he called me +old.” + +“That,” said the duchess, “I should have considered the greatest +affront that could be offered me;” and addressing Sancho, she said to +him, “You must know, friend Sancho, that Doña Rodriguez is very +youthful, and that she wears that hood more for authority and custom’s +sake than because of her years.” + +“May all the rest of mine be unlucky,” said Sancho, “if I meant it that +way; I only spoke because the affection I have for my ass is so great, +and I thought I could not commend him to a more kind-hearted person +than the lady Doña Rodriguez.” + +Don Quixote, who was listening, said to him, “Is this proper +conversation for the place, Sancho?” + +“Señor,” replied Sancho, “every one must mention what he wants wherever +he may be; I thought of Dapple here, and I spoke of him here; if I had +thought of him in the stable I would have spoken there.” + +On which the duke observed, “Sancho is quite right, and there is no +reason at all to find fault with him; Dapple shall be fed to his +heart’s content, and Sancho may rest easy, for he shall be treated like +himself.” + +While this conversation, amusing to all except Don Quixote, was +proceeding, they ascended the staircase and ushered Don Quixote into a +chamber hung with rich cloth of gold and brocade; six damsels relieved +him of his armour and waited on him like pages, all of them prepared +and instructed by the duke and duchess as to what they were to do, and +how they were to treat Don Quixote, so that he might see and believe +they were treating him like a knight-errant. When his armour was +removed, there stood Don Quixote in his tight-fitting breeches and +chamois doublet, lean, lanky, and long, with cheeks that seemed to be +kissing each other inside; such a figure, that if the damsels waiting +on him had not taken care to check their merriment (which was one of +the particular directions their master and mistress had given them), +they would have burst with laughter. They asked him to let himself be +stripped that they might put a shirt on him, but he would not on any +account, saying that modesty became knights-errant just as much as +valour. However, he said they might give the shirt to Sancho; and +shutting himself in with him in a room where there was a sumptuous bed, +he undressed and put on the shirt; and then, finding himself alone with +Sancho, he said to him, “Tell me, thou new-fledged buffoon and old +booby, dost thou think it right to offend and insult a duenna so +deserving of reverence and respect as that one just now? Was that a +time to bethink thee of thy Dapple, or are these noble personages +likely to let the beasts fare badly when they treat their owners in +such elegant style? For God’s sake, Sancho, restrain thyself, and don’t +show the thread so as to let them see what a coarse, boorish texture +thou art of. Remember, sinner that thou art, the master is the more +esteemed the more respectable and well-bred his servants are; and that +one of the greatest advantages that princes have over other men is that +they have servants as good as themselves to wait on them. Dost thou not +see—shortsighted being that thou art, and unlucky mortal that I +am!—that if they perceive thee to be a coarse clown or a dull +blockhead, they will suspect me to be some impostor or swindler? Nay, +nay, Sancho friend, keep clear, oh, keep clear of these +stumbling-blocks; for he who falls into the way of being a chatterbox +and droll, drops into a wretched buffoon the first time he trips; +bridle thy tongue, consider and weigh thy words before they escape thy +mouth, and bear in mind we are now in quarters whence, by God’s help, +and the strength of my arm, we shall come forth mightily advanced in +fame and fortune.” + +Sancho promised him with much earnestness to keep his mouth shut, and +to bite off his tongue before he uttered a word that was not altogether +to the purpose and well considered, and told him he might make his mind +easy on that point, for it should never be discovered through him what +they were. + +Don Quixote dressed himself, put on his baldric with his sword, threw +the scarlet mantle over his shoulders, placed on his head a montera of +green satin that the damsels had given him, and thus arrayed passed out +into the large room, where he found the damsels drawn up in double +file, the same number on each side, all with the appliances for washing +the hands, which they presented to him with profuse obeisances and +ceremonies. Then came twelve pages, together with the seneschal, to +lead him to dinner, as his hosts were already waiting for him. They +placed him in the midst of them, and with much pomp and stateliness +they conducted him into another room, where there was a sumptuous table +laid with but four covers. The duchess and the duke came out to the +door of the room to receive him, and with them a grave ecclesiastic, +one of those who rule noblemen’s houses; one of those who, not being +born magnates themselves, never know how to teach those who are how to +behave as such; one of those who would have the greatness of great folk +measured by their own narrowness of mind; one of those who, when they +try to introduce economy into the household they rule, lead it into +meanness. One of this sort, I say, must have been the grave churchman +who came out with the duke and duchess to receive Don Quixote. + +A vast number of polite speeches were exchanged, and at length, taking +Don Quixote between them, they proceeded to sit down to table. The duke +pressed Don Quixote to take the head of the table, and, though he +refused, the entreaties of the duke were so urgent that he had to +accept it. + +The ecclesiastic took his seat opposite to him, and the duke and +duchess those at the sides. All this time Sancho stood by, gaping with +amazement at the honour he saw shown to his master by these illustrious +persons; and observing all the ceremonious pressing that had passed +between the duke and Don Quixote to induce him to take his seat at the +head of the table, he said, “If your worship will give me leave I will +tell you a story of what happened in my village about this matter of +seats.” + +The moment Sancho said this Don Quixote trembled, making sure that he +was about to say something foolish. Sancho glanced at him, and guessing +his thoughts, said, “Don’t be afraid of my going astray, señor, or +saying anything that won’t be pat to the purpose; I haven’t forgotten +the advice your worship gave me just now about talking much or little, +well or ill.” + +“I have no recollection of anything, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “say +what thou wilt, only say it quickly.” + +“Well then,” said Sancho, “what I am going to say is so true that my +master Don Quixote, who is here present, will keep me from lying.” + +“Lie as much as thou wilt for all I care, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, +“for I am not going to stop thee, but consider what thou art going to +say.” + +“I have so considered and reconsidered,” said Sancho, “that the +bell-ringer’s in a safe berth; as will be seen by what follows.” + +“It would be well,” said Don Quixote, “if your highnesses would order +them to turn out this idiot, for he will talk a heap of nonsense.” + +“By the life of the duke, Sancho shall not be taken away from me for a +moment,” said the duchess; “I am very fond of him, for I know he is +very discreet.” + +“Discreet be the days of your holiness,” said Sancho, “for the good +opinion you have of my wit, though there’s none in me; but the story I +want to tell is this. There was an invitation given by a gentleman of +my town, a very rich one, and one of quality, for he was one of the +Alamos of Medina del Campo, and married to Doña Mencia de Quiñones, the +daughter of Don Alonso de Marañon, Knight of the Order of Santiago, +that was drowned at the Herradura—him there was that quarrel about +years ago in our village, that my master Don Quixote was mixed up in, +to the best of my belief, that Tomasillo the scapegrace, the son of +Balbastro the smith, was wounded in.—Isn’t all this true, master mine? +As you live, say so, that these gentlefolk may not take me for some +lying chatterer.” + +“So far,” said the ecclesiastic, “I take you to be more a chatterer +than a liar; but I don’t know what I shall take you for by-and-by.” + +“Thou citest so many witnesses and proofs, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, +“that I have no choice but to say thou must be telling the truth; go +on, and cut the story short, for thou art taking the way not to make an +end for two days to come.” + +“He is not to cut it short,” said the duchess; “on the contrary, for my +gratification, he is to tell it as he knows it, though he should not +finish it these six days; and if he took so many they would be to me +the pleasantest I ever spent.” + +“Well then, sirs, I say,” continued Sancho, “that this same gentleman, +whom I know as well as I do my own hands, for it’s not a bowshot from +my house to his, invited a poor but respectable labourer—” + +“Get on, brother,” said the churchman; “at the rate you are going you +will not stop with your story short of the next world.” + +“I’ll stop less than half-way, please God,” said Sancho; “and so I say +this labourer, coming to the house of the gentleman I spoke of that +invited him—rest his soul, he is now dead; and more by token he died +the death of an angel, so they say; for I was not there, for just at +that time I had gone to reap at Tembleque—” + +“As you live, my son,” said the churchman, “make haste back from +Tembleque, and finish your story without burying the gentleman, unless +you want to make more funerals.” + +“Well then, it so happened,” said Sancho, “that as the pair of them +were going to sit down to table—and I think I can see them now plainer +than ever—” + +Great was the enjoyment the duke and duchess derived from the +irritation the worthy churchman showed at the long-winded, halting way +Sancho had of telling his story, while Don Quixote was chafing with +rage and vexation. + +“So, as I was saying,” continued Sancho, “as the pair of them were +going to sit down to table, as I said, the labourer insisted upon the +gentleman’s taking the head of the table, and the gentleman insisted +upon the labourer’s taking it, as his orders should be obeyed in his +house; but the labourer, who plumed himself on his politeness and good +breeding, would not on any account, until the gentleman, out of +patience, putting his hands on his shoulders, compelled him by force to +sit down, saying, ‘Sit down, you stupid lout, for wherever I sit will +be the head to you; and that’s the story, and, troth, I think it hasn’t +been brought in amiss here.” + +Don Quixote turned all colours, which, on his sunburnt face, mottled it +till it looked like jasper. The duke and duchess suppressed their +laughter so as not altogether to mortify Don Quixote, for they saw +through Sancho’s impertinence; and to change the conversation, and keep +Sancho from uttering more absurdities, the duchess asked Don Quixote +what news he had of the lady Dulcinea, and if he had sent her any +presents of giants or miscreants lately, for he could not but have +vanquished a good many. + +To which Don Quixote replied, “Señora, my misfortunes, though they had +a beginning, will never have an end. I have vanquished giants and I +have sent her caitiffs and miscreants; but where are they to find her +if she is enchanted and turned into the most ill-favoured peasant wench +that can be imagined?” + +“I don’t know,” said Sancho Panza; “to me she seems the fairest +creature in the world; at any rate, in nimbleness and jumping she won’t +give in to a tumbler; by my faith, señora duchess, she leaps from the +ground on to the back of an ass like a cat.” + +“Have you seen her enchanted, Sancho?” asked the duke. + +“What, seen her!” said Sancho; “why, who the devil was it but myself +that first thought of the enchantment business? She is as much +enchanted as my father.” + +The ecclesiastic, when he heard them talking of giants and caitiffs and +enchantments, began to suspect that this must be Don Quixote of La +Mancha, whose story the duke was always reading; and he had himself +often reproved him for it, telling him it was foolish to read such +fooleries; and becoming convinced that his suspicion was correct, +addressing the duke, he said very angrily to him, “Señor, your +excellence will have to give account to God for what this good man +does. This Don Quixote, or Don Simpleton, or whatever his name is, +cannot, I imagine, be such a blockhead as your excellence would have +him, holding out encouragement to him to go on with his vagaries and +follies.” Then turning to address Don Quixote he said, “And you, +num-skull, who put it into your head that you are a knight-errant, and +vanquish giants and capture miscreants? Go your ways in a good hour, +and in a good hour be it said to you. Go home and bring up your +children if you have any, and attend to your business, and give over +going wandering about the world, gaping and making a laughing-stock of +yourself to all who know you and all who don’t. Where, in heaven’s +name, have you discovered that there are or ever were knights-errant? +Where are there giants in Spain or miscreants in La Mancha, or +enchanted Dulcineas, or all the rest of the silly things they tell +about you?” + +Don Quixote listened attentively to the reverend gentleman’s words, and +as soon as he perceived he had done speaking, regardless of the +presence of the duke and duchess, he sprang to his feet with angry +looks and an agitated countenance, and said—But the reply deserves a +chapter to itself. + + + +p31e.jpg (46K) + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. +OF THE REPLY DON QUIXOTE GAVE HIS CENSURER, WITH OTHER INCIDENTS, GRAVE +AND DROLL + + + + +p32a.jpg (152K) + +Full Size + + + +Don Quixote, then, having risen to his feet, trembling from head to +foot like a man dosed with mercury, said in a hurried, agitated voice, +“The place I am in, the presence in which I stand, and the respect I +have and always have had for the profession to which your worship +belongs, hold and bind the hands of my just indignation; and as well +for these reasons as because I know, as everyone knows, that a +gownsman’s weapon is the same as a woman’s, the tongue, I will with +mine engage in equal combat with your worship, from whom one might have +expected good advice instead of foul abuse. Pious, well-meant reproof +requires a different demeanour and arguments of another sort; at any +rate, to have reproved me in public, and so roughly, exceeds the bounds +of proper reproof, for that comes better with gentleness than with +rudeness; and it is not seemly to call the sinner roundly blockhead and +booby, without knowing anything of the sin that is reproved. Come, tell +me, for which of the stupidities you have observed in me do you condemn +and abuse me, and bid me go home and look after my house and wife and +children, without knowing whether I have any? Is nothing more needed +than to get a footing, by hook or by crook, in other people’s houses to +rule over the masters (and that, perhaps, after having been brought up +in all the straitness of some seminary, and without having ever seen +more of the world than may lie within twenty or thirty leagues round), +to fit one to lay down the law rashly for chivalry, and pass judgment +on knights-errant? Is it, haply, an idle occupation, or is the time +ill-spent that is spent in roaming the world in quest, not of its +enjoyments, but of those arduous toils whereby the good mount upwards +to the abodes of everlasting life? If gentlemen, great lords, nobles, +men of high birth, were to rate me as a fool I should take it as an +irreparable insult; but I care not a farthing if clerks who have never +entered upon or trod the paths of chivalry should think me foolish. +Knight I am, and knight I will die, if such be the pleasure of the Most +High. Some take the broad road of overweening ambition; others that of +mean and servile flattery; others that of deceitful hypocrisy, and some +that of true religion; but I, led by my star, follow the narrow path of +knight-errantry, and in pursuit of that calling I despise wealth, but +not honour. I have redressed injuries, righted wrongs, punished +insolences, vanquished giants, and crushed monsters; I am in love, for +no other reason than that it is incumbent on knights-errant to be so; +but though I am, I am no carnal-minded lover, but one of the chaste, +platonic sort. My intentions are always directed to worthy ends, to do +good to all and evil to none; and if he who means this, does this, and +makes this his practice deserves to be called a fool, it is for your +highnesses to say, O most excellent duke and duchess.” + +“Good, by God!” cried Sancho; “say no more in your own defence, master +mine, for there’s nothing more in the world to be said, thought, or +insisted on; and besides, when this gentleman denies, as he has, that +there are or ever have been any knights-errant in the world, is it any +wonder if he knows nothing of what he has been talking about?” + +“Perhaps, brother,” said the ecclesiastic, “you are that Sancho Panza +that is mentioned, to whom your master has promised an island?” + +“Yes, I am,” said Sancho, “and what’s more, I am one who deserves it as +much as anyone; I am one of the sort—‘Attach thyself to the good, and +thou wilt be one of them,’ and of those, ‘Not with whom thou art bred, +but with whom thou art fed,’ and of those, ‘Who leans against a good +tree, a good shade covers him;’ I have leant upon a good master, and I +have been for months going about with him, and please God I shall be +just such another; long life to him and long life to me, for neither +will he be in any want of empires to rule, or I of islands to govern.” + +“No, Sancho my friend, certainly not,” said the duke, “for in the name +of Señor Don Quixote I confer upon you the government of one of no +small importance that I have at my disposal.” + +“Go down on thy knees, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and kiss the feet of +his excellence for the favour he has bestowed upon thee.” + +Sancho obeyed, and on seeing this the ecclesiastic stood up from table +completely out of temper, exclaiming, “By the gown I wear, I am almost +inclined to say that your excellence is as great a fool as these +sinners. No wonder they are mad, when people who are in their senses +sanction their madness! I leave your excellence with them, for so long +as they are in the house, I will remain in my own, and spare myself the +trouble of reproving what I cannot remedy;” and without uttering +another word, or eating another morsel, he went off, the entreaties of +the duke and duchess being entirely unavailing to stop him; not that +the duke said much to him, for he could not, because of the laughter +his uncalled-for anger provoked. + +When he had done laughing, he said to Don Quixote, “You have replied on +your own behalf so stoutly, Sir Knight of the Lions, that there is no +occasion to seek further satisfaction for this, which, though it may +look like an offence, is not so at all, for, as women can give no +offence, no more can ecclesiastics, as you very well know.” + +“That is true,” said Don Quixote, “and the reason is, that he who is +not liable to offence cannot give offence to anyone. Women, children, +and ecclesiastics, as they cannot defend themselves, though they may +receive offence cannot be insulted, because between the offence and the +insult there is, as your excellence very well knows, this difference: +the insult comes from one who is capable of offering it, and does so, +and maintains it; the offence may come from any quarter without +carrying insult. To take an example: a man is standing unsuspectingly +in the street and ten others come up armed and beat him; he draws his +sword and quits himself like a man, but the number of his antagonists +makes it impossible for him to effect his purpose and avenge himself; +this man suffers an offence but not an insult. Another example will +make the same thing plain: a man is standing with his back turned, +another comes up and strikes him, and after striking him takes to +flight, without waiting an instant, and the other pursues him but does +not overtake him; he who received the blow received an offence, but not +an insult, because an insult must be maintained. If he who struck him, +though he did so sneakingly and treacherously, had drawn his sword and +stood and faced him, then he who had been struck would have received +offence and insult at the same time; offence because he was struck +treacherously, insult because he who struck him maintained what he had +done, standing his ground without taking to flight. And so, according +to the laws of the accursed duel, I may have received offence, but not +insult, for neither women nor children can maintain it, nor can they +wound, nor have they any way of standing their ground, and it is just +the same with those connected with religion; for these three sorts of +persons are without arms offensive or defensive, and so, though +naturally they are bound to defend themselves, they have no right to +offend anybody; and though I said just now I might have received +offence, I say now certainly not, for he who cannot receive an insult +can still less give one; for which reasons I ought not to feel, nor do +I feel, aggrieved at what that good man said to me; I only wish he had +stayed a little longer, that I might have shown him the mistake he +makes in supposing and maintaining that there are not and never have +been any knights-errant in the world; had Amadis or any of his +countless descendants heard him say as much, I am sure it would not +have gone well with his worship.” + +“I will take my oath of that,” said Sancho; “they would have given him +a slash that would have slit him down from top to toe like a +pomegranate or a ripe melon; they were likely fellows to put up with +jokes of that sort! By my faith, I’m certain if Reinaldos of Montalvan +had heard the little man’s words he would have given him such a spank +on the mouth that he wouldn’t have spoken for the next three years; ay, +let him tackle them, and he’ll see how he’ll get out of their hands!” + +The duchess, as she listened to Sancho, was ready to die with laughter, +and in her own mind she set him down as droller and madder than his +master; and there were a good many just then who were of the same +opinion. + +Don Quixote finally grew calm, and dinner came to an end, and as the +cloth was removed four damsels came in, one of them with a silver +basin, another with a jug also of silver, a third with two fine white +towels on her shoulder, and the fourth with her arms bared to the +elbows, and in her white hands (for white they certainly were) a round +ball of Naples soap. The one with the basin approached, and with arch +composure and impudence, thrust it under Don Quixote’s chin, who, +wondering at such a ceremony, said never a word, supposing it to be the +custom of that country to wash beards instead of hands; he therefore +stretched his out as far as he could, and at the same instant the jug +began to pour and the damsel with the soap rubbed his beard briskly, +raising snow-flakes, for the soap lather was no less white, not only +over the beard, but all over the face, and over the eyes of the +submissive knight, so that they were perforce obliged to keep shut. The +duke and duchess, who had not known anything about this, waited to see +what came of this strange washing. The barber damsel, when she had him +a hand’s breadth deep in lather, pretended that there was no more +water, and bade the one with the jug go and fetch some, while Señor Don +Quixote waited. She did so, and Don Quixote was left the strangest and +most ludicrous figure that could be imagined. All those present, and +there were a good many, were watching him, and as they saw him there +with half a yard of neck, and that uncommonly brown, his eyes shut, and +his beard full of soap, it was a great wonder, and only by great +discretion, that they were able to restrain their laughter. The +damsels, the concocters of the joke, kept their eyes down, not daring +to look at their master and mistress; and as for them, laughter and +anger struggled within them, and they knew not what to do, whether to +punish the audacity of the girls, or to reward them for the amusement +they had received from seeing Don Quixote in such a plight. + +At length the damsel with the jug returned and they made an end of +washing Don Quixote, and the one who carried the towels very +deliberately wiped him and dried him; and all four together making him +a profound obeisance and curtsey, they were about to go, when the duke, +lest Don Quixote should see through the joke, called out to the one +with the basin saying, “Come and wash me, and take care that there is +water enough.” The girl, sharp-witted and prompt, came and placed the +basin for the duke as she had done for Don Quixote, and they soon had +him well soaped and washed, and having wiped him dry they made their +obeisance and retired. It appeared afterwards that the duke had sworn +that if they had not washed him as they had Don Quixote he would have +punished them for their impudence, which they adroitly atoned for by +soaping him as well. + +Sancho observed the ceremony of the washing very attentively, and said +to himself, “God bless me, if it were only the custom in this country +to wash squires’ beards too as well as knights’. For by God and upon my +soul I want it badly; and if they gave me a scrape of the razor besides +I’d take it as a still greater kindness.” + +“What are you saying to yourself, Sancho?” asked the duchess. + +“I was saying, señora,” he replied, “that in the courts of other +princes, when the cloth is taken away, I have always heard say they +give water for the hands, but not lye for the beard; and that shows it +is good to live long that you may see much; to be sure, they say too +that he who lives a long life must undergo much evil, though to undergo +a washing of that sort is pleasure rather than pain.” + +“Don’t be uneasy, friend Sancho,” said the duchess; “I will take care +that my damsels wash you, and even put you in the tub if necessary.” + +“I’ll be content with the beard,” said Sancho, “at any rate for the +present; and as for the future, God has decreed what is to be.” + +“Attend to worthy Sancho’s request, seneschal,” said the duchess, “and +do exactly what he wishes.” + +The seneschal replied that Señor Sancho should be obeyed in everything; +and with that he went away to dinner and took Sancho along with him, +while the duke and duchess and Don Quixote remained at table discussing +a great variety of things, but all bearing on the calling of arms and +knight-errantry. + +The duchess begged Don Quixote, as he seemed to have a retentive +memory, to describe and portray to her the beauty and features of the +lady Dulcinea del Toboso, for, judging by what fame trumpeted abroad of +her beauty, she felt sure she must be the fairest creature in the +world, nay, in all La Mancha. + +Don Quixote sighed on hearing the duchess’s request, and said, “If I +could pluck out my heart, and lay it on a plate on this table here +before your highness’s eyes, it would spare my tongue the pain of +telling what can hardly be thought of, for in it your excellence would +see her portrayed in full. But why should I attempt to depict and +describe in detail, and feature by feature, the beauty of the peerless +Dulcinea, the burden being one worthy of other shoulders than mine, an +enterprise wherein the pencils of Parrhasius, Timantes, and Apelles, +and the graver of Lysippus ought to be employed, to paint it in +pictures and carve it in marble and bronze, and Ciceronian and +Demosthenian eloquence to sound its praises?” + +“What does Demosthenian mean, Señor Don Quixote?” said the duchess; “it +is a word I never heard in all my life.” + +“Demosthenian eloquence,” said Don Quixote, “means the eloquence of +Demosthenes, as Ciceronian means that of Cicero, who were the two most +eloquent orators in the world.” + +“True,” said the duke; “you must have lost your wits to ask such a +question. Nevertheless, Señor Don Quixote would greatly gratify us if +he would depict her to us; for never fear, even in an outline or sketch +she will be something to make the fairest envious.” + +“I would do so certainly,” said Don Quixote, “had she not been blurred +to my mind’s eye by the misfortune that fell upon her a short time +since, one of such a nature that I am more ready to weep over it than +to describe it. For your highnesses must know that, going a few days +back to kiss her hands and receive her benediction, approbation, and +permission for this third sally, I found her altogether a different +being from the one I sought; I found her enchanted and changed from a +princess into a peasant, from fair to foul, from an angel into a devil, +from fragrant to pestiferous, from refined to clownish, from a +dignified lady into a jumping tomboy, and, in a word, from Dulcinea del +Toboso into a coarse Sayago wench.” + +“God bless me!” said the duke aloud at this, “who can have done the +world such an injury? Who can have robbed it of the beauty that +gladdened it, of the grace and gaiety that charmed it, of the modesty +that shed a lustre upon it?” + +“Who?” replied Don Quixote; “who could it be but some malignant +enchanter of the many that persecute me out of envy—that accursed race +born into the world to obscure and bring to naught the achievements of +the good, and glorify and exalt the deeds of the wicked? Enchanters +have persecuted me, enchanters persecute me still, and enchanters will +continue to persecute me until they have sunk me and my lofty chivalry +in the deep abyss of oblivion; and they injure and wound me where they +know I feel it most. For to deprive a knight-errant of his lady is to +deprive him of the eyes he sees with, of the sun that gives him light, +of the food whereby he lives. Many a time before have I said it, and I +say it now once more, a knight-errant without a lady is like a tree +without leaves, a building without a foundation, or a shadow without +the body that causes it.” + +“There is no denying it,” said the duchess; “but still, if we are to +believe the history of Don Quixote that has come out here lately with +general applause, it is to be inferred from it, if I mistake not, that +you never saw the lady Dulcinea, and that the said lady is nothing in +the world but an imaginary lady, one that you yourself begot and gave +birth to in your brain, and adorned with whatever charms and +perfections you chose.” + +“There is a good deal to be said on that point,” said Don Quixote; “God +knows whether there be any Dulcinea or not in the world, or whether she +is imaginary or not imaginary; these are things the proof of which must +not be pushed to extreme lengths. I have not begotten nor given birth +to my lady, though I behold her as she needs must be, a lady who +contains in herself all the qualities to make her famous throughout the +world, beautiful without blemish, dignified without haughtiness, tender +and yet modest, gracious from courtesy and courteous from good +breeding, and lastly, of exalted lineage, because beauty shines forth +and excels with a higher degree of perfection upon good blood than in +the fair of lowly birth.” + +“That is true,” said the duke; “but Señor Don Quixote will give me +leave to say what I am constrained to say by the story of his exploits +that I have read, from which it is to be inferred that, granting there +is a Dulcinea in El Toboso, or out of it, and that she is in the +highest degree beautiful as you have described her to us, as regards +the loftiness of her lineage she is not on a par with the Orianas, +Alastrajareas, Madasimas, or others of that sort, with whom, as you +well know, the histories abound.” + +“To that I may reply,” said Don Quixote, “that Dulcinea is the daughter +of her own works, and that virtues rectify blood, and that lowly virtue +is more to be regarded and esteemed than exalted vice. Dulcinea, +besides, has that within her that may raise her to be a crowned and +sceptred queen; for the merit of a fair and virtuous woman is capable +of performing greater miracles; and virtually, though not formally, she +has in herself higher fortunes.” + +“I protest, Señor Don Quixote,” said the duchess, “that in all you say, +you go most cautiously and lead in hand, as the saying is; henceforth I +will believe myself, and I will take care that everyone in my house +believes, even my lord the duke if needs be, that there is a Dulcinea +in El Toboso, and that she is living to-day, and that she is beautiful +and nobly born and deserves to have such a knight as Señor Don Quixote +in her service, and that is the highest praise that it is in my power +to give her or that I can think of. But I cannot help entertaining a +doubt, and having a certain grudge against Sancho Panza; the doubt is +this, that the aforesaid history declares that the said Sancho Panza, +when he carried a letter on your worship’s behalf to the said lady +Dulcinea, found her sifting a sack of wheat; and more by token it says +it was red wheat; a thing which makes me doubt the loftiness of her +lineage.” + +To this Don Quixote made answer, “Señora, your highness must know that +everything or almost everything that happens me transcends the ordinary +limits of what happens to other knights-errant; whether it be that it +is directed by the inscrutable will of destiny, or by the malice of +some jealous enchanter. Now it is an established fact that all or most +famous knights-errant have some special gift, one that of being proof +against enchantment, another that of being made of such invulnerable +flesh that he cannot be wounded, as was the famous Roland, one of the +twelve peers of France, of whom it is related that he could not be +wounded except in the sole of his left foot, and that it must be with +the point of a stout pin and not with any other sort of weapon +whatever; and so, when Bernardo del Carpio slew him at Roncesvalles, +finding that he could not wound him with steel, he lifted him up from +the ground in his arms and strangled him, calling to mind seasonably +the death which Hercules inflicted on Antæus, the fierce giant that +they say was the son of Terra. I would infer from what I have mentioned +that perhaps I may have some gift of this kind, not that of being +invulnerable, because experience has many times proved to me that I am +of tender flesh and not at all impenetrable; nor that of being proof +against enchantment, for I have already seen myself thrust into a cage, +in which all the world would not have been able to confine me except by +force of enchantments. But as I delivered myself from that one, I am +inclined to believe that there is no other that can hurt me; and so, +these enchanters, seeing that they cannot exert their vile craft +against my person, revenge themselves on what I love most, and seek to +rob me of life by maltreating that of Dulcinea in whom I live; and +therefore I am convinced that when my squire carried my message to her, +they changed her into a common peasant girl, engaged in such a mean +occupation as sifting wheat; I have already said, however, that that +wheat was not red wheat, nor wheat at all, but grains of orient pearl. +And as a proof of all this, I must tell your highnesses that, coming to +El Toboso a short time back, I was altogether unable to discover the +palace of Dulcinea; and that the next day, though Sancho, my squire, +saw her in her own proper shape, which is the fairest in the world, to +me she appeared to be a coarse, ill-favoured farm-wench, and by no +means a well-spoken one, she who is propriety itself. And so, as I am +not and, so far as one can judge, cannot be enchanted, she it is that +is enchanted, that is smitten, that is altered, changed, and +transformed; in her have my enemies revenged themselves upon me, and +for her shall I live in ceaseless tears, until I see her in her +pristine state. I have mentioned this lest anybody should mind what +Sancho said about Dulcinea’s winnowing or sifting; for, as they changed +her to me, it is no wonder if they changed her to him. Dulcinea is +illustrious and well-born, and of one of the gentle families of El +Toboso, which are many, ancient, and good. Therein, most assuredly, not +small is the share of the peerless Dulcinea, through whom her town will +be famous and celebrated in ages to come, as Troy was through Helen, +and Spain through La Cava, though with a better title and tradition. +For another thing; I would have your graces understand that Sancho +Panza is one of the drollest squires that ever served knight-errant; +sometimes there is a simplicity about him so acute that it is an +amusement to try and make out whether he is simple or sharp; he has +mischievous tricks that stamp him rogue, and blundering ways that prove +him a booby; he doubts everything and believes everything; when I fancy +he is on the point of coming down headlong from sheer stupidity, he +comes out with something shrewd that sends him up to the skies. After +all, I would not exchange him for another squire, though I were given a +city to boot, and therefore I am in doubt whether it will be well to +send him to the government your highness has bestowed upon him; though +I perceive in him a certain aptitude for the work of governing, so +that, with a little trimming of his understanding, he would manage any +government as easily as the king does his taxes; and moreover, we know +already ample experience that it does not require much cleverness or +much learning to be a governor, for there are a hundred round about us +that scarcely know how to read, and govern like gerfalcons. The main +point is that they should have good intentions and be desirous of doing +right in all things, for they will never be at a loss for persons to +advise and direct them in what they have to do, like those +knight-governors who, being no lawyers, pronounce sentences with the +aid of an assessor. My advice to him will be to take no bribe and +surrender no right, and I have some other little matters in reserve, +that shall be produced in due season for Sancho’s benefit and the +advantage of the island he is to govern.” + +The duke, duchess, and Don Quixote had reached this point in their +conversation, when they heard voices and a great hubbub in the palace, +and Sancho burst abruptly into the room all glowing with anger, with a +straining-cloth by way of a bib, and followed by several servants, or, +more properly speaking, kitchen-boys and other underlings, one of whom +carried a small trough full of water, that from its colour and impurity +was plainly dishwater. The one with the trough pursued him and followed +him everywhere he went, endeavouring with the utmost persistence to +thrust it under his chin, while another kitchen-boy seemed anxious to +wash his beard. + +“What is all this, brothers?” asked the duchess. “What is it? What do +you want to do to this good man? Do you forget he is a governor-elect?” + +To which the barber kitchen-boy replied, “The gentleman will not let +himself be washed as is customary, and as my lord and the señor his +master have been.” + +“Yes, I will,” said Sancho, in a great rage; “but I’d like it to be +with cleaner towels, clearer lye, and not such dirty hands; for there’s +not so much difference between me and my master that he should be +washed with angels’ water and I with devil’s lye. The customs of +countries and princes’ palaces are only good so long as they give no +annoyance; but the way of washing they have here is worse than doing +penance. I have a clean beard, and I don’t require to be refreshed in +that fashion, and whoever comes to wash me or touch a hair of my head, +I mean to say my beard, with all due respect be it said, I’ll give him +a punch that will leave my fist sunk in his skull; for cirimonies and +soapings of this sort are more like jokes than the polite attentions of +one’s host.” + +The duchess was ready to die with laughter when she saw Sancho’s rage +and heard his words; but it was no pleasure to Don Quixote to see him +in such a sorry trim, with the dingy towel about him, and the +hangers-on of the kitchen all round him; so making a low bow to the +duke and duchess, as if to ask their permission to speak, he addressed +the rout in a dignified tone: “Holloa, gentlemen! you let that youth +alone, and go back to where you came from, or anywhere else if you +like; my squire is as clean as any other person, and those troughs are +as bad as narrow thin-necked jars to him; take my advice and leave him +alone, for neither he nor I understand joking.” + +Sancho took the word out of his mouth and went on, “Nay, let them come +and try their jokes on the country bumpkin, for it’s about as likely +I’ll stand them as that it’s now midnight! Let them bring me a comb +here, or what they please, and curry this beard of mine, and if they +get anything out of it that offends against cleanliness, let them clip +me to the skin.” + +Upon this, the duchess, laughing all the while, said, “Sancho Panza is +right, and always will be in all he says; he is clean, and, as he says +himself, he does not require to be washed; and if our ways do not +please him, he is free to choose. Besides, you promoters of cleanliness +have been excessively careless and thoughtless, I don’t know if I ought +not to say audacious, to bring troughs and wooden utensils and kitchen +dishclouts, instead of basins and jugs of pure gold and towels of +holland, to such a person and such a beard; but, after all, you are +ill-conditioned and ill-bred, and spiteful as you are, you cannot help +showing the grudge you have against the squires of knights-errant.” + +The impudent servitors, and even the seneschal who came with them, took +the duchess to be speaking in earnest, so they removed the +straining-cloth from Sancho’s neck, and with something like shame and +confusion of face went off all of them and left him; whereupon he, +seeing himself safe out of that extreme danger, as it seemed to him, +ran and fell on his knees before the duchess, saying, “From great +ladies great favours may be looked for; this which your grace has done +me to-day cannot be requited with less than wishing I was dubbed a +knight-errant, to devote myself all the days of my life to the service +of so exalted a lady. I am a labouring man, my name is Sancho Panza, I +am married, I have children, and I am serving as a squire; if in any +one of these ways I can serve your highness, I will not be longer in +obeying than your grace in commanding.” + +“It is easy to see, Sancho,” replied the duchess, “that you have +learned to be polite in the school of politeness itself; I mean to say +it is easy to see that you have been nursed in the bosom of Señor Don +Quixote, who is, of course, the cream of good breeding and flower of +ceremony—or cirimony, as you would say yourself. Fair be the fortunes +of such a master and such a servant, the one the cynosure of +knight-errantry, the other the star of squirely fidelity! Rise, Sancho, +my friend; I will repay your courtesy by taking care that my lord the +duke makes good to you the promised gift of the government as soon as +possible.” + +With this, the conversation came to an end, and Don Quixote retired to +take his midday sleep; but the duchess begged Sancho, unless he had a +very great desire to go to sleep, to come and spend the afternoon with +her and her damsels in a very cool chamber. Sancho replied that, though +he certainly had the habit of sleeping four or five hours in the heat +of the day in summer, to serve her excellence he would try with all his +might not to sleep even one that day, and that he would come in +obedience to her command, and with that he went off. The duke gave +fresh orders with respect to treating Don Quixote as a knight-errant, +without departing even in smallest particular from the style in which, +as the stories tell us, they used to treat the knights of old. + + + +p32e.jpg (16K) + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. +OF THE DELECTABLE DISCOURSE WHICH THE DUCHESS AND HER DAMSELS HELD WITH +SANCHO PANZA, WELL WORTH READING AND NOTING + + + + +p33a.jpg (138K) + +Full Size + + + +The history records that Sancho did not sleep that afternoon, but in +order to keep his word came, before he had well done dinner, to visit +the duchess, who, finding enjoyment in listening to him, made him sit +down beside her on a low seat, though Sancho, out of pure good +breeding, wanted not to sit down; the duchess, however, told him he was +to sit down as governor and talk as squire, as in both respects he was +worthy of even the chair of the Cid Ruy Diaz the Campeador. Sancho +shrugged his shoulders, obeyed, and sat down, and all the duchess’s +damsels and duennas gathered round him, waiting in profound silence to +hear what he would say. It was the duchess, however, who spoke first, +saying: + +“Now that we are alone, and that there is nobody here to overhear us, I +should be glad if the señor governor would relieve me of certain doubts +I have, rising out of the history of the great Don Quixote that is now +in print. One is: inasmuch as worthy Sancho never saw Dulcinea, I mean +the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, nor took Don Quixote’s letter to her, for +it was left in the memorandum book in the Sierra Morena, how did he +dare to invent the answer and all that about finding her sifting wheat, +the whole story being a deception and falsehood, and so much to the +prejudice of the peerless Dulcinea’s good name, a thing that is not at +all becoming the character and fidelity of a good squire?” + + + +p33b.jpg (326K) + +Full Size + + + +At these words, Sancho, without uttering one in reply, got up from his +chair, and with noiseless steps, with his body bent and his finger on +his lips, went all round the room lifting up the hangings; and this +done, he came back to his seat and said, “Now, señora, that I have seen +that there is no one except the bystanders listening to us on the sly, +I will answer what you have asked me, and all you may ask me, without +fear or dread. And the first thing I have got to say is, that for my +own part I hold my master Don Quixote to be stark mad, though sometimes +he says things that, to my mind, and indeed everybody’s that listens to +him, are so wise, and run in such a straight furrow, that Satan himself +could not have said them better; but for all that, really, and beyond +all question, it’s my firm belief he is cracked. Well, then, as this is +clear to my mind, I can venture to make him believe things that have +neither head nor tail, like that affair of the answer to the letter, +and that other of six or eight days ago, which is not yet in history, +that is to say, the affair of the enchantment of my lady Dulcinea; for +I made him believe she is enchanted, though there’s no more truth in it +than over the hills of Úbeda.” + +The duchess begged him to tell her about the enchantment or deception, +so Sancho told the whole story exactly as it had happened, and his +hearers were not a little amused by it; and then resuming, the duchess +said, “In consequence of what worthy Sancho has told me, a doubt starts +up in my mind, and there comes a kind of whisper to my ear that says, +‘If Don Quixote be mad, crazy, and cracked, and Sancho Panza his squire +knows it, and, notwithstanding, serves and follows him, and goes +trusting to his empty promises, there can be no doubt he must be still +madder and sillier than his master; and that being so, it will be cast +in your teeth, señora duchess, if you give the said Sancho an island to +govern; for how will he who does not know how to govern himself know +how to govern others?’” + +“By God, señora,” said Sancho, “but that doubt comes timely; but your +grace may say it out, and speak plainly, or as you like; for I know +what you say is true, and if I were wise I should have left my master +long ago; but this was my fate, this was my bad luck; I can’t help it, +I must follow him; we’re from the same village, I’ve eaten his bread, +I’m fond of him, I’m grateful, he gave me his ass-colts, and above all +I’m faithful; so it’s quite impossible for anything to separate us, +except the pickaxe and shovel. And if your highness does not like to +give me the government you promised, God made me without it, and maybe +your not giving it to me will be all the better for my conscience, for +fool as I am I know the proverb ‘to her hurt the ant got wings,’ and it +may be that Sancho the squire will get to heaven sooner than Sancho the +governor. ‘They make as good bread here as in France,’ and ‘by night +all cats are grey,’ and ‘a hard case enough his, who hasn’t broken his +fast at two in the afternoon,’ and ‘there’s no stomach a hand’s breadth +bigger than another,’ and the same can be filled ‘with straw or hay,’ +as the saying is, and ‘the little birds of the field have God for their +purveyor and caterer,’ and ‘four yards of Cuenca frieze keep one warmer +than four of Segovia broad-cloth,’ and ‘when we quit this world and are +put underground the prince travels by as narrow a path as the +journeyman,’ and ‘the Pope’s body does not take up more feet of earth +than the sacristan’s,’ for all that the one is higher than the other; +for when we go to our graves we all pack ourselves up and make +ourselves small, or rather they pack us up and make us small in spite +of us, and then—good night to us. And I say once more, if your ladyship +does not like to give me the island because I’m a fool, like a wise man +I will take care to give myself no trouble about it; I have heard say +that ‘behind the cross there’s the devil,’ and that ‘all that glitters +is not gold,’ and that from among the oxen, and the ploughs, and the +yokes, Wamba the husbandman was taken to be made King of Spain, and +from among brocades, and pleasures, and riches, Roderick was taken to +be devoured by adders, if the verses of the old ballads don’t lie.” + +“To be sure they don’t lie!” exclaimed Doña Rodriguez, the duenna, who +was one of the listeners. “Why, there’s a ballad that says they put +King Rodrigo alive into a tomb full of toads, and adders, and lizards, +and that two days afterwards the king, in a plaintive, feeble voice, +cried out from within the tomb- + +They gnaw me now, they gnaw me now, +There where I most did sin. + + +And according to that the gentleman has good reason to say he would +rather be a labouring man than a king, if vermin are to eat him.” + +The duchess could not help laughing at the simplicity of her duenna, or +wondering at the language and proverbs of Sancho, to whom she said, +“Worthy Sancho knows very well that when once a knight has made a +promise he strives to keep it, though it should cost him his life. My +lord and husband the duke, though not one of the errant sort, is none +the less a knight for that reason, and will keep his word about the +promised island, in spite of the envy and malice of the world. Let +Sancho be of good cheer; for when he least expects it he will find +himself seated on the throne of his island and seat of dignity, and +will take possession of his government that he may discard it for +another of three-bordered brocade. The charge I give him is to be +careful how he governs his vassals, bearing in mind that they are all +loyal and well-born.” + +“As to governing them well,” said Sancho, “there’s no need of charging +me to do that, for I’m kind-hearted by nature, and full of compassion +for the poor; there’s no stealing the loaf from him who kneads and +bakes;’ and by my faith it won’t do to throw false dice with me; I am +an old dog, and I know all about ‘tus, tus;’ I can be wide-awake if +need be, and I don’t let clouds come before my eyes, for I know where +the shoe pinches me; I say so, because with me the good will have +support and protection, and the bad neither footing nor access. And it +seems to me that, in governments, to make a beginning is everything; +and maybe, after having been governor a fortnight, I’ll take kindly to +the work and know more about it than the field labour I have been +brought up to.” + +“You are right, Sancho,” said the duchess, “for no one is born ready +taught, and the bishops are made out of men and not out of stones. But +to return to the subject we were discussing just now, the enchantment +of the lady Dulcinea, I look upon it as certain, and something more +than evident, that Sancho’s idea of practising a deception upon his +master, making him believe that the peasant girl was Dulcinea and that +if he did not recognise her it must be because she was enchanted, was +all a device of one of the enchanters that persecute Don Quixote. For +in truth and earnest, I know from good authority that the coarse +country wench who jumped up on the ass was and is Dulcinea del Toboso, +and that worthy Sancho, though he fancies himself the deceiver, is the +one that is deceived; and that there is no more reason to doubt the +truth of this, than of anything else we never saw. Señor Sancho Panza +must know that we too have enchanters here that are well disposed to +us, and tell us what goes on in the world, plainly and distinctly, +without subterfuge or deception; and believe me, Sancho, that agile +country lass was and is Dulcinea del Toboso, who is as much enchanted +as the mother that bore her; and when we least expect it, we shall see +her in her own proper form, and then Sancho will be disabused of the +error he is under at present.” + +“All that’s very possible,” said Sancho Panza; “and now I’m willing to +believe what my master says about what he saw in the cave of +Montesinos, where he says he saw the lady Dulcinea del Toboso in the +very same dress and apparel that I said I had seen her in when I +enchanted her all to please myself. It must be all exactly the other +way, as your ladyship says; because it is impossible to suppose that +out of my poor wit such a cunning trick could be concocted in a moment, +nor do I think my master is so mad that by my weak and feeble +persuasion he could be made to believe a thing so out of all reason. +But, señora, your excellence must not therefore think me ill-disposed, +for a dolt like me is not bound to see into the thoughts and plots of +those vile enchanters. I invented all that to escape my master’s +scolding, and not with any intention of hurting him; and if it has +turned out differently, there is a God in heaven who judges our +hearts.” + +“That is true,” said the duchess; “but tell me, Sancho, what is this +you say about the cave of Montesinos, for I should like to know.” + +Sancho upon this related to her, word for word, what has been said +already touching that adventure, and having heard it the duchess said, +“From this occurrence it may be inferred that, as the great Don Quixote +says he saw there the same country wench Sancho saw on the way from El +Toboso, it is, no doubt, Dulcinea, and that there are some very active +and exceedingly busy enchanters about.” + +“So I say,” said Sancho, “and if my lady Dulcinea is enchanted, so much +the worse for her, and I’m not going to pick a quarrel with my master’s +enemies, who seem to be many and spiteful. The truth is that the one I +saw was a country wench, and I set her down to be a country wench; and +if that was Dulcinea it must not be laid at my door, nor should I be +called to answer for it or take the consequences. But they must go +nagging at me at every step—‘Sancho said it, Sancho did it, Sancho +here, Sancho there,’ as if Sancho was nobody at all, and not that same +Sancho Panza that’s now going all over the world in books, so Samson +Carrasco told me, and he’s at any rate one that’s a bachelor of +Salamanca; and people of that sort can’t lie, except when the whim +seizes them or they have some very good reason for it. So there’s no +occasion for anybody to quarrel with me; and then I have a good +character, and, as I have heard my master say, ‘a good name is better +than great riches;’ let them only stick me into this government and +they’ll see wonders, for one who has been a good squire will be a good +governor.” + +“All worthy Sancho’s observations,” said the duchess, “are Catonian +sentences, or at any rate out of the very heart of Michael Verino +himself, who _florentibus occidit annis_. In fact, to speak in his own +style, ‘under a bad cloak there’s often a good drinker.’” + +“Indeed, señora,” said Sancho, “I never yet drank out of wickedness; +from thirst I have very likely, for I have nothing of the hypocrite in +me; I drink when I’m inclined, or, if I’m not inclined, when they offer +it to me, so as not to look either strait-laced or ill-bred; for when a +friend drinks one’s health what heart can be so hard as not to return +it? But if I put on my shoes I don’t dirty them; besides, squires to +knights-errant mostly drink water, for they are always wandering among +woods, forests and meadows, mountains and crags, without a drop of wine +to be had if they gave their eyes for it.” + +“So I believe,” said the duchess; “and now let Sancho go and take his +sleep, and we will talk by-and-by at greater length, and settle how he +may soon go and stick himself into the government, as he says.” + +Sancho once more kissed the duchess’s hand, and entreated her to let +good care be taken of his Dapple, for he was the light of his eyes. + +“What is Dapple?” said the duchess. + +“My ass,” said Sancho, “which, not to mention him by that name, I’m +accustomed to call Dapple; I begged this lady duenna here to take care +of him when I came into the castle, and she got as angry as if I had +said she was ugly or old, though it ought to be more natural and proper +for duennas to feed asses than to ornament chambers. God bless me! what +a spite a gentleman of my village had against these ladies!” + +“He must have been some clown,” said Doña Rodriguez the duenna; “for if +he had been a gentleman and well-born he would have exalted them higher +than the horns of the moon.” + +“That will do,” said the duchess; “no more of this; hush, Doña +Rodriguez, and let Señor Panza rest easy and leave the treatment of +Dapple in my charge, for as he is a treasure of Sancho’s, I’ll put him +on the apple of my eye.” + +“It will be enough for him to be in the stable,” said Sancho, “for +neither he nor I are worthy to rest a moment in the apple of your +highness’s eye, and I’d as soon stab myself as consent to it; for +though my master says that in civilities it is better to lose by a card +too many than a card too few, when it comes to civilities to asses we +must mind what we are about and keep within due bounds.” + +“Take him to your government, Sancho,” said the duchess, “and there you +will be able to make as much of him as you like, and even release him +from work and pension him off.” + +“Don’t think, señora duchess, that you have said anything absurd,” said +Sancho; “I have seen more than two asses go to governments, and for me +to take mine with me would be nothing new.” + +Sancho’s words made the duchess laugh again and gave her fresh +amusement, and dismissing him to sleep she went away to tell the duke +the conversation she had had with him, and between them they plotted +and arranged to play a joke upon Don Quixote that was to be a rare one +and entirely in knight-errantry style, and in that same style they +practised several upon him, so much in keeping and so clever that they +form the best adventures this great history contains. + + + +p33e.jpg (34K) + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. +WHICH RELATES HOW THEY LEARNED THE WAY IN WHICH THEY WERE TO DISENCHANT +THE PEERLESS DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO, WHICH IS ONE OF THE RAREST ADVENTURES +IN THIS BOOK + + + + +p34a.jpg (141K) + +Full Size + + + +Great was the pleasure the duke and duchess took in the conversation of +Don Quixote and Sancho Panza; and, more bent than ever upon the plan +they had of practising some jokes upon them that should have the look +and appearance of adventures, they took as their basis of action what +Don Quixote had already told them about the cave of Montesinos, in +order to play him a famous one. But what the duchess marvelled at above +all was that Sancho’s simplicity could be so great as to make him +believe as absolute truth that Dulcinea had been enchanted, when it was +he himself who had been the enchanter and trickster in the business. +Having, therefore, instructed their servants in everything they were to +do, six days afterwards they took him out to hunt, with as great a +retinue of huntsmen and beaters as a crowned king. + +They presented Don Quixote with a hunting suit, and Sancho with another +of the finest green cloth; but Don Quixote declined to put his on, +saying that he must soon return to the hard pursuit of arms, and could +not carry wardrobes or stores with him. Sancho, however, took what they +gave him, meaning to sell it at the first opportunity. + +The appointed day having arrived, Don Quixote armed himself, and Sancho +arrayed himself, and mounted on his Dapple (for he would not give him +up though they offered him a horse), he placed himself in the midst of +the troop of huntsmen. The duchess came out splendidly attired, and Don +Quixote, in pure courtesy and politeness, held the rein of her palfrey, +though the duke wanted not to allow him; and at last they reached a +wood that lay between two high mountains, where, after occupying +various posts, ambushes, and paths, and distributing the party in +different positions, the hunt began with great noise, shouting, and +hallooing, so that, between the baying of the hounds and the blowing of +the horns, they could not hear one another. The duchess dismounted, and +with a sharp boar-spear in her hand posted herself where she knew the +wild boars were in the habit of passing. The duke and Don Quixote +likewise dismounted and placed themselves one at each side of her. +Sancho took up a position in the rear of all without dismounting from +Dapple, whom he dared not desert lest some mischief should befall him. +Scarcely had they taken their stand in a line with several of their +servants, when they saw a huge boar, closely pressed by the hounds and +followed by the huntsmen, making towards them, grinding his teeth and +tusks, and scattering foam from his mouth. As soon as he saw him Don +Quixote, bracing his shield on his arm, and drawing his sword, advanced +to meet him; the duke with boar-spear did the same; but the duchess +would have gone in front of them all had not the duke prevented her. +Sancho alone, deserting Dapple at the sight of the mighty beast, took +to his heels as hard as he could and strove in vain to mount a tall +oak. As he was clinging to a branch, however, half-way up in his +struggle to reach the top, the bough, such was his ill-luck and hard +fate, gave way, and caught in his fall by a broken limb of the oak, he +hung suspended in the air unable to reach the ground. Finding himself +in this position, and that the green coat was beginning to tear, and +reflecting that if the fierce animal came that way he might be able to +get at him, he began to utter such cries, and call for help so +earnestly, that all who heard him and did not see him felt sure he must +be in the teeth of some wild beast. In the end the tusked boar fell +pierced by the blades of the many spears they held in front of him; and +Don Quixote, turning round at the cries of Sancho, for he knew by them +that it was he, saw him hanging from the oak head downwards, with +Dapple, who did not forsake him in his distress, close beside him; and +Cide Hamete observes that he seldom saw Sancho Panza without seeing +Dapple, or Dapple without seeing Sancho Panza; such was their +attachment and loyalty one to the other. Don Quixote went over and +unhooked Sancho, who, as soon as he found himself on the ground, looked +at the rent in his huntingcoat and was grieved to the heart, for he +thought he had got a patrimonial estate in that suit. + +Meanwhile they had slung the mighty boar across the back of a mule, and +having covered it with sprigs of rosemary and branches of myrtle, they +bore it away as the spoils of victory to some large field-tents which +had been pitched in the middle of the wood, where they found the tables +laid and dinner served, in such grand and sumptuous style that it was +easy to see the rank and magnificence of those who had provided it. +Sancho, as he showed the rents in his torn suit to the duchess, +observed, “If we had been hunting hares, or after small birds, my coat +would have been safe from being in the plight it’s in; I don’t know +what pleasure one can find in lying in wait for an animal that may take +your life with his tusk if he gets at you. I recollect having heard an +old ballad sung that says, + +By bears be thou devoured, as erst +Was famous Favila.” + + +“That,” said Don Quixote, “was a Gothic king, who, going a-hunting, was +devoured by a bear.” + +“Just so,” said Sancho; “and I would not have kings and princes expose +themselves to such dangers for the sake of a pleasure which, to my +mind, ought not to be one, as it consists in killing an animal that has +done no harm whatever.” + +“Quite the contrary, Sancho; you are wrong there,” said the duke; “for +hunting is more suitable and requisite for kings and princes than for +anybody else. The chase is the emblem of war; it has stratagems, wiles, +and crafty devices for overcoming the enemy in safety; in it extreme +cold and intolerable heat have to be borne, indolence and sleep are +despised, the bodily powers are invigorated, the limbs of him who +engages in it are made supple, and, in a word, it is a pursuit which +may be followed without injury to anyone and with enjoyment to many; +and the best of it is, it is not for everybody, as field-sports of +other sorts are, except hawking, which also is only for kings and great +lords. Reconsider your opinion therefore, Sancho, and when you are +governor take to hunting, and you will find the good of it.” + +“Nay,” said Sancho, “the good governor should have a broken leg and +keep at home;” it would be a nice thing if, after people had been at +the trouble of coming to look for him on business, the governor were to +be away in the forest enjoying himself; the government would go on +badly in that fashion. By my faith, señor, hunting and amusements are +more fit for idlers than for governors; what I intend to amuse myself +with is playing all fours at Eastertime, and bowls on Sundays and +holidays; for these huntings don’t suit my condition or agree with my +conscience.” + +“God grant it may turn out so,” said the duke; “because it’s a long +step from saying to doing.” + +“Be that as it may,” said Sancho, “‘pledges don’t distress a good +payer,’ and ‘he whom God helps does better than he who gets up early,’ +and ‘it’s the tripes that carry the feet and not the feet the tripes;’ +I mean to say that if God gives me help and I do my duty honestly, no +doubt I’ll govern better than a gerfalcon. Nay, let them only put a +finger in my mouth, and they’ll see whether I can bite or not.” + +“The curse of God and all his saints upon thee, thou accursed Sancho!” +exclaimed Don Quixote; “when will the day come—as I have often said to +thee—when I shall hear thee make one single coherent, rational remark +without proverbs? Pray, your highnesses, leave this fool alone, for he +will grind your souls between, not to say two, but two thousand +proverbs, dragged in as much in season, and as much to the purpose +as—may God grant as much health to him, or to me if I want to listen to +them!” + +“Sancho Panza’s proverbs,” said the duchess, “though more in number +than the Greek Commander’s, are not therefore less to be esteemed for +the conciseness of the maxims. For my own part, I can say they give me +more pleasure than others that may be better brought in and more +seasonably introduced.” + +In pleasant conversation of this sort they passed out of the tent into +the wood, and the day was spent in visiting some of the posts and +hiding-places, and then night closed in, not, however, as brilliantly +or tranquilly as might have been expected at the season, for it was +then midsummer; but bringing with it a kind of haze that greatly aided +the project of the duke and duchess; and thus, as night began to fall, +and a little after twilight set in, suddenly the whole wood on all four +sides seemed to be on fire, and shortly after, here, there, on all +sides, a vast number of trumpets and other military instruments were +heard, as if several troops of cavalry were passing through the wood. +The blaze of the fire and the noise of the warlike instruments almost +blinded the eyes and deafened the ears of those that stood by, and +indeed of all who were in the wood. Then there were heard repeated +lelilies after the fashion of the Moors when they rush to battle; +trumpets and clarions brayed, drums beat, fifes played, so unceasingly +and so fast that he could not have had any senses who did not lose them +with the confused din of so many instruments. The duke was astounded, +the duchess amazed, Don Quixote wondering, Sancho Panza trembling, and +indeed, even they who were aware of the cause were frightened. In their +fear, silence fell upon them, and a postillion, in the guise of a +demon, passed in front of them, blowing, in lieu of a bugle, a huge +hollow horn that gave out a horrible hoarse note. + +“Ho there! brother courier,” cried the duke, “who are you? Where are +you going? What troops are these that seem to be passing through the +wood?” + +To which the courier replied in a harsh, discordant voice, “I am the +devil; I am in search of Don Quixote of La Mancha; those who are coming +this way are six troops of enchanters, who are bringing on a triumphal +car the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso; she comes under enchantment, +together with the gallant Frenchman Montesinos, to give instructions to +Don Quixote as to how, she the said lady, may be disenchanted.” + +“If you were the devil, as you say and as your appearance indicates,” +said the duke, “you would have known the said knight Don Quixote of La +Mancha, for you have him here before you.” + +“By God and upon my conscience,” said the devil, “I never observed it, +for my mind is occupied with so many different things that I was +forgetting the main thing I came about.” + +“This demon must be an honest fellow and a good Christian,” said +Sancho; “for if he wasn’t he wouldn’t swear by God and his conscience; +I feel sure now there must be good souls even in hell itself.” + +Without dismounting, the demon then turned to Don Quixote and said, +“The unfortunate but valiant knight Montesinos sends me to thee, the +Knight of the Lions (would that I saw thee in their claws), bidding me +tell thee to wait for him wherever I may find thee, as he brings with +him her whom they call Dulcinea del Toboso, that he may show thee what +is needful in order to disenchant her; and as I came for no more I need +stay no longer; demons of my sort be with thee, and good angels with +these gentles;” and so saying he blew his huge horn, turned about and +went off without waiting for a reply from anyone. + +They all felt fresh wonder, but particularly Sancho and Don Quixote; +Sancho to see how, in defiance of the truth, they would have it that +Dulcinea was enchanted; Don Quixote because he could not feel sure +whether what had happened to him in the cave of Montesinos was true or +not; and as he was deep in these cogitations the duke said to him, “Do +you mean to wait, Señor Don Quixote?” + +“Why not?” replied he; “here will I wait, fearless and firm, though all +hell should come to attack me.” + +“Well then, if I see another devil or hear another horn like the last, +I’ll wait here as much as in Flanders,” said Sancho. + +Night now closed in more completely, and many lights began to flit +through the wood, just as those fiery exhalations from the earth, that +look like shooting-stars to our eyes, flit through the heavens; a +frightful noise, too, was heard, like that made by the solid wheels the +ox-carts usually have, by the harsh, ceaseless creaking of which, they +say, the bears and wolves are put to flight, if there happen to be any +where they are passing. In addition to all this commotion, there came a +further disturbance to increase the tumult, for now it seemed as if in +truth, on all four sides of the wood, four encounters or battles were +going on at the same time; in one quarter resounded the dull noise of a +terrible cannonade, in another numberless muskets were being +discharged, the shouts of the combatants sounded almost close at hand, +and farther away the Moorish lelilies were raised again and again. In a +word, the bugles, the horns, the clarions, the trumpets, the drums, the +cannon, the musketry, and above all the tremendous noise of the carts, +all made up together a din so confused and terrific that Don Quixote +had need to summon up all his courage to brave it; but Sancho’s gave +way, and he fell fainting on the skirt of the duchess’s robe, who let +him lie there and promptly bade them throw water in his face. This was +done, and he came to himself by the time that one of the carts with the +creaking wheels reached the spot. It was drawn by four plodding oxen +all covered with black housings; on each horn they had fixed a large +lighted wax taper, and on the top of the cart was constructed a raised +seat, on which sat a venerable old man with a beard whiter than the +very snow, and so long that it fell below his waist; he was dressed in +a long robe of black buckram; for as the cart was thickly set with a +multitude of candles it was easy to make out everything that was on it. +Leading it were two hideous demons, also clad in buckram, with +countenances so frightful that Sancho, having once seen them, shut his +eyes so as not to see them again. As soon as the cart came opposite the +spot the old man rose from his lofty seat, and standing up said in a +loud voice, “I am the sage Lirgandeo,” and without another word the +cart then passed on. Behind it came another of the same form, with +another aged man enthroned, who, stopping the cart, said in a voice no +less solemn than that of the first, “I am the sage Alquife, the great +friend of Urganda the Unknown,” and passed on. Then another cart came +by at the same pace, but the occupant of the throne was not old like +the others, but a man stalwart and robust, and of a forbidding +countenance, who as he came up said in a voice far hoarser and more +devilish, “I am the enchanter Archelaus, the mortal enemy of Amadis of +Gaul and all his kindred,” and then passed on. Having gone a short +distance the three carts halted and the monotonous noise of their +wheels ceased, and soon after they heard another, not noise, but sound +of sweet, harmonious music, of which Sancho was very glad, taking it to +be a good sign; and said he to the duchess, from whom he did not stir a +step, or for a single instant, “Señora, where there’s music there can’t +be mischief.” + +“Nor where there are lights and it is bright,” said the duchess; to +which Sancho replied, “Fire gives light, and it’s bright where there +are bonfires, as we see by those that are all round us and perhaps may +burn us; but music is a sign of mirth and merrymaking.” + +“That remains to be seen,” said Don Quixote, who was listening to all +that passed; and he was right, as is shown in the following chapter. + + + +p34e.jpg (47K) + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. +WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE INSTRUCTION GIVEN TO DON QUIXOTE TOUCHING THE +DISENCHANTMENT OF DULCINEA, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MARVELLOUS INCIDENTS + + + + +p35a.jpg (108K) + +Full Size + + + +They saw advancing towards them, to the sound of this pleasing music, +what they call a triumphal car, drawn by six grey mules with white +linen housings, on each of which was mounted a penitent, robed also in +white, with a large lighted wax taper in his hand. The car was twice +or, perhaps, three times as large as the former ones, and in front and +on the sides stood twelve more penitents, all as white as snow and all +with lighted tapers, a spectacle to excite fear as well as wonder; and +on a raised throne was seated a nymph draped in a multitude of +silver-tissue veils with an embroidery of countless gold spangles +glittering all over them, that made her appear, if not richly, at least +brilliantly, apparelled. She had her face covered with thin transparent +sendal, the texture of which did not prevent the fair features of a +maiden from being distinguished, while the numerous lights made it +possible to judge of her beauty and of her years, which seemed to be +not less than seventeen but not to have yet reached twenty. Beside her +was a figure in a robe of state, as they call it, reaching to the feet, +while the head was covered with a black veil. But the instant the car +was opposite the duke and duchess and Don Quixote the music of the +clarions ceased, and then that of the lutes and harps on the car, and +the figure in the robe rose up, and flinging it apart and removing the +veil from its face, disclosed to their eyes the shape of Death itself, +fleshless and hideous, at which sight Don Quixote felt uneasy, Sancho +frightened, and the duke and duchess displayed a certain trepidation. +Having risen to its feet, this living death, in a sleepy voice and with +a tongue hardly awake, held forth as follows: + + + +p35b.jpg (232K) + +Full Size + + + +I am that Merlin who the legends say +The devil had for father, and the lie +Hath gathered credence with the lapse of time. +Of magic prince, of Zoroastric lore +Monarch and treasurer, with jealous eye +I view the efforts of the age to hide +The gallant deeds of doughty errant knights, +Who are, and ever have been, dear to me. + Enchanters and magicians and their kind +Are mostly hard of heart; not so am I; +For mine is tender, soft, compassionate, +And its delight is doing good to all. +In the dim caverns of the gloomy Dis, +Where, tracing mystic lines and characters, +My soul abideth now, there came to me +The sorrow-laden plaint of her, the fair, +The peerless Dulcinea del Toboso. +I knew of her enchantment and her fate, +From high-born dame to peasant wench transformed +And touched with pity, first I turned the leaves +Of countless volumes of my devilish craft, +And then, in this grim grisly skeleton +Myself encasing, hither have I come +To show where lies the fitting remedy +To give relief in such a piteous case. + O thou, the pride and pink of all that I wear +The adamantine steel! O shining light, +O beacon, polestar, path and guide of all +Who, scorning slumber and the lazy down, +Adopt the toilsome life of bloodstained arms! +To thee, great hero who all praise transcends, +La Mancha’s lustre and Iberia’s star, +Don Quixote, wise as brave, to thee I say— +For peerless Dulcinea del Toboso +Her pristine form and beauty to regain, +’Tis needful that thy esquire Sancho shall, +On his own sturdy buttocks bared to heaven, +Three thousand and three hundred lashes lay, +And that they smart and sting and hurt him well. +Thus have the authors of her woe resolved. +And this is, gentles, wherefore I have come. + + +“By all that’s good,” exclaimed Sancho at this, “I’ll just as soon give +myself three stabs with a dagger as three, not to say three thousand, +lashes. The devil take such a way of disenchanting! I don’t see what my +backside has got to do with enchantments. By God, if Señor Merlin has +not found out some other way of disenchanting the lady Dulcinea del +Toboso, she may go to her grave enchanted.” + +“But I’ll take you, Don Clown stuffed with garlic,” said Don Quixote, +“and tie you to a tree as naked as when your mother brought you forth, +and give you, not to say three thousand three hundred, but six thousand +six hundred lashes, and so well laid on that they won’t be got rid of +if you try three thousand three hundred times; don’t answer me a word +or I’ll tear your soul out.” + +On hearing this Merlin said, “That will not do, for the lashes worthy +Sancho has to receive must be given of his own free will and not by +force, and at whatever time he pleases, for there is no fixed limit +assigned to him; but it is permitted him, if he likes to commute by +half the pain of this whipping, to let them be given by the hand of +another, though it may be somewhat weighty.” + +“Not a hand, my own or anybody else’s, weighty or weighable, shall +touch me,” said Sancho. “Was it I that gave birth to the lady Dulcinea +del Toboso, that my backside is to pay for the sins of her eyes? My +master, indeed, that’s a part of her—for, he’s always calling her ‘my +life’ and ‘my soul,’ and his stay and prop—may and ought to whip +himself for her and take all the trouble required for her +disenchantment. But for me to whip myself! Abernuncio!” + +As soon as Sancho had done speaking the nymph in silver that was at the +side of Merlin’s ghost stood up, and removing the thin veil from her +face disclosed one that seemed to all something more than exceedingly +beautiful; and with a masculine freedom from embarrassment and in a +voice not very like a lady’s, addressing Sancho directly, said, “Thou +wretched squire, soul of a pitcher, heart of a cork tree, with bowels +of flint and pebbles; if, thou impudent thief, they bade thee throw +thyself down from some lofty tower; if, enemy of mankind, they asked +thee to swallow a dozen of toads, two of lizards, and three of adders; +if they wanted thee to slay thy wife and children with a sharp +murderous scimitar, it would be no wonder for thee to show thyself +stubborn and squeamish. But to make a piece of work about three +thousand three hundred lashes, what every poor little charity-boy gets +every month—it is enough to amaze, astonish, astound the compassionate +bowels of all who hear it, nay, all who come to hear it in the course +of time. Turn, O miserable, hard-hearted animal, turn, I say, those +timorous owl’s eyes upon these of mine that are compared to radiant +stars, and thou wilt see them weeping trickling streams and rills, and +tracing furrows, tracks, and paths over the fair fields of my cheeks. +Let it move thee, crafty, ill-conditioned monster, to see my blooming +youth—still in its teens, for I am not yet twenty—wasting and withering +away beneath the husk of a rude peasant wench; and if I do not appear +in that shape now, it is a special favour Señor Merlin here has granted +me, to the sole end that my beauty may soften thee; for the tears of +beauty in distress turn rocks into cotton and tigers into ewes. Lay on +to that hide of thine, thou great untamed brute, rouse up thy lusty +vigour that only urges thee to eat and eat, and set free the softness +of my flesh, the gentleness of my nature, and the fairness of my face. +And if thou wilt not relent or come to reason for me, do so for the +sake of that poor knight thou hast beside thee; thy master I mean, +whose soul I can this moment see, how he has it stuck in his throat not +ten fingers from his lips, and only waiting for thy inflexible or +yielding reply to make its escape by his mouth or go back again into +his stomach.” + +Don Quixote on hearing this felt his throat, and turning to the duke he +said, “By God, señor, Dulcinea says true, I have my soul stuck here in +my throat like the nut of a crossbow.” + +“What say you to this, Sancho?” said the duchess. + +“I say, señora,” returned Sancho, “what I said before; as for the +lashes, abernuncio!” + +“Abrenuncio, you should say, Sancho, and not as you do,” said the duke. + +“Let me alone, your highness,” said Sancho. “I’m not in a humour now to +look into niceties or a letter more or less, for these lashes that are +to be given me, or I’m to give myself, have so upset me, that I don’t +know what I’m saying or doing. But I’d like to know of this lady, my +lady Dulcinea del Toboso, where she learned this way she has of asking +favours. She comes to ask me to score my flesh with lashes, and she +calls me soul of a pitcher, and great untamed brute, and a string of +foul names that the devil is welcome to. Is my flesh brass? or is it +anything to me whether she is enchanted or not? Does she bring with her +a basket of fair linen, shirts, kerchiefs, socks—not that I wear any—to +coax me? No, nothing but one piece of abuse after another, though she +knows the proverb they have here that ‘an ass loaded with gold goes +lightly up a mountain,’ and that ‘gifts break rocks,’ and ‘praying to +God and plying the hammer,’ and that ‘one “take” is better than two +“I’ll give thee’s.”’ Then there’s my master, who ought to stroke me +down and pet me to make me turn wool and carded cotton; he says if he +gets hold of me he’ll tie me naked to a tree and double the tale of +lashes on me. These tender-hearted gentry should consider that it’s not +merely a squire, but a governor they are asking to whip himself; just +as if it was ‘drink with cherries.’ Let them learn, plague take them, +the right way to ask, and beg, and behave themselves; for all times are +not alike, nor are people always in good humour. I’m now ready to burst +with grief at seeing my green coat torn, and they come to ask me to +whip myself of my own free will, I having as little fancy for it as for +turning cacique.” + +“Well then, the fact is, friend Sancho,” said the duke, “that unless +you become softer than a ripe fig, you shall not get hold of the +government. It would be a nice thing for me to send my islanders a +cruel governor with flinty bowels, who won’t yield to the tears of +afflicted damsels or to the prayers of wise, magisterial, ancient +enchanters and sages. In short, Sancho, either you must be whipped by +yourself, or they must whip you, or you shan’t be governor.” + +“Señor,” said Sancho, “won’t two days’ grace be given me in which to +consider what is best for me?” + +“No, certainly not,” said Merlin; “here, this minute, and on the spot, +the matter must be settled; either Dulcinea will return to the cave of +Montesinos and to her former condition of peasant wench, or else in her +present form shall be carried to the Elysian fields, where she will +remain waiting until the number of stripes is completed.” + +“Now then, Sancho!” said the duchess, “show courage, and gratitude for +your master Don Quixote’s bread that you have eaten; we are all bound +to oblige and please him for his benevolent disposition and lofty +chivalry. Consent to this whipping, my son; to the devil with the +devil, and leave fear to milksops, for ‘a stout heart breaks bad luck,’ +as you very well know.” + +To this Sancho replied with an irrelevant remark, which, addressing +Merlin, he made to him, “Will your worship tell me, Señor Merlin—when +that courier devil came up he gave my master a message from Señor +Montesinos, charging him to wait for him here, as he was coming to +arrange how the lady Doña Dulcinea del Toboso was to be disenchanted; +but up to the present we have not seen Montesinos, nor anything like +him.” + +To which Merlin made answer, “The devil, Sancho, is a blockhead and a +great scoundrel; I sent him to look for your master, but not with a +message from Montesinos but from myself; for Montesinos is in his cave +expecting, or more properly speaking, waiting for his disenchantment; +for there’s the tail to be skinned yet for him; if he owes you +anything, or you have any business to transact with him, I’ll bring him +to you and put him where you choose; but for the present make up your +mind to consent to this penance, and believe me it will be very good +for you, for soul as well for body—for your soul because of the charity +with which you perform it, for your body because I know that you are of +a sanguine habit and it will do you no harm to draw a little blood.” + +“There are a great many doctors in the world; even the enchanters are +doctors,” said Sancho; “however, as everybody tells me the same +thing—though I can’t see it myself—I say I am willing to give myself +the three thousand three hundred lashes, provided I am to lay them on +whenever I like, without any fixing of days or times; and I’ll try and +get out of debt as quickly as I can, that the world may enjoy the +beauty of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso; as it seems, contrary to what I +thought, that she is beautiful after all. It must be a condition, too, +that I am not to be bound to draw blood with the scourge, and that if +any of the lashes happen to be fly-flappers they are to count. Item, +that, in case I should make any mistake in the reckoning, Señor Merlin, +as he knows everything, is to keep count, and let me know how many are +still wanting or over the number.” + +“There will be no need to let you know of any over,” said Merlin, +“because, when you reach the full number, the lady Dulcinea will at +once, and that very instant, be disenchanted, and will come in her +gratitude to seek out the worthy Sancho, and thank him, and even reward +him for the good work. So you have no cause to be uneasy about stripes +too many or too few; heaven forbid I should cheat anyone of even a hair +of his head.” + +“Well then, in God’s hands be it,” said Sancho; “in the hard case I’m +in I give in; I say I accept the penance on the conditions laid down.” + +The instant Sancho uttered these last words the music of the clarions +struck up once more, and again a host of muskets were discharged, and +Don Quixote hung on Sancho’s neck kissing him again and again on the +forehead and cheeks. The duchess and the duke expressed the greatest +satisfaction, the car began to move on, and as it passed the fair +Dulcinea bowed to the duke and duchess and made a low curtsey to +Sancho. + + + +p35c.jpg (284K) + +Full Size + + + +And now bright smiling dawn came on apace; the flowers of the field, +revived, raised up their heads, and the crystal waters of the brooks, +murmuring over the grey and white pebbles, hastened to pay their +tribute to the expectant rivers; the glad earth, the unclouded sky, the +fresh breeze, the clear light, each and all showed that the day that +came treading on the skirts of morning would be calm and bright. The +duke and duchess, pleased with their hunt and at having carried out +their plans so cleverly and successfully, returned to their castle +resolved to follow up their joke; for to them there was no reality that +could afford them more amusement. + + + +p35e.jpg (10K) + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. +WHEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE AND UNDREAMT-OF ADVENTURE OF THE +DISTRESSED DUENNA, ALIAS THE COUNTESS TRIFALDI, TOGETHER WITH A LETTER +WHICH SANCHO PANZA WROTE TO HIS WIFE, TERESA PANZA + + + + +p36a.jpg (150K) + +Full Size + + + +The duke had a majordomo of a very facetious and sportive turn, and he +it was that played the part of Merlin, made all the arrangements for +the late adventure, composed the verses, and got a page to represent +Dulcinea; and now, with the assistance of his master and mistress, he +got up another of the drollest and strangest contrivances that can be +imagined. + +The duchess asked Sancho the next day if he had made a beginning with +his penance task which he had to perform for the disenchantment of +Dulcinea. He said he had, and had given himself five lashes overnight. + +The duchess asked him what he had given them with. + +He said with his hand. + +“That,” said the duchess, “is more like giving oneself slaps than +lashes; I am sure the sage Merlin will not be satisfied with such +tenderness; worthy Sancho must make a scourge with claws, or a +cat-o’-nine tails, that will make itself felt; for it’s with blood that +letters enter, and the release of so great a lady as Dulcinea will not +be granted so cheaply, or at such a paltry price; and remember, Sancho, +that works of charity done in a lukewarm and half-hearted way are +without merit and of no avail.” + +To which Sancho replied, “If your ladyship will give me a proper +scourge or cord, I’ll lay on with it, provided it does not hurt too +much; for you must know, boor as I am, my flesh is more cotton than +hemp, and it won’t do for me to destroy myself for the good of anybody +else.” + +“So be it by all means,” said the duchess; “to-morrow I’ll give you a +scourge that will be just the thing for you, and will accommodate +itself to the tenderness of your flesh, as if it was its own sister.” + +Then said Sancho, “Your highness must know, dear lady of my soul, that +I have a letter written to my wife, Teresa Panza, giving her an account +of all that has happened me since I left her; I have it here in my +bosom, and there’s nothing wanting but to put the address to it; I’d be +glad if your discretion would read it, for I think it runs in the +governor style; I mean the way governors ought to write.” + +“And who dictated it?” asked the duchess. + +“Who should have dictated but myself, sinner as I am?” said Sancho. + +“And did you write it yourself?” said the duchess. + +“That I didn’t,” said Sancho; “for I can neither read nor write, though +I can sign my name.” + +“Let us see it,” said the duchess, “for never fear but you display in +it the quality and quantity of your wit.” + +Sancho drew out an open letter from his bosom, and the duchess, taking +it, found it ran in this fashion: + +SANCHO PANZA’S LETTER TO HIS WIFE, TERESA PANZA + + +If I was well whipped I went mounted like a gentleman; if I have got a +good government it is at the cost of a good whipping. Thou wilt not +understand this just now, my Teresa; by-and-by thou wilt know what it +means. I may tell thee, Teresa, I mean thee to go in a coach, for that +is a matter of importance, because every other way of going is going on +all-fours. Thou art a governor’s wife; take care that nobody speaks +evil of thee behind thy back. I send thee here a green hunting suit +that my lady the duchess gave me; alter it so as to make a petticoat +and bodice for our daughter. Don Quixote, my master, if I am to believe +what I hear in these parts, is a madman of some sense, and a droll +blockhead, and I am in no way behind him. We have been in the cave of +Montesinos, and the sage Merlin has laid hold of me for the +disenchantment of Dulcinea del Toboso, her that is called Aldonza +Lorenzo over there. With three thousand three hundred lashes, less +five, that I’m to give myself, she will be left as entirely +disenchanted as the mother that bore her. Say nothing of this to +anyone; for, make thy affairs public, and some will say they are white +and others will say they are black. I shall leave this in a few days +for my government, to which I am going with a mighty great desire to +make money, for they tell me all new governors set out with the same +desire; I will feel the pulse of it and will let thee know if thou art +to come and live with me or not. Dapple is well and sends many +remembrances to thee; I am not going to leave him behind though they +took me away to be Grand Turk. My lady the duchess kisses thy hands a +thousand times; do thou make a return with two thousand, for as my +master says, nothing costs less or is cheaper than civility. God has +not been pleased to provide another valise for me with another hundred +crowns, like the one the other day; but never mind, my Teresa, the +bell-ringer is in safe quarters, and all will come out in the scouring +of the government; only it troubles me greatly what they tell me—that +once I have tasted it I will eat my hands off after it; and if that is +so it will not come very cheap to me; though to be sure the maimed have +a benefice of their own in the alms they beg for; so that one way or +another thou wilt be rich and in luck. God give it to thee as he can, +and keep me to serve thee. From this castle, the 20th of July, 1614. + + +Thy husband, the governor, +SANCHO PANZA + + +When she had done reading the letter the duchess said to Sancho, “On +two points the worthy governor goes rather astray; one is in saying or +hinting that this government has been bestowed upon him for the lashes +that he is to give himself, when he knows (and he cannot deny it) that +when my lord the duke promised it to him nobody ever dreamt of such a +thing as lashes; the other is that he shows himself here to be very +covetous; and I would not have him a money-seeker, for ‘covetousness +bursts the bag,’ and the covetous governor does ungoverned justice.” + +“I don’t mean it that way, señora,” said Sancho; “and if you think the +letter doesn’t run as it ought to do, it’s only to tear it up and make +another; and maybe it will be a worse one if it is left to my +gumption.” + +“No, no,” said the duchess, “this one will do, and I wish the duke to +see it.” + +With this they betook themselves to a garden where they were to dine, +and the duchess showed Sancho’s letter to the duke, who was highly +delighted with it. They dined, and after the cloth had been removed and +they had amused themselves for a while with Sancho’s rich conversation, +the melancholy sound of a fife and harsh discordant drum made itself +heard. All seemed somewhat put out by this dull, confused, martial +harmony, especially Don Quixote, who could not keep his seat from pure +disquietude; as to Sancho, it is needless to say that fear drove him to +his usual refuge, the side or the skirts of the duchess; and indeed and +in truth the sound they heard was a most doleful and melancholy one. +While they were still in uncertainty they saw advancing towards them +through the garden two men clad in mourning robes so long and flowing +that they trailed upon the ground. As they marched they beat two great +drums which were likewise draped in black, and beside them came the +fife player, black and sombre like the others. Following these came a +personage of gigantic stature enveloped rather than clad in a gown of +the deepest black, the skirt of which was of prodigious dimensions. +Over the gown, girdling or crossing his figure, he had a broad baldric +which was also black, and from which hung a huge scimitar with a black +scabbard and furniture. He had his face covered with a transparent +black veil, through which might be descried a very long beard as white +as snow. He came on keeping step to the sound of the drums with great +gravity and dignity; and, in short, his stature, his gait, the +sombreness of his appearance and his following might well have struck +with astonishment, as they did, all who beheld him without knowing who +he was. With this measured pace and in this guise he advanced to kneel +before the duke, who, with the others, awaited him standing. The duke, +however, would not on any account allow him to speak until he had +risen. The prodigious scarecrow obeyed, and standing up, removed the +veil from his face and disclosed the most enormous, the longest, the +whitest and the thickest beard that human eyes had ever beheld until +that moment, and then fetching up a grave, sonorous voice from the +depths of his broad, capacious chest, and fixing his eyes on the duke, +he said: + +“Most high and mighty señor, my name is Trifaldin of the White Beard; I +am squire to the Countess Trifaldi, otherwise called the Distressed +Duenna, on whose behalf I bear a message to your highness, which is +that your magnificence will be pleased to grant her leave and +permission to come and tell you her trouble, which is one of the +strangest and most wonderful that the mind most familiar with trouble +in the world could have imagined; but first she desires to know if the +valiant and never vanquished knight, Don Quixote of La Mancha, is in +this your castle, for she has come in quest of him on foot and without +breaking her fast from the kingdom of Kandy to your realms here; a +thing which may and ought to be regarded as a miracle or set down to +enchantment; she is even now at the gate of this fortress or plaisance, +and only waits for your permission to enter. I have spoken.” And with +that he coughed, and stroked down his beard with both his hands, and +stood very tranquilly waiting for the response of the duke, which was +to this effect: “Many days ago, worthy squire Trifaldin of the White +Beard, we heard of the misfortune of my lady the Countess Trifaldi, +whom the enchanters have caused to be called the Distressed Duenna. Bid +her enter, O stupendous squire, and tell her that the valiant knight +Don Quixote of La Mancha is here, and from his generous disposition she +may safely promise herself every protection and assistance; and you may +tell her, too, that if my aid be necessary it will not be withheld, for +I am bound to give it to her by my quality of knight, which involves +the protection of women of all sorts, especially widowed, wronged, and +distressed dames, such as her ladyship seems to be.” + +On hearing this Trifaldin bent the knee to the ground, and making a +sign to the fifer and drummers to strike up, he turned and marched out +of the garden to the same notes and at the same pace as when he +entered, leaving them all amazed at his bearing and solemnity. Turning +to Don Quixote, the duke said, “After all, renowned knight, the mists +of malice and ignorance are unable to hide or obscure the light of +valour and virtue. I say so, because your excellence has been barely +six days in this castle, and already the unhappy and the afflicted come +in quest of you from lands far distant and remote, and not in coaches +or on dromedaries, but on foot and fasting, confident that in that +mighty arm they will find a cure for their sorrows and troubles; thanks +to your great achievements, which are circulated all over the known +earth.” + +“I wish, señor duke,” replied Don Quixote, “that blessed ecclesiastic, +who at table the other day showed such ill-will and bitter spite +against knights-errant, were here now to see with his own eyes whether +knights of the sort are needed in the world; he would at any rate learn +by experience that those suffering any extraordinary affliction or +sorrow, in extreme cases and unusual misfortunes do not go to look for +a remedy to the houses of jurists or village sacristans, or to the +knight who has never attempted to pass the bounds of his own town, or +to the indolent courtier who only seeks for news to repeat and talk of, +instead of striving to do deeds and exploits for others to relate and +record. Relief in distress, help in need, protection for damsels, +consolation for widows, are to be found in no sort of persons better +than in knights-errant; and I give unceasing thanks to heaven that I am +one, and regard any misfortune or suffering that may befall me in the +pursuit of so honourable a calling as endured to good purpose. Let this +duenna come and ask what she will, for I will effect her relief by the +might of my arm and the dauntless resolution of my bold heart.” + + + +p36e.jpg (22K) + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. +WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE DISTRESSED DUENNA + + + + +p37a.jpg (94K) + +Full Size + + + +The duke and duchess were extremely glad to see how readily Don Quixote +fell in with their scheme; but at this moment Sancho observed, “I hope +this señora duenna won’t be putting any difficulties in the way of the +promise of my government; for I have heard a Toledo apothecary, who +talked like a goldfinch, say that where duennas were mixed up nothing +good could happen. God bless me, how he hated them, that same +apothecary! And so what I’m thinking is, if all duennas, of whatever +sort or condition they may be, are plagues and busybodies, what must +they be that are distressed, like this Countess Three-skirts or +Three-tails!—for in my country skirts or tails, tails or skirts, it’s +all one.” + +“Hush, friend Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “since this lady duenna comes +in quest of me from such a distant land she cannot be one of those the +apothecary meant; moreover this is a countess, and when countesses +serve as duennas it is in the service of queens and empresses, for in +their own houses they are mistresses paramount and have other duennas +to wait on them.” + +To this Doña Rodriguez, who was present, made answer, “My lady the +duchess has duennas in her service that might be countesses if it was +the will of fortune; ‘but laws go as kings like;’ let nobody speak ill +of duennas, above all of ancient maiden ones; for though I am not one +myself, I know and am aware of the advantage a maiden duenna has over +one that is a widow; but ‘he who clipped us has kept the scissors.’” + +“For all that,” said Sancho, “there’s so much to be clipped about +duennas, so my barber said, that ‘it will be better not to stir the +rice even though it sticks.’” + +“These squires,” returned Doña Rodriguez, “are always our enemies; and +as they are the haunting spirits of the antechambers and watch us at +every step, whenever they are not saying their prayers (and that’s +often enough) they spend their time in tattling about us, digging up +our bones and burying our good name. But I can tell these walking +blocks that we will live in spite of them, and in great houses too, +though we die of hunger and cover our flesh, be it delicate or not, +with widow’s weeds, as one covers or hides a dunghill on a procession +day. By my faith, if it were permitted me and time allowed, I could +prove, not only to those here present, but to all the world, that there +is no virtue that is not to be found in a duenna.” + +“I have no doubt,” said the duchess, “that my good Doña Rodriguez is +right, and very much so; but she had better bide her time for fighting +her own battle and that of the rest of the duennas, so as to crush the +calumny of that vile apothecary, and root out the prejudice in the +great Sancho Panza’s mind.” + +To which Sancho replied, “Ever since I have sniffed the governorship I +have got rid of the humours of a squire, and I don’t care a wild fig +for all the duennas in the world.” + +They would have carried on this duenna dispute further had they not +heard the notes of the fife and drums once more, from which they +concluded that the Distressed Duenna was making her entrance. The +duchess asked the duke if it would be proper to go out to receive her, +as she was a countess and a person of rank. + +“In respect of her being a countess,” said Sancho, before the duke +could reply, “I am for your highnesses going out to receive her; but in +respect of her being a duenna, it is my opinion you should not stir a +step.” + +“Who bade thee meddle in this, Sancho?” said Don Quixote. + +“Who, señor?” said Sancho; “I meddle for I have a right to meddle, as a +squire who has learned the rules of courtesy in the school of your +worship, the most courteous and best-bred knight in the whole world of +courtliness; and in these things, as I have heard your worship say, as +much is lost by a card too many as by a card too few, and to one who +has his ears open, few words.” + +“Sancho is right,” said the duke; “we’ll see what the countess is like, +and by that measure the courtesy that is due to her.” + +And now the drums and fife made their entrance as before; and here the +author brought this short chapter to an end and began the next, +following up the same adventure, which is one of the most notable in +the history. + + + +p37e.jpg (21K) + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. +WHEREIN IS TOLD THE DISTRESSED DUENNA’S TALE OF HER MISFORTUNES + + + + +p38a.jpg (54K) + +Full Size + + + +Following the melancholy musicians there filed into the garden as many +as twelve duennas, in two lines, all dressed in ample mourning robes +apparently of milled serge, with hoods of fine white gauze so long that +they allowed only the border of the robe to be seen. Behind them came +the Countess Trifaldi, the squire Trifaldin of the White Beard leading +her by the hand, clad in the finest unnapped black baize, such that, +had it a nap, every tuft would have shown as big as a Martos chickpea; +the tail, or skirt, or whatever it might be called, ended in three +points which were borne up by the hands of three pages, likewise +dressed in mourning, forming an elegant geometrical figure with the +three acute angles made by the three points, from which all who saw the +peaked skirt concluded that it must be because of it the countess was +called Trifaldi, as though it were Countess of the Three Skirts; and +Benengeli says it was so, and that by her right name she was called the +Countess Lobuna, because wolves bred in great numbers in her country; +and if, instead of wolves, they had been foxes, she would have been +called the Countess Zorruna, as it was the custom in those parts for +lords to take distinctive titles from the thing or things most abundant +in their dominions; this countess, however, in honour of the new +fashion of her skirt, dropped Lobuna and took up Trifaldi. + +The twelve duennas and the lady came on at procession pace, their faces +being covered with black veils, not transparent ones like Trifaldin’s, +but so close that they allowed nothing to be seen through them. As soon +as the band of duennas was fully in sight, the duke, the duchess, and +Don Quixote stood up, as well as all who were watching the slow-moving +procession. The twelve duennas halted and formed a lane, along which +the Distressed One advanced, Trifaldin still holding her hand. On +seeing this the duke, the duchess, and Don Quixote went some twelve +paces forward to meet her. She then, kneeling on the ground, said in a +voice hoarse and rough, rather than fine and delicate, “May it please +your highnesses not to offer such courtesies to this your servant, I +should say to this your handmaid, for I am in such distress that I +shall never be able to make a proper return, because my strange and +unparalleled misfortune has carried off my wits, and I know not +whither; but it must be a long way off, for the more I look for them +the less I find them.” + +“He would be wanting in wits, señora countess,” said the duke, “who did +not perceive your worth by your person, for at a glance it may be seen +it deserves all the cream of courtesy and flower of polite usage;” and +raising her up by the hand he led her to a seat beside the duchess, who +likewise received her with great urbanity. Don Quixote remained silent, +while Sancho was dying to see the features of Trifaldi and one or two +of her many duennas; but there was no possibility of it until they +themselves displayed them of their own accord and free will. + +All kept still, waiting to see who would break silence, which the +Distressed Duenna did in these words: “I am confident, most mighty +lord, most fair lady, and most discreet company, that my most miserable +misery will be accorded a reception no less dispassionate than generous +and condolent in your most valiant bosoms, for it is one that is enough +to melt marble, soften diamonds, and mollify the steel of the most +hardened hearts in the world; but ere it is proclaimed to your hearing, +not to say your ears, I would fain be enlightened whether there be +present in this society, circle, or company, that knight +immaculatissimus, Don Quixote de la Manchissima, and his squirissimus +Panza.” + +“The Panza is here,” said Sancho, before anyone could reply, “and Don +Quixotissimus too; and so, most distressedest Duenissima, you may say +what you willissimus, for we are all readissimus to do you any +servissimus.” + +On this Don Quixote rose, and addressing the Distressed Duenna, said, +“If your sorrows, afflicted lady, can indulge in any hope of relief +from the valour or might of any knight-errant, here are mine, which, +feeble and limited though they be, shall be entirely devoted to your +service. I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, whose calling it is to give aid +to the needy of all sorts; and that being so, it is not necessary for +you, señora, to make any appeal to benevolence, or deal in preambles, +only to tell your woes plainly and straightforwardly: for you have +hearers that will know how, if not to remedy them, to sympathise with +them.” + +On hearing this, the Distressed Duenna made as though she would throw +herself at Don Quixote’s feet, and actually did fall before them and +said, as she strove to embrace them, “Before these feet and legs I cast +myself, O unconquered knight, as before, what they are, the foundations +and pillars of knight-errantry; these feet I desire to kiss, for upon +their steps hangs and depends the sole remedy for my misfortune, O +valorous errant, whose veritable achievements leave behind and eclipse +the fabulous ones of the Amadises, Esplandians, and Belianises!” Then +turning from Don Quixote to Sancho Panza, and grasping his hands, she +said, “O thou, most loyal squire that ever served knight-errant in this +present age or ages past, whose goodness is more extensive than the +beard of Trifaldin my companion here of present, well mayest thou boast +thyself that, in serving the great Don Quixote, thou art serving, +summed up in one, the whole host of knights that have ever borne arms +in the world. I conjure thee, by what thou owest to thy most loyal +goodness, that thou wilt become my kind intercessor with thy master, +that he speedily give aid to this most humble and most unfortunate +countess.” + +To this Sancho made answer, “As to my goodness, señora, being as long +and as great as your squire’s beard, it matters very little to me; may +I have my soul well bearded and moustached when it comes to quit this +life, that’s the point; about beards here below I care little or +nothing; but without all these blandishments and prayers, I will beg my +master (for I know he loves me, and, besides, he has need of me just +now for a certain business) to help and aid your worship as far as he +can; unpack your woes and lay them before us, and leave us to deal with +them, for we’ll be all of one mind.” + +The duke and duchess, as it was they who had made the experiment of +this adventure, were ready to burst with laughter at all this, and +between themselves they commended the clever acting of the Trifaldi, +who, returning to her seat, said, “Queen Doña Maguncia reigned over the +famous kingdom of Kandy, which lies between the great Trapobana and the +Southern Sea, two leagues beyond Cape Comorin. She was the widow of +King Archipiela, her lord and husband, and of their marriage they had +issue the Princess Antonomasia, heiress of the kingdom; which Princess +Antonomasia was reared and brought up under my care and direction, I +being the oldest and highest in rank of her mother’s duennas. Time +passed, and the young Antonomasia reached the age of fourteen, and such +a perfection of beauty, that nature could not raise it higher. Then, it +must not be supposed her intelligence was childish; she was as +intelligent as she was fair, and she was fairer than all the world; and +is so still, unless the envious fates and hard-hearted sisters three +have cut for her the thread of life. But that they have not, for Heaven +will not suffer so great a wrong to Earth, as it would be to pluck +unripe the grapes of the fairest vineyard on its surface. Of this +beauty, to which my poor feeble tongue has failed to do justice, +countless princes, not only of that country, but of others, were +enamoured, and among them a private gentleman, who was at the court, +dared to raise his thoughts to the heaven of so great beauty, trusting +to his youth, his gallant bearing, his numerous accomplishments and +graces, and his quickness and readiness of wit; for I may tell your +highnesses, if I am not wearying you, that he played the guitar so as +to make it speak, and he was, besides, a poet and a great dancer, and +he could make birdcages so well, that by making them alone he might +have gained a livelihood, had he found himself reduced to utter +poverty; and gifts and graces of this kind are enough to bring down a +mountain, not to say a tender young girl. But all his gallantry, wit, +and gaiety, all his graces and accomplishments, would have been of +little or no avail towards gaining the fortress of my pupil, had not +the impudent thief taken the precaution of gaining me over first. +First, the villain and heartless vagabond sought to win my good-will +and purchase my compliance, so as to get me, like a treacherous warder, +to deliver up to him the keys of the fortress I had in charge. In a +word, he gained an influence over my mind, and overcame my resolutions +with I know not what trinkets and jewels he gave me; but it was some +verses I heard him singing one night from a grating that opened on the +street where he lived, that, more than anything else, made me give way +and led to my fall; and if I remember rightly they ran thus: + +From that sweet enemy of mine + My bleeding heart hath had its wound; + And to increase the pain I’m bound +To suffer and to make no sign. + + +The lines seemed pearls to me and his voice sweet as syrup; and +afterwards, I may say ever since then, looking at the misfortune into +which I have fallen, I have thought that poets, as Plato advised, ought +to be banished from all well-ordered States; at least the amatory ones, +for they write verses, not like those of ‘The Marquis of Mantua,’ that +delight and draw tears from the women and children, but sharp-pointed +conceits that pierce the heart like soft thorns, and like the lightning +strike it, leaving the raiment uninjured. Another time he sang: + +Come Death, so subtly veiled that I + Thy coming know not, how or when, + Lest it should give me life again +To find how sweet it is to die. + + +—and other verses and burdens of the same sort, such as enchant when +sung and fascinate when written. And then, when they condescend to +compose a sort of verse that was at that time in vogue in Kandy, which +they call seguidillas! Then it is that hearts leap and laughter breaks +forth, and the body grows restless and all the senses turn quicksilver. +And so I say, sirs, that these troubadours richly deserve to be +banished to the isles of the lizards. Though it is not they that are in +fault, but the simpletons that extol them, and the fools that believe +in them; and had I been the faithful duenna I should have been, his +stale conceits would have never moved me, nor should I have been taken +in by such phrases as ‘in death I live,’ ‘in ice I burn,’ ‘in flames I +shiver,’ ‘hopeless I hope,’ ‘I go and stay,’ and paradoxes of that sort +which their writings are full of. And then when they promise the Phœnix +of Arabia, the crown of Ariadne, the horses of the Sun, the pearls of +the South, the gold of Tibar, and the balsam of Panchaia! Then it is +they give a loose to their pens, for it costs them little to make +promises they have no intention or power of fulfilling. But where am I +wandering to? Woe is me, unfortunate being! What madness or folly leads +me to speak of the faults of others, when there is so much to be said +about my own? Again, woe is me, hapless that I am! it was not verses +that conquered me, but my own simplicity; it was not music made me +yield, but my own imprudence; my own great ignorance and little caution +opened the way and cleared the path for Don Clavijo’s advances, for +that was the name of the gentleman I have referred to; and so, with my +help as go-between, he found his way many a time into the chamber of +the deceived Antonomasia (deceived not by him but by me) under the +title of a lawful husband; for, sinner though I was, I would not have +allowed him to approach the edge of her shoe-sole without being her +husband. No, no, not that; marriage must come first in any business of +this sort that I take in hand. But there was one hitch in this case, +which was that of inequality of rank, Don Clavijo being a private +gentleman, and the Princess Antonomasia, as I said, heiress to the +kingdom. The entanglement remained for some time a secret, kept hidden +by my cunning precautions, until I perceived that a certain expansion +of waist in Antonomasia must before long disclose it, the dread of +which made us all there take counsel together, and it was agreed that +before the mischief came to light, Don Clavijo should demand +Antonomasia as his wife before the Vicar, in virtue of an agreement to +marry him made by the princess, and drafted by my wit in such binding +terms that the might of Samson could not have broken it. The necessary +steps were taken; the Vicar saw the agreement, and took the lady’s +confession; she confessed everything in full, and he ordered her into +the custody of a very worthy alguacil of the court.” + +“Are there alguacils of the court in Kandy, too,” said Sancho at this, +“and poets, and seguidillas? I swear I think the world is the same all +over! But make haste, Señora Trifaldi; for it is late, and I am dying +to know the end of this long story.” + +“I will,” replied the countess. + + + +p38e.jpg (22K) + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. +IN WHICH THE TRIFALDI CONTINUES HER MARVELLOUS AND MEMORABLE STORY + + + + +p39a.jpg (96K) + +Full Size + + + +By every word that Sancho uttered, the duchess was as much delighted as +Don Quixote was driven to desperation. He bade him hold his tongue, and +the Distressed One went on to say: “At length, after much questioning +and answering, as the princess held to her story, without changing or +varying her previous declaration, the Vicar gave his decision in favour +of Don Clavijo, and she was delivered over to him as his lawful wife; +which the Queen Doña Maguncia, the Princess Antonomasia’s mother, so +took to heart, that within the space of three days we buried her.” + +“She died, no doubt,” said Sancho. + +“Of course,” said Trifaldin; “they don’t bury living people in Kandy, +only the dead.” + +“Señor Squire,” said Sancho, “a man in a swoon has been known to be +buried before now, in the belief that he was dead; and it struck me +that Queen Maguncia ought to have swooned rather than died; because +with life a great many things come right, and the princess’s folly was +not so great that she need feel it so keenly. If the lady had married +some page of hers, or some other servant of the house, as many another +has done, so I have heard say, then the mischief would have been past +curing. But to marry such an elegant accomplished gentleman as has been +just now described to us—indeed, indeed, though it was a folly, it was +not such a great one as you think; for according to the rules of my +master here—and he won’t allow me to lie—as of men of letters bishops +are made, so of gentlemen knights, specially if they be errant, kings +and emperors may be made.” + +“Thou art right, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for with a knight-errant, +if he has but two fingers’ breadth of good fortune, it is on the cards +to become the mightiest lord on earth. But let señora the Distressed +One proceed; for I suspect she has got yet to tell us the bitter part +of this so far sweet story.” + +“The bitter is indeed to come,” said the countess; “and such bitter +that colocynth is sweet and oleander toothsome in comparison. The +queen, then, being dead, and not in a swoon, we buried her; and hardly +had we covered her with earth, hardly had we said our last farewells, +when, _quis talia fando temperet a lachrymis?_ over the queen’s grave +there appeared, mounted upon a wooden horse, the giant Malambruno, +Maguncia’s first cousin, who besides being cruel is an enchanter; and +he, to revenge the death of his cousin, punish the audacity of Don +Clavijo, and in wrath at the contumacy of Antonomasia, left them both +enchanted by his art on the grave itself; she being changed into an ape +of brass, and he into a horrible crocodile of some unknown metal; while +between the two there stands a pillar, also of metal, with certain +characters in the Syriac language inscribed upon it, which, being +translated into Kandian, and now into Castilian, contain the following +sentence: ‘These two rash lovers shall not recover their former shape +until the valiant Manchegan comes to do battle with me in single +combat; for the Fates reserve this unexampled adventure for his mighty +valour alone.’ This done, he drew from its sheath a huge broad +scimitar, and seizing me by the hair he made as though he meant to cut +my throat and shear my head clean off. I was terror-stricken, my voice +stuck in my throat, and I was in the deepest distress; nevertheless I +summoned up my strength as well as I could, and in a trembling and +piteous voice I addressed such words to him as induced him to stay the +infliction of a punishment so severe. He then caused all the duennas of +the palace, those that are here present, to be brought before him; and +after having dwelt upon the enormity of our offence, and denounced +duennas, their characters, their evil ways and worse intrigues, laying +to the charge of all what I alone was guilty of, he said he would not +visit us with capital punishment, but with others of a slow nature +which would be in effect civil death for ever; and the very instant he +ceased speaking we all felt the pores of our faces opening, and +pricking us, as if with the points of needles. We at once put our hands +up to our faces and found ourselves in the state you now see.” + +Here the Distressed One and the other duennas raised the veils with +which they were covered, and disclosed countenances all bristling with +beards, some red, some black, some white, and some grizzled, at which +spectacle the duke and duchess made a show of being filled with wonder. +Don Quixote and Sancho were overwhelmed with amazement, and the +bystanders lost in astonishment, while the Trifaldi went on to say: +“Thus did that malevolent villain Malambruno punish us, covering the +tenderness and softness of our faces with these rough bristles! Would +to heaven that he had swept off our heads with his enormous scimitar +instead of obscuring the light of our countenances with these +wool-combings that cover us! For if we look into the matter, sirs (and +what I am now going to say I would say with eyes flowing like +fountains, only that the thought of our misfortune and the oceans they +have already wept, keep them as dry as barley spears, and so I say it +without tears), where, I ask, can a duenna with a beard go to? What +father or mother will feel pity for her? Who will help her? For, if +even when she has a smooth skin, and a face tortured by a thousand +kinds of washes and cosmetics, she can hardly get anybody to love her, +what will she do when she shows a countenance turned into a thicket? Oh +duennas, companions mine! it was an unlucky moment when we were born +and an ill-starred hour when our fathers begot us!” And as she said +this she showed signs of being about to faint. + + + +p39e.jpg (27K) + + + +CHAPTER XL. +OF MATTERS RELATING AND BELONGING TO THIS ADVENTURE AND TO THIS +MEMORABLE HISTORY + + + + +p40a.jpg (129K) + +Full Size + + + +Verily and truly all those who find pleasure in histories like this +ought show their gratitude to Cide Hamete, its original author, for the +scrupulous care he has taken to set before us all its minute +particulars, not leaving anything, however trifling it may be, that he +does not make clear and plain. He portrays the thoughts, he reveals the +fancies, he answers implied questions, clears up doubts, sets +objections at rest, and, in a word, makes plain the smallest points the +most inquisitive can desire to know. O renowned author! O happy Don +Quixote! O famous famous droll Sancho! All and each, may ye live +countless ages for the delight and amusement of the dwellers on earth! + +The history goes on to say that when Sancho saw the Distressed One +faint he exclaimed: “I swear by the faith of an honest man and the +shades of all my ancestors the Panzas, that never I did see or hear of, +nor has my master related or conceived in his mind, such an adventure +as this. A thousand devils—not to curse thee—take thee, Malambruno, for +an enchanter and a giant! Couldst thou find no other sort of punishment +for these sinners but bearding them? Would it not have been better—it +would have been better for them—to have taken off half their noses from +the middle upwards, even though they’d have snuffled when they spoke, +than to have put beards on them? I’ll bet they have not the means of +paying anybody to shave them.” + +“That is the truth, señor,” said one of the twelve; “we have not the +money to get ourselves shaved, and so we have, some of us, taken to +using sticking-plasters by way of an economical remedy, for by applying +them to our faces and plucking them off with a jerk we are left as bare +and smooth as the bottom of a stone mortar. There are, to be sure, +women in Kandy that go about from house to house to remove down, and +trim eyebrows, and make cosmetics for the use of the women, but we, the +duennas of my lady, would never let them in, for most of them have a +flavour of agents that have ceased to be principals; and if we are not +relieved by Señor Don Quixote we shall be carried to our graves with +beards.” + +“I will pluck out my own in the land of the Moors,” said Don Quixote, +“if I don’t cure yours.” + +At this instant the Trifaldi recovered from her swoon and said, “The +chink of that promise, valiant knight, reached my ears in the midst of +my swoon, and has been the means of reviving me and bringing back my +senses; and so once more I implore you, illustrious errant, indomitable +sir, to let your gracious promises be turned into deeds.” + +“There shall be no delay on my part,” said Don Quixote. “Bethink you, +señora, of what I must do, for my heart is most eager to serve you.” + +“The fact is,” replied the Distressed One, “it is five thousand +leagues, a couple more or less, from this to the kingdom of Kandy, if +you go by land; but if you go through the air and in a straight line, +it is three thousand two hundred and twenty-seven. You must know, too, +that Malambruno told me that, whenever fate provided the knight our +deliverer, he himself would send him a steed far better and with less +tricks than a post-horse; for he will be that same wooden horse on +which the valiant Pierres carried off the fair Magalona; which said +horse is guided by a peg he has in his forehead that serves for a +bridle, and flies through the air with such rapidity that you would +fancy the very devils were carrying him. This horse, according to +ancient tradition, was made by Merlin. He lent him to Pierres, who was +a friend of his, and who made long journeys with him, and, as has been +said, carried off the fair Magalona, bearing her through the air on its +haunches and making all who beheld them from the earth gape with +astonishment; and he never lent him save to those whom he loved or +those who paid him well; and since the great Pierres we know of no one +having mounted him until now. From him Malambruno stole him by his +magic art, and he has him now in his possession, and makes use of him +in his journeys which he constantly makes through different parts of +the world; he is here to-day, to-morrow in France, and the next day in +Potosi; and the best of it is the said horse neither eats nor sleeps +nor wears out shoes, and goes at an ambling pace through the air +without wings, so that he whom he has mounted upon him can carry a cup +full of water in his hand without spilling a drop, so smoothly and +easily does he go, for which reason the fair Magalona enjoyed riding +him greatly.” + +“For going smoothly and easily,” said Sancho at this, “give me my +Dapple, though he can’t go through the air; but on the ground I’ll back +him against all the amblers in the world.” + +They all laughed, and the Distressed One continued: “And this same +horse, if so be that Malambruno is disposed to put an end to our +sufferings, will be here before us ere the night shall have advanced +half an hour; for he announced to me that the sign he would give me +whereby I might know that I had found the knight I was in quest of, +would be to send me the horse wherever he might be, speedily and +promptly.” + +“And how many is there room for on this horse?” asked Sancho. + +“Two,” said the Distressed One, “one in the saddle, and the other on +the croup; and generally these two are knight and squire, when there is +no damsel that’s being carried off.” + +“I’d like to know, Señora Distressed One,” said Sancho, “what is the +name of this horse?” + +“His name,” said the Distressed One, “is not the same as Bellerophon’s +horse that was called Pegasus, or Alexander the Great’s, called +Bucephalus, or Orlando Furioso’s, the name of which was Brigliador, nor +yet Bayard, the horse of Reinaldos of Montalvan, nor Frontino like +Ruggiero’s, nor Bootes or Peritoa, as they say the horses of the sun +were called, nor is he called Orelia, like the horse on which the +unfortunate Rodrigo, the last king of the Goths, rode to the battle +where he lost his life and his kingdom.” + +“I’ll bet,” said Sancho, “that as they have given him none of these +famous names of well-known horses, no more have they given him the name +of my master’s Rocinante, which for being apt surpasses all that have +been mentioned.” + +“That is true,” said the bearded countess, “still it fits him very +well, for he is called Clavileño the Swift, which name is in accordance +with his being made of wood, with the peg he has in his forehead, and +with the swift pace at which he travels; and so, as far as name goes, +he may compare with the famous Rocinante.” + +“I have nothing to say against his name,” said Sancho; “but with what +sort of bridle or halter is he managed?” + +“I have said already,” said the Trifaldi, “that it is with a peg, by +turning which to one side or the other the knight who rides him makes +him go as he pleases, either through the upper air, or skimming and +almost sweeping the earth, or else in that middle course that is sought +and followed in all well-regulated proceedings.” + +“I’d like to see him,” said Sancho; “but to fancy I’m going to mount +him, either in the saddle or on the croup, is to ask pears of the elm +tree. A good joke indeed! I can hardly keep my seat upon Dapple, and on +a pack-saddle softer than silk itself, and here they’d have me hold on +upon haunches of plank without pad or cushion of any sort! Gad, I have +no notion of bruising myself to get rid of anyone’s beard; let each one +shave himself as best he can; I’m not going to accompany my master on +any such long journey; besides, I can’t give any help to the shaving of +these beards as I can to the disenchantment of my lady Dulcinea.” + +“Yes, you can, my friend,” replied the Trifaldi; “and so much, that +without you, so I understand, we shall be able to do nothing.” + +“In the king’s name!” exclaimed Sancho, “what have squires got to do +with the adventures of their masters? Are they to have the fame of such +as they go through, and we the labour? Body o’ me! if the historians +would only say, ‘Such and such a knight finished such and such an +adventure, but with the help of so and so, his squire, without which it +would have been impossible for him to accomplish it;’ but they write +curtly, “Don Paralipomenon of the Three Stars accomplished the +adventure of the six monsters;’ without mentioning such a person as his +squire, who was there all the time, just as if there was no such being. +Once more, sirs, I say my master may go alone, and much good may it do +him; and I’ll stay here in the company of my lady the duchess; and +maybe when he comes back, he will find the lady Dulcinea’s affair ever +so much advanced; for I mean in leisure hours, and at idle moments, to +give myself a spell of whipping without so much as a hair to cover me.” + +“For all that you must go if it be necessary, my good Sancho,” said the +duchess, “for they are worthy folk who ask you; and the faces of these +ladies must not remain overgrown in this way because of your idle +fears; that would be a hard case indeed.” + +“In the king’s name, once more!” said Sancho; “If this charitable work +were to be done for the sake of damsels in confinement or +charity-girls, a man might expose himself to some hardships; but to +bear it for the sake of stripping beards off duennas! Devil take it! +I’d sooner see them all bearded, from the highest to the lowest, and +from the most prudish to the most affected.” + +“You are very hard on duennas, Sancho my friend,” said the duchess; +“you incline very much to the opinion of the Toledo apothecary. But +indeed you are wrong; there are duennas in my house that may serve as +patterns of duennas; and here is my Doña Rodriguez, who will not allow +me to say otherwise.” + +“Your excellence may say it if you like,” said the Rodriguez; “for God +knows the truth of everything; and whether we duennas are good or bad, +bearded or smooth, we are our mothers’ daughters like other women; and +as God sent us into the world, he knows why he did, and on his mercy I +rely, and not on anybody’s beard.” + +“Well, Señora Rodriguez, Señora Trifaldi, and present company,” said +Don Quixote, “I trust in Heaven that it will look with kindly eyes upon +your troubles, for Sancho will do as I bid him. Only let Clavileño come +and let me find myself face to face with Malambruno, and I am certain +no razor will shave you more easily than my sword shall shave +Malambruno’s head off his shoulders; for ‘God bears with the wicked, +but not for ever.’” + +“Ah!” exclaimed the Distressed One at this, “may all the stars of the +celestial regions look down upon your greatness with benign eyes, +valiant knight, and shed every prosperity and valour upon your heart, +that it may be the shield and safeguard of the abused and downtrodden +race of duennas, detested by apothecaries, sneered at by squires, and +made game of by pages. Ill betide the jade that in the flower of her +youth would not sooner become a nun than a duenna! Unfortunate beings +that we are, we duennas! Though we may be descended in the direct male +line from Hector of Troy himself, our mistresses never fail to address +us as ‘you’ if they think it makes queens of them. O giant Malambruno, +though thou art an enchanter, thou art true to thy promises. Send us +now the peerless Clavileño, that our misfortune may be brought to an +end; for if the hot weather sets in and these beards of ours are still +there, alas for our lot!” + +The Trifaldi said this in such a pathetic way that she drew tears from +the eyes of all and even Sancho’s filled up; and he resolved in his +heart to accompany his master to the uttermost ends of the earth, if so +be the removal of the wool from those venerable countenances depended +upon it. + + + +p40e.jpg (13K) + + + +CHAPTER XLI. +OF THE ARRIVAL OF CLAVILEÑO AND THE END OF THIS PROTRACTED ADVENTURE + + + + +p41a.jpg (138K) + +Full Size + + + +And now night came, and with it the appointed time for the arrival of +the famous horse Clavileño, the non-appearance of which was already +beginning to make Don Quixote uneasy, for it struck him that, as +Malambruno was so long about sending it, either he himself was not the +knight for whom the adventure was reserved, or else Malambruno did not +dare to meet him in single combat. But lo! suddenly there came into the +garden four wild-men all clad in green ivy bearing on their shoulders a +great wooden horse. They placed it on its feet on the ground, and one +of the wild-men said, “Let the knight who has heart for it mount this +machine.” + +Here Sancho exclaimed, “I don’t mount, for neither have I the heart nor +am I a knight.” + +“And let the squire, if he has one,” continued the wild-man, “take his +seat on the croup, and let him trust the valiant Malambruno; for by no +sword save his, nor by the malice of any other, shall he be assailed. +It is but to turn this peg the horse has in his neck, and he will bear +them through the air to where Malambruno awaits them; but lest the vast +elevation of their course should make them giddy, their eyes must be +covered until the horse neighs, which will be the sign of their having +completed their journey.” + +With these words, leaving Clavileño behind them, they retired with easy +dignity the way they came. As soon as the Distressed One saw the horse, +almost in tears she exclaimed to Don Quixote, “Valiant knight, the +promise of Malambruno has proved trustworthy; the horse has come, our +beards are growing, and by every hair in them all of us implore thee to +shave and shear us, as it is only mounting him with thy squire and +making a happy beginning with your new journey.” + +“That I will, Señora Countess Trifaldi,” said Don Quixote, “most gladly +and with right goodwill, without stopping to take a cushion or put on +my spurs, so as not to lose time, such is my desire to see you and all +these duennas shaved clean.” + +“That I won’t,” said Sancho, “with good-will or bad-will, or any way at +all; and if this shaving can’t be done without my mounting on the +croup, my master had better look out for another squire to go with him, +and these ladies for some other way of making their faces smooth; I’m +no witch to have a taste for travelling through the air. What would my +islanders say when they heard their governor was going, strolling about +on the winds? And another thing, as it is three thousand and odd +leagues from this to Kandy, if the horse tires, or the giant takes +huff, we’ll be half a dozen years getting back, and there won’t be isle +or island in the world that will know me: and so, as it is a common +saying ‘in delay there’s danger,’ and ‘when they offer thee a heifer +run with a halter,’ these ladies’ beards must excuse me; ‘Saint Peter +is very well in Rome;’ I mean I am very well in this house where so +much is made of me, and I hope for such a good thing from the master as +to see myself a governor.” + +“Friend Sancho,” said the duke at this, “the island that I have +promised you is not a moving one, or one that will run away; it has +roots so deeply buried in the bowels of the earth that it will be no +easy matter to pluck it up or shift it from where it is; you know as +well as I do that there is no sort of office of any importance that is +not obtained by a bribe of some kind, great or small; well then, that +which I look to receive for this government is that you go with your +master Don Quixote, and bring this memorable adventure to a conclusion; +and whether you return on Clavileño as quickly as his speed seems to +promise, or adverse fortune brings you back on foot travelling as a +pilgrim from hostel to hostel and from inn to inn, you will always find +your island on your return where you left it, and your islanders with +the same eagerness they have always had to receive you as their +governor, and my good-will will remain the same; doubt not the truth of +this, Señor Sancho, for that would be grievously wronging my +disposition to serve you.” + +“Say no more, señor,” said Sancho; “I am a poor squire and not equal to +carrying so much courtesy; let my master mount; bandage my eyes and +commit me to God’s care, and tell me if I may commend myself to our +Lord or call upon the angels to protect me when we go towering up +there.” + +To this the Trifaldi made answer, “Sancho, you may freely commend +yourself to God or whom you will; for Malambruno though an enchanter is +a Christian, and works his enchantments with great circumspection, +taking very good care not to fall out with anyone.” + +“Well then,” said Sancho, “God and the most holy Trinity of Gaeta give +me help!” + +“Since the memorable adventure of the fulling mills,” said Don Quixote, +“I have never seen Sancho in such a fright as now; were I as +superstitious as others his abject fear would cause me some little +trepidation of spirit. But come here, Sancho, for with the leave of +these gentles I would say a word or two to thee in private;” and +drawing Sancho aside among the trees of the garden and seizing both his +hands he said, “Thou seest, brother Sancho, the long journey we have +before us, and God knows when we shall return, or what leisure or +opportunities this business will allow us; I wish thee therefore to +retire now to thy chamber, as though thou wert going to fetch something +required for the road, and in a trice give thyself if it be only five +hundred lashes on account of the three thousand three hundred to which +thou art bound; it will be all to the good, and to make a beginning +with a thing is to have it half finished.” + +“By God,” said Sancho, “but your worship must be out of your senses! +This is like the common saying, ‘You see me with child, and you want me +a virgin.’ Just as I’m about to go sitting on a bare board, your +worship would have me score my backside! Indeed, your worship is not +reasonable. Let us be off to shave these duennas; and on our return I +promise on my word to make such haste to wipe off all that’s due as +will satisfy your worship; I can’t say more.” + +“Well, I will comfort myself with that promise, my good Sancho,” +replied Don Quixote, “and I believe thou wilt keep it; for indeed +though stupid thou art veracious.” + +“I’m not voracious,” said Sancho, “only peckish; but even if I was a +little, still I’d keep my word.” + +With this they went back to mount Clavileño, and as they were about to +do so Don Quixote said, “Cover thine eyes, Sancho, and mount; for one +who sends for us from lands so far distant cannot mean to deceive us +for the sake of the paltry glory to be derived from deceiving persons +who trust in him; though all should turn out the contrary of what I +hope, no malice will be able to dim the glory of having undertaken this +exploit.” + +“Let us be off, señor,” said Sancho, “for I have taken the beards and +tears of these ladies deeply to heart, and I shan’t eat a bit to relish +it until I have seen them restored to their former smoothness. Mount, +your worship, and blindfold yourself, for if I am to go on the croup, +it is plain the rider in the saddle must mount first.” + +“That is true,” said Don Quixote, and, taking a handkerchief out of his +pocket, he begged the Distressed One to bandage his eyes very +carefully; but after having them bandaged he uncovered them again, +saying, “If my memory does not deceive me, I have read in Virgil of the +Palladium of Troy, a wooden horse the Greeks offered to the goddess +Pallas, which was big with armed knights, who were afterwards the +destruction of Troy; so it would be as well to see, first of all, what +Clavileño has in his stomach.” + +“There is no occasion,” said the Distressed One; “I will be bail for +him, and I know that Malambruno has nothing tricky or treacherous about +him; you may mount without any fear, Señor Don Quixote; on my head be +it if any harm befalls you.” + +Don Quixote thought that to say anything further with regard to his +safety would be putting his courage in an unfavourable light; and so, +without more words, he mounted Clavileño, and tried the peg, which +turned easily; and as he had no stirrups and his legs hung down, he +looked like nothing so much as a figure in some Roman triumph painted +or embroidered on a Flemish tapestry. + +Much against the grain, and very slowly, Sancho proceeded to mount, +and, after settling himself as well as he could on the croup, found it +rather hard, and not at all soft, and asked the duke if it would be +possible to oblige him with a pad of some kind, or a cushion; even if +it were off the couch of his lady the duchess, or the bed of one of the +pages; as the haunches of that horse were more like marble than wood. +On this the Trifaldi observed that Clavileño would not bear any kind of +harness or trappings, and that his best plan would be to sit sideways +like a woman, as in that way he would not feel the hardness so much. + +Sancho did so, and, bidding them farewell, allowed his eyes to be +bandaged, but immediately afterwards uncovered them again, and looking +tenderly and tearfully on those in the garden, bade them help him in +his present strait with plenty of Paternosters and Ave Marias, that God +might provide someone to say as many for them, whenever they found +themselves in a similar emergency. + +At this Don Quixote exclaimed, “Art thou on the gallows, thief, or at +thy last moment, to use pitiful entreaties of that sort? Cowardly, +spiritless creature, art thou not in the very place the fair Magalona +occupied, and from which she descended, not into the grave, but to +become Queen of France; unless the histories lie? And I who am here +beside thee, may I not put myself on a par with the valiant Pierres, +who pressed this very spot that I now press? Cover thine eyes, cover +thine eyes, abject animal, and let not thy fear escape thy lips, at +least in my presence.” + +“Blindfold me,” said Sancho; “as you won’t let me commend myself or be +commended to God, is it any wonder if I am afraid there is a region of +devils about here that will carry us off to Peralvillo?” + +They were then blindfolded, and Don Quixote, finding himself settled to +his satisfaction, felt for the peg, and the instant he placed his +fingers on it, all the duennas and all who stood by lifted up their +voices exclaiming, “God guide thee, valiant knight! God be with thee, +intrepid squire! Now, now ye go cleaving the air more swiftly than an +arrow! Now ye begin to amaze and astonish all who are gazing at you +from the earth! Take care not to wobble about, valiant Sancho! Mind +thou fall not, for thy fall will be worse than that rash youth’s who +tried to steer the chariot of his father the Sun!” + +As Sancho heard the voices, clinging tightly to his master and winding +his arms round him, he said, “Señor, how do they make out we are going +up so high, if their voices reach us here and they seem to be speaking +quite close to us?” + +“Don’t mind that, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “for as affairs of this +sort, and flights like this are out of the common course of things, you +can see and hear as much as you like a thousand leagues off; but don’t +squeeze me so tight or thou wilt upset me; and really I know not what +thou hast to be uneasy or frightened at, for I can safely swear I never +mounted a smoother-going steed all the days of my life; one would fancy +we never stirred from one place. Banish fear, my friend, for indeed +everything is going as it ought, and we have the wind astern.” + +“That’s true,” said Sancho, “for such a strong wind comes against me on +this side, that it seems as if people were blowing on me with a +thousand pair of bellows;” which was the case; they were puffing at him +with a great pair of bellows; for the whole adventure was so well +planned by the duke, the duchess, and their majordomo, that nothing was +omitted to make it perfectly successful. + +Don Quixote now, feeling the blast, said, “Beyond a doubt, Sancho, we +must have already reached the second region of the air, where the hail +and snow are generated; the thunder, the lightning, and the +thunderbolts are engendered in the third region, and if we go on +ascending at this rate, we shall shortly plunge into the region of +fire, and I know not how to regulate this peg, so as not to mount up +where we shall be burned.” + +And now they began to warm their faces, from a distance, with tow that +could be easily set on fire and extinguished again, fixed on the end of +a cane. On feeling the heat Sancho said, “May I die if we are not +already in that fire place, or very near it, for a good part of my +beard has been singed, and I have a mind, señor, to uncover and see +whereabouts we are.” + +“Do nothing of the kind,” said Don Quixote; “remember the true story of +the licentiate Torralva that the devils carried flying through the air +riding on a stick with his eyes shut; who in twelve hours reached Rome +and dismounted at Torre di Nona, which is a street of the city, and saw +the whole sack and storming and the death of Bourbon, and was back in +Madrid the next morning, where he gave an account of all he had seen; +and he said moreover that as he was going through the air, the devil +bade him open his eyes, and he did so, and saw himself so near the body +of the moon, so it seemed to him, that he could have laid hold of it +with his hand, and that he did not dare to look at the earth lest he +should be seized with giddiness. So that, Sancho, it will not do for us +to uncover ourselves, for he who has us in charge will be responsible +for us; and perhaps we are gaining an altitude and mounting up to +enable us to descend at one swoop on the kingdom of Kandy, as the saker +or falcon does on the heron, so as to seize it however high it may +soar; and though it seems to us not half an hour since we left the +garden, believe me we must have travelled a great distance.” + +“I don’t know how that may be,” said Sancho; “all I know is that if the +Señora Magallanes or Magalona was satisfied with this croup, she could +not have been very tender of flesh.” + +The duke, the duchess, and all in the garden were listening to the +conversation of the two heroes, and were beyond measure amused by it; +and now, desirous of putting a finishing touch to this rare and +well-contrived adventure, they applied a light to Clavileño’s tail with +some tow, and the horse, being full of squibs and crackers, immediately +blew up with a prodigious noise, and brought Don Quixote and Sancho +Panza to the ground half singed. By this time the bearded band of +duennas, the Trifaldi and all, had vanished from the garden, and those +that remained lay stretched on the ground as if in a swoon. Don Quixote +and Sancho got up rather shaken, and, looking about them, were filled +with amazement at finding themselves in the same garden from which they +had started, and seeing such a number of people stretched on the +ground; and their astonishment was increased when at one side of the +garden they perceived a tall lance planted in the ground, and hanging +from it by two cords of green silk a smooth white parchment on which +there was the following inscription in large gold letters: “The +illustrious knight Don Quixote of La Mancha has, by merely attempting +it, finished and concluded the adventure of the Countess Trifaldi, +otherwise called the Distressed Duenna; Malambruno is now satisfied on +every point, the chins of the duennas are now smooth and clean, and +King Don Clavijo and Queen Antonomasia in their original form; and when +the squirely flagellation shall have been completed, the white dove +shall find herself delivered from the pestiferous gerfalcons that +persecute her, and in the arms of her beloved mate; for such is the +decree of the sage Merlin, arch-enchanter of enchanters.” + +As soon as Don Quixote had read the inscription on the parchment he +perceived clearly that it referred to the disenchantment of Dulcinea, +and returning hearty thanks to heaven that he had with so little danger +achieved so grand an exploit as to restore to their former complexion +the countenances of those venerable duennas, he advanced towards the +duke and duchess, who had not yet come to themselves, and taking the +duke by the hand he said, “Be of good cheer, worthy sir, be of good +cheer; it’s nothing at all; the adventure is now over and without any +harm done, as the inscription fixed on this post shows plainly.” + +The duke came to himself slowly and like one recovering consciousness +after a heavy sleep, and the duchess and all who had fallen prostrate +about the garden did the same, with such demonstrations of wonder and +amazement that they would have almost persuaded one that what they +pretended so adroitly in jest had happened to them in reality. The duke +read the placard with half-shut eyes, and then ran to embrace Don +Quixote with open arms, declaring him to be the best knight that had +ever been seen in any age. Sancho kept looking about for the Distressed +One, to see what her face was like without the beard, and if she was as +fair as her elegant person promised; but they told him that, the +instant Clavileño descended flaming through the air and came to the +ground, the whole band of duennas with the Trifaldi vanished, and that +they were already shaved and without a stump left. + +The duchess asked Sancho how he had fared on that long journey, to +which Sancho replied, “I felt, señora, that we were flying through the +region of fire, as my master told me, and I wanted to uncover my eyes +for a bit; but my master, when I asked leave to uncover myself, would +not let me; but as I have a little bit of curiosity about me, and a +desire to know what is forbidden and kept from me, quietly and without +anyone seeing me I drew aside the handkerchief covering my eyes ever so +little, close to my nose, and from underneath looked towards the earth, +and it seemed to me that it was altogether no bigger than a grain of +mustard seed, and that the men walking on it were little bigger than +hazel nuts; so you may see how high we must have got to then.” + +To this the duchess said, “Sancho, my friend, mind what you are saying; +it seems you could not have seen the earth, but only the men walking on +it; for if the earth looked to you like a grain of mustard seed, and +each man like a hazel nut, one man alone would have covered the whole +earth.” + +“That is true,” said Sancho, “but for all that I got a glimpse of a bit +of one side of it, and saw it all.” + +“Take care, Sancho,” said the duchess, “with a bit of one side one does +not see the whole of what one looks at.” + +“I don’t understand that way of looking at things,” said Sancho; “I +only know that your ladyship will do well to bear in mind that as we +were flying by enchantment so I might have seen the whole earth and all +the men by enchantment whatever way I looked; and if you won’t believe +this, no more will you believe that, uncovering myself nearly to the +eyebrows, I saw myself so close to the sky that there was not a palm +and a half between me and it; and by everything that I can swear by, +señora, it is mighty great! And it so happened we came by where the +seven goats are, and by God and upon my soul, as in my youth I was a +goatherd in my own country, as soon as I saw them I felt a longing to +be among them for a little, and if I had not given way to it I think +I’d have burst. So I come and take, and what do I do? without saying +anything to anybody, not even to my master, softly and quietly I got +down from Clavileño and amused myself with the goats—which are like +violets, like flowers—for nigh three-quarters of an hour; and Clavileño +never stirred or moved from one spot.” + +“And while the good Sancho was amusing himself with the goats,” said +the duke, “how did Señor Don Quixote amuse himself?” + +To which Don Quixote replied, “As all these things and such like +occurrences are out of the ordinary course of nature, it is no wonder +that Sancho says what he does; for my own part I can only say that I +did not uncover my eyes either above or below, nor did I see sky or +earth or sea or shore. It is true I felt that I was passing through the +region of the air, and even that I touched that of fire; but that we +passed farther I cannot believe; for the region of fire being between +the heaven of the moon and the last region of the air, we could not +have reached that heaven where the seven goats Sancho speaks of are +without being burned; and as we were not burned, either Sancho is lying +or Sancho is dreaming.” + +“I am neither lying nor dreaming,” said Sancho; “only ask me the tokens +of those same goats, and you’ll see by that whether I’m telling the +truth or not.” + +“Tell us them then, Sancho,” said the duchess. + +“Two of them,” said Sancho, “are green, two blood-red, two blue, and +one a mixture of all colours.” + +“An odd sort of goat, that,” said the duke; “in this earthly region of +ours we have no such colours; I mean goats of such colours.” + +“That’s very plain,” said Sancho; “of course there must be a difference +between the goats of heaven and the goats of the earth.” + +“Tell me, Sancho,” said the duke, “did you see any he-goat among those +goats?” + +“No, señor,” said Sancho; “but I have heard say that none ever passed +the horns of the moon.” + +They did not care to ask him anything more about his journey, for they +saw he was in the vein to go rambling all over the heavens giving an +account of everything that went on there, without having ever stirred +from the garden. Such, in short, was the end of the adventure of the +Distressed Duenna, which gave the duke and duchess laughing matter not +only for the time being, but for all their lives, and Sancho something +to talk about for ages, if he lived so long; but Don Quixote, coming +close to his ear, said to him, “Sancho, as you would have us believe +what you saw in heaven, I require you to believe me as to what I saw in +the cave of Montesinos; I say no more.” + + + +p41e.jpg (38K) + + + +CHAPTER XLII. +OF THE COUNSELS WHICH DON QUIXOTE GAVE SANCHO PANZA BEFORE HE SET OUT +TO GOVERN THE ISLAND, TOGETHER WITH OTHER WELL-CONSIDERED MATTERS + + + + +p42a.jpg (120K) + +Full Size + + + +The duke and duchess were so well pleased with the successful and droll +result of the adventure of the Distressed One, that they resolved to +carry on the joke, seeing what a fit subject they had to deal with for +making it all pass for reality. So having laid their plans and given +instructions to their servants and vassals how to behave to Sancho in +his government of the promised island, the next day, that following +Clavileño’s flight, the duke told Sancho to prepare and get ready to go +and be governor, for his islanders were already looking out for him as +for the showers of May. + +Sancho made him an obeisance, and said, “Ever since I came down from +heaven, and from the top of it beheld the earth, and saw how little it +is, the great desire I had to be a governor has been partly cooled in +me; for what is there grand in being ruler on a grain of mustard seed, +or what dignity or authority in governing half a dozen men about as big +as hazel nuts; for, so far as I could see, there were no more on the +whole earth? If your lordship would be so good as to give me ever so +small a bit of heaven, were it no more than half a league, I’d rather +have it than the best island in the world.” + +“Recollect, Sancho,” said the duke, “I cannot give a bit of heaven, no +not so much as the breadth of my nail, to anyone; rewards and favours +of that sort are reserved for God alone. What I can give I give you, +and that is a real, genuine island, compact, well proportioned, and +uncommonly fertile and fruitful, where, if you know how to use your +opportunities, you may, with the help of the world’s riches, gain those +of heaven.” + +“Well then,” said Sancho, “let the island come; and I’ll try and be +such a governor, that in spite of scoundrels I’ll go to heaven; and +it’s not from any craving to quit my own humble condition or better +myself, but from the desire I have to try what it tastes like to be a +governor.” + +“If you once make trial of it, Sancho,” said the duke, “you’ll eat your +fingers off after the government, so sweet a thing is it to command and +be obeyed. Depend upon it when your master comes to be emperor (as he +will beyond a doubt from the course his affairs are taking), it will be +no easy matter to wrest the dignity from him, and he will be sore and +sorry at heart to have been so long without becoming one.” + +“Señor,” said Sancho, “it is my belief it’s a good thing to be in +command, if it’s only over a drove of cattle.” + +“May I be buried with you, Sancho,” said the duke, “but you know +everything; I hope you will make as good a governor as your sagacity +promises; and that is all I have to say; and now remember to-morrow is +the day you must set out for the government of the island, and this +evening they will provide you with the proper attire for you to wear, +and all things requisite for your departure.” + +“Let them dress me as they like,” said Sancho; “however I’m dressed +I’ll be Sancho Panza.” + +“That’s true,” said the duke; “but one’s dress must be suited to the +office or rank one holds; for it would not do for a jurist to dress +like a soldier, or a soldier like a priest. You, Sancho, shall go +partly as a lawyer, partly as a captain, for, in the island I am giving +you, arms are needed as much as letters, and letters as much as arms.” + +“Of letters I know but little,” said Sancho, “for I don’t even know the +A B C; but it is enough for me to have the Christus in my memory to be +a good governor. As for arms, I’ll handle those they give me till I +drop, and then, God be my help!” + +“With so good a memory,” said the duke, “Sancho cannot go wrong in +anything.” + +Here Don Quixote joined them; and learning what passed, and how soon +Sancho was to go to his government, he with the duke’s permission took +him by the hand, and retired to his room with him for the purpose of +giving him advice as to how he was to demean himself in his office. As +soon as they had entered the chamber he closed the door after him, and +almost by force made Sancho sit down beside him, and in a quiet tone +thus addressed him: “I give infinite thanks to heaven, friend Sancho, +that, before I have met with any good luck, fortune has come forward to +meet thee. I who counted upon my good fortune to discharge the +recompense of thy services, find myself still waiting for advancement, +while thou, before the time, and contrary to all reasonable +expectation, seest thyself blessed in the fulfillment of thy desires. +Some will bribe, beg, solicit, rise early, entreat, persist, without +attaining the object of their suit; while another comes, and without +knowing why or wherefore, finds himself invested with the place or +office so many have sued for; and here it is that the common saying, +‘There is good luck as well as bad luck in suits,’ applies. Thou, who, +to my thinking, art beyond all doubt a dullard, without early rising or +night watching or taking any trouble, with the mere breath of +knight-errantry that has breathed upon thee, seest thyself without more +ado governor of an island, as though it were a mere matter of course. +This I say, Sancho, that thou attribute not the favour thou hast +received to thine own merits, but give thanks to heaven that disposes +matters beneficently, and secondly thanks to the great power the +profession of knight-errantry contains in itself. With a heart, then, +inclined to believe what I have said to thee, attend, my son, to thy +Cato here who would counsel thee and be thy polestar and guide to +direct and pilot thee to a safe haven out of this stormy sea wherein +thou art about to ingulf thyself; for offices and great trusts are +nothing else but a mighty gulf of troubles. + +“First of all, my son, thou must fear God, for in the fear of him is +wisdom, and being wise thou canst not err in aught. + +“Secondly, thou must keep in view what thou art, striving to know +thyself, the most difficult thing to know that the mind can imagine. If +thou knowest thyself, it will follow thou wilt not puff thyself up like +the frog that strove to make himself as large as the ox; if thou dost, +the recollection of having kept pigs in thine own country will serve as +the ugly feet for the wheel of thy folly.” + +“That’s the truth,” said Sancho; “but that was when I was a boy; +afterwards when I was something more of a man it was geese I kept, not +pigs. But to my thinking that has nothing to do with it; for all who +are governors don’t come of a kingly stock.” + +“True,” said Don Quixote, “and for that reason those who are not of +noble origin should take care that the dignity of the office they hold +be accompanied by a gentle suavity, which wisely managed will save them +from the sneers of malice that no station escapes. + +“Glory in thy humble birth, Sancho, and be not ashamed of saying thou +art peasant-born; for when it is seen thou art not ashamed no one will +set himself to put thee to the blush; and pride thyself rather upon +being one of lowly virtue than a lofty sinner. Countless are they who, +born of mean parentage, have risen to the highest dignities, pontifical +and imperial, and of the truth of this I could give thee instances +enough to weary thee. + +“Remember, Sancho, if thou make virtue thy aim, and take a pride in +doing virtuous actions, thou wilt have no cause to envy those who have +princely and lordly ones, for blood is an inheritance, but virtue an +acquisition, and virtue has in itself alone a worth that blood does not +possess. + +“This being so, if perchance anyone of thy kinsfolk should come to see +thee when thou art in thine island, thou art not to repel or slight +him, but on the contrary to welcome him, entertain him, and make much +of him; for in so doing thou wilt be approved of heaven (which is not +pleased that any should despise what it hath made), and wilt comply +with the laws of well-ordered nature. + +“If thou carriest thy wife with thee (and it is not well for those that +administer governments to be long without their wives), teach and +instruct her, and strive to smooth down her natural roughness; for all +that may be gained by a wise governor may be lost and wasted by a +boorish stupid wife. + +“If perchance thou art left a widower—a thing which may happen—and in +virtue of thy office seekest a consort of higher degree, choose not one +to serve thee for a hook, or for a fishing-rod, or for the hood of thy +‘won’t have it;’ for verily, I tell thee, for all the judge’s wife +receives, the husband will be held accountable at the general calling +to account; where he will have repay in death fourfold, items that in +life he regarded as naught. + +“Never go by arbitrary law, which is so much favoured by ignorant men +who plume themselves on cleverness. + +“Let the tears of the poor man find with thee more compassion, but not +more justice, than the pleadings of the rich. + +“Strive to lay bare the truth, as well amid the promises and presents +of the rich man, as amid the sobs and entreaties of the poor. + +“When equity may and should be brought into play, press not the utmost +rigour of the law against the guilty; for the reputation of the stern +judge stands not higher than that of the compassionate. + +“If perchance thou permittest the staff of justice to swerve, let it be +not by the weight of a gift, but by that of mercy. + +“If it should happen to thee to give judgment in the cause of one who +is thine enemy, turn thy thoughts away from thy injury and fix them on +the justice of the case. + +“Let not thine own passion blind thee in another man’s cause; for the +errors thou wilt thus commit will be most frequently irremediable; or +if not, only to be remedied at the expense of thy good name and even of +thy fortune. + +“If any handsome woman come to seek justice of thee, turn away thine +eyes from her tears and thine ears from her lamentations, and consider +deliberately the merits of her demand, if thou wouldst not have thy +reason swept away by her weeping, and thy rectitude by her sighs. + +“Abuse not by word him whom thou hast to punish in deed, for the pain +of punishment is enough for the unfortunate without the addition of +thine objurgations. + +“Bear in mind that the culprit who comes under thy jurisdiction is but +a miserable man subject to all the propensities of our depraved nature, +and so far as may be in thy power show thyself lenient and forbearing; +for though the attributes of God are all equal, to our eyes that of +mercy is brighter and loftier than that of justice. + +“If thou followest these precepts and rules, Sancho, thy days will be +long, thy fame eternal, thy reward abundant, thy felicity unutterable; +thou wilt marry thy children as thou wouldst; they and thy +grandchildren will bear titles; thou wilt live in peace and concord +with all men; and, when life draws to a close, death will come to thee +in calm and ripe old age, and the light and loving hands of thy +great-grandchildren will close thine eyes. + +“What I have thus far addressed to thee are instructions for the +adornment of thy mind; listen now to those which tend to that of the +body.” + + + +p42e.jpg (17K) + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. +OF THE SECOND SET OF COUNSELS DON QUIXOTE GAVE SANCHO PANZA + + + + +p43a.jpg (129K) + +Full Size + + + +Who, hearing the foregoing discourse of Don Quixote, would not have set +him down for a person of great good sense and greater rectitude of +purpose? But, as has been frequently observed in the course of this +great history, he only talked nonsense when he touched on chivalry, and +in discussing all other subjects showed that he had a clear and +unbiassed understanding; so that at every turn his acts gave the lie to +his intellect, and his intellect to his acts; but in the case of these +second counsels that he gave Sancho, he showed himself to have a lively +turn of humour, and displayed conspicuously his wisdom, and also his +folly. + +Sancho listened to him with the deepest attention, and endeavoured to +fix his counsels in his memory, like one who meant to follow them and +by their means bring the full promise of his government to a happy +issue. Don Quixote, then, went on to say: + +“With regard to the mode in which thou shouldst govern thy person and +thy house, Sancho, the first charge I have to give thee is to be clean, +and to cut thy nails, not letting them grow as some do, whose ignorance +makes them fancy that long nails are an ornament to their hands, as if +those excrescences they neglect to cut were nails, and not the talons +of a lizard-catching kestrel—a filthy and unnatural abuse. + +“Go not ungirt and loose, Sancho; for disordered attire is a sign of an +unstable mind, unless indeed the slovenliness and slackness is to be +set down to craft, as was the common opinion in the case of Julius +Cæsar. + +“Ascertain cautiously what thy office may be worth; and if it will +allow thee to give liveries to thy servants, give them respectable and +serviceable, rather than showy and gay ones, and divide them between +thy servants and the poor; that is to say, if thou canst clothe six +pages, clothe three and three poor men, and thus thou wilt have pages +for heaven and pages for earth; the vainglorious never think of this +new mode of giving liveries. + +“Eat not garlic nor onions, lest they find out thy boorish origin by +the smell; walk slowly and speak deliberately, but not in such a way as +to make it seem thou art listening to thyself, for all affectation is +bad. + +“Dine sparingly and sup more sparingly still; for the health of the +whole body is forged in the workshop of the stomach. + +“Be temperate in drinking, bearing in mind that wine in excess keeps +neither secrets nor promises. + +“Take care, Sancho, not to chew on both sides, and not to eruct in +anybody’s presence.” + +“Eruct!” said Sancho; “I don’t know what that means.” + +“To eruct, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “means to belch, and that is one +of the filthiest words in the Spanish language, though a very +expressive one; and therefore nice folk have had recourse to the Latin, +and instead of belch say eruct, and instead of belches say eructations; +and if some do not understand these terms it matters little, for custom +will bring them into use in the course of time, so that they will be +readily understood; this is the way a language is enriched; custom and +the public are all-powerful there.” + +“In truth, señor,” said Sancho, “one of the counsels and cautions I +mean to bear in mind shall be this, not to belch, for I’m constantly +doing it.” + +“Eruct, Sancho, not belch,” said Don Quixote. + +“Eruct, I shall say henceforth, and I swear not to forget it,” said +Sancho. + +“Likewise, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “thou must not mingle such a +quantity of proverbs in thy discourse as thou dost; for though proverbs +are short maxims, thou dost drag them in so often by the head and +shoulders that they savour more of nonsense than of maxims.” + +“God alone can cure that,” said Sancho; “for I have more proverbs in me +than a book, and when I speak they come so thick together into my mouth +that they fall to fighting among themselves to get out; that’s why my +tongue lets fly the first that come, though they may not be pat to the +purpose. But I’ll take care henceforward to use such as befit the +dignity of my office; for ‘in a house where there’s plenty, supper is +soon cooked,’ and ‘he who binds does not wrangle,’ and ‘the +bell-ringer’s in a safe berth,’ and ‘giving and keeping require +brains.’” + +“That’s it, Sancho!” said Don Quixote; “pack, tack, string proverbs +together; nobody is hindering thee! ‘My mother beats me, and I go on +with my tricks.’ I am bidding thee avoid proverbs, and here in a second +thou hast shot out a whole litany of them, which have as much to do +with what we are talking about as ‘over the hills of Úbeda.’ Mind, +Sancho, I do not say that a proverb aptly brought in is objectionable; +but to pile up and string together proverbs at random makes +conversation dull and vulgar. + +“When thou ridest on horseback, do not go lolling with thy body on the +back of the saddle, nor carry thy legs stiff or sticking out from the +horse’s belly, nor yet sit so loosely that one would suppose thou wert +on Dapple; for the seat on a horse makes gentlemen of some and grooms +of others. + +“Be moderate in thy sleep; for he who does not rise early does not get +the benefit of the day; and remember, Sancho, diligence is the mother +of good fortune, and indolence, its opposite, never yet attained the +object of an honest ambition. + +“The last counsel I will give thee now, though it does not tend to +bodily improvement, I would have thee carry carefully in thy memory, +for I believe it will be no less useful to thee than those I have given +thee already, and it is this—never engage in a dispute about families, +at least in the way of comparing them one with another; for necessarily +one of those compared will be better than the other, and thou wilt be +hated by the one thou hast disparaged, and get nothing in any shape +from the one thou hast exalted. + +“Thy attire shall be hose of full length, a long jerkin, and a cloak a +trifle longer; loose breeches by no means, for they are becoming +neither for gentlemen nor for governors. + +“For the present, Sancho, this is all that has occurred to me to advise +thee; as time goes by and occasions arise my instructions shall follow, +if thou take care to let me know how thou art circumstanced.” + +“Señor,” said Sancho, “I see well enough that all these things your +worship has said to me are good, holy, and profitable; but what use +will they be to me if I don’t remember one of them? To be sure that +about not letting my nails grow, and marrying again if I have the +chance, will not slip out of my head; but all that other hash, muddle, +and jumble—I don’t and can’t recollect any more of it than of last +year’s clouds; so it must be given me in writing; for though I can’t +either read or write, I’ll give it to my confessor, to drive it into me +and remind me of it whenever it is necessary.” + +“Ah, sinner that I am!” said Don Quixote, “how bad it looks in +governors not to know how to read or write; for let me tell thee, +Sancho, when a man knows not how to read, or is left-handed, it argues +one of two things; either that he was the son of exceedingly mean and +lowly parents, or that he himself was so incorrigible and +ill-conditioned that neither good company nor good teaching could make +any impression on him. It is a great defect that thou labourest under, +and therefore I would have thee learn at any rate to sign thy name.” + +“I can sign my name well enough,” said Sancho, “for when I was steward +of the brotherhood in my village I learned to make certain letters, +like the marks on bales of goods, which they told me made out my name. +Besides I can pretend my right hand is disabled and make someone else +sign for me, for ‘there’s a remedy for everything except death;’ and as +I shall be in command and hold the staff, I can do as I like; moreover, +‘he who has the alcalde for his father—,’ and I’ll be governor, and +that’s higher than alcalde. Only come and see! Let them make light of +me and abuse me; ‘they’ll come for wool and go back shorn;’ ‘whom God +loves, his house is known to Him;’ ‘the silly sayings of the rich pass +for saws in the world;’ and as I’ll be rich, being a governor, and at +the same time generous, as I mean to be, no fault will be seen in me. +‘Only make yourself honey and the flies will suck you;’ ‘as much as +thou hast so much art thou worth,’ as my grandmother used to say; and +‘thou canst have no revenge of a man of substance.’” + +“Oh, God’s curse upon thee, Sancho!” here exclaimed Don Quixote; “sixty +thousand devils fly away with thee and thy proverbs! For the last hour +thou hast been stringing them together and inflicting the pangs of +torture on me with every one of them. Those proverbs will bring thee to +the gallows one day, I promise thee; thy subjects will take the +government from thee, or there will be revolts among them. Tell me, +where dost thou pick them up, thou booby? How dost thou apply them, +thou blockhead? For with me, to utter one and make it apply properly, I +have to sweat and labour as if I were digging.” + +“By God, master mine,” said Sancho, “your worship is making a fuss +about very little. Why the devil should you be vexed if I make use of +what is my own? And I have got nothing else, nor any other stock in +trade except proverbs and more proverbs; and here are three just this +instant come into my head, pat to the purpose and like pears in a +basket; but I won’t repeat them, for ‘sage silence is called Sancho.’” + +“That, Sancho, thou art not,” said Don Quixote; “for not only art thou +not sage silence, but thou art pestilent prate and perversity; still I +would like to know what three proverbs have just now come into thy +memory, for I have been turning over mine own—and it is a good one—and +none occurs to me.” + +“What can be better,” said Sancho, “than ‘never put thy thumbs between +two back teeth;’ and ‘to “_get out of my house_” and “_what do you want +with my wife?_” there is no answer;’ and ‘whether the pitcher hits the +stone, or the stone the pitcher, it’s a bad business for the pitcher;’ +all which fit to a hair? For no one should quarrel with his governor, +or him in authority over him, because he will come off the worst, as he +does who puts his finger between two back and if they are not back +teeth it makes no difference, so long as they are teeth; and to +whatever the governor may say there’s no answer, any more than to ‘get +out of my house’ and ‘what do you want with my wife?’ and then, as for +that about the stone and the pitcher, a blind man could see that. So +that he ‘who sees the mote in another’s eye had need to see the beam in +his own,’ that it be not said of himself, ‘the dead woman was +frightened at the one with her throat cut;’ and your worship knows well +that ‘the fool knows more in his own house than the wise man in +another’s.’” + +“Nay, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “the fool knows nothing, either in his +own house or in anybody else’s, for no wise structure of any sort can +stand on a foundation of folly; but let us say no more about it, +Sancho, for if thou governest badly, thine will be the fault and mine +the shame; but I comfort myself with having done my duty in advising +thee as earnestly and as wisely as I could; and thus I am released from +my obligations and my promise. God guide thee, Sancho, and govern thee +in thy government, and deliver me from the misgiving I have that thou +wilt turn the whole island upside down, a thing I might easily prevent +by explaining to the duke what thou art and telling him that all that +fat little person of thine is nothing else but a sack full of proverbs +and sauciness.” + +“Señor,” said Sancho, “if your worship thinks I’m not fit for this +government, I give it up on the spot; for the mere black of the nail of +my soul is dearer to me than my whole body; and I can live just as +well, simple Sancho, on bread and onions, as governor, on partridges +and capons; and what’s more, while we’re asleep we’re all equal, great +and small, rich and poor. But if your worship looks into it, you will +see it was your worship alone that put me on to this business of +governing; for I know no more about the government of islands than a +buzzard; and if there’s any reason to think that because of my being a +governor the devil will get hold of me, I’d rather go Sancho to heaven +than governor to hell.” + +“By God, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for those last words thou hast +uttered alone, I consider thou deservest to be governor of a thousand +islands. Thou hast good natural instincts, without which no knowledge +is worth anything; commend thyself to God, and try not to swerve in the +pursuit of thy main object; I mean, always make it thy aim and fixed +purpose to do right in all matters that come before thee, for heaven +always helps good intentions; and now let us go to dinner, for I think +my lord and lady are waiting for us.” + + + +p43e.jpg (41K) + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. +HOW SANCHO PANZA WAS CONDUCTED TO HIS GOVERNMENT, AND OF THE STRANGE +ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE + + + + +p44a.jpg (140K) + +Full Size + + + +It is stated, they say, in the true original of this history, that when +Cide Hamete came to write this chapter, his interpreter did not +translate it as he wrote it—that is, as a kind of complaint the Moor +made against himself for having taken in hand a story so dry and of so +little variety as this of Don Quixote, for he found himself forced to +speak perpetually of him and Sancho, without venturing to indulge in +digressions and episodes more serious and more interesting. He said, +too, that to go on, mind, hand, pen always restricted to writing upon +one single subject, and speaking through the mouths of a few +characters, was intolerable drudgery, the result of which was never +equal to the author’s labour, and that to avoid this he had in the +First Part availed himself of the device of novels, like “The +Ill-advised Curiosity,” and “The Captive Captain,” which stand, as it +were, apart from the story; the others are given there being incidents +which occurred to Don Quixote himself and could not be omitted. He also +thought, he says, that many, engrossed by the interest attaching to the +exploits of Don Quixote, would take none in the novels, and pass them +over hastily or impatiently without noticing the elegance and art of +their composition, which would be very manifest were they published by +themselves and not as mere adjuncts to the crazes of Don Quixote or the +simplicities of Sancho. Therefore in this Second Part he thought it +best not to insert novels, either separate or interwoven, but only +episodes, something like them, arising out of the circumstances the +facts present; and even these sparingly, and with no more words than +suffice to make them plain; and as he confines and restricts himself to +the narrow limits of the narrative, though he has ability; capacity, +and brains enough to deal with the whole universe, he requests that his +labours may not be despised, and that credit be given him, not alone +for what he writes, but for what he has refrained from writing. + +And so he goes on with his story, saying that the day Don Quixote gave +the counsels to Sancho, the same afternoon after dinner he handed them +to him in writing so that he might get someone to read them to him. +They had scarcely, however, been given to him when he let them drop, +and they fell into the hands of the duke, who showed them to the +duchess and they were both amazed afresh at the madness and wit of Don +Quixote. To carry on the joke, then, the same evening they despatched +Sancho with a large following to the village that was to serve him for +an island. It happened that the person who had him in charge was a +majordomo of the duke’s, a man of great discretion and humour—and there +can be no humour without discretion—and the same who played the part of +the Countess Trifaldi in the comical way that has been already +described; and thus qualified, and instructed by his master and +mistress as to how to deal with Sancho, he carried out their scheme +admirably. Now it came to pass that as soon as Sancho saw this +majordomo he seemed in his features to recognise those of the Trifaldi, +and turning to his master, he said to him, “Señor, either the devil +will carry me off, here on this spot, righteous and believing, or your +worship will own to me that the face of this majordomo of the duke’s +here is the very face of the Distressed One.” + +Don Quixote regarded the majordomo attentively, and having done so, +said to Sancho, “There is no reason why the devil should carry thee +off, Sancho, either righteous or believing—and what thou meanest by +that I know not; the face of the Distressed One is that of the +majordomo, but for all that the majordomo is not the Distressed One; +for his being so would involve a mighty contradiction; but this is not +the time for going into questions of the sort, which would be involving +ourselves in an inextricable labyrinth. Believe me, my friend, we must +pray earnestly to our Lord that he deliver us both from wicked wizards +and enchanters.” + +“It is no joke, señor,” said Sancho, “for before this I heard him +speak, and it seemed exactly as if the voice of the Trifaldi was +sounding in my ears. Well, I’ll hold my peace; but I’ll take care to be +on the look-out henceforth for any sign that may be seen to confirm or +do away with this suspicion.” + +“Thou wilt do well, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and thou wilt let me +know all thou discoverest, and all that befalls thee in thy +government.” + +Sancho at last set out attended by a great number of people. He was +dressed in the garb of a lawyer, with a gaban of tawny watered camlet +over all and a montera cap of the same material, and mounted a la +gineta upon a mule. Behind him, in accordance with the duke’s orders, +followed Dapple with brand new ass-trappings and ornaments of silk, and +from time to time Sancho turned round to look at his ass, so well +pleased to have him with him that he would not have changed places with +the emperor of Germany. On taking leave he kissed the hands of the duke +and duchess and got his master’s blessing, which Don Quixote gave him +with tears, and he received blubbering. + + + +p44b.jpg (341K) + +Full Size + + + +Let worthy Sancho go in peace, and good luck to him, Gentle Reader; and +look out for two bushels of laughter, which the account of how he +behaved himself in office will give thee. In the meantime turn thy +attention to what happened his master the same night, and if thou dost +not laugh thereat, at any rate thou wilt stretch thy mouth with a grin; +for Don Quixote’s adventures must be honoured either with wonder or +with laughter. + +It is recorded, then, that as soon as Sancho had gone, Don Quixote felt +his loneliness, and had it been possible for him to revoke the mandate +and take away the government from him he would have done so. The +duchess observed his dejection and asked him why he was melancholy; +because, she said, if it was for the loss of Sancho, there were +squires, duennas, and damsels in her house who would wait upon him to +his full satisfaction. + +“The truth is, señora,” replied Don Quixote, “that I do feel the loss +of Sancho; but that is not the main cause of my looking sad; and of all +the offers your excellence makes me, I accept only the good-will with +which they are made, and as to the remainder I entreat of your +excellence to permit and allow me alone to wait upon myself in my +chamber.” + +“Indeed, Señor Don Quixote,” said the duchess, “that must not be; four +of my damsels, as beautiful as flowers, shall wait upon you.” + +“To me,” said Don Quixote, “they will not be flowers, but thorns to +pierce my heart. They, or anything like them, shall as soon enter my +chamber as fly. If your highness wishes to gratify me still further, +though I deserve it not, permit me to please myself, and wait upon +myself in my own room; for I place a barrier between my inclinations +and my virtue, and I do not wish to break this rule through the +generosity your highness is disposed to display towards me; and, in +short, I will sleep in my clothes, sooner than allow anyone to undress +me.” + +“Say no more, Señor Don Quixote, say no more,” said the duchess; “I +assure you I will give orders that not even a fly, not to say a damsel, +shall enter your room. I am not the one to undermine the propriety of +Señor Don Quixote, for it strikes me that among his many virtues the +one that is pre-eminent is that of modesty. Your worship may undress +and dress in private and in your own way, as you please and when you +please, for there will be no one to hinder you; and in your chamber you +will find all the utensils requisite to supply the wants of one who +sleeps with his door locked, to the end that no natural needs compel +you to open it. May the great Dulcinea del Toboso live a thousand +years, and may her fame extend all over the surface of the globe, for +she deserves to be loved by a knight so valiant and so virtuous; and +may kind heaven infuse zeal into the heart of our governor Sancho Panza +to finish off his discipline speedily, so that the world may once more +enjoy the beauty of so grand a lady.” + +To which Don Quixote replied, “Your highness has spoken like what you +are; from the mouth of a noble lady nothing bad can come; and Dulcinea +will be more fortunate, and better known to the world by the praise of +your highness than by all the eulogies the greatest orators on earth +could bestow upon her.” + +“Well, well, Señor Don Quixote,” said the duchess, it is nearly +supper-time, and the duke is probably waiting; come let us go to +supper, and retire to rest early, for the journey you made yesterday +from Kandy was not such a short one but that it must have caused you +some fatigue.” + +“I feel none, señora,” said Don Quixote, “for I would go so far as to +swear to your excellence that in all my life I never mounted a quieter +beast, or a pleasanter paced one, than Clavileño; and I don’t know what +could have induced Malambruno to discard a steed so swift and so +gentle, and burn it so recklessly as he did.” + +“Probably,” said the duchess, “repenting of the evil he had done to the +Trifaldi and company, and others, and the crimes he must have committed +as a wizard and enchanter, he resolved to make away with all the +instruments of his craft; and so burned Clavileño as the chief one, and +that which mainly kept him restless, wandering from land to land; and +by its ashes and the trophy of the placard the valour of the great Don +Quixote of La Mancha is established for ever.” + +Don Quixote renewed his thanks to the duchess; and having supped, +retired to his chamber alone, refusing to allow anyone to enter with +him to wait on him, such was his fear of encountering temptations that +might lead or drive him to forget his chaste fidelity to his lady +Dulcinea; for he had always present to his mind the virtue of Amadis, +that flower and mirror of knights-errant. He locked the door behind +him, and by the light of two wax candles undressed himself, but as he +was taking off his stockings—O disaster unworthy of such a +personage!—there came a burst, not of sighs, or anything belying his +delicacy or good breeding, but of some two dozen stitches in one of his +stockings, that made it look like a window-lattice. The worthy +gentleman was beyond measure distressed, and at that moment he would +have given an ounce of silver to have had half a drachm of green silk +there; I say green silk, because the stockings were green. + +Here Cide Hamete exclaimed as he was writing, “O poverty, poverty! I +know not what could have possessed the great Cordovan poet to call thee +‘holy gift ungratefully received.’ Although a Moor, I know well enough +from the intercourse I have had with Christians that holiness consists +in charity, humility, faith, obedience, and poverty; but for all that, +I say he must have a great deal of godliness who can find any +satisfaction in being poor; unless, indeed, it be the kind of poverty +one of their greatest saints refers to, saying, ‘possess all things as +though ye possessed them not;’ which is what they call poverty in +spirit. But thou, that other poverty—for it is of thee I am speaking +now—why dost thou love to fall out with gentlemen and men of good birth +more than with other people? Why dost thou compel them to smear the +cracks in their shoes, and to have the buttons of their coats, one +silk, another hair, and another glass? Why must their ruffs be always +crinkled like endive leaves, and not crimped with a crimping iron?” +(From this we may perceive the antiquity of starch and crimped ruffs.) +Then he goes on: “Poor gentleman of good family! always cockering up +his honour, dining miserably and in secret, and making a hypocrite of +the toothpick with which he sallies out into the street after eating +nothing to oblige him to use it! Poor fellow, I say, with his nervous +honour, fancying they perceive a league off the patch on his shoe, the +sweat-stains on his hat, the shabbiness of his cloak, and the hunger of +his stomach!” + +All this was brought home to Don Quixote by the bursting of his +stitches; however, he comforted himself on perceiving that Sancho had +left behind a pair of travelling boots, which he resolved to wear the +next day. At last he went to bed, out of spirits and heavy at heart, as +much because he missed Sancho as because of the irreparable disaster to +his stockings, the stitches of which he would have even taken up with +silk of another colour, which is one of the greatest signs of poverty a +gentleman can show in the course of his never-failing embarrassments. +He put out the candles; but the night was warm and he could not sleep; +he rose from his bed and opened slightly a grated window that looked +out on a beautiful garden, and as he did so he perceived and heard +people walking and talking in the garden. He set himself to listen +attentively, and those below raised their voices so that he could hear +these words: + +“Urge me not to sing, Emerencia, for thou knowest that ever since this +stranger entered the castle and my eyes beheld him, I cannot sing but +only weep; besides my lady is a light rather than a heavy sleeper, and +I would not for all the wealth of the world that she found us here; and +even if she were asleep and did not waken, my singing would be in vain, +if this strange Æneas, who has come into my neighbourhood to flout me, +sleeps on and wakens not to hear it.” + +“Heed not that, dear Altisidora,” replied a voice; “the duchess is no +doubt asleep, and everybody in the house save the lord of thy heart and +disturber of thy soul; for just now I perceived him open the grated +window of his chamber, so he must be awake; sing, my poor sufferer, in +a low sweet tone to the accompaniment of thy harp; and even if the +duchess hears us we can lay the blame on the heat of the night.” + +“That is not the point, Emerencia,” replied Altisidora, “it is that I +would not that my singing should lay bare my heart, and that I should +be thought a light and wanton maiden by those who know not the mighty +power of love; but come what may; better a blush on the cheeks than a +sore in the heart;” and here a harp softly touched made itself heard. +As he listened to all this Don Quixote was in a state of breathless +amazement, for immediately the countless adventures like this, with +windows, gratings, gardens, serenades, lovemakings, and languishings, +that he had read of in his trashy books of chivalry, came to his mind. +He at once concluded that some damsel of the duchess’s was in love with +him, and that her modesty forced her to keep her passion secret. He +trembled lest he should fall, and made an inward resolution not to +yield; and commending himself with all his might and soul to his lady +Dulcinea he made up his mind to listen to the music; and to let them +know he was there he gave a pretended sneeze, at which the damsels were +not a little delighted, for all they wanted was that Don Quixote should +hear them. So having tuned the harp, Altisidora, running her hand +across the strings, began this ballad: + +O thou that art above in bed, + Between the holland sheets, +A-lying there from night till morn, + With outstretched legs asleep; + +O thou, most valiant knight of all + The famed Manchegan breed, +Of purity and virtue more + Than gold of Araby; + +Give ear unto a suffering maid, + Well-grown but evil-starr’d, +For those two suns of thine have lit + A fire within her heart. + +Adventures seeking thou dost rove, + To others bringing woe; +Thou scatterest wounds, but, ah, the balm + To heal them dost withhold! + +Say, valiant youth, and so may God + Thy enterprises speed, +Didst thou the light mid Libya’s sands + Or Jaca’s rocks first see? + +Did scaly serpents give thee suck? + Who nursed thee when a babe? +Wert cradled in the forest rude, + Or gloomy mountain cave? + +O Dulcinea may be proud, + That plump and lusty maid; +For she alone hath had the power + A tiger fierce to tame. + +And she for this shall famous be + From Tagus to Jarama, +From Manzanares to Genil, + From Duero to Arlanza. + +Fain would I change with her, and give + A petticoat to boot, +The best and bravest that I have, + All trimmed with gold galloon. + +O for to be the happy fair + Thy mighty arms enfold, +Or even sit beside thy bed + And scratch thy dusty poll! + +I rave,—to favours such as these + Unworthy to aspire; +Thy feet to tickle were enough + For one so mean as I. + +What caps, what slippers silver-laced, + Would I on thee bestow! +What damask breeches make for thee; + What fine long holland cloaks! + +And I would give thee pearls that should + As big as oak-galls show; +So matchless big that each might well + Be called the great “Alone.” + +Manchegan Nero, look not down + From thy Tarpeian Rock +Upon this burning heart, nor add + The fuel of thy wrath. + +A virgin soft and young am I, + Not yet fifteen years old; +(I’m only three months past fourteen, + I swear upon my soul). + +I hobble not nor do I limp, + All blemish I’m without, +And as I walk my lily locks + Are trailing on the ground. + +And though my nose be rather flat, + And though my mouth be wide, +My teeth like topazes exalt + My beauty to the sky. + +Thou knowest that my voice is sweet, + That is if thou dost hear; +And I am moulded in a form + Somewhat below the mean. + +These charms, and many more, are thine, + Spoils to thy spear and bow all; +A damsel of this house am I, + By name Altisidora. + + + + +p44c.jpg (266K) + +Full Size + + + +Here the lay of the heart-stricken Altisidora came to an end, while the +warmly wooed Don Quixote began to feel alarm; and with a deep sigh he +said to himself, “O that I should be such an unlucky knight that no +damsel can set eyes on me but falls in love with me! O that the +peerless Dulcinea should be so unfortunate that they cannot let her +enjoy my incomparable constancy in peace! What would ye with her, ye +queens? Why do ye persecute her, ye empresses? Why ye pursue her, ye +virgins of from fourteen to fifteen? Leave the unhappy being to +triumph, rejoice and glory in the lot love has been pleased to bestow +upon her in surrendering my heart and yielding up my soul to her. Ye +love-smitten host, know that to Dulcinea only I am dough and +sugar-paste, flint to all others; for her I am honey, for you aloes. +For me Dulcinea alone is beautiful, wise, virtuous, graceful, and +high-bred, and all others are ill-favoured, foolish, light, and +low-born. Nature sent me into the world to be hers and no other’s; +Altisidora may weep or sing, the lady for whose sake they belaboured me +in the castle of the enchanted Moor may give way to despair, but I must +be Dulcinea’s, boiled or roast, pure, courteous, and chaste, in spite +of all the magic-working powers on earth.” And with that he shut the +window with a bang, and, as much out of temper and out of sorts as if +some great misfortune had befallen him, stretched himself on his bed, +where we will leave him for the present, as the great Sancho Panza, who +is about to set up his famous government, now demands our attention. + + + +p44e.jpg (145K) + +Full Size + + + +CHAPTER XLV. +OF HOW THE GREAT SANCHO PANZA TOOK POSSESSION OF HIS ISLAND, AND OF HOW +HE MADE A BEGINNING IN GOVERNING + + + + +p45a.jpg (141K) + +Full Size + + + +O perpetual discoverer of the antipodes, torch of the world, eye of +heaven, sweet stimulator of the water-coolers! Thimbraeus here, Phœbus +there, now archer, now physician, father of poetry, inventor of music; +thou that always risest and, notwithstanding appearances, never +settest! To thee, O Sun, by whose aid man begetteth man, to thee I +appeal to help me and lighten the darkness of my wit that I may be able +to proceed with scrupulous exactitude in giving an account of the great +Sancho Panza’s government; for without thee I feel myself weak, feeble, +and uncertain. + +To come to the point, then—Sancho with all his attendants arrived at a +village of some thousand inhabitants, and one of the largest the duke +possessed. They informed him that it was called the island of +Barataria, either because the name of the village was Baratario, or +because of the joke by way of which the government had been conferred +upon him. On reaching the gates of the town, which was a walled one, +the municipality came forth to meet him, the bells rang out a peal, and +the inhabitants showed every sign of general satisfaction; and with +great pomp they conducted him to the principal church to give thanks to +God, and then with burlesque ceremonies they presented him with the +keys of the town, and acknowledged him as perpetual governor of the +island of Barataria. The costume, the beard, and the fat squat figure +of the new governor astonished all those who were not in on the secret, +and even all who were, and they were not a few. Finally, leading him +out of the church they carried him to the judgment seat and seated him +on it, and the duke’s majordomo said to him, “It is an ancient custom +in this island, señor governor, that he who comes to take possession of +this famous island is bound to answer a question which shall be put to +him, and which must be a somewhat knotty and difficult one; and by his +answer the people take the measure of their new governor’s wit, and +hail with joy or deplore his arrival accordingly.” + +While the majordomo was making this speech Sancho was gazing at several +large letters inscribed on the wall opposite his seat, and as he could +not read he asked what that was that was painted on the wall. The +answer was, “Señor, there is written and recorded the day on which your +lordship took possession of this island, and the inscription says, +‘This day, the so-and-so of such-and-such a month and year, Señor Don +Sancho Panza took possession of this island; many years may he enjoy +it.’” + +“And whom do they call Don Sancho Panza?” asked Sancho. + +“Your lordship,” replied the majordomo; “for no other Panza but the one +who is now seated in that chair has ever entered this island.” + +“Well then, let me tell you, brother,” said Sancho, “I haven’t got the +‘Don,’ nor has anyone of my family ever had it; my name is plain Sancho +Panza, and Sancho was my father’s name, and Sancho was my grandfather’s +and they were all Panzas, without any Dons or Doñas tacked on; I +suspect that in this island there are more Dons than stones; but never +mind; God knows what I mean, and maybe if my government lasts four days +I’ll weed out these Dons that no doubt are as great a nuisance as the +midges, they’re so plenty. Let the majordomo go on with his question, +and I’ll give the best answer I can, whether the people deplore or +not.” + +At this instant there came into court two old men, one carrying a cane +by way of a walking-stick, and the one who had no stick said, “Señor, +some time ago I lent this good man ten gold-crowns in gold to gratify +him and do him a service, on the condition that he was to return them +to me whenever I should ask for them. A long time passed before I asked +for them, for I would not put him to any greater straits to return them +than he was in when I lent them to him; but thinking he was growing +careless about payment I asked for them once and several times; and not +only will he not give them back, but he denies that he owes them, and +says I never lent him any such crowns; or if I did, that he repaid +them; and I have no witnesses either of the loan, or the payment, for +he never paid me; I want your worship to put him to his oath, and if he +swears he returned them to me I forgive him the debt here and before +God.” + + + +p45b.jpg (400K) + +Full Size + + + +“What say you to this, good old man, you with the stick?” said Sancho. + +To which the old man replied, “I admit, señor, that he lent them to me; +but let your worship lower your staff, and as he leaves it to my oath, +I’ll swear that I gave them back, and paid him really and truly.” + +The governor lowered the staff, and as he did so the old man who had +the stick handed it to the other old man to hold for him while he +swore, as if he found it in his way; and then laid his hand on the +cross of the staff, saying that it was true the ten crowns that were +demanded of him had been lent him; but that he had with his own hand +given them back into the hand of the other, and that he, not +recollecting it, was always asking for them. + +Seeing this the great governor asked the creditor what answer he had to +make to what his opponent said. He said that no doubt his debtor had +told the truth, for he believed him to be an honest man and a good +Christian, and he himself must have forgotten when and how he had given +him back the crowns; and that from that time forth he would make no +further demand upon him. + +The debtor took his stick again, and bowing his head left the court. +Observing this, and how, without another word, he made off, and +observing too the resignation of the plaintiff, Sancho buried his head +in his bosom and remained for a short space in deep thought, with the +forefinger of his right hand on his brow and nose; then he raised his +head and bade them call back the old man with the stick, for he had +already taken his departure. They brought him back, and as soon as +Sancho saw him he said, “Honest man, give me that stick, for I want +it.” + +“Willingly,” said the old man; “here it is señor,” and he put it into +his hand. + +Sancho took it and, handing it to the other old man, said to him, “Go, +and God be with you; for now you are paid.” + +“I, señor!” returned the old man; “why, is this cane worth ten +gold-crowns?” + +“Yes,” said the governor, “or if not I am the greatest dolt in the +world; now you will see whether I have got the headpiece to govern a +whole kingdom;” and he ordered the cane to be broken in two, there, in +the presence of all. It was done, and in the middle of it they found +ten gold-crowns. All were filled with amazement, and looked upon their +governor as another Solomon. They asked him how he had come to the +conclusion that the ten crowns were in the cane; he replied, that +observing how the old man who swore gave the stick to his opponent +while he was taking the oath, and swore that he had really and truly +given him the crowns, and how as soon as he had done swearing he asked +for the stick again, it came into his head that the sum demanded must +be inside it; and from this he said it might be seen that God sometimes +guides those who govern in their judgments, even though they may be +fools; besides he had himself heard the curate of his village mention +just such another case, and he had so good a memory, that if it was not +that he forgot everything he wished to remember, there would not be +such a memory in all the island. To conclude, the old men went off, one +crestfallen, and the other in high contentment, all who were present +were astonished, and he who was recording the words, deeds, and +movements of Sancho could not make up his mind whether he was to look +upon him and set him down as a fool or as a man of sense. + +As soon as this case was disposed of, there came into court a woman +holding on with a tight grip to a man dressed like a well-to-do cattle +dealer, and she came forward making a great outcry and exclaiming, +“Justice, señor governor, justice! and if I don’t get it on earth I’ll +go look for it in heaven. Señor governor of my soul, this wicked man +caught me in the middle of the fields here and used my body as if it +was an ill-washed rag, and, woe is me! got from me what I had kept +these three-and-twenty years and more, defending it against Moors and +Christians, natives and strangers; and I always as hard as an oak, and +keeping myself as pure as a salamander in the fire, or wool among the +brambles, for this good fellow to come now with clean hands to handle +me!” + +“It remains to be proved whether this gallant has clean hands or not,” +said Sancho; and turning to the man he asked him what he had to say in +answer to the woman’s charge. + +He all in confusion made answer, “Sirs, I am a poor pig dealer, and +this morning I left the village to sell (saving your presence) four +pigs, and between dues and cribbings they got out of me little less +than the worth of them. As I was returning to my village I fell in on +the road with this good dame, and the devil who makes a coil and a mess +out of everything, yoked us together. I paid her fairly, but she not +contented laid hold of me and never let go until she brought me here; +she says I forced her, but she lies by the oath I swear or am ready to +swear; and this is the whole truth and every particle of it.” + +The governor on this asked him if he had any money in silver about him; +he said he had about twenty ducats in a leather purse in his bosom. The +governor bade him take it out and hand it to the complainant; he obeyed +trembling; the woman took it, and making a thousand salaams to all and +praying to God for the long life and health of the señor governor who +had such regard for distressed orphans and virgins, she hurried out of +court with the purse grasped in both her hands, first looking, however, +to see if the money it contained was silver. + +As soon as she was gone Sancho said to the cattle dealer, whose tears +were already starting and whose eyes and heart were following his +purse, “Good fellow, go after that woman and take the purse from her, +by force even, and come back with it here;” and he did not say it to +one who was a fool or deaf, for the man was off like a flash of +lightning, and ran to do as he was bid. + +All the bystanders waited anxiously to see the end of the case, and +presently both man and woman came back at even closer grips than +before, she with her petticoat up and the purse in the lap of it, and +he struggling hard to take it from her, but all to no purpose, so stout +was the woman’s defence, she all the while crying out, “Justice from +God and the world! see here, señor governor, the shamelessness and +boldness of this villain, who in the middle of the town, in the middle +of the street, wanted to take from me the purse your worship bade him +give me.” + +“And did he take it?” asked the governor. + +“Take it!” said the woman; “I’d let my life be taken from me sooner +than the purse. A pretty child I’d be! It’s another sort of cat they +must throw in my face, and not that poor scurvy knave. Pincers and +hammers, mallets and chisels would not get it out of my grip; no, nor +lions’ claws; the soul from out of my body first!” + +“She is right,” said the man; “I own myself beaten and powerless; I +confess I haven’t the strength to take it from her;” and he let go his +hold of her. + +Upon this the governor said to the woman, “Let me see that purse, my +worthy and sturdy friend.” She handed it to him at once, and the +governor returned it to the man, and said to the unforced mistress of +force, “Sister, if you had shown as much, or only half as much, spirit +and vigour in defending your body as you have shown in defending that +purse, the strength of Hercules could not have forced you. Be off, and +God speed you, and bad luck to you, and don’t show your face in all +this island, or within six leagues of it on any side, under pain of two +hundred lashes; be off at once, I say, you shameless, cheating shrew.” + +The woman was cowed and went off disconsolately, hanging her head; and +the governor said to the man, “Honest man, go home with your money, and +God speed you; and for the future, if you don’t want to lose it, see +that you don’t take it into your head to yoke with anybody.” The man +thanked him as clumsily as he could and went his way, and the +bystanders were again filled with admiration at their new governor’s +judgments and sentences. + +Next, two men, one apparently a farm labourer, and the other a tailor, +for he had a pair of shears in his hand, presented themselves before +him, and the tailor said, “Señor governor, this labourer and I come +before your worship by reason of this honest man coming to my shop +yesterday (for saving everybody’s presence I’m a passed tailor, God be +thanked), and putting a piece of cloth into my hands and asking me, +‘Señor, will there be enough in this cloth to make me a cap?’ Measuring +the cloth I said there would. He probably suspected—as I supposed, and +I supposed right—that I wanted to steal some of the cloth, led to think +so by his own roguery and the bad opinion people have of tailors; and +he told me to see if there would be enough for two. I guessed what he +would be at, and I said ‘yes.’ He, still following up his original +unworthy notion, went on adding cap after cap, and I ‘yes’ after ‘yes,’ +until we got as far as five. He has just this moment come for them; I +gave them to him, but he won’t pay me for the making; on the contrary, +he calls upon me to pay him, or else return his cloth.” + +“Is all this true, brother?” said Sancho. + +“Yes,” replied the man; “but will your worship make him show the five +caps he has made me?” + +“With all my heart,” said the tailor; and drawing his hand from under +his cloak he showed five caps stuck upon the five fingers of it, and +said, “there are the caps this good man asks for; and by God and upon +my conscience I haven’t a scrap of cloth left, and I’ll let the work be +examined by the inspectors of the trade.” + +All present laughed at the number of caps and the novelty of the suit; +Sancho set himself to think for a moment, and then said, “It seems to +me that in this case it is not necessary to deliver long-winded +arguments, but only to give off-hand the judgment of an honest man; and +so my decision is that the tailor lose the making and the labourer the +cloth, and that the caps go to the prisoners in the gaol, and let there +be no more about it.” + +If the previous decision about the cattle dealer’s purse excited the +admiration of the bystanders, this provoked their laughter; however, +the governor’s orders were after all executed. All this, having been +taken down by his chronicler, was at once despatched to the duke, who +was looking out for it with great eagerness; and here let us leave the +good Sancho; for his master, sorely troubled in mind by Altisidora’s +music, has pressing claims upon us now. + + + +p45e.jpg (11K) + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. +OF THE TERRIBLE BELL AND CAT FRIGHT THAT DON QUIXOTE GOT IN THE COURSE +OF THE ENAMOURED ALTISIDORA’S WOOING + + + + +p46a.jpg (58K) + +Full Size + + + +We left Don Quixote wrapped up in the reflections which the music of +the enamourned maid Altisidora had given rise to. He went to bed with +them, and just like fleas they would not let him sleep or get a +moment’s rest, and the broken stitches of his stockings helped them. +But as Time is fleet and no obstacle can stay his course, he came +riding on the hours, and morning very soon arrived. Seeing which Don +Quixote quitted the soft down, and, nowise slothful, dressed himself in +his chamois suit and put on his travelling boots to hide the disaster +to his stockings. He threw over him his scarlet mantle, put on his head +a montera of green velvet trimmed with silver edging, flung across his +shoulder the baldric with his good trenchant sword, took up a large +rosary that he always carried with him, and with great solemnity and +precision of gait proceeded to the antechamber where the duke and +duchess were already dressed and waiting for him. But as he passed +through a gallery, Altisidora and the other damsel, her friend, were +lying in wait for him, and the instant Altisidora saw him she pretended +to faint, while her friend caught her in her lap, and began hastily +unlacing the bosom of her dress. + +Don Quixote observed it, and approaching them said, “I know very well +what this seizure arises from.” + +“I know not from what,” replied the friend, “for Altisidora is the +healthiest damsel in all this house, and I have never heard her +complain all the time I have known her. A plague on all the +knights-errant in the world, if they be all ungrateful! Go away, Señor +Don Quixote; for this poor child will not come to herself again so long +as you are here.” + + + +p46b.jpg (320K) + +Full Size + + + +To which Don Quixote returned, “Do me the favour, señora, to let a lute +be placed in my chamber to-night; and I will comfort this poor maiden +to the best of my power; for in the early stages of love a prompt +disillusion is an approved remedy;” and with this he retired, so as not +to be remarked by any who might see him there. + +He had scarcely withdrawn when Altisidora, recovering from her swoon, +said to her companion, “The lute must be left, for no doubt Don Quixote +intends to give us some music; and being his it will not be bad.” + +They went at once to inform the duchess of what was going on, and of +the lute Don Quixote asked for, and she, delighted beyond measure, +plotted with the duke and her two damsels to play him a trick that +should be amusing but harmless; and in high glee they waited for night, +which came quickly as the day had come; and as for the day, the duke +and duchess spent it in charming conversation with Don Quixote. + +When eleven o’clock came, Don Quixote found a guitar in his chamber; he +tried it, opened the window, and perceived that some persons were +walking in the garden; and having passed his fingers over the frets of +the guitar and tuned it as well as he could, he spat and cleared his +chest, and then with a voice a little hoarse but full-toned, he sang +the following ballad, which he had himself that day composed: + +Mighty Love the hearts of maidens +Doth unsettle and perplex, +And the instrument he uses +Most of all is idleness. + +Sewing, stitching, any labour, +Having always work to do, +To the poison Love instilleth +Is the antidote most sure. + +And to proper-minded maidens +Who desire the matron’s name +Modesty’s a marriage portion, +Modesty their highest praise. + +Men of prudence and discretion, +Courtiers gay and gallant knights, +With the wanton damsels dally, +But the modest take to wife. +There are passions, transient, fleeting, +Loves in hostelries declar’d, +Sunrise loves, with sunset ended, +When the guest hath gone his way. + +Love that springs up swift and sudden, +Here to-day, to-morrow flown, +Passes, leaves no trace behind it, +Leaves no image on the soul. + +Painting that is laid on painting +Maketh no display or show; +Where one beauty’s in possession +There no other can take hold. + +Dulcinea del Toboso +Painted on my heart I wear; +Never from its tablets, never, +Can her image be eras’d. + +The quality of all in lovers +Most esteemed is constancy; +’Tis by this that love works wonders, +This exalts them to the skies. + + +Don Quixote had got so far with his song, to which the duke, the +duchess, Altisidora, and nearly the whole household of the castle were +listening, when all of a sudden from a gallery above that was exactly +over his window they let down a cord with more than a hundred bells +attached to it, and immediately after that discharged a great sack full +of cats, which also had bells of smaller size tied to their tails. Such +was the din of the bells and the squalling of the cats, that though the +duke and duchess were the contrivers of the joke they were startled by +it, while Don Quixote stood paralysed with fear; and as luck would have +it, two or three of the cats made their way in through the grating of +his chamber, and flying from one side to the other, made it seem as if +there was a legion of devils at large in it. They extinguished the +candles that were burning in the room, and rushed about seeking some +way of escape; the cord with the large bells never ceased rising and +falling; and most of the people of the castle, not knowing what was +really the matter, were at their wits’ end with astonishment. Don +Quixote sprang to his feet, and drawing his sword, began making passes +at the grating, shouting out, “Avaunt, malignant enchanters! avaunt, ye +witchcraft-working rabble! I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, against whom +your evil machinations avail not nor have any power.” And turning upon +the cats that were running about the room, he made several cuts at +them. They dashed at the grating and escaped by it, save one that, +finding itself hard pressed by the slashes of Don Quixote’s sword, flew +at his face and held on to his nose tooth and nail, with the pain of +which he began to shout his loudest. The duke and duchess hearing this, +and guessing what it was, ran with all haste to his room, and as the +poor gentleman was striving with all his might to detach the cat from +his face, they opened the door with a master-key and went in with +lights and witnessed the unequal combat. The duke ran forward to part +the combatants, but Don Quixote cried out aloud, “Let no one take him +from me; leave me hand to hand with this demon, this wizard, this +enchanter; I will teach him, I myself, who Don Quixote of La Mancha +is.” The cat, however, never minding these threats, snarled and held +on; but at last the duke pulled it off and flung it out of the window. +Don Quixote was left with a face as full of holes as a sieve and a nose +not in very good condition, and greatly vexed that they did not let him +finish the battle he had been so stoutly fighting with that villain of +an enchanter. They sent for some oil of John’s wort, and Altisidora +herself with her own fair hands bandaged all the wounded parts; and as +she did so she said to him in a low voice. “All these mishaps have +befallen thee, hardhearted knight, for the sin of thy insensibility and +obstinacy; and God grant thy squire Sancho may forget to whip himself, +so that that dearly beloved Dulcinea of thine may never be released +from her enchantment, that thou mayest never come to her bed, at least +while I who adore thee am alive.” + +To all this Don Quixote made no answer except to heave deep sighs, and +then stretched himself on his bed, thanking the duke and duchess for +their kindness, not because he stood in any fear of that bell-ringing +rabble of enchanters in cat shape, but because he recognised their good +intentions in coming to his rescue. The duke and duchess left him to +repose and withdrew greatly grieved at the unfortunate result of the +joke; as they never thought the adventure would have fallen so heavy on +Don Quixote or cost him so dear, for it cost him five days of +confinement to his bed, during which he had another adventure, +pleasanter than the late one, which his chronicler will not relate just +now in order that he may turn his attention to Sancho Panza, who was +proceeding with great diligence and drollery in his government. + + + +p46e.jpg (65K) + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. +WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ACCOUNT OF HOW SANCHO PANZA CONDUCTED HIMSELF +IN HIS GOVERNMENT + + + + +p47a.jpg (139K) + +Full Size + + + +The history says that from the justice court they carried Sancho to a +sumptuous palace, where in a spacious chamber there was a table laid +out with royal magnificence. The clarions sounded as Sancho entered the +room, and four pages came forward to present him with water for his +hands, which Sancho received with great dignity. The music ceased, and +Sancho seated himself at the head of the table, for there was only that +seat placed, and no more than one cover laid. A personage, who it +appeared afterwards was a physician, placed himself standing by his +side with a whalebone wand in his hand. They then lifted up a fine +white cloth covering fruit and a great variety of dishes of different +sorts; one who looked like a student said grace, and a page put a laced +bib on Sancho, while another who played the part of head carver placed +a dish of fruit before him. But hardly had he tasted a morsel when the +man with the wand touched the plate with it, and they took it away from +before him with the utmost celerity. The carver, however, brought him +another dish, and Sancho proceeded to try it; but before he could get +at it, not to say taste it, already the wand had touched it and a page +had carried it off with the same promptitude as the fruit. Sancho +seeing this was puzzled, and looking from one to another asked if this +dinner was to be eaten after the fashion of a jugglery trick. + +To this he with the wand replied, “It is not to be eaten, señor +governor, except as is usual and customary in other islands where there +are governors. I, señor, am a physician, and I am paid a salary in this +island to serve its governors as such, and I have a much greater regard +for their health than for my own, studying day and night and making +myself acquainted with the governor’s constitution, in order to be able +to cure him when he falls sick. The chief thing I have to do is to +attend at his dinners and suppers and allow him to eat what appears to +me to be fit for him, and keep from him what I think will do him harm +and be injurious to his stomach; and therefore I ordered that plate of +fruit to be removed as being too moist, and that other dish I ordered +to be removed as being too hot and containing many spices that +stimulate thirst; for he who drinks much kills and consumes the radical +moisture wherein life consists.” + +“Well then,” said Sancho, “that dish of roast partridges there that +seems so savoury will not do me any harm.” + +To this the physician replied, “Of those my lord the governor shall not +eat so long as I live.” + +“Why so?” said Sancho. + +“Because,” replied the doctor, “our master Hippocrates, the polestar +and beacon of medicine, says in one of his aphorisms _omnis saturatio +mala, perdicis autem pessima_, which means ‘all repletion is bad, but +that of partridge is the worst of all.” + +“In that case,” said Sancho, “let señor doctor see among the dishes +that are on the table what will do me most good and least harm, and let +me eat it, without tapping it with his stick; for by the life of the +governor, and so may God suffer me to enjoy it, but I’m dying of +hunger; and in spite of the doctor and all he may say, to deny me food +is the way to take my life instead of prolonging it.” + +“Your worship is right, señor governor,” said the physician; “and +therefore your worship, I consider, should not eat of those stewed +rabbits there, because it is a furry kind of food; if that veal were +not roasted and served with pickles, you might try it; but it is out of +the question.” + +“That big dish that is smoking farther off,” said Sancho, “seems to me +to be an olla podrida, and out of the diversity of things in such +ollas, I can’t fail to light upon something tasty and good for me.” + + + +p47b.jpg (372K) + +Full Size + + + +“_Absit_,” said the doctor; “far from us be any such base thought! +There is nothing in the world less nourishing than an olla podrida; to +canons, or rectors of colleges, or peasants’ weddings with your ollas +podridas, but let us have none of them on the tables of governors, +where everything that is present should be delicate and refined; and +the reason is, that always, everywhere and by everybody, simple +medicines are more esteemed than compound ones, for we cannot go wrong +in those that are simple, while in the compound we may, by merely +altering the quantity of the things composing them. But what I am of +opinion the governor should eat now in order to preserve and fortify +his health is a hundred or so of wafer cakes and a few thin slices of +conserve of quinces, which will settle his stomach and help his +digestion.” + +Sancho on hearing this threw himself back in his chair and surveyed the +doctor steadily, and in a solemn tone asked him what his name was and +where he had studied. + +He replied, “My name, señor governor, is Doctor Pedro Recio de Aguero I +am a native of a place called Tirteafuera which lies between Caracuel +and Almodóvar del Campo, on the right-hand side, and I have the degree +of doctor from the university of Osuna.” + +To which Sancho, glowing all over with rage, returned, “Then let Doctor +Pedro Recio de Malaguero, native of Tirteafuera, a place that’s on the +right-hand side as we go from Caracuel to Almodóvar del Campo, graduate +of Osuna, get out of my presence at once; or I swear by the sun I’ll +take a cudgel, and by dint of blows, beginning with him, I’ll not leave +a doctor in the whole island; at least of those I know to be ignorant; +for as to learned, wise, sensible physicians, them I will reverence and +honour as divine persons. Once more I say let Pedro Recio get out of +this or I’ll take this chair I am sitting on and break it over his +head. And if they call me to account for it, I’ll clear myself by +saying I served God in killing a bad doctor—a general executioner. And +now give me something to eat, or else take your government; for a trade +that does not feed its master is not worth two beans.” + +The doctor was dismayed when he saw the governor in such a passion, and +he would have made a Tirteafuera out of the room but that the same +instant a post-horn sounded in the street; and the carver putting his +head out of the window turned round and said, “It’s a courier from my +lord the duke, no doubt with some despatch of importance.” + +The courier came in all sweating and flurried, and taking a paper from +his bosom, placed it in the governor’s hands. Sancho handed it to the +majordomo and bade him read the superscription, which ran thus: + +_To Don Sancho Panza, Governor of the Island of Barataria, into his own +hands or those of his secretary._ + +Sancho when he heard this said, “Which of you is my secretary?” “I am, +señor,” said one of those present, “for I can read and write, and am a +Biscayan.” “With that addition,” said Sancho, “you might be secretary +to the emperor himself; open this paper and see what it says.” The +new-born secretary obeyed, and having read the contents said the matter +was one to be discussed in private. Sancho ordered the chamber to be +cleared, the majordomo and the carver only remaining; so the doctor and +the others withdrew, and then the secretary read the letter, which was +as follows: + +It has come to my knowledge, Señor Don Sancho Panza, that certain +enemies of mine and of the island are about to make a furious attack +upon it some night, I know not when. It behoves you to be on the alert +and keep watch, that they surprise you not. I also know by trustworthy +spies that four persons have entered the town in disguise in order to +take your life, because they stand in dread of your great capacity; +keep your eyes open and take heed who approaches you to address you, +and eat nothing that is presented to you. I will take care to send you +aid if you find yourself in difficulty, but in all things you will act +as may be expected of your judgment. From this place, the Sixteenth of +August, at four in the morning. + + +Your friend, +THE DUKE + + +Sancho was astonished, and those who stood by made believe to be so +too, and turning to the majordomo he said to him, “What we have got to +do first, and it must be done at once, is to put Doctor Recio in the +lock-up; for if anyone wants to kill me it is he, and by a slow death +and the worst of all, which is hunger.” + +“Likewise,” said the carver, “it is my opinion your worship should not +eat anything that is on this table, for the whole was a present from +some nuns; and as they say, ‘behind the cross there’s the devil.’” + +“I don’t deny it,” said Sancho; “so for the present give me a piece of +bread and four pounds or so of grapes; no poison can come in them; for +the fact is I can’t go on without eating; and if we are to be prepared +for these battles that are threatening us we must be well provisioned; +for it is the tripes that carry the heart and not the heart the tripes. +And you, secretary, answer my lord the duke and tell him that all his +commands shall be obeyed to the letter, as he directs; and say from me +to my lady the duchess that I kiss her hands, and that I beg of her not +to forget to send my letter and bundle to my wife Teresa Panza by a +messenger; and I will take it as a great favour and will not fail to +serve her in all that may lie within my power; and as you are about it +you may enclose a kiss of the hand to my master Don Quixote that he may +see I am grateful bread; and as a good secretary and a good Biscayan +you may add whatever you like and whatever will come in best; and now +take away this cloth and give me something to eat, and I’ll be ready to +meet all the spies and assassins and enchanters that may come against +me or my island.” + +At this instant a page entered saying, “Here is a farmer on business, +who wants to speak to your lordship on a matter of great importance, he +says.” + +“It’s very odd,” said Sancho, “the ways of these men on business; is it +possible they can be such fools as not to see that an hour like this is +no hour for coming on business? We who govern and we who are judges—are +we not men of flesh and blood, and are we not to be allowed the time +required for taking rest, unless they’d have us made of marble? By God +and on my conscience, if the government remains in my hands (which I +have a notion it won’t), I’ll bring more than one man on business to +order. However, tell this good man to come in; but take care first of +all that he is not some spy or one of my assassins.” + +“No, my lord,” said the page, “for he looks like a simple fellow, and +either I know very little or he is as good as good bread.” + +“There is nothing to be afraid of,” said the majordomo, “for we are all +here.” + +“Would it be possible, carver,” said Sancho, “now that Doctor Pedro +Recio is not here, to let me eat something solid and substantial, if it +were even a piece of bread and an onion?” + +“To-night at supper,” said the carver, “the shortcomings of the dinner +shall be made good, and your lordship shall be fully contented.” + +“God grant it,” said Sancho. + +The farmer now came in, a well-favoured man that one might see a +thousand leagues off was an honest fellow and a good soul. The first +thing he said was, “Which is the lord governor here?” + +“Which should it be,” said the secretary, “but he who is seated in the +chair?” + +“Then I humble myself before him,” said the farmer; and going on his +knees he asked for his hand, to kiss it. Sancho refused it, and bade +him stand up and say what he wanted. The farmer obeyed, and then said, +“I am a farmer, señor, a native of Miguelturra, a village two leagues +from Ciudad Real.” + +“Another Tirteafuera!” said Sancho; “say on, brother; I know +Miguelturra very well I can tell you, for it’s not very far from my own +town.” + +“The case is this, señor,” continued the farmer, “that by God’s mercy I +am married with the leave and licence of the holy Roman Catholic +Church; I have two sons, students, and the younger is studying to +become bachelor, and the elder to be licentiate; I am a widower, for my +wife died, or more properly speaking, a bad doctor killed her on my +hands, giving her a purge when she was with child; and if it had +pleased God that the child had been born, and was a boy, I would have +put him to study for doctor, that he might not envy his brothers the +bachelor and the licentiate.” + +“So that if your wife had not died, or had not been killed, you would +not now be a widower,” said Sancho. + +“No, señor, certainly not,” said the farmer. + +“We’ve got that much settled,” said Sancho; “get on, brother, for it’s +more bed-time than business-time.” + +“Well then,” said the farmer, “this son of mine who is going to be a +bachelor, fell in love in the said town with a damsel called Clara +Perlerina, daughter of Andres Perlerino, a very rich farmer; and this +name of Perlerines does not come to them by ancestry or descent, but +because all the family are paralytics, and for a better name they call +them Perlerines; though to tell the truth the damsel is as fair as an +Oriental pearl, and like a flower of the field, if you look at her on +the right side; on the left not so much, for on that side she wants an +eye that she lost by small-pox; and though her face is thickly and +deeply pitted, those who love her say they are not pits that are there, +but the graves where the hearts of her lovers are buried. She is so +cleanly that not to soil her face she carries her nose turned up, as +they say, so that one would fancy it was running away from her mouth; +and with all this she looks extremely well, for she has a wide mouth; +and but for wanting ten or a dozen teeth and grinders she might compare +and compete with the comeliest. Of her lips I say nothing, for they are +so fine and thin that, if lips might be reeled, one might make a skein +of them; but being of a different colour from ordinary lips they are +wonderful, for they are mottled, blue, green, and purple—let my lord +the governor pardon me for painting so minutely the charms of her who +some time or other will be my daughter; for I love her, and I don’t +find her amiss.” + +“Paint what you will,” said Sancho; “I enjoy your painting, and if I +had dined there could be no dessert more to my taste than your +portrait.” + +“That I have still to furnish,” said the farmer; “but a time will come +when we may be able if we are not now; and I can tell you, señor, if I +could paint her gracefulness and her tall figure, it would astonish +you; but that is impossible because she is bent double with her knees +up to her mouth; but for all that it is easy to see that if she could +stand up she’d knock her head against the ceiling; and she would have +given her hand to my bachelor ere this, only that she can’t stretch it +out, for it’s contracted; but still one can see its elegance and fine +make by its long furrowed nails.” + +“That will do, brother,” said Sancho; “consider you have painted her +from head to foot; what is it you want now? Come to the point without +all this beating about the bush, and all these scraps and additions.” + +“I want your worship, señor,” said the farmer, “to do me the favour of +giving me a letter of recommendation to the girl’s father, begging him +to be so good as to let this marriage take place, as we are not +ill-matched either in the gifts of fortune or of nature; for to tell +the truth, señor governor, my son is possessed of a devil, and there is +not a day but the evil spirits torment him three or four times; and +from having once fallen into the fire, he has his face puckered up like +a piece of parchment, and his eyes watery and always running; but he +has the disposition of an angel, and if it was not for belabouring and +pummelling himself he’d be a saint.” + +“Is there anything else you want, good man?” said Sancho. + +“There’s another thing I’d like,” said the farmer, “but I’m afraid to +mention it; however, out it must; for after all I can’t let it be +rotting in my breast, come what may. I mean, señor, that I’d like your +worship to give me three hundred or six hundred ducats as a help to my +bachelor’s portion, to help him in setting up house; for they must, in +short, live by themselves, without being subject to the interferences +of their fathers-in-law.” + +“Just see if there’s anything else you’d like,” said Sancho, “and don’t +hold back from mentioning it out of bashfulness or modesty.” + +“No, indeed there is not,” said the farmer. + +The moment he said this the governor started to his feet, and seizing +the chair he had been sitting on exclaimed, “By all that’s good, you +ill-bred, boorish Don Bumpkin, if you don’t get out of this at once and +hide yourself from my sight, I’ll lay your head open with this chair. +You whoreson rascal, you devil’s own painter, and is it at this hour +you come to ask me for six hundred ducats! How should I have them, you +stinking brute? And why should I give them to you if I had them, you +knave and blockhead? What have I to do with Miguelturra or the whole +family of the Perlerines? Get out I say, or by the life of my lord the +duke I’ll do as I said. You’re not from Miguelturra, but some knave +sent here from hell to tempt me. Why, you villain, I have not yet had +the government half a day, and you want me to have six hundred ducats +already!” + +The carver made signs to the farmer to leave the room, which he did +with his head down, and to all appearance in terror lest the governor +should carry his threats into effect, for the rogue knew very well how +to play his part. + +But let us leave Sancho in his wrath, and peace be with them all; and +let us return to Don Quixote, whom we left with his face bandaged and +doctored after the cat wounds, of which he was not cured for eight +days; and on one of these there befell him what Cide Hamete promises to +relate with that exactitude and truth with which he is wont to set +forth everything connected with this great history, however minute it +may be. + + + +p47e.jpg (12K) + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. +OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH DOÑA RODRIGUEZ, THE DUCHESS’S DUENNA, +TOGETHER WITH OTHER OCCURRENCES WORTHY OF RECORD AND ETERNAL +REMEMBRANCE + + + + +p48a.jpg (131K) + +Full Size + + + +Exceedingly moody and dejected was the sorely wounded Don Quixote, with +his face bandaged and marked, not by the hand of God, but by the claws +of a cat, mishaps incidental to knight-errantry. + + + +p48b.jpg (316K) + +Full Size + + + +Six days he remained without appearing in public, and one night as he +lay awake thinking of his misfortunes and of Altisidora’s pursuit of +him, he perceived that someone was opening the door of his room with a +key, and he at once made up his mind that the enamoured damsel was +coming to make an assault upon his chastity and put him in danger of +failing in the fidelity he owed to his lady Dulcinea del Toboso. “No,” +said he, firmly persuaded of the truth of his idea (and he said it loud +enough to be heard), “the greatest beauty upon earth shall not avail to +make me renounce my adoration of her whom I bear stamped and graved in +the core of my heart and the secret depths of my bowels; be thou, lady +mine, transformed into a clumsy country wench, or into a nymph of +golden Tagus weaving a web of silk and gold, let Merlin or Montesinos +hold thee captive where they will; where’er thou art, thou art mine, +and where’er I am, must be thine.” The very instant he had uttered +these words, the door opened. He stood up on the bed wrapped from head +to foot in a yellow satin coverlet, with a cap on his head, and his +face and his moustaches tied up, his face because of the scratches, and +his moustaches to keep them from drooping and falling down, in which +trim he looked the most extraordinary scarecrow that could be +conceived. He kept his eyes fixed on the door, and just as he was +expecting to see the love-smitten and unhappy Altisidora make her +appearance, he saw coming in a most venerable duenna, in a long +white-bordered veil that covered and enveloped her from head to foot. +Between the fingers of her left hand she held a short lighted candle, +while with her right she shaded it to keep the light from her eyes, +which were covered by spectacles of great size, and she advanced with +noiseless steps, treading very softly. + +Don Quixote kept an eye upon her from his watchtower, and observing her +costume and noting her silence, he concluded that it must be some witch +or sorceress that was coming in such a guise to work him some mischief, +and he began crossing himself at a great rate. The spectre still +advanced, and on reaching the middle of the room, looked up and saw the +energy with which Don Quixote was crossing himself; and if he was +scared by seeing such a figure as hers, she was terrified at the sight +of his; for the moment she saw his tall yellow form with the coverlet +and the bandages that disfigured him, she gave a loud scream, and +exclaiming, “Jesus! what’s this I see?” let fall the candle in her +fright, and then finding herself in the dark, turned about to make off, +but stumbling on her skirts in her consternation, she measured her +length with a mighty fall. + + + +p48c.jpg (249K) + +Full Size + + + +Don Quixote in his trepidation began saying, “I conjure thee, phantom, +or whatever thou art, tell me what thou art and what thou wouldst with +me. If thou art a soul in torment, say so, and all that my powers can +do I will do for thee; for I am a Catholic Christian and love to do +good to all the world, and to this end I have embraced the order of +knight-errantry to which I belong, the province of which extends to +doing good even to souls in purgatory.” + +The unfortunate duenna hearing herself thus conjured, by her own fear +guessed Don Quixote’s and in a low plaintive voice answered, “Señor Don +Quixote—if so be you are indeed Don Quixote—I am no phantom or spectre +or soul in purgatory, as you seem to think, but Doña Rodriguez, duenna +of honour to my lady the duchess, and I come to you with one of those +grievances your worship is wont to redress.” + +“Tell me, Señora Doña Rodriguez,” said Don Quixote, “do you perchance +come to transact any go-between business? Because I must tell you I am +not available for anybody’s purpose, thanks to the peerless beauty of +my lady Dulcinea del Toboso. In short, Señora Doña Rodriguez, if you +will leave out and put aside all love messages, you may go and light +your candle and come back, and we will discuss all the commands you +have for me and whatever you wish, saving only, as I said, all +seductive communications.” + +“I carry nobody’s messages, señor,” said the duenna; “little you know +me. Nay, I’m not far enough advanced in years to take to any such +childish tricks. God be praised I have a soul in my body still, and all +my teeth and grinders in my mouth, except one or two that the colds, so +common in this Aragon country, have robbed me of. But wait a little, +while I go and light my candle, and I will return immediately and lay +my sorrows before you as before one who relieves those of all the +world;” and without staying for an answer she quitted the room and left +Don Quixote tranquilly meditating while he waited for her. A thousand +thoughts at once suggested themselves to him on the subject of this new +adventure, and it struck him as being ill done and worse advised in him +to expose himself to the danger of breaking his plighted faith to his +lady; and said he to himself, “Who knows but that the devil, being wily +and cunning, may be trying now to entrap me with a duenna, having +failed with empresses, queens, duchesses, marchionesses, and +countesses? Many a time have I heard it said by many a man of sense +that he will sooner offer you a flat-nosed wench than a roman-nosed +one; and who knows but this privacy, this opportunity, this silence, +may awaken my sleeping desires, and lead me in these my latter years to +fall where I have never tripped? In cases of this sort it is better to +flee than to await the battle. But I must be out of my senses to think +and utter such nonsense; for it is impossible that a long, white-hooded +spectacled duenna could stir up or excite a wanton thought in the most +graceless bosom in the world. Is there a duenna on earth that has fair +flesh? Is there a duenna in the world that escapes being ill-tempered, +wrinkled, and prudish? Avaunt, then, ye duenna crew, undelightful to +all mankind. Oh, but that lady did well who, they say, had at the end +of her reception room a couple of figures of duennas with spectacles +and lace-cushions, as if at work, and those statues served quite as +well to give an air of propriety to the room as if they had been real +duennas.” + +So saying he leaped off the bed, intending to close the door and not +allow Señora Rodriguez to enter; but as he went to shut it Señora +Rodriguez returned with a wax candle lighted, and having a closer view +of Don Quixote, with the coverlet round him, and his bandages and +night-cap, she was alarmed afresh, and retreating a couple of paces, +exclaimed, “Am I safe, sir knight? for I don’t look upon it as a sign +of very great virtue that your worship should have got up out of bed.” + +“I may well ask the same, señora,” said Don Quixote; “and I do ask +whether I shall be safe from being assailed and forced?” + +“Of whom and against whom do you demand that security, sir knight?” +said the duenna. + +“Of you and against you I ask it,” said Don Quixote; “for I am not +marble, nor are you brass, nor is it now ten o’clock in the morning, +but midnight, or a trifle past it I fancy, and we are in a room more +secluded and retired than the cave could have been where the +treacherous and daring Æneas enjoyed the fair soft-hearted Dido. But +give me your hand, señora; I require no better protection than my own +continence, and my own sense of propriety; as well as that which is +inspired by that venerable head-dress;” and so saying he kissed her +right hand and took it in his own, she yielding it to him with equal +ceremoniousness. And here Cide Hamete inserts a parenthesis in which he +says that to have seen the pair marching from the door to the bed, +linked hand in hand in this way, he would have given the best of the +two tunics he had. + +Don Quixote finally got into bed, and Doña Rodriguez took her seat on a +chair at some little distance from his couch, without taking off her +spectacles or putting aside the candle. Don Quixote wrapped the +bedclothes round him and covered himself up completely, leaving nothing +but his face visible, and as soon as they had both regained their +composure he broke silence, saying, “Now, Señora Doña Rodriguez, you +may unbosom yourself and out with everything you have in your sorrowful +heart and afflicted bowels; and by me you shall be listened to with +chaste ears, and aided by compassionate exertions.” + +“I believe it,” replied the duenna; “from your worship’s gentle and +winning presence only such a Christian answer could be expected. The +fact is, then, Señor Don Quixote, that though you see me seated in this +chair, here in the middle of the kingdom of Aragon, and in the attire +of a despised outcast duenna, I am from the Asturias of Oviedo, and of +a family with which many of the best of the province are connected by +blood; but my untoward fate and the improvidence of my parents, who, I +know not how, were unseasonably reduced to poverty, brought me to the +court of Madrid, where as a provision and to avoid greater misfortunes, +my parents placed me as seamstress in the service of a lady of quality, +and I would have you know that for hemming and sewing I have never been +surpassed by any all my life. My parents left me in service and +returned to their own country, and a few years later went, no doubt, to +heaven, for they were excellent good Catholic Christians. I was left an +orphan with nothing but the miserable wages and trifling presents that +are given to servants of my sort in palaces; but about this time, +without any encouragement on my part, one of the esquires of the +household fell in love with me, a man somewhat advanced in years, +full-bearded and personable, and above all as good a gentleman as the +king himself, for he came of a mountain stock. We did not carry on our +loves with such secrecy but that they came to the knowledge of my lady, +and she, not to have any fuss about it, had us married with the full +sanction of the holy mother Roman Catholic Church, of which marriage a +daughter was born to put an end to my good fortune, if I had any; not +that I died in childbirth, for I passed through it safely and in due +season, but because shortly afterwards my husband died of a certain +shock he received, and had I time to tell you of it I know your worship +would be surprised;” and here she began to weep bitterly and said, +“Pardon me, Señor Don Quixote, if I am unable to control myself, for +every time I think of my unfortunate husband my eyes fill up with +tears. God bless me, with what an air of dignity he used to carry my +lady behind him on a stout mule as black as jet! for in those days they +did not use coaches or chairs, as they say they do now, and ladies rode +behind their squires. This much at least I cannot help telling you, +that you may observe the good breeding and punctiliousness of my worthy +husband. As he was turning into the Calle de Santiago in Madrid, which +is rather narrow, one of the alcaldes of the Court, with two alguacils +before him, was coming out of it, and as soon as my good squire saw him +he wheeled his mule about and made as if he would turn and accompany +him. My lady, who was riding behind him, said to him in a low voice, +‘What are you about, you sneak, don’t you see that I am here?’ The +alcalde like a polite man pulled up his horse and said to him, +‘Proceed, señor, for it is I, rather, who ought to accompany my lady +Doña Casilda’—for that was my mistress’s name. Still my husband, cap in +hand, persisted in trying to accompany the alcalde, and seeing this my +lady, filled with rage and vexation, pulled out a big pin, or, I rather +think, a bodkin, out of her needle-case and drove it into his back with +such force that my husband gave a loud yell, and writhing fell to the +ground with his lady. Her two lacqueys ran to rise her up, and the +alcalde and the alguacils did the same; the Guadalajara gate was all in +commotion—I mean the idlers congregated there; my mistress came back on +foot, and my husband hurried away to a barber’s shop protesting that he +was run right through the guts. The courtesy of my husband was noised +abroad to such an extent, that the boys gave him no peace in the +street; and on this account, and because he was somewhat shortsighted, +my lady dismissed him; and it was chagrin at this I am convinced beyond +a doubt that brought on his death. I was left a helpless widow, with a +daughter on my hands growing up in beauty like the sea-foam; at length, +however, as I had the character of being an excellent needlewoman, my +lady the duchess, then lately married to my lord the duke, offered to +take me with her to this kingdom of Aragon, and my daughter also, and +here as time went by my daughter grew up and with her all the graces in +the world; she sings like a lark, dances quick as thought, foots it +like a gipsy, reads and writes like a schoolmaster, and does sums like +a miser; of her neatness I say nothing, for the running water is not +purer, and her age is now, if my memory serves me, sixteen years five +months and three days, one more or less. To come to the point, the son +of a very rich farmer, living in a village of my lord the duke’s not +very far from here, fell in love with this girl of mine; and in short, +how I know not, they came together, and under the promise of marrying +her he made a fool of my daughter, and will not keep his word. And +though my lord the duke is aware of it (for I have complained to him, +not once but many and many a time, and entreated him to order the +farmer to marry my daughter), he turns a deaf ear and will scarcely +listen to me; the reason being that as the deceiver’s father is so +rich, and lends him money, and is constantly going security for his +debts, he does not like to offend or annoy him in any way. Now, señor, +I want your worship to take it upon yourself to redress this wrong +either by entreaty or by arms; for by what all the world says you came +into it to redress grievances and right wrongs and help the +unfortunate. Let your worship put before you the unprotected condition +of my daughter, her youth, and all the perfections I have said she +possesses; and before God and on my conscience, out of all the damsels +my lady has, there is not one that comes up to the sole of her shoe, +and the one they call Altisidora, and look upon as the boldest and +gayest of them, put in comparison with my daughter, does not come +within two leagues of her. For I would have you know, señor, all is not +gold that glitters, and that same little Altisidora has more +forwardness than good looks, and more impudence than modesty; besides +being not very sound, for she has such a disagreeable breath that one +cannot bear to be near her for a moment; and even my lady the +duchess—but I’ll hold my tongue, for they say that walls have ears.” + +“For heaven’s sake, Doña Rodriguez, what ails my lady the duchess?” +asked Don Quixote. + +“Adjured in that way,” replied the duenna, “I cannot help answering the +question and telling the whole truth. Señor Don Quixote, have you +observed the comeliness of my lady the duchess, that smooth complexion +of hers like a burnished polished sword, those two cheeks of milk and +carmine, that gay lively step with which she treads or rather seems to +spurn the earth, so that one would fancy she went radiating health +wherever she passed? Well then, let me tell you she may thank, first of +all God, for this, and next, two issues that she has, one in each leg, +by which all the evil humours, of which the doctors say she is full, +are discharged.” + +“Blessed Virgin!” exclaimed Don Quixote; “and is it possible that my +lady the duchess has drains of that sort? I would not have believed it +if the barefoot friars had told it me; but as the lady Doña Rodriguez +says so, it must be so. But surely such issues, and in such places, do +not discharge humours, but liquid amber. Verily, I do believe now that +this practice of opening issues is a very important matter for the +health.” + +Don Quixote had hardly said this, when the chamber door flew open with +a loud bang, and with the start the noise gave her Doña Rodriguez let +the candle fall from her hand, and the room was left as dark as a +wolf’s mouth, as the saying is. Suddenly the poor duenna felt two hands +seize her by the throat, so tightly that she could not croak, while +someone else, without uttering a word, very briskly hoisted up her +petticoats, and with what seemed to be a slipper began to lay on so +heartily that anyone would have felt pity for her; but although Don +Quixote felt it he never stirred from his bed, but lay quiet and +silent, nay apprehensive that his turn for a drubbing might be coming. +Nor was the apprehension an idle one; for leaving the duenna (who did +not dare to cry out) well basted, the silent executioners fell upon Don +Quixote, and stripping him of the sheet and the coverlet, they pinched +him so fast and so hard that he was driven to defend himself with his +fists, and all this in marvellous silence. The battle lasted nearly +half an hour, and then the phantoms fled; Doña Rodriguez gathered up +her skirts, and bemoaning her fate went out without saying a word to +Don Quixote, and he, sorely pinched, puzzled, and dejected, remained +alone, and there we will leave him, wondering who could have been the +perverse enchanter who had reduced him to such a state; but that shall +be told in due season, for Sancho claims our attention, and the +methodical arrangement of the story demands it. + + + +p48e.jpg (28K) + + + +CHAPTER XLIX. +OF WHAT HAPPENED SANCHO IN MAKING THE ROUND OF HIS ISLAND + + + + +p49a.jpg (170K) + +Full Size + + + +We left the great governor angered and irritated by that +portrait-painting rogue of a farmer who, instructed by the majordomo, +as the majordomo was by the duke, tried to practise upon him; he +however, fool, boor, and clown as he was, held his own against them +all, saying to those round him and to Doctor Pedro Recio, who as soon +as the private business of the duke’s letter was disposed of had +returned to the room, “Now I see plainly enough that judges and +governors ought to be and must be made of brass not to feel the +importunities of the applicants that at all times and all seasons +insist on being heard, and having their business despatched, and their +own affairs and no others attended to, come what may; and if the poor +judge does not hear them and settle the matter—either because he cannot +or because that is not the time set apart for hearing them—forthwith +they abuse him, and run him down, and gnaw at his bones, and even pick +holes in his pedigree. You silly, stupid applicant, don’t be in a +hurry; wait for the proper time and season for doing business; don’t +come at dinner-hour, or at bed-time; for judges are only flesh and +blood, and must give to Nature what she naturally demands of them; all +except myself, for in my case I give her nothing to eat, thanks to +Señor Doctor Pedro Recio Tirteafuera here, who would have me die of +hunger, and declares that death to be life; and the same sort of life +may God give him and all his kind—I mean the bad doctors; for the good +ones deserve palms and laurels.” + +All who knew Sancho Panza were astonished to hear him speak so +elegantly, and did not know what to attribute it to unless it were that +office and grave responsibility either smarten or stupefy men’s wits. +At last Doctor Pedro Recio Agilers of Tirteafuera promised to let him +have supper that night though it might be in contravention of all the +aphorisms of Hippocrates. With this the governor was satisfied and +looked forward to the approach of night and supper-time with great +anxiety; and though time, to his mind, stood still and made no +progress, nevertheless the hour he so longed for came, and they gave +him a beef salad with onions and some boiled calves’ feet rather far +gone. At this he fell to with greater relish than if they had given him +francolins from Milan, pheasants from Rome, veal from Sorrento, +partridges from Moron, or geese from Lavajos, and turning to the doctor +at supper he said to him, “Look here, señor doctor, for the future +don’t trouble yourself about giving me dainty things or choice dishes +to eat, for it will be only taking my stomach off its hinges; it is +accustomed to goat, cow, bacon, hung beef, turnips and onions; and if +by any chance it is given these palace dishes, it receives them +squeamishly, and sometimes with loathing. What the head-carver had best +do is to serve me with what they call ollas podridas (and the rottener +they are the better they smell); and he can put whatever he likes into +them, so long as it is good to eat, and I’ll be obliged to him, and +will requite him some day. But let nobody play pranks on me, for either +we are or we are not; let us live and eat in peace and good-fellowship, +for when God sends the dawn, he sends it for all. I mean to govern this +island without giving up a right or taking a bribe; let everyone keep +his eye open, and look out for the arrow; for I can tell them ‘the +devil’s in Cantillana,’ and if they drive me to it they’ll see +something that will astonish them. Nay! make yourself honey and the +flies eat you.” + +“Of a truth, señor governor,” said the carver, “your worship is in the +right of it in everything you have said; and I promise you in the name +of all the inhabitants of this island that they will serve your worship +with all zeal, affection, and good-will, for the mild kind of +government you have given a sample of to begin with, leaves them no +ground for doing or thinking anything to your worship’s disadvantage.” + +“That I believe,” said Sancho; “and they would be great fools if they +did or thought otherwise; once more I say, see to my feeding and my +Dapple’s for that is the great point and what is most to the purpose; +and when the hour comes let us go the rounds, for it is my intention to +purge this island of all manner of uncleanness and of all idle +good-for-nothing vagabonds; for I would have you know that lazy idlers +are the same thing in a State as the drones in a hive, that eat up the +honey the industrious bees make. I mean to protect the husbandman, to +preserve to the gentleman his privileges, to reward the virtuous, and +above all to respect religion and honour its ministers. What say you to +that, my friends? Is there anything in what I say, or am I talking to +no purpose?” + +“There is so much in what your worship says, señor governor,” said the +majordomo, “that I am filled with wonder when I see a man like your +worship, entirely without learning (for I believe you have none at +all), say such things, and so full of sound maxims and sage remarks, +very different from what was expected of your worship’s intelligence by +those who sent us or by us who came here. Every day we see something +new in this world; jokes become realities, and the jokers find the +tables turned upon them.” + +Night came, and with the permission of Doctor Pedro Recio, the governor +had supper. They then got ready to go the rounds, and he started with +the majordomo, the secretary, the head-carver, the chronicler charged +with recording his deeds, and alguacils and notaries enough to form a +fair-sized squadron. In the midst marched Sancho with his staff, as +fine a sight as one could wish to see, and but a few streets of the +town had been traversed when they heard a noise as of a clashing of +swords. They hastened to the spot, and found that the combatants were +but two, who seeing the authorities approaching stood still, and one of +them exclaimed, “Help, in the name of God and the king! Are men to be +allowed to rob in the middle of this town, and rush out and attack +people in the very streets?” + +“Be calm, my good man,” said Sancho, “and tell me what the cause of +this quarrel is; for I am the governor.” + +Said the other combatant, “Señor governor, I will tell you in a very +few words. Your worship must know that this gentleman has just now won +more than a thousand reals in that gambling house opposite, and God +knows how. I was there, and gave more than one doubtful point in his +favour, very much against what my conscience told me. He made off with +his winnings, and when I made sure he was going to give me a crown or +so at least by way of a present, as it is usual and customary to give +men of quality of my sort who stand by to see fair or foul play, and +back up swindles, and prevent quarrels, he pocketed his money and left +the house. Indignant at this I followed him, and speaking to him fairly +and civilly asked him to give me if it were only eight reals, for he +knows I am an honest man and that I have neither profession nor +property, for my parents never brought me up to any or left me any; but +the rogue, who is a greater thief than Cacus and a greater sharper than +Andradilla, would not give me more than four reals; so your worship may +see how little shame and conscience he has. But by my faith if you had +not come up I’d have made him disgorge his winnings, and he’d have +learned what the range of the steel-yard was.” + +“What say you to this?” asked Sancho. The other replied that all his +antagonist said was true, and that he did not choose to give him more +than four reals because he very often gave him money; and that those +who expected presents ought to be civil and take what is given them +with a cheerful countenance, and not make any claim against winners +unless they know them for certain to be sharpers and their winnings to +be unfairly won; and that there could be no better proof that he +himself was an honest man than his having refused to give anything; for +sharpers always pay tribute to lookers-on who know them. + +“That is true,” said the majordomo; “let your worship consider what is +to be done with these men.” + +“What is to be done,” said Sancho, “is this; you, the winner, be you +good, bad, or indifferent, give this assailant of yours a hundred reals +at once, and you must disburse thirty more for the poor prisoners; and +you who have neither profession nor property, and hang about the island +in idleness, take these hundred reals now, and some time of the day +to-morrow quit the island under sentence of banishment for ten years, +and under pain of completing it in another life if you violate the +sentence, for I’ll hang you on a gibbet, or at least the hangman will +by my orders; not a word from either of you, or I’ll make him feel my +hand.” + +The one paid down the money and the other took it, and the latter +quitted the island, while the other went home; and then the governor +said, “Either I am not good for much, or I’ll get rid of these gambling +houses, for it strikes me they are very mischievous.” + +“This one at least,” said one of the notaries, “your worship will not +be able to get rid of, for a great man owns it, and what he loses every +year is beyond all comparison more than what he makes by the cards. On +the minor gambling houses your worship may exercise your power, and it +is they that do most harm and shelter the most barefaced practices; for +in the houses of lords and gentlemen of quality the notorious sharpers +dare not attempt to play their tricks; and as the vice of gambling has +become common, it is better that men should play in houses of repute +than in some tradesman’s, where they catch an unlucky fellow in the +small hours of the morning and skin him alive.” + +“I know already, notary, that there is a good deal to be said on that +point,” said Sancho. + +And now a tipstaff came up with a young man in his grasp, and said, +“Señor governor, this youth was coming towards us, and as soon as he +saw the officers of justice he turned about and ran like a deer, a sure +proof that he must be some evil-doer; I ran after him, and had it not +been that he stumbled and fell, I should never have caught him.” + +“What did you run for, fellow?” said Sancho. + +To which the young man replied, “Señor, it was to avoid answering all +the questions officers of justice put.” + +“What are you by trade?” + +“A weaver.” + +“And what do you weave?” + +“Lance heads, with your worship’s good leave.” + +“You’re facetious with me! You plume yourself on being a wag? Very +good; and where were you going just now?” + +“To take the air, señor.” + +“And where does one take the air in this island?” + +“Where it blows.” + +“Good! your answers are very much to the point; you are a smart youth; +but take notice that I am the air, and that I blow upon you a-stern, +and send you to gaol. Ho there! lay hold of him and take him off; I’ll +make him sleep there to-night without air.” + +“By God,” said the young man, “your worship will make me sleep in gaol +just as soon as make me king.” + +“Why shan’t I make thee sleep in gaol?” said Sancho. “Have I not the +power to arrest thee and release thee whenever I like?” + +“All the power your worship has,” said the young man, “won’t be able to +make me sleep in gaol.” + +“How? not able!” said Sancho; “take him away at once where he’ll see +his mistake with his own eyes, even if the gaoler is willing to exert +his interested generosity on his behalf; for I’ll lay a penalty of two +thousand ducats on him if he allows him to stir a step from the +prison.” + +“That’s ridiculous,” said the young man; “the fact is, all the men on +earth will not make me sleep in prison.” + +“Tell me, you devil,” said Sancho, “have you got any angel that will +deliver you, and take off the irons I am going to order them to put +upon you?” + +“Now, señor governor,” said the young man in a sprightly manner, “let +us be reasonable and come to the point. Granted your worship may order +me to be taken to prison, and to have irons and chains put on me, and +to be shut up in a cell, and may lay heavy penalties on the gaoler if +he lets me out, and that he obeys your orders; still, if I don’t choose +to sleep, and choose to remain awake all night without closing an eye, +will your worship with all your power be able to make me sleep if I +don’t choose?” + +“No, truly,” said the secretary, “and the fellow has made his point.” + +“So then,” said Sancho, “it would be entirely of your own choice you +would keep from sleeping; not in opposition to my will?” + +“No, señor,” said the youth, “certainly not.” + +“Well then, go, and God be with you,” said Sancho; “be off home to +sleep, and God give you sound sleep, for I don’t want to rob you of it; +but for the future, let me advise you don’t joke with the authorities, +because you may come across someone who will bring down the joke on +your own skull.” + +The young man went his way, and the governor continued his round, and +shortly afterwards two tipstaffs came up with a man in custody, and +said, “Señor governor, this person, who seems to be a man, is not so, +but a woman, and not an ill-favoured one, in man’s clothes.” They +raised two or three lanterns to her face, and by their light they +distinguished the features of a woman to all appearance of the age of +sixteen or a little more, with her hair gathered into a gold and green +silk net, and fair as a thousand pearls. They scanned her from head to +foot, and observed that she had on red silk stockings with garters of +white taffety bordered with gold and pearl; her breeches were of green +and gold stuff, and under an open jacket or jerkin of the same she wore +a doublet of the finest white and gold cloth; her shoes were white and +such as men wear; she carried no sword at her belt, but only a richly +ornamented dagger, and on her fingers she had several handsome rings. +In short, the girl seemed fair to look at in the eyes of all, and none +of those who beheld her knew her, the people of the town said they +could not imagine who she was, and those who were in on the secret of +the jokes that were to be practised upon Sancho were the ones who were +most surprised, for this incident or discovery had not been arranged by +them; and they watched anxiously to see how the affair would end. + +Sancho was fascinated by the girl’s beauty, and he asked her who she +was, where she was going, and what had induced her to dress herself in +that garb. She with her eyes fixed on the ground answered in modest +confusion, “I cannot tell you, señor, before so many people what it is +of such consequence to me to have kept secret; one thing I wish to be +known, that I am no thief or evildoer, but only an unhappy maiden whom +the power of jealousy has led to break through the respect that is due +to modesty.” + +Hearing this the majordomo said to Sancho, “Make the people stand back, +señor governor, that this lady may say what she wishes with less +embarrassment.” + +Sancho gave the order, and all except the majordomo, the head-carver, +and the secretary fell back. Finding herself then in the presence of no +more, the damsel went on to say, “I am the daughter, sirs, of Pedro +Perez Mazorca, the wool-farmer of this town, who is in the habit of +coming very often to my father’s house.” + +“That won’t do, señora,” said the majordomo; “for I know Pedro Perez +very well, and I know he has no child at all, either son or daughter; +and besides, though you say he is your father, you add then that he +comes very often to your father’s house.” + +“I had already noticed that,” said Sancho. + +“I am confused just now, sirs,” said the damsel, “and I don’t know what +I am saying; but the truth is that I am the daughter of Diego de la +Llana, whom you must all know.” + +“Ay, that will do,” said the majordomo; “for I know Diego de la Llana, +and know that he is a gentleman of position and a rich man, and that he +has a son and a daughter, and that since he was left a widower nobody +in all this town can speak of having seen his daughter’s face; for he +keeps her so closely shut up that he does not give even the sun a +chance of seeing her; and for all that report says she is extremely +beautiful.” + +“It is true,” said the damsel, “and I am that daughter; whether report +lies or not as to my beauty, you, sirs, will have decided by this time, +as you have seen me;” and with this she began to weep bitterly. + +On seeing this the secretary leant over to the head-carver’s ear, and +said to him in a low voice, “Something serious has no doubt happened +this poor maiden, that she goes wandering from home in such a dress and +at such an hour, and one of her rank too.” “There can be no doubt about +it,” returned the carver, “and moreover her tears confirm your +suspicion.” Sancho gave her the best comfort he could, and entreated +her to tell them without any fear what had happened her, as they would +all earnestly and by every means in their power endeavour to relieve +her. + +“The fact is, sirs,” said she, “that my father has kept me shut up +these ten years, for so long is it since the earth received my mother. +Mass is said at home in a sumptuous chapel, and all this time I have +seen but the sun in the heaven by day, and the moon and the stars by +night; nor do I know what streets are like, or plazas, or churches, or +even men, except my father and a brother I have, and Pedro Perez the +wool-farmer; whom, because he came frequently to our house, I took it +into my head to call my father, to avoid naming my own. This seclusion +and the restrictions laid upon my going out, were it only to church, +have been keeping me unhappy for many a day and month past; I longed to +see the world, or at least the town where I was born, and it did not +seem to me that this wish was inconsistent with the respect maidens of +good quality should have for themselves. When I heard them talking of +bull-fights taking place, and of javelin games, and of acting plays, I +asked my brother, who is a year younger than myself, to tell me what +sort of things these were, and many more that I had never seen; he +explained them to me as well as he could, but the only effect was to +kindle in me a still stronger desire to see them. At last, to cut short +the story of my ruin, I begged and entreated my brother—O that I had +never made such an entreaty—” And once more she gave way to a burst of +weeping. + +“Proceed, señora,” said the majordomo, “and finish your story of what +has happened to you, for your words and tears are keeping us all in +suspense.” + +“I have but little more to say, though many a tear to shed,” said the +damsel; “for ill-placed desires can only be paid for in some such way.” + +The maiden’s beauty had made a deep impression on the head-carver’s +heart, and he again raised his lantern for another look at her, and +thought they were not tears she was shedding, but seed-pearl or dew of +the meadow, nay, he exalted them still higher, and made Oriental pearls +of them, and fervently hoped her misfortune might not be so great a one +as her tears and sobs seemed to indicate. The governor was losing +patience at the length of time the girl was taking to tell her story, +and told her not to keep them waiting any longer; for it was late, and +there still remained a good deal of the town to be gone over. + +She, with broken sobs and half-suppressed sighs, went on to say, “My +misfortune, my misadventure, is simply this, that I entreated my +brother to dress me up as a man in a suit of his clothes, and take me +some night, when our father was asleep, to see the whole town; he, +overcome by my entreaties, consented, and dressing me in this suit and +himself in clothes of mine that fitted him as if made for him (for he +has not a hair on his chin, and might pass for a very beautiful young +girl), to-night, about an hour ago, more or less, we left the house, +and guided by our youthful and foolish impulse we made the circuit of +the whole town, and then, as we were about to return home, we saw a +great troop of people coming, and my brother said to me, ‘Sister, this +must be the round, stir your feet and put wings to them, and follow me +as fast as you can, lest they recognise us, for that would be a bad +business for us;’ and so saying he turned about and began, I cannot say +to run but to fly; in less than six paces I fell from fright, and then +the officer of justice came up and carried me before your worships, +where I find myself put to shame before all these people as whimsical +and vicious.” + +“So then, señora,” said Sancho, “no other mishap has befallen you, nor +was it jealousy that made you leave home, as you said at the beginning +of your story?” + +“Nothing has happened me,” said she, “nor was it jealousy that brought +me out, but merely a longing to see the world, which did not go beyond +seeing the streets of this town.” + +The appearance of the tipstaffs with her brother in custody, whom one +of them had overtaken as he ran away from his sister, now fully +confirmed the truth of what the damsel said. He had nothing on but a +rich petticoat and a short blue damask cloak with fine gold lace, and +his head was uncovered and adorned only with its own hair, which looked +like rings of gold, so bright and curly was it. The governor, the +majordomo, and the carver went aside with him, and, unheard by his +sister, asked him how he came to be in that dress, and he with no less +shame and embarrassment told exactly the same story as his sister, to +the great delight of the enamoured carver; the governor, however, said +to them, “In truth, young lady and gentleman, this has been a very +childish affair, and to explain your folly and rashness there was no +necessity for all this delay and all these tears and sighs; for if you +had said we are so-and-so, and we escaped from our father’s house in +this way in order to ramble about, out of mere curiosity and with no +other object, there would have been an end of the matter, and none of +these little sobs and tears and all the rest of it.” + +“That is true,” said the damsel, “but you see the confusion I was in +was so great it did not let me behave as I ought.” + +“No harm has been done,” said Sancho; “come, we will leave you at your +father’s house; perhaps they will not have missed you; and another time +don’t be so childish or eager to see the world; for a respectable +damsel should have a broken leg and keep at home; and the woman and the +hen by gadding about are soon lost; and she who is eager to see is also +eager to be seen; I say no more.” + +The youth thanked the governor for his kind offer to take them home, +and they directed their steps towards the house, which was not far off. +On reaching it the youth threw a pebble up at a grating, and +immediately a woman-servant who was waiting for them came down and +opened the door to them, and they went in, leaving the party marvelling +as much at their grace and beauty as at the fancy they had for seeing +the world by night and without quitting the village; which, however, +they set down to their youth. + +The head-carver was left with a heart pierced through and through, and +he made up his mind on the spot to demand the damsel in marriage of her +father on the morrow, making sure she would not be refused him as he +was a servant of the duke’s; and even to Sancho ideas and schemes of +marrying the youth to his daughter Sanchica suggested themselves, and +he resolved to open the negotiation at the proper season, persuading +himself that no husband could be refused to a governor’s daughter. And +so the night’s round came to an end, and a couple of days later the +government, whereby all his plans were overthrown and swept away, as +will be seen farther on. + + + +p49e.jpg (55K) + + + +CHAPTER L. +WHEREIN IS SET FORTH WHO THE ENCHANTERS AND EXECUTIONERS WERE WHO +FLOGGED THE DUENNA AND PINCHED DON QUIXOTE, AND ALSO WHAT BEFELL THE +PAGE WHO CARRIED THE LETTER TO TERESA PANZA, SANCHO PANZA’S WIFE + + + + +p50a.jpg (104K) + +Full Size + + + +Cide Hamete, the painstaking investigator of the minute points of this +veracious history, says that when Doña Rodriguez left her own room to +go to Don Quixote’s, another duenna who slept with her observed her, +and as all duennas are fond of prying, listening, and sniffing, she +followed her so silently that the good Rodriguez never perceived it; +and as soon as the duenna saw her enter Don Quixote’s room, not to fail +in a duenna’s invariable practice of tattling, she hurried off that +instant to report to the duchess how Doña Rodriguez was closeted with +Don Quixote. The duchess told the duke, and asked him to let her and +Altisidora go and see what the said duenna wanted with Don Quixote. The +duke gave them leave, and the pair cautiously and quietly crept to the +door of the room and posted themselves so close to it that they could +hear all that was said inside. But when the duchess heard how the +Rodriguez had made public the Aranjuez of her issues she could not +restrain herself, nor Altisidora either; and so, filled with rage and +thirsting for vengeance, they burst into the room and tormented Don +Quixote and flogged the duenna in the manner already described; for +indignities offered to their charms and self-esteem mightily provoke +the anger of women and make them eager for revenge. The duchess told +the duke what had happened, and he was much amused by it; and she, in +pursuance of her design of making merry and diverting herself with Don +Quixote, despatched the page who had played the part of Dulcinea in the +negotiations for her disenchantment (which Sancho Panza in the cares of +government had forgotten all about) to Teresa Panza his wife with her +husband’s letter and another from herself, and also a great string of +fine coral beads as a present. + +Now the history says this page was very sharp and quick-witted; and +eager to serve his lord and lady he set off very willingly for Sancho’s +village. Before he entered it he observed a number of women washing in +a brook, and asked them if they could tell him whether there lived +there a woman of the name of Teresa Panza, wife of one Sancho Panza, +squire to a knight called Don Quixote of La Mancha. At the question a +young girl who was washing stood up and said, “Teresa Panza is my +mother, and that Sancho is my father, and that knight is our master.” + +“Well then, miss,” said the page, “come and show me where your mother +is, for I bring her a letter and a present from your father.” + +“That I will with all my heart, señor,” said the girl, who seemed to be +about fourteen, more or less; and leaving the clothes she was washing +to one of her companions, and without putting anything on her head or +feet, for she was bare-legged and had her hair hanging about her, away +she skipped in front of the page’s horse, saying, “Come, your worship, +our house is at the entrance of the town, and my mother is there, +sorrowful enough at not having had any news of my father this ever so +long.” + +“Well,” said the page, “I am bringing her such good news that she will +have reason to thank God.” + +And then, skipping, running, and capering, the girl reached the town, +but before going into the house she called out at the door, “Come out, +mother Teresa, come out, come out; here’s a gentleman with letters and +other things from my good father.” At these words her mother Teresa +Panza came out spinning a bundle of flax, in a grey petticoat (so short +was it one would have fancied “they to her shame had cut it short”), a +grey bodice of the same stuff, and a smock. She was not very old, +though plainly past forty, strong, healthy, vigorous, and sun-dried; +and seeing her daughter and the page on horseback, she exclaimed, +“What’s this, child? What gentleman is this?” + +“A servant of my lady, Doña Teresa Panza,” replied the page; and +suiting the action to the word he flung himself off his horse, and with +great humility advanced to kneel before the lady Teresa, saying, “Let +me kiss your hand, Señora Doña Teresa, as the lawful and only wife of +Señor Don Sancho Panza, rightful governor of the island of Barataria.” + +“Ah, señor, get up, do that,” said Teresa; “for I’m not a bit of a +court lady, but only a poor country woman, the daughter of a +clodcrusher, and the wife of a squire-errant and not of any governor at +all.” + +“You are,” said the page, “the most worthy wife of a most arch-worthy +governor; and as a proof of what I say accept this letter and this +present;” and at the same time he took out of his pocket a string of +coral beads with gold clasps, and placed it on her neck, and said, +“This letter is from his lordship the governor, and the other as well +as these coral beads from my lady the duchess, who sends me to your +worship.” + +Teresa stood lost in astonishment, and her daughter just as much, and +the girl said, “May I die but our master Don Quixote’s at the bottom of +this; he must have given father the government or county he so often +promised him.” + +“That is the truth,” said the page; “for it is through Señor Don +Quixote that Señor Sancho is now governor of the island of Barataria, +as will be seen by this letter.” + +“Will your worship read it to me, noble sir?” said Teresa; “for though +I can spin I can’t read, not a scrap.” + +“Nor I either,” said Sanchica; “but wait a bit, and I’ll go and fetch +someone who can read it, either the curate himself or the bachelor +Samson Carrasco, and they’ll come gladly to hear any news of my +father.” + +“There is no need to fetch anybody,” said the page; “for though I can’t +spin I can read, and I’ll read it;” and so he read it through, but as +it has been already given it is not inserted here; and then he took out +the other one from the duchess, which ran as follows: + +Friend Teresa,—Your husband Sancho’s good qualities, of heart as well +as of head, induced and compelled me to request my husband the duke to +give him the government of one of his many islands. I am told he +governs like a gerfalcon, of which I am very glad, and my lord the +duke, of course, also; and I am very thankful to heaven that I have not +made a mistake in choosing him for that same government; for I would +have Señora Teresa know that a good governor is hard to find in this +world and may God make me as good as Sancho’s way of governing. +Herewith I send you, my dear, a string of coral beads with gold clasps; +I wish they were Oriental pearls; but “he who gives thee a bone does +not wish to see thee dead;” a time will come when we shall become +acquainted and meet one another, but God knows the future. Commend me +to your daughter Sanchica, and tell her from me to hold herself in +readiness, for I mean to make a high match for her when she least +expects it. They tell me there are big acorns in your village; send me +a couple of dozen or so, and I shall value them greatly as coming from +your hand; and write to me at length to assure me of your health and +well-being; and if there be anything you stand in need of, it is but to +open your mouth, and that shall be the measure; and so God keep you. + + +From this place. +Your loving friend, +THE DUCHESS. + + +“Ah, what a good, plain, lowly lady!” said Teresa when she heard the +letter; “that I may be buried with ladies of that sort, and not the +gentlewomen we have in this town, that fancy because they are +gentlewomen the wind must not touch them, and go to church with as much +airs as if they were queens, no less, and seem to think they are +disgraced if they look at a farmer’s wife! And see here how this good +lady, for all she’s a duchess, calls me ‘friend,’ and treats me as if I +was her equal—and equal may I see her with the tallest church-tower in +La Mancha! And as for the acorns, señor, I’ll send her ladyship a peck +and such big ones that one might come to see them as a show and a +wonder. And now, Sanchica, see that the gentleman is comfortable; put +up his horse, and get some eggs out of the stable, and cut plenty of +bacon, and let’s give him his dinner like a prince; for the good news +he has brought, and his own bonny face deserve it all; and meanwhile +I’ll run out and give the neighbours the news of our good luck, and +father curate, and Master Nicholas the barber, who are and always have +been such friends of thy father’s.” + +“That I will, mother,” said Sanchica; “but mind, you must give me half +of that string; for I don’t think my lady the duchess could have been +so stupid as to send it all to you.” + +“It is all for thee, my child,” said Teresa; “but let me wear it round +my neck for a few days; for verily it seems to make my heart glad.” + +“You will be glad too,” said the page, “when you see the bundle there +is in this portmanteau, for it is a suit of the finest cloth, that the +governor only wore one day out hunting and now sends, all for Señora +Sanchica.” + +“May he live a thousand years,” said Sanchica, “and the bearer as many, +nay two thousand, if needful.” + +With this Teresa hurried out of the house with the letters, and with +the string of beads round her neck, and went along thrumming the +letters as if they were a tambourine, and by chance coming across the +curate and Samson Carrasco she began capering and saying, “None of us +poor now, faith! We’ve got a little government! Ay, let the finest fine +lady tackle me, and I’ll give her a setting down!” + +“What’s all this, Teresa Panza,” said they; “what madness is this, and +what papers are those?” + +“The madness is only this,” said she, “that these are the letters of +duchesses and governors, and these I have on my neck are fine coral +beads, with ave-marias and paternosters of beaten gold, and I am a +governess.” + +“God help us,” said the curate, “we don’t understand you, Teresa, or +know what you are talking about.” + +“There, you may see it yourselves,” said Teresa, and she handed them +the letters. + +The curate read them out for Samson Carrasco to hear, and Samson and he +regarded one another with looks of astonishment at what they had read, +and the bachelor asked who had brought the letters. Teresa in reply +bade them come with her to her house and they would see the messenger, +a most elegant youth, who had brought another present which was worth +as much more. The curate took the coral beads from her neck and +examined them again and again, and having satisfied himself as to their +fineness he fell to wondering afresh, and said, “By the gown I wear I +don’t know what to say or think of these letters and presents; on the +one hand I can see and feel the fineness of these coral beads, and on +the other I read how a duchess sends to beg for a couple of dozen of +acorns.” + +“Square that if you can,” said Carrasco; “well, let’s go and see the +messenger, and from him we’ll learn something about this mystery that +has turned up.” + +They did so, and Teresa returned with them. They found the page sifting +a little barley for his horse, and Sanchica cutting a rasher of bacon +to be paved with eggs for his dinner. His looks and his handsome +apparel pleased them both greatly; and after they had saluted him +courteously, and he them, Samson begged him to give them his news, as +well of Don Quixote as of Sancho Panza, for, he said, though they had +read the letters from Sancho and her ladyship the duchess, they were +still puzzled and could not make out what was meant by Sancho’s +government, and above all of an island, when all or most of those in +the Mediterranean belonged to his Majesty. + +To this the page replied, “As to Señor Sancho Panza’s being a governor +there is no doubt whatever; but whether it is an island or not that he +governs, with that I have nothing to do; suffice it that it is a town +of more than a thousand inhabitants; with regard to the acorns I may +tell you my lady the duchess is so unpretending and unassuming that, +not to speak of sending to beg for acorns from a peasant woman, she has +been known to send to ask for the loan of a comb from one of her +neighbours; for I would have your worships know that the ladies of +Aragon, though they are just as illustrious, are not so punctilious and +haughty as the Castilian ladies; they treat people with greater +familiarity.” + +In the middle of this conversation Sanchica came in with her skirt full +of eggs, and said she to the page, “Tell me, señor, does my father wear +trunk-hose since he has been governor?” + +“I have not noticed,” said the page; “but no doubt he wears them.” + +“Ah! my God!” said Sanchica, “what a sight it must be to see my father +in tights! Isn’t it odd that ever since I was born I have had a longing +to see my father in trunk-hose?” + +“As things go you will see that if you live,” said the page; “by God he +is in the way to take the road with a sunshade if the government only +lasts him two months more.” + +The curate and the bachelor could see plainly enough that the page +spoke in a waggish vein; but the fineness of the coral beads, and the +hunting suit that Sancho sent (for Teresa had already shown it to them) +did away with the impression; and they could not help laughing at +Sanchica’s wish, and still more when Teresa said, “Señor curate, look +about if there’s anybody here going to Madrid or Toledo, to buy me a +hooped petticoat, a proper fashionable one of the best quality; for +indeed and indeed I must do honour to my husband’s government as well +as I can; nay, if I am put to it and have to, I’ll go to Court and set +a coach like all the world; for she who has a governor for her husband +may very well have one and keep one.” + +“And why not, mother!” said Sanchica; “would to God it were to-day +instead of to-morrow, even though they were to say when they saw me +seated in the coach with my mother, ‘See that rubbish, that +garlic-stuffed fellow’s daughter, how she goes stretched at her ease in +a coach as if she was a she-pope!’ But let them tramp through the mud, +and let me go in my coach with my feet off the ground. Bad luck to +backbiters all over the world; ‘let me go warm and the people may +laugh.’ Do I say right, mother?” + +“To be sure you do, my child,” said Teresa; “and all this good luck, +and even more, my good Sancho foretold me; and thou wilt see, my +daughter, he won’t stop till he has made me a countess; for to make a +beginning is everything in luck; and as I have heard thy good father +say many a time (for besides being thy father he’s the father of +proverbs too), ‘When they offer thee a heifer, run with a halter; when +they offer thee a government, take it; when they would give thee a +county, seize it; when they say, “Here, here!” to thee with something +good, swallow it.’ Oh no! go to sleep, and don’t answer the strokes of +good fortune and the lucky chances that are knocking at the door of +your house!” + +“And what do I care,” added Sanchica, “whether anybody says when he +sees me holding my head up, ‘The dog saw himself in hempen breeches,’ +and the rest of it?” + +Hearing this the curate said, “I do believe that all this family of the +Panzas are born with a sackful of proverbs in their insides, every one +of them; I never saw one of them that does not pour them out at all +times and on all occasions.” + +“That is true,” said the page, “for Señor Governor Sancho utters them +at every turn; and though a great many of them are not to the purpose, +still they amuse one, and my lady the duchess and the duke praise them +highly.” + +“Then you still maintain that all this about Sancho’s government is +true, señor,” said the bachelor, “and that there actually is a duchess +who sends him presents and writes to him? Because we, although we have +handled the present and read the letters, don’t believe it and suspect +it to be something in the line of our fellow-townsman Don Quixote, who +fancies that everything is done by enchantment; and for this reason I +am almost ready to say that I’d like to touch and feel your worship to +see whether you are a mere ambassador of the imagination or a man of +flesh and blood.” + +“All I know, sirs,” replied the page, “is that I am a real ambassador, +and that Señor Sancho Panza is governor as a matter of fact, and that +my lord and lady the duke and duchess can give, and have given him this +same government, and that I have heard it said Sancho Panza bears +himself very stoutly therein; whether there be any enchantment in all +this or not, it is for your worships to settle between you; for that’s +all I know by the oath I swear, and that is by the life of my parents +whom I have still alive, and love dearly.” + +“It may be so,” said the bachelor; “but _dubitat Augustinus_.” + +“Doubt who will,” said the page; “what I have told you is the truth, +and that will always rise above falsehood as oil above water; if not +_operibus credite, et non verbis_. Let one of you come with me, and he +will see with his eyes what he does not believe with his ears.” + +“It’s for me to make that trip,” said Sanchica; “take me with you, +señor, behind you on your horse; for I’ll go with all my heart to see +my father.” + +“Governors’ daughters,” said the page, “must not travel along the roads +alone, but accompanied by coaches and litters and a great number of +attendants.” + +“By God,” said Sanchica, “I can go just as well mounted on a she-ass as +in a coach; what a dainty lass you must take me for!” + +“Hush, girl,” said Teresa; “you don’t know what you’re talking about; +the gentleman is quite right, for ‘as the time so the behaviour;’ when +it was Sancho it was ‘Sancha;’ when it is governor it’s ‘señora;’ I +don’t know if I’m right.” + +“Señora Teresa says more than she is aware of,” said the page; “and now +give me something to eat and let me go at once, for I mean to return +this evening.” + +“Come and do penance with me,” said the curate at this; “for Señora +Teresa has more will than means to serve so worthy a guest.” + +The page refused, but had to consent at last for his own sake; and the +curate took him home with him very gladly, in order to have an +opportunity of questioning him at leisure about Don Quixote and his +doings. The bachelor offered to write the letters in reply for Teresa; +but she did not care to let him mix himself up in her affairs, for she +thought him somewhat given to joking; and so she gave a cake and a +couple of eggs to a young acolyte who was a penman, and he wrote for +her two letters, one for her husband and the other for the duchess, +dictated out of her own head, which are not the worst inserted in this +great history, as will be seen farther on. + + + +p50e.jpg (19K) + + + +CHAPTER LI. +OF THE PROGRESS OF SANCHO’S GOVERNMENT, AND OTHER SUCH ENTERTAINING +MATTERS + + + + +p51a.jpg (188K) + +Full Size + + + +Day came after the night of the governor’s round; a night which the +head-carver passed without sleeping, so were his thoughts of the face +and air and beauty of the disguised damsel, while the majordomo spent +what was left of it in writing an account to his lord and lady of all +Sancho said and did, being as much amazed at his sayings as at his +doings, for there was a mixture of shrewdness and simplicity in all his +words and deeds. The señor governor got up, and by Doctor Pedro Recio’s +directions they made him break his fast on a little conserve and four +sups of cold water, which Sancho would have readily exchanged for a +piece of bread and a bunch of grapes; but seeing there was no help for +it, he submitted with no little sorrow of heart and discomfort of +stomach; Pedro Recio having persuaded him that light and delicate diet +enlivened the wits, and that was what was most essential for persons +placed in command and in responsible situations, where they have to +employ not only the bodily powers but those of the mind also. + +By means of this sophistry Sancho was made to endure hunger, and hunger +so keen that in his heart he cursed the government, and even him who +had given it to him; however, with his hunger and his conserve he +undertook to deliver judgments that day, and the first thing that came +before him was a question that was submitted to him by a stranger, in +the presence of the majordomo and the other attendants, and it was in +these words: “Señor, a large river separated two districts of one and +the same lordship—will your worship please to pay attention, for the +case is an important and a rather knotty one? Well then, on this river +there was a bridge, and at one end of it a gallows, and a sort of +tribunal, where four judges commonly sat to administer the law which +the lord of river, bridge and the lordship had enacted, and which was +to this effect, ‘If anyone crosses by this bridge from one side to the +other he shall declare on oath where he is going to and with what +object; and if he swears truly, he shall be allowed to pass, but if +falsely, he shall be put to death for it by hanging on the gallows +erected there, without any remission.’ Though the law and its severe +penalty were known, many persons crossed, but in their declarations it +was easy to see at once they were telling the truth, and the judges let +them pass free. It happened, however, that one man, when they came to +take his declaration, swore and said that by the oath he took he was +going to die upon that gallows that stood there, and nothing else. The +judges held a consultation over the oath, and they said, ‘If we let +this man pass free he has sworn falsely, and by the law he ought to +die; but if we hang him, as he swore he was going to die on that +gallows, and therefore swore the truth, by the same law he ought to go +free.’ It is asked of your worship, señor governor, what are the judges +to do with this man? For they are still in doubt and perplexity; and +having heard of your worship’s acute and exalted intellect, they have +sent me to entreat your worship on their behalf to give your opinion on +this very intricate and puzzling case.” + +To this Sancho made answer, “Indeed those gentlemen the judges that +send you to me might have spared themselves the trouble, for I have +more of the obtuse than the acute in me; but repeat the case over +again, so that I may understand it, and then perhaps I may be able to +hit the point.” + +The querist repeated again and again what he had said before, and then +Sancho said, “It seems to me I can set the matter right in a moment, +and in this way; the man swears that he is going to die upon the +gallows; but if he dies upon it, he has sworn the truth, and by the law +enacted deserves to go free and pass over the bridge; but if they don’t +hang him, then he has sworn falsely, and by the same law deserves to be +hanged.” + +“It is as the señor governor says,” said the messenger; “and as regards +a complete comprehension of the case, there is nothing left to desire +or hesitate about.” + +“Well then I say,” said Sancho, “that of this man they should let pass +the part that has sworn truly, and hang the part that has lied; and in +this way the conditions of the passage will be fully complied with.” + +“But then, señor governor,” replied the querist, “the man will have to +be divided into two parts; and if he is divided of course he will die; +and so none of the requirements of the law will be carried out, and it +is absolutely necessary to comply with it.” + +“Look here, my good sir,” said Sancho; “either I’m a numskull or else +there is the same reason for this passenger dying as for his living and +passing over the bridge; for if the truth saves him the falsehood +equally condemns him; and that being the case it is my opinion you +should say to the gentlemen who sent you to me that as the arguments +for condemning him and for absolving him are exactly balanced, they +should let him pass freely, as it is always more praiseworthy to do +good than to do evil; this I would give signed with my name if I knew +how to sign; and what I have said in this case is not out of my own +head, but one of the many precepts my master Don Quixote gave me the +night before I left to become governor of this island, that came into +my mind, and it was this, that when there was any doubt about the +justice of a case I should lean to mercy; and it is God’s will that I +should recollect it now, for it fits this case as if it was made for +it.” + +“That is true,” said the majordomo; “and I maintain that Lycurgus +himself, who gave laws to the Lacedemonians, could not have pronounced +a better decision than the great Panza has given; let the morning’s +audience close with this, and I will see that the señor governor has +dinner entirely to his liking.” + +“That’s all I ask for—fair play,” said Sancho; “give me my dinner, and +then let it rain cases and questions on me, and I’ll despatch them in a +twinkling.” + +The majordomo kept his word, for he felt it against his conscience to +kill so wise a governor by hunger; particularly as he intended to have +done with him that same night, playing off the last joke he was +commissioned to practise upon him. + +It came to pass, then, that after he had dined that day, in opposition +to the rules and aphorisms of Doctor Tirteafuera, as they were taking +away the cloth there came a courier with a letter from Don Quixote for +the governor. Sancho ordered the secretary to read it to himself, and +if there was nothing in it that demanded secrecy to read it aloud. The +secretary did so, and after he had skimmed the contents he said, “It +may well be read aloud, for what Señor Don Quixote writes to your +worship deserves to be printed or written in letters of gold, and it is +as follows.” + +DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA’S LETTER TO SANCHO PANZA, GOVERNOR OF THE +ISLAND OF BARATARIA. + + +When I was expecting to hear of thy stupidities and blunders, friend +Sancho, I have received intelligence of thy displays of good sense, for +which I give special thanks to heaven that can raise the poor from the +dunghill and of fools to make wise men. They tell me thou dost govern +as if thou wert a man, and art a man as if thou wert a beast, so great +is the humility wherewith thou dost comport thyself. But I would have +thee bear in mind, Sancho, that very often it is fitting and necessary +for the authority of office to resist the humility of the heart; for +the seemly array of one who is invested with grave duties should be +such as they require and not measured by what his own humble tastes may +lead him to prefer. Dress well; a stick dressed up does not look like a +stick; I do not say thou shouldst wear trinkets or fine raiment, or +that being a judge thou shouldst dress like a soldier, but that thou +shouldst array thyself in the apparel thy office requires, and that at +the same time it be neat and handsome. To win the good-will of the +people thou governest there are two things, among others, that thou +must do; one is to be civil to all (this, however, I told thee before), +and the other to take care that food be abundant, for there is nothing +that vexes the heart of the poor more than hunger and high prices. Make +not many proclamations; but those thou makest take care that they be +good ones, and above all that they be observed and carried out; for +proclamations that are not observed are the same as if they did not +exist; nay, they encourage the idea that the prince who had the wisdom +and authority to make them had not the power to enforce them; and laws +that threaten and are not enforced come to be like the log, the king of +the frogs, that frightened them at first, but that in time they +despised and mounted upon. Be a father to virtue and a stepfather to +vice. Be not always strict, nor yet always lenient, but observe a mean +between these two extremes, for in that is the aim of wisdom. Visit the +gaols, the slaughter-houses, and the market-places; for the presence of +the governor is of great importance in such places; it comforts the +prisoners who are in hopes of a speedy release, it is the bugbear of +the butchers who have then to give just weight, and it is the terror of +the market-women for the same reason. Let it not be seen that thou art +(even if perchance thou art, which I do not believe) covetous, a +follower of women, or a glutton; for when the people and those that +have dealings with thee become aware of thy special weakness they will +bring their batteries to bear upon thee in that quarter, till they have +brought thee down to the depths of perdition. Consider and reconsider, +con and con over again the advices and the instructions I gave thee +before thy departure hence to thy government, and thou wilt see that in +them, if thou dost follow them, thou hast a help at hand that will +lighten for thee the troubles and difficulties that beset governors at +every step. Write to thy lord and lady and show thyself grateful to +them, for ingratitude is the daughter of pride, and one of the greatest +sins we know of; and he who is grateful to those who have been good to +him shows that he will be so to God also who has bestowed and still +bestows so many blessings upon him. + My lady the duchess sent off a messenger with thy suit and another + present to thy wife Teresa Panza; we expect the answer every + moment. I have been a little indisposed through a certain + scratching I came in for, not very much to the benefit of my nose; + but it was nothing; for if there are enchanters who maltreat me, + there are also some who defend me. Let me know if the majordomo who + is with thee had any share in the Trifaldi performance, as thou + didst suspect; and keep me informed of everything that happens + thee, as the distance is so short; all the more as I am thinking of + giving over very shortly this idle life I am now leading, for I was + not born for it. A thing has occurred to me which I am inclined to + think will put me out of favour with the duke and duchess; but + though I am sorry for it I do not care, for after all I must obey + my calling rather than their pleasure, in accordance with the + common saying, _amicus Plato, sed magis amica veritas_. I quote + this Latin to thee because I conclude that since thou hast been a + governor thou wilt have learned it. Adieu; God keep thee from being + an object of pity to anyone. + + +Thy friend, +DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA. + + +Sancho listened to the letter with great attention, and it was praised +and considered wise by all who heard it; he then rose up from table, +and calling his secretary shut himself in with him in his own room, and +without putting it off any longer set about answering his master Don +Quixote at once; and he bade the secretary write down what he told him +without adding or suppressing anything, which he did, and the answer +was to the following effect. + +SANCHO PANZA’S LETTER TO DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA. + + +The pressure of business is so great upon me that I have no time to +scratch my head or even to cut my nails; and I have them so long—God +send a remedy for it. I say this, master of my soul, that you may not +be surprised if I have not until now sent you word of how I fare, well +or ill, in this government, in which I am suffering more hunger than +when we two were wandering through the woods and wastes. + My lord the duke wrote to me the other day to warn me that certain + spies had got into this island to kill me; but up to the present I + have not found out any except a certain doctor who receives a + salary in this town for killing all the governors that come here; + he is called Doctor Pedro Recio, and is from Tirteafuera; so you + see what a name he has to make me dread dying under his hands. This + doctor says of himself that he does not cure diseases when there + are any, but prevents them coming, and the medicines he uses are + diet and more diet until he brings one down to bare bones; as if + leanness was not worse than fever. + In short he is killing me with hunger, and I am dying myself of + vexation; for when I thought I was coming to this government to get + my meat hot and my drink cool, and take my ease between holland + sheets on feather beds, I find I have come to do penance as if I + was a hermit; and as I don’t do it willingly I suspect that in the + end the devil will carry me off. + So far I have not handled any dues or taken any bribes, and I don’t + know what to think of it; for here they tell me that the governors + that come to this island, before entering it have plenty of money + either given to them or lent to them by the people of the town, and + that this is the usual custom not only here but with all who enter + upon governments. + Last night going the rounds I came upon a fair damsel in man’s + clothes, and a brother of hers dressed as a woman; my head-carver + has fallen in love with the girl, and has in his own mind chosen + her for a wife, so he says, and I have chosen the youth for a + son-in-law; to-day we are going to explain our intentions to the + father of the pair, who is one Diego de la Llana, a gentleman and + an old Christian as much as you please. + I have visited the market-places, as your worship advises me, and + yesterday I found a stall-keeper selling new hazel nuts and proved + her to have mixed a bushel of old empty rotten nuts with a bushel + of new; I confiscated the whole for the children of the + charity-school, who will know how to distinguish them well enough, + and I sentenced her not to come into the market-place for a + fortnight; they told me I did bravely. I can tell your worship it + is commonly said in this town that there are no people worse than + the market-women, for they are all barefaced, unconscionable, and + impudent, and I can well believe it from what I have seen of them + in other towns. + I am very glad my lady the duchess has written to my wife Teresa + Panza and sent her the present your worship speaks of; and I will + strive to show myself grateful when the time comes; kiss her hands + for me, and tell her I say she has not thrown it into a sack with a + hole in it, as she will see in the end. I should not like your + worship to have any difference with my lord and lady; for if you + fall out with them it is plain it must do me harm; and as you give + me advice to be grateful it will not do for your worship not to be + so yourself to those who have shown you such kindness, and by whom + you have been treated so hospitably in their castle. + That about the scratching I don’t understand; but I suppose it must + be one of the ill-turns the wicked enchanters are always doing your + worship; when we meet I shall know all about it. I wish I could + send your worship something; but I don’t know what to send, unless + it be some very curious clyster pipes, to work with bladders, that + they make in this island; but if the office remains with me I’ll + find out something to send, one way or another. If my wife Teresa + Panza writes to me, pay the postage and send me the letter, for I + have a very great desire to hear how my house and wife and children + are going on. And so, may God deliver your worship from evil-minded + enchanters, and bring me well and peacefully out of this + government, which I doubt, for I expect to take leave of it and my + life together, from the way Doctor Pedro Recio treats me. + + +Your worship’s servant +SANCHO PANZA THE GOVERNOR. + + +The secretary sealed the letter, and immediately dismissed the courier; +and those who were carrying on the joke against Sancho putting their +heads together arranged how he was to be dismissed from the government. +Sancho spent the afternoon in drawing up certain ordinances relating to +the good government of what he fancied the island; and he ordained that +there were to be no provision hucksters in the State, and that men +might import wine into it from any place they pleased, provided they +declared the quarter it came from, so that a price might be put upon it +according to its quality, reputation, and the estimation it was held +in; and he that watered his wine, or changed the name, was to forfeit +his life for it. He reduced the prices of all manner of shoes, boots, +and stockings, but of shoes in particular, as they seemed to him to run +extravagantly high. He established a fixed rate for servants’ wages, +which were becoming recklessly exorbitant. He laid extremely heavy +penalties upon those who sang lewd or loose songs either by day or +night. He decreed that no blind man should sing of any miracle in +verse, unless he could produce authentic evidence that it was true, for +it was his opinion that most of those the blind men sing are trumped +up, to the detriment of the true ones. He established and created an +alguacil of the poor, not to harass them, but to examine them and see +whether they really were so; for many a sturdy thief or drunkard goes +about under cover of a make-believe crippled limb or a sham sore. In a +word, he made so many good rules that to this day they are preserved +there, and are called _The constitutions of the great governor Sancho +Panza_. + + + +p51e.jpg (32K) + + + +CHAPTER LII. +WHEREIN IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND DISTRESSED OR AFFLICTED +DUENNA, OTHERWISE CALLED DOÑA RODRIGUEZ + + + + +p52a.jpg (131K) + +Full Size + + + +Cide Hamete relates that Don Quixote being now cured of his scratches +felt that the life he was leading in the castle was entirely +inconsistent with the order of chivalry he professed, so he determined +to ask the duke and duchess to permit him to take his departure for +Saragossa, as the time of the festival was now drawing near, and he +hoped to win there the suit of armour which is the prize at festivals +of the sort. But one day at table with the duke and duchess, just as he +was about to carry his resolution into effect and ask for their +permission, lo and behold suddenly there came in through the door of +the great hall two women, as they afterwards proved to be, draped in +mourning from head to foot, one of whom approaching Don Quixote flung +herself at full length at his feet, pressing her lips to them, and +uttering moans so sad, so deep, and so doleful that she put all who +heard and saw her into a state of perplexity; and though the duke and +duchess supposed it must be some joke their servants were playing off +upon Don Quixote, still the earnest way the woman sighed and moaned and +wept puzzled them and made them feel uncertain, until Don Quixote, +touched with compassion, raised her up and made her unveil herself and +remove the mantle from her tearful face. She complied and disclosed +what no one could have ever anticipated, for she disclosed the +countenance of Doña Rodriguez, the duenna of the house; the other +female in mourning being her daughter, who had been made a fool of by +the rich farmer’s son. All who knew her were filled with astonishment, +and the duke and duchess more than any; for though they thought her a +simpleton and a weak creature, they did not think her capable of crazy +pranks. Doña Rodriguez, at length, turning to her master and mistress +said to them, “Will your excellences be pleased to permit me to speak +to this gentleman for a moment, for it is requisite I should do so in +order to get successfully out of the business in which the boldness of +an evil-minded clown has involved me?” + +The duke said that for his part he gave her leave, and that she might +speak with Señor Don Quixote as much as she liked. + +She then, turning to Don Quixote and addressing herself to him said, +“Some days since, valiant knight, I gave you an account of the +injustice and treachery of a wicked farmer to my dearly beloved +daughter, the unhappy damsel here before you, and you promised me to +take her part and right the wrong that has been done her; but now it +has come to my hearing that you are about to depart from this castle in +quest of such fair adventures as God may vouchsafe to you; therefore, +before you take the road, I would that you challenge this froward +rustic, and compel him to marry my daughter in fulfillment of the +promise he gave her to become her husband before he seduced her; for to +expect that my lord the duke will do me justice is to ask pears from +the elm tree, for the reason I stated privately to your worship; and so +may our Lord grant you good health and forsake us not.” + +To these words Don Quixote replied very gravely and solemnly, “Worthy +duenna, check your tears, or rather dry them, and spare your sighs, for +I take it upon myself to obtain redress for your daughter, for whom it +would have been better not to have been so ready to believe lovers’ +promises, which are for the most part quickly made and very slowly +performed; and so, with my lord the duke’s leave, I will at once go in +quest of this inhuman youth, and will find him out and challenge him +and slay him, if so be he refuses to keep his promised word; for the +chief object of my profession is to spare the humble and chastise the +proud; I mean, to help the distressed and destroy the oppressors.” + +“There is no necessity,” said the duke, “for your worship to take the +trouble of seeking out the rustic of whom this worthy duenna complains, +nor is there any necessity, either, for asking my leave to challenge +him; for I admit him duly challenged, and will take care that he is +informed of the challenge, and accepts it, and comes to answer it in +person to this castle of mine, where I shall afford to both a fair +field, observing all the conditions which are usually and properly +observed in such trials, and observing too justice to both sides, as +all princes who offer a free field to combatants within the limits of +their lordships are bound to do.” + +“Then with that assurance and your highness’s good leave,” said Don +Quixote, “I hereby for this once waive my privilege of gentle blood, +and come down and put myself on a level with the lowly birth of the +wrong-doer, making myself equal with him and enabling him to enter into +combat with me; and so, I challenge and defy him, though absent, on the +plea of his malfeasance in breaking faith with this poor damsel, who +was a maiden and now by his misdeed is none; and say that he shall +fulfill the promise he gave her to become her lawful husband, or else +stake his life upon the question.” + +And then plucking off a glove he threw it down in the middle of the +hall, and the duke picked it up, saying, as he had said before, that he +accepted the challenge in the name of his vassal, and fixed six days +thence as the time, the courtyard of the castle as the place, and for +arms the customary ones of knights, lance and shield and full armour, +with all the other accessories, without trickery, guile, or charms of +any sort, and examined and passed by the judges of the field. “But +first of all,” he said, “it is requisite that this worthy duenna and +unworthy damsel should place their claim for justice in the hands of +Don Quixote; for otherwise nothing can be done, nor can the said +challenge be brought to a lawful issue.” + +“I do so place it,” replied the duenna. + +“And I too,” added her daughter, all in tears and covered with shame +and confusion. + +This declaration having been made, and the duke having settled in his +own mind what he would do in the matter, the ladies in black withdrew, +and the duchess gave orders that for the future they were not to be +treated as servants of hers, but as lady adventurers who came to her +house to demand justice; so they gave them a room to themselves and +waited on them as they would on strangers, to the consternation of the +other women-servants, who did not know where the folly and imprudence +of Doña Rodriguez and her unlucky daughter would stop. + +And now, to complete the enjoyment of the feast and bring the dinner to +a satisfactory end, lo and behold the page who had carried the letters +and presents to Teresa Panza, the wife of the governor Sancho, entered +the hall; and the duke and duchess were very well pleased to see him, +being anxious to know the result of his journey; but when they asked +him the page said in reply that he could not give it before so many +people or in a few words, and begged their excellences to be pleased to +let it wait for a private opportunity, and in the meantime amuse +themselves with these letters; and taking out the letters he placed +them in the duchess’s hand. One bore by way of address, _Letter for my +lady the Duchess So-and-so, of I don’t know where; and the other To my +husband Sancho Panza, governor of the island of Barataria, whom God +prosper longer than me_. The duchess’s bread would not bake, as the +saying is, until she had read her letter; and having looked over it +herself and seen that it might be read aloud for the duke and all +present to hear, she read out as follows. + +TERESA PANZA’S LETTER TO THE DUCHESS. + + +The letter your highness wrote me, my lady, gave me great pleasure, for +indeed I found it very welcome. The string of coral beads is very fine, +and my husband’s hunting suit does not fall short of it. All this +village is very much pleased that your ladyship has made a governor of +my good man Sancho; though nobody will believe it, particularly the +curate, and Master Nicholas the barber, and the bachelor Samson +Carrasco; but I don’t care for that, for so long as it is true, as it +is, they may all say what they like; though, to tell the truth, if the +coral beads and the suit had not come I would not have believed it +either; for in this village everybody thinks my husband a numskull, and +except for governing a flock of goats, they cannot fancy what sort of +government he can be fit for. God grant it, and direct him according as +he sees his children stand in need of it. I am resolved with your +worship’s leave, lady of my soul, to make the most of this fair day, +and go to Court to stretch myself at ease in a coach, and make all +those I have envying me already burst their eyes out; so I beg your +excellence to order my husband to send me a small trifle of money, and +to let it be something to speak of, because one’s expenses are heavy at +the Court; for a loaf costs a real, and meat thirty maravedis a pound, +which is beyond everything; and if he does not want me to go let him +tell me in time, for my feet are on the fidgets to be off; and my +friends and neighbours tell me that if my daughter and I make a figure +and a brave show at Court, my husband will come to be known far more by +me than I by him, for of course plenty of people will ask, “Who are +those ladies in that coach?” and some servant of mine will answer, “The +wife and daughter of Sancho Panza, governor of the island of +Barataria;” and in this way Sancho will become known, and I’ll be +thought well of, and “to Rome for everything.” I am as vexed as vexed +can be that they have gathered no acorns this year in our village; for +all that I send your highness about half a peck that I went to the wood +to gather and pick out one by one myself, and I could find no bigger +ones; I wish they were as big as ostrich eggs. + Let not your high mightiness forget to write to me; and I will take + care to answer, and let you know how I am, and whatever news there + may be in this place, where I remain, praying our Lord to have your + highness in his keeping and not to forget me. + Sancha my daughter, and my son, kiss your worship’s hands. + She who would rather see your ladyship than write to you, + + +Your servant, +TERESA PANZA. + + +All were greatly amused by Teresa Panza’s letter, but particularly the +duke and duchess; and the duchess asked Don Quixote’s opinion whether +they might open the letter that had come for the governor, which she +suspected must be very good. Don Quixote said that to gratify them he +would open it, and did so, and found that it ran as follows. + +TERESA PANZA’S LETTER TO HER HUSBAND SANCHO PANZA. + + +I got thy letter, Sancho of my soul, and I promise thee and swear as a +Catholic Christian that I was within two fingers’ breadth of going mad +I was so happy. I can tell thee, brother, when I came to hear that thou +wert a governor I thought I should have dropped dead with pure joy; and +thou knowest they say sudden joy kills as well as great sorrow; and as +for Sanchica thy daughter, she leaked from sheer happiness. I had +before me the suit thou didst send me, and the coral beads my lady the +duchess sent me round my neck, and the letters in my hands, and there +was the bearer of them standing by, and in spite of all this I verily +believed and thought that what I saw and handled was all a dream; for +who could have thought that a goatherd would come to be a governor of +islands? Thou knowest, my friend, what my mother used to say, that one +must live long to see much; I say it because I expect to see more if I +live longer; for I don’t expect to stop until I see thee a farmer of +taxes or a collector of revenue, which are offices where, though the +devil carries off those who make a bad use of them, still they make and +handle money. My lady the duchess will tell thee the desire I have to +go to the Court; consider the matter and let me know thy pleasure; I +will try to do honour to thee by going in a coach. + Neither the curate, nor the barber, nor the bachelor, nor even the + sacristan, can believe that thou art a governor, and they say the + whole thing is a delusion or an enchantment affair, like everything + belonging to thy master Don Quixote; and Samson says he must go in + search of thee and drive the government out of thy head and the + madness out of Don Quixote’s skull; I only laugh, and look at my + string of beads, and plan out the dress I am going to make for our + daughter out of thy suit. I sent some acorns to my lady the + duchess; I wish they had been gold. Send me some strings of pearls + if they are in fashion in that island. Here is the news of the + village; La Berrueca has married her daughter to a good-for-nothing + painter, who came here to paint anything that might turn up. The + council gave him an order to paint his Majesty’s arms over the door + of the town-hall; he asked two ducats, which they paid him in + advance; he worked for eight days, and at the end of them had + nothing painted, and then said he had no turn for painting such + trifling things; he returned the money, and for all that has + married on the pretence of being a good workman; to be sure he has + now laid aside his paint-brush and taken a spade in hand, and goes + to the field like a gentleman. Pedro Lobo’s son has received the + first orders and tonsure, with the intention of becoming a priest. + Minguilla, Mingo Silvato’s granddaughter, found it out, and has + gone to law with him on the score of having given her promise of + marriage. Evil tongues say she is with child by him, but he denies + it stoutly. There are no olives this year, and there is not a drop + of vinegar to be had in the whole village. A company of soldiers + passed through here; when they left they took away with them three + of the girls of the village; I will not tell thee who they are; + perhaps they will come back, and they will be sure to find those + who will take them for wives with all their blemishes, good or bad. + Sanchica is making bonelace; she earns eight maravedis a day clear, + which she puts into a moneybox as a help towards house furnishing; + but now that she is a governor’s daughter thou wilt give her a + portion without her working for it. The fountain in the plaza has + run dry. A flash of lightning struck the gibbet, and I wish they + all lit there. I look for an answer to this, and to know thy mind + about my going to the Court; and so, God keep thee longer than me, + or as long, for I would not leave thee in this world without me. + + +Thy wife, +TERESA PANZA. + + +The letters were applauded, laughed over, relished, and admired; and +then, as if to put the seal to the business, the courier arrived, +bringing the one Sancho sent to Don Quixote, and this, too, was read +out, and it raised some doubts as to the governor’s simplicity. The +duchess withdrew to hear from the page about his adventures in Sancho’s +village, which he narrated at full length without leaving a single +circumstance unmentioned. He gave her the acorns, and also a cheese +which Teresa had given him as being particularly good and superior to +those of Tronchon. The duchess received it with greatest delight, in +which we will leave her, to describe the end of the government of the +great Sancho Panza, flower and mirror of all governors of islands. + + + +p52e.jpg (13K) + + + +CHAPTER LIII. +OF THE TROUBLOUS END AND TERMINATION SANCHO PANZA’S GOVERNMENT CAME TO + + + + +p53a.jpg (109K) + +Full Size + + + +To fancy that in this life anything belonging to it will remain for +ever in the same state is an idle fancy; on the contrary, in it +everything seems to go in a circle, I mean round and round. The spring +succeeds the summer, the summer the fall, the fall the autumn, the +autumn the winter, and the winter the spring, and so time rolls with +never-ceasing wheel. Man’s life alone, swifter than time, speeds onward +to its end without any hope of renewal, save it be in that other life +which is endless and boundless. Thus saith Cide Hamete the Mahometan +philosopher; for there are many that by the light of nature alone, +without the light of faith, have a comprehension of the fleeting nature +and instability of this present life and the endless duration of that +eternal life we hope for; but our author is here speaking of the +rapidity with which Sancho’s government came to an end, melted away, +disappeared, vanished as it were in smoke and shadow. For as he lay in +bed on the night of the seventh day of his government, sated, not with +bread and wine, but with delivering judgments and giving opinions and +making laws and proclamations, just as sleep, in spite of hunger, was +beginning to close his eyelids, he heard such a noise of bell-ringing +and shouting that one would have fancied the whole island was going to +the bottom. He sat up in bed and remained listening intently to try if +he could make out what could be the cause of so great an uproar; not +only, however, was he unable to discover what it was, but as countless +drums and trumpets now helped to swell the din of the bells and shouts, +he was more puzzled than ever, and filled with fear and terror; and +getting up he put on a pair of slippers because of the dampness of the +floor, and without throwing a dressing gown or anything of the kind +over him he rushed out of the door of his room, just in time to see +approaching along a corridor a band of more than twenty persons with +lighted torches and naked swords in their hands, all shouting out, “To +arms, to arms, señor governor, to arms! The enemy is in the island in +countless numbers, and we are lost unless your skill and valour come to +our support.” + +Keeping up this noise, tumult, and uproar, they came to where Sancho +stood dazed and bewildered by what he saw and heard, and as they +approached one of them called out to him, “Arm at once, your lordship, +if you would not have yourself destroyed and the whole island lost.” + +“What have I to do with arming?” said Sancho. “What do I know about +arms or supports? Better leave all that to my master Don Quixote, who +will settle it and make all safe in a trice; for I, sinner that I am, +God help me, don’t understand these scuffles.” + +“Ah, señor governor,” said another, “what slackness of mettle this is! +Arm yourself; here are arms for you, offensive and defensive; come out +to the plaza and be our leader and captain; it falls upon you by right, +for you are our governor.” + +“Arm me then, in God’s name,” said Sancho, and they at once produced +two large shields they had come provided with, and placed them upon him +over his shirt, without letting him put on anything else, one shield in +front and the other behind, and passing his arms through openings they +had made, they bound him tight with ropes, so that there he was walled +and boarded up as straight as a spindle and unable to bend his knees or +stir a single step. In his hand they placed a lance, on which he leant +to keep himself from falling, and as soon as they had him thus fixed +they bade him march forward and lead them on and give them all courage; +for with him for their guide and lamp and morning star, they were sure +to bring their business to a successful issue. + + + +p53b.jpg (332K) + +Full Size + + + +“How am I to march, unlucky being that I am?” said Sancho, “when I +can’t stir my knee-caps, for these boards I have bound so tight to my +body won’t let me. What you must do is carry me in your arms, and lay +me across or set me upright in some postern, and I’ll hold it either +with this lance or with my body.” + +“On, señor governor!” cried another, “it is fear more than the boards +that keeps you from moving; make haste, stir yourself, for there is no +time to lose; the enemy is increasing in numbers, the shouts grow +louder, and the danger is pressing.” + +Urged by these exhortations and reproaches the poor governor made an +attempt to advance, but fell to the ground with such a crash that he +fancied he had broken himself all to pieces. There he lay like a +tortoise enclosed in its shell, or a side of bacon between two +kneading-troughs, or a boat bottom up on the beach; nor did the gang of +jokers feel any compassion for him when they saw him down; so far from +that, extinguishing their torches they began to shout afresh and to +renew the calls to arms with such energy, trampling on poor Sancho, and +slashing at him over the shield with their swords in such a way that, +if he had not gathered himself together and made himself small and +drawn in his head between the shields, it would have fared badly with +the poor governor, as, squeezed into that narrow compass, he lay, +sweating and sweating again, and commending himself with all his heart +to God to deliver him from his present peril. Some stumbled over him, +others fell upon him, and one there was who took up a position on top +of him for some time, and from thence as if from a watchtower issued +orders to the troops, shouting out, “Here, our side! Here the enemy is +thickest! Hold the breach there! Shut that gate! Barricade those +ladders! Here with your stink-pots of pitch and resin, and kettles of +boiling oil! Block the streets with feather beds!” In short, in his +ardour he mentioned every little thing, and every implement and engine +of war by means of which an assault upon a city is warded off, while +the bruised and battered Sancho, who heard and suffered all, was saying +to himself, “O if it would only please the Lord to let the island be +lost at once, and I could see myself either dead or out of this +torture!” Heaven heard his prayer, and when he least expected it he +heard voices exclaiming, “Victory, victory! The enemy retreats beaten! +Come, señor governor, get up, and come and enjoy the victory, and +divide the spoils that have been won from the foe by the might of that +invincible arm.” + +“Lift me up,” said the wretched Sancho in a woebegone voice. They +helped him to rise, and as soon as he was on his feet said, “The enemy +I have beaten you may nail to my forehead; I don’t want to divide the +spoils of the foe, I only beg and entreat some friend, if I have one, +to give me a sup of wine, for I’m parched with thirst, and wipe me dry, +for I’m turning to water.” + +They rubbed him down, fetched him wine and unbound the shields, and he +seated himself upon his bed, and with fear, agitation, and fatigue he +fainted away. Those who had been concerned in the joke were now sorry +they had pushed it so far; however, the anxiety his fainting away had +caused them was relieved by his returning to himself. He asked what +o’clock it was; they told him it was just daybreak. He said no more, +and in silence began to dress himself, while all watched him, waiting +to see what the haste with which he was putting on his clothes meant. + + + +p53c.jpg (389K) + +Full Size + + + +He got himself dressed at last, and then, slowly, for he was sorely +bruised and could not go fast, he proceeded to the stable, followed by +all who were present, and going up to Dapple embraced him and gave him +a loving kiss on the forehead, and said to him, not without tears in +his eyes, “Come along, comrade and friend and partner of my toils and +sorrows; when I was with you and had no cares to trouble me except +mending your harness and feeding your little carcass, happy were my +hours, my days, and my years; but since I left you, and mounted the +towers of ambition and pride, a thousand miseries, a thousand troubles, +and four thousand anxieties have entered into my soul;” and all the +while he was speaking in this strain he was fixing the pack-saddle on +the ass, without a word from anyone. Then having Dapple saddled, he, +with great pain and difficulty, got up on him, and addressing himself +to the majordomo, the secretary, the head-carver, and Pedro Recio the +doctor and several others who stood by, he said, “Make way, gentlemen, +and let me go back to my old freedom; let me go look for my past life, +and raise myself up from this present death. I was not born to be a +governor or protect islands or cities from the enemies that choose to +attack them. Ploughing and digging, vinedressing and pruning, are more +in my way than defending provinces or kingdoms. Saint Peter is very +well at Rome; I mean each of us is best following the trade he was born +to. A reaping-hook fits my hand better than a governor’s sceptre; I’d +rather have my fill of gazpacho than be subject to the misery of a +meddling doctor who kills me with hunger, and I’d rather lie in summer +under the shade of an oak, and in winter wrap myself in a double +sheepskin jacket in freedom, than go to bed between holland sheets and +dress in sables under the restraint of a government. God be with your +worships, and tell my lord the duke that ‘naked I was born, naked I +find myself, I neither lose nor gain;’ I mean that without a farthing I +came into this government, and without a farthing I go out of it, very +different from the way governors commonly leave other islands. Stand +aside and let me go; I have to plaster myself, for I believe every one +of my ribs is crushed, thanks to the enemies that have been trampling +over me to-night.” + +“That is unnecessary, señor governor,” said Doctor Recio, “for I will +give your worship a draught against falls and bruises that will soon +make you as sound and strong as ever; and as for your diet I promise +your worship to behave better, and let you eat plentifully of whatever +you like.” + +“You spoke late,” said Sancho. “I’d as soon turn Turk as stay any +longer. Those jokes won’t pass a second time. By God I’d as soon remain +in this government, or take another, even if it was offered me between +two plates, as fly to heaven without wings. I am of the breed of the +Panzas, and they are every one of them obstinate, and if they once say +‘odds,’ odds it must be, no matter if it is evens, in spite of all the +world. Here in this stable I leave the ant’s wings that lifted me up +into the air for the swifts and other birds to eat me, and let’s take +to level ground and our feet once more; and if they’re not shod in +pinked shoes of cordovan, they won’t want for rough sandals of hemp; +‘every ewe to her like,’ ‘and let no one stretch his leg beyond the +length of the sheet;’ and now let me pass, for it’s growing late with +me.” + +To this the majordomo said, “Señor governor, we would let your worship +go with all our hearts, though it sorely grieves us to lose you, for +your wit and Christian conduct naturally make us regret you; but it is +well known that every governor, before he leaves the place where he has +been governing, is bound first of all to render an account. Let your +worship do so for the ten days you have held the government, and then +you may go and the peace of God go with you.” + +“No one can demand it of me,” said Sancho, “but he whom my lord the +duke shall appoint; I am going to meet him, and to him I will render an +exact one; besides, when I go forth naked as I do, there is no other +proof needed to show that I have governed like an angel.” + +“By God the great Sancho is right,” said Doctor Recio, “and we should +let him go, for the duke will be beyond measure glad to see him.” + +They all agreed to this, and allowed him to go, first offering to bear +him company and furnish him with all he wanted for his own comfort or +for the journey. Sancho said he did not want anything more than a +little barley for Dapple, and half a cheese and half a loaf for +himself; for the distance being so short there was no occasion for any +better or bulkier provant. They all embraced him, and he with tears +embraced all of them, and left them filled with admiration not only at +his remarks but at his firm and sensible resolution. + + + +p53e.jpg (56K) + + + +CHAPTER LIV. +WHICH DEALS WITH MATTERS RELATING TO THIS HISTORY AND NO OTHER + + + + +p54a.jpg (109K) + +Full Size + + + +The duke and duchess resolved that the challenge Don Quixote had, for +the reason already mentioned, given their vassal, should be proceeded +with; and as the young man was in Flanders, whither he had fled to +escape having Doña Rodriguez for a mother-in-law, they arranged to +substitute for him a Gascon lacquey, named Tosilos, first of all +carefully instructing him in all he had to do. Two days later the duke +told Don Quixote that in four days from that time his opponent would +present himself on the field of battle armed as a knight, and would +maintain that the damsel lied by half a beard, nay a whole beard, if +she affirmed that he had given her a promise of marriage. Don Quixote +was greatly pleased at the news, and promised himself to do wonders in +the lists, and reckoned it rare good fortune that an opportunity should +have offered for letting his noble hosts see what the might of his +strong arm was capable of; and so in high spirits and satisfaction he +awaited the expiration of the four days, which measured by his +impatience seemed spinning themselves out into four hundred ages. Let +us leave them to pass as we do other things, and go and bear Sancho +company, as mounted on Dapple, half glad, half sad, he paced along on +his road to join his master, in whose society he was happier than in +being governor of all the islands in the world. Well then, it so +happened that before he had gone a great way from the island of his +government (and whether it was island, city, town, or village that he +governed he never troubled himself to inquire) he saw coming along the +road he was travelling six pilgrims with staves, foreigners of that +sort that beg for alms singing; who as they drew near arranged +themselves in a line and lifting up their voices all together began to +sing in their own language something that Sancho could not understand, +with the exception of one word which sounded plainly “alms,” from which +he gathered that it was alms they asked for in their song; and being, +as Cide Hamete says, remarkably charitable, he took out of his alforjas +the half loaf and half cheese he had been provided with, and gave them +to them, explaining to them by signs that he had nothing else to give +them. They received them very gladly, but exclaimed, “Geld! Geld!” + +“I don’t understand what you want of me, good people,” said Sancho. + +On this one of them took a purse out of his bosom and showed it to +Sancho, by which he comprehended they were asking for money, and +putting his thumb to his throat and spreading his hand upwards he gave +them to understand that he had not the sign of a coin about him, and +urging Dapple forward he broke through them. But as he was passing, one +of them who had been examining him very closely rushed towards him, and +flinging his arms round him exclaimed in a loud voice and good Spanish, +“God bless me! What’s this I see? Is it possible that I hold in my arms +my dear friend, my good neighbour Sancho Panza? But there’s no doubt +about it, for I’m not asleep, nor am I drunk just now.” + +Sancho was surprised to hear himself called by his name and find +himself embraced by a foreign pilgrim, and after regarding him steadily +without speaking he was still unable to recognise him; but the pilgrim +perceiving his perplexity cried, “What! and is it possible, Sancho +Panza, that thou dost not know thy neighbour Ricote, the Morisco +shopkeeper of thy village?” + +Sancho upon this looking at him more carefully began to recall his +features, and at last recognised him perfectly, and without getting off +the ass threw his arms round his neck saying, “Who the devil could have +known thee, Ricote, in this mummer’s dress thou art in? Tell me, who +has frenchified thee, and how dost thou dare to return to Spain, where +if they catch thee and recognise thee it will go hard enough with +thee?” + +“If thou dost not betray me, Sancho,” said the pilgrim, “I am safe; for +in this dress no one will recognise me; but let us turn aside out of +the road into that grove there where my comrades are going to eat and +rest, and thou shalt eat with them there, for they are very good +fellows; I’ll have time enough to tell thee then all that has happened +me since I left our village in obedience to his Majesty’s edict that +threatened such severities against the unfortunate people of my nation, +as thou hast heard.” + +Sancho complied, and Ricote having spoken to the other pilgrims they +withdrew to the grove they saw, turning a considerable distance out of +the road. They threw down their staves, took off their pilgrim’s cloaks +and remained in their under-clothing; they were all good-looking young +fellows, except Ricote, who was a man somewhat advanced in years. They +carried alforjas all of them, and all apparently well filled, at least +with things provocative of thirst, such as would summon it from two +leagues off. They stretched themselves on the ground, and making a +tablecloth of the grass they spread upon it bread, salt, knives, +walnut, scraps of cheese, and well-picked ham-bones which if they were +past gnawing were not past sucking. They also put down a black dainty +called, they say, caviar, and made of the eggs of fish, a great +thirst-wakener. Nor was there any lack of olives, dry, it is true, and +without any seasoning, but for all that toothsome and pleasant. But +what made the best show in the field of the banquet was half a dozen +botas of wine, for each of them produced his own from his alforjas; +even the good Ricote, who from a Morisco had transformed himself into a +German or Dutchman, took out his, which in size might have vied with +the five others. They then began to eat with very great relish and very +leisurely, making the most of each morsel—very small ones of +everything—they took up on the point of the knife; and then all at the +same moment raised their arms and botas aloft, the mouths placed in +their mouths, and all eyes fixed on heaven just as if they were taking +aim at it; and in this attitude they remained ever so long, wagging +their heads from side to side as if in acknowledgment of the pleasure +they were enjoying while they decanted the bowels of the bottles into +their own stomachs. + +Sancho beheld all, “and nothing gave him pain;” so far from that, +acting on the proverb he knew so well, “when thou art at Rome do as +thou seest,” he asked Ricote for his bota and took aim like the rest of +them, and with not less enjoyment. Four times did the botas bear being +uplifted, but the fifth it was all in vain, for they were drier and +more sapless than a rush by that time, which made the jollity that had +been kept up so far begin to flag. + +Every now and then someone of them would grasp Sancho’s right hand in +his own saying, “Español y Tudesqui tuto uno: bon compaño;” and Sancho +would answer, “Bon compaño, jur a Di!” and then go off into a fit of +laughter that lasted an hour, without a thought for the moment of +anything that had befallen him in his government; for cares have very +little sway over us while we are eating and drinking. At length, the +wine having come to an end with them, drowsiness began to come over +them, and they dropped asleep on their very table and tablecloth. +Ricote and Sancho alone remained awake, for they had eaten more and +drunk less, and Ricote drawing Sancho aside, they seated themselves at +the foot of a beech, leaving the pilgrims buried in sweet sleep; and +without once falling into his own Morisco tongue Ricote spoke as +follows in pure Castilian: + +“Thou knowest well, neighbour and friend Sancho Panza, how the +proclamation or edict his Majesty commanded to be issued against those +of my nation filled us all with terror and dismay; me at least it did, +insomuch that I think before the time granted us for quitting Spain was +out, the full force of the penalty had already fallen upon me and upon +my children. I decided, then, and I think wisely (just like one who +knows that at a certain date the house he lives in will be taken from +him, and looks out beforehand for another to change into), I decided, I +say, to leave the town myself, alone and without my family, and go to +seek out some place to remove them to comfortably and not in the +hurried way in which the others took their departure; for I saw very +plainly, and so did all the older men among us, that the proclamations +were not mere threats, as some said, but positive enactments which +would be enforced at the appointed time; and what made me believe this +was what I knew of the base and extravagant designs which our people +harboured, designs of such a nature that I think it was a divine +inspiration that moved his Majesty to carry out a resolution so +spirited; not that we were all guilty, for some there were true and +steadfast Christians; but they were so few that they could make no head +against those who were not; and it was not prudent to cherish a viper +in the bosom by having enemies in the house. In short it was with just +cause that we were visited with the penalty of banishment, a mild and +lenient one in the eyes of some, but to us the most terrible that could +be inflicted upon us. Wherever we are we weep for Spain; for after all +we were born there and it is our natural fatherland. Nowhere do we find +the reception our unhappy condition needs; and in Barbary and all the +parts of Africa where we counted upon being received, succoured, and +welcomed, it is there they insult and ill-treat us most. We knew not +our good fortune until we lost it; and such is the longing we almost +all of us have to return to Spain, that most of those who like myself +know the language, and there are many who do, come back to it and leave +their wives and children forsaken yonder, so great is their love for +it; and now I know by experience the meaning of the saying, sweet is +the love of one’s country. + +“I left our village, as I said, and went to France, but though they +gave us a kind reception there I was anxious to see all I could. I +crossed into Italy, and reached Germany, and there it seemed to me we +might live with more freedom, as the inhabitants do not pay any +attention to trifling points; everyone lives as he likes, for in most +parts they enjoy liberty of conscience. I took a house in a town near +Augsburg, and then joined these pilgrims, who are in the habit of +coming to Spain in great numbers every year to visit the shrines there, +which they look upon as their Indies and a sure and certain source of +gain. They travel nearly all over it, and there is no town out of which +they do not go full up of meat and drink, as the saying is, and with a +real, at least, in money, and they come off at the end of their travels +with more than a hundred crowns saved, which, changed into gold, they +smuggle out of the kingdom either in the hollow of their staves or in +the patches of their pilgrim’s cloaks or by some device of their own, +and carry to their own country in spite of the guards at the posts and +passes where they are searched. Now my purpose is, Sancho, to carry +away the treasure that I left buried, which, as it is outside the town, +I shall be able to do without risk, and to write, or cross over from +Valencia, to my daughter and wife, who I know are at Algiers, and find +some means of bringing them to some French port and thence to Germany, +there to await what it may be God’s will to do with us; for, after all, +Sancho, I know well that Ricota my daughter and Francisca Ricota my +wife are Catholic Christians, and though I am not so much so, still I +am more of a Christian than a Moor, and it is always my prayer to God +that he will open the eyes of my understanding and show me how I am to +serve him; but what amazes me and I cannot understand is why my wife +and daughter should have gone to Barbary rather than to France, where +they could live as Christians.” + +To this Sancho replied, “Remember, Ricote, that may not have been open +to them, for Juan Tiopieyo thy wife’s brother took them, and being a +true Moor he went where he could go most easily; and another thing I +can tell thee, it is my belief thou art going in vain to look for what +thou hast left buried, for we heard they took from thy brother-in-law +and thy wife a great quantity of pearls and money in gold which they +brought to be passed.” + +“That may be,” said Ricote; “but I know they did not touch my hoard, +for I did not tell them where it was, for fear of accidents; and so, if +thou wilt come with me, Sancho, and help me to take it away and conceal +it, I will give thee two hundred crowns wherewith thou mayest relieve +thy necessities, and, as thou knowest, I know they are many.” + +“I would do it,” said Sancho; “but I am not at all covetous, for I gave +up an office this morning in which, if I was, I might have made the +walls of my house of gold and dined off silver plates before six months +were over; and so for this reason, and because I feel I would be guilty +of treason to my king if I helped his enemies, I would not go with thee +if instead of promising me two hundred crowns thou wert to give me four +hundred here in hand.” + +“And what office is this thou hast given up, Sancho?” asked Ricote. + +“I have given up being governor of an island,” said Sancho, “and such a +one, faith, as you won’t find the like of easily.” + +“And where is this island?” said Ricote. + +“Where?” said Sancho; “two leagues from here, and it is called the +island of Barataria.” + +“Nonsense! Sancho,” said Ricote; “islands are away out in the sea; +there are no islands on the mainland.” + +“What? No islands!” said Sancho; “I tell thee, friend Ricote, I left it +this morning, and yesterday I was governing there as I pleased like a +sagittarius; but for all that I gave it up, for it seemed to me a +dangerous office, a governor’s.” + +“And what hast thou gained by the government?” asked Ricote. + +“I have gained,” said Sancho, “the knowledge that I am no good for +governing, unless it is a drove of cattle, and that the riches that are +to be got by these governments are got at the cost of one’s rest and +sleep, ay and even one’s food; for in islands the governors must eat +little, especially if they have doctors to look after their health.” + +“I don’t understand thee, Sancho,” said Ricote; “but it seems to me all +nonsense thou art talking. Who would give thee islands to govern? Is +there any scarcity in the world of cleverer men than thou art for +governors? Hold thy peace, Sancho, and come back to thy senses, and +consider whether thou wilt come with me as I said to help me to take +away treasure I left buried (for indeed it may be called a treasure, it +is so large), and I will give thee wherewithal to keep thee, as I told +thee.” + +“And I have told thee already, Ricote, that I will not,” said Sancho; +“let it content thee that by me thou shalt not be betrayed, and go thy +way in God’s name and let me go mine; for I know that well-gotten gain +may be lost, but ill-gotten gain is lost, itself and its owner +likewise.” + +“I will not press thee, Sancho,” said Ricote; “but tell me, wert thou +in our village when my wife and daughter and brother-in-law left it?” + +“I was so,” said Sancho; “and I can tell thee thy daughter left it +looking so lovely that all the village turned out to see her, and +everybody said she was the fairest creature in the world. She wept as +she went, and embraced all her friends and acquaintances and those who +came out to see her, and she begged them all to commend her to God and +Our Lady his mother, and this in such a touching way that it made me +weep myself, though I’m not much given to tears commonly; and, faith, +many a one would have liked to hide her, or go out and carry her off on +the road; but the fear of going against the king’s command kept them +back. The one who showed himself most moved was Don Pedro Gregorio, the +rich young heir thou knowest of, and they say he was deep in love with +her; and since she left he has not been seen in our village again, and +we all suspect he has gone after her to steal her away, but so far +nothing has been heard of it.” + +“I always had a suspicion that gentleman had a passion for my +daughter,” said Ricote; “but as I felt sure of my Ricota’s virtue it +gave me no uneasiness to know that he loved her; for thou must have +heard it said, Sancho, that the Morisco women seldom or never engage in +amours with the old Christians; and my daughter, who I fancy thought +more of being a Christian than of lovemaking, would not trouble herself +about the attentions of this heir.” + +“God grant it,” said Sancho, “for it would be a bad business for both +of them; but now let me be off, friend Ricote, for I want to reach +where my master Don Quixote is to-night.” + +“God be with thee, brother Sancho,” said Ricote; “my comrades are +beginning to stir, and it is time, too, for us to continue our +journey;” and then they both embraced, and Sancho mounted Dapple, and +Ricote leant upon his staff, and so they parted. + + + +p54e.jpg (40K) + + + +CHAPTER LV. +OF WHAT BEFELL SANCHO ON THE ROAD, AND OTHER THINGS THAT CANNOT BE +SURPASSED + + + + +p55a.jpg (126K) + +Full Size + + + +The length of time he delayed with Ricote prevented Sancho from +reaching the duke’s castle that day, though he was within half a league +of it when night, somewhat dark and cloudy, overtook him. This, +however, as it was summer time, did not give him much uneasiness, and +he turned aside out of the road intending to wait for morning; but his +ill luck and hard fate so willed it that as he was searching about for +a place to make himself as comfortable as possible, he and Dapple fell +into a deep dark hole that lay among some very old buildings. As he +fell he commended himself with all his heart to God, fancying he was +not going to stop until he reached the depths of the bottomless pit; +but it did not turn out so, for at little more than thrice a man’s +height Dapple touched bottom, and he found himself sitting on him +without having received any hurt or damage whatever. He felt himself +all over and held his breath to try whether he was quite sound or had a +hole made in him anywhere, and finding himself all right and whole and +in perfect health he was profuse in his thanks to God our Lord for the +mercy that had been shown him, for he made sure he had been broken into +a thousand pieces. He also felt along the sides of the pit with his +hands to see if it were possible to get out of it without help, but he +found they were quite smooth and afforded no hold anywhere, at which he +was greatly distressed, especially when he heard how pathetically and +dolefully Dapple was bemoaning himself, and no wonder he complained, +nor was it from ill-temper, for in truth he was not in a very good +case. “Alas,” said Sancho, “what unexpected accidents happen at every +step to those who live in this miserable world! Who would have said +that one who saw himself yesterday sitting on a throne, governor of an +island, giving orders to his servants and his vassals, would see +himself to-day buried in a pit without a soul to help him, or servant +or vassal to come to his relief? Here must we perish with hunger, my +ass and myself, if indeed we don’t die first, he of his bruises and +injuries, and I of grief and sorrow. At any rate I’ll not be as lucky +as my master Don Quixote of La Mancha, when he went down into the cave +of that enchanted Montesinos, where he found people to make more of him +than if he had been in his own house; for it seems he came in for a +table laid out and a bed ready made. There he saw fair and pleasant +visions, but here I’ll see, I imagine, toads and adders. Unlucky wretch +that I am, what an end my follies and fancies have come to! They’ll +take up my bones out of this, when it is heaven’s will that I’m found, +picked clean, white and polished, and my good Dapple’s with them, and +by that, perhaps, it will be found out who we are, at least by such as +have heard that Sancho Panza never separated from his ass, nor his ass +from Sancho Panza. Unlucky wretches, I say again, that our hard fate +should not let us die in our own country and among our own people, +where if there was no help for our misfortune, at any rate there would +be someone to grieve for it and to close our eyes as we passed away! O +comrade and friend, how ill have I repaid thy faithful services! +Forgive me, and entreat Fortune, as well as thou canst, to deliver us +out of this miserable strait we are both in; and I promise to put a +crown of laurel on thy head, and make thee look like a poet laureate, +and give thee double feeds.” + + + +p55b.jpg (273K) + +Full Size + + + +In this strain did Sancho bewail himself, and his ass listened to him, +but answered him never a word, such was the distress and anguish the +poor beast found himself in. At length, after a night spent in bitter +moanings and lamentations, day came, and by its light Sancho perceived +that it was wholly impossible to escape out of that pit without help, +and he fell to bemoaning his fate and uttering loud shouts to find out +if there was anyone within hearing; but all his shouting was only +crying in the wilderness, for there was not a soul anywhere in the +neighbourhood to hear him, and then at last he gave himself up for +dead. Dapple was lying on his back, and Sancho helped him to his feet, +which he was scarcely able to keep; and then taking a piece of bread +out of his alforjas which had shared their fortunes in the fall, he +gave it to the ass, to whom it was not unwelcome, saying to him as if +he understood him, “With bread all sorrows are less.” + +And now he perceived on one side of the pit a hole large enough to +admit a person if he stooped and squeezed himself into a small compass. +Sancho made for it, and entered it by creeping, and found it wide and +spacious on the inside, which he was able to see as a ray of sunlight +that penetrated what might be called the roof showed it all plainly. He +observed too that it opened and widened out into another spacious +cavity; seeing which he made his way back to where the ass was, and +with a stone began to pick away the clay from the hole until in a short +time he had made room for the beast to pass easily, and this +accomplished, taking him by the halter, he proceeded to traverse the +cavern to see if there was any outlet at the other end. He advanced, +sometimes in the dark, sometimes without light, but never without fear; +“God Almighty help me!” said he to himself; “this that is a +misadventure to me would make a good adventure for my master Don +Quixote. He would have been sure to take these depths and dungeons for +flowery gardens or the palaces of Galiana, and would have counted upon +issuing out of this darkness and imprisonment into some blooming +meadow; but I, unlucky that I am, hopeless and spiritless, expect at +every step another pit deeper than the first to open under my feet and +swallow me up for good; ‘welcome evil, if thou comest alone.’” + +In this way and with these reflections he seemed to himself to have +travelled rather more than half a league, when at last he perceived a +dim light that looked like daylight and found its way in on one side, +showing that this road, which appeared to him the road to the other +world, led to some opening. + +Here Cide Hamete leaves him, and returns to Don Quixote, who in high +spirits and satisfaction was looking forward to the day fixed for the +battle he was to fight with him who had robbed Doña Rodriguez’s +daughter of her honour, for whom he hoped to obtain satisfaction for +the wrong and injury shamefully done to her. It came to pass, then, +that having sallied forth one morning to practise and exercise himself +in what he would have to do in the encounter he expected to find +himself engaged in the next day, as he was putting Rocinante through +his paces or pressing him to the charge, he brought his feet so close +to a pit that but for reining him in tightly it would have been +impossible for him to avoid falling into it. He pulled him up, however, +without a fall, and coming a little closer examined the hole without +dismounting; but as he was looking at it he heard loud cries proceeding +from it, and by listening attentively was able to make out that he who +uttered them was saying, “Ho, above there! is there any Christian that +hears me, or any charitable gentleman that will take pity on a sinner +buried alive, on an unfortunate disgoverned governor?” + +It struck Don Quixote that it was the voice of Sancho Panza he heard, +whereat he was taken aback and amazed, and raising his own voice as +much as he could, he cried out, “Who is below there? Who is that +complaining?” + +“Who should be here, or who should complain,” was the answer, “but the +forlorn Sancho Panza, for his sins and for his ill-luck governor of the +island of Barataria, squire that was to the famous knight Don Quixote +of La Mancha?” + +When Don Quixote heard this his amazement was redoubled and his +perturbation grew greater than ever, for it suggested itself to his +mind that Sancho must be dead, and that his soul was in torment down +there; and carried away by this idea he exclaimed, “I conjure thee by +everything that as a Catholic Christian I can conjure thee by, tell me +who thou art; and if thou art a soul in torment, tell me what thou +wouldst have me do for thee; for as my profession is to give aid and +succour to those that need it in this world, it will also extend to +aiding and succouring the distressed of the other, who cannot help +themselves.” + +“In that case,” answered the voice, “your worship who speaks to me must +be my master Don Quixote of La Mancha; nay, from the tone of the voice +it is plain it can be nobody else.” + +“Don Quixote I am,” replied Don Quixote, “he whose profession it is to +aid and succour the living and the dead in their necessities; wherefore +tell me who thou art, for thou art keeping me in suspense; because, if +thou art my squire Sancho Panza, and art dead, since the devils have +not carried thee off, and thou art by God’s mercy in purgatory, our +holy mother the Roman Catholic Church has intercessory means sufficient +to release thee from the pains thou art in; and I for my part will +plead with her to that end, so far as my substance will go; without +further delay, therefore, declare thyself, and tell me who thou art.” + +“By all that’s good,” was the answer, “and by the birth of whomsoever +your worship chooses, I swear, Señor Don Quixote of La Mancha, that I +am your squire Sancho Panza, and that I have never died all my life; +but that, having given up my government for reasons that would require +more time to explain, I fell last night into this pit where I am now, +and Dapple is witness and won’t let me lie, for more by token he is +here with me.” + +Nor was this all; one would have fancied the ass understood what Sancho +said, because that moment he began to bray so loudly that the whole +cave rang again. + +“Famous testimony!” exclaimed Don Quixote; “I know that bray as well as +if I was its mother, and thy voice too, my Sancho. Wait while I go to +the duke’s castle, which is close by, and I will bring someone to take +thee out of this pit into which thy sins no doubt have brought thee.” + +“Go, your worship,” said Sancho, “and come back quick for God’s sake; +for I cannot bear being buried alive any longer, and I’m dying of +fear.” + +Don Quixote left him, and hastened to the castle to tell the duke and +duchess what had happened Sancho, and they were not a little astonished +at it; they could easily understand his having fallen, from the +confirmatory circumstance of the cave which had been in existence there +from time immemorial; but they could not imagine how he had quitted the +government without their receiving any intimation of his coming. To be +brief, they fetched ropes and tackle, as the saying is, and by dint of +many hands and much labour they drew up Dapple and Sancho Panza out of +the darkness into the light of day. A student who saw him remarked, +“That’s the way all bad governors should come out of their governments, +as this sinner comes out of the depths of the pit, dead with hunger, +pale, and I suppose without a farthing.” + +Sancho overheard him and said, “It is eight or ten days, brother +growler, since I entered upon the government of the island they gave +me, and all that time I never had a bellyful of victuals, no not for an +hour; doctors persecuted me and enemies crushed my bones; nor had I any +opportunity of taking bribes or levying taxes; and if that be the case, +as it is, I don’t deserve, I think, to come out in this fashion; but +‘man proposes and God disposes;’ and God knows what is best, and what +suits each one best; and ‘as the occasion, so the behaviour;’ and ‘let +nobody say “I won’t drink of this water;”’ and ‘where one thinks there +are flitches, there are no pegs;’ God knows my meaning and that’s +enough; I say no more, though I could.” + +“Be not angry or annoyed at what thou hearest, Sancho,” said Don +Quixote, “or there will never be an end of it; keep a safe conscience +and let them say what they like; for trying to stop slanderers’ tongues +is like trying to put gates to the open plain. If a governor comes out +of his government rich, they say he has been a thief; and if he comes +out poor, that he has been a noodle and a blockhead.” + +“They’ll be pretty sure this time,” said Sancho, “to set me down for a +fool rather than a thief.” + +Thus talking, and surrounded by boys and a crowd of people, they +reached the castle, where in one of the corridors the duke and duchess +stood waiting for them; but Sancho would not go up to see the duke +until he had first put up Dapple in the stable, for he said he had +passed a very bad night in his last quarters; then he went upstairs to +see his lord and lady, and kneeling before them he said, “Because it +was your highnesses’ pleasure, not because of any desert of my own, I +went to govern your island of Barataria, which ‘I entered naked, and +naked I find myself; I neither lose nor gain.’ Whether I have governed +well or ill, I have had witnesses who will say what they think fit. I +have answered questions, I have decided causes, and always dying of +hunger, for Doctor Pedro Recio of Tirteafuera, the island and governor +doctor, would have it so. Enemies attacked us by night and put us in a +great quandary, but the people of the island say they came off safe and +victorious by the might of my arm; and may God give them as much health +as there’s truth in what they say. In short, during that time I have +weighed the cares and responsibilities governing brings with it, and by +my reckoning I find my shoulders can’t bear them, nor are they a load +for my loins or arrows for my quiver; and so, before the government +threw me over I preferred to throw the government over; and yesterday +morning I left the island as I found it, with the same streets, houses, +and roofs it had when I entered it. I asked no loan of anybody, nor did +I try to fill my pocket; and though I meant to make some useful laws, I +made hardly any, as I was afraid they would not be kept; for in that +case it comes to the same thing to make them or not to make them. I +quitted the island, as I said, without any escort except my ass; I fell +into a pit, I pushed on through it, until this morning by the light of +the sun I saw an outlet, but not so easy a one but that, had not heaven +sent me my master Don Quixote, I’d have stayed there till the end of +the world. So now my lord and lady duke and duchess, here is your +governor Sancho Panza, who in the bare ten days he has held the +government has come by the knowledge that he would not give anything to +be governor, not to say of an island, but of the whole world; and that +point being settled, kissing your worships’ feet, and imitating the +game of the boys when they say, ‘leap thou, and give me one,’ I take a +leap out of the government and pass into the service of my master Don +Quixote; for after all, though in it I eat my bread in fear and +trembling, at any rate I take my fill; and for my part, so long as I’m +full, it’s all alike to me whether it’s with carrots or with +partridges.” + +Here Sancho brought his long speech to an end, Don Quixote having been +the whole time in dread of his uttering a host of absurdities; and when +he found him leave off with so few, he thanked heaven in his heart. The +duke embraced Sancho and told him he was heartily sorry he had given up +the government so soon, but that he would see that he was provided with +some other post on his estate less onerous and more profitable. The +duchess also embraced him, and gave orders that he should be taken good +care of, as it was plain to see he had been badly treated and worse +bruised. + + + +p55e.jpg (18K) + + + +CHAPTER LVI. +OF THE PRODIGIOUS AND UNPARALLELED BATTLE THAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON +QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA AND THE LACQUEY TOSILOS IN DEFENCE OF THE DAUGHTER +OF DOÑA RODRIGUEZ + + + + +p56a.jpg (158K) + +Full Size + + + +The duke and duchess had no reason to regret the joke that had been +played upon Sancho Panza in giving him the government; especially as +their majordomo returned the same day, and gave them a minute account +of almost every word and deed that Sancho uttered or did during the +time; and to wind up with, eloquently described to them the attack upon +the island and Sancho’s fright and departure, with which they were not +a little amused. After this the history goes on to say that the day +fixed for the battle arrived, and that the duke, after having +repeatedly instructed his lacquey Tosilos how to deal with Don Quixote +so as to vanquish him without killing or wounding him, gave orders to +have the heads removed from the lances, telling Don Quixote that +Christian charity, on which he plumed himself, could not suffer the +battle to be fought with so much risk and danger to life; and that he +must be content with the offer of a battlefield on his territory +(though that was against the decree of the holy Council, which +prohibits all challenges of the sort) and not push such an arduous +venture to its extreme limits. Don Quixote bade his excellence arrange +all matters connected with the affair as he pleased, as on his part he +would obey him in everything. The dread day, then, having arrived, and +the duke having ordered a spacious stand to be erected facing the court +of the castle for the judges of the field and the appellant duennas, +mother and daughter, vast crowds flocked from all the villages and +hamlets of the neighbourhood to see the novel spectacle of the battle; +nobody, dead or alive, in those parts having ever seen or heard of such +a one. + +The first person to enter the field and the lists was the master of the +ceremonies, who surveyed and paced the whole ground to see that there +was nothing unfair and nothing concealed to make the combatants stumble +or fall; then the duennas entered and seated themselves, enveloped in +mantles covering their eyes, nay even their bosoms, and displaying no +slight emotion as Don Quixote appeared in the lists. Shortly +afterwards, accompanied by several trumpets and mounted on a powerful +steed that threatened to crush the whole place, the great lacquey +Tosilos made his appearance on one side of the courtyard with his visor +down and stiffly cased in a suit of stout shining armour. The horse was +a manifest Frieslander, broad-backed and flea-bitten, and with half a +hundred of wool hanging to each of his fetlocks. The gallant combatant +came well primed by his master the duke as to how he was to bear +himself against the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha; being warned that +he must on no account slay him, but strive to shirk the first encounter +so as to avoid the risk of killing him, as he was sure to do if he met +him full tilt. He crossed the courtyard at a walk, and coming to where +the duennas were placed stopped to look at her who demanded him for a +husband; the marshal of the field summoned Don Quixote, who had already +presented himself in the courtyard, and standing by the side of Tosilos +he addressed the duennas, and asked them if they consented that Don +Quixote of La Mancha should do battle for their right. They said they +did, and that whatever he should do in that behalf they declared +rightly done, final and valid. By this time the duke and duchess had +taken their places in a gallery commanding the enclosure, which was +filled to overflowing with a multitude of people eager to see this +perilous and unparalleled encounter. The conditions of the combat were +that if Don Quixote proved the victor his antagonist was to marry the +daughter of Doña Rodriguez; but if he should be vanquished his opponent +was released from the promise that was claimed against him and from all +obligations to give satisfaction. The master of the ceremonies +apportioned the sun to them, and stationed them, each on the spot where +he was to stand. The drums beat, the sound of the trumpets filled the +air, the earth trembled under foot, the hearts of the gazing crowd were +full of anxiety, some hoping for a happy issue, some apprehensive of an +untoward ending to the affair, and lastly, Don Quixote, commending +himself with all his heart to God our Lord and to the lady Dulcinea del +Toboso, stood waiting for them to give the necessary signal for the +onset. Our lacquey, however, was thinking of something very different; +he only thought of what I am now going to mention. + +It seems that as he stood contemplating his enemy she struck him as the +most beautiful woman he had ever seen all his life; and the little +blind boy whom in our streets they commonly call Love had no mind to +let slip the chance of triumphing over a lacquey heart, and adding it +to the list of his trophies; and so, stealing gently upon him unseen, +he drove a dart two yards long into the poor lacquey’s left side and +pierced his heart through and through; which he was able to do quite at +his ease, for Love is invisible, and comes in and goes out as he likes, +without anyone calling him to account for what he does. Well then, when +they gave the signal for the onset our lacquey was in an ecstasy, +musing upon the beauty of her whom he had already made mistress of his +liberty, and so he paid no attention to the sound of the trumpet, +unlike Don Quixote, who was off the instant he heard it, and, at the +highest speed Rocinante was capable of, set out to meet his enemy, his +good squire Sancho shouting lustily as he saw him start, “God guide +thee, cream and flower of knights-errant! God give thee the victory, +for thou hast the right on thy side!” But though Tosilos saw Don +Quixote coming at him he never stirred a step from the spot where he +was posted; and instead of doing so called loudly to the marshal of the +field, to whom when he came up to see what he wanted he said, “Señor, +is not this battle to decide whether I marry or do not marry that +lady?” “Just so,” was the answer. “Well then,” said the lacquey, “I +feel qualms of conscience, and I should lay a heavy burden upon it if I +were to proceed any further with the combat; I therefore declare that I +yield myself vanquished, and that I am willing to marry the lady at +once.” + +The marshal of the field was lost in astonishment at the words of +Tosilos; and as he was one of those who were privy to the arrangement +of the affair he knew not what to say in reply. Don Quixote pulled up +in mid career when he saw that his enemy was not coming on to the +attack. The duke could not make out the reason why the battle did not +go on; but the marshal of the field hastened to him to let him know +what Tosilos said, and he was amazed and extremely angry at it. In the +meantime Tosilos advanced to where Doña Rodriguez sat and said in a +loud voice, “Señora, I am willing to marry your daughter, and I have no +wish to obtain by strife and fighting what I can obtain in peace and +without any risk to my life.” + +The valiant Don Quixote heard him, and said, “As that is the case I am +released and absolved from my promise; let them marry by all means, and +as ‘God our Lord has given her, may Saint Peter add his blessing.’” + +The duke had now descended to the courtyard of the castle, and going up +to Tosilos he said to him, “Is it true, sir knight, that you yield +yourself vanquished, and that moved by scruples of conscience you wish +to marry this damsel?” + +“It is, señor,” replied Tosilos. + +“And he does well,” said Sancho, “for what thou hast to give to the +mouse, give to the cat, and it will save thee all trouble.” + +Tosilos meanwhile was trying to unlace his helmet, and he begged them +to come to his help at once, as his power of breathing was failing him, +and he could not remain so long shut up in that confined space. They +removed it in all haste, and his lacquey features were revealed to +public gaze. At this sight Doña Rodriguez and her daughter raised a +mighty outcry, exclaiming, “This is a trick! This is a trick! They have +put Tosilos, my lord the duke’s lacquey, upon us in place of the real +husband. The justice of God and the king against such trickery, not to +say roguery!” + +“Do not distress yourselves, ladies,” said Don Quixote; “for this is no +trickery or roguery; or if it is, it is not the duke who is at the +bottom of it, but those wicked enchanters who persecute me, and who, +jealous of my reaping the glory of this victory, have turned your +husband’s features into those of this person, who you say is a lacquey +of the duke’s; take my advice, and notwithstanding the malice of my +enemies marry him, for beyond a doubt he is the one you wish for a +husband.” + +When the duke heard this all his anger was near vanishing in a fit of +laughter, and he said, “The things that happen to Señor Don Quixote are +so extraordinary that I am ready to believe this lacquey of mine is not +one; but let us adopt this plan and device; let us put off the marriage +for, say, a fortnight, and let us keep this person about whom we are +uncertain in close confinement, and perhaps in the course of that time +he may return to his original shape; for the spite which the enchanters +entertain against Señor Don Quixote cannot last so long, especially as +it is of so little advantage to them to practise these deceptions and +transformations.” + +“Oh, señor,” said Sancho, “those scoundrels are well used to changing +whatever concerns my master from one thing into another. A knight that +he overcame some time back, called the Knight of the Mirrors, they +turned into the shape of the bachelor Samson Carrasco of our town and a +great friend of ours; and my lady Dulcinea del Toboso they have turned +into a common country wench; so I suspect this lacquey will have to +live and die a lacquey all the days of his life.” + +Here the Rodriguez’s daughter exclaimed, “Let him be who he may, this +man that claims me for a wife; I am thankful to him for the same, for I +had rather be the lawful wife of a lacquey than the cheated mistress of +a gentleman; though he who played me false is nothing of the kind.” + +To be brief, all the talk and all that had happened ended in Tosilos +being shut up until it was seen how his transformation turned out. All +hailed Don Quixote as victor, but the greater number were vexed and +disappointed at finding that the combatants they had been so anxiously +waiting for had not battered one another to pieces, just as the boys +are disappointed when the man they are waiting to see hanged does not +come out, because the prosecution or the court has pardoned him. The +people dispersed, the duke and Don Quixote returned to the castle, they +locked up Tosilos, Doña Rodriguez and her daughter remained perfectly +contented when they saw that any way the affair must end in marriage, +and Tosilos wanted nothing else. + + + +p56e.jpg (46K) + + + +CHAPTER LVII. +WHICH TREATS OF HOW DON QUIXOTE TOOK LEAVE OF THE DUKE, AND OF WHAT +FOLLOWED WITH THE WITTY AND IMPUDENT ALTISIDORA, ONE OF THE DUCHESS’S +DAMSELS + + + + +p57a.jpg (119K) + +Full Size + + + +Don Quixote now felt it right to quit a life of such idleness as he was +leading in the castle; for he fancied that he was making himself sorely +missed by suffering himself to remain shut up and inactive amid the +countless luxuries and enjoyments his hosts lavished upon him as a +knight, and he felt too that he would have to render a strict account +to heaven of that indolence and seclusion; and so one day he asked the +duke and duchess to grant him permission to take his departure. They +gave it, showing at the same time that they were very sorry he was +leaving them. + + + +p57b.jpg (370K) + +Full Size + + + +The duchess gave his wife’s letters to Sancho Panza, who shed tears +over them, saying, “Who would have thought that such grand hopes as the +news of my government bred in my wife Teresa Panza’s breast would end +in my going back now to the vagabond adventures of my master Don +Quixote of La Mancha? Still I’m glad to see my Teresa behaved as she +ought in sending the acorns, for if she had not sent them I’d have been +sorry, and she’d have shown herself ungrateful. It is a comfort to me +that they can’t call that present a bribe; for I had got the government +already when she sent them, and it’s but reasonable that those who have +had a good turn done them should show their gratitude, if it’s only +with a trifle. After all I went into the government naked, and I come +out of it naked; so I can say with a safe conscience—and that’s no +small matter—‘naked I was born, naked I find myself, I neither lose nor +gain.’” + +Thus did Sancho soliloquise on the day of their departure, as Don +Quixote, who had the night before taken leave of the duke and duchess, +coming out made his appearance at an early hour in full armour in the +courtyard of the castle. The whole household of the castle were +watching him from the corridors, and the duke and duchess, too, came +out to see him. Sancho was mounted on his Dapple, with his alforjas, +valise, and proven supremely happy because the duke’s majordomo, the +same that had acted the part of the Trifaldi, had given him a little +purse with two hundred gold crowns to meet the necessary expenses of +the road, but of this Don Quixote knew nothing as yet. While all were, +as has been said, observing him, suddenly from among the duennas and +handmaidens the impudent and witty Altisidora lifted up her voice and +said in pathetic tones: + +Give ear, cruel knight; +Draw rein; where’s the need +Of spurring the flanks +Of that ill-broken steed? +From what art thou flying? +No dragon I am, +Not even a sheep, +But a tender young lamb. +Thou hast jilted a maiden +As fair to behold +As nymph of Diana +Or Venus of old. +Bireno, Æneas, what worse shall I call thee? +Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee! + +In thy claws, ruthless robber, +Thou bearest away +The heart of a meek +Loving maid for thy prey, +Three kerchiefs thou stealest, +And garters a pair, +From legs than the whitest +Of marble more fair; +And the sighs that pursue thee +Would burn to the ground +Two thousand Troy Towns, +If so many were found. +Bireno, Æneas, what worse shall I call thee? +Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee! + +May no bowels of mercy +To Sancho be granted, +And thy Dulcinea +Be left still enchanted, +May thy falsehood to me +Find its punishment in her, +For in my land the just +Often pays for the sinner. +May thy grandest adventures +Discomfitures prove, +May thy joys be all dreams, +And forgotten thy love. +Bireno, Æneas, what worse shall I call thee? +Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee! + +May thy name be abhorred +For thy conduct to ladies, +From London to England, +From Seville to Cadiz; +May thy cards be unlucky, +Thy hands contain ne’er a +King, seven, or ace +When thou playest primera; +When thy corns are cut +May it be to the quick; +When thy grinders are drawn +May the roots of them stick. +Bireno, Æneas, what worse shall I call thee? +Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee! + + +All the while the unhappy Altisidora was bewailing herself in the above +strain Don Quixote stood staring at her; and without uttering a word in +reply to her he turned round to Sancho and said, “Sancho my friend, I +conjure thee by the life of thy forefathers tell me the truth; say, +hast thou by any chance taken the three kerchiefs and the garters this +love-sick maid speaks of?” + +To this Sancho made answer, “The three kerchiefs I have; but the +garters, as much as ‘over the hills of Úbeda.’” + +The duchess was amazed at Altisidora’s assurance; she knew that she was +bold, lively, and impudent, but not so much so as to venture to make +free in this fashion; and not being prepared for the joke, her +astonishment was all the greater. The duke had a mind to keep up the +sport, so he said, “It does not seem to me well done in you, sir +knight, that after having received the hospitality that has been +offered you in this very castle, you should have ventured to carry off +even three kerchiefs, not to say my handmaid’s garters. It shows a bad +heart and does not tally with your reputation. Restore her garters, or +else I defy you to mortal combat, for I am not afraid of rascally +enchanters changing or altering my features as they changed his who +encountered you into those of my lacquey, Tosilos.” + +“God forbid,” said Don Quixote, “that I should draw my sword against +your illustrious person from which I have received such great favours. +The kerchiefs I will restore, as Sancho says he has them; as to the +garters that is impossible, for I have not got them, neither has he; +and if your handmaiden here will look in her hiding-places, depend upon +it she will find them. I have never been a thief, my lord duke, nor do +I mean to be so long as I live, if God cease not to have me in his +keeping. This damsel by her own confession speaks as one in love, for +which I am not to blame, and therefore need not ask pardon, either of +her or of your excellence, whom I entreat to have a better opinion of +me, and once more to give me leave to pursue my journey.” + +“And may God so prosper it, Señor Don Quixote,” said the duchess, “that +we may always hear good news of your exploits; God speed you; for the +longer you stay, the more you inflame the hearts of the damsels who +behold you; and as for this one of mine, I will so chastise her that +she will not transgress again, either with her eyes or with her words.” + +“One word and no more, O valiant Don Quixote, I ask you to hear,” said +Altisidora, “and that is that I beg your pardon about the theft of the +garters; for by God and upon my soul I have got them on, and I have +fallen into the same blunder as he did who went looking for his ass +being all the while mounted on it.” + +“Didn’t I say so?” said Sancho. “I’m a likely one to hide thefts! Why +if I wanted to deal in them, opportunities came ready enough to me in +my government.” + +Don Quixote bowed his head, and saluted the duke and duchess and all +the bystanders, and wheeling Rocinante round, Sancho following him on +Dapple, he rode out of the castle, shaping his course for Saragossa. + + + +p57e.jpg (71K) + + + +CHAPTER LVIII. +WHICH TELLS HOW ADVENTURES CAME CROWDING ON DON QUIXOTE IN SUCH NUMBERS +THAT THEY GAVE ONE ANOTHER NO BREATHING-TIME + + + + +p58a.jpg (105K) + +Full Size + + + +When Don Quixote saw himself in open country, free, and relieved from +the attentions of Altisidora, he felt at his ease, and in fresh spirits +to take up the pursuit of chivalry once more; and turning to Sancho, he +said, “Freedom, Sancho, is one of the most precious gifts that heaven +has bestowed upon men; no treasures that the earth holds buried or the +sea conceals can compare with it; for freedom, as for honour, life may +and should be ventured; and on the other hand, captivity is the +greatest evil that can fall to the lot of man. I say this, Sancho, +because thou hast seen the good cheer, the abundance we have enjoyed in +this castle we are leaving; well then, amid those dainty banquets and +snow-cooled beverages I felt as though I were undergoing the straits of +hunger, because I did not enjoy them with the same freedom as if they +had been mine own; for the sense of being under an obligation to return +benefits and favours received is a restraint that checks the +independence of the spirit. Happy he, to whom heaven has given a piece +of bread for which he is not bound to give thanks to any but heaven +itself!” + +“For all your worship says,” said Sancho, “it is not becoming that +there should be no thanks on our part for two hundred gold crowns that +the duke’s majordomo has given me in a little purse which I carry next +my heart, like a warming plaster or comforter, to meet any chance +calls; for we shan’t always find castles where they’ll entertain us; +now and then we may light upon roadside inns where they’ll cudgel us.” + +In conversation of this sort the knight and squire errant were pursuing +their journey, when, after they had gone a little more than half a +league, they perceived some dozen men dressed like labourers stretched +upon their cloaks on the grass of a green meadow eating their dinner. +They had beside them what seemed to be white sheets concealing some +objects under them, standing upright or lying flat, and arranged at +intervals. Don Quixote approached the diners, and, saluting them +courteously first, he asked them what it was those cloths covered. +“Señor,” answered one of the party, “under these cloths are some images +carved in relief intended for a retablo we are putting up in our +village; we carry them covered up that they may not be soiled, and on +our shoulders that they may not be broken.” + +“With your good leave,” said Don Quixote, “I should like to see them; +for images that are carried so carefully no doubt must be fine ones.” + +“I should think they were!” said the other; “let the money they cost +speak for that; for as a matter of fact there is not one of them that +does not stand us in more than fifty ducats; and that your worship may +judge; wait a moment, and you shall see with your own eyes;” and +getting up from his dinner he went and uncovered the first image, which +proved to be one of Saint George on horseback with a serpent writhing +at his feet and the lance thrust down its throat with all that +fierceness that is usually depicted. The whole group was one blaze of +gold, as the saying is. On seeing it Don Quixote said, “That knight was +one of the best knights-errant the army of heaven ever owned; he was +called Don Saint George, and he was moreover a defender of maidens. Let +us see this next one.” + +The man uncovered it, and it was seen to be that of Saint Martin on his +horse, dividing his cloak with the beggar. The instant Don Quixote saw +it he said, “This knight too was one of the Christian adventurers, but +I believe he was generous rather than valiant, as thou mayest perceive, +Sancho, by his dividing his cloak with the beggar and giving him half +of it; no doubt it was winter at the time, for otherwise he would have +given him the whole of it, so charitable was he.” + +“It was not that, most likely,” said Sancho, “but that he held with the +proverb that says, ‘For giving and keeping there’s need of brains.’” + +Don Quixote laughed, and asked them to take off the next cloth, +underneath which was seen the image of the patron saint of the Spains +seated on horseback, his sword stained with blood, trampling on Moors +and treading heads underfoot; and on seeing it Don Quixote exclaimed, +“Ay, this is a knight, and of the squadrons of Christ! This one is +called Don Saint James the Moorslayer, one of the bravest saints and +knights the world ever had or heaven has now.” + +They then raised another cloth which it appeared covered Saint Paul +falling from his horse, with all the details that are usually given in +representations of his conversion. When Don Quixote saw it, rendered in +such lifelike style that one would have said Christ was speaking and +Paul answering, “This,” he said, “was in his time the greatest enemy +that the Church of God our Lord had, and the greatest champion it will +ever have; a knight-errant in life, a steadfast saint in death, an +untiring labourer in the Lord’s vineyard, a teacher of the Gentiles, +whose school was heaven, and whose instructor and master was Jesus +Christ himself.” + +There were no more images, so Don Quixote bade them cover them up +again, and said to those who had brought them, “I take it as a happy +omen, brothers, to have seen what I have; for these saints and knights +were of the same profession as myself, which is the calling of arms; +only there is this difference between them and me, that they were +saints, and fought with divine weapons, and I am a sinner and fight +with human ones. They won heaven by force of arms, for heaven suffereth +violence; and I, so far, know not what I have won by dint of my +sufferings; but if my Dulcinea del Toboso were to be released from +hers, perhaps with mended fortunes and a mind restored to itself I +might direct my steps in a better path than I am following at present.” + +“May God hear and sin be deaf,” said Sancho to this. + +The men were filled with wonder, as well at the figure as at the words +of Don Quixote, though they did not understand one half of what he +meant by them. They finished their dinner, took their images on their +backs, and bidding farewell to Don Quixote resumed their journey. + +Sancho was amazed afresh at the extent of his master’s knowledge, as +much as if he had never known him, for it seemed to him that there was +no story or event in the world that he had not at his fingers’ ends and +fixed in his memory, and he said to him, “In truth, master mine, if +this that has happened to us to-day is to be called an adventure, it +has been one of the sweetest and pleasantest that have befallen us in +the whole course of our travels; we have come out of it unbelaboured +and undismayed, neither have we drawn sword nor have we smitten the +earth with our bodies, nor have we been left famishing; blessed be God +that he has let me see such a thing with my own eyes!” + +“Thou sayest well, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “but remember all times +are not alike nor do they always run the same way; and these things the +vulgar commonly call omens, which are not based upon any natural +reason, will by him who is wise be esteemed and reckoned happy +accidents merely. One of these believers in omens will get up of a +morning, leave his house, and meet a friar of the order of the blessed +Saint Francis, and, as if he had met a griffin, he will turn about and +go home. With another Mendoza the salt is spilt on his table, and gloom +is spilt over his heart, as if nature was obliged to give warning of +coming misfortunes by means of such trivial things as these. The wise +man and the Christian should not trifle with what it may please heaven +to do. Scipio on coming to Africa stumbled as he leaped on shore; his +soldiers took it as a bad omen; but he, clasping the soil with his +arms, exclaimed, ‘Thou canst not escape me, Africa, for I hold thee +tight between my arms.’ Thus, Sancho, meeting those images has been to +me a most happy occurrence.” + +“I can well believe it,” said Sancho; “but I wish your worship would +tell me what is the reason that the Spaniards, when they are about to +give battle, in calling on that Saint James the Moorslayer, say +‘Santiago and close Spain!’ Is Spain, then, open, so that it is needful +to close it; or what is the meaning of this form?” + +“Thou art very simple, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “God, look you, gave +that great knight of the Red Cross to Spain as her patron saint and +protector, especially in those hard struggles the Spaniards had with +the Moors; and therefore they invoke and call upon him as their +defender in all their battles; and in these he has been many a time +seen beating down, trampling under foot, destroying and slaughtering +the Hagarene squadrons in the sight of all; of which fact I could give +thee many examples recorded in truthful Spanish histories.” + +Sancho changed the subject, and said to his master, “I marvel, señor, +at the boldness of Altisidora, the duchess’s handmaid; he whom they +call Love must have cruelly pierced and wounded her; they say he is a +little blind urchin who, though blear-eyed, or more properly speaking +sightless, if he aims at a heart, be it ever so small, hits it and +pierces it through and through with his arrows. I have heard it said +too that the arrows of Love are blunted and robbed of their points by +maidenly modesty and reserve; but with this Altisidora it seems they +are sharpened rather than blunted.” + +“Bear in mind, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that love is influenced by +no consideration, recognises no restraints of reason, and is of the +same nature as death, that assails alike the lofty palaces of kings and +the humble cabins of shepherds; and when it takes entire possession of +a heart, the first thing it does is to banish fear and shame from it; +and so without shame Altisidora declared her passion, which excited in +my mind embarrassment rather than commiseration.” + +“Notable cruelty!” exclaimed Sancho; “unheard-of ingratitude! I can +only say for myself that the very smallest loving word of hers would +have subdued me and made a slave of me. The devil! What a heart of +marble, what bowels of brass, what a soul of mortar! But I can’t +imagine what it is that this damsel saw in your worship that could have +conquered and captivated her so. What gallant figure was it, what bold +bearing, what sprightly grace, what comeliness of feature, which of +these things by itself, or what all together, could have made her fall +in love with you? For indeed and in truth many a time I stop to look at +your worship from the sole of your foot to the topmost hair of your +head, and I see more to frighten one than to make one fall in love; +moreover I have heard say that beauty is the first and main thing that +excites love, and as your worship has none at all, I don’t know what +the poor creature fell in love with.” + +“Recollect, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “there are two sorts of +beauty, one of the mind, the other of the body; that of the mind +displays and exhibits itself in intelligence, in modesty, in honourable +conduct, in generosity, in good breeding; and all these qualities are +possible and may exist in an ugly man; and when it is this sort of +beauty and not that of the body that is the attraction, love is apt to +spring up suddenly and violently. I, Sancho, perceive clearly enough +that I am not beautiful, but at the same time I know I am not hideous; +and it is enough for an honest man not to be a monster to be an object +of love, if only he possesses the endowments of mind I have mentioned.” + +While engaged in this discourse they were making their way through a +wood that lay beyond the road, when suddenly, without expecting +anything of the kind, Don Quixote found himself caught in some nets of +green cord stretched from one tree to another; and unable to conceive +what it could be, he said to Sancho, “Sancho, it strikes me this affair +of these nets will prove one of the strangest adventures imaginable. +May I die if the enchanters that persecute me are not trying to +entangle me in them and delay my journey, by way of revenge for my +obduracy towards Altisidora. Well then let me tell them that if these +nets, instead of being green cord, were made of the hardest diamonds, +or stronger than that wherewith the jealous god of blacksmiths enmeshed +Venus and Mars, I would break them as easily as if they were made of +rushes or cotton threads.” But just as he was about to press forward +and break through all, suddenly from among some trees two shepherdesses +of surpassing beauty presented themselves to his sight—or at least +damsels dressed like shepherdesses, save that their jerkins and sayas +were of fine brocade; that is to say, the sayas were rich farthingales +of gold embroidered tabby. Their hair, that in its golden brightness +vied with the beams of the sun itself, fell loose upon their shoulders +and was crowned with garlands twined with green laurel and red +everlasting; and their years to all appearance were not under fifteen +nor above eighteen. + + + +p58b.jpg (452K) + +Full Size + + + +Such was the spectacle that filled Sancho with amazement, fascinated +Don Quixote, made the sun halt in his course to behold them, and held +all four in a strange silence. One of the shepherdesses, at length, was +the first to speak and said to Don Quixote, “Hold, sir knight, and do +not break these nets; for they are not spread here to do you any harm, +but only for our amusement; and as I know you will ask why they have +been put up, and who we are, I will tell you in a few words. In a +village some two leagues from this, where there are many people of +quality and rich gentlefolk, it was agreed upon by a number of friends +and relations to come with their wives, sons and daughters, neighbours, +friends and kinsmen, and make holiday in this spot, which is one of the +pleasantest in the whole neighbourhood, setting up a new pastoral +Arcadia among ourselves, we maidens dressing ourselves as shepherdesses +and the youths as shepherds. We have prepared two eclogues, one by the +famous poet Garcilasso, the other by the most excellent Camoens, in its +own Portuguese tongue, but we have not as yet acted them. Yesterday was +the first day of our coming here; we have a few of what they say are +called field-tents pitched among the trees on the bank of an ample +brook that fertilises all these meadows; last night we spread these +nets in the trees here to snare the silly little birds that startled by +the noise we make may fly into them. If you please to be our guest, +señor, you will be welcomed heartily and courteously, for here just now +neither care nor sorrow shall enter.” + +She held her peace and said no more, and Don Quixote made answer, “Of a +truth, fairest lady, Actaeon when he unexpectedly beheld Diana bathing +in the stream could not have been more fascinated and wonderstruck than +I at the sight of your beauty. I commend your mode of entertainment, +and thank you for the kindness of your invitation; and if I can serve +you, you may command me with full confidence of being obeyed, for my +profession is none other than to show myself grateful, and ready to +serve persons of all conditions, but especially persons of quality such +as your appearance indicates; and if, instead of taking up, as they +probably do, but a small space, these nets took up the whole surface of +the globe, I would seek out new worlds through which to pass, so as not +to break them; and that ye may give some degree of credence to this +exaggerated language of mine, know that it is no less than Don Quixote +of La Mancha that makes this declaration to you, if indeed it be that +such a name has reached your ears.” + +“Ah! friend of my soul,” instantly exclaimed the other shepherdess, +“what great good fortune has befallen us! Seest thou this gentleman we +have before us? Well then let me tell thee he is the most valiant and +the most devoted and the most courteous gentleman in all the world, +unless a history of his achievements that has been printed and I have +read is telling lies and deceiving us. I will lay a wager that this +good fellow who is with him is one Sancho Panza his squire, whose +drolleries none can equal.” + +“That’s true,” said Sancho; “I am that same droll and squire you speak +of, and this gentleman is my master Don Quixote of La Mancha, the same +that’s in the history and that they talk about.” + +“Oh, my friend,” said the other, “let us entreat him to stay; for it +will give our fathers and brothers infinite pleasure; I too have heard +just what thou hast told me of the valour of the one and the drolleries +of the other; and what is more, of him they say that he is the most +constant and loyal lover that was ever heard of, and that his lady is +one Dulcinea del Toboso, to whom all over Spain the palm of beauty is +awarded.” + +“And justly awarded,” said Don Quixote, “unless, indeed, your +unequalled beauty makes it a matter of doubt. But spare yourselves the +trouble, ladies, of pressing me to stay, for the urgent calls of my +profession do not allow me to take rest under any circumstances.” + +At this instant there came up to the spot where the four stood a +brother of one of the two shepherdesses, like them in shepherd costume, +and as richly and gaily dressed as they were. They told him that their +companion was the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha, and the other +Sancho his squire, of whom he knew already from having read their +history. The gay shepherd offered him his services and begged that he +would accompany him to their tents, and Don Quixote had to give way and +comply. And now the game was started, and the nets were filled with a +variety of birds that deceived by the colour fell into the danger they +were flying from. Upwards of thirty persons, all gaily attired as +shepherds and shepherdesses, assembled on the spot, and were at once +informed who Don Quixote and his squire were, whereat they were not a +little delighted, as they knew of him already through his history. They +repaired to the tents, where they found tables laid out, and choicely, +plentifully, and neatly furnished. They treated Don Quixote as a person +of distinction, giving him the place of honour, and all observed him, +and were full of astonishment at the spectacle. At last the cloth being +removed, Don Quixote with great composure lifted up his voice and said: + +“One of the greatest sins that men are guilty of is—some will say +pride—but I say ingratitude, going by the common saying that hell is +full of ingrates. This sin, so far as it has lain in my power, I have +endeavoured to avoid ever since I have enjoyed the faculty of reason; +and if I am unable to requite good deeds that have been done me by +other deeds, I substitute the desire to do so; and if that be not +enough I make them known publicly; for he who declares and makes known +the good deeds done to him would repay them by others if it were in his +power, and for the most part those who receive are the inferiors of +those who give. Thus, God is superior to all because he is the supreme +giver, and the offerings of man fall short by an infinite distance of +being a full return for the gifts of God; but gratitude in some degree +makes up for this deficiency and shortcoming. I therefore, grateful for +the favour that has been extended to me here, and unable to make a +return in the same measure, restricted as I am by the narrow limits of +my power, offer what I can and what I have to offer in my own way; and +so I declare that for two full days I will maintain in the middle of +this highway leading to Saragossa, that these ladies disguised as +shepherdesses, who are here present, are the fairest and most courteous +maidens in the world, excepting only the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, +sole mistress of my thoughts, be it said without offence to those who +hear me, ladies and gentlemen.” + +On hearing this Sancho, who had been listening with great attention, +cried out in a loud voice, “Is it possible there is anyone in the world +who will dare to say and swear that this master of mine is a madman? +Say, gentlemen shepherds, is there a village priest, be he ever so wise +or learned, who could say what my master has said; or is there +knight-errant, whatever renown he may have as a man of valour, that +could offer what my master has offered now?” + +Don Quixote turned upon Sancho, and with a countenance glowing with +anger said to him, “Is it possible, Sancho, there is anyone in the +whole world who will say thou art not a fool, with a lining to match, +and I know not what trimmings of impertinence and roguery? Who asked +thee to meddle in my affairs, or to inquire whether I am a wise man or +a blockhead? Hold thy peace; answer me not a word; saddle Rocinante if +he be unsaddled; and let us go to put my offer into execution; for with +the right that I have on my side thou mayest reckon as vanquished all +who shall venture to question it;” and in a great rage, and showing his +anger plainly, he rose from his seat, leaving the company lost in +wonder, and making them feel doubtful whether they ought to regard him +as a madman or a rational being. In the end, though they sought to +dissuade him from involving himself in such a challenge, assuring him +they admitted his gratitude as fully established, and needed no fresh +proofs to be convinced of his valiant spirit, as those related in the +history of his exploits were sufficient, still Don Quixote persisted in +his resolve; and mounted on Rocinante, bracing his buckler on his arm +and grasping his lance, he posted himself in the middle of a high road +that was not far from the green meadow. Sancho followed on Dapple, +together with all the members of the pastoral gathering, eager to see +what would be the upshot of his vainglorious and extraordinary +proposal. + +Don Quixote, then, having, as has been said, planted himself in the +middle of the road, made the welkin ring with words to this effect: “Ho +ye travellers and wayfarers, knights, squires, folk on foot or on +horseback, who pass this way or shall pass in the course of the next +two days! Know that Don Quixote of La Mancha, knight-errant, is posted +here to maintain by arms that the beauty and courtesy enshrined in the +nymphs that dwell in these meadows and groves surpass all upon earth, +putting aside the lady of my heart, Dulcinea del Toboso. Wherefore, let +him who is of the opposite opinion come on, for here I await him.” + +Twice he repeated the same words, and twice they fell unheard by any +adventurer; but fate, that was guiding affairs for him from better to +better, so ordered it that shortly afterwards there appeared on the +road a crowd of men on horseback, many of them with lances in their +hands, all riding in a compact body and in great haste. No sooner had +those who were with Don Quixote seen them than they turned about and +withdrew to some distance from the road, for they knew that if they +stayed some harm might come to them; but Don Quixote with intrepid +heart stood his ground, and Sancho Panza shielded himself with +Rocinante’s hind-quarters. The troop of lancers came up, and one of +them who was in advance began shouting to Don Quixote, “Get out of the +way, you son of the devil, or these bulls will knock you to pieces!” + +“Rabble!” returned Don Quixote, “I care nothing for bulls, be they the +fiercest Jarama breeds on its banks. Confess at once, scoundrels, that +what I have declared is true; else ye have to deal with me in combat.” + +The herdsman had no time to reply, nor Don Quixote to get out of the +way even if he wished; and so the drove of fierce bulls and tame +bullocks, together with the crowd of herdsmen and others who were +taking them to be penned up in a village where they were to be run the +next day, passed over Don Quixote and over Sancho, Rocinante and +Dapple, hurling them all to the earth and rolling them over on the +ground. Sancho was left crushed, Don Quixote scared, Dapple belaboured +and Rocinante in no very sound condition. + + + +p58c.jpg (399K) + +Full Size + + + +They all got up, however, at length, and Don Quixote in great haste, +stumbling here and falling there, started off running after the drove, +shouting out, “Hold! stay! ye rascally rabble, a single knight awaits +you, and he is not of the temper or opinion of those who say, ‘For a +flying enemy make a bridge of silver.’” The retreating party in their +haste, however, did not stop for that, or heed his menaces any more +than last year’s clouds. Weariness brought Don Quixote to a halt, and +more enraged than avenged he sat down on the road to wait until Sancho, +Rocinante and Dapple came up. When they reached him master and man +mounted once more, and without going back to bid farewell to the mock +or imitation Arcadia, and more in humiliation than contentment, they +continued their journey. + + + +p58e.jpg (68K) + +Full Size + + + +CHAPTER LIX. +WHEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE THING, WHICH MAY BE REGARDED AS AN +ADVENTURE, THAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE + + + + +p59a.jpg (126K) + +Full Size + + + +A clear limpid spring which they discovered in a cool grove relieved +Don Quixote and Sancho of the dust and fatigue due to the unpolite +behaviour of the bulls, and by the side of this, having turned Dapple +and Rocinante loose without headstall or bridle, the forlorn pair, +master and man, seated themselves. Sancho had recourse to the larder of +his alforjas and took out of them what he called the prog; Don Quixote +rinsed his mouth and bathed his face, by which cooling process his +flagging energies were revived. Out of pure vexation he remained +without eating, and out of pure politeness Sancho did not venture to +touch a morsel of what was before him, but waited for his master to act +as taster. Seeing, however, that, absorbed in thought, he was +forgetting to carry the bread to his mouth, he said never a word, and +trampling every sort of good breeding under foot, began to stow away in +his paunch the bread and cheese that came to his hand. + + + +p59b.jpg (370K) + +Full Size + + + +“Eat, Sancho my friend,” said Don Quixote; “support life, which is of +more consequence to thee than to me, and leave me to die under the pain +of my thoughts and pressure of my misfortunes. I was born, Sancho, to +live dying, and thou to die eating; and to prove the truth of what I +say, look at me, printed in histories, famed in arms, courteous in +behaviour, honoured by princes, courted by maidens; and after all, when +I looked forward to palms, triumphs, and crowns, won and earned by my +valiant deeds, I have this morning seen myself trampled on, kicked, and +crushed by the feet of unclean and filthy animals. This thought blunts +my teeth, paralyses my jaws, cramps my hands, and robs me of all +appetite for food; so much so that I have a mind to let myself die of +hunger, the cruelest death of all deaths.” + +“So then,” said Sancho, munching hard all the time, “your worship does +not agree with the proverb that says, ‘Let Martha die, but let her die +with a full belly.’ I, at any rate, have no mind to kill myself; so far +from that, I mean to do as the cobbler does, who stretches the leather +with his teeth until he makes it reach as far as he wants. I’ll stretch +out my life by eating until it reaches the end heaven has fixed for it; +and let me tell you, señor, there’s no greater folly than to think of +dying of despair as your worship does; take my advice, and after eating +lie down and sleep a bit on this green grass-mattress, and you will see +that when you awake you’ll feel something better.” + +Don Quixote did as he recommended, for it struck him that Sancho’s +reasoning was more like a philosopher’s than a blockhead’s, and said +he, “Sancho, if thou wilt do for me what I am going to tell thee my +ease of mind would be more assured and my heaviness of heart not so +great; and it is this; to go aside a little while I am sleeping in +accordance with thy advice, and, making bare thy carcase to the air, to +give thyself three or four hundred lashes with Rocinante’s reins, on +account of the three thousand and odd thou art to give thyself for the +disenchantment of Dulcinea; for it is a great pity that the poor lady +should be left enchanted through thy carelessness and negligence.” + +“There is a good deal to be said on that point,” said Sancho; “let us +both go to sleep now, and after that, God has decreed what will happen. +Let me tell your worship that for a man to whip himself in cold blood +is a hard thing, especially if the stripes fall upon an ill-nourished +and worse-fed body. Let my lady Dulcinea have patience, and when she is +least expecting it, she will see me made a riddle of with whipping, and +‘until death it’s all life;’ I mean that I have still life in me, and +the desire to make good what I have promised.” + +Don Quixote thanked him, and ate a little, and Sancho a good deal, and +then they both lay down to sleep, leaving those two inseparable friends +and comrades, Rocinante and Dapple, to their own devices and to feed +unrestrained upon the abundant grass with which the meadow was +furnished. They woke up rather late, mounted once more and resumed +their journey, pushing on to reach an inn which was in sight, +apparently a league off. I say an inn, because Don Quixote called it +so, contrary to his usual practice of calling all inns castles. They +reached it, and asked the landlord if they could put up there. He said +yes, with as much comfort and as good fare as they could find in +Saragossa. They dismounted, and Sancho stowed away his larder in a room +of which the landlord gave him the key. He took the beasts to the +stable, fed them, and came back to see what orders Don Quixote, who was +seated on a bench at the door, had for him, giving special thanks to +heaven that this inn had not been taken for a castle by his master. +Supper-time came, and they repaired to their room, and Sancho asked the +landlord what he had to give them for supper. To this the landlord +replied that his mouth should be the measure; he had only to ask what +he would; for that inn was provided with the birds of the air and the +fowls of the earth and the fish of the sea. + +“There’s no need of all that,” said Sancho; “if they’ll roast us a +couple of chickens we’ll be satisfied, for my master is delicate and +eats little, and I’m not over and above gluttonous.” + +The landlord replied he had no chickens, for the kites had stolen them. + +“Well then,” said Sancho, “let señor landlord tell them to roast a +pullet, so that it is a tender one.” + +“Pullet! My father!” said the landlord; “indeed and in truth it’s only +yesterday I sent over fifty to the city to sell; but saving pullets ask +what you will.” + +“In that case,” said Sancho, “you will not be without veal or kid.” + +“Just now,” said the landlord, “there’s none in the house, for it’s all +finished; but next week there will be enough and to spare.” + +“Much good that does us,” said Sancho; “I’ll lay a bet that all these +short-comings are going to wind up in plenty of bacon and eggs.” + +“By God,” said the landlord, “my guest’s wits must be precious dull; I +tell him I have neither pullets nor hens, and he wants me to have eggs! +Talk of other dainties, if you please, and don’t ask for hens again.” + +“Body o’ me!” said Sancho, “let’s settle the matter; say at once what +you have got, and let us have no more words about it.” + +“In truth and earnest, señor guest,” said the landlord, “all I have is +a couple of cow-heels like calves’ feet, or a couple of calves’ feet +like cowheels; they are boiled with chick-peas, onions, and bacon, and +at this moment they are crying ‘Come eat me, come eat me.” + +“I mark them for mine on the spot,” said Sancho; “let nobody touch +them; I’ll pay better for them than anyone else, for I could not wish +for anything more to my taste; and I don’t care a pin whether they are +feet or heels.” + +“Nobody shall touch them,” said the landlord; “for the other guests I +have, being persons of high quality, bring their own cook and caterer +and larder with them.” + +“If you come to people of quality,” said Sancho, “there’s nobody more +so than my master; but the calling he follows does not allow of larders +or store-rooms; we lay ourselves down in the middle of a meadow, and +fill ourselves with acorns or medlars.” + +Here ended Sancho’s conversation with the landlord, Sancho not caring +to carry it any farther by answering him; for he had already asked him +what calling or what profession it was his master was of. + +Supper-time having come, then, Don Quixote betook himself to his room, +the landlord brought in the stew-pan just as it was, and he sat himself +down to sup very resolutely. It seems that in another room, which was +next to Don Quixote’s, with nothing but a thin partition to separate +it, he overheard these words, “As you live, Señor Don Jeronimo, while +they are bringing supper, let us read another chapter of the Second +Part of ‘Don Quixote of La Mancha.’” + +The instant Don Quixote heard his own name he started to his feet and +listened with open ears to catch what they said about him, and heard +the Don Jeronimo who had been addressed say in reply, “Why would you +have us read that absurd stuff, Don Juan, when it is impossible for +anyone who has read the First Part of the history of ‘Don Quixote of La +Mancha’ to take any pleasure in reading this Second Part?” + +“For all that,” said he who was addressed as Don Juan, “we shall do +well to read it, for there is no book so bad but it has something good +in it. What displeases me most in it is that it represents Don Quixote +as now cured of his love for Dulcinea del Toboso.” + +On hearing this Don Quixote, full of wrath and indignation, lifted up +his voice and said, “Whoever he may be who says that Don Quixote of La +Mancha has forgotten or can forget Dulcinea del Toboso, I will teach +him with equal arms that what he says is very far from the truth; for +neither can the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso be forgotten, nor can +forgetfulness have a place in Don Quixote; his motto is constancy, and +his profession to maintain the same with his life and never wrong it.” + +“Who is this that answers us?” said they in the next room. + +“Who should it be,” said Sancho, “but Don Quixote of La Mancha himself, +who will make good all he has said and all he will say; for pledges +don’t trouble a good payer.” + +Sancho had hardly uttered these words when two gentlemen, for such they +seemed to be, entered the room, and one of them, throwing his arms +round Don Quixote’s neck, said to him, “Your appearance cannot leave +any question as to your name, nor can your name fail to identify your +appearance; unquestionably, señor, you are the real Don Quixote of La +Mancha, cynosure and morning star of knight-errantry, despite and in +defiance of him who has sought to usurp your name and bring to naught +your achievements, as the author of this book which I here present to +you has done;” and with this he put a book which his companion carried +into the hands of Don Quixote, who took it, and without replying began +to run his eye over it; but he presently returned it saying, “In the +little I have seen I have discovered three things in this author that +deserve to be censured. The first is some words that I have read in the +preface; the next that the language is Aragonese, for sometimes he +writes without articles; and the third, which above all stamps him as +ignorant, is that he goes wrong and departs from the truth in the most +important part of the history, for here he says that my squire Sancho +Panza’s wife is called Mari Gutierrez, when she is called nothing of +the sort, but Teresa Panza; and when a man errs on such an important +point as this there is good reason to fear that he is in error on every +other point in the history.” + +“A nice sort of historian, indeed!” exclaimed Sancho at this; “he must +know a deal about our affairs when he calls my wife Teresa Panza, Mari +Gutierrez; take the book again, señor, and see if I am in it and if he +has changed my name.” + +“From your talk, friend,” said Don Jeronimo, “no doubt you are Sancho +Panza, Señor Don Quixote’s squire.” + +“Yes, I am,” said Sancho; “and I’m proud of it.” + +“Faith, then,” said the gentleman, “this new author does not handle you +with the decency that displays itself in your person; he makes you out +a heavy feeder and a fool, and not in the least droll, and a very +different being from the Sancho described in the First Part of your +master’s history.” + +“God forgive him,” said Sancho; “he might have left me in my corner +without troubling his head about me; ‘let him who knows how ring the +bells; ‘Saint Peter is very well in Rome.’” + +The two gentlemen pressed Don Quixote to come into their room and have +supper with them, as they knew very well there was nothing in that inn +fit for one of his sort. Don Quixote, who was always polite, yielded to +their request and supped with them. Sancho stayed behind with the stew. +and invested with plenary delegated authority seated himself at the +head of the table, and the landlord sat down with him, for he was no +less fond of cow-heel and calves’ feet than Sancho was. + +While at supper Don Juan asked Don Quixote what news he had of the lady +Dulcinea del Toboso, was she married, had she been brought to bed, or +was she with child, or did she in maidenhood, still preserving her +modesty and delicacy, cherish the remembrance of the tender passion of +Señor Don Quixote? + +To this he replied, “Dulcinea is a maiden still, and my passion more +firmly rooted than ever, our intercourse unsatisfactory as before, and +her beauty transformed into that of a foul country wench;” and then he +proceeded to give them a full and particular account of the enchantment +of Dulcinea, and of what had happened him in the cave of Montesinos, +together with what the sage Merlin had prescribed for her +disenchantment, namely the scourging of Sancho. + +Exceedingly great was the amusement the two gentlemen derived from +hearing Don Quixote recount the strange incidents of his history; and +if they were amazed by his absurdities they were equally amazed by the +elegant style in which he delivered them. On the one hand they regarded +him as a man of wit and sense, and on the other he seemed to them a +maundering blockhead, and they could not make up their minds +whereabouts between wisdom and folly they ought to place him. + +Sancho having finished his supper, and left the landlord in the X +condition, repaired to the room where his master was, and as he came in +said, “May I die, sirs, if the author of this book your worships have +got has any mind that we should agree; as he calls me glutton +(according to what your worships say) I wish he may not call me +drunkard too.” + +“But he does,” said Don Jeronimo; “I cannot remember, however, in what +way, though I know his words are offensive, and what is more, lying, as +I can see plainly by the physiognomy of the worthy Sancho before me.” + +“Believe me,” said Sancho, “the Sancho and the Don Quixote of this +history must be different persons from those that appear in the one +Cide Hamete Benengeli wrote, who are ourselves; my master valiant, +wise, and true in love, and I simple, droll, and neither glutton nor +drunkard.” + +“I believe it,” said Don Juan; “and were it possible, an order should +be issued that no one should have the presumption to deal with anything +relating to Don Quixote, save his original author Cide Hamete; just as +Alexander commanded that no one should presume to paint his portrait +save Apelles.” + + + +p60b.jpg (336K) + +Full Size + + + +“Let him who will paint me,” said Don Quixote; “but let him not abuse +me; for patience will often break down when they heap insults upon it.” + +“None can be offered to Señor Don Quixote,” said Don Juan, “that he +himself will not be able to avenge, if he does not ward it off with the +shield of his patience, which, I take it, is great and strong.” + +A considerable portion of the night passed in conversation of this +sort, and though Don Juan wished Don Quixote to read more of the book +to see what it was all about, he was not to be prevailed upon, saying +that he treated it as read and pronounced it utterly silly; and, if by +any chance it should come to its author’s ears that he had it in his +hand, he did not want him to flatter himself with the idea that he had +read it; for our thoughts, and still more our eyes, should keep +themselves aloof from what is obscene and filthy. + +They asked him whither he meant to direct his steps. He replied, to +Saragossa, to take part in the harness jousts which were held in that +city every year. Don Juan told him that the new history described how +Don Quixote, let him be who he might, took part there in a tilting at +the ring, utterly devoid of invention, poor in mottoes, very poor in +costume, though rich in sillinesses. + +“For that very reason,” said Don Quixote, “I will not set foot in +Saragossa; and by that means I shall expose to the world the lie of +this new history writer, and people will see that I am not the Don +Quixote he speaks of.” + +“You will do quite right,” said Don Jeronimo; “and there are other +jousts at Barcelona in which Señor Don Quixote may display his +prowess.” + +“That is what I mean to do,” said Don Quixote; “and as it is now time, +I pray your worships to give me leave to retire to bed, and to place +and retain me among the number of your greatest friends and servants.” + +“And me too,” said Sancho; “maybe I’ll be good for something.” + +With this they exchanged farewells, and Don Quixote and Sancho retired +to their room, leaving Don Juan and Don Jeronimo amazed to see the +medley he made of his good sense and his craziness; and they felt +thoroughly convinced that these, and not those their Aragonese author +described, were the genuine Don Quixote and Sancho. Don Quixote rose +betimes, and bade adieu to his hosts by knocking at the partition of +the other room. Sancho paid the landlord magnificently, and recommended +him either to say less about the providing of his inn or to keep it +better provided. + + + +p59e.jpg (48K) + + + +CHAPTER LX. +OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY TO BARCELONA + + + + +p60a.jpg (129K) + +Full Size + + + +It was a fresh morning giving promise of a cool day as Don Quixote +quitted the inn, first of all taking care to ascertain the most direct +road to Barcelona without touching upon Saragossa; so anxious was he to +make out this new historian, who they said abused him so, to be a liar. +Well, as it fell out, nothing worthy of being recorded happened him for +six days, at the end of which, having turned aside out of the road, he +was overtaken by night in a thicket of oak or cork trees; for on this +point Cide Hamete is not as precise as he usually is on other matters. + +Master and man dismounted from their beasts, and as soon as they had +settled themselves at the foot of the trees, Sancho, who had had a good +noontide meal that day, let himself, without more ado, pass the gates +of sleep. But Don Quixote, whom his thoughts, far more than hunger, +kept awake, could not close an eye, and roamed in fancy to and fro +through all sorts of places. At one moment it seemed to him that he was +in the cave of Montesinos and saw Dulcinea, transformed into a country +wench, skipping and mounting upon her she-ass; again that the words of +the sage Merlin were sounding in his ears, setting forth the conditions +to be observed and the exertions to be made for the disenchantment of +Dulcinea. He lost all patience when he considered the laziness and want +of charity of his squire Sancho; for to the best of his belief he had +only given himself five lashes, a number paltry and disproportioned to +the vast number required. At this thought he felt such vexation and +anger that he reasoned the matter thus: “If Alexander the Great cut the +Gordian knot, saying, ‘To cut comes to the same thing as to untie,’ and +yet did not fail to become lord paramount of all Asia, neither more nor +less could happen now in Dulcinea’s disenchantment if I scourge Sancho +against his will; for, if it is the condition of the remedy that Sancho +shall receive three thousand and odd lashes, what does it matter to me +whether he inflicts them himself, or someone else inflicts them, when +the essential point is that he receives them, let them come from +whatever quarter they may?” + +With this idea he went over to Sancho, having first taken Rocinante’s +reins and arranged them so as to be able to flog him with them, and +began to untie the points (the common belief is he had but one in +front) by which his breeches were held up; but the instant he +approached him Sancho woke up in his full senses and cried out, “What +is this? Who is touching me and untrussing me?” + +“It is I,” said Don Quixote, “and I come to make good thy shortcomings +and relieve my own distresses; I come to whip thee, Sancho, and wipe +off some portion of the debt thou hast undertaken. Dulcinea is +perishing, thou art living on regardless, I am dying of hope deferred; +therefore untruss thyself with a good will, for mine it is, here, in +this retired spot, to give thee at least two thousand lashes.” + +“Not a bit of it,” said Sancho; “let your worship keep quiet, or else +by the living God the deaf shall hear us; the lashes I pledged myself +to must be voluntary and not forced upon me, and just now I have no +fancy to whip myself; it is enough if I give you my word to flog and +flap myself when I have a mind.” + +“It will not do to leave it to thy courtesy, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, +“for thou art hard of heart and, though a clown, tender of flesh;” and +at the same time he strove and struggled to untie him. + +Seeing this Sancho got up, and grappling with his master he gripped him +with all his might in his arms, giving him a trip with the heel +stretched him on the ground on his back, and pressing his right knee on +his chest held his hands in his own so that he could neither move nor +breathe. + +“How now, traitor!” exclaimed Don Quixote. “Dost thou revolt against +thy master and natural lord? Dost thou rise against him who gives thee +his bread?” + +“I neither put down king, nor set up king,” said Sancho; “I only stand +up for myself who am my own lord; if your worship promises me to be +quiet, and not to offer to whip me now, I’ll let you go free and +unhindered; if not— + +Traitor and Doña Sancha’s foe, +Thou diest on the spot.” + + +Don Quixote gave his promise, and swore by the life of his thoughts not +to touch so much as a hair of his garments, and to leave him entirely +free and to his own discretion to whip himself whenever he pleased. + + + +p60c.jpg (250K) + +Full Size + + + +Sancho rose and removed some distance from the spot, but as he was +about to place himself leaning against another tree he felt something +touch his head, and putting up his hands encountered somebody’s two +feet with shoes and stockings on them. He trembled with fear and made +for another tree, where the very same thing happened to him, and he +fell a-shouting, calling upon Don Quixote to come and protect him. Don +Quixote did so, and asked him what had happened to him, and what he was +afraid of. Sancho replied that all the trees were full of men’s feet +and legs. Don Quixote felt them, and guessed at once what it was, and +said to Sancho, “Thou hast nothing to be afraid of, for these feet and +legs that thou feelest but canst not see belong no doubt to some +outlaws and freebooters that have been hanged on these trees; for the +authorities in these parts are wont to hang them up by twenties and +thirties when they catch them; whereby I conjecture that I must be near +Barcelona;” and it was, in fact, as he supposed; with the first light +they looked up and saw that the fruit hanging on those trees were +freebooters’ bodies. + +And now day dawned; and if the dead freebooters had scared them, their +hearts were no less troubled by upwards of forty living ones, who all +of a sudden surrounded them, and in the Catalan tongue bade them stand +and wait until their captain came up. Don Quixote was on foot with his +horse unbridled and his lance leaning against a tree, and in short +completely defenceless; he thought it best therefore to fold his arms +and bow his head and reserve himself for a more favourable occasion and +opportunity. The robbers made haste to search Dapple, and did not leave +him a single thing of all he carried in the alforjas and in the valise; +and lucky it was for Sancho that the duke’s crowns and those he brought +from home were in a girdle that he wore round him; but for all that +these good folk would have stripped him, and even looked to see what he +had hidden between the skin and flesh, but for the arrival at that +moment of their captain, who was about thirty-four years of age +apparently, strongly built, above the middle height, of stern aspect +and swarthy complexion. He was mounted upon a powerful horse, and had +on a coat of mail, with four of the pistols they call petronels in that +country at his waist. He saw that his squires (for so they call those +who follow that trade) were about to rifle Sancho Panza, but he ordered +them to desist and was at once obeyed, so the girdle escaped. He +wondered to see the lance leaning against the tree, the shield on the +ground, and Don Quixote in armour and dejected, with the saddest and +most melancholy face that sadness itself could produce; and going up to +him he said, “Be not so cast down, good man, for you have not fallen +into the hands of any inhuman Busiris, but into Roque Guinart’s, which +are more merciful than cruel.” + +“The cause of my dejection,” returned Don Quixote, “is not that I have +fallen into thy hands, O valiant Roque, whose fame is bounded by no +limits on earth, but that my carelessness should have been so great +that thy soldiers should have caught me unbridled, when it is my duty, +according to the rule of knight-errantry which I profess, to be always +on the alert and at all times my own sentinel; for let me tell thee, +great Roque, had they found me on my horse, with my lance and shield, +it would not have been very easy for them to reduce me to submission, +for I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, he who hath filled the whole world +with his achievements.” + +Roque Guinart at once perceived that Don Quixote’s weakness was more +akin to madness than to swagger; and though he had sometimes heard him +spoken of, he never regarded the things attributed to him as true, nor +could he persuade himself that such a humour could become dominant in +the heart of man; he was extremely glad, therefore, to meet him and +test at close quarters what he had heard of him at a distance; so he +said to him, “Despair not, valiant knight, nor regard as an untoward +fate the position in which thou findest thyself; it may be that by +these slips thy crooked fortune will make itself straight; for heaven +by strange circuitous ways, mysterious and incomprehensible to man, +raises up the fallen and makes rich the poor.” + +Don Quixote was about to thank him, when they heard behind them a noise +as of a troop of horses; there was, however, but one, riding on which +at a furious pace came a youth, apparently about twenty years of age, +clad in green damask edged with gold and breeches and a loose frock, +with a hat looped up in the Walloon fashion, tight-fitting polished +boots, gilt spurs, dagger and sword, and in his hand a musketoon, and a +pair of pistols at his waist. + +Roque turned round at the noise and perceived this comely figure, which +drawing near thus addressed him, “I came in quest of thee, valiant +Roque, to find in thee if not a remedy at least relief in my +misfortune; and not to keep thee in suspense, for I see thou dost not +recognise me, I will tell thee who I am; I am Claudia Jeronima, the +daughter of Simon Forte, thy good friend, and special enemy of Clauquel +Torrellas, who is thine also as being of the faction opposed to thee. +Thou knowest that this Torrellas has a son who is called, or at least +was not two hours since, Don Vicente Torrellas. Well, to cut short the +tale of my misfortune, I will tell thee in a few words what this youth +has brought upon me. He saw me, he paid court to me, I listened to him, +and, unknown to my father, I loved him; for there is no woman, however +secluded she may live or close she may be kept, who will not have +opportunities and to spare for following her headlong impulses. In a +word, he pledged himself to be mine, and I promised to be his, without +carrying matters any further. Yesterday I learned that, forgetful of +his pledge to me, he was about to marry another, and that he was to go +this morning to plight his troth, intelligence which overwhelmed and +exasperated me; my father not being at home I was able to adopt this +costume you see, and urging my horse to speed I overtook Don Vicente +about a league from this, and without waiting to utter reproaches or +hear excuses I fired this musket at him, and these two pistols besides, +and to the best of my belief I must have lodged more than two bullets +in his body, opening doors to let my honour go free, enveloped in his +blood. I left him there in the hands of his servants, who did not dare +and were not able to interfere in his defence, and I come to seek from +thee a safe-conduct into France, where I have relatives with whom I can +live; and also to implore thee to protect my father, so that Don +Vicente’s numerous kinsmen may not venture to wreak their lawless +vengeance upon him.” + +Roque, filled with admiration at the gallant bearing, high spirit, +comely figure, and adventure of the fair Claudia, said to her, “Come, +señora, let us go and see if thy enemy is dead; and then we will +consider what will be best for thee.” Don Quixote, who had been +listening to what Claudia said and Roque Guinart said in reply to her, +exclaimed, “Nobody need trouble himself with the defence of this lady, +for I take it upon myself. Give me my horse and arms, and wait for me +here; I will go in quest of this knight, and dead or alive I will make +him keep his word plighted to so great beauty.” + +“Nobody need have any doubt about that,” said Sancho, “for my master +has a very happy knack of matchmaking; it’s not many days since he +forced another man to marry, who in the same way backed out of his +promise to another maiden; and if it had not been for his persecutors +the enchanters changing the man’s proper shape into a lacquey’s the +said maiden would not be one this minute.” + +Roque, who was paying more attention to the fair Claudia’s adventure +than to the words of master or man, did not hear them; and ordering his +squires to restore to Sancho everything they had stripped Dapple of, he +directed them to return to the place where they had been quartered +during the night, and then set off with Claudia at full speed in search +of the wounded or slain Don Vicente. They reached the spot where +Claudia met him, but found nothing there save freshly spilt blood; +looking all round, however, they descried some people on the slope of a +hill above them, and concluded, as indeed it proved to be, that it was +Don Vicente, whom either dead or alive his servants were removing to +attend to his wounds or to bury him. They made haste to overtake them, +which, as the party moved slowly, they were able to do with ease. They +found Don Vicente in the arms of his servants, whom he was entreating +in a broken feeble voice to leave him there to die, as the pain of his +wounds would not suffer him to go any farther. Claudia and Roque threw +themselves off their horses and advanced towards him; the servants were +overawed by the appearance of Roque, and Claudia was moved by the sight +of Don Vicente, and going up to him half tenderly half sternly, she +seized his hand and said to him, “Hadst thou given me this according to +our compact thou hadst never come to this pass.” + +The wounded gentleman opened his all but closed eyes, and recognising +Claudia said, “I see clearly, fair and mistaken lady, that it is thou +that hast slain me, a punishment not merited or deserved by my feelings +towards thee, for never did I mean to, nor could I, wrong thee in +thought or deed.” + +“It is not true, then,” said Claudia, “that thou wert going this +morning to marry Leonora the daughter of the rich Balvastro?” + +“Assuredly not,” replied Don Vicente; “my cruel fortune must have +carried those tidings to thee to drive thee in thy jealousy to take my +life; and to assure thyself of this, press my hands and take me for thy +husband if thou wilt; I have no better satisfaction to offer thee for +the wrong thou fanciest thou hast received from me.” + +Claudia wrung his hands, and her own heart was so wrung that she lay +fainting on the bleeding breast of Don Vicente, whom a death spasm +seized the same instant. Roque was in perplexity and knew not what to +do; the servants ran to fetch water to sprinkle their faces, and +brought some and bathed them with it. Claudia recovered from her +fainting fit, but not so Don Vicente from the paroxysm that had +overtaken him, for his life had come to an end. On perceiving this, +Claudia, when she had convinced herself that her beloved husband was no +more, rent the air with her sighs and made the heavens ring with her +lamentations; she tore her hair and scattered it to the winds, she beat +her face with her hands and showed all the signs of grief and sorrow +that could be conceived to come from an afflicted heart. “Cruel, +reckless woman!” she cried, “how easily wert thou moved to carry out a +thought so wicked! O furious force of jealousy, to what desperate +lengths dost thou lead those that give thee lodging in their bosoms! O +husband, whose unhappy fate in being mine hath borne thee from the +marriage bed to the grave!” + +So vehement and so piteous were the lamentations of Claudia that they +drew tears from Roque’s eyes, unused as they were to shed them on any +occasion. The servants wept, Claudia swooned away again and again, and +the whole place seemed a field of sorrow and an abode of misfortune. In +the end Roque Guinart directed Don Vicente’s servants to carry his body +to his father’s village, which was close by, for burial. Claudia told +him she meant to go to a monastery of which an aunt of hers was abbess, +where she intended to pass her life with a better and everlasting +spouse. He applauded her pious resolution, and offered to accompany her +whithersoever she wished, and to protect her father against the kinsmen +of Don Vicente and all the world, should they seek to injure him. +Claudia would not on any account allow him to accompany her; and +thanking him for his offers as well as she could, took leave of him in +tears. The servants of Don Vicente carried away his body, and Roque +returned to his comrades, and so ended the love of Claudia Jeronima; +but what wonder, when it was the insuperable and cruel might of +jealousy that wove the web of her sad story? + + + +p60d.jpg (439K) + +Full Size + + + +Roque Guinart found his squires at the place to which he had ordered +them, and Don Quixote on Rocinante in the midst of them delivering a +harangue to them in which he urged them to give up a mode of life so +full of peril, as well to the soul as to the body; but as most of them +were Gascons, rough lawless fellows, his speech did not make much +impression on them. Roque on coming up asked Sancho if his men had +returned and restored to him the treasures and jewels they had stripped +off Dapple. Sancho said they had, but that three kerchiefs that were +worth three cities were missing. + +“What are you talking about, man?” said one of the bystanders; “I have +got them, and they are not worth three reals.” + +“That is true,” said Don Quixote; “but my squire values them at the +rate he says, as having been given me by the person who gave them.” + +Roque Guinart ordered them to be restored at once; and making his men +fall in in line he directed all the clothing, jewellery, and money that +they had taken since the last distribution to be produced; and making a +hasty valuation, and reducing what could not be divided into money, he +made shares for the whole band so equitably and carefully, that in no +case did he exceed or fall short of strict distributive justice. + +When this had been done, and all left satisfied, Roque observed to Don +Quixote, “If this scrupulous exactness were not observed with these +fellows there would be no living with them.” + +Upon this Sancho remarked, “From what I have seen here, justice is such +a good thing that there is no doing without it, even among the thieves +themselves.” + +One of the squires heard this, and raising the butt-end of his +harquebuss would no doubt have broken Sancho’s head with it had not +Roque Guinart called out to him to hold his hand. Sancho was frightened +out of his wits, and vowed not to open his lips so long as he was in +the company of these people. + +At this instant one or two of those squires who were posted as +sentinels on the roads, to watch who came along them and report what +passed to their chief, came up and said, “Señor, there is a great troop +of people not far off coming along the road to Barcelona.” + +To which Roque replied, “Hast thou made out whether they are of the +sort that are after us, or of the sort we are after?” + +“The sort we are after,” said the squire. + +“Well then, away with you all,” said Roque, “and bring them here to me +at once without letting one of them escape.” + + + +p60e.jpg (420K) + +Full Size + + + +They obeyed, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and Roque, left by themselves, +waited to see what the squires brought, and while they were waiting +Roque said to Don Quixote, “It must seem a strange sort of life to +Señor Don Quixote, this of ours, strange adventures, strange incidents, +and all full of danger; and I do not wonder that it should seem so, for +in truth I must own there is no mode of life more restless or anxious +than ours. What led me into it was a certain thirst for vengeance, +which is strong enough to disturb the quietest hearts. I am by nature +tender-hearted and kindly, but, as I said, the desire to revenge myself +for a wrong that was done me so overturns all my better impulses that I +keep on in this way of life in spite of what conscience tells me; and +as one depth calls to another, and one sin to another sin, revenges +have linked themselves together, and I have taken upon myself not only +my own but those of others: it pleases God, however, that, though I see +myself in this maze of entanglements, I do not lose all hope of +escaping from it and reaching a safe port.” + +Don Quixote was amazed to hear Roque utter such excellent and just +sentiments, for he did not think that among those who followed such +trades as robbing, murdering, and waylaying, there could be anyone +capable of a virtuous thought, and he said in reply, “Señor Roque, the +beginning of health lies in knowing the disease and in the sick man’s +willingness to take the medicines which the physician prescribes; you +are sick, you know what ails you, and heaven, or more properly speaking +God, who is our physician, will administer medicines that will cure +you, and cure gradually, and not of a sudden or by a miracle; besides, +sinners of discernment are nearer amendment than those who are fools; +and as your worship has shown good sense in your remarks, all you have +to do is to keep up a good heart and trust that the weakness of your +conscience will be strengthened. And if you have any desire to shorten +the journey and put yourself easily in the way of salvation, come with +me, and I will show you how to become a knight-errant, a calling +wherein so many hardships and mishaps are encountered that if they be +taken as penances they will lodge you in heaven in a trice.” + +Roque laughed at Don Quixote’s exhortation, and changing the +conversation he related the tragic affair of Claudia Jeronima, at which +Sancho was extremely grieved; for he had not found the young woman’s +beauty, boldness, and spirit at all amiss. + +And now the squires despatched to make the prize came up, bringing with +them two gentlemen on horseback, two pilgrims on foot, and a coach full +of women with some six servants on foot and on horseback in attendance +on them, and a couple of muleteers whom the gentlemen had with them. +The squires made a ring round them, both victors and vanquished +maintaining profound silence, waiting for the great Roque Guinart to +speak. He asked the gentlemen who they were, whither they were going, +and what money they carried with them; “Señor,” replied one of them, +“we are two captains of Spanish infantry; our companies are at Naples, +and we are on our way to embark in four galleys which they say are at +Barcelona under orders for Sicily; and we have about two or three +hundred crowns, with which we are, according to our notions, rich and +contented, for a soldier’s poverty does not allow a more extensive +hoard.” + +Roque asked the pilgrims the same questions he had put to the captains, +and was answered that they were going to take ship for Rome, and that +between them they might have about sixty reals. He asked also who was +in the coach, whither they were bound and what money they had, and one +of the men on horseback replied, “The persons in the coach are my lady +Doña Guiomar de Quiñones, wife of the regent of the Vicaria at Naples, +her little daughter, a handmaid and a duenna; we six servants are in +attendance upon her, and the money amounts to six hundred crowns.” + +“So then,” said Roque Guinart, “we have got here nine hundred crowns +and sixty reals; my soldiers must number some sixty; see how much there +falls to each, for I am a bad arithmetician.” As soon as the robbers +heard this they raised a shout of “Long life to Roque Guinart, in spite +of the lladres that seek his ruin!” + +The captains showed plainly the concern they felt, the regent’s lady +was downcast, and the pilgrims did not at all enjoy seeing their +property confiscated. Roque kept them in suspense in this way for a +while; but he had no desire to prolong their distress, which might be +seen a bowshot off, and turning to the captains he said, “Sirs, will +your worships be pleased of your courtesy to lend me sixty crowns, and +her ladyship the regent’s wife eighty, to satisfy this band that +follows me, for ‘it is by his singing the abbot gets his dinner;’ and +then you may at once proceed on your journey, free and unhindered, with +a safe-conduct which I shall give you, so that if you come across any +other bands of mine that I have scattered in these parts, they may do +you no harm; for I have no intention of doing injury to soldiers, or to +any woman, especially one of quality.” + +Profuse and hearty were the expressions of gratitude with which the +captains thanked Roque for his courtesy and generosity; for such they +regarded his leaving them their own money. Señora Doña Guiomar de +Quiñones wanted to throw herself out of the coach to kiss the feet and +hands of the great Roque, but he would not suffer it on any account; so +far from that, he begged her pardon for the wrong he had done her under +pressure of the inexorable necessities of his unfortunate calling. The +regent’s lady ordered one of her servants to give the eighty crowns +that had been assessed as her share at once, for the captains had +already paid down their sixty. The pilgrims were about to give up the +whole of their little hoard, but Roque bade them keep quiet, and +turning to his men he said, “Of these crowns two fall to each man and +twenty remain over; let ten be given to these pilgrims, and the other +ten to this worthy squire that he may be able to speak favourably of +this adventure;” and then having writing materials, with which he +always went provided, brought to him, he gave them in writing a +safe-conduct to the leaders of his bands; and bidding them farewell let +them go free and filled with admiration at his magnanimity, his +generous disposition, and his unusual conduct, and inclined to regard +him as an Alexander the Great rather than a notorious robber. + +One of the squires observed in his mixture of Gascon and Catalan, “This +captain of ours would make a better friar than highwayman; if he wants +to be so generous another time, let it be with his own property and not +ours.” + + + +p60f.jpg (426K) + +Full Size + + + +The unlucky wight did not speak so low but that Roque overheard him, +and drawing his sword almost split his head in two, saying, “That is +the way I punish impudent saucy fellows.” They were all taken aback, +and not one of them dared to utter a word, such deference did they pay +him. Roque then withdrew to one side and wrote a letter to a friend of +his at Barcelona, telling him that the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, +the knight-errant of whom there was so much talk, was with him, and +was, he assured him, the drollest and wisest man in the world; and that +in four days from that date, that is to say, on Saint John the +Baptist’s Day, he was going to deposit him in full armour mounted on +his horse Rocinante, together with his squire Sancho on an ass, in the +middle of the strand of the city; and bidding him give notice of this +to his friends the Niarros, that they might divert themselves with him. +He wished, he said, his enemies the Cadells could be deprived of this +pleasure; but that was impossible, because the crazes and shrewd +sayings of Don Quixote and the humours of his squire Sancho Panza could +not help giving general pleasure to all the world. He despatched the +letter by one of his squires, who, exchanging the costume of a +highwayman for that of a peasant, made his way into Barcelona and gave +it to the person to whom it was directed. + + + +p60g.jpg (42K) + + + +CHAPTER LXI. +OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON ENTERING BARCELONA, TOGETHER WITH OTHER +MATTERS THAT PARTAKE OF THE TRUE RATHER THAN OF THE INGENIOUS + + + + +p61a.jpg (143K) + +Full Size + + + +Don Quixote passed three days and three nights with Roque, and had he +passed three hundred years he would have found enough to observe and +wonder at in his mode of life. At daybreak they were in one spot, at +dinner-time in another; sometimes they fled without knowing from whom, +at other times they lay in wait, not knowing for what. They slept +standing, breaking their slumbers to shift from place to place. There +was nothing but sending out spies and scouts, posting sentinels and +blowing the matches of harquebusses, though they carried but few, for +almost all used flintlocks. Roque passed his nights in some place or +other apart from his men, that they might not know where he was, for +the many proclamations the viceroy of Barcelona had issued against his +life kept him in fear and uneasiness, and he did not venture to trust +anyone, afraid that even his own men would kill him or deliver him up +to the authorities; of a truth, a weary miserable life! At length, by +unfrequented roads, short cuts, and secret paths, Roque, Don Quixote, +and Sancho, together with six squires, set out for Barcelona. They +reached the strand on Saint John’s Eve during the night; and Roque, +after embracing Don Quixote and Sancho (to whom he presented the ten +crowns he had promised but had not until then given), left them with +many expressions of good-will on both sides. + +Roque went back, while Don Quixote remained on horseback, just as he +was, waiting for day, and it was not long before the countenance of the +fair Aurora began to show itself at the balconies of the east, +gladdening the grass and flowers, if not the ear, though to gladden +that too there came at the same moment a sound of clarions and drums, +and a din of bells, and a tramp, tramp, and cries of “Clear the way +there!” of some runners, that seemed to issue from the city. + + + +p61b.jpg (271K) + +Full Size + + + +The dawn made way for the sun that with a face broader than a buckler +began to rise slowly above the low line of the horizon; Don Quixote and +Sancho gazed all round them; they beheld the sea, a sight until then +unseen by them; it struck them as exceedingly spacious and broad, much +more so than the lakes of Ruidera which they had seen in La Mancha. +They saw the galleys along the beach, which, lowering their awnings, +displayed themselves decked with streamers and pennons that trembled in +the breeze and kissed and swept the water, while on board the bugles, +trumpets, and clarions were sounding and filling the air far and near +with melodious warlike notes. Then they began to move and execute a +kind of skirmish upon the calm water, while a vast number of horsemen +on fine horses and in showy liveries, issuing from the city, engaged on +their side in a somewhat similar movement. The soldiers on board the +galleys kept up a ceaseless fire, which they on the walls and forts of +the city returned, and the heavy cannon rent the air with the +tremendous noise they made, to which the gangway guns of the galleys +replied. The bright sea, the smiling earth, the clear air—though at +times darkened by the smoke of the guns—all seemed to fill the whole +multitude with unexpected delight. Sancho could not make out how it was +that those great masses that moved over the sea had so many feet. + +And now the horsemen in livery came galloping up with shouts and +outlandish cries and cheers to where Don Quixote stood amazed and +wondering; and one of them, he to whom Roque had sent word, addressing +him exclaimed, “Welcome to our city, mirror, beacon, star and cynosure +of all knight-errantry in its widest extent! Welcome, I say, valiant +Don Quixote of La Mancha; not the false, the fictitious, the +apocryphal, that these latter days have offered us in lying histories, +but the true, the legitimate, the real one that Cide Hamete Benengeli, +flower of historians, has described to us!” + +Don Quixote made no answer, nor did the horsemen wait for one, but +wheeling again with all their followers, they began curvetting round +Don Quixote, who, turning to Sancho, said, “These gentlemen have +plainly recognised us; I will wager they have read our history, and +even that newly printed one by the Aragonese.” + +The cavalier who had addressed Don Quixote again approached him and +said, “Come with us, Señor Don Quixote, for we are all of us your +servants and great friends of Roque Guinart’s;” to which Don Quixote +returned, “If courtesy breeds courtesy, yours, sir knight, is daughter +or very nearly akin to the great Roque’s; carry me where you please; I +will have no will but yours, especially if you deign to employ it in +your service.” + + + +p61c.jpg (448K) + +Full Size + + + +The cavalier replied with words no less polite, and then, all closing +in around him, they set out with him for the city, to the music of the +clarions and the drums. As they were entering it, the wicked one, who +is the author of all mischief, and the boys who are wickeder than the +wicked one, contrived that a couple of these audacious irrepressible +urchins should force their way through the crowd, and lifting up, one +of them Dapple’s tail and the other Rocinante’s, insert a bunch of +furze under each. The poor beasts felt the strange spurs and added to +their anguish by pressing their tails tight, so much so that, cutting a +multitude of capers, they flung their masters to the ground. Don +Quixote, covered with shame and out of countenance, ran to pluck the +plume from his poor jade’s tail, while Sancho did the same for Dapple. +His conductors tried to punish the audacity of the boys, but there was +no possibility of doing so, for they hid themselves among the hundreds +of others that were following them. Don Quixote and Sancho mounted once +more, and with the same music and acclamations reached their +conductor’s house, which was large and stately, that of a rich +gentleman, in short; and there for the present we will leave them, for +such is Cide Hamete’s pleasure. + + + +p61e.jpg (32K) + + + +CHAPTER LXII. +WHICH DEALS WITH THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED HEAD, TOGETHER WITH +OTHER TRIVIAL MATTERS WHICH CANNOT BE LEFT UNTOLD + + + + +p62a.jpg (156K) + +Full Size + + + +Don Quixote’s host was one Don Antonio Moreno by name, a gentleman of +wealth and intelligence, and very fond of diverting himself in any fair +and good-natured way; and having Don Quixote in his house he set about +devising modes of making him exhibit his mad points in some harmless +fashion; for jests that give pain are no jests, and no sport is worth +anything if it hurts another. The first thing he did was to make Don +Quixote take off his armour, and lead him, in that tight chamois suit +we have already described and depicted more than once, out on a balcony +overhanging one of the chief streets of the city, in full view of the +crowd and of the boys, who gazed at him as they would at a monkey. The +cavaliers in livery careered before him again as though it were for him +alone, and not to enliven the festival of the day, that they wore it, +and Sancho was in high delight, for it seemed to him that, how he knew +not, he had fallen upon another Camacho’s wedding, another house like +Don Diego de Miranda’s, another castle like the duke’s. Some of Don +Antonio’s friends dined with him that day, and all showed honour to Don +Quixote and treated him as a knight-errant, and he becoming puffed up +and exalted in consequence could not contain himself for satisfaction. +Such were the drolleries of Sancho that all the servants of the house, +and all who heard him, were kept hanging upon his lips. While at table +Don Antonio said to him, “We hear, worthy Sancho, that you are so fond +of manjar blanco and forced-meat balls, that if you have any left, you +keep them in your bosom for the next day.” + +“No, señor, that’s not true,” said Sancho, “for I am more cleanly than +greedy, and my master Don Quixote here knows well that we two are used +to live for a week on a handful of acorns or nuts. To be sure, if it so +happens that they offer me a heifer, I run with a halter; I mean, I eat +what I’m given, and make use of opportunities as I find them; but +whoever says that I’m an out-of-the-way eater or not cleanly, let me +tell him that he is wrong; and I’d put it in a different way if I did +not respect the honourable beards that are at the table.” + +“Indeed,” said Don Quixote, “Sancho’s moderation and cleanliness in +eating might be inscribed and graved on plates of brass, to be kept in +eternal remembrance in ages to come. It is true that when he is hungry +there is a certain appearance of voracity about him, for he eats at a +great pace and chews with both jaws; but cleanliness he is always +mindful of; and when he was governor he learned how to eat daintily, so +much so that he eats grapes, and even pomegranate pips, with a fork.” + +“What!” said Don Antonio, “has Sancho been a governor?” + +“Ay,” said Sancho, “and of an island called Barataria. I governed it to +perfection for ten days; and lost my rest all the time; and learned to +look down upon all the governments in the world; I got out of it by +taking to flight, and fell into a pit where I gave myself up for dead, +and out of which I escaped alive by a miracle.” + +Don Quixote then gave them a minute account of the whole affair of +Sancho’s government, with which he greatly amused his hearers. + +On the cloth being removed Don Antonio, taking Don Quixote by the hand, +passed with him into a distant room in which there was nothing in the +way of furniture except a table, apparently of jasper, resting on a +pedestal of the same, upon which was set up, after the fashion of the +busts of the Roman emperors, a head which seemed to be of bronze. Don +Antonio traversed the whole apartment with Don Quixote and walked round +the table several times, and then said, “Now, Señor Don Quixote, that I +am satisfied that no one is listening to us, and that the door is shut, +I will tell you of one of the rarest adventures, or more properly +speaking strange things, that can be imagined, on condition that you +will keep what I say to you in the remotest recesses of secrecy.” + +“I swear it,” said Don Quixote, “and for greater security I will put a +flag-stone over it; for I would have you know, Señor Don Antonio” (he +had by this time learned his name), “that you are addressing one who, +though he has ears to hear, has no tongue to speak; so that you may +safely transfer whatever you have in your bosom into mine, and rely +upon it that you have consigned it to the depths of silence.” + +“In reliance upon that promise,” said Don Antonio, “I will astonish you +with what you shall see and hear, and relieve myself of some of the +vexation it gives me to have no one to whom I can confide my secrets, +for they are not of a sort to be entrusted to everybody.” + +Don Quixote was puzzled, wondering what could be the object of such +precautions; whereupon Don Antonio taking his hand passed it over the +bronze head and the whole table and the pedestal of jasper on which it +stood, and then said, “This head, Señor Don Quixote, has been made and +fabricated by one of the greatest magicians and wizards the world ever +saw, a Pole, I believe, by birth, and a pupil of the famous Escotillo +of whom such marvellous stories are told. He was here in my house, and +for a consideration of a thousand crowns that I gave him he constructed +this head, which has the property and virtue of answering whatever +questions are put to its ear. He observed the points of the compass, he +traced figures, he studied the stars, he watched favourable moments, +and at length brought it to the perfection we shall see to-morrow, for +on Fridays it is mute, and this being Friday we must wait till the next +day. In the interval your worship may consider what you would like to +ask it; and I know by experience that in all its answers it tells the +truth.” + +Don Quixote was amazed at the virtue and property of the head, and was +inclined to disbelieve Don Antonio; but seeing what a short time he had +to wait to test the matter, he did not choose to say anything except +that he thanked him for having revealed to him so mighty a secret. They +then quitted the room, Don Antonio locked the door, and they repaired +to the chamber where the rest of the gentlemen were assembled. In the +meantime Sancho had recounted to them several of the adventures and +accidents that had happened his master. + +That afternoon they took Don Quixote out for a stroll, not in his +armour but in street costume, with a surcoat of tawny cloth upon him, +that at that season would have made ice itself sweat. Orders were left +with the servants to entertain Sancho so as not to let him leave the +house. Don Quixote was mounted, not on Rocinante, but upon a tall mule +of easy pace and handsomely caparisoned. They put the surcoat on him, +and on the back, without his perceiving it, they stitched a parchment +on which they wrote in large letters, “This is Don Quixote of La +Mancha.” As they set out upon their excursion the placard attracted the +eyes of all who chanced to see him, and as they read out, “This is Don +Quixote of La Mancha,” Don Quixote was amazed to see how many people +gazed at him, called him by his name, and recognised him, and turning +to Don Antonio, who rode at his side, he observed to him, “Great are +the privileges knight-errantry involves, for it makes him who professes +it known and famous in every region of the earth; see, Don Antonio, +even the very boys of this city know me without ever having seen me.” + +“True, Señor Don Quixote,” returned Don Antonio; “for as fire cannot be +hidden or kept secret, virtue cannot escape being recognised; and that +which is attained by the profession of arms shines distinguished above +all others.” + +It came to pass, however, that as Don Quixote was proceeding amid the +acclamations that have been described, a Castilian, reading the +inscription on his back, cried out in a loud voice, “The devil take +thee for a Don Quixote of La Mancha! What! art thou here, and not dead +of the countless drubbings that have fallen on thy ribs? Thou art mad; +and if thou wert so by thyself, and kept thyself within thy madness, it +would not be so bad; but thou hast the gift of making fools and +blockheads of all who have anything to do with thee or say to thee. +Why, look at these gentlemen bearing thee company! Get thee home, +blockhead, and see after thy affairs, and thy wife and children, and +give over these fooleries that are sapping thy brains and skimming away +thy wits.” + +“Go your own way, brother,” said Don Antonio, “and don’t offer advice +to those who don’t ask you for it. Señor Don Quixote is in his full +senses, and we who bear him company are not fools; virtue is to be +honoured wherever it may be found; go, and bad luck to you, and don’t +meddle where you are not wanted.” + +“By God, your worship is right,” replied the Castilian; “for to advise +this good man is to kick against the pricks; still for all that it +fills me with pity that the sound wit they say the blockhead has in +everything should dribble away by the channel of his knight-errantry; +but may the bad luck your worship talks of follow me and all my +descendants, if, from this day forth, though I should live longer than +Methuselah, I ever give advice to anybody even if he asks me for it.” + +The advice-giver took himself off, and they continued their stroll; but +so great was the press of the boys and people to read the placard, that +Don Antonio was forced to remove it as if he were taking off something +else. + + + +p62b.jpg (373K) + +Full Size + + + +Night came and they went home, and there was a ladies’ dancing party, +for Don Antonio’s wife, a lady of rank and gaiety, beauty and wit, had +invited some friends of hers to come and do honour to her guest and +amuse themselves with his strange delusions. Several of them came, they +supped sumptuously, the dance began at about ten o’clock. Among the +ladies were two of a mischievous and frolicsome turn, and, though +perfectly modest, somewhat free in playing tricks for harmless +diversion’s sake. These two were so indefatigable in taking Don Quixote +out to dance that they tired him down, not only in body but in spirit. +It was a sight to see the figure Don Quixote made, long, lank, lean, +and yellow, his garments clinging tight to him, ungainly, and above all +anything but agile. + + + +p62c.jpg (342K) + +Full Size + + + +The gay ladies made secret love to him, and he on his part secretly +repelled them, but finding himself hard pressed by their blandishments +he lifted up his voice and exclaimed, “_Fugite, partes adversæ!