II.

For, sure to slight a lover’s passion

So try’d as that which lives this heart in,

Were but small proof of penetration;

And that you are no fool is certain.

III.

Sometimes, indeed, and ’tis amazing,

Tho’ prov’d by evidence of twenty,

You’ve plainly shewn your soul was brazen,

And eke your snowy bosom flinty.

IV.

Yet in the midst of maiden shyness,

Affected scorn and decent scolding,

Kind Hope appear’d with proffer’d spy-glass,

The border of her robe unfolding.

V.

Then balance in the scales of reason,

My love unshaken and untainted,

Unapt to change from truth to treason,

By frowns impair’d, by smiles augmented.

VI.

If love be courtesy refin’d,

And you be civil to profusion,

That you will to my hopes prove kind,

Is but a natural conclusion.

VII.

If gratitude that breast can soften,

Which bids to other arts defiance,

The services I’ve render’d often,

Must melt your soul to kind compliance.

VIII.

For, more than once, had you attended,

You might have seen me wear on Monday,

My best apparel scower’d and mended,

With which I wont to honour Sunday.

IX.

As love delights in finery,

And women oft are won by tightness,

I’ve still endeavour’d in your eye,

To shine the mirror of politeness.

X.

That I have danc’d the swains among,

To please your pride, what need I mention;

Or with the cock begun my song,

To wake my sleeping fair’s attention!

XI.

Or that, enamour’d of your beauty,

I’ve loudly sounded forth its praises;

A talk which, tho’ a lover’s duty,

The spite of other women raises!

XII.

For, once, Teresa of the hill,

Beneath all notice would have sunk ye,

‘You think Olalla angel still,’

Said she, ‘but others scorn the monkey.’

XIII.

‘Thanks to her beads of glittering glass,

‘And her false locks in ringlets curling,

‘And the false colour of her face,

‘Which Love himself might take for sterling.’

XIV.

She ly’d, I told her in her throat;

And when her kinsman kept a racket,

You know I made him change his note,

And soundly thresh’d the booby’s jacket.

XV.

Your lovely person, not your wealth,

At first engag’d my inclination;

Nor would I now possess by stealth,

The guilty joys of fornication.

XVI.

The church has silken ties in store,

Then yield thy neck to Hymen’s fetters;

Behold, I put my own before,

And trust the noose that binds our betters.

XVII.

Else, by each blessed saint I swear,

And Heav’n forbid I prove a liar!

Never to quit this desart drear,

Except in form of hooded friar[52].

Thus ended the goatherd’s ditty; and though Don Quixote desired him to

sing another, yet Sancho Panza would by no means give his consent, being

more inclined to take his natural rest than to hear ballads; and

therefore, he said to his master, ‘Your worship had better consider

where you are to lodge this night; for the labour that these honest men

undergo in the day, will not suffer them to pass the night in

singing.’—‘I understand thee, Sancho,’ replied the knight, ‘it plainly

appears that the visits thou hast made to the wine-bag, demand the

consolation of sleep, rather than that of musick.’—‘They agreed with us

all very well, blessed be God!’ replied Sancho. ‘I do not deny it,’ said

the knight; ‘and thou mayest bestow thyself in the best manner thou

canst; but it is more seemly for those of my profession to watch than to

sleep: it would not be amiss, however, Sancho, to dress my ear again;

for it gives me more pain than I could wish.’ Sancho did as he desired:

when one of the goatherds perceiving the wound, bade him give himself no

trouble about it, for he would apply a remedy that would heal it in a

trice: so saying, he took some leaves of rosemary, which grew in great

plenty round the hut, and having chewed and mixed them with a little

salt, applied the poultice to his ear; and binding it up carefully,

assured him, as it actually happened, that it would need no other

plaister.

Footnote 51:

A sort of small fiddle of one piece, with three strings, used by

shepherds.

Footnote 52:

The reader will perceive that I have endeavoured to adapt the

versification to the plainness and rusticity of the sentiment, which

are preserved through the whole of this ballad; though all the other

translators seem to have been bent upon setting the poetry at variance

with the pastoral simplicity of the thoughts. For example, who would

ever dream of a goatherd’s addressing his mistress in these terms?

‘With rapture on each charm I dwell,

‘And daily spread thy beauty’s fame;

‘And still my tongue thy praise shall tell,

‘Though envy swell, or malice blame.’

The original sentiments which this courtly stanza is designed to

translate, are literally these:

‘I do not mention the praises I have spoke of your beauty, which,

though true in fact, are the occasion of my being hated by some other

women.’

CHAP. IV.

WHAT WAS RELATED BY A GOATHERD, WHO CHANCED TO COME INTO THE HUT.

In the mean time, another of the lads, who brought them victuals from

the village, entering the hut, said, ‘Do you know what has happened in

our town, comrades?’ When one of them answered, ‘How should we!’ ‘Know,

then,’ continued he, ‘that the famous student Chrysostom died this

morning; and it is murmured about, that his death was occasioned by his

love for that devilish girl Marcella, daughter of William the rich. She

that roves about these plains in the habit of a shepherdess.’—‘For

Marcella, said you!’ cried one. ‘The same,’ answered the goatherd; ‘and

it is certain, that in his last will he ordered himself to be buried in

the field like a Moor (God bless us!) at the foot of the rock, hard by

the cork-tree spring; for, the report goes, and they say he said so

himself, as how the first time he saw her was in that place; and he has

also ordained many other such things as the clergy say must not be

accomplished; nor is it right they should be accomplished; for, truly,

they seem quite heathenish: to all which objections his dear friend,

Ambrosio the student, who also dressed himself like a shepherd, to keep

him company, replies, that he will perform every thing, without fail,

that Chrysostom has ordered; and the whole village is in an uproar about

it: but it is believed that every thing, at last, will be done according

to the desire of Ambrosio, and all the rest of the shepherds, his

friends; and that to-morrow he will be interred with great pomp in the

very spot I have mentioned. I am resolved, therefore, as it will be a

thing well worth seeing, to go thither without fail, even though I

thought I should not be able to return to the village that night.’—‘We

will do so too,’ replied the goatherds, ‘and cast lots to see which of

us must stay and take care of our flocks.’—‘You are in the right,

Pedro,’ said one; ‘but there will be no occasion to use that shift, for

I myself will stay and take care of the whole; and you must not impute

my tarrying to virtue, or the want of curiosity, but to the plaguy thorn

that ran into my foot the other day, and hinders me from walking.’—‘We

are obliged to thee, however,’ answered Pedro; whom Don Quixote desired

to tell him who that same dead shepherd and living shepherdess were.

To this question the goatherd replied, all that he knew of the matter

was, that the deceased was the son of a rich farmer, who lived in the

neighbourhood of a village in these mountains; that he had studied in

Salamanca many years, at the end of which he had returned to his family

with the character of a great scholar: in particular, they said he was

very knowing in the science of the stars, and what passed betwixt the

sun and moon, and the heavens; for he had punctually foretold the clipse

of them both! ‘The obscuration of those two great luminaries,’ said the

knight, ‘is called the eclipse, and not the clipse, friend.’ But Pedro,

without troubling his head with these trifles, proceeded, saying, ‘he

likewise foresaw when the year would be plentiful or staril.’—‘You mean,

sterile,’ said Don Quixote. ‘Sterile, or staril,’ replied Pedro, ‘comes

all to the same purpose; and I say, that his father and his friends,

taking his advice, became very rich: for they gave credit to his words,

and followed his counsel in all things. When he would say, this year you

must sow barley, and no wheat; here you must sow carabances, but no

barley; next year there will be a good harvest of oil; but for three

years to come there will not be a drop.’—‘That science,’ replied Don

Quixote, ‘is called astrology.’—‘I know not how it is called,’ replied

Pedro; ‘but this I know, that he knew all this, and much more. In short,

not many months after he came from Salamanca, he appeared all of a

sudden in shepherd-weeds, with his woolly jacket, and a flock of sheep,

having laid aside the long dress of a student. And he was accompanied by

a friend of his in the same habit, whose name was Ambrosio, and who had

been his fellow student at college. I forgot to tell you that Chrysostom

the defunct was such a great man at composing couplets, that he made

carols for Christmas eve, and plays for the Lord’s-day, which were

represented by the young men in our village; and every body said, that

they were tip-top. When the people of the village saw the two scholars

so suddenly cloathed like shepherds, they were surprized, and could not

guess their reason for such an odd change. About that time the father of

this Chrysostom dying, he inherited great riches, that were in moveables

and in lands, with no small number of sheep, more or less, and a great

deal of money: of all which this young man remained desolate lord and

master: and truly he deserved it all; for he was an excellent companion,

very charitable, a great friend to good folks, and had a most blessed

countenance. Afterwards it came to be known, that his reason for

changing his garb, was no other than with a view of strolling through

the woods and desarts after that same shepherdess Marcella, whose name

my friend mentioned just now, and with whom the poor defunct Chrysostom

was woundily in love: and I will now tell you, for it is necessary that

you should know who this wench is; for, mayhap, nay even without a

mayhap, you never heard of such a thing in all the days of your life,

though you be older than St. Paul[53].’—‘Say, Paul’s,’ replied Don

Quixote, offended at the goatherd’s perverting the words. ‘Saint Paul

was no chicken,’ replied Pedro; ‘and if your worship be resolved to

correct my words every moment, we shall not have done in a

twelvemonth.’—‘I ask your pardon friend,’ said the knight; ‘I only

mention this, because there is a wide difference between the person of

St. Paul, and a church that goes by his name: but, however, you made a

very sensible reply; for, to be sure, the saint lived long before the

church was built: therefore go on with your story, and I promise not to

interrupt you again.’

