truly, madam," answered he, "when, as my master told me, we were
flying through the region of fire, I wished to uncover my eyes a
little, but my master would not suffer me to do so; yet, as I have a
spice of curiosity still hankering after what is forbidden me, I
shoved my handkerchief a little above my nose and looked down, and, as
it seemed, spied the earth no bigger than a mustard seed; and the men
walking to and fro upon it not much larger than hazelnuts; by which
you may see how high we had got!"--"Have a care what you say, my
friend," said the duchess; "for if the men were bigger than hazelnuts,
and the earth no bigger than a mustard seed, one man must cover the
whole earth."--"Like enough," answered Sancho; "but for all that, do
you see, I saw it with a kind of a side look upon one part of
it."--"Look you, Sancho," replied the duchess, "nothing can be wholly
seen by a partial view of it."--"Well, well, madam," quoth Sancho, "I
do not understand your views; I only know that as we flew by
enchantment, so, by enchantment, I might see the whole earth, and all
the men, which way soever I looked. If you do not believe this, you
will not believe me either when I tell you that when I looked between
my brows, I saw myself so near heaven, that between me and it there
was not a span and a half. And, forsooth, it is a huge place! and we
happened to travel that road where the seven she-goats are; and, faith
and troth, I had such a mind to play with them (having been once a
goatherd myself) that I should have burst, had I not done it. What do
I do then but slip down very soberly from Clavileño without telling a
soul, and played and leaped about for three-quarters of an hour, with
the pretty nanny-goats, who are like so many marigolds or
gilly-flowers; and Clavileño stirred not one step all the
while."--"And while Sancho employed himself with the goats," asked the
duke, "how was Don Quixote employed?"--"Truly," answered the knight,
"I am sensible all things were altered from their natural course;
therefore, what Sancho says seems no marvel to me. But, for my own
part, I saw nothing either above or below, neither heaven nor earth,
sea nor shore. I perceived, indeed, we passed through the region of
the air, and even touched that of fire, but that we went beyond it is
incredible; for, the fiery region lying between the sphere of the moon
and the upper region of the air, it was impossible for us to reach
that heaven where are the seven goats, as Sancho says, without being
consumed; and, therefore, since we were not singed, Sancho either lies
or dreams."--"I neither lie nor dream," replied Sancho; "do but ask me
the marks of these goats, and by them you will see whether I speak
truth or no."--"Prithee tell them, Sancho," said the duchess. "There
were two of them green," answered Sancho, "two carnation, two blue,
and one party-colored."--"That is a new kind of goats," said the duke.
"We have none of those colors in our region of the earth."--"Sure,
sir," replied Sancho, "you will make some sort of difference between
heavenly she-goats and the goats of this world?"--"But, Sancho," said
the duke, "among these she-goats did you ever see a he-goat." "Not
one, sir," answered Sancho; "and I have been told that none has ever
passed beyond the horns of the moon."
They did not think fit to ask Sancho more about his voyage; for they
judged he would ramble all over the heavens, and tell them news of
whatever was doing there, though he had not stirred out of the garden.
Thus ended, in short, the adventure of the Disconsolate Lady, which
afforded sport to the duke and duchess, not only for the present, but
for the rest of their lives; and to Sancho matter of talk for ages,
should he live so long.
"Sancho," said Don Quixote, whispering him in the ear, "if thou
wouldst have us believe what thou hast seen in heaven, I desire thee
to believe what I saw in Montesinos's cave. I say no more."
THE THREE THOUSAND THREE HUNDRED AND ODD LASHES
_By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra_
[Don Quixote believes that his Dulcinea may be freed from enchantment
by Sancho Panza's inflicting upon himself of his own will "three
thousand three hundred and odd lashes." Sancho has stopped at the
fifth, and now the knight bribes him to continue.]
