_Of what happened to Don Quixote's Squire, with the famous device of
the Curate and the Barber._
The history recounting what the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure did
when he found himself alone, informs us that, having performed many
strange antics after Sancho's departure, he mounted the top of a high
rock, and began to deliberate on a subject that he had often
considered before, without coming to any resolution; that was, which
was the best and most proper model for his imitation, Orlando in his
furious fits, or Amadis in his melancholy moods; and thus he argued
with himself: "If Orlando was as valiant a knight as he is allowed to
have been, where is the wonder? since, in fact, he was enchanted, and
could only be slain by having a needle thrust into the sole of his
foot; therefore he always wore shoes of iron. But setting aside his
valour, let us consider his madness; and if he was convinced of his
lady's cruelty, it was no wonder he ran mad. But how can I imitate him
in his frenzy without a similar cause? I should do my Dulcinea
manifest wrong if I should be seized with the same species of frenzy
as that of Orlando Furioso. On the other side, I see that Amadis de
Gaul, finding himself disdained by his Lady Oriana, only retired to
the poor rock, accompanied by a hermit, and there wept abundantly
until Heaven succoured him in his great tribulation. All honour, then,
to the memory of Amadis! and let him be the model of Don Quixote de la
Mancha, of whom shall be said, that if he did not achieve great
things, he at least died in attempting them; and though neither
rejected nor disdained by my Dulcinea, it is sufficient that I am
absent from her. Now to the work; come to my memory, ye deeds of
Amadis, and instruct me in the task of imitation!" He thus passed the
time, and in writing and graving on the barks of trees many verses of
a plaintive kind, or in praise of his Dulcinea. Among those afterwards
discovered, only the following were entire and legible:
I.
Ye lofty trees, with spreading arms,
The pride and shelter of the plain;
Ye humbler shrubs and flowery charms,
Which here in springing glory reign!
If my complaints may pity move,
Hear the sad story of my love!
While with me here you pass your hours,
Should you grow faded with my cares,
I'll bribe you with refreshing showers;
You shall be watered with my tears.
Distant, though present in idea,
I mourn my absent Dulcinea
Del Toboso.
II.
While I through honour's thorny ways
In search of distant glory rove,
Malignant fate my toil repays
With endless woes and hopeless love.
Thus I on barren rocks despair,
And curse my stars, yet bless my fair.
Love, armed with snakes, has left his dart,
And now does like a fury rave,
And scourge and sting on every part,
And into madness lash his slave.
Distant, though present in idea,
I mourn my absent Dulcinea
Del Toboso.
The whimsical addition at the end of each stanza occasioned no small
amusement to those who found the verses; for they concluded that Don
Quixote had thought that, unless to the name of "Dulcinea" he added
"Del Toboso," the object of his praise would not be known--and they
were right, as he afterwards confessed. Here, however, it will be
proper to leave him, wrapped up in poetry and grief, to relate what
happened to the squire during his embassy.
As soon as Sancho had gained the high road, he directed his course to
Toboso, and the next day he came within sight of the inn where the
misfortune of the blanket had befallen him; and fancying himself again
flying in the air, he felt no disposition to enter it, although it was
then the hour of dinner, and he longed for something warm. And as he
stood doubtful whether or not to enter, two persons came out who
recognised him. "Pray, signor," said one to the other, "is not that
Sancho Panza yonder on horseback, who, as our friend's housekeeper
told us, accompanied her master as his squire?" "Truly it is," said
the licentiate; "and that is our Don Quixote's horse." No wonder they
knew him so well, for they were the priest and the barber of his
village, and the very persons who had passed sentence on the
mischievous books. Being now certain it was Sancho Panza and
Rozinante, and hoping to hear some tidings of Don Quixote, the priest
went up to him, and calling him by his name, "Friend," said he, "where
have you left your master?" Sancho immediately knew them, and resolved
to conceal the place of Don Quixote's retreat; he therefore told them
that his master was very busy about a certain affair of the greatest
importance to himself, which he durst not discover for the eyes in his
head. "No, no," quoth the barber, "that story will not pass. If you do
not tell us where he is, we shall conclude that you have murdered and
robbed him, since you come thus upon his horse. See, then, that you
produce the owner of that horse, or woe be to you!" He then freely
related to them in what state he had left him, and how he was then
carrying a letter to the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, with whom his
master was up to the ears in love.
