_How Don Quixote resolved to turn shepherd, and lead a rural life for
the year's time he was obliged not to bear arms; with other passages
truly good and diverting._
They travelled on conversing together till they came near the place
where the bulls had run over them; and Don Quixote knowing it again,
"Sancho," said he, "yonder is that meadow where we met the fine
shepherdesses, and the gallant shepherds, who had a mind to renew or
imitate the pastoral Arcadia. It was certainly a new and ingenious
conceit. If thou thinkest well of it, we will follow their example,
and turn shepherds too, at least for the time I am to lay aside the
profession of arms. I will buy a flock of sheep, and every thing that
is fit for a pastoral life; and so calling myself the shepherd
Quixotis, and thee the shepherd Pansino, we will range the woods, the
hills, and meadows, singing and versifying. We will drink the liquid
crystal, sometimes out of the fountains, and sometimes from the
purling brooks and swift-gliding streams. The oaks, the cork-trees,
and chestnut-trees, will afford us both lodging and diet, the willows
will yield us their shade, the roses present us their inoffensive
sweets, and the spacious meads will be our carpets, diversified with
colours of all sorts; blessed with the purest air, and unconfined
alike, we shall breathe that, and freedom. The moon and stars, our
tapers of the night, shall light our evening walks. Light hearts will
make us merry, and mirth will make us sing. Love will inspire us with
a theme and with wit, and Apollo with harmonious lays. So shall we
become famous, not only while we live, but we shall make our loves
eternal as our songs."
"Sure enough," quoth Sancho, "this sort of life suits me to a hair;
and I fancy that, if the bachelor Sampson Carrasco and Master Nicholas
have but once a glimpse of it, they will even turn shepherds too; nay,
it is well if the curate does not put in for one among the rest, for
he is a notable joker, and merrily inclined." "That was well thought
on," said Don Quixote; "and then, if the bachelor will make one among
us, as I doubt not but he will, he may call himself the shepherd
Samsonino, or Carrascon; and Master Nicholas, Niculoso. For the
curate, I do not well know what name we shall give him, unless we
should call him the shepherd Curiambro. As for the shepherdesses with
whom we must fall in love, we cannot be at a loss to find them names,
there are enough for us to pick and choose; and, since my lady's name
is not improper for a shepherdess, any more than for a princess, I
will not trouble myself to get a better; thou mayest call thine as
thou pleasest." "For my part," quoth Sancho, "I do not think of any
other name for mine than Teresona; that will fit her full well, and is
taken from her Christian name too. So, when I come to mention her in
my verses, every body will know her to be my wife, and commend my
honesty as being contented with my own." "Bless me," said Don Quixote,
"what a life shall we lead! What a melody of oaten reeds and Zamora
pipes shall we have resounding in the air! what intermixture of
tabors, morrice-bells, and fiddles! And if to all the different
instruments we add the albogues, we shall have all manner of pastoral
music." "What are the albogues?" quoth Sancho; "for I do not remember
to have seen or ever heard of them in my life."
"They are," said Don Quixote, "a sort of instruments made of brass
plates, rounded like candlesticks: the one shutting into the other,
there rises, through the holes or stops, and the trunk or hollow, an
odd sound, which, if not very grateful or harmonious, is, however, not
altogether disagreeable, but does well enough with the rusticity of
the bagpipe or tabor. You must know the word is Moorish, as indeed are
all those in our Spanish that begin with _al_, as Almoasa, Almorsar,
Alhombra, Alguasil, Alucema, Almacen, Alcanzia, and the like, which
are not very many. And we have also but three Moorish words in our
tongue that end in _i_; and they are, Borcequi, Zaquicami, and
Maravedi; for, as to Alheli and Alfaqui, they are as well known to be
Arabic by their beginning with _al_, as their ending in _i_. I could
not forbear telling thee so much by the by, thy query about albogue
having brought it into my head. There is one thing more that will go a
great way towards making us complete in our new kind of life, and that
is poetry. Thou knowest I am somewhat given that way, and the bachelor
Carrasco is a most accomplished poet, to say nothing of the curate,
though I will hold a wager he is a dabbler in it too; and so is Master
Nicholas, I dare say; for all your barbers are notable scrapers and
songsters. For my part, I will complain of absence; thou shalt
celebrate thy own loyalty and constancy; the shepherd Carrascon shall
expostulate on his shepherdess's disdain; and the pastor Curiambro
choose what subject he likes best; and so all will be managed to our
heart's content. But no more at this time--it grows late--let us leave
the road a little, and take up our quarters yonder in the fields;
to-morrow will be a new day." They did accordingly, and made a
slender meal, as little to Sancho's liking as his hard lodging; which
brought the hardships of knight-erranting fresh into his thoughts, and
made him wish for the better entertainment he had sometimes found, as
at Don Diego's, Camacho's, and Don Antonio's houses. But he
considered, after all, that it could not be always fair weather, nor
was it always foul; so he betook himself to his rest till morning, and
his master to the usual exercise of his roving imaginations.