‘Well, then, my good master,’ said the goatherd, ‘there lived in our

village a farmer, still richer than Chrysostom’s father; his name was

William, and God gave him, over and above great wealth, a daughter, who

at her birth was the death of her mother, the most worthy dame in all

the country. Methinks I see her now with that face of her’s, which

seemed to have the sun on one side, and the moon on the other; she was

an excellent housewife, and a great friend to the poor, for which reason

I believe her soul is enjoying the presence of God in paradise. Her

husband died of grief for the loss of so good a wife, leaving his

daughter Marcella, young and rich, to the care of an uncle, who has got

a living in our village. The girl grew up with so much beauty, that she

put us in mind of her mother, who had a great share, and yet it was

thought it would be surpassed by the daughter’s. It happened

accordingly; for when she came to the age of fourteen or fifteen, nobody

could behold her without blessing God, for having made so beautiful a

creature; and every body almost grew desperately in love with her. Her

uncle kept her up with great care; but, for all that, the fame of her

exceeding beauty spread in such a manner, that both for her person and

her fortune, not only the richest people in our town, but likewise in

many leagues about, came to ask her in marriage of her uncle, with much

importunity and felicitation. But he, who, to give him his due, was a

good christian, although he wanted to dispose of her as soon as she came

to the age fit for matrimony, would not give her away without her own

consent; neither had he a view in deferring her marriage, to the gain

and advantage which he might enjoy in managing the girl’s fortune. And

truly I have heard this spoken in more companies than one, very much to

the praise of the honest priest. For I would have you know, Sir

traveller, that in these small towns people intermeddle and grumble

about every thing. And this you may take for certain, as I know it to be

so, that a clergyman must be excessively good indeed, if he can oblige

his flock to speak well of him, especially in country villages.’—‘You

are certainly in the right,’ said Don Quixote; ‘and pray go on, for your

story is very entertaining; and you, honest Pedro, relate it with a good

grace.’—‘May I never want God’s grace!’ said the shepherd; ‘for that is

the main chance; and you must know, moreover, that though the uncle

proposed to his niece, and described the good qualities of each in

particular who asked her in marriage, desiring her to give her hand to

some one or other, and chuse for herself; she never would give him any

other answer, but that she did not chuse to marry, for she was too young

to bear the burden of matrimony. On account of these excuses, which

seemed to have some reason in them, her uncle forbore to importune her,

and waited till she should have more years and discernment to make

choice of her own company; for he said, and to be sure it was well said,

that parents should never dispose of their children against their own

inclinations. But behold, when we least thought of it, the timorous

Marcella one day appeared in the habit of a shepherdess; and without

imparting her design to her uncle, or any body in the village, for fear

they might have dissuaded her from it, she took to the field with her

own flock, in company of the other damsels of the village. As she now

appeared in publick, and her beauty was exposed to the eyes of every

body, you cannot conceive what a number of rich youths, gentlemen and

farmers, immediately took the garb of Chrysostom, and went wooing her

through the fields. One of these suitors, as you have heard, was the

deceased, who, they say, left off loving to adore her; and you must not

think, that because Marcella took to this free and unconfined way of

living, she brought the least disparagement upon her chastity and good

name; on the contrary, such is the vigilance with which she guards her

honour, that of all those who serve and solicit her, not one has

boasted, nor indeed can boast with any truth, that she has given him the

smallest hope of accomplishing his desire; for though she neither flies,

or avoids the company and conversation of the shepherds, but treats them

in a courteous and friendly manner, whenever any one of them comes to

disclose his intention, let it be ever so just and holy, even marriage

itself, she throws him from her like a stone from a sling; and being of

this disposition, does more damage in this country, than if a pestilence

had seized it; for her affability and beauty allures all the hearts of

those that converse with her to serve and love her, but her coyness and

plain dealing drives them even to the borders of despair; therefore they

know not what to say, but upbraid her with cruelty and ingratitude, and

give her a great many such titles, as plainly shew the nature of her

disposition: and if your worship was but to stay here one day, you would

hear these hills and dales resound with the lamentations of her rejected

followers. Not far from this place there is a tuft of about a dozen of

tall beeches, upon every one of which you may read engraved the name of

Marcella, and over some a crown cut out in the bark, as if her lover

would have declared, that Marcella wears, and deserves to wear, the

crown of all earthly beauty. Here one shepherd sighs, there another

complains; in one place you may hear amorous ditties, in another the

dirges of despair; one lover sits musing through all the hours of the

night, at the foot of some tall ash or rugged rock, and there, without

having closed his weeping eyes, shrunk up as it were, and intranced in

his own reflections, he is found by the rising sun; a second, without

giving respite or truce to his sighs, exposed to the heat of the most

sultry summer’s sun, lies stretched upon the burning sand, breathing his

complaints to pitying Heaven, and over this and that, and these and

those, the free, the unconcerned, the fair Marcella triumphs. We who are

acquainted with her disposition, wait with impatience to see the end of

all this disdain, and long to know what happy man will tame such an

unsociable humour, and enjoy such exceeding beauty. As every thing that

I have recounted is true to a tittle, I have no reason to doubt the

truth of what our comrades said concerning the cause of Chrysostom’s

death; and therefore I advise you, Sir, not to fail being to-morrow at

his burial, which will be well worth seeing; for Chrysostom had a great

many friends, and the spot in which he ordered himself to be buried is

not more than half a league from hence.’

‘I will take care to be present,’ said the knight, ‘and thank you

heartily for the pleasure you have given me in relating such an

interesting story.’—‘Oh! as for that,’ cried the goatherd, ‘I do not

know one half of what has happened to the lovers of Marcella: but

to-morrow, perhaps, we may light upon some shepherd on the road, who is

better acquainted with them. In the mean time you will do well to go to

sleep under some cover, for the cold night air may not agree with the

hurt your jaws have received, though the remedy I have applied is such,

that you have nothing else to fear.’

Sancho Panza, who wished the goatherd’s loquacity at the devil,

earnestly intreated his master to go to sleep in Pedro’s hut. This

request the knight complied with, and spent the greatest part of the

night in thinking of his Lady Dulcinea, in imitation of Marcella’s

lovers; while Sancho Panza, taking up his lodging betwixt Rozinante and

his ass, slept soundly, not like a discarded lover, but like one who had

been battered and bruised the day before.

Footnote 53:

In the original Spanish, the goatherd, instead of saying as old as

Sarah, says, as old as Sarna, which in that language signifies the

itch; but as it is impossible to preserve these mistakes in the

translation, I have substituted another in its room, which I apprehend

is equally natural and expressive.

CHAP. V.

THE CONCLUSION OF THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS MARCELLA, AND OTHER

INCIDENTS.

Scarce had Aurora disclosed herself through the balconies of the east,

when five of the six goatherds arising, went to waken Don Quixote, and

told him, that if he continued in his resolution of going to see the

famous funeral of Chrysostom, they would keep him company. The knight,

who desired nothing better, arose, and commanded Sancho to saddle his

horse and pannel his ass immediately. This order was executed with great

dispatch, and they set out without loss of time. They had not travelled

more than a quarter of a league, when, upon crossing a path, they saw

coming towards them six shepherds, cloathed in jackets of black

sheep-skin, and crowned with garlands of cypress and bitter-bay, each

having a club of holly in his hand. Along with them came also two

gentlemen on horseback, very well equipped for travel, accompanied by

three young men on foot.

When they advanced they saluted one another, and understanding, upon

inquiry, that they were all bound to the place of interment, they joined

company, and travelled together. One of the horsemen said to his

companion, ‘Signior Vivaldo, we shall not have reason to grudge our

tarrying to see this famous funeral, which must certainly be very

extraordinary, by the strange account we have received from these

people, of the dead shepherd, and the murderous shepherdess.’—‘I am of

the same opinion,’ answered Vivaldo; ‘and would not only tarry one day,

but even four or five, on purpose to see it.’ Don Quixote asking what

they had heard of Marcella and Chrysostom, the traveller replied, that

early in the morning they had met with these shepherds, of whom

inquiring the cause of their being cloathed in such melancholy weeds,

they had been informed of the coyness and beauty of a certain

shepherdess called Marcella, and the hapless love of many who courted

her, together with the death of that same Chrysostom to whose funeral

they were going. In short, he recounted every circumstance of what Pedro

had told Don Quixote before.

This conversation being ended, another began by Vivaldo’s asking Don

Quixote why he travelled thus in armour in a peaceable country. To this

question the knight replied, ‘The exercise of my profession will not

permit or allow me to go in any other manner. Revels, feasting, and

repose, were invented by effeminate courtiers; but toil, anxiety, and

arms, are peculiar to those whom the world calls knights-errant, of

which order I, though unworthy, and the least, am one.’ He had no sooner

pronounced these words, than all present took him for a madman; but, in

order to confirm their opinion, and discover what kind of madness it

was, Vivaldo desired to know what he meant by knights-errant. ‘What!’

said Don Quixote, ‘have you never read the annals and history of

England, which treat of the famous exploits of Arthur, who, at present,

in our Castilian language, is called King Artus, and of whom there is an

ancient tradition, generally believed all over Great Britain, that he

did not die, but was, by the art of inchantment, metamorphosed into a

raven; and that the time will come when he shall return, and recover his

sceptre and throne; for which reason it cannot be proved, that from that

period to this, any Englishman has killed a raven. In the reign of that

excellent king was instituted that famous order of chivalry, called the

Knights of the Round Table; and those amours punctually happened, which

are recounted of Don Lancelot of the Lake, with Queen Ginebra, by the

help and mediation of that sage and venerable duenna Quitaniona, from

whence that delightful ballad, so much sung in Spain, took its rise:

‘For never, sure, was any knight

‘So serv’d by damsel, or by dame,

‘As Lancelot, that man of might,

‘When he at first from Britain came.’

‘With the rest of that most relishing and delicious account of his

amours and valiant exploits. From that time the order of knight-errantry

was extended, as it were, from hand to hand, and spread through divers

and sundry parts of the world, producing, among many other worthies

celebrated for their atchievements, the valiant Amadis de Gaul, with all

his sons and nephews, even to the fifth generation; the courageous

Fleximarte of Hicarnia, the never-enough to be commended Tirante the

White, and he whom, in this our age, we have as it were seen, heard, and

conversed with, the invincible and valorous knight Don Belianis of

Greece. This, gentlemen, is what I meant by knight-errant; and such as I

have described is the order of chivalry, which, as I have already told

you, I, though a sinner, have professed; and the very same which those

knights I mentioned professed, I profess also. On which account I am

found in these desarts and solitudes, in quest of adventures, fully

determined to lift my arm, and expose my person, to the greatest danger

that my destiny shall decree, in behalf of the needy and oppressed.’

By this declaration, the travellers were convinced that the knight had

lost his wits, and easily perceived the species of folly which had taken

possession of his brain, and which struck them with the same surprise

that always seized those who became acquainted with our knight. Vivaldo,

who was a person of discretion and a great deal of archness, in order to

travel agreeably the rest of the road which they had to go till they

should come to the place of interment, wanted to give him an opportunity

of proceeding in his extravagance, and in that view said to him: ‘Sir

knight-errant, methinks your worship professes one of the strictest

orders upon earth; nay, I will affirm, more strict than that of the

Carthusian friars.’

‘The order of the Carthusians,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘may be as strict,

but, that it is as beneficial to mankind, I am within a hair’s breadth

of doubting; for, to be plain with you, the soldier who executes his

captain’s command, is no less valuable than the captain who gave the

order. I mean, that the monks pray to God for their fellow-creatures in

peace and safety; but we soldiers and knights put in execution that for

which they pray, by the valour of our arms, and the edge of our swords;

living under no other cover than the cope of heaven; set up in a manner

as marks for the intolerable heat of the sun in summer, and the chilly

breath of frosty winter; we are therefore God’s ministers, and the arms

by which he executes his justice upon earth; and as the circumstances of

war, and what has the least affinity and concern with it, cannot be

accomplished without sweat, anxiety, and fatigue; it follows, that those

who profess it, are doubtless more subject to toil, than those who in

rest and security implore the favour of God for persons who can do

nothing for themselves; not that I would be thought to say or imagine,

the condition of a knight-errant is equal to that of a recluse monk; I

would only infer from what we suffer, that it is without doubt more

troublesome, more battered, more famished, more miserable, ragged, and

lousy; for the knights-errant of past times certainly underwent

numberless misfortunes in the course of their lives. And if some of them

came to be emperors by the valour of their arms, considering the blood

and sweat it cost them, in faith it was a dear purchase; and if those

who attained such a supreme station, had been without their sage

inchanters to assist them, they might have been defrauded by their

desires, and grievously baulked of their expectations.’

‘I am very much of your opinion,’ answered the traveller; ‘but there is

one thing among you knights-errant, that I cannot approve of, and that

is, when any great and dangerous adventure occurs, in which you run a

manifest risk of losing your lives, in the instant of an engagement, you

never think of recommending your souls to God, as every Christian ought

to do on such occasions; but, on the contrary, put up your petitions to

your mistresses, with as much fervour and devotion as if they were your

deities; a circumstance which, in my opinion, smells strong of

paganism.’—‘Sir,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘that practice must in no degree

be altered; and woe be to that knight-errant who should do otherwise;

for, according to the practice and custom of chivalry, every knight,

when he is upon the point of atchieving some great feat, must call up

the idea of his mistress, and turning his eyes upon her with all the

gentleness of love, implore, as it were, by his looks, her favour and

protection in the doubtful dilemma in which he is about to involve

himself: nay, even though nobody should hear him, he is obliged to

mutter between his teeth an ejaculation, by which he heartily and

confidently recommends himself to her good wishes: and of this practice

we have innumerable examples in history; but I would not have you think,

that we are to forbear recommending ourselves to God also; there will be

time and opportunity enough for that duty in the course of action.’