"For my part," said Don Quixote, "hadst thou demanded a fee for
disenchanting Dulcinea, I can tell thee that I would have given it
thee already. But I know not if a gratuity would accord with the cure;
and I would not have the reward hinder the medicine. For all that, it
seems to me that nothing will be lost by putting it to a trial. Look
you, Sancho, to what you want, and scourge yourself at once, then pay
yourself ready money with your own hand, since you keep my money."
Sancho, opening his eyes and ears a span wide at this offer, gave
consent in his heart to scourge himself with a good will. "Ay, sir,
now you say well," quoth he to his master. "I am willing to dispose of
myself to do you a pleasure in what may consist with my advantage, for
my love for my children and wife makes me seem selfish. Tell me how
much you will give me for each lash I give myself?"--"Were your
payment, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "to be answerable to the greatness
and quality of this cure, the wealth of Venice and the mines of Potosi
would be small payment for thee. But see what you have of mine, and
set the price on each stripe."--"The lashes," quoth Sancho, "are three
thousand three hundred and odd, of which I have given myself five; the
rest are to come. Let these five go for the odd ones, and let us come
to the three thousand three hundred, which at a quartillo apiece--and
I will not take less if all the world bid me--they make three thousand
three hundred quartillos, of which three thousand make fifteen hundred
half-reals, which amounts to seven hundred and fifty reals; and the
three hundred remaining make an hundred and fifty half-reals, and
three-score and fifteen reals; put that with the seven hundred and
fifty, and it comes altogether to eight hundred and twenty-five reals.
This I will deduct from what I hold of yours, and will return home
rich and well pleased, though well whipped. But one must not think to
catch trout--I say no more."--"O blessed Sancho! O amiable Sancho!"
cried Don Quixote. "How shall Dulcinea and I be bound to serve thee
all the days that Heaven shall give us of life! If she recover from
her lost state (and it is not possible that she fail to do so), her
misfortune will turn to her felicity, and my defeat to the happiest
triumph. And hark ye, Sancho! when wilt thou enter upon thy
discipline? For if thou hastenest it, I will add further a hundred
reals more."--"When?" answered Sancho; "this very night without fail.
Do you but order it that we lie in the fields under the open sky, and
I will open my flesh."
Night arrived, awaited by Don Quixote with the greatest anxiety; and
he fancied Phoebus had broken his chariot wheels, which made the day
of so unusual a length,--as is always the case with lovers, who never
make allowance for the reckoning of their desires. At last they
entered amongst some pleasant trees that stood a little out of the
road, where, leaving empty the saddle and pannel of Rozinante and
Dapple, they stretched themselves upon the green grass, and supped
from Sancho's wallet.
He, having made himself a heavy and flexible whip of Dapple's
headstall and reins, retired about twenty paces from his master,
amidst some beeches. Don Quixote, observing him go with readiness and
resolution, said, "Have a care, friend; do not hack thyself to pieces.
Give one stripe time to await another. Thou shouldst not so hurry in
the race that thy breath fails in the midst; go more gently to work,
soft and fair goes furthest; I mean, do not give it thyself so sharply
that strength fails thee before the desired number is reached. And
that you lose not for a card more or less, I will stand at a distance
and keep count on my beads of the strokes thou givest thyself. Heaven
favor thee as thy good intention deserves."--"Pledges do not hurt a
good payer," said Sancho, "I mean to give it to myself in such a way
that it hurts without killing me, for in this must lie the essence of
this miracle." With that he stripped himself from the waist upwards,
and seizing the lash began to lay on; while Don Quixote began to tell
the strokes. But by the time Sancho had applied seven or eight lashes,
he felt that the jest was a heavy one, and its price very cheap.