Don Quixote, after his first sleep, thought nature sufficiently
refreshed, and would not yield to the temptations of a second. Sancho,
indeed, did not enjoy a second, but from a different reason. For he
usually made but one nap of the whole night; which was owing to the
soundness of his constitution, and his inexperience of cares, that lay
so heavy upon Don Quixote.
"Sancho," said the knight, after he had pulled the squire till he had
waked him too, "I am amazed at the insensibility of thy temper. Thou
art certainly made of marble or brass, thou liest so without either
motion or feeling. Thou sleepest while I wake; thou singest while I
mourn; and while I am ready to faint for want of sustenance, thou art
lazy and unwieldy with mere gluttony. It is the part of a good servant
to share in the afflictions of his master. Observe the stillness of
the night, and the solitary place we are in. It is a pity such an
opportunity should be lost in sloth and inactive rest; rouse for
shame, step a little aside, and with a good grace and a cheerful
heart, score me up some three or four hundred lashes upon thy back,
towards the disenchanting of Dulcinea. This I make my earnest request,
being resolved never to be rough with thee again upon this account;
for I must confess thou canst lay a heavy hand on a man upon occasion.
When that performance is over, we will pass the remainder of the night
in chanting, I of absence, and thou of constancy, and so begin those
pastoral exercises which are to be our employment at home."
"Sir," answered Sancho, "do you take me for a monk or a friar, that I
should start up in the middle of the night, and discipline myself at this
rate? Or do you think it such an easy matter to scourge myself one
moment, and fall a-singing the next? Look you, sir; say not a word more
of this whipping; if the bare brushing of my coat would do you any good,
you should not have it, much less the currying of my hide; and so let me
go to sleep again." "O obdurate heart!" cried Don Quixote; "O nourishment
and favours ill bestowed! Is this my reward for having got thee a
government, and my good intentions to get thee an earldom, or an
equivalent at least, which I dare engage to do when this year of our
obscurity is elapsed? for, in short, _post tenebras spero lucem_." "That
I do not understand," quoth Sancho; "but this I very well know, that I
have worst luck of any physician under the cope of heaven; other doctors
kill their patients, and are paid for it too, and yet they are at no
further trouble than scrawling two or three cramp words for some physical
slip-slop, which the apothecaries are at all the pains to make up. Now
here am I, that save people from the grave, at the expense of my own
hide, pinched, run through with pins, and whipped like a top, and yet
never a cross I get by the bargain. But if ever they catch me a-curing
any body in this fashion, unless I have my fee beforehand, may I be
served as I have been, for nothing. No money, no cure, say I." "You are
right, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "for my part, had you demanded your
fees for disenchanting Dulcinea, you should have received them already;
but I am afraid there can be no gratuity proportionable to the greatness
of the cure; and therefore I would not have the remedy depend upon a
reward; for who knows whether my proffering it, or thy acceptance of it,
might hinder the effect of the penance? However, since we have gone so
far, we will put it to a trial: come, Sancho, name your price, and begin.