‘But, nevertheless,’ said the traveller, ‘I have still one scruple

remaining; which is, that I have often read of a dispute between two

knights, which proceeding to rage from one word to another, they have

turned about their steeds, to gain ground for a good career; and then,

without any more ceremony, returned to the encounter at full gallop,

recommending themselves to their mistresses by the way; and the common

issue of such an engagement is, that one of them is thrown down by his

horse’s crupper, stuck through and through with his adversary’s lance,

while the other, with difficulty, avoids a fall by laying hold of his

horse’s mane: now, I cannot comprehend how the dead man could have time

to recommend himself to God, in the course of so sudden an attack;

surely it would have been better for his soul, if, instead of the words

he uttered in his career, he had put up a petition to Heaven, according

to the duty and obligation of every Christian; especially, as I take it

for granted that every knight-errant has not a mistress; for all of them

cannot be in love.’—‘That’s impossible,’ answered Don Quixote. ‘I

affirm, that there never could be a knight-errant without a mistress;

for to be in love is as natural and peculiar to them, as the stars are

to the heavens. I am very certain that you never read an history that

gives an account of a knight-errant without an amour; for he that has

never been in love, would not be held as a legitimate member, but some

adulterate brood, who had got into the fortress of chivalry, not through

the gate, but over the walls, like a thief in the night.’

‘Yet, notwithstanding,’ said the traveller, ‘I have read that Don

Galaor, brother of the valiant Amadis de Gaul, never had any known

mistress to whom he could recommend himself; and he was not disregarded,

but looked upon as a very valiant and famous knight.’—‘Signior,’

answered our hero, Don Quixote, ‘one swallow makes not a summer;

besides, to my certain knowledge, that knight was privately very much in

love; indeed, he made love to every handsome woman who came in his way;

for that was his natural disposition, which he by no means could resist:

in short, it is very well attested, that he had one mistress, whom he

enthroned as sovereign of his heart, and to whom he recommended himself

with great caution and privacy, because he piqued himself upon being a

secret knight.’

‘Since, then, it is essential to every knight to be in love, we may

conclude that your worship, being of that profession, is no stranger to

that passion: and if you do not value yourself upon being as secret a

knight as Don Galaor, I earnestly entreat you, in behalf of myself, and

the rest of the company, to tell us the name, country, station, and

qualities of your mistress; who must think herself extremely happy in

reflecting, that all the world knows how much she is beloved and adored

by so valiant a knight as your worship appears to be.’

Here Don Quixote uttered a grievous sigh, saying, ‘I am not positively

certain, whether or not that beauteous enemy of mine takes pleasure in

the world’s knowing I am her slave; this only I can say, in answer to

the question you asked with so much civility, that her name is Dulcinea;

her native country, a certain part of La Mancha called Toboso; her

station must at least be that of a princess, since she is queen and lady

of my soul; her beauty supernatural, in that it justifies all those

impossible and chimerical attributes of excellence, which the poets

bestow upon their nymphs; her hair is of gold, her forehead the Elysian

Fields, her eye-brows heavenly arches, her eyes themselves suns, her

cheeks roses, her lips of coral, her teeth of pearl, her neck alabaster,

her breast marble, her hands ivory, her skin whiter than snow; and those

parts which decency conceals from human view are such, according my

belief and apprehension, as discretion ought to enhance above all

comparison.’

‘I wish we knew her lineage, race, and family,’ replied Vivaldo. To this

hint the knight answered, ‘She is not descended of the ancient Caii,

Curtii, and Scipios of Rome, nor of the modern Colonas and Orsini, nor

of the Moncades and Requesenes of Catalonia, much less of the Rebellas

and Villanovas of Valencia; or the Palafaxes, Newcas, Rocabertis,

Corellas, Lunas, Alagones, Urreas, Fozes and Gurreas of Arragon; or the

Cerdas, Manriquez, Mendozas and Gusmans of Castile; or the Alencastros,

Pallas and Menesis of Portugal: but she sprung from the family of Tobosa

de La Mancha: a lineage which, though modern, may give a noble rise to

the most illustrious families of future ages; and let no man contradict

what I say, except upon the conditions expressed in that inscription

placed by Cerbino under the trophy of Orlando’s arms!

‘“That knight alone these arms shall move,

”Who dares Orlando’s prowess prove[54].”

‘Although I myself am descended from the Cachopines of Loredo[55],’ said

the traveller, ‘I won’t presume to compare with that of Toboso de La

Mancha; though, to be plain with you, I never before heard of any such

generation.’—‘How, not heard!’ replied Don Quixote. The rest of the

company jogged on, listening with great attention to this discourse, and

all of them, even the goatherds, by this time were convinced, that our

knight’s judgment was grievously impaired. Sancho alone believed that

every thing his master said was true, because he knew his family, and

had been acquainted with himself from his cradle. The only doubt that he

entertained was of this same beautiful Dulcinea del Toboso; for never

had such a name or such a princess come within the sphere of his

observation, although he lived in the neighbourhood of that place.

While they travelled along, conversing in this manner, they perceived

about twenty shepherds descend through a cleft made by two high

mountains. They were all clad in jackets of black sheep-skin, and each

of them crowned with a garland, which was composed, as we afterwards

learned, partly of cypress, and partly of yew; six of the foremost

carried a bier, upon which they had strewed a variety of branches and

flowers. And this was no sooner perceived by one of the goatherds, than

he said, ‘These are the people who carry the corpse of Chrysostom, and

the foot of that mountain is the place where he ordered himself to be

interred.’

Upon this information they made haste, and came up just at the time that

the bearers having laid down the body, began to dig the grave with

pick-axes on one side of a flinty rock. They received our travellers

with great courtesy; and Don Quixote, with his company, went towards the

bier to look at the dead body, which was covered with flowers, clad in

shepherds weeds, and seemingly thirty years old. Notwithstanding he was

dead, they could plainly perceive that he had been a man of an engaging

aspect, and genteel stature; and could not help wondering at the sight

of a great many papers, both sealed and loose, that lay round him in the

coffin.

While the new-comers were observing this phænomenon, and the shepherds

busied in digging a grave, a wonderful and universal silence prevailed,

till such time as one of the bearers said to another, ‘Consider,

Ambrosio, if this be the very spot which Chrysostom mentioned, that his

last will may be punctually fulfilled.’—‘This,’ answered Ambrosio, ‘is

the very place in which my unhappy friend has often recounted to me the

story of his misfortunes. Here it was he first beheld that mortal enemy

of the human race; here also did he first declare his amorous and

honourable intention; and here, at last, did Marcella signify her

disgust and disdain, which put an end to the tragedy of his wretched

life; and in this place, as a monument of his mishap, did he desire to

be deposited in the bowels of eternal oblivion.’

Then addressing himself to Don Quixote, and the travellers, he thus

proceeded: ‘This corpse, gentlemen, which you behold with compassionate

eyes, was the habitation of a soul which possessed an infinite share of

the riches of Heaven: this is the body of Chrysostom, who was a man of

unparalleled genius, the pink of courtesy and kindness; in friendship a

very phœnix, liberal without bounds, grave without arrogance, gay

without meanness, and in short second to none in every thing that was

good, and without second in all that was unfortunate. He loved, and was

abhorred; he adored and was disdained; he implored a savage; he

importuned a statue; he hunted the wind; cried aloud to the desart; he

was a slave to the most ungrateful of women; and the fruit of his

servitude was death, which overtook him in the middle of his career; in

short, he perished by the cruelty of a shepherdess, whom he has

eternized in the memory of all the people in this country; as these

papers which you gaze at would shew, if he had not ordered me to commit

them to the flames as soon as his body shall be deposited in the earth.’

‘You will use them, then, with more cruelty and rigour,’ said Vivaldo,

‘than that of the author himself; seeing it is neither just nor

convenient to fulfil the will of any man, provided it be unreasonable.

Augustus Cæsar would have been in the wrong, had he consented to the

execution of what the divine Mantuan ordered on his death-bed.

Wherefore, Signior Ambrosio, while you commit the body of your friend to

the earth, you ought not likewise to consign his writings to oblivion;

nor perform indiscreetly what he in his affliction ordained; on the

contrary, by publishing these papers, you ought to immortalize the

cruelty of Marcella, that it may serve as an example in time to come,

and warn young men to shun and avoid such dangerous precipices; for I,

and the rest of this company, already know the history of that enamoured

and unhappy friend, the nature of your friendship, the occasion of his

death, together with the orders that he left upon his death-bed: from

which lamentable story, it is easy to conclude how excessive must have

been the cruelty of Marcella, the love of Chrysostom, the faith of your

friendship, and the check which those receive, who precipitately run

through the path exhibited to them by idle and mischievous love. Last

night, we understood the death of Chrysostom, who, we are informed, was

to be buried in this place; and therefore, out of curiosity and concern,

have turned out of our way, resolving to come and see with our eyes,

what had affected us so much in the hearing; and in return for that

concern, and the desire we felt in remedying it, if it had been in our

power, we entreat thee, O discreet Ambrosio! at least, for my own part,

I beg of thee, not to burn these papers, but allow me to preserve some

of them.’

Accordingly, without staying for an answer, he reached out his hand, and

took some of those that were nearest him; which Ambrosio perceiving,

said, ‘Out of civility, Signior, I will consent to your keeping what you

have taken up; but to think that I will fail to burn the rest, is a vain

supposition.’ Vivaldo being desirous of seeing the contents, immediately

opened one, intitled, A Song of Despair; which Ambrosio hearing, said,

‘That is the last poem my unhappy friend composed; and that you may see,

Signior, to what a pass his misfortunes had reduced him, read it aloud,

and you’ll have time enough to finish it before the grave be

made!’—‘That I will do with all my heart,’ said Vivaldo; and every body

present being seized with the same desire, they stood around him in a

circle, and he read what follows, with an audible voice.

A SONG OF DESPAIR.

I.

Since then, thy pleasure, cruel maid!

Is, that thy rigour and disdain

Should be from clime to clime convey’d,

All hell shall aid me to complain!

The torments of my heart to tell,

And thy achievements to record,

My voice shall raise a dreadful yell,

My bowels burst at every word:

Then listen to the baleful sound

That issues from my throbbing breast,

Thy pride, perhaps, it may confound,

And yield my madd’ning soul some rest.

II.

Let the snake’s hiss and wolf’s dire howl,

The bull’s harsh note, the lion’s roar,

The boding crow and screeching owl,

The tempest rattling on the shore,

The monster’s scream, the turtle’s moan,

The shrieks of the infernal crew,

Be mingled with my dying groan,

A concert terrible and new!

The hearer’s senses to appal,

And Reason from her throne depose;

Such melody will suit the gall

That from my burning liver flows!

III.

Old Tagus with his yellow hair,

And Betis with her olive wreath,

Shall never echo such despair,

Or listen to such notes of death,

As here I’ll utter and repeat,

From hill to dale, from rock to cave,

In wilds untrod by human feet,

In dungeons dreary as the grave.

The beasts of prey that scour the plain,

Shall thy more savage nature know,

The spacious earth resound my strain;

Such is the privilege of woe!

IV.

Disdain is death, and doubt o’erturns

The patience of the firmest mind;

But jealousy still fiercer burns,

Like all the flames of hell combin’d!

The horrors of that cursed fiend,

In absence to distraction rage,

And all the succour hope can lend,

The direful pangs will not assuage.

Such agonies will surely kill;

Yet spite of absence, doubts and scorn,

I live a miracle, and still

Those deadly flames within me burn!

V.

Hope’s shadow ne’er refresh’d my view,

Despair attends with wakeful strife;

The first let happier swains pursue,

The last my consort is for life.

Can hope and fear at once prevail,

When fear on certainty is fed?

To shut mine eyes will nought avail,

When thunder bursts around my head,

When cold Disdain in native dye

Appears, and Falshood’s cunning lore

Perverts the tale of Truth, shall I

Against Despondence shut the door?

VI.

O jealousy! love’s tyrant lord,

And thou, soul-chilling, dire disdain!

Lend me the dagger and the cord,

To stab remembrance, strangle pain.

I die bereft of hope in death,

Yet still those are the freest souls,

(I’ll vouch it with my latest breath)

Whom love’s old tyranny controuls.

My fatal enemy is fair,

In body and in mind, I’ll say,

And I have earn’d the woes I bear:

By rigour love maintains the sway.

VII.

With this opinion let me fall

A prey to unrelenting scorn;

No fun’ral pomp shall grace my pall,

No laurel my pale corpse adorn.

O thou! whose cruelty and hate

The tortures of my breast proclaim,

Behold how willingly to fate

I offer this devoted frame.