Whereupon, after a short pause, he told his master that he had been
deceived; for such lashes as these were each worth being paid for with
a half-real, not a quartillo. "Go on, friend Sancho," said Don Quixote,
"take courage, I will double the pay."--"God save us, let it rain
stripes in that case," quoth Sancho. But the cunning knave left off
laying on his back, and fell upon the trees, with groans every now and
then, that one would have thought at each one of them he had been
giving up the ghost. Don Quixote, who was tender-hearted, fearing he
might make an end of his life, and that, by Sancho's imprudence, his
wishes should not be attained, said, "On thy life, my friend, let this
business rest at this point. This seems to be a very sharp sort of
physic, and it will be well to take it at intervals. Rome was not
built in a day. If I have not told wrong, thou hast given thyself
above a thousand stripes; that is enough for the present; for, to use
a homely phrase, 'the ass will carry his load, but not more than his
load.'"--"No, no," quoth Sancho, "it shall never be said of me, 'When
money's paid the arms are stayed.' Stand off a little, and let me lay
on another thousand lashes or so, and then with another bout like this
we shall have done with this job, and have something over."--"Since
thou art so well in the humor," said Don Quixote, "I will withdraw,
and Heaven strengthen and reward thee." Sancho fell to work so freshly
that he soon fetched the bark off a number of trees; such was the
severity with which he thrashed them! At length, raising his voice,
and giving an outrageous blow to one of the beeches: "There!" cried
he, "die thou shalt, Samson, and all that are about thee!" At the
sound of this dismal cry, and the blow of the dreadful stroke, Don
Quixote presently ran up, and laying hold on the twisted halter which
served Sancho for a thong, "Fate forbid," cried he, "friend Sancho,
that thou shouldst for my pleasure lose thy life, which has to serve
for the maintenance of thy wife and children! Let Dulcinea stay for a
better opportunity. I will contain myself within the limits of the
hope that is nigh, and will wait till thou recoverest new strength,
that the business may be accomplished to everybody's
satisfaction."--"Well, sir," replied Sancho, "if it be your pleasure
it should be so, so let it be, and welcome; and do so much as throw
your cloak over my shoulders; for I am all in a sweat, and I have no
mind to catch cold, for that is the danger that new disciplinants
run." This Don Quixote did, and leaving himself unclad, covered up
Sancho, who fell fast asleep till the sun waked him. Then they
continued on their journey, which they brought to an end for that day
at a village three leagues off. They alighted at an inn, for it was
allowed by Don Quixote to be such, and not a castle, with deep ditch,
towers, portcullises, and drawbridge; for since his defeat he spoke
with more sense on all matters. He was lodged in a ground room, in
which some old painted serge hangings, such as are often seen in
villages, served for stamped leathers. On one of these was painted in
a most vile style the rape of Helen, when the audacious guest stole
her away from her husband, Menelaus; and on another was the story of
Dido and Æneas,--the lady upon a lofty turret, as if making signs with
half a sheet to her fugitive guest, who was flying from her across the
sea in a frigate or brigantine. It was indicated in the two stories
that Helen went with no very ill will, for she was smiling artfully
and roguishly, but the fair Dido seemed to be shedding tears as large
as walnuts from her eyes. Seeing which Don Quixote said, "These two
ladies were unfortunate in not having been born in this age; and,
above all, unfortunate am I for not having been born in theirs! For
had I met those gentlemen, Troy would not have been burned, nor
Carthage destroyed; for, by the death of Paris alone, all these
miseries had been prevented."--"I will lay you a wager," quoth Sancho,
"that before long there will not be a tavern, a victualing house, an
inn, or a barber's shop but will have the story of our deeds painted
along it. But I could wish that it may be done by the hands of a
better painter than he that drew these."--"Thou art in the right,
Sancho," said Don Quixote; "for this artist is like Orbaneja, a
painter who was in Ubeda, who, being asked what he was painting, made
answer, 'Whatever it shall turn out;' and if he chanced to draw a
cock, he under-wrote, 'This is a cock,' lest any should take it for a
fox. Of the same sort, it seems to me, Sancho, must be the painter or
the writer (for it is all one) who produced the story of this new Don
Quixote that has lately come out, for he painted or wrote 'whatever
should turn out.' Or he must be like a poet called Mauleon, who went
about Madrid some years ago, and would give answers extempore to any
questions, and when somebody asked what was the meaning of 'Deum de
Deo,' answered, 'Done as one can do.'