First scourge yourself, then pay yourself out of the money of mine that
you have in your custody." Sancho, opening his eyes and ears above a foot
wide at this fair offer, leaped presently at the proposal. "Ay, ay, sir,
now, now you say something," quoth he; "I will do it with a jerk now,
since you speak so feelingly: I have a wife and children to maintain,
sir, and I must mind the main chance. Come, then, how much will you give
me by the lash?" "Were your payment," said Don Quixote, "to be answerable
to the greatness and merits of the cure, not all the wealth of Venice,
nor the Indian mines, were sufficient to reward thee. But see what cash
you have of mine in your hands, and set what price you will on every
stripe." "The lashes," quoth Sancho, "are in all three thousand three
hundred and odd, of which I have had five; the rest are to come. Let
these five go for the odd ones, and let us come to the three thousand
three hundred. At a quartillo, or three halfpence a-piece (and I will not
bate a farthing, if it were to my brother), they will make three thousand
three hundred three-halfpences. Three thousand three-halfpences make
fifteen hundred threepences, which amounts to seven hundred and fifty
reals or sixpences. Now the three hundred remaining three-halfpences make
an hundred and fifty threepences, and threescore and fifteen sixpences;
put that together, and it comes just to eight hundred and twenty-five
reals, or sixpences, to a farthing. This money, sir, if you please, I
will deduct from yours that I have in my hands; and then I will reckon
myself well paid for my jerking, and go home well pleased, though well
whipped. But that is nothing; for he must not think to catch fish who is
afraid to wet his feet. I need say no more." "Now blessings on thy heart,
dearest Sancho!" cried Don Quixote; "O my friend, how shall Dulcinea and
I be bound to pray for thee, and serve thee while it shall please Heaven
to continue us on earth! If she recover her former shape and beauty, as
now she infallibly must, her misfortune will turn to her felicity, and I
shall triumph in my defeat. Speak, dear Sancho; when wilt thou enter upon
thy task? and a hundred reals more shall be at thy service, as a gratuity
for thy being expeditious." "I will begin this very night," answered
Sancho; "do you but order it so that we may lie in the fields, and you
shall see how I will lay about me."
Don Quixote longed for night so impatiently, that, like all eager
expecting lovers, he fancied Phoebus had broken his chariot-wheels,
which made the day of so unusual a length; but at last it grew dark,
and they went out of the road into a shady wood, where they both
alighted, and, being sat down upon the grass, they went to supper upon
such provisions as Sancho's wallet afforded.
And now having satisfied himself, he thought it time to satisfy his
master, and earn his money. To which purpose he made himself a whip of
Dapple's halter; and having stripped himself to the waist, retired
farther up into the wood at a small distance from his master. Don
Quixote, observing his readiness and resolution, could not forbear
calling after him; "Dear Sancho," cried he, "be not too cruel to
thyself neither; have a care, do not hack thyself to pieces: make no
more haste than good speed; go gently to work, soft and fair goes
farthest; I mean, I would not have thee kill thyself before thou
gettest to the end of the tally; and that the reckoning may be fair on
both sides, I will stand at a distance and keep an account of the
strokes by the help of my beads; and so Heaven prosper thy pious
undertaking!" "He is an honest man," quoth Sancho, "who pays to a
farthing; I only mean to give myself a handsome whipping; for do not
think I need kill myself to work miracles." With that he began to
exercise the instrument of punishment, and Don Quixote to tell the
strokes. But by the time Sancho had struck seven or eight lashes, he
felt the jest bite so smartly, that he began to repent him of his
bargain. Whereupon, after a short pause, he called to his master, and
told him that he would be off with him; for such lashes as these were
modestly worth threepence a-piece of any man's money; and truly he
could not afford to go on at three-halfpence a lash. "Go on, friend
Sancho," answered Don Quixote; "take courage and proceed; I will
double thy pay, if that be all." "Say you so?" quoth Sancho; "then
have at all. I will lay it on thick and threefold. Do but listen."
With that, slap went the scourge; but the cunning knave left
persecuting his own skin, and fell foul of the trees, fetching such
dismal groans every now and then, that one would have thought he had
been dying. Don Quixote, who was naturally tender-hearted, fearing he
might make an end of himself before he could finish his penance, and
so disappoint the happy effects of it: "Hold," cried he, "hold, my
friend; as thou lovest thy life, hold, I conjure thee: no more at this
time. This seems to be a very sharp sort of physic. Therefore, pray do
not take it all at once, make two doses of it. Come, come, all in good
time; Rome was not built in a day. If I have told right, thou hast
given thyself above a thousand stripes; that is enough for one
beating; for, to use a homely phrase, the ass will carry his load, but
not a double load; ride not a free horse to death." "No, no," quoth
Sancho, "it shall never be said of me, the eaten bread is forgotten;
or that I thought it working for a dead horse, because I am paid
beforehand. Therefore stand off, I beseech you; get out of the reach
of my whip, and let me lay on the other thousand, and then the back of
the work will be broken: such another flogging bout, and the job will
be over." "Since thou art in the humour," replied Don Quixote, "I will
withdraw, and Heaven strengthen and reward thee!" With that, Sancho
fell to work afresh, and beginning upon a new score, he lashed the
trees at so unconscionable a rate, that he fetched off their skins
most unmercifully. At length, raising his voice, seemingly resolved to
give himself a settling blow, he lets drive at a beech-tree with might
and main: "There!" cried he, "down with thee Samson, and all that are
about thee!" This dismal cry, with the sound of the dreadful strokes
that attended it, made Don Quixote run presently to his squire, and
laying fast hold on the halter, "Hold," cried he, "friend Sancho, stay
the fury of thy arm. Dost thou think I will have thy death, and the
ruin of thy wife and children to be laid at my door? Forbid it, Fate!