If thou, when I am past all pain,

Should’st think my fall deserves a tear,

Let not one single drop distain

Those eyes so killing and so clear.

VIII.

No! rather let thy mirth display

The joys that in thy bosom flow;

Ah! need I bid that heart be gay

Which always triumph’d in my woe!

Come then, for ever barr’d of bliss,

Ye, who with ceaseless torment dwell,

And agonizing, howl and hiss

In the profoundest shades of hell:

Come, Tantalus, with raging thirst,

Bring, Sysiphus, thy rolling stone,

Come, Titius, with thy vulture curst,

Nor leave Ixion rack’d alone.

IX.

The toiling sisters too shall join,

And my sad, solemn dirge repeat,

When to the grave my friends consign

These limbs deny’d a winding-sheet;

Fierce Cerberus shall clank his chain,

In chorus with chimæras dire:

What other pomp, what other strain,

Should he who dies of love require?

Be hush’d, my song, complain no more

Of her whose pleasure gave thee birth;

But let the sorrows I deplore

Sleep with me in the silent earth.

This ditty of Chrysostom was approved by all the hearers; but he who

read it observed, that it did not seem to agree with the report he had

heard of Marcella’s virtue and circumspection; inasmuch as the author

complained of jealousy, absence, and suspicion, which tended to the

prejudice of her morals and reputation. To this objection, Ambrosio, as

one that was acquainted with the most secret sentiments of his friend,

answered, ‘Signior, for your satisfaction in this point, it is necessary

you should know, that the forlorn shepherd composed this song in the

absence of Marcella, from whose presence he had gone into voluntary

exile, in order to try if he could reap the usual fruits of absence, and

forget the cause of his despair; and as one in that situation is apt to

be fretted by every circumstance, and invaded by every apprehension,

poor Chrysostom was harassed by groundless jealousy and imaginary fears,

which tormented him as much as if they had been real; for which reason,

this circumstance ought not to invalidate the fame of Marcella’s virtue,

against which, exclusive of her cruelty, arrogance, and disdain, envy

itself hath not been able to lay the least imputation.’

‘That may be very true,’ replied Vivaldo; who, being about to read

another of the papers he had saved from the flames, was diverted from

his purpose by a wonderful vision, for such it seemed, that all of a

sudden presented itself to their eyes. This was no other than the

shepherdess Marcella, who appeared upon the top of the rock, just above

the grave they were digging, so beautiful that she surpassed all report.

Those who had never seen her before, gazed with silent admiration; nor

were the rest, who had been accustomed to see her, less astonished at

her appearance. But no sooner did Ambrosio perceive her, than with

indignation in his looks, he cried—

‘Comest thou hither, fierce basilisk of these mountains! to see if the

wounds of this unhappy youth whom thy cruelty hath slain, will bleed at

thy approach? or art thou come to rejoice in the exploits of thy

barbarity, and from the top of that mountain, behold, like another Nero,

the flames which thy impiety hath kindled? or inhumanly to trample upon

this unfortunate corpse, as the unnatural daughter insulted the dead

body of her father Tarquin? Tell us at once the cause of thy approach,

and deign to signify thy pleasure, that I who know how devoutly

Chrysostom obeyed thee, when alive, may, now that he is dead, dispose

his friends to yield the same obedience.’

‘I come not,’ answered Marcella, for any of the purposes you have

mentioned, Ambrosio; but rather personally to demonstrate how

unreasonably people blame me for their own affliction, as well as for

the death and sufferings of Chrysostom. I beg, therefore, that all

present will give me the hearing, as it will be unnecessary to spend

much time, or waste many words, to convince those that are unprejudiced

of the truth. Heaven, you say, hath given me beauty, nay, such a share

of it, as compels you to love me, in spite of your resolutions to the

contrary; from whence you draw this inference, and insist upon it, that

it is my duty to return your passion. By the help of that small capacity

which nature has bestowed upon me, I know that which is beautiful is

lovely; but I can by no means conceive, why the object which is beloved

for being beautiful, is bound to be enamoured of its admirer; more

especially, as it may happen that this same admirer is an object of

disgust and abhorrence; in which case would it be reasonable in him to

say, “I love thee because thou art beautiful, and thou must favour my

passion, although I am deformed?” But granting the beauty equal on both

sides, it does not follow that the desires ought to be mutual; for all

sorts of beauty do not equally affect the spectator; some, for example,

delighting the eye only, without captivating the heart. And well it is

for mankind, that things are thus disposed; otherwise there would be a

strange perplexity and confusion of desires, without power of

distinguishing and chusing particular objects; for beauty being

infinitely diversified, the inclination would be infinitely divided: and

I have heard, that true love must be undivided and unconstrained; if

this be the case, as I believe it is, why should I constrain my

inclination, when I am under no other obligation so to do, but your

saying that you are in love with me? Otherwise tell me, if Heaven that

made me handsome, had created me a monster of deformity, should I have

had cause to complain of you for not loving me? Besides, you are to

consider, that I did not chuse the beauty I possess; such as it is, God

was pleased of his own free will and favour to bestow it upon me,

without any solicitation on my part. Therefore, as the viper deserves no

blame for its sting, although it be mortal, because it is the gift of

nature; neither ought I to be reviled for being beautiful: for beauty in

a virtuous woman, is like a distant flame and a sharp sword afar off,

which prove fatal to none but those who approach too near them. Honour

and virtue are the ornaments of the soul; without which the body, though

never so handsome, ought to seem ugly. If chastity then be one of the

virtues which chiefly adorns and beautifies both body and soul, why

should she that is beloved, lose that jewel for which she is chiefly

beloved, merely to satisfy the appetite of one who, for his own selfish

enjoyment, employs his whole care and industry to destroy it? I was born

free; and to enjoy that freedom, have I chosen the solitude of these

fields. The trees on these mountains are my companions; and I have no

other mirror than the limpid streams of these crystal brooks. With the

trees and the streams I share my contemplation and my beauty; I am a

distant flame, and a sword afar off; those whom my eyes have captivated,

my tongue has undeceived; and if hope be the food of desire, as I gave

none to Chrysostom, or to any other person, so neither can his death,

nor that of any other of my admirers, be justly imputed to my cruelty,

but rather, to their own obstinate despair. To those who observe that

his intentions were honourable, and that therefore I was bound to comply

with them, I answer, when he declared the honesty of his designs in that

very spot where now his grave is digging, I told him, my purpose was to

live in perpetual solitude, and let the earth alone enjoy the fruits of

my retirement, and the spoils of my beauty: wherefore, if he,

notwithstanding this my explanation, persevered without hope, and sailed

against the wind; it is no wonder that he was overwhelmed in the gulph

of his rashness. Had I cajoled him, I should have been perfidious; had I

gratified his inclination, I should have acted contrary to my own reason

and resolution. But because he persisted after I had explained myself,

and despaired before he had cause to think I abhorred him, I leave you

to judge whether or not it be reasonable to lay his misfortune at my

door. Let him whom I have deceived complain, and let him despair to whom

I have broke my promise; if I call upon any man, he may depend upon me;

if I admit of his addresses, he may rejoice in his success: but why

should I be stiled a barbarous homicide by him whom I never soothed,

deceived, called, or admitted? Hitherto Heaven has not thought fit that

I should love by destiny; and the world must excuse me from loving by

election. Let this general declaration serve as an answer to all those

who solicit me in particular, and henceforward give them to understand,

that whosoever dies for me, perishes not by jealousy or disdain, for she

who never gave her love, can never give just cause of jealousy; neither

ought her plain-dealing to be interpreted into disdain. Let him who

terms me a fierce basilisk, shun me as an evil being; if any man thinks

me ungrateful, let him refuse his services when I ask them. If I have

disowned any one, let him renounce me in his turn; and let him who has

found me cruel, abandon me in my distress; this fierce basilisk, this

ungrateful, cruel, supercilious wretch, will neither seek, serve, own,

nor follow you, in any shape whatever. If Chrysostom perished by the

impatience of his own extravagant desire, why should my innocent reserve

be inveighed against? If I have preserved my virginity in these desarts,

why should he that loves me, wish to see me lose it among mankind! I

have riches of my own, as you all know, and covet no man’s wealth. I am

free, and will not be subjected; I neither love nor hate any man; I do

not cajole this one, nor teaze that, nor do I joke with one, or

discourse with another; but amuse myself with the care of my goats, and

the innocent conversation of the shepherdesses belonging to the

neighbouring villages. My desires are bounded by these mountains; or if

my meditation surpasses these bounds, it is only to contemplate the

beauty of the heavens, those steps by which the soul ascends to its

original mansion.’ So saying, without waiting for any reply, she turned

her back, and vanished into a thicket on a neighbouring mountain,

leaving all that were present equally surprized with her beauty and

discretion.

Some of the by-standers being wounded by the powerful shafts that were

darted from her fair eyes, manifested an inclination to follow her,

without availing themselves of the ingenuous declaration they had heard;

which being perceived by Don Quixote, who thought this a proper occasion

for exercising his chivalry in defence of distressed damsels; he laid

his hand upon the hilt of his sword, and in a lofty and audible voice,

pronounced, ‘Let no person, of whatsoever rank or degree, presume to

follow the beautiful Marcella, on pain of incurring my most furious

indignation. She has demonstrated, by clear and undeniable arguments,

how little, if at all, she is to be blamed for the death of Chrysostom;

and how averse she is to comply with the desires of any of her admirers;

for which reason, instead of being pursued and persecuted, she ought to

be honoured and esteemed by all virtuous men, as the only person in the

universe who lives in such a chaste and laudable intention.’ Whether it

was owing to these menaces of the knight, or to the advice of Ambrose,

who desired them to perform the last office to their deceased friend,

not one of the shepherds attempted to stir from the spot, until the

grave being finished, and the papers burnt, the body of poor Chrysostom

was interred, not without abundance of tears shed by his surviving

companions. The grave was secured by a large fragment of the rock which

they rolled upon it, till such time as a tomb-stone could be made, under

the direction of Ambrose, who was resolved to have the following epitaph

engraved upon it.

The body of a wretched swain,

Kill’d by a cruel maid’s disdain,

In this cold bed neglected lies.

He liv’d, fond hapless youth! to prove,

Th’ inhuman tyranny of love,

Exerted in Marcella’s eyes.

Having strewed the place with a profusion of flowers and branches, every

body present condoled, and took leave of the afflicted executor; and Don

Quixote bade farewel to his kind landlords, as well as to the

travellers, who would have persuaded him to accompany them to Seville,

which they said was a city so well adapted for adventures, that they

occurred in every street, nay, at the corner of every blind alley. Our

hero thanked them most courteously for their advice, and the inclination

they expressed to give him pleasure; but assured them, he neither could

nor would set out for Seville, until he should have cleared these

desarts of the robbers and banditti, of whom they were reported to be

full.

The travellers seeing him thus laudably determined, importuned him no

farther, but, taking leave of him anew, pursued their journey, during

which they did not fail to discuss the story of Marcella and Chrysostom,

as well as the madness of Don Quixote; who, on his part, resolved to go

in quest of the shepherdess, and offer her all the service in his power:

but this scheme did not turn out according to his expectation, as will

be related in the course of this faithful history, the second book of

which is here concluded.

END OF THE SECOND BOOK.

Footnote 54:

When a knight challenged the whole world, he wore an emprize,

consisting of a gold chain, or some other badge of love and chivalry;

and sometimes this emprize was fixed in a publick place, to attract

the attention of strangers. When any person accepted the challenge for

a trial of chivalry, called the combat of courtesy, he touched this

emprize; but, if he tore it away, it was considered as a resolution to

fight the owner to extremity or outrance. The combat of courtesy is

still practised by our prize-fighters and boxers, who shake hands

before the engagement, in token of love.

But no defiance of this kind could be either published or accepted

without the permission of the prince at whose court the combatants

chanced to be. Accordingly, we are told by Oliver de La Marche, that

the lord of Ternant having published a defiance at the court of

Burgundy, in the year 1445, Galiot asked the duke’s permission to

touch the challenger’s emprize; which being granted, he advanced and

touched it, saying to the bearer, while he bowed very low, ‘Noble

knight, I touch your emprize; and, with God’s permission, will do my

utmost to fulfil your desire, either on horseback or on foot.’ The

lord of Ternant humbly thanked him for his condescension, said he was

extremely welcome, and promised to send him that same day a cartel,

mentioning the arms they should use.