_ Leave +me in peace, unwelcome overtures; avaunt, with your desires, ladies, +for she who is queen of mine, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, suffers +none but hers to lead me captive and subdue me;” and so saying he sat +down on the floor in the middle of the room, tired out and broken down +by all this exertion in the dance. + +Don Antonio directed him to be taken up bodily and carried to bed, and +the first that laid hold of him was Sancho, saying as he did so, “In an +evil hour you took to dancing, master mine; do you fancy all mighty men +of valour are dancers, and all knights-errant given to capering? If you +do, I can tell you you are mistaken; there’s many a man would rather +undertake to kill a giant than cut a caper. If it had been the +shoe-fling you were at I could take your place, for I can do the +shoe-fling like a gerfalcon; but I’m no good at dancing.” + +With these and other observations Sancho set the whole ball-room +laughing, and then put his master to bed, covering him up well so that +he might sweat out any chill caught after his dancing. + +The next day Don Antonio thought he might as well make trial of the +enchanted head, and with Don Quixote, Sancho, and two others, friends +of his, besides the two ladies that had tired out Don Quixote at the +ball, who had remained for the night with Don Antonio’s wife, he locked +himself up in the chamber where the head was. He explained to them the +property it possessed and entrusted the secret to them, telling them +that now for the first time he was going to try the virtue of the +enchanted head; but except Don Antonio’s two friends no one else was +privy to the mystery of the enchantment, and if Don Antonio had not +first revealed it to them they would have been inevitably reduced to +the same state of amazement as the rest, so artfully and skilfully was +it contrived. + +The first to approach the ear of the head was Don Antonio himself, and +in a low voice but not so low as not to be audible to all, he said to +it, “Head, tell me by the virtue that lies in thee what am I at this +moment thinking of?” + +The head, without any movement of the lips, answered in a clear and +distinct voice, so as to be heard by all, “I cannot judge of thoughts.” + +All were thunderstruck at this, and all the more so as they saw that +there was nobody anywhere near the table or in the whole room that +could have answered. “How many of us are here?” asked Don Antonio once +more; and it was answered him in the same way softly, “Thou and thy +wife, with two friends of thine and two of hers, and a famous knight +called Don Quixote of La Mancha, and a squire of his, Sancho Panza by +name.” + +Now there was fresh astonishment; now everyone’s hair was standing on +end with awe; and Don Antonio retiring from the head exclaimed, “This +suffices to show me that I have not been deceived by him who sold thee +to me, O sage head, talking head, answering head, wonderful head! Let +someone else go and put what question he likes to it.” + +And as women are commonly impulsive and inquisitive, the first to come +forward was one of the two friends of Don Antonio’s wife, and her +question was, “Tell me, Head, what shall I do to be very beautiful?” +and the answer she got was, “Be very modest.” + +“I question thee no further,” said the fair querist. + +Her companion then came up and said, “I should like to know, Head, +whether my husband loves me or not;” the answer given to her was, +“Think how he uses thee, and thou mayest guess;” and the married lady +went off saying, “That answer did not need a question; for of course +the treatment one receives shows the disposition of him from whom it is +received.” + +Then one of Don Antonio’s two friends advanced and asked it, “Who am +I?” “Thou knowest,” was the answer. “That is not what I ask thee,” said +the gentleman, “but to tell me if thou knowest me.” “Yes, I know thee, +thou art Don Pedro Noriz,” was the reply. + +“I do not seek to know more,” said the gentleman, “for this is enough +to convince me, O Head, that thou knowest everything;” and as he +retired the other friend came forward and asked it, “Tell me, Head, +what are the wishes of my eldest son?” + +“I have said already,” was the answer, “that I cannot judge of wishes; +however, I can tell thee the wish of thy son is to bury thee.” + +“That’s ‘what I see with my eyes I point out with my finger,’” said the +gentleman, “so I ask no more.” + +Don Antonio’s wife came up and said, “I know not what to ask thee, +Head; I would only seek to know of thee if I shall have many years of +enjoyment of my good husband;” and the answer she received was, “Thou +shalt, for his vigour and his temperate habits promise many years of +life, which by their intemperance others so often cut short.” + +Then Don Quixote came forward and said, “Tell me, thou that answerest, +was that which I describe as having happened to me in the cave of +Montesinos the truth or a dream? Will Sancho’s whipping be accomplished +without fail? Will the disenchantment of Dulcinea be brought about?” + + + +p62d.jpg (391K) + +Full Size + + + +“As to the question of the cave,” was the reply, “there is much to be +said; there is something of both in it. Sancho’s whipping will proceed +leisurely. The disenchantment of Dulcinea will attain its due +consummation.” + +“I seek to know no more,” said Don Quixote; “let me but see Dulcinea +disenchanted, and I will consider that all the good fortune I could +wish for has come upon me all at once.” + +The last questioner was Sancho, and his questions were, “Head, shall I +by any chance have another government? Shall I ever escape from the +hard life of a squire? Shall I get back to see my wife and children?” +To which the answer came, “Thou shalt govern in thy house; and if thou +returnest to it thou shalt see thy wife and children; and on ceasing to +serve thou shalt cease to be a squire.” + +“Good, by God!” said Sancho Panza; “I could have told myself that; the +prophet Perogrullo could have said no more.” + +“What answer wouldst thou have, beast?” said Don Quixote; “is it not +enough that the replies this head has given suit the questions put to +it?” + +“Yes, it is enough,” said Sancho; “but I should have liked it to have +made itself plainer and told me more.” + +The questions and answers came to an end here, but not the wonder with +which all were filled, except Don Antonio’s two friends who were in the +secret. This Cide Hamete Benengeli thought fit to reveal at once, not +to keep the world in suspense, fancying that the head had some strange +magical mystery in it. He says, therefore, that on the model of another +head, the work of an image maker, which he had seen at Madrid, Don +Antonio made this one at home for his own amusement and to astonish +ignorant people; and its mechanism was as follows. The table was of +wood painted and varnished to imitate jasper, and the pedestal on which +it stood was of the same material, with four eagles’ claws projecting +from it to support the weight more steadily. The head, which resembled +a bust or figure of a Roman emperor, and was coloured like bronze, was +hollow throughout, as was the table, into which it was fitted so +exactly that no trace of the joining was visible. The pedestal of the +table was also hollow and communicated with the throat and neck of the +head, and the whole was in communication with another room underneath +the chamber in which the head stood. Through the entire cavity in the +pedestal, table, throat and neck of the bust or figure, there passed a +tube of tin carefully adjusted and concealed from sight. In the room +below corresponding to the one above was placed the person who was to +answer, with his mouth to the tube, and the voice, as in an +ear-trumpet, passed from above downwards, and from below upwards, the +words coming clearly and distinctly; it was impossible, thus, to detect +the trick. A nephew of Don Antonio’s, a smart sharp-witted student, was +the answerer, and as he had been told beforehand by his uncle who the +persons were that would come with him that day into the chamber where +the head was, it was an easy matter for him to answer the first +question at once and correctly; the others he answered by guess-work, +and, being clever, cleverly. Cide Hamete adds that this marvellous +contrivance stood for some ten or twelve days; but that, as it became +noised abroad through the city that he had in his house an enchanted +head that answered all who asked questions of it, Don Antonio, fearing +it might come to the ears of the watchful sentinels of our faith, +explained the matter to the inquisitors, who commanded him to break it +up and have done with it, lest the ignorant vulgar should be +scandalised. By Don Quixote, however, and by Sancho the head was still +held to be an enchanted one, and capable of answering questions, though +more to Don Quixote’s satisfaction than Sancho’s. + +The gentlemen of the city, to gratify Don Antonio and also to do the +honours to Don Quixote, and give him an opportunity of displaying his +folly, made arrangements for a tilting at the ring in six days from +that time, which, however, for reason that will be mentioned hereafter, +did not take place. + +Don Quixote took a fancy to stroll about the city quietly and on foot, +for he feared that if he went on horseback the boys would follow him; +so he and Sancho and two servants that Don Antonio gave him set out for +a walk. Thus it came to pass that going along one of the streets Don +Quixote lifted up his eyes and saw written in very large letters over a +door, “Books printed here,” at which he was vastly pleased, for until +then he had never seen a printing office, and he was curious to know +what it was like. He entered with all his following, and saw them +drawing sheets in one place, correcting in another, setting up type +here, revising there; in short all the work that is to be seen in great +printing offices. He went up to one case and asked what they were about +there; the workmen told him, he watched them with wonder, and passed +on. He approached one man, among others, and asked him what he was +doing. The workman replied, “Señor, this gentleman here” (pointing to a +man of prepossessing appearance and a certain gravity of look) “has +translated an Italian book into our Spanish tongue, and I am setting it +up in type for the press.” + +“What is the title of the book?” asked Don Quixote; to which the author +replied, “Señor, in Italian the book is called _Le Bagatelle_.” + +“And what does _Le Bagatelle_ import in our Spanish?” asked Don +Quixote. + +“_Le Bagatelle_,” said the author, “is as though we should say in +Spanish _Los Juguetes;_ but though the book is humble in name it has +good solid matter in it.” + +“I,” said Don Quixote, “have some little smattering of Italian, and I +plume myself on singing some of Ariosto’s stanzas; but tell me, señor—I +do not say this to test your ability, but merely out of curiosity—have +you ever met with the word _pignatta_ in your book?” + +“Yes, often,” said the author. + +“And how do you render that in Spanish?” + +“How should I render it,” returned the author, “but by _olla_?” + +“Body o’ me,” exclaimed Don Quixote, “what a proficient you are in the +Italian language! I would lay a good wager that where they say in +Italian _piace_ you say in Spanish _place_, and where they say _piu_ +you say _mas_, and you translate _sù_ by _arriba_ and _giù_ by +_abajo_.” + +“I translate them so of course,” said the author, “for those are their +proper equivalents.” + +“I would venture to swear,” said Don Quixote, “that your worship is not +known in the world, which always begrudges their reward to rare wits +and praiseworthy labours. What talents lie wasted there! What genius +thrust away into corners! What worth left neglected! Still it seems to +me that translation from one language into another, if it be not from +the queens of languages, the Greek and the Latin, is like looking at +Flemish tapestries on the wrong side; for though the figures are +visible, they are full of threads that make them indistinct, and they +do not show with the smoothness and brightness of the right side; and +translation from easy languages argues neither ingenuity nor command of +words, any more than transcribing or copying out one document from +another. But I do not mean by this to draw the inference that no credit +is to be allowed for the work of translating, for a man may employ +himself in ways worse and less profitable to himself. This estimate +does not include two famous translators, Doctor Cristóbal de Figueroa, +in his _Pastor Fido_, and Don Juan de Jáuregui, in his _Aminta_, +wherein by their felicity they leave it in doubt which is the +translation and which the original. But tell me, are you printing this +book at your own risk, or have you sold the copyright to some +bookseller?” + +“I print at my own risk,” said the author, “and I expect to make a +thousand ducats at least by this first edition, which is to be of two +thousand copies that will go off in a twinkling at six reals apiece.” + +“A fine calculation you are making!” said Don Quixote; “it is plain you +don’t know the ins and outs of the printers, and how they play into one +another’s hands. I promise you when you find yourself saddled with two +thousand copies you will feel so sore that it will astonish you, +particularly if the book is a little out of the common and not in any +way highly spiced.” + +“What!” said the author, “would your worship, then, have me give it to +a bookseller who will give three maravedis for the copyright and think +he is doing me a favour? I do not print my books to win fame in the +world, for I am known in it already by my works; I want to make money, +without which reputation is not worth a rap.” + +“God send your worship good luck,” said Don Quixote; and he moved on to +another case, where he saw them correcting a sheet of a book with the +title of “Light of the Soul;” noticing it he observed, “Books like +this, though there are many of the kind, are the ones that deserve to +be printed, for many are the sinners in these days, and lights +unnumbered are needed for all that are in darkness.” + +He passed on, and saw they were also correcting another book, and when +he asked its title they told him it was called, “The Second Part of the +Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha,” by one of Tordesillas. + +“I have heard of this book already,” said Don Quixote, “and verily and +on my conscience I thought it had been by this time burned to ashes as +a meddlesome intruder; but its Martinmas will come to it as it does to +every pig; for fictions have the more merit and charm about them the +more nearly they approach the truth or what looks like it; and true +stories, the truer they are the better they are;” and so saying he +walked out of the printing office with a certain amount of displeasure +in his looks. That same day Don Antonio arranged to take him to see the +galleys that lay at the beach, whereat Sancho was in high delight, as +he had never seen any all his life. Don Antonio sent word to the +commandant of the galleys that he intended to bring his guest, the +famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, of whom the commandant and all the +citizens had already heard, that afternoon to see them; and what +happened on board of them will be told in the next chapter. + + + +p62e.jpg (18K) + + + +CHAPTER LXIII. +OF THE MISHAP THAT BEFELL SANCHO PANZA THROUGH THE VISIT TO THE +GALLEYS, AND THE STRANGE ADVENTURE OF THE FAIR MORISCO + + + + +p63a.jpg (151K) + +Full Size + + + +Profound were Don Quixote’s reflections on the reply of the enchanted +head, not one of them, however, hitting on the secret of the trick, but +all concentrated on the promise, which he regarded as a certainty, of +Dulcinea’s disenchantment. This he turned over in his mind again and +again with great satisfaction, fully persuaded that he would shortly +see its fulfillment; and as for Sancho, though, as has been said, he +hated being a governor, still he had a longing to be giving orders and +finding himself obeyed once more; this is the misfortune that being in +authority, even in jest, brings with it. + +To resume; that afternoon their host Don Antonio Moreno and his two +friends, with Don Quixote and Sancho, went to the galleys. The +commandant had been already made aware of his good fortune in seeing +two such famous persons as Don Quixote and Sancho, and the instant they +came to the shore all the galleys struck their awnings and the clarions +rang out. A skiff covered with rich carpets and cushions of crimson +velvet was immediately lowered into the water, and as Don Quixote +stepped on board of it, the leading galley fired her gangway gun, and +the other galleys did the same; and as he mounted the starboard ladder +the whole crew saluted him (as is the custom when a personage of +distinction comes on board a galley) by exclaiming “Hu, hu, hu,” three +times. The general, for so we shall call him, a Valencian gentleman of +rank, gave him his hand and embraced him, saying, “I shall mark this +day with a white stone as one of the happiest I can expect to enjoy in +my lifetime, since I have seen Señor Don Quixote of La Mancha, pattern +and image wherein we see contained and condensed all that is worthy in +knight-errantry.” + +Don Quixote delighted beyond measure with such a lordly reception, +replied to him in words no less courteous. All then proceeded to the +poop, which was very handsomely decorated, and seated themselves on the +bulwark benches; the boatswain passed along the gangway and piped all +hands to strip, which they did in an instant. Sancho, seeing such a +number of men stripped to the skin, was taken aback, and still more +when he saw them spread the awning so briskly that it seemed to him as +if all the devils were at work at it; but all this was cakes and fancy +bread to what I am going to tell now. Sancho was seated on the +captain’s stage, close to the aftermost rower on the right-hand side. +He, previously instructed in what he was to do, laid hold of Sancho, +hoisting him up in his arms, and the whole crew, who were standing +ready, beginning on the right, proceeded to pass him on, whirling him +along from hand to hand and from bench to bench with such rapidity that +it took the sight out of poor Sancho’s eyes, and he made quite sure +that the devils themselves were flying away with him; nor did they +leave off with him until they had sent him back along the left side and +deposited him on the poop; and the poor fellow was left bruised and +breathless and all in a sweat, and unable to comprehend what it was +that had happened to him. + +Don Quixote when he saw Sancho’s flight without wings asked the general +if this was a usual ceremony with those who came on board the galleys +for the first time; for, if so, as he had no intention of adopting them +as a profession, he had no mind to perform such feats of agility, and +if anyone offered to lay hold of him to whirl him about, he vowed to +God he would kick his soul out; and as he said this he stood up and +clapped his hand upon his sword. At this instant they struck the awning +and lowered the yard with a prodigious rattle. Sancho thought heaven +was coming off its hinges and going to fall on his head, and full of +terror he ducked it and buried it between his knees; nor were Don +Quixote’s knees altogether under control, for he too shook a little, +squeezed his shoulders together and lost colour. The crew then hoisted +the yard with the same rapidity and clatter as when they lowered it, +all the while keeping silence as though they had neither voice nor +breath. The boatswain gave the signal to weigh anchor, and leaping upon +the middle of the gangway began to lay on to the shoulders of the crew +with his courbash or whip, and to haul out gradually to sea. + +When Sancho saw so many red feet (for such he took the oars to be) +moving all together, he said to himself, “It’s these that are the real +chanted things, and not the ones my master talks of. What can those +wretches have done to be so whipped; and how does that one man who goes +along there whistling dare to whip so many? I declare this is hell, or +at least purgatory!” + +Don Quixote, observing how attentively Sancho regarded what was going +on, said to him, “Ah, Sancho my friend, how quickly and cheaply might +you finish off the disenchantment of Dulcinea, if you would strip to +the waist and take your place among those gentlemen! Amid the pain and +sufferings of so many you would not feel your own much; and moreover +perhaps the sage Merlin would allow each of these lashes, being laid on +with a good hand, to count for ten of those which you must give +yourself at last.” + +The general was about to ask what these lashes were, and what was +Dulcinea’s disenchantment, when a sailor exclaimed, “Monjui signals +that there is an oared vessel off the coast to the west.” + +On hearing this the general sprang upon the gangway crying, “Now then, +my sons, don’t let her give us the slip! It must be some Algerine +corsair brigantine that the watchtower signals to us.” The three others +immediately came alongside the chief galley to receive their orders. +The general ordered two to put out to sea while he with the other kept +in shore, so that in this way the vessel could not escape them. The +crews plied the oars driving the galleys so furiously that they seemed +to fly. The two that had put out to sea, after a couple of miles +sighted a vessel which, so far as they could make out, they judged to +be one of fourteen or fifteen banks, and so she proved. As soon as the +vessel discovered the galleys she went about with the object and in the +hope of making her escape by her speed; but the attempt failed, for the +chief galley was one of the fastest vessels afloat, and overhauled her +so rapidly that they on board the brigantine saw clearly there was no +possibility of escaping, and the rais therefore would have had them +drop their oars and give themselves up so as not to provoke the captain +in command of our galleys to anger. But chance, directing things +otherwise, so ordered it that just as the chief galley came close +enough for those on board the vessel to hear the shouts from her +calling on them to surrender, two Toraquis, that is to say two Turks, +both drunken, that with a dozen more were on board the brigantine, +discharged their muskets, killing two of the soldiers that lined the +sides of our vessel. Seeing this the general swore he would not leave +one of those he found on board the vessel alive, but as he bore down +furiously upon her she slipped away from him underneath the oars. The +galley shot a good way ahead; those on board the vessel saw their case +was desperate, and while the galley was coming about they made sail, +and by sailing and rowing once more tried to sheer off; but their +activity did not do them as much good as their rashness did them harm, +for the galley coming up with them in a little more than half a mile +threw her oars over them and took the whole of them alive. The other +two galleys now joined company and all four returned with the prize to +the beach, where a vast multitude stood waiting for them, eager to see +what they brought back. The general anchored close in, and perceived +that the viceroy of the city was on the shore. He ordered the skiff to +push off to fetch him, and the yard to be lowered for the purpose of +hanging forthwith the rais and the rest of the men taken on board the +vessel, about six-and-thirty in number, all smart fellows and most of +them Turkish musketeers. He asked which was the rais of the brigantine, +and was answered in Spanish by one of the prisoners (who afterwards +proved to be a Spanish renegade), “This young man, señor, that you see +here is our rais,” and he pointed to one of the handsomest and most +gallant-looking youths that could be imagined. He did not seem to be +twenty years of age. + +“Tell me, dog,” said the general, “what led thee to kill my soldiers, +when thou sawest it was impossible for thee to escape? Is that the way +to behave to chief galleys? Knowest thou not that rashness is not +valour? Faint prospects of success should make men bold, but not rash.” + +The rais was about to reply, but the general could not at that moment +listen to him, as he had to hasten to receive the viceroy, who was now +coming on board the galley, and with him certain of his attendants and +some of the people. + +“You have had a good chase, señor general,” said the viceroy. + +“Your excellency shall soon see how good, by the game strung up to this +yard,” replied the general. + +“How so?” returned the viceroy. + +“Because,” said the general, “against all law, reason, and usages of +war they have killed on my hands two of the best soldiers on board +these galleys, and I have sworn to hang every man that I have taken, +but above all this youth who is the rais of the brigantine,” and he +pointed to him as he stood with his hands already bound and the rope +round his neck, ready for death. + +The viceroy looked at him, and seeing him so well-favoured, so +graceful, and so submissive, he felt a desire to spare his life, the +comeliness of the youth furnishing him at once with a letter of +recommendation. He therefore questioned him, saying, “Tell me, rais, +art thou Turk, Moor, or renegade?” + +To which the youth replied, also in Spanish, “I am neither Turk, nor +Moor, nor renegade.” + +“What art thou, then?” said the viceroy. + +“A Christian woman,” replied the youth. + +“A woman and a Christian, in such a dress and in such circumstances! It +is more marvellous than credible,” said the viceroy. + +“Suspend the execution of the sentence,” said the youth; “your +vengeance will not lose much by waiting while I tell you the story of +my life.” + +What heart could be so hard as not to be softened by these words, at +any rate so far as to listen to what the unhappy youth had to say? The +general bade him say what he pleased, but not to expect pardon for his +flagrant offence. With this permission the youth began in these words. + +“Born of Morisco parents, I am of that nation, more unhappy than wise, +upon which of late a sea of woes has poured down. In the course of our +misfortune I was carried to Barbary by two uncles of mine, for it was +in vain that I declared I was a Christian, as in fact I am, and not a +mere pretended one, or outwardly, but a true Catholic Christian. It +availed me nothing with those charged with our sad expatriation to +protest this, nor would my uncles believe it; on the contrary, they +treated it as an untruth and a subterfuge set up to enable me to remain +behind in the land of my birth; and so, more by force than of my own +will, they took me with them. I had a Christian mother, and a father +who was a man of sound sense and a Christian too; I imbibed the +Catholic faith with my mother’s milk, I was well brought up, and +neither in word nor in deed did I, I think, show any sign of being a +Morisco. To accompany these virtues, for such I hold them, my beauty, +if I possess any, grew with my growth; and great as was the seclusion +in which I lived it was not so great but that a young gentleman, Don +Gaspar Gregorio by name, eldest son of a gentleman who is lord of a +village near ours, contrived to find opportunities of seeing me. How he +saw me, how we met, how his heart was lost to me, and mine not kept +from him, would take too long to tell, especially at a moment when I am +in dread of the cruel cord that threatens me interposing between tongue +and throat; I will only say, therefore, that Don Gregorio chose to +accompany me in our banishment. He joined company with the Moriscoes +who were going forth from other villages, for he knew their language +very well, and on the voyage he struck up a friendship with my two +uncles who were carrying me with them; for my father, like a wise and +far-sighted man, as soon as he heard the first edict for our expulsion, +quitted the village and departed in quest of some refuge for us abroad. +He left hidden and buried, at a spot of which I alone have knowledge, a +large quantity of pearls and precious stones of great value, together +with a sum of money in gold cruzadoes and doubloons. He charged me on +no account to touch the treasure, if by any chance they expelled us +before his return. I obeyed him, and with my uncles, as I have said, +and others of our kindred and neighbours, passed over to Barbary, and +the place where we took up our abode was Algiers, much the same as if +we had taken it up in hell itself. The king heard of my beauty, and +report told him of my wealth, which was in some degree fortunate for +me. He summoned me before him, and asked me what part of Spain I came +from, and what money and jewels I had. I mentioned the place, and told +him the jewels and money were buried there; but that they might easily +be recovered if I myself went back for them. All this I told him, in +dread lest my beauty and not his own covetousness should influence him. +While he was engaged in conversation with me, they brought him word +that in company with me was one of the handsomest and most graceful +youths that could be imagined. I knew at once that they were speaking +of Don Gaspar Gregorio, whose comeliness surpasses the most highly +vaunted beauty. I was troubled when I thought of the danger he was in, +for among those barbarous Turks a fair youth is more esteemed than a +woman, be she ever so beautiful. The king immediately ordered him to be +brought before him that he might see him, and asked me if what they +said about the youth was true. I then, almost as if inspired by heaven, +told him it was, but that I would have him to know it was not a man, +but a woman like myself, and I entreated him to allow me to go and +dress her in the attire proper to her, so that her beauty might be seen +to perfection, and that she might present herself before him with less +embarrassment. He bade me go by all means, and said that the next day +we should discuss the plan to be adopted for my return to Spain to +carry away the hidden treasure. I saw Don Gaspar, I told him the danger +he was in if he let it be seen he was a man, I dressed him as a Moorish +woman, and that same afternoon I brought him before the king, who was +charmed when he saw him, and resolved to keep the damsel and make a +present of her to the Grand Signor; and to avoid the risk she might run +among the women of his seraglio, and distrustful of himself, he +commanded her to be placed in the house of some Moorish ladies of rank +who would protect and attend to her; and thither he was taken at once. +What we both suffered (for I cannot deny that I love him) may be left +to the imagination of those who are separated if they love one another +dearly. The king then arranged that I should return to Spain in this +brigantine, and that two Turks, those who killed your soldiers, should +accompany me. There also came with me this Spanish renegade”—and here +she pointed to him who had first spoken—“whom I know to be secretly a +Christian, and to be more desirous of being left in Spain than of +returning to Barbary. The rest of the crew of the brigantine are Moors +and Turks, who merely serve as rowers. The two Turks, greedy and +insolent, instead of obeying the orders we had to land me and this +renegade in Christian dress (with which we came provided) on the first +Spanish ground we came to, chose to run along the coast and make some +prize if they could, fearing that if they put us ashore first, we +might, in case of some accident befalling us, make it known that the +brigantine was at sea, and thus, if there happened to be any galleys on +the coast, they might be taken. We sighted this shore last night, and +knowing nothing of these galleys, we were discovered, and the result +was what you have seen. To sum up, there is Don Gregorio in woman’s +dress, among women, in imminent danger of his life; and here am I, with +hands bound, in expectation, or rather in dread, of losing my life, of +which I am already weary. Here, sirs, ends my sad story, as true as it +is unhappy; all I ask of you is to allow me to die like a Christian, +for, as I have already said, I am not to be charged with the offence of +which those of my nation are guilty;” and she stood silent, her eyes +filled with moving tears, accompanied by plenty from the bystanders. +The viceroy, touched with compassion, went up to her without speaking +and untied the cord that bound the hands of the Moorish girl. + +But all the while the Morisco Christian was telling her strange story, +an elderly pilgrim, who had come on board of the galley at the same +time as the viceroy, kept his eyes fixed upon her; and the instant she +ceased speaking he threw himself at her feet, and embracing them said +in a voice broken by sobs and sighs, “O Ana Felix, my unhappy daughter, +I am thy father Ricote, come back to look for thee, unable to live +without thee, my soul that thou art!” + +At these words of his, Sancho opened his eyes and raised his head, +which he had been holding down, brooding over his unlucky excursion; +and looking at the pilgrim he recognised in him that same Ricote he met +the day he quitted his government, and felt satisfied that this was his +daughter. She being now unbound embraced her father, mingling her tears +with his, while he addressing the general and the viceroy said, “This, +sirs, is my daughter, more unhappy in her adventures than in her name. +She is Ana Felix, surnamed Ricote, celebrated as much for her own +beauty as for my wealth. I quitted my native land in search of some +shelter or refuge for us abroad, and having found one in Germany I +returned in this pilgrim’s dress, in the company of some other German +pilgrims, to seek my daughter and take up a large quantity of treasure +I had left buried. My daughter I did not find, the treasure I found and +have with me; and now, in this strange roundabout way you have seen, I +find the treasure that more than all makes me rich, my beloved +daughter. If our innocence and her tears and mine can with strict +justice open the door to clemency, extend it to us, for we never had +any intention of injuring you, nor do we sympathise with the aims of +our people, who have been justly banished.” + +“I know Ricote well,” said Sancho at this, “and I know too that what he +says about Ana Felix being his daughter is true; but as to those other +particulars about going and coming, and having good or bad intentions, +I say nothing.” + +While all present stood amazed at this strange occurrence the general +said, “At any rate your tears will not allow me to keep my oath; live, +fair Ana Felix, all the years that heaven has allotted you; but these +rash insolent fellows must pay the penalty of the crime they have +committed;” and with that he gave orders to have the two Turks who had +killed his two soldiers hanged at once at the yard-arm. The viceroy, +however, begged him earnestly not to hang them, as their behaviour +savoured rather of madness than of bravado. The general yielded to the +viceroy’s request, for revenge is not easily taken in cold blood. They +then tried to devise some scheme for rescuing Don Gaspar Gregorio from +the danger in which he had been left. Ricote offered for that object +more than two thousand ducats that he had in pearls and gems; they +proposed several plans, but none so good as that suggested by the +renegade already mentioned, who offered to return to Algiers in a small +vessel of about six banks, manned by Christian rowers, as he knew +where, how, and when he could and should land, nor was he ignorant of +the house in which Don Gaspar was staying. The general and the viceroy +had some hesitation about placing confidence in the renegade and +entrusting him with the Christians who were to row, but Ana Felix said +she could answer for him, and her father offered to go and pay the +ransom of the Christians if by any chance they should not be +forthcoming. This, then, being agreed upon, the viceroy landed, and Don +Antonio Moreno took the fair Morisco and her father home with him, the +viceroy charging him to give them the best reception and welcome in his +power, while on his own part he offered all that house contained for +their entertainment; so great was the good-will and kindliness the +beauty of Ana Felix had infused into his heart. + + + +p63e.jpg (23K) + + + +CHAPTER LXIV. +TREATING OF THE ADVENTURE WHICH GAVE DON QUIXOTE MORE UNHAPPINESS THAN +ALL THAT HAD HITHERTO BEFALLEN HIM + + + + +p64a.jpg (80K) + +Full Size + + + +The wife of Don Antonio Moreno, so the history says, was extremely +happy to see Ana Felix in her house. She welcomed her with great +kindness, charmed as well by her beauty as by her intelligence; for in +both respects the fair Morisco was richly endowed, and all the people +of the city flocked to see her as though they had been summoned by the +ringing of the bells. + +Don Quixote told Don Antonio that the plan adopted for releasing Don +Gregorio was not a good one, for its risks were greater than its +advantages, and that it would be better to land himself with his arms +and horse in Barbary; for he would carry him off in spite of the whole +Moorish host, as Don Gaiferos carried off his wife Melisendra. + +“Remember, your worship,” observed Sancho on hearing him say so, “Señor +Don Gaiferos carried off his wife from the mainland, and took her to +France by land; but in this case, if by chance we carry off Don +Gregorio, we have no way of bringing him to Spain, for there’s the sea +between.” + +“There’s a remedy for everything except death,” said Don Quixote; “if +they bring the vessel close to the shore we shall be able to get on +board though all the world strive to prevent us.” + +“Your worship hits it off mighty well and mighty easy,” said Sancho; +“but ‘it’s a long step from saying to doing;’ and I hold to the +renegade, for he seems to me an honest good-hearted fellow.” + +Don Antonio then said that if the renegade did not prove successful, +the expedient of the great Don Quixote’s expedition to Barbary should +be adopted. Two days afterwards the renegade put to sea in a light +vessel of six oars a-side manned by a stout crew, and two days later +the galleys made sail eastward, the general having begged the viceroy +to let him know all about the release of Don Gregorio and about Ana +Felix, and the viceroy promised to do as he requested. + +One morning as Don Quixote went out for a stroll along the beach, +arrayed in full armour (for, as he often said, that was “his only gear, +his only rest the fray,” and he never was without it for a moment), he +saw coming towards him a knight, also in full armour, with a shining +moon painted on his shield, who, on approaching sufficiently near to be +heard, said in a loud voice, addressing himself to Don Quixote, +“Illustrious knight, and never sufficiently extolled Don Quixote of La +Mancha, I am the Knight of the White Moon, whose unheard-of +achievements will perhaps have recalled him to thy memory. I come to do +battle with thee and prove the might of thy arm, to the end that I make +thee acknowledge and confess that my lady, let her be who she may, is +incomparably fairer than thy Dulcinea del Toboso. If thou dost +acknowledge this fairly and openly, thou shalt escape death and save me +the trouble of inflicting it upon thee; if thou fightest and I vanquish +thee, I demand no other satisfaction than that, laying aside arms and +abstaining from going in quest of adventures, thou withdraw and betake +thyself to thine own village for the space of a year, and live there +without putting hand to sword, in peace and quiet and beneficial +repose, the same being needful for the increase of thy substance and +the salvation of thy soul; and if thou dost vanquish me, my head shall +be at thy disposal, my arms and horse thy spoils, and the renown of my +deeds transferred and added to thine. Consider which will be thy best +course, and give me thy answer speedily, for this day is all the time I +have for the despatch of this business.” + +Don Quixote was amazed and astonished, as well at the Knight of the +White Moon’s arrogance, as at his reason for delivering the defiance, +and with calm dignity he answered him, “Knight of the White Moon, of +whose achievements I have never heard until now, I will venture to +swear you have never seen the illustrious Dulcinea; for had you seen +her I know you would have taken care not to venture yourself upon this +issue, because the sight would have removed all doubt from your mind +that there ever has been or can be a beauty to be compared with hers; +and so, not saying you lie, but merely that you are not correct in what +you state, I accept your challenge, with the conditions you have +proposed, and at once, that the day you have fixed may not expire; and +from your conditions I except only that of the renown of your +achievements being transferred to me, for I know not of what sort they +are nor what they may amount to; I am satisfied with my own, such as +they be. Take, therefore, the side of the field you choose, and I will +do the same; and to whom God shall give it may Saint Peter add his +blessing.” + +The Knight of the White Moon had been seen from the city, and it was +told the viceroy how he was in conversation with Don Quixote. The +viceroy, fancying it must be some fresh adventure got up by Don Antonio +Moreno or some other gentleman of the city, hurried out at once to the +beach accompanied by Don Antonio and several other gentlemen, just as +Don Quixote was wheeling Rocinante round in order to take up the +necessary distance. The viceroy upon this, seeing that the pair of them +were evidently preparing to come to the charge, put himself between +them, asking them what it was that led them to engage in combat all of +a sudden in this way. The Knight of the White Moon replied that it was +a question of precedence of beauty; and briefly told him what he had +said to Don Quixote, and how the conditions of the defiance agreed upon +on both sides had been accepted. The viceroy went over to Don Antonio, +and asked in a low voice did he know who the Knight of the White Moon +was, or was it some joke they were playing on Don Quixote. Don Antonio +replied that he neither knew who he was nor whether the defiance was in +joke or in earnest. This answer left the viceroy in a state of +perplexity, not knowing whether he ought to let the combat go on or +not; but unable to persuade himself that it was anything but a joke he +fell back, saying, “If there be no other way out of it, gallant +knights, except to confess or die, and Don Quixote is inflexible, and +your worship of the White Moon still more so, in God’s hand be it, and +fall on.” + +He of the White Moon thanked the viceroy in courteous and well-chosen +words for the permission he gave them, and so did Don Quixote, who +then, commending himself with all his heart to heaven and to his +Dulcinea, as was his custom on the eve of any combat that awaited him, +proceeded to take a little more distance, as he saw his antagonist was +doing the same; then, without blast of trumpet or other warlike +instrument to give them the signal to charge, both at the same instant +wheeled their horses; and he of the White Moon, being the swifter, met +Don Quixote after having traversed two-thirds of the course, and there +encountered him with such violence that, without touching him with his +lance (for he held it high, to all appearance purposely), he hurled Don +Quixote and Rocinante to the earth, a perilous fall. He sprang upon him +at once, and placing the lance over his visor said to him, “You are +vanquished, sir knight, nay dead unless you admit the conditions of our +defiance.” + +Don Quixote, bruised and stupefied, without raising his visor said in a +weak feeble voice as if he were speaking out of a tomb, “Dulcinea del +Toboso is the fairest woman in the world, and I the most unfortunate +knight on earth; it is not fitting that this truth should suffer by my +feebleness; drive your lance home, sir knight, and take my life, since +you have taken away my honour.” + +“That will I not, in sooth,” said he of the White Moon; “live the fame +of the lady Dulcinea’s beauty undimmed as ever; all I require is that +the great Don Quixote retire to his own home for a year, or for so long +a time as shall by me be enjoined upon him, as we agreed before +engaging in this combat.” + +The viceroy, Don Antonio, and several others who were present heard all +this, and heard too how Don Quixote replied that so long as nothing in +prejudice of Dulcinea was demanded of him, he would observe all the +rest like a true and loyal knight. The engagement given, he of the +White Moon wheeled about, and making obeisance to the viceroy with a +movement of the head, rode away into the city at a half gallop. The +viceroy bade Don Antonio hasten after him, and by some means or other +find out who he was. They raised Don Quixote up and uncovered his face, +and found him pale and bathed with sweat. + + + +p64b.jpg (344K) + +Full Size + + + +Rocinante from the mere hard measure he had received lay unable to stir +for the present. Sancho, wholly dejected and woebegone, knew not what +to say or do. He fancied that all was a dream, that the whole business +was a piece of enchantment. Here was his master defeated, and bound not +to take up arms for a year. He saw the light of the glory of his +achievements obscured; the hopes of the promises lately made him swept +away like smoke before the wind; Rocinante, he feared, was crippled for +life, and his master’s bones out of joint; for if he were only shaken +out of his madness it would be no small luck. In the end they carried +him into the city in a hand-chair which the viceroy sent for, and +thither the viceroy himself returned, eager to ascertain who this +Knight of the White Moon was who had left Don Quixote in such a sad +plight. + + + +p64e.jpg (44K) + +Full Size + + + +CHAPTER LXV. +WHEREIN IS MADE KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE MOON WAS; LIKEWISE +DON GREGORIO’S RELEASE, AND OTHER EVENTS + + + + +p65a.jpg (149K) + +Full Size + + + +Don Antonio Moreno followed the Knight of the White Moon, and a number +of boys followed him too, nay pursued him, until they had him fairly +housed in a hostel in the heart of the city. Don Antonio, eager to make +his acquaintance, entered also; a squire came out to meet him and +remove his armour, and he shut himself into a lower room, still +attended by Don Antonio, whose bread would not bake until he had found +out who he was. He of the White Moon, seeing then that the gentleman +would not leave him, said, “I know very well, señor, what you have come +for; it is to find out who I am; and as there is no reason why I should +conceal it from you, while my servant here is taking off my armour I +will tell you the true state of the case, without leaving out anything. +You must know, señor, that I am called the bachelor Samson Carrasco. I +am of the same village as Don Quixote of La Mancha, whose craze and +folly make all of us who know him feel pity for him, and I am one of +those who have felt it most; and persuaded that his chance of recovery +lay in quiet and keeping at home and in his own house, I hit upon a +device for keeping him there. Three months ago, therefore, I went out +to meet him as a knight-errant, under the assumed name of the Knight of +the Mirrors, intending to engage him in combat and overcome him without +hurting him, making it the condition of our combat that the vanquished +should be at the disposal of the victor. What I meant to demand of him +(for I regarded him as vanquished already) was that he should return to +his own village, and not leave it for a whole year, by which time he +might be cured. But fate ordered it otherwise, for he vanquished me and +unhorsed me, and so my plan failed. He went his way, and I came back +conquered, covered with shame, and sorely bruised by my fall, which was +a particularly dangerous one. But this did not quench my desire to meet +him again and overcome him, as you have seen to-day. And as he is so +scrupulous in his observance of the laws of knight-errantry, he will, +no doubt, in order to keep his word, obey the injunction I have laid +upon him. This, señor, is how the matter stands, and I have nothing +more to tell you. I implore of you not to betray me, or tell Don +Quixote who I am; so that my honest endeavours may be successful, and +that a man of excellent wits—were he only rid of the fooleries of +chivalry—may get them back again.” + +“O señor,” said Don Antonio, “may God forgive you the wrong you have +done the whole world in trying to bring the most amusing madman in it +back to his senses. Do you not see, señor, that the gain by Don +Quixote’s sanity can never equal the enjoyment his crazes give? But my +belief is that all the señor bachelor’s pains will be of no avail to +bring a man so hopelessly cracked to his senses again; and if it were +not uncharitable, I would say may Don Quixote never be cured, for by +his recovery we lose not only his own drolleries, but his squire Sancho +Panza’s too, any one of which is enough to turn melancholy itself into +merriment. However, I’ll hold my peace and say nothing to him, and +we’ll see whether I am right in my suspicion that Señor Carrasco’s +efforts will be fruitless.” + +The bachelor replied that at all events the affair promised well, and +he hoped for a happy result from it; and putting his services at Don +Antonio’s commands he took his leave of him; and having had his armour +packed at once upon a mule, he rode away from the city the same day on +the horse he rode to battle, and returned to his own country without +meeting any adventure calling for record in this veracious history. + +Don Antonio reported to the viceroy what Carrasco told him, and the +viceroy was not very well pleased to hear it, for with Don Quixote’s +retirement there was an end to the amusement of all who knew anything +of his mad doings. + +Six days did Don Quixote keep his bed, dejected, melancholy, moody and +out of sorts, brooding over the unhappy event of his defeat. Sancho +strove to comfort him, and among other things he said to him, “Hold up +your head, señor, and be of good cheer if you can, and give thanks to +heaven that if you have had a tumble to the ground you have not come +off with a broken rib; and, as you know that ‘where they give they +take,’ and that ‘there are not always fletches where there are pegs,’ a +fig for the doctor, for there’s no need of him to cure this ailment. +Let us go home, and give over going about in search of adventures in +strange lands and places; rightly looked at, it is I that am the +greater loser, though it is your worship that has had the worse usage. +With the government I gave up all wish to be a governor again, but I +did not give up all longing to be a count; and that will never come to +pass if your worship gives up becoming a king by renouncing the calling +of chivalry; and so my hopes are going to turn into smoke.” + +“Peace, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “thou seest my suspension and +retirement is not to exceed a year; I shall soon return to my honoured +calling, and I shall not be at a loss for a kingdom to win and a county +to bestow on thee.” + +“May God hear it and sin be deaf,” said Sancho; “I have always heard +say that ‘a good hope is better than a bad holding.” + +As they were talking Don Antonio came in looking extremely pleased and +exclaiming, “Reward me for my good news, Señor Don Quixote! Don +Gregorio and the renegade who went for him have come ashore—ashore do I +say? They are by this time in the viceroy’s house, and will be here +immediately.” + +Don Quixote cheered up a little and said, “Of a truth I am almost ready +to say I should have been glad had it turned out just the other way, +for it would have obliged me to cross over to Barbary, where by the +might of my arm I should have restored to liberty, not only Don +Gregorio, but all the Christian captives there are in Barbary. But what +am I saying, miserable being that I am? Am I not he that has been +conquered? Am I not he that has been overthrown? Am I not he who must +not take up arms for a year? Then what am I making professions for; +what am I bragging about; when it is fitter for me to handle the +distaff than the sword?” + +“No more of that, señor,” said Sancho; “‘let the hen live, even though +it be with her pip;’ ‘to-day for thee and to-morrow for me;’ in these +affairs of encounters and whacks one must not mind them, for he that +falls to-day may get up to-morrow; unless indeed he chooses to lie in +bed, I mean gives way to weakness and does not pluck up fresh spirit +for fresh battles; let your worship get up now to receive Don Gregorio; +for the household seems to be in a bustle, and no doubt he has come by +this time;” and so it proved, for as soon as Don Gregorio and the +renegade had given the viceroy an account of the voyage out and home, +Don Gregorio, eager to see Ana Felix, came with the renegade to Don +Antonio’s house. When they carried him away from Algiers he was in +woman’s dress; on board the vessel, however, he exchanged it for that +of a captive who escaped with him; but in whatever dress he might be he +looked like one to be loved and served and esteemed, for he was +surpassingly well-favoured, and to judge by appearances some seventeen +or eighteen years of age. Ricote and his daughter came out to welcome +him, the father with tears, the daughter with bashfulness. They did not +embrace each other, for where there is deep love there will never be +overmuch boldness. Seen side by side, the comeliness of Don Gregorio +and the beauty of Ana Felix were the admiration of all who were +present. It was silence that spoke for the lovers at that moment, and +their eyes were the tongues that declared their pure and happy +feelings. The renegade explained the measures and means he had adopted +to rescue Don Gregorio, and Don Gregorio at no great length, but in a +few words, in which he showed that his intelligence was in advance of +his years, described the peril and embarrassment he found himself in +among the women with whom he had sojourned. To conclude, Ricote +liberally recompensed and rewarded as well the renegade as the men who +had rowed; and the renegade effected his readmission into the body of +the Church and was reconciled with it, and from a rotten limb became by +penance and repentance a clean and sound one. + +Two days later the viceroy discussed with Don Antonio the steps they +should take to enable Ana Felix and her father to stay in Spain, for it +seemed to them there could be no objection to a daughter who was so +good a Christian and a father to all appearance so well disposed +remaining there. Don Antonio offered to arrange the matter at the +capital, whither he was compelled to go on some other business, hinting +that many a difficult affair was settled there with the help of favour +and bribes. + +“Nay,” said Ricote, who was present during the conversation, “it will +not do to rely upon favour or bribes, because with the great Don +Bernardino de Velasco, Conde de Salazar, to whom his Majesty has +entrusted our expulsion, neither entreaties nor promises, bribes nor +appeals to compassion, are of any use; for though it is true he mingles +mercy with justice, still, seeing that the whole body of our nation is +tainted and corrupt, he applies to it the cautery that burns rather +than the salve that soothes; and thus, by prudence, sagacity, care and +the fear he inspires, he has borne on his mighty shoulders the weight +of this great policy and carried it into effect, all our schemes and +plots, importunities and wiles, being ineffectual to blind his Argus +eyes, ever on the watch lest one of us should remain behind in +concealment, and like a hidden root come in course of time to sprout +and bear poisonous fruit in Spain, now cleansed, and relieved of the +fear in which our vast numbers kept it. Heroic resolve of the great +Philip the Third, and unparalleled wisdom to have entrusted it to the +said Don Bernardino de Velasco!” + +“At any rate,” said Don Antonio, “when I am there I will make all +possible efforts, and let heaven do as pleases it best; Don Gregorio +will come with me to relieve the anxiety which his parents must be +suffering on account of his absence; Ana Felix will remain in my house +with my wife, or in a monastery; and I know the viceroy will be glad +that the worthy Ricote should stay with him until we see what terms I +can make.” + +The viceroy agreed to all that was proposed; but Don Gregorio on +learning what had passed declared he could not and would not on any +account leave Ana Felix; however, as it was his purpose to go and see +his parents and devise some way of returning for her, he fell in with +the proposed arrangement. Ana Felix remained with Don Antonio’s wife, +and Ricote in the viceroy’s house. + +The day for Don Antonio’s departure came; and two days later that for +Don Quixote’s and Sancho’s, for Don Quixote’s fall did not suffer him +to take the road sooner. There were tears and sighs, swoonings and +sobs, at the parting between Don Gregorio and Ana Felix. Ricote offered +Don Gregorio a thousand crowns if he would have them, but he would not +take any save five which Don Antonio lent him and he promised to repay +at the capital. So the two of them took their departure, and Don +Quixote and Sancho afterwards, as has been already said, Don Quixote +without his armour and in travelling gear, and Sancho on foot, Dapple +being loaded with the armour. + + + +p65e.jpg (43K) + + + +CHAPTER LXVI. +WHICH TREATS OF WHAT HE WHO READS WILL SEE, OR WHAT HE WHO HAS IT READ +TO HIM WILL HEAR + + + + +p66a.jpg (125K) + +Full Size + + + +As he left Barcelona, Don Quixote turned gaze upon the spot where he +had fallen. “Here Troy was,” said he; “here my ill-luck, not my +cowardice, robbed me of all the glory I had won; here Fortune made me +the victim of her caprices; here the lustre of my achievements was +dimmed; here, in a word, fell my happiness never to rise again.” + + + +p66b.jpg (251K) + +Full Size + + + +“Señor,” said Sancho on hearing this, “it is the part of brave hearts +to be patient in adversity just as much as to be glad in prosperity; I +judge by myself, for, if when I was a governor I was glad, now that I +am a squire and on foot I am not sad; and I have heard say that she +whom commonly they call Fortune is a drunken whimsical jade, and, what +is more, blind, and therefore neither sees what she does, nor knows +whom she casts down or whom she sets up.” + +“Thou art a great philosopher, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “thou +speakest very sensibly; I know not who taught thee. But I can tell thee +there is no such thing as Fortune in the world, nor does anything which +takes place there, be it good or bad, come about by chance, but by the +special preordination of heaven; and hence the common saying that ‘each +of us is the maker of his own Fortune.’ I have been that of mine; but +not with the proper amount of prudence, and my self-confidence has +therefore made me pay dearly; for I ought to have reflected that +Rocinante’s feeble strength could not resist the mighty bulk of the +Knight of the White Moon’s horse. In a word, I ventured it, I did my +best, I was overthrown, but though I lost my honour I did not lose nor +can I lose the virtue of keeping my word. When I was a knight-errant, +daring and valiant, I supported my achievements by hand and deed, and +now that I am a humble squire I will support my words by keeping the +promise I have given. Forward then, Sancho my friend, let us go to keep +the year of the novitiate in our own country, and in that seclusion we +shall pick up fresh strength to return to the by me never-forgotten +calling of arms.” + +“Señor,” returned Sancho, “travelling on foot is not such a pleasant +thing that it makes me feel disposed or tempted to make long marches. +Let us leave this armour hung up on some tree, instead of someone that +has been hanged; and then with me on Dapple’s back and my feet off the +ground we will arrange the stages as your worship pleases to measure +them out; but to suppose that I am going to travel on foot, and make +long ones, is to suppose nonsense.” + +“Thou sayest well, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “let my armour be hung up +for a trophy, and under it or round it we will carve on the trees what +was inscribed on the trophy of Roland’s armour- + +These let none move +Who dareth not his might with Roland prove.” + + +“That’s the very thing,” said Sancho; “and if it was not that we should +feel the want of Rocinante on the road, it would be as well to leave +him hung up too.” + +“And yet, I had rather not have either him or the armour hung up,” said +Don Quixote, “that it may not be said, ‘for good service a bad +return.’” + +“Your worship is right,” said Sancho; “for, as sensible people hold, +‘the fault of the ass must not be laid on the pack-saddle;’ and, as in +this affair the fault is your worship’s, punish yourself and don’t let +your anger break out against the already battered and bloody armour, or +the meekness of Rocinante, or the tenderness of my feet, trying to make +them travel more than is reasonable.” + + + +p66c.jpg (389K) + +Full Size + + + +In converse of this sort the whole of that day went by, as did the four +succeeding ones, without anything occurring to interrupt their journey, +but on the fifth as they entered a village they found a great number of +people at the door of an inn enjoying themselves, as it was a holiday. +Upon Don Quixote’s approach a peasant called out, “One of these two +gentlemen who come here, and who don’t know the parties, will tell us +what we ought to do about our wager.” + +“That I will, certainly,” said Don Quixote, “and according to the +rights of the case, if I can manage to understand it.” + +“Well, here it is, worthy sir,” said the peasant; “a man of this +village who is so fat that he weighs twenty stone challenged another, a +neighbour of his, who does not weigh more than nine, to run a race. The +agreement was that they were to run a distance of a hundred paces with +equal weights; and when the challenger was asked how the weights were +to be equalised he said that the other, as he weighed nine stone, +should put eleven in iron on his back, and that in this way the twenty +stone of the thin man would equal the twenty stone of the fat one.” + +“Not at all,” exclaimed Sancho at once, before Don Quixote could +answer; “it’s for me, that only a few days ago left off being a +governor and a judge, as all the world knows, to settle these doubtful +questions and give an opinion in disputes of all sorts.” + +“Answer in God’s name, Sancho my friend,” said Don Quixote, “for I am +not fit to give crumbs to a cat, my wits are so confused and upset.” + +With this permission Sancho said to the peasants who stood clustered +round him, waiting with open mouths for the decision to come from his, +“Brothers, what the fat man requires is not in reason, nor has it a +shadow of justice in it; because, if it be true, as they say, that the +challenged may choose the weapons, the other has no right to choose +such as will prevent and keep him from winning. My decision, therefore, +is that the fat challenger prune, peel, thin, trim and correct himself, +and take eleven stone of his flesh off his body, here or there, as he +pleases, and as suits him best; and being in this way reduced to nine +stone weight, he will make himself equal and even with nine stone of +his opponent, and they will be able to run on equal terms.” + +“By all that’s good,” said one of the peasants as he heard Sancho’s +decision, “but the gentleman has spoken like a saint, and given +judgment like a canon! But I’ll be bound the fat man won’t part with an +ounce of his flesh, not to say eleven stone.” + +“The best plan will be for them not to run,” said another, “so that +neither the thin man break down under the weight, nor the fat one strip +himself of his flesh; let half the wager be spent in wine, and let’s +take these gentlemen to the tavern where there’s the best, and ‘over me +be the cloak when it rains.’” + +“I thank you, sirs,” said Don Quixote; “but I cannot stop for an +instant, for sad thoughts and unhappy circumstances force me to seem +discourteous and to travel apace;” and spurring Rocinante he pushed on, +leaving them wondering at what they had seen and heard, at his own +strange figure and at the shrewdness of his servant, for such they took +Sancho to be; and another of them observed, “If the servant is so +clever, what must the master be? I’ll bet, if they are going to +Salamanca to study, they’ll come to be alcaldes of the Court in a +trice; for it’s a mere joke—only to read and read, and have interest +and good luck; and before a man knows where he is he finds himself with +a staff in his hand or a mitre on his head.” + +That night master and man passed out in the fields in the open air, and +the next day as they were pursuing their journey they saw coming +towards them a man on foot with alforjas at the neck and a javelin or +spiked staff in his hand, the very cut of a foot courier; who, as soon +as he came close to Don Quixote, increased his pace and half running +came up to him, and embracing his right thigh, for he could reach no +higher, exclaimed with evident pleasure, “O Señor Don Quixote of La +Mancha, what happiness it will be to the heart of my lord the duke when +he knows your worship is coming back to his castle, for he is still +there with my lady the duchess!” + +“I do not recognise you, friend,” said Don Quixote, “nor do I know who +you are, unless you tell me.” + +“I am Tosilos, my lord the duke’s lacquey, Señor Don Quixote,” replied +the courier; “he who refused to fight your worship about marrying the +daughter of Doña Rodriguez.” + +“God bless me!” exclaimed Don Quixote; “is it possible that you are the +one whom mine enemies the enchanters changed into the lacquey you speak +of in order to rob me of the honour of that battle?” + +“Nonsense, good sir!” said the messenger; “there was no enchantment or +transformation at all; I entered the lists just as much lacquey Tosilos +as I came out of them lacquey Tosilos. I thought to marry without +fighting, for the girl had taken my fancy; but my scheme had a very +different result, for as soon as your worship had left the castle my +lord the duke had a hundred strokes of the stick given me for having +acted contrary to the orders he gave me before engaging in the combat; +and the end of the whole affair is that the girl has become a nun, and +Doña Rodriguez has gone back to Castile, and I am now on my way to +Barcelona with a packet of letters for the viceroy which my master is +sending him. If your worship would like a drop, sound though warm, I +have a gourd here full of the best, and some scraps of Tronchon cheese +that will serve as a provocative and wakener of your thirst if so be it +is asleep.” + +“I take the offer,” said Sancho; “no more compliments about it; pour +out, good Tosilos, in spite of all the enchanters in the Indies.” + +“Thou art indeed the greatest glutton in the world, Sancho,” said Don +Quixote, “and the greatest booby on earth, not to be able to see that +this courier is enchanted and this Tosilos a sham one; stop with him +and take thy fill; I will go on slowly and wait for thee to come up +with me.” + +The lacquey laughed, unsheathed his gourd, unwalletted his scraps, and +taking out a small loaf of bread he and Sancho seated themselves on the +green grass, and in peace and good fellowship finished off the contents +of the alforjas down to the bottom, so resolutely that they licked the +wrapper of the letters, merely because it smelt of cheese. + +Said Tosilos to Sancho, “Beyond a doubt, Sancho my friend, this master +of thine ought to be a madman.” + +“Ought!” said Sancho; “he owes no man anything; he pays for everything, +particularly when the coin is madness. I see it plain enough, and I +tell him so plain enough; but what’s the use? especially now that it is +all over with him, for here he is beaten by the Knight of the White +Moon.” + +Tosilos begged him to explain what had happened him, but Sancho replied +that it would not be good manners to leave his master waiting for him; +and that some other day if they met there would be time enough for +that; and then getting up, after shaking his doublet and brushing the +crumbs out of his beard, he drove Dapple on before him, and bidding +adieu to Tosilos left him and rejoined his master, who was waiting for +him under the shade of a tree. + + + +p66e.jpg (29K) + + + +CHAPTER LXVII. +OF THE RESOLUTION DON QUIXOTE FORMED TO TURN SHEPHERD AND TAKE TO A +LIFE IN THE FIELDS WHILE THE YEAR FOR WHICH HE HAD GIVEN HIS WORD WAS +RUNNING ITS COURSE; WITH OTHER EVENTS TRULY DELECTABLE AND HAPPY + + + + +p67a.jpg (145K) + +Full Size + + + +If a multitude of reflections used to harass Don Quixote before he had +been overthrown, a great many more harassed him since his fall. He was +under the shade of a tree, as has been said, and there, like flies on +honey, thoughts came crowding upon him and stinging him. Some of them +turned upon the disenchantment of Dulcinea, others upon the life he was +about to lead in his enforced retirement. Sancho came up and spoke in +high praise of the generous disposition of the lacquey Tosilos. + +“Is it possible, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that thou dost still think +that he yonder is a real lacquey? Apparently it has escaped thy memory +that thou hast seen Dulcinea turned and transformed into a peasant +wench, and the Knight of the Mirrors into the bachelor Carrasco; all +the work of the enchanters that persecute me. But tell me now, didst +thou ask this Tosilos, as thou callest him, what has become of +Altisidora, did she weep over my absence, or has she already consigned +to oblivion the love thoughts that used to afflict her when I was +present?” + +“The thoughts that I had,” said Sancho, “were not such as to leave time +for asking fool’s questions. Body o’ me, señor! is your worship in a +condition now to inquire into other people’s thoughts, above all love +thoughts?” + +“Look ye, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “there is a great difference +between what is done out of love and what is done out of gratitude. A +knight may very possibly be proof against love; but it is impossible, +strictly speaking, for him to be ungrateful. Altisidora, to all +appearance, loved me truly; she gave me the three kerchiefs thou +knowest of; she wept at my departure, she cursed me, she abused me, +casting shame to the winds she bewailed herself in public; all signs +that she adored me; for the wrath of lovers always ends in curses. I +had no hopes to give her, nor treasures to offer her, for mine are +given to Dulcinea, and the treasures of knights-errant are like those +of the fairies,’ illusory and deceptive; all I can give her is the +place in my memory I keep for her, without prejudice, however, to that +which I hold devoted to Dulcinea, whom thou art wronging by thy +remissness in whipping thyself and scourging that flesh—would that I +saw it eaten by wolves—which would rather keep itself for the worms +than for the relief of that poor lady.” + +“Señor,” replied Sancho, “if the truth is to be told, I cannot persuade +myself that the whipping of my backside has anything to do with the +disenchantment of the enchanted; it is like saying, ‘If your head aches +rub ointment on your knees;’ at any rate I’ll make bold to swear that +in all the histories dealing with knight-errantry that your worship has +read you have never come across anybody disenchanted by whipping; but +whether or no I’ll whip myself when I have a fancy for it, and the +opportunity serves for scourging myself comfortably.” + +“God grant it,” said Don Quixote; “and heaven give thee grace to take +it to heart and own the obligation thou art under to help my lady, who +is thine also, inasmuch as thou art mine.” + +As they pursued their journey talking in this way they came to the very +same spot where they had been trampled on by the bulls. Don Quixote +recognised it, and said he to Sancho, “This is the meadow where we came +upon those gay shepherdesses and gallant shepherds who were trying to +revive and imitate the pastoral Arcadia there, an idea as novel as it +was happy, in emulation whereof, if so be thou dost approve of it, +Sancho, I would have ourselves turn shepherds, at any rate for the time +I have to live in retirement. I will buy some ewes and everything else +requisite for the pastoral calling; and, I under the name of the +shepherd Quixotize and thou as the shepherd Panzino, we will roam the +woods and groves and meadows singing songs here, lamenting in elegies +there, drinking of the crystal waters of the springs or limpid brooks +or flowing rivers. The oaks will yield us their sweet fruit with +bountiful hand, the trunks of the hard cork trees a seat, the willows +shade, the roses perfume, the widespread meadows carpets tinted with a +thousand dyes; the clear pure air will give us breath, the moon and +stars lighten the darkness of the night for us, song shall be our +delight, lamenting our joy, Apollo will supply us with verses, and love +with conceits whereby we shall make ourselves famed for ever, not only +in this but in ages to come.” + +“Egad,” said Sancho, “but that sort of life squares, nay corners, with +my notions; and what is more the bachelor Samson Carrasco and Master +Nicholas the barber won’t have well seen it before they’ll want to +follow it and turn shepherds along with us; and God grant it may not +come into the curate’s head to join the sheepfold too, he’s so jovial +and fond of enjoying himself.” + +“Thou art in the right of it, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “and the +bachelor Samson Carrasco, if he enters the pastoral fraternity, as no +doubt he will, may call himself the shepherd Samsonino, or perhaps the +shepherd Carrascon; Nicholas the barber may call himself Niculoso, as +old Boscan formerly was called Nemoroso; as for the curate I don’t know +what name we can fit to him unless it be something derived from his +title, and we call him the shepherd Curiambro. For the shepherdesses +whose lovers we shall be, we can pick names as we would pears; and as +my lady’s name does just as well for a shepherdess’s as for a +princess’s, I need not trouble myself to look for one that will suit +her better; to thine, Sancho, thou canst give what name thou wilt.” + +“I don’t mean to give her any but Teresona,” said Sancho, “which will +go well with her stoutness and with her own right name, as she is +called Teresa; and then when I sing her praises in my verses I’ll show +how chaste my passion is, for I’m not going to look ‘for better bread +than ever came from wheat’ in other men’s houses. It won’t do for the +curate to have a shepherdess, for the sake of good example; and if the +bachelor chooses to have one, that is his look-out.” + +“God bless me, Sancho my friend!” said Don Quixote, “what a life we +shall lead! What hautboys and Zamora bagpipes we shall hear, what +tabors, timbrels, and rebecks! And then if among all these different +sorts of music that of the albogues is heard, almost all the pastoral +instruments will be there.” + +“What are albogues?” asked Sancho, “for I never in my life heard tell +of them or saw them.” + +“Albogues,” said Don Quixote, “are brass plates like candlesticks that +struck against one another on the hollow side make a noise which, if +not very pleasing or harmonious, is not disagreeable and accords very +well with the rude notes of the bagpipe and tabor. The word albogue is +Morisco, as are all those in our Spanish tongue that begin with _al;_ +for example, _almohaza, almorzar, alhombra, alguacil, alhucema, +almacen, alcancia_, and others of the same sort, of which there are not +many more; our language has only three that are Morisco and end in _i_, +which are _borceguí, zaquizamí_, and _maravedí. Alhelí_ and _alfaquí_ +are seen to be Arabic, as well by the _al_ at the beginning as by the +_í_ they end with. I mention this incidentally, the chance allusion to +albogues having reminded me of it; and it will be of great assistance +to us in the perfect practice of this calling that I am something of a +poet, as thou knowest, and that besides the bachelor Samson Carrasco is +an accomplished one. Of the curate I say nothing; but I will wager he +has some spice of the poet in him, and no doubt Master Nicholas too, +for all barbers, or most of them, are guitar players and stringers of +verses. I will bewail my separation; thou shalt glorify thyself as a +constant lover; the shepherd Carrascon will figure as a rejected one, +and the curate Curiambro as whatever may please him best; and so all +will go as gaily as heart could wish.” + +To this Sancho made answer, “I am so unlucky, señor, that I’m afraid +the day will never come when I’ll see myself at such a calling. O what +neat spoons I’ll make when I’m a shepherd! What messes, creams, +garlands, pastoral odds and ends! And if they don’t get me a name for +wisdom, they’ll not fail to get me one for ingenuity. My daughter +Sanchica will bring us our dinner to the pasture. But stay—she’s +good-looking, and shepherds there are with more mischief than +simplicity in them; I would not have her ‘come for wool and go back +shorn;’ love-making and lawless desires are just as common in the +fields as in the cities, and in shepherds’ shanties as in royal +palaces; ‘do away with the cause, you do away with the sin;’ ‘if eyes +don’t see hearts don’t break’ and ‘better a clear escape than good +men’s prayers.’” + +“A truce to thy proverbs, Sancho,” exclaimed Don Quixote; “any one of +those thou hast uttered would suffice to explain thy meaning; many a +time have I recommended thee not to be so lavish with proverbs and to +exercise some moderation in delivering them; but it seems to me it is +only ‘preaching in the desert;’ ‘my mother beats me and I go on with my +tricks.” + +“It seems to me,” said Sancho, “that your worship is like the common +saying, ‘Said the frying-pan to the kettle, Get away, blackbreech.’ You +chide me for uttering proverbs, and you string them in couples +yourself.” + +“Observe, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “I bring in proverbs to the +purpose, and when I quote them they fit like a ring to the finger; thou +bringest them in by the head and shoulders, in such a way that thou +dost drag them in, rather than introduce them; if I am not mistaken, I +have told thee already that proverbs are short maxims drawn from the +experience and observation of our wise men of old; but the proverb that +is not to the purpose is a piece of nonsense and not a maxim. But +enough of this; as nightfall is drawing on let us retire some little +distance from the high road to pass the night; what is in store for us +to-morrow God knoweth.” + +They turned aside, and supped late and poorly, very much against +Sancho’s will, who turned over in his mind the hardships attendant upon +knight-errantry in woods and forests, even though at times plenty +presented itself in castles and houses, as at Don Diego de Miranda’s, +at the wedding of Camacho the Rich, and at Don Antonio Moreno’s; he +reflected, however, that it could not be always day, nor always night; +and so that night he passed in sleeping, and his master in waking. + + + +p67e.jpg (55K) + + + +CHAPTER LXVIII. +OF THE BRISTLY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE + + + + +p68a.jpg (119K) + +Full Size + + + +The night was somewhat dark, for though there was a moon in the sky it +was not in a quarter where she could be seen; for sometimes the lady +Diana goes on a stroll to the antipodes, and leaves the mountains all +black and the valleys in darkness. Don Quixote obeyed nature so far as +to sleep his first sleep, but did not give way to the second, very +different from Sancho, who never had any second, because with him sleep +lasted from night till morning, wherein he showed what a sound +constitution and few cares he had. Don Quixote’s cares kept him +restless, so much so that he awoke Sancho and said to him, “I am +amazed, Sancho, at the unconcern of thy temperament. I believe thou art +made of marble or hard brass, incapable of any emotion or feeling +whatever. I lie awake while thou sleepest, I weep while thou singest, I +am faint with fasting while thou art sluggish and torpid from pure +repletion. It is the duty of good servants to share the sufferings and +feel the sorrows of their masters, if it be only for the sake of +appearances. See the calmness of the night, the solitude of the spot, +inviting us to break our slumbers by a vigil of some sort. Rise as thou +livest, and retire a little distance, and with a good heart and +cheerful courage give thyself three or four hundred lashes on account +of Dulcinea’s disenchantment score; and this I entreat of thee, making +it a request, for I have no desire to come to grips with thee a second +time, as I know thou hast a heavy hand. As soon as thou hast laid them +on we will pass the rest of the night, I singing my separation, thou +thy constancy, making a beginning at once with the pastoral life we are +to follow at our village.” + +“Señor,” replied Sancho, “I’m no monk to get up out of the middle of my +sleep and scourge myself, nor does it seem to me that one can pass from +one extreme of the pain of whipping to the other of music. Will your +worship let me sleep, and not worry me about whipping myself? or you’ll +make me swear never to touch a hair of my doublet, not to say my +flesh.” + +“O hard heart!” said Don Quixote, “O pitiless squire! O bread +ill-bestowed and favours ill-acknowledged, both those I have done thee +and those I mean to do thee! Through me hast thou seen thyself a +governor, and through me thou seest thyself in immediate expectation of +being a count, or obtaining some other equivalent title, for I—_post +tenebras spero lucem_.” + +“I don’t know what that is,” said Sancho; “all I know is that so long +as I am asleep I have neither fear nor hope, trouble nor glory; and +good luck betide him that invented sleep, the cloak that covers over +all a man’s thoughts, the food that removes hunger, the drink that +drives away thirst, the fire that warms the cold, the cold that tempers +the heat, and, to wind up with, the universal coin wherewith everything +is bought, the weight and balance that makes the shepherd equal with +the king and the fool with the wise man. Sleep, I have heard say, has +only one fault, that it is like death; for between a sleeping man and a +dead man there is very little difference.” + +“Never have I heard thee speak so elegantly as now, Sancho,” said Don +Quixote; “and here I begin to see the truth of the proverb thou dost +sometimes quote, ‘Not with whom thou art bred, but with whom thou art +fed.’” + +“Ha, by my life, master mine,” said Sancho, “it’s not I that am +stringing proverbs now, for they drop in pairs from your worship’s +mouth faster than from mine; only there is this difference between mine +and yours, that yours are well-timed and mine are untimely; but anyhow, +they are all proverbs.” + +At this point they became aware of a harsh indistinct noise that seemed +to spread through all the valleys around. Don Quixote stood up and laid +his hand upon his sword, and Sancho ensconced himself under Dapple and +put the bundle of armour on one side of him and the ass’s pack-saddle +on the other, in fear and trembling as great as Don Quixote’s +perturbation. Each instant the noise increased and came nearer to the +two terrified men, or at least to one, for as to the other, his courage +is known to all. The fact of the matter was that some men were taking +above six hundred pigs to sell at a fair, and were on their way with +them at that hour, and so great was the noise they made and their +grunting and blowing, that they deafened the ears of Don Quixote and +Sancho Panza, and they could not make out what it was. The wide-spread +grunting drove came on in a surging mass, and without showing any +respect for Don Quixote’s dignity or Sancho’s, passed right over the +pair of them, demolishing Sancho’s entrenchments, and not only +upsetting Don Quixote but sweeping Rocinante off his feet into the +bargain; and what with the trampling and the grunting, and the pace at +which the unclean beasts went, pack-saddle, armour, Dapple and +Rocinante were left scattered on the ground and Sancho and Don Quixote +at their wits’ end. + +Sancho got up as well as he could and begged his master to give him his +sword, saying he wanted to kill half a dozen of those dirty unmannerly +pigs, for he had by this time found out that that was what they were. + +“Let them be, my friend,” said Don Quixote; “this insult is the penalty +of my sin; and it is the righteous chastisement of heaven that jackals +should devour a vanquished knight, and wasps sting him and pigs trample +him under foot.” + +“I suppose it is the chastisement of heaven, too,” said Sancho, “that +flies should prick the squires of vanquished knights, and lice eat +them, and hunger assail them. If we squires were the sons of the +knights we serve, or their very near relations, it would be no wonder +if the penalty of their misdeeds overtook us, even to the fourth +generation. But what have the Panzas to do with the Quixotes? Well, +well, let’s lie down again and sleep out what little of the night +there’s left, and God will send us dawn and we shall be all right.” + + + +p68b.jpg (345K) + +Full Size + + + +“Sleep thou, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote, “for thou wast born to +sleep as I was born to watch; and during the time it now wants of dawn +I will give a loose rein to my thoughts, and seek a vent for them in a +little madrigal which, unknown to thee, I composed in my head last +night.” + +“I should think,” said Sancho, “that the thoughts that allow one to +make verses cannot be of great consequence; let your worship string +verses as much as you like and I’ll sleep as much as I can;” and +forthwith, taking the space of ground he required, he muffled himself +up and fell into a sound sleep, undisturbed by bond, debt, or trouble +of any sort. Don Quixote, propped up against the trunk of a beech or a +cork tree—for Cide Hamete does not specify what kind of tree it +was—sang in this strain to the accompaniment of his own sighs: + +When in my mind +I muse, O Love, upon thy cruelty, +To death I flee, +In hope therein the end of all to find. + +But drawing near +That welcome haven in my sea of woe, +Such joy I know, +That life revives, and still I linger here. + +Thus life doth slay, +And death again to life restoreth me; +Strange destiny, +That deals with life and death as with a play! + + +He accompanied each verse with many sighs and not a few tears, just +like one whose heart was pierced with grief at his defeat and his +separation from Dulcinea. + +And now daylight came, and the sun smote Sancho on the eyes with his +beams. He awoke, roused himself up, shook himself and stretched his +lazy limbs, and seeing the havoc the pigs had made with his stores he +cursed the drove, and more besides. Then the pair resumed their +journey, and as evening closed in they saw coming towards them some ten +men on horseback and four or five on foot. Don Quixote’s heart beat +quick and Sancho’s quailed with fear, for the persons approaching them +carried lances and bucklers, and were in very warlike guise. Don +Quixote turned to Sancho and said, “If I could make use of my weapons, +and my promise had not tied my hands, I would count this host that +comes against us but cakes and fancy bread; but perhaps it may prove +something different from what we apprehend.” The men on horseback now +came up, and raising their lances surrounded Don Quixote in silence, +and pointed them at his back and breast, menacing him with death. One +of those on foot, putting his finger to his lips as a sign to him to be +silent, seized Rocinante’s bridle and drew him out of the road, and the +others driving Sancho and Dapple before them, and all maintaining a +strange silence, followed in the steps of the one who led Don Quixote. +The latter two or three times attempted to ask where they were taking +him to and what they wanted, but the instant he began to open his lips +they threatened to close them with the points of their lances; and +Sancho fared the same way, for the moment he seemed about to speak one +of those on foot punched him with a goad, and Dapple likewise, as if he +too wanted to talk. Night set in, they quickened their pace, and the +fears of the two prisoners grew greater, especially as they heard +themselves assailed with—“Get on, ye Troglodytes;” “Silence, ye +barbarians;” “March, ye cannibals;” “No murmuring, ye Scythians;” +“Don’t open your eyes, ye murderous Polyphemes, ye blood-thirsty +lions,” and suchlike names with which their captors harassed the ears +of the wretched master and man. Sancho went along saying to himself, +“We, tortolites, barbers, animals! I don’t like those names at all; +‘it’s in a bad wind our corn is being winnowed;’ ‘misfortune comes upon +us all at once like sticks on a dog,’ and God grant it may be no worse +than them that this unlucky adventure has in store for us.” + +Don Quixote rode completely dazed, unable with the aid of all his wits +to make out what could be the meaning of these abusive names they +called them, and the only conclusion he could arrive at was that there +was no good to be hoped for and much evil to be feared. And now, about +an hour after midnight, they reached a castle which Don Quixote saw at +once was the duke’s, where they had been but a short time before. “God +bless me!” said he, as he recognised the mansion, “what does this mean? +It is all courtesy and politeness in this house; but with the +vanquished good turns into evil, and evil into worse.” + +They entered the chief court of the castle and found it prepared and +fitted up in a style that added to their amazement and doubled their +fears, as will be seen in the following chapter. + + + +p68e.jpg (49K) + + + +CHAPTER LXIX. +OF THE STRANGEST AND MOST EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON +QUIXOTE IN THE WHOLE COURSE OF THIS GREAT HISTORY + + + + +p69a.jpg (141K) + +Full Size + + + +The horsemen dismounted, and, together with the men on foot, without a +moment’s delay taking up Sancho and Don Quixote bodily, they carried +them into the court, all round which near a hundred torches fixed in +sockets were burning, besides above five hundred lamps in the +corridors, so that in spite of the night, which was somewhat dark, the +want of daylight could not be perceived. In the middle of the court was +a catafalque, raised about two yards above the ground and covered +completely by an immense canopy of black velvet, and on the steps all +round it white wax tapers burned in more than a hundred silver +candlesticks. Upon the catafalque was seen the dead body of a damsel so +lovely that by her beauty she made death itself look beautiful. She lay +with her head resting upon a cushion of brocade and crowned with a +garland of sweet-smelling flowers of divers sorts, her hands crossed +upon her bosom, and between them a branch of yellow palm of victory. On +one side of the court was erected a stage, where upon two chairs were +seated two persons who from having crowns on their heads and sceptres +in their hands appeared to be kings of some sort, whether real or mock +ones. By the side of this stage, which was reached by steps, were two +other chairs on which the men carrying the prisoners seated Don Quixote +and Sancho, all in silence, and by signs giving them to understand that +they too were to be silent; which, however, they would have been +without any signs, for their amazement at all they saw held them +tongue-tied. And now two persons of distinction, who were at once +recognised by Don Quixote as his hosts the duke and duchess, ascended +the stage attended by a numerous suite, and seated themselves on two +gorgeous chairs close to the two kings, as they seemed to be. Who would +not have been amazed at this? Nor was this all, for Don Quixote had +perceived that the dead body on the catafalque was that of the fair +Altisidora. As the duke and duchess mounted the stage Don Quixote and +Sancho rose and made them a profound obeisance, which they returned by +bowing their heads slightly. At this moment an official crossed over, +and approaching Sancho threw over him a robe of black buckram painted +all over with flames of fire, and taking off his cap put upon his head +a mitre such as those undergoing the sentence of the Holy Office wear; +and whispered in his ear that he must not open his lips, or they would +put a gag upon him, or take his life. Sancho surveyed himself from head +to foot and saw himself all ablaze with flames; but as they did not +burn him, he did not care two farthings for them. He took off the mitre +and seeing it painted with devils he put it on again, saying to +himself, “Well, so far those don’t burn me nor do these carry me off.” +Don Quixote surveyed him too, and though fear had got the better of his +faculties, he could not help smiling to see the figure Sancho +presented. And now from underneath the catafalque, so it seemed, there +rose a low sweet sound of flutes, which, coming unbroken by human voice +(for there silence itself kept silence), had a soft and languishing +effect. Then, beside the pillow of what seemed to be the dead body, +suddenly appeared a fair youth in a Roman habit, who, to the +accompaniment of a harp which he himself played, sang in a sweet and +clear voice these two stanzas: + +While fair Altisidora, who the sport + Of cold Don Quixote’s cruelty hath been, +Returns to life, and in this magic court + The dames in sables come to grace the scene, +And while her matrons all in seemly sort + My lady robes in baize and bombazine, +Her beauty and her sorrows will I sing +With defter quill than touched the Thracian string. + +But not in life alone, methinks, to me + Belongs the office; Lady, when my tongue +Is cold in death, believe me, unto thee + My voice shall raise its tributary song. +My soul, from this strait prison-house set free, + As o’er the Stygian lake it floats along, +Thy praises singing still shall hold its way, +And make the waters of oblivion stay. + + +At this point one of the two that looked like kings exclaimed, “Enough, +enough, divine singer! It would be an endless task to put before us now +the death and the charms of the peerless Altisidora, not dead as the +ignorant world imagines, but living in the voice of fame and in the +penance which Sancho Panza, here present, has to undergo to restore her +to the long-lost light. Do thou, therefore, O Rhadamanthus, who sittest +in judgment with me in the murky caverns of Dis, as thou knowest all +that the inscrutable fates have decreed touching the resuscitation of +this damsel, announce and declare it at once, that the happiness we +look forward to from her restoration be no longer deferred.” + +No sooner had Minos the fellow judge of Rhadamanthus said this, than +Rhadamanthus rising up said: + +“Ho, officials of this house, high and low, great and small, make haste +hither one and all, and print on Sancho’s face four-and-twenty smacks, +and give him twelve pinches and six pin thrusts in the back and arms; +for upon this ceremony depends the restoration of Altisidora.” + +On hearing this Sancho broke silence and cried out, “By all that’s +good, I’ll as soon let my face be smacked or handled as turn Moor. Body +o’ me! What has handling my face got to do with the resurrection of +this damsel? ‘The old woman took kindly to the blits;’ they enchant +Dulcinea, and whip me in order to disenchant her; Altisidora dies of +ailments God was pleased to send her, and to bring her to life again +they must give me four-and-twenty smacks, and prick holes in my body +with pins, and raise weals on my arms with pinches! Try those jokes on +a brother-in-law; ‘I’m an old dog, and “tus, tus” is no use with me.’” + +“Thou shalt die,” said Rhadamanthus in a loud voice; “relent, thou +tiger; humble thyself, proud Nimrod; suffer and he silent, for no +impossibilities are asked of thee; it is not for thee to inquire into +the difficulties in this matter; smacked thou must be, pricked thou +shalt see thyself, and with pinches thou must be made to howl. Ho, I +say, officials, obey my orders; or by the word of an honest man, ye +shall see what ye were born for.” + +At this some six duennas, advancing across the court, made their +appearance in procession, one after the other, four of them with +spectacles, and all with their right hands uplifted, showing four +fingers of wrist to make their hands look longer, as is the fashion +now-a-days. No sooner had Sancho caught sight of them than, bellowing +like a bull, he exclaimed, “I might let myself be handled by all the +world; but allow duennas to touch me—not a bit of it! Scratch my face, +as my master was served in this very castle; run me through the body +with burnished daggers; pinch my arms with red-hot pincers; I’ll bear +all in patience to serve these gentlefolk; but I won’t let duennas +touch me, though the devil should carry me off!” + +Here Don Quixote, too, broke silence, saying to Sancho, “Have patience, +my son, and gratify these noble persons, and give all thanks to heaven +that it has infused such virtue into thy person, that by its sufferings +thou canst disenchant the enchanted and restore to life the dead.” + +The duennas were now close to Sancho, and he, having become more +tractable and reasonable, settling himself well in his chair presented +his face and beard to the first, who delivered him a smack very stoutly +laid on, and then made him a low curtsey. + +“Less politeness and less paint, señora duenna,” said Sancho; “by God +your hands smell of vinegar-wash.” + +In line, all the duennas smacked him and several others of the +household pinched him; but what he could not stand was being pricked by +the pins; and so, apparently out of patience, he started up out of his +chair, and seizing a lighted torch that stood near him fell upon the +duennas and the whole set of his tormentors, exclaiming, “Begone, ye +ministers of hell; I’m not made of brass not to feel such +out-of-the-way tortures.” + +At this instant Altisidora, who probably was tired of having been so +long lying on her back, turned on her side; seeing which the bystanders +cried out almost with one voice, “Altisidora is alive! Altisidora +lives!” + +Rhadamanthus bade Sancho put away his wrath, as the object they had in +view was now attained. When Don Quixote saw Altisidora move, he went on +his knees to Sancho saying to him, “Now is the time, son of my bowels, +not to call thee my squire, for thee to give thyself some of those +lashes thou art bound to lay on for the disenchantment of Dulcinea. +Now, I say, is the time when the virtue that is in thee is ripe, and +endowed with efficacy to work the good that is looked for from thee.” + +To which Sancho made answer, “That’s trick upon trick, I think, and not +honey upon pancakes; a nice thing it would be for a whipping to come +now, on the top of pinches, smacks, and pin-proddings! You had better +take a big stone and tie it round my neck, and pitch me into a well; I +should not mind it much, if I’m to be always made the cow of the +wedding for the cure of other people’s ailments. Leave me alone; or +else by God I’ll fling the whole thing to the dogs, let come what may.” + +Altisidora had by this time sat up on the catafalque, and as she did so +the clarions sounded, accompanied by the flutes, and the voices of all +present exclaiming, “Long life to Altisidora! long life to Altisidora!” +The duke and duchess and the kings Minos and Rhadamanthus stood up, and +all, together with Don Quixote and Sancho, advanced to receive her and +take her down from the catafalque; and she, making as though she were +recovering from a swoon, bowed her head to the duke and duchess and to +the kings, and looking sideways at Don Quixote, said to him, “God +forgive thee, insensible knight, for through thy cruelty I have been, +to me it seems, more than a thousand years in the other world; and to +thee, the most compassionate upon earth, I render thanks for the life I +am now in possession of. From this day forth, friend Sancho, count as +thine six smocks of mine which I bestow upon thee, to make as many +shirts for thyself, and if they are not all quite whole, at any rate +they are all clean.” + +Sancho kissed her hands in gratitude, kneeling, and with the mitre in +his hand. The duke bade them take it from him, and give him back his +cap and doublet and remove the flaming robe. Sancho begged the duke to +let them leave him the robe and mitre; as he wanted to take them home +for a token and memento of that unexampled adventure. The duchess said +they must leave them with him; for he knew already what a great friend +of his she was. The duke then gave orders that the court should be +cleared, and that all should retire to their chambers, and that Don +Quixote and Sancho should be conducted to their old quarters. + + + +p69e.jpg (60K) + + + +CHAPTER LXX. +WHICH FOLLOWS SIXTY-NINE AND DEALS WITH MATTERS INDISPENSABLE FOR THE +CLEAR COMPREHENSION OF THIS HISTORY + + + + +p70a.jpg (131K) + +Full Size + + + +Sancho slept that night in a cot in the same chamber with Don Quixote, +a thing he would have gladly excused if he could for he knew very well +that with questions and answers his master would not let him sleep, and +he was in no humour for talking much, as he still felt the pain of his +late martyrdom, which interfered with his freedom of speech; and it +would have been more to his taste to sleep in a hovel alone, than in +that luxurious chamber in company. And so well founded did his +apprehension prove, and so correct was his anticipation, that scarcely +had his master got into bed when he said, “What dost thou think of +to-night’s adventure, Sancho? Great and mighty is the power of +cold-hearted scorn, for thou with thine own eyes hast seen Altisidora +slain, not by arrows, nor by the sword, nor by any warlike weapon, nor +by deadly poisons, but by the thought of the sternness and scorn with +which I have always treated her.” + +“She might have died and welcome,” said Sancho, “when she pleased and +how she pleased; and she might have left me alone, for I never made her +fall in love or scorned her. I don’t know nor can I imagine how the +recovery of Altisidora, a damsel more fanciful than wise, can have, as +I have said before, anything to do with the sufferings of Sancho Panza. +Now I begin to see plainly and clearly that there are enchanters and +enchanted people in the world; and may God deliver me from them, since +I can’t deliver myself; and so I beg of your worship to let me sleep +and not ask me any more questions, unless you want me to throw myself +out of the window.” + +“Sleep, Sancho my friend,” said Don Quixote, “if the pinprodding and +pinches thou hast received and the smacks administered to thee will let +thee.” + +“No pain came up to the insult of the smacks,” said Sancho, “for the +simple reason that it was duennas, confound them, that gave them to me; +but once more I entreat your worship to let me sleep, for sleep is +relief from misery to those who are miserable when awake.” + +“Be it so, and God be with thee,” said Don Quixote. + +They fell asleep, both of them, and Cide Hamete, the author of this +great history, took this opportunity to record and relate what it was +that induced the duke and duchess to get up the elaborate plot that has +been described. The bachelor Samson Carrasco, he says, not forgetting +how he as the Knight of the Mirrors had been vanquished and overthrown +by Don Quixote, which defeat and overthrow upset all his plans, +resolved to try his hand again, hoping for better luck than he had +before; and so, having learned where Don Quixote was from the page who +brought the letter and present to Sancho’s wife, Teresa Panza, he got +himself new armour and another horse, and put a white moon upon his +shield, and to carry his arms he had a mule led by a peasant, not by +Tom Cecial his former squire for fear he should be recognised by Sancho +or Don Quixote. He came to the duke’s castle, and the duke informed him +of the road and route Don Quixote had taken with the intention of being +present at the jousts at Saragossa. He told him, too, of the jokes he +had practised upon him, and of the device for the disenchantment of +Dulcinea at the expense of Sancho’s backside; and finally he gave him +an account of the trick Sancho had played upon his master, making him +believe that Dulcinea was enchanted and turned into a country wench; +and of how the duchess, his wife, had persuaded Sancho that it was he +himself who was deceived, inasmuch as Dulcinea was really enchanted; at +which the bachelor laughed not a little, and marvelled as well at the +sharpness and simplicity of Sancho as at the length to which Don +Quixote’s madness went. The duke begged of him if he found him (whether +he overcame him or not) to return that way and let him know the result. +This the bachelor did; he set out in quest of Don Quixote, and not +finding him at Saragossa, he went on, and how he fared has been already +told. He returned to the duke’s castle and told him all, what the +conditions of the combat were, and how Don Quixote was now, like a +loyal knight-errant, returning to keep his promise of retiring to his +village for a year, by which time, said the bachelor, he might perhaps +be cured of his madness; for that was the object that had led him to +adopt these disguises, as it was a sad thing for a gentleman of such +good parts as Don Quixote to be a madman. And so he took his leave of +the duke, and went home to his village to wait there for Don Quixote, +who was coming after him. Thereupon the duke seized the opportunity of +practising this mystification upon him; so much did he enjoy everything +connected with Sancho and Don Quixote. He had the roads about the +castle far and near, everywhere he thought Don Quixote was likely to +pass on his return, occupied by large numbers of his servants on foot +and on horseback, who were to bring him to the castle, by fair means or +foul, if they met him. They did meet him, and sent word to the duke, +who, having already settled what was to be done, as soon as he heard of +his arrival, ordered the torches and lamps in the court to be lit and +Altisidora to be placed on the catafalque with all the pomp and +ceremony that has been described, the whole affair being so well +arranged and acted that it differed but little from reality. And Cide +Hamete says, moreover, that for his part he considers the concocters of +the joke as crazy as the victims of it, and that the duke and duchess +were not two fingers’ breadth removed from being something like fools +themselves when they took such pains to make game of a pair of fools. + +As for the latter, one was sleeping soundly and the other lying awake +occupied with his desultory thoughts, when daylight came to them +bringing with it the desire to rise; for the lazy down was never a +delight to Don Quixote, victor or vanquished. Altisidora, come back +from death to life as Don Quixote fancied, following up the freak of +her lord and lady, entered the chamber, crowned with the garland she +had worn on the catafalque and in a robe of white taffeta embroidered +with gold flowers, her hair flowing loose over her shoulders, and +leaning upon a staff of fine black ebony. Don Quixote, disconcerted and +in confusion at her appearance, huddled himself up and well-nigh +covered himself altogether with the sheets and counterpane of the bed, +tongue-tied, and unable to offer her any civility. Altisidora seated +herself on a chair at the head of the bed, and, after a deep sigh, said +to him in a feeble, soft voice, “When women of rank and modest maidens +trample honour under foot, and give a loose to the tongue that breaks +through every impediment, publishing abroad the inmost secrets of their +hearts, they are reduced to sore extremities. Such a one am I, Señor +Don Quixote of La Mancha, crushed, conquered, love-smitten, but yet +patient under suffering and virtuous, and so much so that my heart +broke with grief and I lost my life. For the last two days I have been +dead, slain by the thought of the cruelty with which thou hast treated +me, obdurate knight, + +O harder thou than marble to my plaint; + + +or at least believed to be dead by all who saw me; and had it not been +that Love, taking pity on me, let my recovery rest upon the sufferings +of this good squire, there I should have remained in the other world.” + +“Love might very well have let it rest upon the sufferings of my ass, +and I should have been obliged to him,” said Sancho. “But tell me, +señora—and may heaven send you a tenderer lover than my master—what did +you see in the other world? What goes on in hell? For of course that’s +where one who dies in despair is bound for.” + +“To tell you the truth,” said Altisidora, “I cannot have died outright, +for I did not go into hell; had I gone in, it is very certain I should +never have come out again, do what I might. The truth is, I came to the +gate, where some dozen or so of devils were playing tennis, all in +breeches and doublets, with falling collars trimmed with Flemish +bonelace, and ruffles of the same that served them for wristbands, with +four fingers’ breadth of the arms exposed to make their hands look +longer; in their hands they held rackets of fire; but what amazed me +still more was that books, apparently full of wind and rubbish, served +them for tennis balls, a strange and marvellous thing; this, however, +did not astonish me so much as to observe that, although with players +it is usual for the winners to be glad and the losers sorry, there in +that game all were growling, all were snarling, and all were cursing +one another.” “That’s no wonder,” said Sancho; “for devils, whether +playing or not, can never be content, win or lose.” + +“Very likely,” said Altisidora; “but there is another thing that +surprises me too, I mean surprised me then, and that was that no ball +outlasted the first throw or was of any use a second time; and it was +wonderful the constant succession there was of books, new and old. To +one of them, a brand-new, well-bound one, they gave such a stroke that +they knocked the guts out of it and scattered the leaves about. ‘Look +what book that is,’ said one devil to another, and the other replied, +‘It is the “Second Part of the History of Don Quixote of La Mancha,” +not by Cide Hamete, the original author, but by an Aragonese who by his +own account is of Tordesillas.’ ‘Out of this with it,’ said the first, +‘and into the depths of hell with it out of my sight.’ ‘Is it so bad?’ +said the other. ‘So bad is it,’ said the first, ‘that if I had set +myself deliberately to make a worse, I could not have done it.’ They +then went on with their game, knocking other books about; and I, having +heard them mention the name of Don Quixote whom I love and adore so, +took care to retain this vision in my memory.” + +“A vision it must have been, no doubt,” said Don Quixote, “for there is +no other I in the world; this history has been going about here for +some time from hand to hand, but it does not stay long in any, for +everybody gives it a taste of his foot. I am not disturbed by hearing +that I am wandering in a fantastic shape in the darkness of the pit or +in the daylight above, for I am not the one that history treats of. If +it should be good, faithful, and true, it will have ages of life; but +if it should be bad, from its birth to its burial will not be a very +long journey.” + +Altisidora was about to proceed with her complaint against Don Quixote, +when he said to her, “I have several times told you, señora, that it +grieves me you should have set your affections upon me, as from mine +they can only receive gratitude, but no return. I was born to belong to +Dulcinea del Toboso, and the fates, if there are any, dedicated me to +her; and to suppose that any other beauty can take the place she +occupies in my heart is to suppose an impossibility. This frank +declaration should suffice to make you retire within the bounds of your +modesty, for no one can bind himself to do impossibilities.” + +Hearing this, Altisidora, with a show of anger and agitation, +exclaimed, “God’s life! Don Stockfish, soul of a mortar, stone of a +date, more obstinate and obdurate than a clown asked a favour when he +has his mind made up, if I fall upon you I’ll tear your eyes out! Do +you fancy, Don Vanquished, Don Cudgelled, that I died for your sake? +All that you have seen to-night has been make-believe; I’m not the +woman to let the black of my nail suffer for such a camel, much less +die!” + +“That I can well believe,” said Sancho; “for all that about lovers +pining to death is absurd; they may talk of it, but as for doing +it—Judas may believe that!” + +While they were talking, the musician, singer, and poet, who had sung +the two stanzas given above came in, and making a profound obeisance to +Don Quixote said, “Will your worship, sir knight, reckon and retain me +in the number of your most faithful servants, for I have long been a +great admirer of yours, as well because of your fame as because of your +achievements?” “Will your worship tell me who you are,” replied Don +Quixote, “so that my courtesy may be answerable to your deserts?” The +young man replied that he was the musician and songster of the night +before. “Of a truth,” said Don Quixote, “your worship has a most +excellent voice; but what you sang did not seem to me very much to the +purpose; for what have Garcilasso’s stanzas to do with the death of +this lady?” + +“Don’t be surprised at that,” returned the musician; “for with the +callow poets of our day the way is for every one to write as he pleases +and pilfer where he chooses, whether it be germane to the matter or +not, and now-a-days there is no piece of silliness they can sing or +write that is not set down to poetic licence.” + +Don Quixote was about to reply, but was prevented by the duke and +duchess, who came in to see him, and with them there followed a long +and delightful conversation, in the course of which Sancho said so many +droll and saucy things that he left the duke and duchess wondering not +only at his simplicity but at his sharpness. Don Quixote begged their +permission to take his departure that same day, inasmuch as for a +vanquished knight like himself it was fitter he should live in a +pig-sty than in a royal palace. They gave it very readily, and the +duchess asked him if Altisidora was in his good graces. + +He replied, “Señora, let me tell your ladyship that this damsel’s +ailment comes entirely of idleness, and the cure for it is honest and +constant employment. She herself has told me that lace is worn in hell; +and as she must know how to make it, let it never be out of her hands; +for when she is occupied in shifting the bobbins to and fro, the image +or images of what she loves will not shift to and fro in her thoughts; +this is the truth, this is my opinion, and this is my advice.” + +“And mine,” added Sancho; “for I never in all my life saw a lace-maker +that died for love; when damsels are at work their minds are more set +on finishing their tasks than on thinking of their loves. I speak from +my own experience; for when I’m digging I never think of my old woman; +I mean my Teresa Panza, whom I love better than my own eyelids.” “You +say well, Sancho,” said the duchess, “and I will take care that my +Altisidora employs herself henceforward in needlework of some sort; for +she is extremely expert at it.” “There is no occasion to have recourse +to that remedy, señora,” said Altisidora; “for the mere thought of the +cruelty with which this vagabond villain has treated me will suffice to +blot him out of my memory without any other device; with your +highness’s leave I will retire, not to have before my eyes, I won’t say +his rueful countenance, but his abominable, ugly looks.” “That reminds +me of the common saying, that ‘he that rails is ready to forgive,’” +said the duke. + +Altisidora then, pretending to wipe away her tears with a handkerchief, +made an obeisance to her master and mistress and quitted the room. + +“Ill luck betide thee, poor damsel,” said Sancho, “ill luck betide +thee! Thou hast fallen in with a soul as dry as a rush and a heart as +hard as oak; had it been me, i’faith ‘another cock would have crowed to +thee.’” + +So the conversation came to an end, and Don Quixote dressed himself and +dined with the duke and duchess, and set out the same evening. + + + +p70e.jpg (73K) + +Full Size + + + +CHAPTER LXXI. +OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO ON THE WAY TO +THEIR VILLAGE + + + + +p71a.jpg (82K) + +Full Size + + + +The vanquished and afflicted Don Quixote went along very downcast in +one respect and very happy in another. His sadness arose from his +defeat, and his satisfaction from the thought of the virtue that lay in +Sancho, as had been proved by the resurrection of Altisidora; though it +was with difficulty he could persuade himself that the love-smitten +damsel had been really dead. Sancho went along anything but cheerful, +for it grieved him that Altisidora had not kept her promise of giving +him the smocks; and turning this over in his mind he said to his +master, “Surely, señor, I’m the most unlucky doctor in the world; +there’s many a physician that, after killing the sick man he had to +cure, requires to be paid for his work, though it is only signing a bit +of a list of medicines, that the apothecary and not he makes up, and, +there, his labour is over; but with me though to cure somebody else +costs me drops of blood, smacks, pinches, pinproddings, and whippings, +nobody gives me a farthing. Well, I swear by all that’s good if they +put another patient into my hands, they’ll have to grease them for me +before I cure him; for, as they say, ‘it’s by his singing the abbot +gets his dinner,’ and I’m not going to believe that heaven has bestowed +upon me the virtue I have, that I should be dealing it out to others +all for nothing.” + +“Thou art right, Sancho my friend,” said Don Quixote, “and Altisidora +has behaved very badly in not giving thee the smocks she promised; and +although that virtue of thine is _gratis data_—as it has cost thee no +study whatever, any more than such study as thy personal sufferings may +be—I can say for myself that if thou wouldst have payment for the +lashes on account of the disenchant of Dulcinea, I would have given it +to thee freely ere this. I am not sure, however, whether payment will +comport with the cure, and I would not have the reward interfere with +the medicine. I think there will be nothing lost by trying it; consider +how much thou wouldst have, Sancho, and whip thyself at once, and pay +thyself down with thine own hand, as thou hast money of mine.” + +At this proposal Sancho opened his eyes and his ears a palm’s breadth +wide, and in his heart very readily acquiesced in whipping himself, and +said he to his master, “Very well then, señor, I’ll hold myself in +readiness to gratify your worship’s wishes if I’m to profit by it; for +the love of my wife and children forces me to seem grasping. Let your +worship say how much you will pay me for each lash I give myself.” + +“If Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “I were to requite thee as the +importance and nature of the cure deserves, the treasures of Venice, +the mines of Potosi, would be insufficient to pay thee. See what thou +hast of mine, and put a price on each lash.” + +“Of them,” said Sancho, “there are three thousand three hundred and +odd; of these I have given myself five, the rest remain; let the five +go for the odd ones, and let us take the three thousand three hundred, +which at a quarter real apiece (for I will not take less though the +whole world should bid me) make three thousand three hundred quarter +reals; the three thousand are one thousand five hundred half reals, +which make seven hundred and fifty reals; and the three hundred make a +hundred and fifty half reals, which come to seventy-five reals, which +added to the seven hundred and fifty make eight hundred and twenty-five +reals in all. These I will stop out of what I have belonging to your +worship, and I’ll return home rich and content, though well whipped, +for ‘there’s no taking trout’—but I say no more.” + +“O blessed Sancho! O dear Sancho!” said Don Quixote; “how we shall be +bound to serve thee, Dulcinea and I, all the days of our lives that +heaven may grant us! If she returns to her lost shape (and it cannot be +but that she will) her misfortune will have been good fortune, and my +defeat a most happy triumph. But look here, Sancho; when wilt thou +begin the scourging? For if thou wilt make short work of it, I will +give thee a hundred reals over and above.” + +“When?” said Sancho; “this night without fail. Let your worship order +it so that we pass it out of doors and in the open air, and I’ll +scarify myself.” + +Night, longed for by Don Quixote with the greatest anxiety in the +world, came at last, though it seemed to him that the wheels of +Apollo’s car had broken down, and that the day was drawing itself out +longer than usual, just as is the case with lovers, who never make the +reckoning of their desires agree with time. They made their way at +length in among some pleasant trees that stood a little distance from +the road, and there vacating Rocinante’s saddle and Dapple’s +pack-saddle, they stretched themselves on the green grass and made +their supper off Sancho’s stores, and he making a powerful and flexible +whip out of Dapple’s halter and headstall retreated about twenty paces +from his master among some beech trees. Don Quixote seeing him march +off with such resolution and spirit, said to him, “Take care, my +friend, not to cut thyself to pieces; allow the lashes to wait for one +another, and do not be in so great a hurry as to run thyself out of +breath midway; I mean, do not lay on so strenuously as to make thy life +fail thee before thou hast reached the desired number; and that thou +mayest not lose by a card too much or too little, I will station myself +apart and count on my rosary here the lashes thou givest thyself. May +heaven help thee as thy good intention deserves.” + +“‘Pledges don’t distress a good payer,’” said Sancho; “I mean to lay on +in such a way as without killing myself to hurt myself, for in that, no +doubt, lies the essence of this miracle.” + +He then stripped himself from the waist upwards, and snatching up the +rope he began to lay on and Don Quixote to count the lashes. He might +have given himself six or eight when he began to think the joke no +trifle, and its price very low; and holding his hand for a moment, he +told his master that he cried off on the score of a blind bargain, for +each of those lashes ought to be paid for at the rate of half a real +instead of a quarter. + +“Go on, Sancho my friend, and be not disheartened,” said Don Quixote; +“for I double the stakes as to price.” + +“In that case,” said Sancho, “in God’s hand be it, and let it rain +lashes.” But the rogue no longer laid them on his shoulders, but laid +on to the trees, with such groans every now and then, that one would +have thought at each of them his soul was being plucked up by the +roots. Don Quixote, touched to the heart, and fearing he might make an +end of himself, and that through Sancho’s imprudence he might miss his +own object, said to him, “As thou livest, my friend, let the matter +rest where it is, for the remedy seems to me a very rough one, and it +will be well to have patience; ‘Zamora was not won in an hour.’ If I +have not reckoned wrong thou hast given thyself over a thousand lashes; +that is enough for the present; ‘for the ass,’ to put it in homely +phrase, ‘bears the load, but not the overload.’” + +“No, no, señor,” replied Sancho; “it shall never be said of me, ‘The +money paid, the arms broken;’ go back a little further, your worship, +and let me give myself at any rate a thousand lashes more; for in a +couple of bouts like this we shall have finished off the lot, and there +will be even cloth to spare.” + +“As thou art in such a willing mood,” said Don Quixote, “may heaven aid +thee; lay on and I’ll retire.” + +Sancho returned to his task with so much resolution that he soon had +the bark stripped off several trees, such was the severity with which +he whipped himself; and one time, raising his voice, and giving a beech +a tremendous lash, he cried out, “Here dies Samson, and all with him!” + + + +p71b.jpg (349K) + +Full Size + + + +At the sound of his piteous cry and of the stroke of the cruel lash, +Don Quixote ran to him at once, and seizing the twisted halter that +served him for a courbash, said to him, “Heaven forbid, Sancho my +friend, that to please me thou shouldst lose thy life, which is needed +for the support of thy wife and children; let Dulcinea wait for a +better opportunity, and I will content myself with a hope soon to be +realised, and have patience until thou hast gained fresh strength so as +to finish off this business to the satisfaction of everybody.” + +“As your worship will have it so, señor,” said Sancho, “so be it; but +throw your cloak over my shoulders, for I’m sweating and I don’t want +to take cold; it’s a risk that novice disciplinants run.” + +Don Quixote obeyed, and stripping himself covered Sancho, who slept +until the sun woke him; they then resumed their journey, which for the +time being they brought to an end at a village that lay three leagues +farther on. They dismounted at a hostelry which Don Quixote recognised +as such and did not take to be a castle with moat, turrets, portcullis, +and drawbridge; for ever since he had been vanquished he talked more +rationally about everything, as will be shown presently. They quartered +him in a room on the ground floor, where in place of leather hangings +there were pieces of painted serge such as they commonly use in +villages. On one of them was painted by some very poor hand the Rape of +Helen, when the bold guest carried her off from Menelaus, and on the +other was the story of Dido and Æneas, she on a high tower, as though +she were making signals with a half sheet to her fugitive guest who was +out at sea flying in a frigate or brigantine. He noticed in the two +stories that Helen did not go very reluctantly, for she was laughing +slyly and roguishly; but the fair Dido was shown dropping tears the +size of walnuts from her eyes. Don Quixote as he looked at them +observed, “Those two ladies were very unfortunate not to have been born +in this age, and I unfortunate above all men not to have been born in +theirs. Had I fallen in with those gentlemen, Troy would not have been +burned or Carthage destroyed, for it would have been only for me to +slay Paris, and all these misfortunes would have been avoided.” + +“I’ll lay a bet,” said Sancho, “that before long there won’t be a +tavern, roadside inn, hostelry, or barber’s shop where the story of our +doings won’t be painted up; but I’d like it painted by the hand of a +better painter than painted these.” + +“Thou art right, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for this painter is like +Orbaneja, a painter there was at Úbeda, who when they asked him what he +was painting, used to say, ‘Whatever it may turn out; and if he chanced +to paint a cock he would write under it, ‘This is a cock,’ for fear +they might think it was a fox. The painter or writer, for it’s all the +same, who published the history of this new Don Quixote that has come +out, must have been one of this sort I think, Sancho, for he painted or +wrote ‘whatever it might turn out;’ or perhaps he is like a poet called +Mauleon that was about the Court some years ago, who used to answer at +haphazard whatever he was asked, and on one asking him what _Deum de +Deo_ meant, he replied _Dé donde diere_. But, putting this aside, tell +me, Sancho, hast thou a mind to have another turn at thyself to-night, +and wouldst thou rather have it indoors or in the open air?” + +“Egad, señor,” said Sancho, “for what I’m going to give myself, it +comes all the same to me whether it is in a house or in the fields; +still I’d like it to be among trees; for I think they are company for +me and help me to bear my pain wonderfully.” + +“And yet it must not be, Sancho my friend,” said Don Quixote; “but, to +enable thee to recover strength, we must keep it for our own village; +for at the latest we shall get there the day after to-morrow.” + +Sancho said he might do as he pleased; but that for his own part he +would like to finish off the business quickly before his blood cooled +and while he had an appetite, because “in delay there is apt to be +danger” very often, and “praying to God and plying the hammer,” and +“one take was better than two I’ll give thee’s,” and “a sparrow in the +hand than a vulture on the wing.” + +“For God’s sake, Sancho, no more proverbs!” exclaimed Don Quixote; “it +seems to me thou art becoming _sicut erat_ again; speak in a plain, +simple, straight-forward way, as I have often told thee, and thou wilt +find the good of it.” + +“I don’t know what bad luck it is of mine,” said Sancho, “but I can’t +utter a word without a proverb that is not as good as an argument to my +mind; however, I mean to mend if I can;” and so for the present the +conversation ended. + + + +p71e.jpg (42K) + + + +CHAPTER LXXII. +OF HOW DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO REACHED THEIR VILLAGE + + + + +p72a.jpg (155K) + +Full Size + + + +All that day Don Quixote and Sancho remained in the village and inn +waiting for night, the one to finish off his task of scourging in the +open country, the other to see it accomplished, for therein lay the +accomplishment of his wishes. Meanwhile there arrived at the hostelry a +traveller on horseback with three or four servants, one of whom said to +him who appeared to be the master, “Here, Señor Don Álvaro Tarfe, your +worship may take your siesta to-day; the quarters seem clean and cool.” + +When he heard this Don Quixote said to Sancho, “Look here, Sancho; on +turning over the leaves of that book of the Second Part of my history I +think I came casually upon this name of Don Álvaro Tarfe.” + +“Very likely,” said Sancho; “we had better let him dismount, and +by-and-by we can ask about it.” + +The gentleman dismounted, and the landlady gave him a room on the +ground floor opposite Don Quixote’s and adorned with painted serge +hangings of the same sort. The newly arrived gentleman put on a summer +coat, and coming out to the gateway of the hostelry, which was wide and +cool, addressing Don Quixote, who was pacing up and down there, he +asked, “In what direction is your worship bound, gentle sir?” + +“To a village near this which is my own village,” replied Don Quixote; +“and your worship, where are you bound for?” + +“I am going to Granada, señor,” said the gentleman, “to my own +country.” + +“And a goodly country,” said Don Quixote; “but will your worship do me +the favour of telling me your name, for it strikes me it is of more +importance to me to know it than I can tell you.” + +“My name is Don Álvaro Tarfe,” replied the traveller. + +To which Don Quixote returned, “I have no doubt whatever that your +worship is that Don Álvaro Tarfe who appears in print in the Second +Part of the history of Don Quixote of La Mancha, lately printed and +published by a new author.” + +“I am the same,” replied the gentleman; “and that same Don Quixote, the +principal personage in the said history, was a very great friend of +mine, and it was I who took him away from home, or at least induced him +to come to some jousts that were to be held at Saragossa, whither I was +going myself; indeed, I showed him many kindnesses, and saved him from +having his shoulders touched up by the executioner because of his +extreme rashness.” + +“Tell me, Señor Don Álvaro,” said Don Quixote, “am I at all like that +Don Quixote you talk of?” + +“No indeed,” replied the traveller, “not a bit.” + +“And that Don Quixote—” said our one, “had he with him a squire called +Sancho Panza?” + +“He had,” said Don Álvaro; “but though he had the name of being very +droll, I never heard him say anything that had any drollery in it.” + +“That I can well believe,” said Sancho at this, “for to come out with +drolleries is not in everybody’s line; and that Sancho your worship +speaks of, gentle sir, must be some great scoundrel, dunderhead, and +thief, all in one; for I am the real Sancho Panza, and I have more +drolleries than if it rained them; let your worship only try; come +along with me for a year or so, and you will find they fall from me at +every turn, and so rich and so plentiful that though mostly I don’t +know what I am saying I make everybody that hears me laugh. And the +real Don Quixote of La Mancha, the famous, the valiant, the wise, the +lover, the righter of wrongs, the guardian of minors and orphans, the +protector of widows, the killer of damsels, he who has for his sole +mistress the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, is this gentleman before +you, my master; all other Don Quixotes and all other Sancho Panzas are +dreams and mockeries.” + +“By God I believe it,” said Don Álvaro; “for you have uttered more +drolleries, my friend, in the few words you have spoken than the other +Sancho Panza in all I ever heard from him, and they were not a few. He +was more greedy than well-spoken, and more dull than droll; and I am +convinced that the enchanters who persecute Don Quixote the Good have +been trying to persecute me with Don Quixote the Bad. But I don’t know +what to say, for I am ready to swear I left him shut up in the Casa del +Nuncio at Toledo, and here another Don Quixote turns up, though a very +different one from mine.” + +“I don’t know whether I am good,” said Don Quixote, “but I can safely +say I am not ‘the Bad;’ and to prove it, let me tell you, Señor Don +Álvaro Tarfe, I have never in my life been in Saragossa; so far from +that, when it was told me that this imaginary Don Quixote had been +present at the jousts in that city, I declined to enter it, in order to +drag his falsehood before the face of the world; and so I went on +straight to Barcelona, the treasure-house of courtesy, haven of +strangers, asylum of the poor, home of the valiant, champion of the +wronged, pleasant exchange of firm friendships, and city unrivalled in +site and beauty. And though the adventures that befell me there are not +by any means matters of enjoyment, but rather of regret, I do not +regret them, simply because I have seen it. In a word, Señor Don Álvaro +Tarfe, I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, the one that fame speaks of, and +not the unlucky one that has attempted to usurp my name and deck +himself out in my ideas. I entreat your worship by your devoir as a +gentleman to be so good as to make a declaration before the alcalde of +this village that you never in all your life saw me until now, and that +neither am I the Don Quixote in print in the Second Part, nor this +Sancho Panza, my squire, the one your worship knew.” + +“That I will do most willingly,” replied Don Álvaro; “though it amazes +me to find two Don Quixotes and two Sancho Panzas at once, as much +alike in name as they differ in demeanour; and again I say and declare +that what I saw I cannot have seen, and that what happened me cannot +have happened.” + +“No doubt your worship is enchanted, like my lady Dulcinea del Toboso,” +said Sancho; “and would to heaven your disenchantment rested on my +giving myself another three thousand and odd lashes like what I’m +giving myself for her, for I’d lay them on without looking for +anything.” + +“I don’t understand that about the lashes,” said Don Álvaro. Sancho +replied that it was a long story to tell, but he would tell him if they +happened to be going the same road. + +By this dinner-time arrived, and Don Quixote and Don Álvaro dined +together. The alcalde of the village came by chance into the inn +together with a notary, and Don Quixote laid a petition before him, +showing that it was requisite for his rights that Don Álvaro Tarfe, the +gentleman there present, should make a declaration before him that he +did not know Don Quixote of La Mancha, also there present, and that he +was not the one that was in print in a history entitled “Second Part of +Don Quixote of La Mancha, by one Avellaneda of Tordesillas.” The +alcalde finally put it in legal form, and the declaration was made with +all the formalities required in such cases, at which Don Quixote and +Sancho were in high delight, as if a declaration of the sort was of any +great importance to them, and as if their words and deeds did not +plainly show the difference between the two Don Quixotes and the two +Sanchos. Many civilities and offers of service were exchanged by Don +Álvaro and Don Quixote, in the course of which the great Manchegan +displayed such good taste that he disabused Don Álvaro of the error he +was under; and he, on his part, felt convinced he must have been +enchanted, now that he had been brought in contact with two such +opposite Don Quixotes. + +Evening came, they set out from the village, and after about half a +league two roads branched off, one leading to Don Quixote’s village, +the other the road Don Álvaro was to follow. In this short interval Don +Quixote told him of his unfortunate defeat, and of Dulcinea’s +enchantment and the remedy, all which threw Don Álvaro into fresh +amazement, and embracing Don Quixote and Sancho, he went his way, and +Don Quixote went his. That night he passed among trees again in order +to give Sancho an opportunity of working out his penance, which he did +in the same fashion as the night before, at the expense of the bark of +the beech trees much more than of his back, of which he took such good +care that the lashes would not have knocked off a fly had there been +one there. The duped Don Quixote did not miss a single stroke of the +count, and he found that together with those of the night before they +made up three thousand and twenty-nine. The sun apparently had got up +early to witness the sacrifice, and with his light they resumed their +journey, discussing the deception practised on Don Álvaro, and saying +how well done it was to have taken his declaration before a magistrate +in such an unimpeachable form. That day and night they travelled on, +nor did anything worth mention happen to them, unless it was that in +the course of the night Sancho finished off his task, whereat Don +Quixote was beyond measure joyful. He watched for daylight, to see if +along the road he should fall in with his already disenchanted lady +Dulcinea; and as he pursued his journey there was no woman he met that +he did not go up to, to see if she was Dulcinea del Toboso, as he held +it absolutely certain that Merlin’s promises could not lie. Full of +these thoughts and anxieties, they ascended a rising ground wherefrom +they descried their own village, at the sight of which Sancho fell on +his knees exclaiming, “Open thine eyes, longed-for home, and see how +thy son Sancho Panza comes back to thee, if not very rich, very well +whipped! Open thine arms and receive, too, thy son Don Quixote, who, if +he comes vanquished by the arm of another, comes victor over himself, +which, as he himself has told me, is the greatest victory anyone can +desire. I’m bringing back money, for if I was well whipped, I went +mounted like a gentleman.” + + + +p72b.jpg (375K) + +Full Size + + + +“Have done with these fooleries,” said Don Quixote; “let us push on +straight and get to our own place, where we will give free range to our +fancies, and settle our plans for our future pastoral life.” + +With this they descended the slope and directed their steps to their +village. + + + +p72e.jpg (35K) + + + +CHAPTER LXXIII. +OF THE OMENS DON QUIXOTE HAD AS HE ENTERED HIS OWN VILLAGE, AND OTHER +INCIDENTS THAT EMBELLISH AND GIVE A COLOUR TO THIS GREAT HISTORY + + + + +p73a.jpg (141K) + +Full Size + + + +At the entrance of the village, so says Cide Hamete, Don Quixote saw +two boys quarrelling on the village threshing-floor, one of whom said +to the other, “Take it easy, Periquillo; thou shalt never see it again +as long as thou livest.” + +Don Quixote heard this, and said he to Sancho, “Dost thou not mark, +friend, what that boy said, ‘Thou shalt never see it again as long as +thou livest’?” + +“Well,” said Sancho, “what does it matter if the boy said so?” + +“What!” said Don Quixote, “dost thou not see that, applied to the +object of my desires, the words mean that I am never to see Dulcinea +more?” + +Sancho was about to answer, when his attention was diverted by seeing a +hare come flying across the plain pursued by several greyhounds and +sportsmen. In its terror it ran to take shelter and hide itself under +Dapple. Sancho caught it alive and presented it to Don Quixote, who was +saying, “_Malum signum, malum signum!_ a hare flies, greyhounds chase +it, Dulcinea appears not.” + +“Your worship’s a strange man,” said Sancho; “let’s take it for granted +that this hare is Dulcinea, and these greyhounds chasing it the +malignant enchanters who turned her into a country wench; she flies, +and I catch her and put her into your worship’s hands, and you hold her +in your arms and cherish her; what bad sign is that, or what ill omen +is there to be found here?” + +The two boys who had been quarrelling came over to look at the hare, +and Sancho asked one of them what their quarrel was about. He was +answered by the one who had said, “Thou shalt never see it again as +long as thou livest,” that he had taken a cage full of crickets from +the other boy, and did not mean to give it back to him as long as he +lived. Sancho took out four cuartos from his pocket and gave them to +the boy for the cage, which he placed in Don Quixote’s hands, saying, +“There, señor! there are the omens broken and destroyed, and they have +no more to do with our affairs, to my thinking, fool as I am, than with +last year’s clouds; and if I remember rightly I have heard the curate +of our village say that it does not become Christians or sensible +people to give any heed to these silly things; and even you yourself +said the same to me some time ago, telling me that all Christians who +minded omens were fools; but there’s no need of making words about it; +let us push on and go into our village.” + +The sportsmen came up and asked for their hare, which Don Quixote gave +them. They then went on, and upon the green at the entrance of the town +they came upon the curate and the bachelor Samson Carrasco busy with +their breviaries. It should be mentioned that Sancho had thrown, by way +of a sumpter-cloth, over Dapple and over the bundle of armour, the +buckram robe painted with flames which they had put upon him at the +duke’s castle the night Altisidora came back to life. He had also fixed +the mitre on Dapple’s head, the oddest transformation and decoration +that ever ass in the world underwent. They were at once recognised by +both the curate and the bachelor, who came towards them with open arms. +Don Quixote dismounted and received them with a close embrace; and the +boys, who are lynxes that nothing escapes, spied out the ass’s mitre +and came running to see it, calling out to one another, “Come here, +boys, and see Sancho Panza’s ass figged out finer than Mingo, and Don +Quixote’s beast leaner than ever.” + +So at length, with the boys capering round them, and accompanied by the +curate and the bachelor, they made their entrance into the town, and +proceeded to Don Quixote’s house, at the door of which they found his +housekeeper and niece, whom the news of his arrival had already +reached. It had been brought to Teresa Panza, Sancho’s wife, as well, +and she with her hair all loose and half naked, dragging Sanchica her +daughter by the hand, ran out to meet her husband; but seeing him +coming in by no means as good case as she thought a governor ought to +be, she said to him, “How is it you come this way, husband? It seems to +me you come tramping and footsore, and looking more like a disorderly +vagabond than a governor.” + +“Hold your tongue, Teresa,” said Sancho; “often ‘where there are pegs +there are no flitches;’ let’s go into the house and there you’ll hear +strange things. I bring money, and that’s the main thing, got by my own +industry without wronging anybody.” + +“You bring the money, my good husband,” said Teresa, “and no matter +whether it was got this way or that; for, however you may have got it, +you’ll not have brought any new practice into the world.” + +Sanchica embraced her father and asked him if he brought her anything, +for she had been looking out for him as for the showers of May; and she +taking hold of him by the girdle on one side, and his wife by the hand, +while the daughter led Dapple, they made for their house, leaving Don +Quixote in his, in the hands of his niece and housekeeper, and in the +company of the curate and the bachelor. + +Don Quixote at once, without any regard to time or season, withdrew in +private with the bachelor and the curate, and in a few words told them +of his defeat, and of the engagement he was under not to quit his +village for a year, which he meant to keep to the letter without +departing a hair’s breadth from it, as became a knight-errant bound by +scrupulous good faith and the laws of knight-errantry; and of how he +thought of turning shepherd for that year, and taking his diversion in +the solitude of the fields, where he could with perfect freedom give +range to his thoughts of love while he followed the virtuous pastoral +calling; and he besought them, if they had not a great deal to do and +were not prevented by more important business, to consent to be his +companions, for he would buy sheep enough to qualify them for +shepherds; and the most important point of the whole affair, he could +tell them, was settled, for he had given them names that would fit them +to a T. The curate asked what they were. Don Quixote replied that he +himself was to be called the shepherd Quixotize and the bachelor the +shepherd Carrascon, and the curate the shepherd Curambro, and Sancho +Panza the shepherd Pancino. + +Both were astounded at Don Quixote’s new craze; however, lest he should +once more make off out of the village from them in pursuit of his +chivalry, they trusting that in the course of the year he might be +cured, fell in with his new project, applauded his crazy idea as a +bright one, and offered to share the life with him. “And what’s more,” +said Samson Carrasco, “I am, as all the world knows, a very famous +poet, and I’ll be always making verses, pastoral, or courtly, or as it +may come into my head, to pass away our time in those secluded regions +where we shall be roaming. But what is most needful, sirs, is that each +of us should choose the name of the shepherdess he means to glorify in +his verses, and that we should not leave a tree, be it ever so hard, +without writing up and carving her name on it, as is the habit and +custom of love-smitten shepherds.” + +“That’s the very thing,” said Don Quixote; “though I am relieved from +looking for the name of an imaginary shepherdess, for there’s the +peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the glory of these brooksides, the +ornament of these meadows, the mainstay of beauty, the cream of all the +graces, and, in a word, the being to whom all praise is appropriate, be +it ever so hyperbolical.” + +“Very true,” said the curate; “but we the others must look about for +accommodating shepherdesses that will answer our purpose one way or +another.” + +“And,” added Samson Carrasco, “if they fail us, we can call them by the +names of the ones in print that the world is filled with, Fílidas, +Amarilises, Dianas, Fleridas, Galateas, Belisardas; for as they sell +them in the market-places we may fairly buy them and make them our own. +If my lady, or I should say my shepherdess, happens to be called Ana, +I’ll sing her praises under the name of Anarda, and if Francisca, I’ll +call her Francenia, and if Lucia, Lucinda, for it all comes to the same +thing; and Sancho Panza, if he joins this fraternity, may glorify his +wife Teresa Panza as Teresaina.” + +Don Quixote laughed at the adaptation of the name, and the curate +bestowed vast praise upon the worthy and honourable resolution he had +made, and again offered to bear him company all the time that he could +spare from his imperative duties. And so they took their leave of him, +recommending and beseeching him to take care of his health and treat +himself to a suitable diet. + +It so happened his niece and the housekeeper overheard all the three of +them said; and as soon as they were gone they both of them came in to +Don Quixote, and said the niece, “What’s this, uncle? Now that we were +thinking you had come back to stay at home and lead a quiet respectable +life there, are you going to get into fresh entanglements, and turn +‘young shepherd, thou that comest here, young shepherd going there?’ +Nay! indeed ‘the straw is too hard now to make pipes of.’” + +“And,” added the housekeeper, “will your worship be able to bear, out +in the fields, the heats of summer, and the chills of winter, and the +howling of the wolves? Not you; for that’s a life and a business for +hardy men, bred and seasoned to such work almost from the time they +were in swaddling-clothes. Why, to make choice of evils, it’s better to +be a knight-errant than a shepherd! Look here, señor; take my +advice—and I’m not giving it to you full of bread and wine, but +fasting, and with fifty years upon my head—stay at home, look after +your affairs, go often to confession, be good to the poor, and upon my +soul be it if any evil comes to you.” + +“Hold your peace, my daughters,” said Don Quixote; “I know very well +what my duty is; help me to bed, for I don’t feel very well; and rest +assured that, knight-errant now or wandering shepherd to be, I shall +never fail to have a care for your interests, as you will see in the +end.” And the good wenches (for that they undoubtedly were), the +housekeeper and niece, helped him to bed, where they gave him something +to eat and made him as comfortable as possible. + + + +CHAPTER LXXIV. +OF HOW DON QUIXOTE FELL SICK, AND OF THE WILL HE MADE, AND HOW HE DIED + + + + +p74a.jpg (96K) + +Full Size + + + +As nothing that is man’s can last for ever, but all tends ever +downwards from its beginning to its end, and above all man’s life, and +as Don Quixote’s enjoyed no special dispensation from heaven to stay +its course, its end and close came when he least looked for it. +For—whether it was of the dejection the thought of his defeat produced, +or of heaven’s will that so ordered it—a fever settled upon him and +kept him in his bed for six days, during which he was often visited by +his friends the curate, the bachelor, and the barber, while his good +squire Sancho Panza never quitted his bedside. They, persuaded that it +was grief at finding himself vanquished, and the object of his heart, +the liberation and disenchantment of Dulcinea, unattained, that kept +him in this state, strove by all the means in their power to cheer him +up; the bachelor bidding him take heart and get up to begin his +pastoral life, for which he himself, he said, had already composed an +eclogue that would take the shine out of all Sannazaro had ever +written, and had bought with his own money two famous dogs to guard the +flock, one called Barcino and the other Butron, which a herdsman of +Quintanar had sold him. + +But for all this Don Quixote could not shake off his sadness. His +friends called in the doctor, who felt his pulse and was not very well +satisfied with it, and said that in any case it would be well for him +to attend to the health of his soul, as that of his body was in a bad +way. Don Quixote heard this calmly; but not so his housekeeper, his +niece, and his squire, who fell weeping bitterly, as if they had him +lying dead before them. The doctor’s opinion was that melancholy and +depression were bringing him to his end. Don Quixote begged them to +leave him to himself, as he had a wish to sleep a little. They obeyed, +and he slept at one stretch, as the saying is, more than six hours, so +that the housekeeper and niece thought he was going to sleep for ever. +But at the end of that time he woke up, and in a loud voice exclaimed, +“Blessed be Almighty God, who has shown me such goodness. In truth his +mercies are boundless, and the sins of men can neither limit them nor +keep them back!” + +The niece listened with attention to her uncle’s words, and they struck +her as more coherent than what usually fell from him, at least during +his illness, so she asked, “What are you saying, señor? Has anything +strange occurred? What mercies or what sins of men are you talking of?” + +“The mercies, niece,” said Don Quixote, “are those that God has this +moment shown me, and with him, as I said, my sins are no impediment to +them. My reason is now free and clear, rid of the dark shadows of +ignorance that my unhappy constant study of those detestable books of +chivalry cast over it. Now I see through their absurdities and +deceptions, and it only grieves me that this destruction of my +illusions has come so late that it leaves me no time to make some +amends by reading other books that might be a light to my soul. Niece, +I feel myself at the point of death, and I would fain meet it in such a +way as to show that my life has not been so ill that I should leave +behind me the name of a madman; for though I have been one, I would not +that the fact should be made plainer at my death. Call in to me, my +dear, my good friends the curate, the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and +Master Nicholas the barber, for I wish to confess and make my will.” +But his niece was saved the trouble by the entrance of the three. The +instant Don Quixote saw them he exclaimed, “Good news for you, good +sirs, that I am no longer Don Quixote of La Mancha, but Alonso Quixano, +whose way of life won for him the name of Good. Now am I the enemy of +Amadis of Gaul and of the whole countless troop of his descendants; +odious to me now are all the profane stories of knight-errantry; now I +perceive my folly, and the peril into which reading them brought me; +now, by God’s mercy schooled into my right senses, I loathe them.” + +When the three heard him speak in this way, they had no doubt whatever +that some new craze had taken possession of him; and said Samson, +“What? Señor Don Quixote! Now that we have intelligence of the lady +Dulcinea being disenchanted, are you taking this line; now, just as we +are on the point of becoming shepherds, to pass our lives singing, like +princes, are you thinking of turning hermit? Hush, for heaven’s sake, +be rational and let’s have no more nonsense.” + +“All that nonsense,” said Don Quixote, “that until now has been a +reality to my hurt, my death will, with heaven’s help, turn to my good. +I feel, sirs, that I am rapidly drawing near death; a truce to jesting; +let me have a confessor to confess me, and a notary to make my will; +for in extremities like this, man must not trifle with his soul; and +while the curate is confessing me let someone, I beg, go for the +notary.” + +They looked at one another, wondering at Don Quixote’s words; but, +though uncertain, they were inclined to believe him, and one of the +signs by which they came to the conclusion he was dying was this so +sudden and complete return to his senses after having been mad; for to +the words already quoted he added much more, so well expressed, so +devout, and so rational, as to banish all doubt and convince them that +he was sound of mind. The curate turned them all out, and left alone +with him confessed him. The bachelor went for the notary and returned +shortly afterwards with him and with Sancho, who, having already +learned from the bachelor the condition his master was in, and finding +the housekeeper and niece weeping, began to blubber and shed tears. + +The confession over, the curate came out saying, “Alonso Quixano the +Good is indeed dying, and is indeed in his right mind; we may now go in +to him while he makes his will.” + +This news gave a tremendous impulse to the brimming eyes of the +housekeeper, niece, and Sancho Panza his good squire, making the tears +burst from their eyes and a host of sighs from their hearts; for of a +truth, as has been said more than once, whether as plain Alonso Quixano +the Good, or as Don Quixote of La Mancha, Don Quixote was always of a +gentle disposition and kindly in all his ways, and hence he was +beloved, not only by those of his own house, but by all who knew him. + +The notary came in with the rest, and as soon as the preamble of the +will had been set out and Don Quixote had commended his soul to God +with all the devout formalities that are usual, coming to the bequests, +he said, “Item, it is my will that, touching certain moneys in the +hands of Sancho Panza (whom in my madness I made my squire), inasmuch +as between him and me there have been certain accounts and debits and +credits, no claim be made against him, nor any account demanded of him +in respect of them; but that if anything remain over and above, after +he has paid himself what I owe him, the balance, which will be but +little, shall be his, and much good may it do him; and if, as when I +was mad I had a share in giving him the government of an island, so, +now that I am in my senses, I could give him that of a kingdom, it +should be his, for the simplicity of his character and the fidelity of +his conduct deserve it.” And then, turning to Sancho, he said, “Forgive +me, my friend, that I led thee to seem as mad as myself, making thee +fall into the same error I myself fell into, that there were and still +are knights-errant in the world.” + +“Ah!” said Sancho weeping, “don’t die, master, but take my advice and +live many years; for the foolishest thing a man can do in this life is +to let himself die without rhyme or reason, without anybody killing +him, or any hands but melancholy’s making an end of him. Come, don’t be +lazy, but get up from your bed and let us take to the fields in +shepherd’s trim as we agreed. Perhaps behind some bush we shall find +the lady Dulcinea disenchanted, as fine as fine can be. If it be that +you are dying of vexation at having been vanquished, lay the blame on +me, and say you were overthrown because I had girthed Rocinante badly; +besides you must have seen in your books of chivalry that it is a +common thing for knights to upset one another, and for him who is +conquered to-day to be conqueror to-morrow.” + +“Very true,” said Samson, “and good Sancho Panza’s view of these cases +is quite right.” + +“Sirs, not so fast,” said Don Quixote, “‘in last year’s nests there are +no birds this year.’ I was mad, now I am in my senses; I was Don +Quixote of La Mancha, I am now, as I said, Alonso Quixano the Good; and +may my repentance and sincerity restore me to the esteem you used to +have for me; and now let Master Notary proceed. + +“Item, I leave all my property absolutely to Antonia Quixana my niece, +here present, after all has been deducted from the most available +portion of it that may be required to satisfy the bequests I have made. +And the first disbursement I desire to be made is the payment of the +wages I owe for the time my housekeeper has served me, with twenty +ducats, over and above, for a gown. The curate and the bachelor Samson +Carrasco, now present, I appoint my executors. + +“Item, it is my wish that if Antonia Quixana, my niece, desires to +marry, she shall marry a man of whom it shall be first of all +ascertained by information taken that he does not know what books of +chivalry are; and if it should be proved that he does, and if, in spite +of this, my niece insists upon marrying him, and does marry him, then +that she shall forfeit the whole of what I have left her, which my +executors shall devote to works of charity as they please. + +“Item, I entreat the aforesaid gentlemen my executors, that, if any +happy chance should lead them to discover the author who is said to +have written a history now going about under the title of ‘Second Part +of the Achievements of Don Quixote of La Mancha,’ they beg of him on my +behalf as earnestly as they can to forgive me for having been, without +intending it, the cause of his writing so many and such monstrous +absurdities as he has written in it; for I am leaving the world with a +feeling of compunction at having provoked him to write them.” + +With this he closed his will, and a faintness coming over him he +stretched himself out at full length on the bed. All were in a flutter +and made haste to relieve him, and during the three days he lived after +that on which he made his will he fainted away very often. The house +was all in confusion; but still the niece ate and the housekeeper drank +and Sancho Panza enjoyed himself; for inheriting property wipes out or +softens down in the heir the feeling of grief the dead man might be +expected to leave behind him. + + + +p74b.jpg (391K) + +Full Size + + + +At last Don Quixote’s end came, after he had received all the +sacraments, and had in full and forcible terms expressed his +detestation of books of chivalry. The notary was there at the time, and +he said that in no book of chivalry had he ever read of any +knight-errant dying in his bed so calmly and so like a Christian as Don +Quixote, who amid the tears and lamentations of all present yielded up +his spirit, that is to say died. On perceiving it the curate begged the +notary to bear witness that Alonso Quixano the Good, commonly called +Don Quixote of La Mancha, had passed away from this present life, and +died naturally; and said he desired this testimony in order to remove +the possibility of any other author save Cide Hamete Benengeli bringing +him to life again falsely and making interminable stories out of his +achievements. + +Such was the end of the Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha, whose village +Cide Hamete would not indicate precisely, in order to leave all the +towns and villages of La Mancha to contend among themselves for the +right to adopt him and claim him as a son, as the seven cities of +Greece contended for Homer. The lamentations of Sancho and the niece +and housekeeper are omitted here, as well as the new epitaphs upon his +tomb; Samson Carrasco, however, put the following lines: + +A doughty gentleman lies here; +A stranger all his life to fear; +Nor in his death could Death prevail, +In that last hour, to make him quail. + +He for the world but little cared; +And at his feats the world was scared; +A crazy man his life he passed, +But in his senses died at last. + + +And said most sage Cide Hamete to his pen, “Rest here, hung up by this +brass wire, upon this shelf, O my pen, whether of skilful make or +clumsy cut I know not; here shalt thou remain long ages hence, unless +presumptuous or malignant story-tellers take thee down to profane thee. +But ere they touch thee warn them, and, as best thou canst, say to +them: + +Hold off! ye weaklings; hold your hands! +Adventure it let none, +For this emprise, my lord the king, +Was meant for me alone. + + +For me alone was Don Quixote born, and I for him; it was his to act, +mine to write; we two together make but one, notwithstanding and in +spite of that pretended Tordesillesque writer who has ventured or would +venture with his great, coarse, ill-trimmed ostrich quill to write the +achievements of my valiant knight;—no burden for his shoulders, nor +subject for his frozen wit: whom, if perchance thou shouldst come to +know him, thou shalt warn to leave at rest where they lie the weary +mouldering bones of Don Quixote, and not to attempt to carry him off, +in opposition to all the privileges of death, to Old Castile, making +him rise from the grave where in reality and truth he lies stretched at +full length, powerless to make any third expedition or new sally; for +the two that he has already made, so much to the enjoyment and approval +of everybody to whom they have become known, in this as well as in +foreign countries, are quite sufficient for the purpose of turning into +ridicule the whole of those made by the whole set of the +knights-errant; and so doing shalt thou discharge thy Christian +calling, giving good counsel to one that bears ill-will to thee. And I +shall remain satisfied, and proud to have been the first who has ever +enjoyed the fruit of his writings as fully as he could desire; for my +desire has been no other than to deliver over to the detestation of +mankind the false and foolish tales of the books of chivalry, which, +thanks to that of my true Don Quixote, are even now tottering, and +doubtless doomed to fall for ever. Farewell.” + + + +p74e.jpg (49K) + +Full Size + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DON QUIXOTE *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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