_The history of the famous Princess Micomicona continued; with other
pleasant adventures._
The joy of the whole company was unspeakable by the happy conclusion
of this perplexed business. Dorothea, Cardenio, and Lucinda thought
the sudden change of their affairs too surprising to be real; and
could hardly be induced to believe their happiness. Fernando thanked
Heaven a thousand times for having led him out of a labyrinth, in
which his honour and virtue were like to have been lost. The curate,
as he was very instrumental in the general reconciliation, had
likewise no small share in the general joy; and that no discontent
might sour their universal satisfaction, Cardenio and the curate
engaged to see the hostess satisfied for all the damages committed by
Don Quixote; only poor Sancho drooped sadly. He found his lordship and
his hopes vanished into smoke; the Princess Micomicona was changed to
Dorothea, and the giant to Don Fernando. Thus, very musty and
melancholy, he slipt into his master's chamber, who had slept on, and
was just wakened, little thinking of what had happened.
[Illustration: DON QUIXOTE. P. 133.]
"I hope your early rising will do you no hurt," said he, "Sir Knight
of the Sorrowful Figure; but you may now sleep on till doom's-day if
you will; nor need you trouble your head any longer about killing any
giant, or restoring the princess; for all that is done to your hand."
"That is more than probable," answered the knight; "for I have had the
most extraordinary, the most prodigious and bloody battle with the
giant that I ever had, or shall have, during the whole course of my
life. Yet with one cross stroke I laid his head on the ground, whence
the great effusion of blood seemed like a violent stream of water."
"Of wine, you mean," said Sancho; "for you must know (if you know it
not already), that your worship's dead giant is a broached wine-skin;
and the blood some thirty gallons of tent which it held in its body."
"What sayest thou, madman?" said the Don; "thou art frantic, sure."
"Rise, rise, sir," said Sancho, "and see what fine work you have cut
out for yourself; here is your great queen changed into a private
gentlewoman, called Dorothea, with some other such odd matters, that
you will wonder with a vengeance." "I can wonder at nothing here,"
said Don Quixote, "where you may remember I told you all things were
ruled by enchantment." "I believe it," quoth Sancho, "had my adventure
with the blanket been of that kind; but sure it was likest the real
tossing in a blanket of anything I ever knew in my life. And this same
innkeeper, I remember very well, was one of those that tossed me into
the air, and as cleverly and heartily he did it as a man could wish, I
will say that for him; so that, after all, I begin to smell a rat, and
do greatly suspect that all our enchantment will end in nothing but
bruises and broken bones." "Heaven will retrieve all," said the
knight; "I will therefore dress, and march to the discovery of these
wonderful transformations."
Meanwhile the curate gave Don Fernando and the rest an account of Don
Quixote's madness, and of the device he used to draw him from the
desert, to which the supposed disdain of his mistress had banished him
in imagination. Sancho's adventures made also a part in the story,
which proved very diverting to the strangers. He added, that since
Dorothea's change of fortune had baulked their design that way, some
other scheme should be devised to decoy him home. Cardenio offered his
service in the affair, and that Lucinda should personate Dorothea.
"No, no," answered Don Fernando; "Dorothea shall humour the jest
still, if this honest gentleman's habitation be not very far off."