Footnote 55:

Cachopines is the name given to the Europeans by the Indians of

Mexico.

BOOK III.

CHAP. I.

WHEREIN IS RECOUNTED THE UNLUCKY ADVENTURE WHICH HAPPENED TO DON

QUIXOTE, IN MEETING WITH CERTAIN UNMERCIFUL YANGUESIANS.

The sage Cid Hamet Benengeli relates, that Don Quixote having bid adieu

to his entertainers, and to all who were present at the funeral of the

shepherd Chrysostom, entered, with his squire, the same wood to which

Marcella had retreated; where, when they had wandered about upwards of

two hours, without seeing her, they chanced to find themselves in a

delightful spot, overgrown with verdant grass, and watered by a cool and

pleasant stream; which was so inviting as to induce them to stay in it

during the heat of the day, that now began to be very sultry; the knight

and squire, therefore, dismounting, and leaving the ass and Rozinante at

pleasure to regale themselves with the rich pasture, emptied their

knapsack; and, without any ceremony, attacked the contents, which they

eat together like good friends, laying aside all vain distinction of

master and man.

Sancho had been at no pains to tether Rozinante; secure, as he thought,

in knowing him to be so meek and peaceable, that all the mares in the

meadows of Cordova could not provoke his concupiscence. Chance, however,

or the devil, who is not often found napping, ordered it so, as that a

drove of Gallician fillies belonging to certain Yanguesian carriers,

happened, at that very instant, to be feeding in the same valley: for,

it being the custom of these people to halt and refresh themselves and

their beasts in places where there is plenty of water and grass, they

could not have lighted on a more convenient spot than that where Don

Quixote chanced to be. It was then that Rozinante, seized with an

inclination to solace himself with some of those skittish females, no

sooner had them in the wind, than deviating from his natural disposition

and accustomed deliberation, without asking leave of his lord and

master, he went off at a small trot, to communicate his occasions to the

objects of his desire. But they, it seems, more fond of their pasture

than of his addresses, received him so uncivilly with their hoofs and

teeth, that, in a twinkling, his girth was broke, his saddle kicked off,

and he himself remained in cuerpo. But what he chiefly suffered was from

the carriers, who, seeing violence offered to their mares, ran to their

assistance with long staves, which they exercised upon him so

unmercifully, that he fell prostrate to the ground, almost battered to

death.

The knight and Sancho seeing their steed thus bastinadoed, made all the

haste they could to his rescue; the former addressing the latter in this

manner: ‘I perceive, friend Sancho, that these are no knights, but

fellows of low degree and infamous descent: this particular I mention,

because thou mayest now assist me in taking just vengeance upon them,

for the injury they have done to Rozinante before my face.’—‘What a

devil of vengeance can we pretend to take,’ answered the squire, ‘when

they are more than twenty, and we but two? Nay, I believe, if it was put

to the trial, no better than one and a half.’—‘I myself am worth an

hundred of such vagabonds!’ cried Don Quixote: and without uttering

another syllable, he unsheathed his sword, and assaulted the

Yanguesians, being seconded by Sancho, who suffered himself to be rouzed

and encouraged by the example of his master; and, indeed, the knight

lent the first he met with such a hearty stroke, as laid open a leathern

jacket he wore, together with a large portion of his shoulder.

The carriers seeing themselves thus maltreated by two men only, took the

benefit of their numbers, and ran to sustain one another with their

staves; then surrounding the two assailants, began to drum upon their

carcases with infinite eagerness and dexterity. True it is, at the

second application, Sancho fell to the earth; a misfortune that also

happened to his master; who, in spite of all his own address, together

with the assistance of his good friend, soon found himself stretched at

the feet of Rozinante, who had not as yet been able to rise: from whence

we may learn what furious execution is often done by packstaves, when

managed by the hands of such enraged clowns.

The carriers perceiving the havock they had made, thought proper to load

again with all dispatch, and pursue their journey, leaving our

adventurers in miserable plight and doleful dilemma. The first that

recovered the use of his senses was Sancho Panza; who, finding himself

laid along by the side of his master, pronounced, with a weak and

lamentable voice, ‘Sir Don Quixote! ah, Sir Don Quixote!’—‘What wouldst

thou have, brother Sancho?’ replied the knight, in the same feeble and

complaining tone. ‘I wish,’ resumed Sancho, ‘your worship would, if it

be possible, comfort me with a couple of gulps of that same balsam made

by fairy Blas, if you have got any of it about you: perhaps it may be

serviceable in bruises and broken bones, as well as in wounds and

running sores.’—‘Would to God I had it here, unfortunate wight that I

am!’ cried Don Quixote; ‘but I swear to thee, Sancho, on the faith of a

knight-errant, that ere two days pass, if some mischievous accident does

not intervene, I will have it in my possession, if my hands do not very

much misgive me.’—‘In how many days does your worship think we shall be

able to move our feet?’ said the squire. ‘With regard to myself,’

answered the battered knight, ‘I really cannot fix any number of days;

but this I know, that I alone am to blame for what has happened, in

condescending to use my sword against antagonists who were not dubbed

and knighted like myself. I therefore firmly believe, that as a

punishment for having transgressed the laws of chivalry, the God of

battles hath permitted me to receive this disgraceful chastisement; for

which reason, brother Sancho, it is proper that thou shouldst be

apprized of what I am going to say, as it may be of great importance to

the safety of us both: whenever thou shalt see us insulted or aggrieved

for the future, by such rascally scum, thou shalt not wait for my

drawing upon them; for I will in no shape meddle with such unworthy

foes; but lay thy hand upon thy sword, and with thy own arm chastise

them to thy heart’s content; but should any knights make up to their

defence and assistance, then shall I know how to protect thee, and

assault them with all my might; and thou art already convinced, by a

thousand amazing proofs, how far extends the valour of this my

invincible arm.’ So arrogant was the poor knight become by his victory

over the valiant Biscayan.

This wholesome advice, however, was not so much relished by Sancho, but

that he replied, ‘Sir, I am a quiet, meek, peaceable man, and can digest

any injury, be it never so hard; for I have a wife and small children to

maintain and bring up: wherefore, let me also apprize, (since I cannot

lay my commands upon) your worship, that I will in no shape whatever use

my sword against either knight or knave; and that henceforward, in the

fight of God, I forgive all injuries, past, present, or to come, which I

have already received, at this present time suffer, or may hereafter

undergo, from any person whatsoever, high or low, rich or poor, gentle

or simple, without exception to rank or circumstance.’

His master hearing this declaration, answered, ‘I with the grievous pain

I feel in this rib would abate a little, so as that I could speak for a

few moments with ease, and convince thee of thy damnable error, Panza.

Hark ye me, sinner! suppose the gale of fortune, which hath been

hitherto so adverse, should change in our favour; and, swelling the

sails of our desire, conduct us safely, without the least impediment,

into the haven of some one of those islands which I have promised thee:

what would become of thy wretched affairs, if after I had won and given

it into thy possession, thou shouldst frustrate my intention, by thy

lack of knighthood, ambition, valour and courage, to revenge thy wrongs,

or defend thy government? for I would have thee to know, that in all

new-conquered kingdoms or provinces, the friends of their natural

masters are never so quiet or reconciled to their new sovereign, as to

dispel all fear of some fresh insurrection, to alter the government

again, and, as the saying is, try fortune once more: it is therefore

requisite that the new possessor should have understanding to govern,

resolution to punish, and valour to defend himself, in case of any such

accident.’

‘In this last accident which hath befallen us,’ said Sancho, ‘I wish the

Lord had pleased to give me that same understanding and valour your

worship mentions: but I protest, upon the word of a poor sinner, that I

am at present more fit for a searcloth than such conversation. See if

your worship can make shift to rise, and then we will give some

assistance to Rozinante, though it be more than he deserves; for he was

the principal cause of all this plaguy-rib-roasting: never could I

believe such a thing of Rozinante, who I always thought was as chaste

and sober a person as myself; but this verifies the common remark, that

you must keep company a long time with a man before you know him

thoroughly; and that there is nothing certain in this life. Who could

have thought that those huge back-strokes your worship dealt so heartily

to the unlucky traveller, would be followed, as it were post-haste, by

such a mighty tempest of blows, as just now discharged itself upon our

shoulders!’—‘Thy carcase, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘was formed for

enduring such rough weather; but my limbs were tenderly nursed in soft

wool and fine linen; and therefore must feel more sensibly the pain of

this discomfiture; and if I did not believe (believe, said I) if I were

not certain, that all these inconveniencies are inseparably annexed to

the exercise of arms, I would lie still where I am, and die with pure

vexation.’

To this protestation the squire replied, ‘Seeing these misfortunes are

the natural crops of chivalry, pray good your worship, do they happen at

all times of the year, or only fall at an appointed season; because, in

my simple conjecture, two such harvests will leave us altogether

incapable of reaping a third, if God, of his infinite mercy, will not be

pleased to send us extraordinary succour.’—‘Thou must know, friend

Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘that the life of a knight-errant is

subject to a thousand dangers and mishaps; but then he enjoys the

self-same chance of being a king or emperor, as experience demonstrates

to have been the case of divers and sundry knights, the history of whose

lives I am perfectly well acquainted with; and I could now relate, if

this pain would give me leave, the fortunes of some, who, by their

valour alone, have risen to that supreme degree: and those very persons,

both before and after their success, have undergone various calamities

and affliction; witness the valiant Amadis de Gaul, who saw himself in

the power of his mortal enemy Arcalaus the inchanter, of whom it is

positively affirmed, that while the knight was his prisoner, he caused

him to be bound to a pillar in his court-yard, and gave him two hundred

stripes with the reins of his horse’s bridle. There is likewise a

certain secret author of no small credit, who relates that the knight of

the sun was caught in a trap in a certain castle, and falling found

himself tied hand and foot in a deep dungeon below ground, where was

administered unto him one of those things they call clysters, composed

of sand and water, which had well nigh cost him his life; and if he had

not been succoured in that perilous conjuncture by a sage who was his

good friend, the poor knight would have fared very ill. Wherefore what

hath happened to me, may easily pass unheeded, among those much greater

affronts that such worthy people have undergone: besides, I would have

thee know, Sancho, that it is never reckoned an affront to be wounded by

those instruments which are casually in the hands of our enemies; for it

is expressly mentioned in the laws of duelling, that if a shoe-maker

beats a man with a last he has by accident in his hand, the man cannot

properly be said to be cudgelled, although the said last was made of

wood. This particular I mention, that thou mayest not suppose us

affronted, although we have been mauled in this unlucky fray; for the

weapons with which those men threshed us so severely, were no other than

their own pack-staves; and so far as I can remember, there was neither

tuck, poignard, nor sword, among them.’

‘They did not give me time,’ answered Sancho, ‘to make any such

observation: for scarce had I laid my fingers upon my Toledo[56], when

there rained a shower of cudgels upon my poor shoulders, that banished

the light from my eyes, and strength from my feet, and laid me flat upon

the spot where I now lie, not so much concerned about thinking whether

this drubbing be an affront or not, as about the intolerable pain of the

blows, which remain imprinted upon my memory as well as upon my

carcase.’——‘Notwithstanding all this complaining,’ said the knight, ‘I

aver, brother Sancho, that there is no remembrance which time does not

efface, nor pain that death does not remove.’—‘And pray, what greater

misfortune can there be,’ answered Sancho, ‘than that which nothing but

time can remove, or death put a stop to? If this mishap of ours were

such a one as might be cured with a couple of snips of searcloth, it

would not be altogether so vexatious; but so far as I can see, all the

plaister of an hospital will not be sufficient to set us cleverly on our

legs again.’