They were astonished at Sancho's report; and though they knew the
nature of their friend's derangement, yet every fresh instance was a
new source of wonder. They begged Sancho to shew them the letter he
was carrying to the lady. He said it was written in a pocket-book, and
that his master had ordered him to get it copied in the first town he
should arrive at. The priest said, if he would shew it to him, he
would transcribe it in a fair character. Sancho put his hand into his
bosom to take out the book, but found it not; for it remained with its
owner, who had forgotten to give it him. When Sancho found he had no
book, he turned as pale as death; he laid hold of his beard with both
hands, and tore away half of it, bestowing at the same time sundry
blows upon his nose and mouth. The priest and barber asked him
wherefore he treated himself so roughly. "Wherefore?" answered Sancho,
"but that I have let slip through my fingers three ass-colts, each of
them a castle!" "How so?" replied the barber. "I have lost the
pocket-book," answered Sancho, "that contained the letter to Dulcinea,
and a bill signed by my master, in which he ordered his niece to
deliver to me three colts out of four or five he had at home." This
led him to mention his loss of Dapple; but the priest bid him be of
good cheer, telling him that when he saw his master he would engage
him to renew the order in a regular way; for one written in a
pocket-book would not be accepted. Sancho was comforted by this, and
said that he did not care for the loss of the letter, as he could
almost say it by heart; so they might write it down, where and when
they pleased. "Repeat it, then, Sancho," quoth the barber, "and we
will write it afterwards." Sancho then began to scratch his head, in
order to fetch the letter to his remembrance; now he stood upon one
foot, and then upon the other; sometimes he looked down upon the
ground, sometimes up to the sky; then, biting off half a nail, and
keeping his hearers long in expectation, he said, "At the beginning I
believe it said, 'High and subterrane lady.'" "No," said the barber,
"not subterrane, but superhumane lady." "Ay, so it was," said Sancho.
"Then, if I do not mistake, it went on, 'the stabbed, the waking, and
the pierced, kisses your honour's hands, ungrateful and most
regardless fair;' and then it said I know not what of 'health and
sickness that he sent;' and so he went on, until at last he ended with
'thine till death, the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure.'"
They were both greatly diverted at Sancho's excellent memory, desiring
him to repeat the letter twice more, that they also might get it by
heart, in order to write it down in due time. Thrice Sancho repeated
it, and added to it fifty other extravagances; relating to them also
many other things concerning his master, but not a word of the
blanket. He informed them likewise, how his lord, upon his return with
a kind despatch from his Lady Dulcinea, was to set about endeavouring
to become an emperor, or at least a king (for so it was concerted
between them)--a thing that would be very easily done, considering the
valour and strength of his arm; and when this was accomplished, his
master was to marry him (as by that time he should, probably, be a
widower), and give him to wife one of the empress's maids of honour,
heiress to a large and rich territory on the mainland; for as to
islands, he was quite out of conceit with them. "You talk like a wise
man," said the priest, "and a good Christian; but we must now contrive
to relieve your master from this unprofitable penance."
So having deliberated together on the best means of accomplishing
their purpose, a device occurred to the priest, exactly fitted to Don
Quixote's humour, and likely to effect what they desired; which was,
that he should perform himself the part of a damsel-errant, and the
barber equip himself as her squire; in which disguise they should
repair to Don Quixote; and the curate, presenting himself as an
afflicted and distressed lady, should beg a boon of him, which he, as
a valorous knight-errant, could not do otherwise than grant; and this
should be a request that he would accompany her whither she should
lead him, to redress an injury done her by a discourteous knight;
entreating him, at the same time, not to desire her to remove her
mask, nor make any farther inquiries concerning her, until he had done
her justice on that wicked knight. He made no doubt but that Don
Quixote would consent to any such terms; and they might thus get him
away from that place, and carry him home, where they would endeavour
to find some remedy for his extraordinary malady.