_A pleasant account of the Puppet-play; with other very good things._
"Gentlemen," said the boy, raising his voice, "we present you here
with a true history, taken out of the chronicles of France, and the
Spanish ballads, sung even by the boys about the streets, and in every
body's mouth; it tells you how Don Gayferos delivered his wife
Melisandra, that was a prisoner among the Moors in Spain, in the city
of Sansuena, now called Saragosa. Now, gallants, the first figure we
present you with is Don Gayferos, playing at tables, according to the
ballad:
'Gayferos now at tables plays,
Forgetful of his lady dear.'
"Next you will mark that personage that peeps out there with a crown
on his head and a sceptre in his hand. It is the Emperor Charlemagne,
the fair Melisandra's reputed father, who, vexed at the idleness and
negligence of his son-in-law, comes to chide him; and pray, observe
with what passion and earnestness he rates him, as if he had a mind to
lend him half a dozen sound raps over the pate with his sceptre; nay,
some authors do not stick to tell you he gave him as many, and well
laid on too. Now see how he starts up, and in a rage knocks the tables
one way, and whirls the men another; and, calling for his arms with
all haste, borrows his cousin-german Orlando's sword, Durindana, who
withal offers to go along with him in this difficult adventure; but
the valorous enraged knight will not let him, and says he is able to
deliver his wife himself, without his help, though they kept her down
in the very centre of the earth. And now he is going to put on his
armour, in order to begin his journey.
"Now, gentlemen, cast your eyes upon yon tower; you are to suppose it
one of the towers of the castle of Saragosa. That lady, whom you see
in the balcony in a Moorish habit, is the peerless Melisandra, casting
many a heavy look towards France, thinking of Paris and her husband,
the only comfort in her imprisonment. But now,--silence, gentlemen,
pray, silence! here is an accident wholly new, the like perhaps never
heard of before. Don't you see that Moor who comes on tiptoe, creeping
and stealing along with his finger in his mouth, behind Melisandra?
Hear what a smack he gives on her sweet lips, and see how she spits,
and wipes her mouth with her white smock-sleeve; see how she takes on,
and tears her lovely hair for very madness, as if it were to blame for
this affront. Next, pray observe that grave Moor that stands in the
open gallery; that is Marsilius, the king of Sansuena, who, having
been an eye-witness of the sauciness of the Moor, ordered him
immediately to be apprehended, though his kinsman and great favourite,
and to have two hundred lashes given him. And look how all this is put
in execution sooner almost than the fact is committed; for your Moors,
you must know, don't use any form of indictment as we do, nor yet have
they any legal trials."
"Child, child," said Don Quixote, "go on directly with your story, and
don't keep us here with your excursions and ramblings out of the road.
I tell you there must be a formal process and legal trial to prove
matters of fact." "Boy," said the master from behind the show, "do as
the gentleman bids you. Don't run so much upon flourishes, but follow
your plain song, without venturing on counterpoint, for fear of
spoiling all." "I will, sir," quoth the boy, and so proceeding: "Now,
sirs, he that you see there on horseback is Don Gayferos himself, whom
his wife, now revenged on the Moor for his impudence, seeing from the
battlements of the tower, takes him for a stranger, and talks with him
as such, according to the ballad,
'Quoth Melisandra, if perchance,
Sir Traveller, you go for France,
For pity's sake, ask when you're there,
For Gayferos, my husband dear.'
"I omit the rest, not to tire you with a long story. It is sufficient
that he makes himself known to her; and accordingly, see how she lets
herself down from the balcony, to come at her loving husband and get
behind him; but alas! the skirt of her gown is caught upon one of the
spikes of the balcony, and there she hangs and hovers miserably in the
air, without being able to get down. But see how Heaven is merciful,
and sends relief in the greatest distress! Don Gayferos rides up to
her, and, not fearing to tear her rich gown, lays hold on it, and at
one pull brings her down; and then at one lift sets her astride upon
his horse's crupper, bidding her to sit fast, and clasp her arms about
him; for the Lady Melisandra was not used to that kind of riding.