"Only two days' journey," said the curate. "I would ride twice as
far," said Don Fernando, "for the pleasure of so good and charitable
an action." By this time Don Quixote had sallied out armed cap-a-pie,
Mambrino's helmet (with a great hole in it), on his head; his shield
on his left arm, and with his right he leaned on his lance. His
meagre, yellow, weather-beaten face of half a league in length; the
unaccountable medley of his armour, together with his grave and solemn
port, struck Don Fernando and his companions dumb with astonishment;
while the champion, casting his eyes on Dorothea, with great gravity
broke silence with these words:
"I am informed by this my squire, beautiful lady, that your greatness
is annihilated, and your majesty reduced to nothing; for of a queen
and mighty princess, as you used to be, you are become a private
damsel. If any express order from the necromantic king your father,
doubting the ability and success of my arm in the reinstating you, has
occasioned this change, I must tell him that he is no conjuror in
these matters, and does not know one half of his trade; nor is he
skilled in the revolutions of chivalry; for had he been conversant in
the study of knight-errantry as I have been, he might have found that
in every age champions of less fame than Don Quixote de la Mancha have
finished more desperate adventures; since the killing of a pitiful
giant, how arrogant soever he may be, is no such great achievement;
for not many hours past I encountered one myself; the success I will
not mention, lest the incredulity of some people might distrust the
reality; but time, the discoverer of all things, will disclose it when
least expected. To conclude, most high and disinherited lady, if your
father, for the reasons already mentioned, has caused this
metamorphosis in your person, believe him not; for there is no peril
on earth through which my sword shall not open a way; and assure
yourself that in a few days, by the overthrow of your enemy's head, it
shall fix on yours that crown which is your lawful inheritance." Here
Don Quixote stopped, waiting the princess's answer; she, assured of
Don Fernando's consent to carry on the jest till Don Quixote was got
home, and assuming a face of gravity, answered, "Whosoever has
informed you, valorous Knight of the Sorrowful Figure, that I have
altered or changed my condition, has imposed upon you; for I am just
the same to-day as yesterday. It is true some unexpected but fortunate
accidents have varied some circumstances of my fortune, much to my
advantage, and far beyond my hopes; but I am neither changed in my
person, nor altered in my resolution of employing the force of your
redoubtable and invincible arm in my favour. I therefore apply myself
to your usual generosity, to have these words spoken to my father's
dishonour recalled, and believe these easy and infallible means to
redress my wrongs the pure effects of his wisdom and policy, as the
good fortune I now enjoy has been the consequence of your surprising
deeds, as this noble presence can testify. What should hinder us,
then, from setting forward to-morrow morning, depending for a happy
and successful conclusion on the will of Heaven, and the power of your
unparalleled courage?"
The ingenious Dorothea having concluded, Don Quixote turning to Sancho
with all the signs of fury imaginable, "Tell me, rogue, scoundrel, did
not you just now inform me that this princess was changed into a
little private damsel, called Dorothea, with a thousand other
absurdities? I vow I have a mind so to use thee, as to make thee
appear a miserable example to all succeeding squires that shall dare
to tell a knight-errant a lie." "Good your worship," cried Sancho,
"have patience, I beseech you; mayhap I am mistaken or so, about my
lady Princess Micomicona's concern there; but that the giant's head
came off the wine-skin's shoulders, and that the blood was as good
tent as ever was tipt over tongue, I will take my oath on it; for are
not the skins all hacked and slashed within there at your bed's-head,
and the wine all in a puddle in your chamber? But you will guess at
the meat presently by the sauce; the proof of the pudding is in the
eating, master; and if my landlord here do not let you know it to your
cost, he is a very honest and civil fellow, that is all." "Sancho,"
said the Don, "I pronounce thee _non compos_; I therefore pardon thee,
and have done." "It is enough," said Don Fernando; "we, therefore, in
pursuance of the princess's orders, will this night refresh ourselves,
and to-morrow we will all of us set out to attend the lord Don Quixote
in prosecution of this important enterprise he has undertaken, being
all impatient to be eye-witnesses of his celebrated and matchless
courage." "I shall be proud of the honour of serving and waiting upon
you, my good lord," replied Don Quixote, "and reckon myself infinitely
obliged by the favour and good opinion of so honourable a company;
which I shall endeavour to improve and confirm, though at the expense
of the last drop of my blood."