‘Truce with thy reflections,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘and collecting

strength out of weakness, as I will endeavour to do, let us rise and

examine Rozinante’s case; for, in all appearance, the poor beast hath

not suffered the least part of the misfortune.’—‘That is not to be

wondered at,’ said the squire, ‘he being a knight-errant also; but what

surprizes me most is, that my dapple should get off without paying his

score, when we are scored all over.’—‘Destiny, when one door is shut,

always leaves another open, is a resource in all calamities,’ said Don

Quixote: ‘this I observe, because thy ass will now supply the place of

Rozinante, and carry me from hence to some castle, where my wounds may

be cured: more especially as such carriage will be no dishonour to

chivalry; for I remember to have read, that the good old Silenus, tutor

and companion to the jolly god of mirth and wine, entered the city of

the hundred gates, lolling at his ease upon a most comely ass.’—‘It may

be very true that he rode upon an ass,’ replied Sancho; ‘but there is

some difference, I apprehend, between riding, and lying across the beast

like a bag of dirt.’ To this observation the knight answered, ‘Those

wounds which are received in battle, may well give, but can never

deprive one of honour: therefore, friend Sancho, do as I bid thee,

without farther reply; get up as well as thou canst, and lay me upon

dapple just as thou shalt find most convenient, that we may be gone

before night comes to surprize us in this unfrequented place.’

‘And yet,’ said Sancho, ‘I have heard your worship remark, that it is

usual for knights-errant to sleep upon commons and heaths the greatest

part of the year; aye, and to be thankful for their good fortune in

being able so to do.’—‘Yes,’ said the knight, ‘when they can do no

better, or are in love; and this is so true, that there was a knight who

lay upon a bare rock, exposed to the sultry noon and midnight damps,

with all the inclemencies of the weather, during two whole years, before

his mistress knew any thing of the matter: this was no other than

Amadis, who, assuming the name of Beltenebros, took up his quarters upon

the naked rock, for the space of either eight years, or eight months, I

really do not remember which; only that he remained doing penance in

that place, for some disgust shewn to him by his dame Oriana: but truce

with this conversation, Sancho, and make haste, before such another

accident can happen to thy beast, as that which hath already befallen

Rozinante.’

‘Odds my life! that would be the devil indeed!’ cried Sancho, who

uttering thirty ah’s and sixty oh’s! together with a hundred and fifty

ola’s! and curses upon him who had brought him to that pass, raised

himself up, though he could not for his soul stand upright, but in spite

of all his efforts, remained bent like a Turkish bow; and in that

attitude, with infinite labour, made shift to equip his ass, which had

also gone a little astray, presuming upon the excessive licence of the

time; he then lifted up Rozinante, who, could he have found a tongue to

complain with, would certainly have surpassed both his master and Sancho

in lamentation: in short, the squire disposed of Don Quixote upon the

ass, to whose tail Rozinante was tied; then taking his own dapple by the

halter, jogged on, sometimes faster, sometimes slower, towards the place

where he conjectured the high road to lie; and indeed, they had not

exceeded a short league, when by good luck, which now seemed to take the

management of their affairs, they arrived at the highway, and discovered

an inn, which, to Sancho’s great grief, was mistaken for a castle by the

joyful knight. This difference of opinion begat an obstinate dispute

that lasted until they arrived at the place, into which Sancho

immediately conveyed his cargo, without farther expostulation.

Footnote 56:

Tizona, which is the word in the original, is a romantick name given

to the sword that belonged to Roderick Dias de Bivar, the famous

Spanish general against the Moors.

CHAP. II.

THE ADVENTURE THAT HAPPENED TO THIS SAGACIOUS KNIGHT AT THE INN,

WHICH HE MISTOOK FOR A CASTLE.

The innkeeper seeing Don Quixote laid athwart the ass, asked what was

the matter? to which interrogation Sancho replied, ‘Nothing but a few

bruises which my master has received in a fall from a rock in this

neighbourhood.’ The landlady, who differed in disposition from most of

your innkeepers wives, being naturally charitable and sympathizing with

the calamities of her fellow-creatures, came running to the relief of

the battered knight, and brought her daughter, who was a very handsome

girl, to assist in taking care of her guest. There was in the same house

a servant-maid from the Asturies, remarkable for her capacious

countenance, beetle brow’d, flat-nosed, blind of one eye, and bleared in

the other: true it is, the gentility of her shape made amends for her

other defects; she was something short of seven hands from head to foot,

and moreover incumbered so much by her shoulders, that she was obliged

to contemplate the dust beneath her feet oftener than she could have

wished.

This comely creature, with the assistance of the other damsel, made up a

sort of sorry bed for our hero in a garret; which gave evident tokens of

having been formerly an hay-loft, and in which at that time a certain

carrier had taken up his quarters, in a bed of his own making, a little

on one side our knight’s: and though his couch was composed of the

pannels and furniture of his mules, it had greatly the advantage over

Don Quixote’s, which consisted only of four rough boards, supported on

two benches of unequal height, covered by a mattras, so thin it might

have passed for a quilt, and full of knots so hard as to be mistaken for

pebble stones, had not the wool appeared through divers openings; with a

couple of sheets made of bull’s hide, and a blanket so bare, that you

might have counted every thread, without losing one of the reckoning.

In this wretched bed, Don Quixote having laid himself down, was anointed

from head to foot by the good woman and her daughter, while Maritornes

(that was the Asturian’s name) stood hard by holding a light. The

landlady, in the course of her application, perceiving the knight’s

whole body black and blue, observed that those marks seemed rather the

effects of drubbing than of a fall; but Sancho affirmed she was

mistaken, and that the marks in question were occasioned by the knobs

and corners of the rocks among which he fell. ‘And now I think of it,’

said he, ‘pray, Madam, manage matters so as to leave a little of your

ointment, for it will be needed, I’ll assure you; my own loins are none

of the soundest at present.’—‘What, did you fall too?’ said she. ‘I

can’t say I did,’ answered the squire, ‘but I was so infected by seeing

my master tumble, that my whole body aches as much as if I had been

cudgelled without mercy.’—‘That may very easily happen,’ cried the

daughter: ‘I myself have often dreamed that I was falling from a high

tower, without ever coming to the ground; and, upon waking, have found

myself bruised and battered, as if I had actually got a great

fall.’—‘Ah, mistress!’ replied the squire, ‘here is the point; I,

without dreaming at all, but on the contrary, being as broad awake as I

am this precious minute, found almost as many marks upon my own

shoulders, as you have observed upon those of my master Don

Quixote.’—‘What is the name of that knight?’ said the Asturian. ‘Don

Quixote de La Mancha,’ answered the squire: ‘he is a knight-adventurer,

and one of the greatest and most valiant that have been seen in this

world for many ages.’—‘And what is a knight-adventurer?’ resumed the

wench. ‘Are you such a suckling as not to know that?’ cried Sancho;

‘well, I’ll tell you, mistress of mine, a knight-adventurer is a thing,

that before you count a couple, may be kicked and be crowned: to-day he

is the most despicable and beggarly wretch upon earth, and to-morrow he

will have a brace of kingdoms to bestow upon his squires.’—‘Methinks,’

said the landlady, ‘seeing you appertain to such a great man, you ought

to be a count at least.’—‘All in good time,’ replied Sancho; ‘we have

not been out a month in search of adventures, and have found none worth

naming; besides, people sometimes go in quest of one thing, and meet

with another: indeed, if my master Don Quixote gets well of this

drubbing——fall, I mean, and I myself escape without being crippled, I

won’t barter my hopes for the best lordship in Spain.’

The knight having listened attentively to this whole conversation, sat

up in his bed as well as he could, and taking his landlady by the hand,

‘Believe me, beautiful lady,’ said he, ‘you may account yourself

extremely happy in having within your castle my person as your guest;

such a guest, that if I praise him not, it is on account of the common

saying, that self-commendation is in effect self-dispraise. My squire,

however, will intimate who I am; while I content myself with assuring

you, that I will, to all eternity, preserve engraven upon the tables of

my memory the benevolence you this day vouchsafed unto me, that I may be

grateful for the favour, as long as life shall remain. And, oh! that it

pleased you, Heaven supreme, that love had not so vanquished and

enslaved my heart to the triumphant eyes of the beautiful ingrate whom I

now mention between my teeth, but that the charms of this amiable young

lady could be the authors of my freedom.’

The good woman, her daughter, and the gentle Maritornes, were astonished

at this rhapsody, which they understood as much as if it had been

delivered in Greek; though they could easily comprehend, that the whole

of it tended to compliment and proffers of service: as they were

therefore altogether unaccustomed to such language, they gazed at him

with admiration, as a person of a different species from other men; and

having thanked him for his courtesy, in their tapster phrase, left him

to his repose; while the Asturian Maritornes administered to Sancho, who

had as much need of assistance as his master.

She and the carrier had made an assignation to divert themselves that

night; nay, she had given her word that as soon as the company should be

quiet, and her master and mistress asleep, she would visit him in the

dark, and give him all the satisfaction he desired; and indeed it is

recorded, for the honour of this good creature, that she never failed to

perform her promises of that kind punctually, although they had been

made in the midst of a heath, and out of the hearing of all evidence:

for she valued herself much upon her gentility, and did not look upon it

as any affront to be servant at an inn, because, she observed,

disappointments and misfortunes had reduced her to that condition.

The bed of Don Quixote, which we have described so hard, so narrow,

crazy, and uncomfortable, stood foremost, and exactly in the middle of

this ruinous hay-loft; hard by had Sancho taken up his quarters upon a

rush-mat, covered with a rug, which seemed to be manufactured of hemp,

rather than wool; and last of all was the carrier’s couch, composed, as

we have already said, of the pannels and furniture of his two best

mules; for he had no less than twelve plump, sleek, and notable beasts,

being one of the richest carriers in Arevalo, according to the report of

the author of this history, who makes particular mention of him, and

says he knew him perfectly well; nay, some go so far as to affirm, that

he was his distant relation: be this as it will, Cid Hamet Benengeli was

a most curious historian, and punctual to admiration, as appears from

what hath been related, which, though in itself mean and trivial, he

would by no means pass over in silence. This ought to serve as an

example to those important and weighty historians, who recount events so

succinctly and superficially, that the reader can scarce get a smack of

them; while the most substantial circumstances are left, as it were, in

the ink-horn, through carelessness, ignorance, and malice. A thousand

times blessed be the authors of Tablante and Ricamonte, and he that

compiled that other book, in which are recounted the atchievements of

Count Tomillas! How punctually have they described the most minute

particular!—But, to return to our story.

The carrier having visited his cattle, and given them their night’s

allowance, stretched himself upon his pannels, in expectation of the

most faithful Maritornes; while Sancho, plaistered all over, and huddled

up in his kennel, endeavoured with all his might to sleep; but the

aching of his ribs would by no means allow him to enjoy that

satisfaction; and Don Quixote, for the same uncomfortable reason, lay

like a hare, with his eyes wide open. A profound silence reigned

throughout the whole house, in which there was no other light than a

lamp stuck up in the passage; and this wonderful quiet, together with

those reflections which always occurred to our knight, relating to the

events continually recorded in the books of chivalry, that first

disordered his understanding; I say, those reflections suggested to his

fancy one of the strangest whims that ever entered a man’s imagination.

This was no other than a full persuasion that he was arrived at some

famous castle; for, as we have before observed, all the inns he lodged

at seemed castles to him; and that the landlord’s daughter was the

governor’s only child, who, captivated by his genteel appearance, was

become deeply enamoured of him, and had actually promised to come,

without the knowledge of her parents, and pass the best part of the

night in bed with him. Believing, therefore, this chimera (which was the

work of his own brain) to be a firm and undoubted fact, he began to

reflect with extreme anxiety upon the dangerous dilemma into which his

virtue was like to be drawn; and resolved in his heart to commit no

treason against his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso; even though Queen

Ginebra herself, and the lady Quintaniona, should make him a tender of

their favours.