"Observe now how the horse neighs, and shews how proud he is of the
burden of his brave master and fair mistress. Look now how they turn
their backs and leave the city, and gallop it merrily away towards
Paris. Peace be with you, for a peerless couple of true lovers! may ye
get safe and sound into your own country, without any let or ill
chance in your journey, and live in peace and quietness among your
friends and relations!" "Plainness, boy!" cried Master Peter, "none of
your flights, I beseech you." The boy answered nothing, but going on:
"Now, sirs," quoth he, "some of those idle people that love to pry
into every thing happened to spy Melisandra as she was making her
escape, and ran presently and gave Marsilius notice of it: whereupon
he straight commanded to sound an alarm; and now mind what a din and
hurly-burly there is, and how the city shakes with the ring of the
bells backwards in all the mosques!" "There you are out, boy," said
Don Quixote: "the Moors have no bells, they only use kettle-drums, and
a kind of shaulms like our waits or hautboys; so that your ringing of
bells in Sansuena is a mere absurdity, good Master Peter." "Nay, sir,"
said Master Peter, giving over ringing, "if you stand upon these
trifles with us, we shall never please you. Don't be so severe a
critic: are there not a thousand plays that pass with great success
and applause, though they have many greater absurdities, and nonsense
in abundance? On, boy, on; no matter, so I get the money." "Well
said," answered Don Quixote. "And now, sirs," quoth the boy, "observe
what a vast company of glittering horse comes pouring out of the city
in pursuit of the Christian lovers; what a dreadful sound of trumpets
and clarions, and drums and kettle-drums, there is in the air. I fear
they will overtake them, and then will the poor wretches be dragged
along most barbarously at the tails of their horses, which would be
sad indeed."
Don Quixote, seeing such a number of Moors, and hearing such an alarm,
thought it high time to assist the flying lovers; and starting up, "It
shall never be said while I live," cried he aloud, "that I suffered
such a wrong to be done to so famous a knight and so daring a lover as
Don Gayferos. Forbear then your unjust pursuit, ye base-born rascals!
Stop, or prepare to meet my furious resentment!" Then drawing out his
sword to make good his threats, at one spring he gets to the show, and
with a violent fury lays at the Moorish puppets, cutting and slashing
in a most terrible manner; some he overthrows, and beheads others;
maims this, and cleaves that in pieces. Among the rest of his
merciless strokes, he thundered one down with such a mighty force,
that had not Master Peter luckily squatted down, it had certainly
chopped off his head as easily as one might cut an apple. "Hold, hold,
sir," cried the puppet-player, after this narrow escape, "hold for
pity's sake! What do you mean, sir? These are no real Moors that you
cut and hack so, but poor harmless puppets made of pasteboard. Think
of what you do; you ruin me for ever. Oh that ever I was born! you
have broke me quite." But Don Quixote, without minding his words,
doubled and redoubled his blows so thick, and laid about him so
outrageously, that in less than two credos he had cut all the strings
and wires, mangled the puppets, and spoiled and demolished the whole
machine. King Marsilius was in a grievous condition. The Emperor
Charlemagne's head and crown were cleft in two. The whole audience was
in a sad consternation. The ape scampered off to the top of the house.
The scholar was frightened out of his wits; the page was very uneasy;
and Sancho himself was in a terrible fright; for, as he said after the
hurricane was over, he had never seen his master in such a rage
before.
The general rout of the puppets being over, Don Quixote's fury began
to abate; and with a more pacified countenance turning to the company,
"Now," said he, "I could wish all those incredulous persons here who
slight knight-errantry might receive conviction of their error, and
behold undeniable proofs of the benefit of that function; for how
miserable had been the condition of poor Don Gayferos and the fair
Melisandra by this time, had I not been here and stood up in their
defence! I make no question but those infidels would have apprehended
them, and used them barbarously. Well, when all is done, long live
knight-errantry; long let it live, I say, above all things whatsoever
in this world!" "Ay, ay," said Master Peter in a doleful tone, "let it
live long for me, so I may die; for why should I live so unhappy as to
say with King Rodrigo, 'Yesterday I was lord of Spain, to-day have not
a foot of land I can call mine?' It is not half an hour, nay scarce a
moment, since I had kings and emperors at command. I had horses in
abundance, and chests and bags full of fine things; but now you see me
a poor sorry undone man, quite and clean broke and cast down, and in
short a mere beggar. What is worst of all, I have lost my ape too; and
all through the rash fury of this knight here, who they say protects
the fatherless, redresses wrongs, and does other charitable deeds, but
has failed in all these good offices to miserable me. Well may I call
him the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure, for he has put me and all that
belongs to me in a sorrowful case."