The night coming on, and the innkeeper, by order of Don Fernando's
friends, having made haste to provide them the best supper he could,
the cloth was laid on a long table, there being neither round nor
square in the house. Don Quixote, after much ceremony, was prevailed
upon to sit at the head; he desired the Lady Micomicona to sit next
him; and the rest of the company having placed themselves according to
their rank and convenience, they eat their supper very heartily. Don
Quixote, to raise the diversion, never minded his meat, but inspired
with the same spirit that moved him to preach so much to the
goatherds, began to hold forth in this manner: "Certainly, gentlemen,
if we rightly consider it, those who make knight-errantry their
profession often meet with surprising and most stupendous adventures.
For what mortal in the world, at this time entering within this
castle, and seeing us sit together as we do, will imagine and believe
us to be the same persons which in reality we are? Who is there that
can judge that this lady by my side is the great queen we all know her
to be, and that I am that Knight of the Sorrowful Figure so
universally made known by fame? It is, then, no longer to be doubted
but that this exercise and profession surpasses all others that have
been invented by man, and is so much the more honourable as it is more
exposed to dangers. Let none presume to tell me that the pen is
preferable to the sword. This may be ascertained by regarding the end
and object each of them aims at; for that intention is to be most
valued which makes the noblest end its object. The scope and end of
learning, I mean human learning (in this place I speak not of
divinity, whose aim is to guide souls to Heaven, for no other can
equal a design so infinite as that), is to give a perfection to
distributive justice, bestowing upon every one his due, and to procure
and cause good laws to be observed; an end really generous, great, and
worthy of high commendation, but yet not equal to that which
knight-errantry tends to, whose object and end is peace, which is the
greatest blessing man can wish for in this life. And, therefore, the
first good news that the world received was that which the angels
brought in the night--the beginning of our day--when they sang in the
air, 'Glory to God on high, peace on earth, and to men good-will.' And
the only manner of salutation taught by our great Master to his
friends and favourites was, that entering any house they should say,
'Peace be to this house.' And at other times he said to them, 'My
peace I give to you,' 'My peace I leave to you,' 'Peace be among you.'
A jewel and legacy worthy of such a donor, a jewel so precious that
without it there can be no happiness either in earth or heaven. This
peace is the true end of war; for arms and war are one and the same
thing. Allowing, then, this truth, that the end of war is peace, and
that in this it excels the end of learning, let us now weigh the
bodily labours the scholar undergoes against those the warrior
suffers, and then see which are greatest."
The method and language Don Quixote used in delivering himself were
such, that none of his hearers at that time looked upon him as a
madman; but on the contrary, most of them being gentlemen to whom the
use of arms properly appertains, they gave him a willing attention;
and he proceeded in this manner: "These, then, I say, are the
sufferings and hardships a scholar endures. First, poverty (not that
they are all poor, but to urge the worst that may be in this case);
and having said he endures poverty, methinks nothing more need be
urged to express his misery; for he that is poor enjoys no happiness,
but labours under this poverty in all its parts, at one time in
hunger, at another in cold, another in nakedness, and sometimes in all
of them together; yet his poverty is not so great, but still he eats,
though it be later than the usual hour, and of the scraps of the rich;
neither can the scholar miss of somebody's stove or fireside to sit
by; where, though he be not thoroughly heated, yet he may gather
warmth, and at last sleep away the night under a roof. I will not
touch upon other less material circumstances, as the want of linen,
and scarcity of shoes, thinness and baldness of their clothes, and
their surfeiting when good fortune throws a feast in their way; this
is the difficult and uncouth path they tread, often stumbling and
falling, yet rising again and pushing on, till they attain the
preferment they aim at; whither being arrived, we have seen many of
them, who having been carried by a fortunate gale through all these
quick-sands, from a chair govern the world; their hunger being changed
into satiety, their cold into comfortable warmth; their nakedness into
magnificence of apparel, and the mats they used to lie upon, into
stately beds of costly silks and softest linen, a reward due to their
virtue. But yet their sufferings being compared to those the soldier
endures, appear much inferior, as I shall in the next place make out."