While his mind was engrossed by these extravagant fancies, the hour of

assignation arrived, and an unlucky hour it was for him, when the kind

Asturian, barefoot and in her smock, having her hair tucked up under a

fustian nightcap, entered the apartment in which the three guests were

lodged, and with silence and caution directed her steps towards the nest

of her beloved carrier. But scarce had she got within the door, when her

approach was perceived by our knight, who sitting up in his bed, in

spite of his plaisters and the aching of his ribs, stretched forth his

arms to receive this beautiful young lady, who, on her part, holding in

her breath, moved softly on her tiptoes, groping her way with her hands

before her.

While she thus crept along, in quest of her lover, she chanced to come

within arm’s-length of Don Quixote, who laid fast hold of her by the

wrist, and without her daring to speak a syllable, pulled her towards

him, and made her sit down upon the bed; he then felt her smock, which,

though made of the coarsest canvas, to him seemed a shift of the finest

and softest lawn; the string of glass beads she wore about her wrist, in

his apprehension out-shone the brightest oriental pearl: her hair, which

bore some resemblance to a horse’s mane, he mistook for threads of pure

Arabian gold, that even eclipsed the splendor of the sun; and her

breath, which doubtless smelt strong of broken meat and garlick, his

fancy converted into an aromatick flavour, proceeding from her delicate

mouth: in short, his imagination represented her in the same form and

situation with that of a certain princess, recorded in one of his books,

who came to visit a wounded knight of whom she was enamoured; with all

the other embellishments there described. Nay, such was the infatuation

of this poor gentleman, that he was not to be undeceived, either by the

touch, the breath, or any other circumstance of this honest wench,

though they were powerful enough to discompose the stomach of anybody

but a rampant carrier.

But our knight believed he folded in his arms the goddess of beauty,

straining her in his embrace, began to pronounce, in a soft and amorous

tone, ‘Would to Heaven! I were so circumstanced, beautiful and high-born

lady! as to be able to pay the transcendent favour bestowed upon me, in

the contemplation of your amazing charms; but it hath pleased fortune,

that never ceases to persecute the virtuous, to lay me upon this bed, so

bruised and battered, that even if it was my desire to gratify yours, I

should find it utterly impossible; how much more so, when that

impossibility is linked to another still greater? I mean the plighted

faith I have vowed to the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the sole

mistress of my most hidden thoughts: did not that consideration

interpose, I should not be such a simple knight, as to let slip this

happy occasion which your benevolence hath tendered to my choice.’

Maritornes, sweating with vexation to find herself thus pinioned, as it

were, by the knight, whose discourse she neither heeded nor understood;

endeavoured, without answering a syllable, to disengage herself from his

embrace: while the honest carrier, whose lewd desires kept him awake,

and made him perceive his doxy from the moment she entered, listened

attentively to every thing that Don Quixote said; and being jealous that

the Asturian had broke her promise to him, in order to keep it with

another, crept nearer the bed of his rival, to wait the issue of this

rhapsody, the meaning of which he could not comprehend; observing,

however, that the wench struggled to get loose, and that the knight

endeavoured to detain her, he could not relish the joke, but lifting his

arm on high, discharged such a terrible blow on the lanthorn jaws of the

enamoured Don, as bathed his whole countenance in blood; and not

satisfied with this application, jumped upon his ribs, and travelled

over his whole carcase, at a pace somewhat exceeding that of a brisk

trot, until the bed, which was none of the strongest, either in

materials or foundation, unable to sustain the additional weight, sunk

to the ground with both; and made such a hideous noise in its fall, as

waked the inn-keeper, who immediately concluded that Maritornes was

concerned in the adventure, because she made no answer when he called.

On this supposition he arose, and lighting a candle, went directly to

the place where he had heard the scuffle: meanwhile, the poor wench,

confused and affrighted at the approach of her master, who was a fellow

of a most savage disposition, retreated to the kennel of Sancho Panza,

who slept in spite of all this din, and nestling in beside him, wound

herself up like a ball, and lay snug. The landlord now entered the

apartment, and crying with a loud voice, ‘Where have you got, strumpet?

to be sure these must be your jade’s tricks, with a vengeance!’ Sancho

started, and feeling a prodigious weight upon him, thought he was

labouring under the night-mare, and beginning to lay about him on all

sides, chanced, in course of his efforts, to bestow divers cuffs on

Maritornes, who feeling herself thus belaboured, forgot the care of her

reputation, and returned the squire’s compliments so heartily, that

sleep forsook him whether he would or not: without knowing the person

who treated him so roughly, he raised himself up, as well as he could,

and going to loggerheads with Maritornes, a most furious and diverting

skirmish ensued.

By this time, the carrier perceiving by the light the situation of his

mistress, ran to her assistance; and the landlord followed the same

course, though with a very different intention, namely, to chastise the

maid; being fully persuaded, that she was the sole cause of all this

uproar; and so, as the saying is, the cat to the rat, the rat to the

rope, the rope to the gallows. The carrier drummed upon Sancho, Sancho

struck at the maid, the maid pummelled him, the innkeeper disciplined

her; all of them exerting themselves with such eagerness, that there was

not one moment’s pause. But, to crown the joke, the landlord’s candle

went out, and the combatants being left in the dark, such a circulation

of blows ensued, that wheresoever the fist fell, there the patient was

disabled.

There chanced to lodge at the inn that night, a trooper belonging to the

ancient holy brotherhood of Toledo, who also hearing the strange noise

of this fray, arose, and seizing his tipstaff, together with the tin-box

that contained his commission, entered the apartment in the dark,

calling aloud—‘Keep the peace, in the king’s name; keep the peace, in

the name of the holy brotherhood.’ The first he encountered was the

forlorn Don Quixote, who lay insensible on his demolished bed, with his

face uppermost; so that groping about, he happened to lay hold of his

beard, and cried—‘Assist, I charge you, the officers of justice:’ but

perceiving that the person he held neither stirred nor spoke, he

concluded that he must be dead, and that the people within were the

assassins. In this persuasion he raised his voice, crying—‘Shut the

gates of the inn, that none may escape; for here is a man murdered.’

This exclamation, which astonished them all, was no sooner heard, than

every one quitted his share in the battle; the landlord retreated to his

own chamber, the carrier sneaked to his panniers, and the damsel to her

straw: while the unfortunate knight and squire were left on the spot,

unable to move from the places where they lay. The trooper letting go

the beard of Don Quixote, went out for a light to search for and

apprehend the delinquents; but in this design he was disappointed; the

landlord having purposely extinguished the lamp when he retired to his

apartment; so that he was obliged to have recourse to the embers, at

which, with great industry and time, he made shift to light another

candle.

CHAP. III.

CONTAINING THE SEQUEL OF THOSE INCREDIBLE GRIEVANCES

WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE, AND HIS TRUSTY SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA,

UNDERWENT AT THE INN,

WHICH FOR THEIR MISFORTUNE THE KNIGHT MISTOOK FOR A CASTLE.

About this time, Don Quixote recovering the use of his tongue, began to

call in the same feeble tone with which he spoke the preceding day, when

he lay stretched in the pack-staff valley—‘Art thou asleep, friend

Sancho? friend Sancho, art thou asleep?’—‘God’s my life!’ replied

Sancho, full of peevishness and pain, ‘how should I be asleep, seeing

all the devils in hell have been upon me this whole night?’—‘That thou

mayest assure thyself of,’ answered the knight: ‘for either I understand

nothing at all, or this castle is inchanted. Thou must know, Sancho,

(but what I am going to disclose to thee, thou shalt swear to keep

secret till after my death.)’—‘I do swear,’ said Sancho. ‘This secrecy I

insist upon,’ replied his master, ‘because I would by no means take away

the reputation of any person.’—‘Well then,’ cried the squire, ‘I swear

to keep it secret till the days of your worship be past and gone; and

God grant that I may be at liberty to reveal it to-morrow.’—‘Have I done

you so much mischief, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that you wish to see

me dead so soon?’—‘It is not for that,’ replied the squire, ‘but because

I am an enemy to all secrets, and would not have any thing rot in my

keeping.’—‘Be that as it may,’ said the knight, ‘I will trust greater

things to thy love and fidelity. Know, therefore, that this very night I

have been engaged in a most rare and wonderful adventure; which, that I

may briefly relate, take notice, that a little while ago, I was visited

by the constable’s daughter, than whom a more beautiful and gracious

young lady is scarce to be found on this terraqueous globe. How shall I

paint to thee the comeliness of her person? how delineate the acuteness

of her understanding? or, how shall I describe those mysterious charms

which, that I may preserve the fealty I have sworn to my own sovereign

mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, I must pass over in sacred silence? I

shall only tell thee, that Heaven itself was jealous of the happiness

which fortune had put into my power; or, perhaps, which is more

probable, this castle, as I have already observed, is inchanted: for,

while I was engaged with her in a most delightful and amorous

conversation, an unseen hand, belonging, doubtless, to the arm of some

monstrous giant, descended, I know not whence, upon my jaws, leaving my

whole face bathed in gore; and afterwards bruised me in such a manner,

that I am infinitely worse than I was yesterday, when the carriers

maltreated us, as thou knowest, for the excesses of Rozinante; from

whence I conjecture, that the treasure of this fair damsel’s beauty is

guarded by some inchanted Moor, and not destined for my

possession.’—‘Nor for mine neither,’ cried Sancho; ‘for I have been

drubbed by five hundred Moors, so unmercifully, that the pack-stave

threshing was but cakes and gingerbread to what I now feel: so that I

see no great cause you have to brag of that rare adventure, which has

left us in this comfortable pickle. Indeed, your worship was not so

badly off, because you had that same incomparable beauty in your arms;

but what had I, except the hardest knocks, which, I hope, I shall ever

feel in my born days? Cursed am I, and the mother that bore me; for

though I neither am knight errant, nor ever design to be one, the

greatest part of the mischief that betides us for ever falls to my

share.’—‘It seems, then, thou hast suffered too,’ said Don Quixote. ‘Woe

be unto me and my whole pedigree!’ cried Sancho; ‘have I not been

telling you so all this time?’—‘Give thyself no concern about that

matter,’ answered the knight; ‘for now I am determined to prepare that

precious balsam, which will cure us both in the twinkling of an eye.’

About this time the officer of the holy brotherhood, having made shift

to light his candle, came back to examine the person whom he supposed

murdered; and Sancho, seeing him approach in his shirt and woollen

night-cap, with a very unfavourable aspect, and a light in his hand,

said to his master, ‘Pray, Sir, is this the inchanted Moor returned to

spend the last drop of his vengeance upon us[57]?’—‘That cannot be the

Moor,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘for inchanters never suffer themselves to

be seen.’—‘If they won’t allow themselves to be seen,’ cried the squire,

‘they make no bones of letting themselves be felt; that my shoulders can

testify.’—‘And mine too,’ said the knight; ‘but we have no sufficient

reason to believe that he whom we now see is the inchanted Moor.’

Meanwhile, the trooper drawing near, and hearing them talk so

deliberately, remained some time in suspence; then observing Don

Quixote, who still lay on his back, unable to stir, on account of his

bruises and plaisters, he went up to him, saying, ‘How do’st do, honest

friend?’—‘I would speak more submissively,’ answered the knight, ‘were I

such a plebeian as you. Is that the language used in this country to

knights-errant, you blockhead?’ The officer finding himself treated with

so little ceremony, by such a miserable wight, could not bear the

reproach, but lifting up his lamp, oil and all, discharged it upon Don

Quixote’s pate, which suffered greatly in the encounter; and the light

being again extinguished, slipped away in the dark. Things being in this

situation, ‘Sir,’ said Sancho Panza, ‘without doubt, that was the

inchanted Moor, who keeps the treasure for other people, and the

fisty-cuffs and lamp-leavings for us.’—‘It must be so,’ replied the

knight; ‘but we must not mind those affairs of inchantment so much, as

to let them ruffle or inflame us; because, they being invisible and

fantastical, do what we can we shall never be able to take vengeance

upon the authors of them: get up, therefore, Sancho, if thou canst, and

desire the constable of this castle to supply me with some oil, wine,

salt, and rosemary; that I may prepare the salutiferous balsam, which,

really, I believe, I stand in great need of at present, for the wound

which the phantom hath given me bleeds apace.’