"But setting this aside, tell me, Sancho, if you think of taking
another turn to-night? and would you rather do it under a roof or in
the open air?"--"Why, truly, sir," quoth Sancho, "as to what I think
of giving myself, it may be done as well at home as in the fields, but
withal I could like it to be among trees; for methinks they keep me
company, and help me marvelously to bear my sufferings."
THE RETURN AND DEATH OF DON QUIXOTE
_By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra_
Finally, surrounded by boys, and attended by the curate and the
bachelor, they entered the village, and got to Don Quixote's house,
where they found at the door his housekeeper and his niece, that had
already got the news of their arrival. Neither more nor less had been
told to Teresa Panza, Sancho's wife, who, with her hair about her
ears, and half dressed, dragging by the hand her daughter Sanchica,
came running to see her husband. But when she found that he was not so
well dressed as she thought a governor ought to be, she said to him,
"What is the meaning of this, husband? You look as though you had come
on foot, and tired off your legs! Why, you come more like a groveler
than a governor!"--"Peace, Teresa," answered Sancho; "many a time when
there are hooks, there are no flitches. Let us go home, and then I
will tell thee wonders. I have taken care of the main chance. Money I
have, which is the chief thing, earned by my own industry without
wronging anybody."--"Hast thou got money, my good husband?" said
Teresa. "Be it gained here or there, or however you like to gain it,
you will have made no new sort of profit in the world." Sanchica,
hugging her father, asked him if he had brought her anything, for she
had been longing for him as for rain in May. Thus holding him by the
girdle on one side, and his wife taking him by the hand, and his
daughter leading Dapple, away they went to his house, leaving Don
Quixote in his, under the care of his niece and housekeeper, in
company with the curate and bachelor.
That very moment Don Quixote, regardless of times and seasons, took
the bachelor and the curate aside, and in few words gave them an
account of his defeat and the obligation he lay under of not leaving
his village for a year, which, like a knight-errant bound by the
strictness and discipline of knight-errantry, he was resolved to
observe to the letter without infringing it one jot. And that he
intended to make himself a shepherd for that year, and entertain
himself in the solitude of the fields, where he might give play to his
amorous thoughts with a loose rein, and employ himself in that
pastoral and virtuous exercise; and he begged them, if they had not
much to do, and if business of greater importance were not an
obstruction, that they would please to be his companions; for he would
provide sheep and cattle enough to give them the name of shepherds;
and that he would have them know that the chief part of the
undertaking was done, for he had provided them all with names that
would fit them exactly. The curate asked him to tell them. Don Quixote
told him he would himself be called the shepherd Quixotiz, and the
bachelor the shepherd Carrascon, and the curate the shepherd
Curiambro, and Sancho Panza the shepherd Pancino.
They were all struck with amazement at this new folly; but, in order
that they might not have him leaving the village again on his
chivalry, and hoping that within the year he might be cured, they came
into his new design, and approved of his folly as if it were wise,
offering their company in his employment. "And the more," said Samson
Carrasco, "as everybody knows I am a most celebrated poet, and at
every step I will compose verses pastoral, or courtly, or any that
shall come more seasonably, so as to divert us in those groves where
we shall range. But one thing, gentlemen, is most necessary, that each
of us choose a name for the shepherdess he means to celebrate in his
lays; and that we leave no tree, be it ever so hard, on which her name
is not inscribed and cut, as is the use and custom of enamored
shepherds."--"You are quite right," replied Don Quixote; "provided
that I am free from seeking an imaginary shepherdess, since there is
the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the glory of these banks, the
ornament of these meads, the support of beauty, the cream of elegance,
and, in short, the subject on which all praise may light, however
hyperbolical it may be."--"That is true," said the curate; "but we
shall seek out some shepherdesses of ordinary kind who, if they do not
suit us squarely, will do so cornerwise." To which added Samson
Carrasco, "And if they be wanting, we will give those very names we
find in books, of which the world is full, such as Phyllises,
Amaryllises, Dianas, Floridas, Galateas, Belisardas, which are to be
disposed of in the markets, and can be purchased and kept as our own.