The puppet-player's lamentations moving Sancho's pity, "Come," quoth
he, "don't cry, Master Peter, thou breakest my heart to hear thee take
on so; don't be cast down, man, for my master's a better Christian, I
am sure, than to let any poor man come to loss by him; when he comes
to know he has done you wrong, he will pay you for every farthing of
damage, I will engage." "Truly," said Master Peter, "if his worship
would but pay me for the puppets he has spoiled, I will ask no more,
and he will discharge his conscience; for he that wrongs his
neighbour, and does not make restitution, can never hope to be saved,
that is certain." "I grant it," said Don Quixote; "but I am not
sensible how I have in the least injured you, good Master Peter!"
"How, sir! not injured me?" cried Master Peter. "Why, these poor
relics that lie here on the cold ground cry out for vengeance against
you. Was it not the invincible force of that powerful arm of yours
that has scattered and dismembered them so? And whose were those
bodies, sir, but mine? and by whom was I maintained but by them?"
"Well," said Don Quixote, "now I am thoroughly convinced of a truth
which I have had reason to believe before, that those cursed
magicians that daily persecute me, do nothing but delude me, first
drawing me into dangerous adventures by the appearances of them as
really they are, and then presently after changing the face of things
as they please. Really and truly, gentlemen, I vow and protest before
you all that hear me, that all that was acted here seemed to be really
transacted _ipso facto_ as it appeared. To me Melisandra appeared to
be Melisandra, Don Gayferos was Don Gayferos, Marsilius Marsilius, and
Charlemagne was the real Charlemagne. Which being so, I could not
contain my fury, and acted according to the duties of my function,
which obliges me to take the injured side. Now, though what I have
done proves to be quite contrary to my good design, the fault ought
not to be imputed to me, but to my persecuting foes; yet I own myself
sorry for the mischance, and will myself pay the costs. Let Master
Peter see what he must have for the figures, and I will pay it him now
in good and lawful money." "Heaven bless your worship," cried Master
Peter with a profound cringe, "I could expect no less from the
wonderful Christianity of the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha, the
sure relief and bulwark of all miserable wanderers. Now let my
landlord and the great Sancho be mediators and appraisers between your
worship and myself, and I will stand to their award."
They agreed: and presently Master Peter taking up Marsilius, king of
Saragosa, that lay by on the ground with his head off: "You see,
gentlemen," said he, "it is impossible to restore this king to his
former dignity; and therefore, with submission to your better
judgments, I think that for his destruction, and to get him a
successor, seven and twenty pence is little enough on conscience."
"Proceed," said Don Quixote. "Then for this that is cleft in two,"
said Master Peter, taking up the Emperor Charlemagne, "I think he is
richly worth one and thirty pence halfpenny." "Not so richly neither,"
quoth Sancho. "Truly," said the innkeeper, "I think it is pretty
reasonable, but we will make it even money; let the poor fellow have
half a crown." "Come," said Don Quixote, "let him have his full price;
we will not stand haggling for so small a matter in a case like this:
so make haste, Master Peter, for it is near supper-time, and I have
some strong presumptions that I shall eat heartily." "Now," said
Master Peter, "for this figure here that is without a nose and blind
with one eye, being the fair Melisandra, I will be reasonable with
you; give me fourteen pence; I would not take less from my brother."
In this manner he went on, setting his price upon the dead and
wounded, which the arbitrators moderated to the content of both
parties; and the whole sum amounted to forty reals and three quarters,
which Sancho paid him down; and then Master Peter demanded two reals
more for the trouble of catching his ape. "Give it him," said Don
Quixote, "and set the monkey to catch the ape; and now would I give
two hundred more to be assured that Don Gayferos and the Lady
Melisandra were safely arrived in France among their friends." "Nobody
can better tell than my ape," said Master Peter; "though who will
catch him I know not, if hunger, or his kindness for me do not bring
us together again to-night. However, to-morrow will be a new day; and
when it is light we will see what is to be done."
The whole disturbance being appeased, to supper they went lovingly
together; and Don Quixote treated the whole company, for he was
liberality itself. Before day, the man with the lances and halberts
left the inn, and some time after the scholar and the page came to
take leave of the knight; the first to return home, and the second to
continue his journey, towards whose charges Don Quixote gave him
twelve reals. As for Master Peter, he knew too much of the knight's
humour to desire to have any thing to do with him; and therefore,
having picked up the ruins of the puppet-show, and got his ape again,
by break of day he packed off to seek his fortune. The innkeeper, who
did not know Don Quixote, was as much surprised at his liberality as
at his madness. In fine, Sancho paid him very honestly by his master's
order, and mounting a little before eight o'clock they left the inn,
and proceeded on their journey; during which some other matters
occurred, a knowledge of which is very requisite for the better
understanding of this famous history.