Accordingly the squire made shift to rise, notwithstanding the

intolerable aching of his bones; and creeping in the dark towards the

innkeeper’s bed-chamber, happened to meet with the trooper, who stood

listening, to know the intention of his adversary. ‘Signior,’ cried he,

‘whosoever you are, do us the benefit and favour to assist us with some

rosemary, salt, wine, and oil; in order to cure one of the most mighty

knights errant upon earth, who lies in that bed, desperately wounded by

the hands of an inchanted Moor that frequents this inn.’ The officer,

hearing such an address, concluded that the man had lost his senses; and

it being by this time dawn, opened the inn-gate, and calling to the

landlord, told him what this honest man wanted. The innkeeper having

provided Sancho with the ingredients, he immediately carried them to his

master; who lay holding his head between his two hands, and complaining

very much of the effect of the lamp; which, however, had done no farther

damage than that of raising a couple of large tumours upon his pate;

that which he took for blood being no other than sweat forced out by the

anguish and pain he had undergone. In short, he made a composition, by

mixing the materials together, and boiling them a good while, until he

found he had brought the whole to a due consistence: then he asked for a

phial to contain the balsam; but as there was none in the house, he

resolved to cork it up in a tin oil-flask, of which the landlord made

him a present. Which being done, he repeated over it more than fourscore

pater-nosters, with the like number of ave-maria’s, salve’s and credo’s,

accompanying every word with the sign of the cross, by way of

benediction: and this whole ceremony was performed in presence of

Sancho, the innkeeper, and officer; the carrier having very quietly gone

to take care of his beasts.

This precious balsam being thus composed, the knight was determined to

make instant trial of the efficacy with which he imagined it endued; and

accordingly swallowed about a pint and a half of what remained in the

pot, after the oil-flask was full; which had scarce got down his throat,

when he began to vomit in such a manner, as left nothing in his stomach;

and a most copious sweat breaking out upon him, in consequence of the

violent operation, he desired they would wrap him up warm, and leave him

to his repose. They complied with his request, and he fell into a

profound sleep that lasted three hours; at the end of which awaking, he

found himself exceedingly refreshed, and so well recovered of his

bruises, that he seemed perfectly well; and implicitly believed that he

had now made sure of the balsam of Fierabras; which, while he possessed,

he might, with the utmost confidence and safety, engage in the most

perilous quarrels, combats, and havock, that could possibly happen.

Sancho Panza seeing his master recovered to a miracle, begged he would

bestow upon him the sediment of the pot, which was no small quantity:

and his request being granted, he laid hold of it with both hands, and

setting it to his head, drank off, with strong faith and eager

inclination, almost as much as his master had swallowed before. But the

poor squire’s stomach chanced to be not quite so delicate as that of the

knight; and therefore, before he could discharge a drop, he suffered

such pangs and reachings, such qualms and cold sweats, that he verily

believed his last hour was come; and in the midst of his wamblings and

affliction cursed the balsam and the miscreant that made it. Don Quixote

perceiving his situation, said, ‘I believe that all this mischief

happens to thee, Sancho, because thou art not a knight; for I am

persuaded, that this liquor will be of service to none but such as are

of the order of knighthood.’—‘If your worship knew so much,’ cried

Sancho, ‘woe be unto me and my whole generation! why did you allow me to

taste it?’ At this instant the potion began to operate, and the poor

squire to unload at both ends with such fury, that the mat upon which he

had thrown himself, and the sheet that covered him, were soon in a

woeful pickle: he sweated and shivered with such violent motions and

fits, that not only he himself, but every body present, thought he would

have given up the ghost.

This tempest of evacuation lasted near two hours; at the expiration of

which, he found himself far from being relieved like his master, but, on

the contrary, so much fatigued that he was not able to stand. The

knight, as we have already observed, finding himself in good health and

excellent spirits, longed fervently to depart in quest of adventures,

thinking every minute he spent in that place was an injury to the world

in general, and to those miserable objects who wanted his favour and

protection; especially as he was now in possession of the certain means

of safety and confidence, in that efficacious balsam he had made.

Prompted by these suggestions, he himself saddled Rozinante, and with

his own hands put the pannel upon the beast of the squire, whom he also

assisted in getting on his cloaths, and mounting his ass. He then

bestrode his own steed; and laying hold of a pitchfork that stood in the

corner of the yard, appropriated it to the use of a lance; while all the

people in the house, exceeding twenty persons, beheld him with

admiration: the landlord’s daughter being among the spectators, he fixed

his eyes upon her, and from time to time uttered a profound sigh, which

seemed to be heaved from the very bottom of his bowels; and which, in

the opinion of all those who had seen him anointed over night, was

occasioned by the aching of his bones.

He and his squire being by this time mounted, he halted at the gate, and

calling to the innkeeper, pronounced, in a grave and solemn tone,

‘Numerous and mighty are the favours, Sir Constable, which I have

received in this castle of yours; and I shall think myself under the

highest obligation to retain a grateful remembrance of your courtesy all

the days of my life. If I can make you any return, in taking vengeance

on some insolent adversary, who hath, perhaps, aggrieved you; know, that

it is my province and profession to assist the helpless, avenge the

injured, and chastise the false: recollect, therefore; and if you have

any boon of that sort to ask, speak the word; I promise, by the order of

knighthood which I have received, that you shall be righted and

redressed to your heart’s content.’—‘Sir knight,’ replied the innkeeper,

with the same deliberation, ‘I have no occasion for your worship’s

assistance, to redress any grievance of mine; for I know how to revenge

my own wrongs when I suffer any: all I desire is, that you will pay the

score you have run up in this inn, for provender to your cattle, and

food and lodging to yourself and servant.’—‘It seems, then, this is an

inn,’ answered the knight. ‘Aye, and a well-respected one,’ said the

landlord. ‘I have been in a mistake all this time,’ resumed Don Quixote,

‘for I really thought it was a castle; and that none of the meanest

neither: but since it is no other than a house of publick entertainment,

you have nothing to do but excuse me from paying a farthing; for I can

by no means transgress the custom of knights-errant, who, I am sure, as

having read nothing to the contrary[58], never paid for lodging nor any

thing else, in any inn or house whatsoever, because they had a right and

title to the best of entertainment, in recompence for the intolerable

sufferings they underwent, in seeking adventures by night and by day, in

winter as well as summer, on foot and on horseback, exposed to hunger

and thirst, to heat and cold, and to all the inclemencies of heaven, as

well as the inconveniencies of earth.’—‘All this is nothing to my

purpose,’ said the innkeeper; ‘pay me what you owe, and save all your

idle tales of knight-errantry for those who will be amused with them;

for my own part, I mind no tale but that of the money I take.’—‘You are

a saucy publican, and a blockhead to boot,’ cried Don Quixote; who,

putting spurs to Rozinante, and brandishing his pitchfork, sallied out

of the inn without opposition; and was a good way off before he looked

behind to see if he was followed by his squire.

The landlord, seeing the knight depart without paying, ran up to seize

Sancho; who told him, that since his master had refused to discharge the

bill, he must not expect any money from him, who being the squire of a

knight-errant, was, as well as his master, bound by the same laws to pay

for nothing in taverns and inns. The publican, irritated at this answer,

threatened, if he would not pay him, to indemnify himself in a manner

that should not be so much to the squire’s liking: but Panza swore by

the laws of chivalry his master professed, that he would not pay a doit,

though it should cost him his life; for he was resolved that the

honourable and ancient customs of knight-errantry should not be lost

through his misbehaviour; neither should those squires, who were to come

into the world after him, have occasion to complain of his conduct, or

reproach him with the breach of so just a privilege.

[Illustration: Sancho Being Tossed.]

As the unfortunate Sancho’s evil genius would have it, there were among

the company that lodged that night in the house, four clothiers of

Segovia, three pin-makers from the great square of Cordova, and a couple

of shopkeepers from the market-place of Seville; all of them brisk jolly

fellows, and mischievous wags. These companions, as if they had been

inspired and instigated by the same spirit, came up to the squire, and

pulled him from his ass; then, one of them fetching a blanket from the

landlord’s bed, they put Sancho into it, and lifting up their eyes,

perceived the roof was too low for their purpose; therefore determined

to carry him out into the yard, which had no other ceiling than the sky:

there placing Panza in the middle of the blanket, they began to toss him

on high, and divert themselves with his capers, as the mob do with dogs

at Shrove-tide. The cries uttered by this miserable vaulter, were so

piercing as to reach the ears of his master, who halting to listen the

more attentively, believed that some new adventure was approaching,

until he clearly recognized the shrieks of his squire: he immediately

turned his horse, and with infinite straining, made shift to gallop back

to the inn; but finding the gate shut, rode round in search of some

other entrance; and when he approached the yard-wall, which was not very

high, perceived the disagreeable joke they were practising upon his

squire, who rose in the air, and sunk again with such grace and

celerity, that if his indignation would have allowed him, I verily

believe the knight himself would have laughed at the occasion. He

attempted to step from his horse upon the wall, but was so bruised and

battered, that he could not move from his seat; and therefore, situated

as he was, began to vent such a torrent of reproachful and opprobrious

language against Sancho’s executioners, that it is impossible to repeat

the half of what he said. This, however, neither interrupted their mirth

nor their diversion, nor gave the least truce to the lamentations of

Sancho, who prayed and threatened by turns, as he flew. Indeed, nothing

of this sort either could or did avail him, until leaving off, out of

pure weariness, they thought fit to wrap him up in his great coat, and

set him on his ass again. The compassionate Maritornes seeing him so

much fatigued, thought he would be the better for a draught of water,

which, that it might be the cooler, she fetched from the well; and

Sancho had just put the mug to his lips, when his draught was retarded

by the voice of his master, who cried aloud, ‘Son Sancho, drink not

water, drink not that which will be the occasion of thy death, my son;

behold this most sacred balsam,’ holding up the cruse of potion in his

hand, ‘two drops of which will effectually cure thee.’ At these words

the squire eyed him, as it were, askance, and in a tone still more

vociferous, replied, ‘Perchance your worship has forgot that I am no

knight; or may be, you want to see me vomit up all the entrails I have

left, after last night’s quandary. Keep your liquor for yourself, and

may all the devils in hell give you joy of it; and leave me to my own

discretion!’ He had no sooner pronounced these words than he began to

swallow; and perceiving at the first draught, that the cordial was no

other than water, he did not chuse to repeat it; but desired Maritornes

to bring him some wine. This request she complied with very chearfully,

and paid for it with her own money; for it was reported of her, that

although she was reduced to that low degree in life, she actually

retained some faint sketches and shadows of the Christian.

Sancho having finished his draught, clapped heels to his ass, and the

inn-gate being thrown wide open, sallied forth very well satisfied with

having got off without paying any thing, although he had succeeded at

the expence of his shoulders, which were indeed his usual sureties. True

it is, the landlord had detained his bags for the reckoning; but these

Sancho did not miss in the confusion of his retreat. As soon as he was

clear of the house, the innkeeper would have barricadoed the gate, had

he not been prevented by the blanket companions, who were of that sort

of people, who would not have valued Don Quixote a farthing, even if he

had been actually one of the knights of the round-table.

Footnote 57:

Literally, what is left in the bottom of his inkhorn.

Footnote 58:

Don Quixote seems in this place to have forgot one adventure of his

great pattern, Orlando, who, while he accompanied Angelica in her

flight from Albracca, happened to intrude upon the king of the

Lestrigons as he sat at dinner in a valley; and being in great want of

victuals, accosted his most savage majesty in these words, recorded by

Boyardo, or rather Berni, in his poem intitled Orlando Innamorato.

_Poichè fortuna a quest’ora ne mena_

_Da voi, vi prego, che non vi despiaccia,_

_O pe nostri danari o in cortesia,_

_Che noi cenium con voi di compagnia._

Thus humbly requesting, that he would either for love or money give

them a bone to pick.

CHAP. IV.

IN WHICH IS RECOUNTED THE DISCOURSE

THAT PASSED BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA AND HIS MASTER DON QUIXOTE;

WITH OTHER ADVENTURES WORTHY OF RECORD.