If my mistress, or my shepherdess I should rather say, chance to be
called Anne, I will celebrate her under the name of Anarda; if
Francisca, I will call her Francenia; and if Lucy, Lucinda, and so
forth. And Sancho Panza, if he has to enter into this fraternity, may
celebrate his wife Teresa Panza by the name of Teresayna." Don Quixote
laughed at the turn given to the name. And the curate greatly
applauded his virtuous and honorable resolution, and repeated his
offer of bearing him company all the time that his compulsory
employments would allow him. With this they took their leave of him,
and begged and counseled him to take thought about his health by
enjoying whatever was good for him.
Fate willed that the niece and the housekeeper, according to custom,
had been listening to the discourse of the three, and so, as they went
away, both came in to Don Quixote; and the niece said, "What is here
to do, uncle! Now when we thought you were come to stay at home, and
live like a sober, honest gentleman in your house, are you hankering
after new crotchets, and turning into a
'Gentle shepherd, coming hither,
Gentle shepherd, going hence?'
For by my troth, sir, the corn is now too old to make pipes of." To
which the housekeeper added, "And will your worship be able to endure
the summer noondays, and the winter's night frosts, and the howlings
of the wolves? No, for certain, for this is the business and duty of
strong men, cut out and bred for such work almost from their swaddling
bands and long clothes. Ill for ill, it is even better to be a
knight-errant than a shepherd. Look ye, sir, take my advice, which is
not given on a full meal of bread and wine, but fasting, and with
fifty years over my head. Stay at home, look after your property, go
often to confession, do good to the poor; and on my soul be it if ill
comes of it."--"Peace, daughters," answered Don Quixote to them; "I
know well what it behooves me to do. Help me to bed, for it seems to
me I am not very well; and be assured that whether I now be a
knight-errant or an errant-shepherd, I shall never fail to provide
whatever you shall need, as you shall see indeed." And the good women
took him to bed, brought him something to eat, and tended him with all
possible care.
As human things are not eternal, always tending downwards from their
beginnings till they reach their final end, especially the lives of
men, and as Don Quixote held no privilege from heaven to stay the
course of his, so his end and finish arrived when he least expected
it. For whether it was from the melancholy that his defeat caused, or
whether it was by the disposition of heaven that so ordered it, a
fever took possession of him that confined him to his bed for six
days.
All that time his friends the curate, the bachelor, and the barber,
came often to see him, and his good squire Sancho Panza never stirred
from his bedside.
They, conjecturing that the regret of his defeat, and his being
disappointed of his desire for Dulcinea's liberty and disenchantment,
kept him in this case, essayed to divert him in all possible ways. The
bachelor begged him to pluck up a good heart, and rise, that he might
begin his pastoral life, for which he had already written an eclogue,
which would confound all those that Sannazaro had ever written, and
that he had already bought, with his own money, two famous dogs to
watch their flock, the one called Barcino, and the other Butron, that
a herdsman of Quintanar had sold him. But this had no effect on Don
Quixote's sadness. His friends called in the doctor, who, upon feeling
his pulse, did not very well like it; and said that in any case he
should provide for the safety of his soul, for that of his body was in
danger. Don Quixote heard this with a calm mind, but not so his
housekeeper, his niece, and his squire, who fell a-weeping bitterly,
as if they already saw him dead before them. The physician was of
opinion that melancholy and vexation were bringing him to his end. Don
Quixote desired them to leave him alone, for he would sleep a little;
they did so, and he slept for more than six hours straight off, as
they say, so that the housekeeper and the niece thought that he would
never wake.