Let Dulcinea stay a while, till a better opportunity offer itself. I
myself will be contented to live in hopes, that when thou hast
recovered new strength, the business may be accomplished to every
body's satisfaction." "Well, sir," quoth Sancho, "if it be your
worship's will and pleasure it should be so, so let it be, quoth I.
But, for goodness' sake, do so much as throw your cloak over my
shoulders, for I have no mind to catch cold: we novices are somewhat
in danger of that when we first undergo the discipline of flogging."
With that Don Quixote took off his cloak from his own shoulders, and
putting it over those of Sancho, chose to remain in his doublet; and
the crafty squire, being lapped up warm, fell fast asleep, and never
stirred till the sun waked him.
In the morning they went on their journey, and after three hours'
riding alighted at an inn; for it was allowed by Don Quixote himself
to be an inn, and not a castle, with moats, towers, portcullises, and
drawbridges, as he commonly fancied; for now the knight was mightily
off the romantic pin to what he used to be, as shall be shewn
presently at large. He was lodged in a ground-room, which, instead of
tapestry, was hung with a coarse painted stuff, such as is often seen
in villages. One of the pieces had the story of Helen of Troy, when
Paris stole her away from her husband Menelaus; but scrawled out after
a bungling rate by some wretched dauber or other. Another had the
story of Dido and AEneas--the lady on the top of a turret, waving a
sheet to her fugitive guest, who was in a ship at sea, crowding all
the sail he could to get from her. Don Quixote made this observation
upon the two stories, that Helen was not at all displeased at the
force put upon her, but rather smiled upon her lover; whereas, on the
other side, the fair Dido shewed her grief by her tears, which,
because they should be seen, the painter had made as big as walnuts.
"How unfortunate," said Don Quixote, "were these two ladies, that they
lived not in this age; or rather, how much more unhappy am I, for not
having lived in theirs! I would have met and stopped those gentlemen,
and saved both Troy and Carthage from destruction; nay, by the death
of Paris alone, all these miseries had been prevented." "I will lay
you a wager," quoth Sancho, "that before we be much older, there will
not be an inn, a hedge-tavern, a blind victualling-house, nor a
barber's shop in the country, but will have the story of our lives and
deeds pasted and painted along the walls. But I could wish with all my
heart, though, that they may be done by a better hand than the
bungling fellow that drew these." "Thou art in the right, Sancho; for
the fellow that drew these puts me in mind of Orbaneja, the painter of
Uveda, who, as he sat at work, being asked what he was about, made
answer, any thing that comes uppermost; and if he chanced to draw a
cock, he underwrote, This is a cock, lest the people should take it
for a fox. Just such a one was he that painted, or that wrote (for
they are much the same) the history of this new Don Quixote that has
lately peeped out, and ventured to go a-strolling; for his painting or
writing is all at random, and any thing that comes uppermost. But to
come to our own affairs. Hast thou an inclination to have the other
brush to-night? what think you of a warm house? would it not do better
for that service than the open air?"
"Why, truly," quoth Sancho, "a whipping is but a whipping, either
abroad or within doors; and I could like a close warm place well
enough, so it were among trees; for I love trees hugely, do you see;
methinks they bear me company, and have a sort of fellow-feeling of my
sufferings." "Now I think on it," said Don Quixote, "it shall not be
to-night, honest Sancho; you shall have more time to recover, and we
will let the rest alone till we get home; it will not be above two
days at most." "Even as your worship pleases," answered Sancho; "but
if I might have my will, it were best making an end of the job, now my
hand is in and my blood up. There is nothing like striking while the
iron is hot; for delay breeds danger. It is best grinding at the mill
before the water is past. Ever take while you may have it. A bird in
hand is worth two in the bush." "Now good Sancho," cried Don Quixote,
"let alone thy proverbs; if once thou beginnest, I must give thee
over. Canst thou not speak as other folks do, and not after such a
tedious, round-about manner? How often have I told thee of this? Mind
what I tell you; I am sure you will be the better for it." "It is an
unlucky trick I have got," replied Sancho; "I cannot bring you in
three words to the purpose without a proverb, nor bring you any
proverb but what I think to the purpose; but I will mend, if I can."
And so they went on direct towards their own village.